The first thing a Housekeeper should teach a new servant
is to carry her candle upright. The next thing is those general
directions that belong to “her” place, such as not setting the
brooms and brushes where they will make a mark.

—The Housekeeping Book of Susanna Whatman, Maidstone, 1776

Chapter 7

The pounding. Who in the world would be pounding at this hour? London was such a noisy place. Margaret felt she would never get used to living in such a sprawling, bustling city. She had not slept well since coming to live in Sterling Benton’s house. She had barely fallen asleep and already the rapping had awoken her. She rolled over, and began drifting off once more. The pounding resumed, louder. She pulled the limp pillow from under her cheek and covered her head with it. Need sleep . . .

“You need to get up, lazy lay-a-bed.”

Why was Joan pestering her? It could not be morning yet, and Margaret often slept in until quite late, especially when she had been out the night before.

The door creaked open.

“Leave me be,” she murmured.

The bedclothes were yanked from her body, the cool morning air prickling her skin. She rolled over to face her tormentor, ready to give Joan a tongue-lashing. “What do you think you are doing?”

She froze. Candlelight illuminated not Joan’s face, but that of a stranger. The bed, the room, were not her own. Her mind whirled. What? Where . . . ?

A woman stared at her, stunned no doubt at the haughty reception. With a wave of dread, Margaret remembered. She was in London no longer.

Suddenly London seemed the far friendlier fate.

“I . . . I was dreamin’,” Margaret mumbled, trying to find the accent of her dear old housekeeper. “I thought you were my . . . someone else.”

“I am the upper housemaid here at Fairbourne Hall,” the woman said, lifting her offended nose high. “And I am not accustomed to being addressed so rudely.”

“I . . .” Margaret could eke out no apology. She sat up on the edge of the bed, carefully nudging the wig under the bed with her toes. “How shall I address you, then?”

The upper housemaid was a short, stocky middle-aged woman. In the flickering light her coloring was uncertain, but the whites of her eyes lingered on Margaret’s stays and shift. Likely too fine for a housemaid. But apparently the woman had not noticed the wig. Nor, hopefully, any stray blond hairs.

“My name is Betty Tidy, but you may use my Christian name.”

“Betty Tidy?”

“Is there something you find amusing about that, Nora?”

That’s right, she thought, I’m Nora. “Only the name Tidy. For a housemaid.”

Betty frowned. “There are many Tidys in these parts. It’s a perfectly respectable family name.”

“I meant no disrespect, Betty.” Margaret bit back a smirk. “In fact I think it the perfect name. The name every housemaid should have.”

Betty sniffed and stepped to the door. “I shall give you five minutes to dress.”

Five minutes? Perhaps, then, it was fortunate Margaret had not managed to remove her stays, for she would certainly not have gotten them on by herself given five hours, let alone five minutes. She quickly washed her face, then wiped the damp cloth beneath each capped sleeve to remove the previous day’s perspiration. She stepped into her dress, tied the ribbons, and wiggled it back to front and up over her shoulders. Then she tied on the apron, pinned her hair, and put on her father’s spectacles. Finally, she settled the wig snugly against her head, checking in the small mirror over the dressing chest to be sure all the blond hairs were covered before donning her cap once more. She was glad the generous cap disguised the lump beneath the wig caused by her twist of hair.

She met Betty in the passage and followed her down one flight of stairs to the housemaids’ closet, where they retrieved two handled wooden boxes of cleaning supplies. Palms damp, she trotted after Betty down to the ground floor, through a conservatory, and into the drawing room. Would she really be able to manage a maid’s chores?

“First, we open the shutters . . .”

That she could do. Margaret made her way to a second window and unlatched and folded back the shutters. In the advancing morning light, she saw that the upper housemaid had faded auburn hair, blue eyes, and the freckles of a girl.

She followed Betty through each room, learning what would become her morning rounds—cleaning the grates, sweeping the carpets, dusting, and generally straightening the public rooms: conservatory and drawing room at the rear of the house. Salon and library on one side of the front entry hall, morning room and dining room on the other. All before breakfast.

Margaret noticed the elegant high-ceilinged rooms and fine furniture but was too busy observing Betty to admire them. Betty worked with brisk efficiency, without wasted motion or apparent strain. Margaret wished she had a notebook. She doubted she would remember everything.

A stout, grave man in a gentleman’s black coat and trousers stepped into the library, his dark hair slicked back. Betty introduced him as Mr. Arnold, the under butler. He welcomed Nora and checked their progress, running a white glove over furniture as he went.

At eight o’clock, Margaret and Betty made their way down to the basement and along the dim passage to the servants’ hall for breakfast. And not a moment too soon. Last night’s bread and cheese were long gone. Margaret pressed a hand to her unhappy midriff. The gnawing discomfort had, until recently, been a foreign sensation to Margaret Macy, one she recognized as hunger, though it was a feeling she had rarely experienced in her routine of late breakfasts, nuncheons, teas, early family dinners, and late suppers.

The servants’ hall was a narrow, rectangular room dominated by a long table with a chair at each end and benches along its sides. To the right of the door, pegs held coats and aprons. On one long wall stood an unlit hearth; on the other hung an embroidered plaque, which read,

A good character is valuable to everyone, but especially to servants.

For it is their bread and butter
and without it they cannot be admitted into a creditable family,
and happy it is that the best of characters is in everyone’s power to deserve.

At the far end of the room, several high windows emitted cheerful morning sunshine. An oil lamp suspended from the beamed ceiling supplemented their light. In the corner stood an old pianoforte, shrouded and silent. How generous that the Upchurch family allowed its use by the servants. She wondered who played.

She took her place on a bench next to Betty and Fiona, the sharp-nosed housemaid who had brought her water and food the night before. Two kitchen maids introduced themselves, but their names went in one of Margaret’s ears and out the other.

On the opposite side of the table, the two handsome young footmen in livery sat sullenly, paying no attention to her or the other maids. It was a strange feeling, being ignored by men. The grave under butler, Mr. Arnold, whom she had met upstairs, moved to sit at the head of the table, but at the last moment he scowled and sat on the bench to the right of the chair. Several servants exchanged wry looks, though no one dared a word.

The table was laid with silverware and china—not the finest, but china just the same. Butter knives crossed bread plates and sturdy mugs sat at the ready. At one corner lay a cutting board of freshly baked bread, a pot of jam, and a jar of butter, as well as a pitcher of milk. A teapot steeped on a trivet. Another maid came in, a plump young woman with a smile as broad as her figure. She set a basin of porridge near the foot of the table before taking her place beside Margaret and introducing herself as Hester, the stillroom maid. A young scullery maid and hall boy scurried in with plates of sausages, sliced tomatoes, and a dish of boiled eggs before disappearing once more.

A tall thin man in a white coat—the chef, apparently—entered with the housekeeper, discussing the day’s menu. The man’s black hair was still damp—he was just beginning his day, Margaret surmised. The stillroom maid must prepare the servants’ breakfast, while the chef reserved his talents for the family’s fare.

Mrs. Budgeon, looking neat and rested, took her place at the foot. She glanced around the table. “I trust you have all introduced yourselves to Nora?”

Heads nodded and murmurs agreed.

Mr. Hudson stepped into the room and Betty snagged Margaret’s sleeve and all but yanked her to her feet. She belatedly realized that everyone rose when the house steward entered—a sign of respect for the highest-ranking member of staff. Mr. Hudson took his place at the head, sending a sheepish smile toward the under butler, who fastidiously ignored him.

Mr. Hudson gestured for everyone to sit. Then he folded his hands at the edge of the table and bowed his head. The others followed suit.

He prayed simply. “For this food, and this day, and your many blessings, make us truly grateful. Amen.”

The chef, sitting next to the under butler, speared a sausage. He passed the basin of porridge with a scowl and instead sawed off a generous hunk of bread and slathered it with butter. Upon this, he laid two slices of tomato, which he salted and peppered heavily. Then he cut the sausage lengthwise and laid the planks across the tomatoes. He set to his creation with knife and fork.

Margaret ate her porridge with creamy milk but without the sugar she indulged in at home. She sipped her tea with relish, again missing the sugar but not commenting. The warm richness of the tea with fresh milk was pleasure enough.

Mr. Hudson cleared his throat and announced, “Mr. Upchurch has decided to reinstitute the practice of morning prayers. So please assemble in the main hall at nine sharp.”

Margaret saw Mr. Arnold send a look of surprise to Mrs. Budgeon, who ignored him, even though the surprise in her own expression was evident. Beside Margaret, Fiona grumbled, as did several others. The elder of the two footmen rolled his eyes.

“Well, I think it a splendid idea,” Betty said. “We haven’t had prayers since Mr. Upchurch senior went off to the Indies.”

The grumbling faded as they returned to their meal. The chef was the first to excuse himself, likely having a great deal of work awaiting him in the kitchen. A few minutes later the footmen and under butler departed to lay the family’s breakfast upstairs. Mrs. Budgeon glanced at the clock atop the mantel, and that was signal enough that everyone else rose to return to their duties.

Margaret followed after Betty as she stopped in the stillroom to assemble a tray of tea things and a pressed newspaper to take up to Miss Upchurch while Fiona prepared a tray for Mr. Upchurch. Fiona had already taken up cans of hot and cold water and emptied the chamber pots while Betty and Margaret were busy in the public rooms.

Upstairs, Betty gestured for Margaret to wait and then let herself in to Miss Upchurch’s bedchamber to deliver the tea and help her dress. Margaret, who had met Helen Upchurch several times, was only too glad to remain in the corridor.

Afterward, Betty and Margaret returned the tray to the stillroom. The kitchen maids passed by, clad in clean aprons, their hair smoothed back under their caps. Taking Betty’s cue, Margaret followed them up to the main level.

Betty whispered, “It’s the first time these poor girls have been allowed abovestairs.”

At nine, servants from every nook and cranny of the house filed into the front hall, with its broad entrance doors, marble floors, carved ceiling, and impressive main stairway. The staff lined up in rows on the floor near the bottom stair, waiting in fidgets and whispers.

Mr. Arnold muttered, “Didn’t know he’d become a vicar whilst he was away.”

The library door opened, and Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, his sister at his side. Stomach knotting, Margaret slipped a little farther behind the tall chef.

Mr. Upchurch carried a black book in one hand, his other arm still cradled in a sling. He wore a bandage above one eye, which reminded her of a pirate’s eye patch, askew. She wondered how badly he was hurt and why he was determined to lead prayers when he was recovering from recent injuries. How somber he looked—little like the fierce, wild-haired ruffian who had started a brawl at a Mayfair ball. The beard was gone. His hair groomed. The rough sea-voyage clothes replaced with everyday gentleman’s attire: coat, waistcoat, cravat.

Hesitating, Mr. Upchurch handed the book to Hudson, behind him. Then he patted his pockets with his sound hand in vain. Was he searching for his spectacles? He used to wear them, she recalled. He said something in low tones to Mr. Hudson, and Hudson opened the book to a page marked with a square of paper before handing it back.

Mr. Upchurch cast a swift glance at the assembled group. Beside him, Helen Upchurch smiled up at them.

Margaret ducked her head.

“Good morning.” Mr. Upchurch cleared his throat, squinted at the book, then read, “From First Peter. ‘Honour all men. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honour the king.’ ” He turned the page. “ ‘Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.’ ”

Around her, Margaret felt bodies stiffen, and a snotty footman muttered something she was probably better spared.

Fiona huffed. “That’s convenient.”

Margaret shushed the disrespectful maid without thinking, earning herself a glare from the Irishwoman.

Mr. Upchurch tucked the book back under his good arm and bowed his head. “Lord, help us each to serve you well this day, in whatever place you have seen fit to place us. Amen.” He nodded to the group in dismissal and turned away.

His sister offered them what seemed an apologetic smile, perhaps hoping to soften his benediction. The others began to grumble or to stonily make their way back to their posts. But Margaret stood where she was.

Had God seen fit to place her in the service of the Upchurch family? Or had she simply made a muddle of her life?

After breakfast, Nathaniel carried a cup of coffee with him from the dining room into the library. Hudson was already inside, ready for their morning meeting, but he said nothing for several moments. Nathaniel surveyed Hudson over his coffee, sipped, then lowered the cup. “What?”

Hudson winced. “Far be it from me to interfere, sir. But that might not have been the best choice of Scriptures for your first shot at morning prayers.”

“Oh?”

“Consider, sir. How that Scripture might seem an . . . arrow, more than the gentle admonition you no doubt intended.”

Nathaniel opened the book on his desk and reread the passage. “Is that why I received surly looks? It was simply the next verse in my own daily reading. I knew it had not gone well and assumed it my delivery. I shall choose more carefully in future.”

“Ah.” Hudson nodded his understanding. “Well. I am certain it shall go better next time.”

Nathaniel regarded his steward. Robert Hudson was a few years his senior. Although originally from England, he had spent many years living and working aboard ships before settling in Barbados. There, Nathaniel had hired him away from Abel Preston, the neighboring planter neither man could stand. As a clerk, Hudson was forthright and completely trustworthy. The two men had become fast friends, their relationship more partnership than master-servant. Though Hudson never failed to show him respect, neither did he fail to speak his mind.

When Nathaniel’s father commissioned him to return and put Fairbourne Hall to rights, he had lost no time in convincing Hudson to return with him as steward. If Mrs. Budgeon and that coxcomb of an under butler did not like it, he did not care. Hudson would lead them with humility and competence. A rare combination of traits, which Nathaniel hoped to learn to emulate.

Nathaniel finished his coffee and set down his cup. “And far be it from me to interfere with the servants, Hudson, but I am curious. Mrs. Budgeon lodged a complaint with my sister about your hiring a housemaid without consulting her.” He raised a hand before Hudson could protest. “I trust you to hire whom you like, but not two days ago you avowed your intention to leave the female staff entirely to the housekeeper.”

“I know, sir. But I found quite an unexpected gem at market yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“Remember the girl I mentioned to you? The one who warned me when I stopped to check on you near the docks?”

Nathaniel frowned at the memory. “Your wild driving knocked me from the seat.”

“Be that as it may, I saw that very girl at the hiring fair in Maidstone. Woebegone she looked too, standing there alone after everyone else had gone home.”

“You hired her because she shouted at you to move along?” Incredulity and amusement tinged Nathaniel’s words.

“You don’t remember that night, sir. Laid low with the surgeon’s laudanum as you were. You did not see the cutthroats descending to do us a violence and no doubt steal us blind in the bargain. She not only brought them to my attention, but she shoved a door in the leader’s face when he would have overtaken us. The last thing I saw before we turned the corner was those three brutes trying to break down the lodging house door. Until I saw her again yesterday, I feared she might have come to harm on our account.”

“Is that why she left London?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Hmm . . . Strange that she should come here, do you not think?”

Hudson shrugged. “Not so strange. Maidstone has a regular hiring fair and is not terribly distant from London.”

“I suppose.”

Hudson grimaced and screwed his lips to one side. “Do you think I have made Mrs. Budgeon very angry?”

It was Nathaniel’s turn to shrug. “The woman is a professional. She will get over it no doubt. Assuming, that is, your girl is a good worker and knows the difference between a hairbrush and a chimney brush.”

Standing in the basement passageway, Margaret watched Betty’s stubby fingers and rough, heavily veined hands as she laid out brush after brush on the narrow worktable.

Betty turned to her. “Now, name each brush and describe its proper use, if you please.”

Margaret’s mouth went dry. Before her were brushes of every imaginable description. Long-haired, short and wiry, feather, miniature brooms, and more. She had little idea what they might be called or how each was to be used.

She began, “Well, this is a feather duster of course, and, um . . .” She licked her lips. “You know, Mrs. Budgeon made it quite clear that I was not to try to do things as I did in my former place. Therefore, perhaps you had better teach me how each of these brushes is to be used here at Fairbourne Hall.”

Betty studied her a moment, then sighed. “Very well.” She picked up one bristled handle after another. “Picture brush, shoe brush, hearth brush, plate brush, flue brush, library brush, velvet brush, banister brush, carpet brush, wall broom, bed broom . . .”

Very soon, Margaret’s head was spinning. She hoped there would be no examination. Miss Hightower’s Seminary for Girls had not prepared her for this.