Why, you know, Sir Thomas’s means
will be rather straitened if the Antigua estate
is to make such poor returns.

—Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Chapter 8

Nathaniel found Helen ensconced in her favorite chair in the family sitting room—where he suspected she spent the majority of her time. He took in his sister’s plain grey frock, her severely pulled-back hair, and the pallor of her cheeks. Helen was only a year his senior, but at the moment she looked older than her thirty years.

She glanced up from her novel. “How are you feeling today?”

Her words struck him as the distant kindness of an acquaintance.

“In body? Better. I cannot claim the same for mind and spirit.” He settled himself on the settee across from her.

“What did the river police say? Any hope of catching the vandal?”

He snorted ruefully. “Catch a man most people believe mere legend? How they laughed behind their hands when I admitted Hudson and I had been overtaken by a lone attacker, a man who calls himself the Poet Pirate no less. Of course I told them the man’s real name as well, but I don’t think they believed me.”

“I am sorry, Nathaniel.” She shook her head. “At least the ship was not lost. You can make repairs, can you not?”

He had barely returned and didn’t want to burden her with the reality of their finances just yet. He exhaled a deep breath. “We shall see. Now, let us talk of something else. How have you been keeping while we have all been away?”

“Well enough. And how was Papa when you left him? In good health, I hope?”

How he abhorred the polite restraint between them. “Yes. The warmer climate seems to agree with him. Says he barely notices his rheumatism anymore.”

Helen studied him. “But . . . does he mind being alone there?”

He hesitated, biting back a sarcastic retort about the charming widow from a nearby plantation with whom their father spent an inordinate amount of time. Considering Helen’s solitary state, it seemed unkind to mention it. He said instead, “He has lived there a long time now, Helen. He has many friends.”

“And you? Were you sorry to return?”

Nathaniel considered. Should he tell her about the escalating arguments between him and their father? He said, “In hindsight, the timing of it all seems God-ordained, receiving that letter from Stephens when we did.”

Helen shook her head. “I still cannot believe Stephens wrote to Father. He always insisted servants should know and keep their place. I cannot believe he would say a word against Lewis.”

In his mind’s eye, Nathaniel saw the somber face of their dignified old butler. He had written to say he felt it his duty to apprise James Upchurch of the state of affairs at Fairbourne Hall, to make him aware of the decline of the great estate it had been his honor to serve for more than twenty years. Stephens apologized but said that he could not in good conscience remain longer. The butler had given his notice, not to Lewis or Nathaniel but to their father—the real master in his eyes, absent or not.

“His tone was very respectful—quite mournful, really.”

Helen pursed her lips. “Still, I thought him more loyal.”

Nathaniel fought against incredulity. “Helen, the man had not been paid in six months. Stephens paid a quarter’s wages to the lower servants out of his own savings. He tried to cover for us to keep the Upchurch reputation from suffering.”

She stared at him. “I had no idea it had come to that. Certainly, had Lewis known he would have done something. Stephens should have told him.”

Nathaniel hesitated. He knew his sister doted on Lewis. Everyone did and always had. She would not thank him for speaking against their elder brother.

Helen asked, “So Father sent you home to take the place in hand, did he?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I own I feared the entire staff would have deserted by the time I reached you.”

“You overreacted, the both of you. Things are not so bleak, as you see. You needn’t have come.”

Did she wish he hadn’t? Probably. Nathaniel shrugged. “Father and I had come to an impasse, at all events. I refused to manage the plantation as long as slave labor was used, and he refused to transition to paid laborers.”

“Lewis says our profits would suffer greatly.”

“They would indeed. But there is more to life than profits.”

She lifted her chin. “You held no such compunctions before you left for Barbados.”

All too true, and his conscience smote him for it. “I had not seen the institution for myself then, Helen. It was not real to me, merely theoretical. Since then I have seen the cruelty of overseers and masters like Abel Preston. I have heard the cries and seen the scars.”

Helen winced. “I tend to agree with you. But certainly Papa and others have seen what you saw and have not come to the same conclusion. How do you account for it?”

He slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. Willful blindness. Apathy. Greed. Misinformation or ignorance. I cannot say. All I know is that I am convinced to the core of my soul it is wrong.”

She picked at the doily on the arm of her chair. “At least Papa and the other planters did not fight Parliament when it abolished the slave trade.”

He nodded. “That was years ago, yet slavery continues. The only reason the planters did not fight the abolishment of the trade itself was because by that time Barbados was no longer dependent on slave importation.” His stomach twisted. “They encouraged slave reproduction instead.”

Helen looked down at her hands, clearly disconcerted.

It was his turn to wince. “Forgive me.”

She cleared her throat and forced her head up. “But do we not live by its profits? Was not your ship purchased by slave-wrought sugar, as well as your Oxford education and the very clothes on your back?”

“You begin to sound like Father,” Nathaniel said dryly. “And you are right, of course. To my shame. But we need not go on as we have in the past. Sugar is not our only source of income, Helen. We had a good crop this past season, yes. But the market is not what it once was, and overall profits are declining, slavery or no. I believe we should sell out. If we retrench, invest wisely, and live modestly, we can live off the income from the estate here.” He realized he was going on like an excited boy. Or an evangelist. He sighed. “But Father is not ready to give it up.”

She asked gently, “Is he very angry with you?”

Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “He is disappointed—there is no denying it. He says he respects my convictions but finds them too inconvenient.” His father was honest at least; Nathaniel gave him that. He drew himself up. “All this to say, it was time for me to come home. I can be useful here. Look after things.”

“But please don’t blame Lewis,” Helen said. “If there wasn’t any money, what did you expect him to do?”

Nathaniel rubbed a hand over his eyes. Again, he bit his lip to stop himself from saying what he wished to say: “I expected him to stop spending money we didn’t have on new clothes, a new barouche, new horses, lavish dinner parties, improvements to the London house, and I know not what.” His stomach churned anew at the thought of the stacks of bills he’d discovered when he spent a few days there.

When he was silent, Helen continued, “Perhaps we ought to have been more careful, but how was Lewis to raise money to pay the servants? Surely you did not expect him to work.”

Nathaniel said, “The rents from our tenants have not been collected for the last two quarters. He might have done that. For now, Hudson and I will endeavor to bring the accounts to order. If that dashed Preston had not stolen half our profits we would be closer to bringing finances up to snuff. I am only glad I did not leave the whole in that chest.”

“Does he know that?” Helen asked.

Nathaniel had wondered the same thing. “I don’t know. He said he’d heard Father had boasted about our profits. Hopefully not the specific amount.” He sighed. “I pray we’ve seen the last of him.” But somehow Nathaniel doubted it.

Helen regarded him earnestly with hazel eyes very like their mother’s, gone these many years. “I am glad you were not injured more seriously.”

“Thank you.”

How long since he’d heard a kind word spoken by one of his family. The kind words of a woman were salve, even if spoken by his sister. Still, he wished he could rekindle the camaraderie he had shared with Helen in their youth, even if she preferred Lewis.

For a moment, he wondered how Helen could idealize Lewis—as did every other female of their acquaintance, who saw only the handsome exterior and charming, carefree ways. But then Nathaniel realized Helen did not know their elder brother as well as he did. Lewis had gone away to school as a boy, then on to Oxford and his grand tour, then had spent much of his time in London or at this or that friend’s country estate.

In his boyhood, Nathaniel had been taught at home by a tutor but then had followed Lewis to Oxford. His first year had overlapped with Lewis’s last, and he had spent more time in his brother’s company, witnessing his antics away from the restraints and duties of home. But beyond term breaks and holidays, how much time had Helen and Lewis really spent together? Nathaniel didn’t like to disparage his brother. He loved him and always would, though he did not always like or respect him. Lewis seemed to save his charm for the fair sex, their sister included, and who could blame him? Many was the time Nathaniel would have traded his higher marks and accomplishments for an ounce of that charm where women—or at least a certain woman—were concerned.

That night, Margaret trudged along after Betty, through the house and down the back stairs once more. She wanted nothing more than to return to her room and sleep. Instead she followed Betty like a weary duckling trailing its parent.

“You’re in for a treat tonight, Nora. Monsieur Fournier has prepared quite a feast to welcome Mr. Upchurch home. And we’re to have the leavings for our supper.”

And feast it was, though Margaret was not accustomed to being served from dishes with portions missing, partial jelly moulds, and congealing sauces. But the other servants beamed at the dishes in anticipation, not minding the secondhand nature of the feast.

Monsieur Fournier waved his long arm and pointed a hairy-knuckled finger as he named each dish: vermicelli soup, trout en Matelote, stewed pigeon, French beans, and vegetable marrows in white sauce. And later, the finale—gooseberry tarts and fresh pineapple.

Everyone oohed and ahhed over the dessert, for pineapple was a rare luxury.

Mr. Hudson gave thanks, and they began the supper, passing things politely when asked and eating quietly. How unexpectedly formal the meal was. Margaret felt transported back to an uncomfortable evening when her great-aunt had invited her to dine with a crusty dowager countess. This was not how she had imagined servant suppers to be.

Abruptly, a few people began to rise, Betty among them, and Margaret made to follow. But this time, Fiona grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. She hissed in her ear, “What are ya doin’? Only the uppers go.”

The upper servants—Mr. Hudson, Mrs. Budgeon, Mr. Arnold, and Betty, as first housemaid—rose and quietly left the room in somber procession.

“Where are they going?” Margaret whispered.

“To the moon—what do ya think? Pug’s parlor, o’ course.”

Mr. Arnold paused in the threshold and looked back. “Fred, I trust you will remember to walk the dog after your supper?”

“I will, sir.”

The under butler, Margaret noticed, carried a bottle of port beneath his arm, while the servants were left with small beer.

Margaret had heard of the custom of the “upper ten” partaking of their pudding and of finer dishes and wines separately from the under servants in the housekeeper’s parlor. Still, she felt a strange stab at finding herself at the lower end of the social hierarchy. Left out.

The feeling soon evaporated, however, because the stiff atmosphere in the servants’ hall melted into relaxed conviviality once the uppers—the bosses—were gone.

Thomas, the dark-haired first footman, raised his glass of small beer. “Here’s to the return of Mr. Upchurch.”

A female voice to Margaret’s right said, “I wish Mr. Lewis Upchurch would return.”

Margaret snapped her head around in surprise. She took in the wistful expression of the heavyset stillroom maid she had met at breakfast.

“Do you? Why?” Margaret could not help but ask. She found it somehow disconcerting that she was not the only maid awaiting Lewis’s appearance.

Hester gazed into the distance but did not answer.

Dark-haired Thomas slanted Margaret a look. “You’ve never seen him, or you wouldn’t ask. All the girls flutter about Mr. Lewis.”

“I don’t know why.” The second footman, Craig, shrugged.

“Come on now,” Jenny said. “We all know it isn’t Mr. Lewis Hester pines for, but the young man what comes with him.”

Margaret turned to the kitchen maid. “Who’s that?”

Jenny looked at her, incredulous. “His valet, of course.”

“Oh, right,” Margaret murmured, noticing how pink Hester’s round cheeks had become.

“I don’t know what girls see in him either,” fair-haired Craig pouted. “What’s he got that I haven’t got?”

“Class, that’s what he’s got,” Jenny answered. “And genteel ways.”

Another kitchen maid answered, “And so handsome in his fine clothes.”

Craig frowned. “Well, I’ve got fine clothes.”

Thomas threw down his table napkin. “You call livery fine?” The footman’s lip curled. “For trained monkeys, maybe.”

Margaret was surprised the first footman despised the very livery he himself wore.

“Oh, now don’t listen to Thomas,” Jenny soothed. “I think you’re both quite handsome in your livery. Very smart.”

“Thank you, Jenny.” Craig added hopefully, “I don’t suppose you have a sister?”

Thomas smirked. “Or a grandmother. Craig isn’t fussy.”

Craig glared, but the others chuckled, enjoying the teasing nearly as much as their desserts.

The next morning Margaret began her first full round of work. If she had thought the day before taxing, this one promised to be more so. The previous day had been spent in learning and in observing Betty or assisting her. Today, Margaret was on her own. Betty had assigned her the drawing room, conservatory, hall, and steward’s office to clean before breakfast, while she would see to the library, salon, morning room, dining room, and servery. Fiona, meanwhile, would take care of the early morning duties abovestairs—taking up water and emptying the slops in the bedchambers as well as cleaning the family sitting room.

In the drawing room, Margaret did as Betty had taught her. First she lugged all the furniture she could move to the center of the room: chairs, settees, tea tables, and end tables. These she covered with cloths to protect them from the dust she was about to raise whilst sweeping the carpet. She grasped a handful of damp tea leaves from a wide-mouth jar, gave them a final squeeze, and sprinkled the leaves over the carpet. This was meant to freshen the carpet and sweeten the air, but to Margaret it seemed illogical to cast debris on something she was meant to clean.

Selecting the carpet sweeper brush from her box, she went to work on her knees, sweeping the scant dirt and occasional pebble toward the hearth, from which she had already removed the fender and polished the grates. Afterwards, she wiped her hands on a cloth. She removed the dust covers and dusted the furniture and then began dragging the pieces back to their places. Perspiration trickled from beneath her wig and down her back, causing the skin beneath her long stays to itch. She was breathing heavily and her back ached by the time she restored the last piece of furniture to its proper—she hoped—place.

Gathering up her tools into the housemaid’s box, Margaret paused to wipe a hand across her brow.

One room down. Three to go.

———

After breakfast, Betty hurried upstairs to help Miss Upchurch dress, leaving Margaret to sweep the main stairs and rub the banister with a little oil.

They attended morning prayers and then Margaret helped Betty clean Miss Upchurch’s apartment—Betty still did not trust her with the family bedchambers, nor to make beds alone. She helped Betty tie back the bed curtains and strip the bed to air, emptied the washbasin, and tidied the dressing room.

As the afternoon wore on, Margaret found her knees aching and her hands dry and stiff. She helped Fiona collect the soiled laundry throughout the house and was then assigned to scrub the basement passageway leading from the servants’ entrance on one end, all the way to the men’s quarters on the other.

On her hands and knees, with a bucket of hot water heated on the stove, Margaret scrubbed a floor for the first time in her life. Her knees throbbed against the hard stone floor, and her hands burned from the harsh soap. She was midway down the passage when hall boy Fred came in the servants’ door with a rangy wolfhound, its wiry grey hair slick and wet.

Margaret sat back on her heels. “I’ve just washed that floor,” she grumbled.

“It’s all right,” Fred said. “Jester’s cleaner than either of us. He’s just had a swim in the pond.”

Suddenly the dog at Fred’s heel shook himself mightily, spraying muddy water all over Fred’s trouser legs and Margaret’s face and bodice.

She squeezed her eyes shut, sputtered, and groaned. “Oh, no . . .”

“Sorry, miss,” Fred said.

Mrs. Budgeon appeared in her doorway nearby. “What is the matter?” She looked from Margaret, to Fred, to the dog and back again. Surveying Margaret, her lips thinned and she sighed. “Well, Fred, you’ve won the honor of finishing that floor. Nora, I would tell you to bathe, but we haven’t time for all that now. Go on up to your room and clean up as best as you can. You do have another frock, I trust?”

“Yes, ma’am. Well, one.”

“Let’s hope it suits.”

Margaret took herself up to her room and cleaned her face, neck, and hands as best she could at the washstand with her allotted bar of soap. She had peeked inside the servants’ bathing room Mrs. Budgeon had referred to. The small room lay at the end of a narrow side passage, past the servants’ hall. But she had yet to use the tub it contained. Until she figured out how to remove her stays, she would make do with sponge baths in her room.

She changed into the blue gown, eyeing her bed with longing, but forced herself back downstairs.

After the family ate their dinner, Margaret helped Mrs. Budgeon wash the china in the storeroom adjoining her parlor. The room was fitted with a special wooden sink lined with lead for the purpose. Once dry, the housekeeper meticulously examined each piece for damage before checking it back in.

As evening darkened to night, Margaret began longing for her narrow attic bed with the most ardent zeal—though she wondered if her wobbly legs would carry her up the many stairs even one more time. And to think she had to do it all again tomorrow! Tears filled her eyes from fatigue and self-pity. She would never live through another day of this, let alone three and a half months.

When they finished their duties at last, Betty walked with her up to the attic and followed her all the way to her room. There, Betty closed the door behind them and faced her. Her reddish-brown hair peeked out from under her cap after the long day. Her elfin blue eyes shone with concern. Margaret expected some private reprimand, but instead, Betty said, “I saw you sleeping in your stays that first morning. Are you still?”

Cheeks heated, Margaret nodded sheepishly. “I can’t reach the laces.”

Betty shook her head and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. Let’s get them off you.”

She did so, and what blessed relief it was. After wearing the garment around the clock and through unaccustomed exertion, the stays had left their mark. Betty took one look at the welts and insisted she would help her morning and night from then on.

If I live that long, Margaret thought.

Betty squeezed her arm as if reading her mind. “It’ll get easier by and by. You’ll see.”

When Margaret finally climbed into her bed after ten, she lay awake, sheet pulled up to her chin but the blanket folded at the foot, unwelcome on the warm summer night. She had opened the small window, but not a breath of breeze stirred the air. She lowered the sheet to her waist. Even that effort made her wince. Never had she been so physically exhausted. Her arms ached from strenuous effort—pushing brooms, wringing mops, scrubbing floors, brushing grates, flinging sheets and making beds, reaching high to polish windows and clear cobwebs, carrying heavy buckets of water and worse. Her light work with a needle and her watercolors, her hours on the pianoforte, had not prepared her poor spindly arms for such exertion.

She crossed her chest, massaging each forearm with the opposite hand—hands already blistered and dry from hot soapy water, blacking, and lye. Thank heaven she had not ended up as a laundry maid or she would depart Fairbourne Hall with stubs.

Margaret rolled over. Her legs were sore as well, from climbing up and down stairs carrying buckets, piles of laundered bedclothes, baskets of small clothes fresh from the laundry, and her housemaid’s box. She would have legs like a pack mule in no time.

So tired . . . And yet she could not keep her eyes closed. In her mind revolved a painted carousel of objects, duties, instructions, and warnings. Shoe brushes, grate brushes, bed brushes. Open shutters by seven, make beds by eleven. Never drip candle wax. Never wax mahogany. Always scrub hands between blacking and bed making, and whatever you do, don’t speak to the family unless spoken to. Around and around it went. Margaret groaned. She had never imagined the work of a housemaid could be so taxing.

She still found it difficult to grasp that she was doing such work in the manor of the Upchurch family. How strange to be under Nathaniel’s roof. She had seen him at morning prayers, of course, but according to first Mr. Hudson, then Betty, it was unlikely she would see much of the family otherwise, except in passing. What would Nathaniel say to finding her living in his house, eating his food, polishing his floors? He might enjoy the latter, she mused, but resent the former. A good thing, then, that he was unlikely to see her.

Margaret thought about Helen Upchurch, whom she had seen at morning prayers as well. Helen was five years older than Margaret, and the two had had only a passing acquaintance. Still, Margaret had been saddened to hear of her disappointment in love when the man she hoped to marry died a few years before. Apparently she had now resigned herself to life as a spinster.

There was no sign of Lewis Upchurch, the only Upchurch she thought she might turn to—had she the nerve to do so.

Margaret massaged her fingers. She heard a whine, and for a moment feared she had moaned aloud, but then someone scratched at her door. She started up in bed, reaching in a flailing panic for her wig. The door creaked open.

“Just a moment!” she whispered urgently. But it was too late. Whoever it was walked into the room, feet clicking on the floorboards. Margaret’s eyes adjusted just as a damp nose nudged her elbow. In the dim room, she reached for the wolfhound’s grey head, silvery white in the faint moonlight.

“Jester . . .” she scolded mildly. “What are you doing up here—come to give me another bath?” She stroked the big dog’s ears. “Your master would not approve. A beast with your bloodlines, consorting with a servant?”

Saying the word aloud gave Margaret pause. “I am a servant,” she whispered to herself, incredulous. She lay there, exhausted and sore, thinking she should just pack up and leave. Sneak out and go . . . somewhere. Anywhere. But at the moment she was too tired to move.

The next afternoon, Nathaniel took himself to the library to write to his father and the family’s solicitor, apprising them both of the situation with the ship and with Fairbourne Hall. He’d hoped to use part of the sugar profits to begin repair work on the Ecclesia, but knew he must first bring the languishing estate into order. He and Hudson had completed an initial inspection of the place. The manor roof leaked into the old schoolroom, several laborer cottages needed repair, the orchard had grown wild, one of the tenant farms sat vacant, a fence was down, and the list went on. Nathaniel sighed. As much as he wanted to, he could not in good conscience funnel money into his ship. Not yet.

Through the open library door, he glimpsed his brother sweeping through the hall, unannounced. He supposed Lewis felt he needed no announcing in his own home, infrequently though he slept there.

Nathaniel added his signature to the letter, replaced the quill in its stand, and rose to find and greet his brother. He hoped to make peace with him. And to be firm about the family’s need to get their affairs in order—and keep spending in line with their reduced income.

Arnold appeared in the threshold. “Excuse me, sir, but your brother has just arrived. He did not wish to be announced, but I thought you would want to know.”

Nathaniel found the under butler’s ingratiating manners irritating, but forced himself to reply civilly, “Thank you. Where is he now?”

“The sitting room, I believe, with Miss Upchurch.”

Nathaniel thanked the man again, crossed the hall, and climbed the stairs. His family had long preferred the upstairs sitting room to the formal drawing room on the main level. As he neared the sitting-room door, he heard his brother’s booming voice and his sister’s calm happy tones.

“Lewis, you can’t know how pleased I am to see you.”

“So you’ve said. Twice. Did Nate tell you what he did to me in London?”

“Ask you to come home?”

“He punched me—right in the midst of the Valmores’ ball.”

“He never!”

“He did. Of course, I got my licks in too. Man has to stand up for himself, you know.”

“Oh, Lewie. Is that where that bruise came from? I was afraid you’d been breaking hearts again.”

“Only two or three a week.”

“Lewie . . .” Helen scolded fondly, “one of these days someone’s father, or brother, or sweetheart will do worse than bruise you.”

“Then perhaps I ought to swear off women. After all, you are my favorite, Helen, and always shall be.”

“Oh, go on. I can tell the difference between charm and a hum, you know.”

“And which has old Nate been giving you?”

“Neither. Though he has been a bit overbearing since he’s been home.”

Helen’s words stung. Nathaniel crossed the threshold in time to see Lewis rub his jaw.

“As I am painfully aware. Had I known things were so bad here, I would have come sooner.”

Helen raised one brow. “I did write to you.”

“Yes, but you are always so mincing with your words, so careful not to alarm me, that I had no real idea how bad the situation had become.”

“Servants up in arms, shopkeepers at the door, butler gone without notice . . . that was mincing words?”

Lewis tweaked her cheek. “Well, I am here now. Do say you forgive me. I cannot abide having both of my siblings vexed with me.”

Helen smiled adoringly at their handsome brother. “I could never stay vexed with you, Lewis.”

“That’s my girl. Now, that’s what I like to hear.”

Nathaniel cleared his throat and crossed the room. “Hello, Lewis. Glad you could come.”

“You made sure of that, didn’t you?”

Nathaniel saw the purple bruise on his brother’s jaw and grimaced. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. I made good use of it, I can tell you. The ladies were full of sympathy and comfort, never doubt it.”

“I don’t.”

“And look at you!” Lewis gestured toward Nathaniel’s sling and the bandage on his temple. “Told you I got my licks in, Helen.”

Nathaniel and Helen exchanged a look. Deciding not to worry her with more discussions of thieves—pirates or bankers—he asked Lewis, “Would you mind joining me in the library? I would like you to meet our new steward and take a look at the books together.”

Helen frowned. “But Lewis has just arrived.”

“I am afraid several items simply will not wait.”

Helen looked ready to protest further, but Lewis patted her hand, then hauled his tall lanky form to his feet. “Oh, very well, I’m coming. Don’t knot your neckcloth.”