The whole household assembled in the hall in the
morning, before breakfast, for family worship.

—A Memoir of the Reverend Alexander Waugh, 1830

Chapter 9

There was a great deal of buzzing and giggling that night as Margaret made her way along the basement passage to the servants’ hall for supper. When she entered, she saw Fiona, Betty, and the kitchen maid Jenny standing clustered about Hester, speaking in smiles and whispers.

Curious, Margaret approached the small clutch of women. Fiona’s green eyes sliced her way but immediately returned to Hester as though she had not seen her. Betty sent her a quick smile without pause in conversation or invitation to join them. Margaret stood there, a little apart, feeling like a third shoe.

Thomas entered the servants’ hall with a young man she had never seen before. He was of middling height—not quite as tall as Thomas, but his shoulders were broader. At least they appeared so, under the well-cut black coat, grey pinstriped waistcoat, and crisp cravat. He held himself with athletic ease, smiling at Thomas as the two men talked. His hair was deep red, thick and slightly wavy, brushed just so across his forehead. His complexion was fair, his nose straight, his eyes a bright blue. Margaret realized she was staring. He returned her gaze, and Margaret looked away, embarrassed. She was sure Fiona would be scowling at her. But all the other maids were staring at the handsome young man as well.

Betty stepped to her side and whispered, “That’s Connor. I’ve known him since a lad. Isn’t he a handsome one?”

“Indeed. Who is he?”

“Mr. Lewis’s valet,” Betty said with evident pride. “They arrived from London this afternoon.”

Margaret’s heart raced. Lewis Upchurch is here! Under the same roof. Perhaps she would see him soon. Might she find a way to speak to him in private?

The valet crossed the room to greet them. “Hello, ladies.”

A chorus of grins and good-evenings rose in reply.

Connor kissed Betty’s cheek, then his sparkling eyes lingered on the stillroom maid. “And Hester, my girl, how are you?”

Hester smiled, her face glowing in round-cheeked loveliness. “A sight better, now you’re here.” She turned to Margaret. “And this is Nora. New to us since your last visit.”

“How d’you do, Nora? A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His smile was genuine but quickly returned to Hester. “A pleasure to be among you all again.”

At nine the following morning, the house servants once again filed into the hall for morning prayers. The valet Connor stood among them, between Hester and second footman Craig, who sent doleful looks his way.

Margaret, as was her habit, found a spot at the back behind someone taller than she, usually Monsieur Fournier. They were all creatures of habit, she had noted, and in general occupied the same places each morning. Connor was upsetting this order. Is that what had Craig looking resentful? Or was it the man’s obvious popularity with the ladies? Poor Craig.

Margaret surreptitiously peeked out from behind the chef’s white-coated shoulder, keeping an eye on the library door, heart beating hard.

The door opened and her stomach knotted. Nathaniel Upchurch, with his sister at his side, entered from the library. There was no sign of Lewis. Disappointment and relief warred within her. She guessed Lewis was still abed or had gone for a morning ride.

Nathaniel’s arm was no longer in a sling, but a small bandage still graced one temple. And this time he wore his spectacles. Ah . . . she remembered him in spectacles. Apparently he only wore them for reading these days. With them, he looked more like a clergyman than a pirate.

Nathaniel found his place in the book and cleared his throat. He hesitated, left his thumb marking the spot and looked up at them, then down once more. “Many of you have been with us for years and remember me as the arrogant youth I no doubt was. Perhaps you think it hypocritical of me to stand before you now, as though I think myself worthy to be your spiritual leader. I do not. I am convinced not of my own worthiness, but of God’s. I need to hear the words of this book—its truth, forgiveness, hope—as much as anybody.” He looked up with an apologetic smile. “I know I’m no great orator. But I ask you to bear with me as I fumble through this new duty.”

Margaret felt it, the easing of tension and resentment. Mr. Hudson grinned, and Mrs. Budgeon and the under butler exchanged impressed glances. At the far end of the front row, Betty nodded, tears in her eyes.

Nathaniel found his place once more and read, “ ‘The God of peace, that brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, Make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ; to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.’ ”

After morning prayers, once the Upchurch family had gone to their own later breakfast, Margaret, Betty, and Fiona went back upstairs and retrieved their boxes from the housemaids’ closet. The days previous she and Betty had worked side by side in Helen’s and the absent James Upchurch’s rooms, Betty demonstrating how all was done. But today Betty was leaving her alone to clean two different rooms—those of the Upchurch brothers.

An unmarried lady in a gentleman’s bedchamber? Normally such a thing would mean instant ruination. But there was nothing normal about Margaret’s current situation.

As she departed, Betty told her to fetch Fiona when she was ready to remake the beds, as making beds properly was often a two-person job, especially for a new girl.

Margaret sighed, bracing herself. At least the rooms would be unoccupied at this time of day.

Opening the door, she surveyed the first masculine bedchamber, paneled in dark wood with rich burgundy draperies. She tied back the bed curtains, stripped the bedclothes, laid them over a chair, and pushed open the windows to air out the room. Then she steeled herself and reached under the bed, pulling forth the chamber pot with averted eyes and stopped nose, pleased to find its lid in place. Hopefully, Fiona had emptied it during the early morning water delivery.

Margaret carried it into the dressing room, grimacing at the wadded cravat, soiled shirt, and stockings on the floor. She wondered which Upchurch brother slept in this room and guessed Nathaniel, based on his unkempt appearance at the ball. She imagined Lewis to be more fastidious, considering how exquisitely dressed and groomed he always appeared. Though, perhaps his valet, Connor, was due the credit. Setting the pot aside, she tidied the dressing room, wondering why the man’s clothes were in disarray. She did not recall any mention of Nathaniel Upchurch having a valet, so perhaps one of the footmen or the under butler performed double duty, though poorly.

She dumped the soapy water from the washbasin into a pail. Wiped clean the vessel, changed the water in the pitcher, and returned both to the washstand. She put off emptying the chamber pot as long as possible. Finally, she resolutely lifted the lid. Breathing only from her mouth, she tipped the pot over the pail, heard the slosh, and then risked a peek. Something had stuck to the bottom. She tapped the pot against the lip of the pail to dislodge the remnant. Ugh. She had not spent two years at Miss Highworth’s Seminary for this!

Successful at last, she cleaned her hands and returned to her other duties. She swept the floor and carpets, and began dusting. She noticed several coins and wadded receipts on the bedside table. As she picked up the crumpled papers to dust the table beneath, she glanced at them. One was a scrawled note. Meet me at 11. Our place. —L. The others were receipts from White’s, a men’s club in London. With a twinge of guilt, she replaced the papers and the coins.

Reminded of Sterling’s money, and of Joan, Margaret asked forgiveness once again and finished straightening the room.

Leaving the bed to air as instructed, Margaret took herself into the second bedchamber and dressing room assigned to her. She glanced at the clock and realized she would need to hurry if she was to finish by eleven. Fortunately, this second pair of rooms was much neater than the first. Lewis’s room, she guessed. No clothes lay strewn on the floor. The papers and books on the corner desk were neat and orderly.

She went about her routine, relieved the chamber pot had already been emptied, whether by Fiona or dutiful Connor she did not know but silently thanked them both. She noticed an open book on the bedside table and, curious, glanced beneath her spectacles to read its print. It was the Bible, opened to the gospel of John. This gave her pause, and she began to second-guess the room’s occupant. She had not thought Lewis the sort of man who read his Bible in private, though she would be happy to be proven wrong. Her father had been such a man.

She was leaning far over the bed, attempting to pull free the tangled bedclothes to air them, when the door burst open behind her.

She gasped, chagrined to be found hands and knees on the bed, rump in the air. She leapt to her feet, whirling to see who had entered. Was it Fiona come to help her remake the bed?

No.

Nathaniel Upchurch entered the room, barely looking her way. He held up a staying hand when she would flee. “Go about your work. I shall be out of your way in a moment.”

Margaret felt as though she had just run up a flight of stairs. She took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. She picked up the pillow and began to plump it, stealing a glance over her shoulder to where Nathaniel was pawing through a desk drawer for something. Nathaniel’s room. Nathaniel’s Bible. That made sense. Not Lewis’s. Lewis was the slovenly one. Well, what did it matter if Lewis was not neat? That was what servants were for. She bit her lip, hard, at the thought.

How strange it felt, to be . . . well, almost embracing Nathaniel Upchurch’s pillow. To be running her hands over his bedclothes. The thought made her cheeks heat.

Apparently finding whatever he was looking for, he turned and strode across the room without a second glance.

Of course a man like Nathaniel Upchurch would never notice a housemaid, would never pay her unwanted attention as Marcus Benton might. Would never look at her closely enough to recognize her or to find her attractive. She should be relieved.

She was still standing there beside Nathaniel Upchurch’s bed when Fiona strode in. “There you are. Not finished yet? Never knew a maid so slow. Come, come. I’m to help you make up the beds. Heaven knows you cannot manage it alone.”

Fiona’s stinging reprimand reminded Margaret of Joan. How her former maid would snigger to see her now.

That evening, Nathaniel entered the dining room, dressed for dinner. Helen sat alone at the long table, wearing a dull burgundy evening gown that did little to flatter her complexion.

“Where is Lewis?” he asked, taking his place at the table.

“He won’t be joining us tonight. Said he was visiting friends in Maidstone.”

Irritation flashed through Nathaniel. Lewis had barely arrived and was already finding reasons to leave Fairbourne Hall. “Which friends?”

“He did not say.”

Nathaniel thought of their acquaintance in Maidstone—Lord Romney of Mote Park, the Whatmans of Vinters, the Langleys, the Bishops. For himself he did not care, but why had they not included Helen in their invitation, if invitation it was. He felt offended on his sister’s behalf. Or had Lewis simply gone uninvited?

He said carefully, “How are the Whatmans . . . ? Have you seen them lately?”

Helen shook her head. “I believe they’ve been spending a great deal of time on the coast. Mr. Whatman has taken to sea bathing, I understand. For his health.”

She glanced at the footman, who, taking his cue, removed the lid from the soup tureen. Helen served Nathaniel, then herself, in traditional family style.

As Nathaniel spooned his vegetable-marrow soup, he asked, “Tell me, how did you occupy your time while I was away?”

She shrugged and dipped her spoon. “Oh, I read a great deal. And I did what I could as mistress of the place while Lewis was in London.”

“How long has it been since you’ve attended a social event?”

She hesitated, eyes on her bowl.

“I have been gone for two years,” Nathaniel pressed. “Tell me you have not remained home the entire time I was away?”

She frowned. “Of course not!”

“And I don’t count attending church, nor Christmas and Easter with Uncle Townsend.”

Helen’s face reddened. “Someone had to stay home to look after the place. And Lewis puts no pressure on me to pay calls. He understands.”

As Nathaniel served Helen brills in shrimp sauce, he again surveyed the evening gown he had seen her wear a few times already. He waited until the footman replaced the soup tureen with a platter of lamb cutlets, then said, “And I take it you have had no new gowns recently?”

She took a sip of wine. “What need have I for new gowns? Mamma’s lady’s maid made over some of my frocks before she retired, to disguise the wear. I would have thought you would be glad of the economy.”

“We are not so poor you cannot dress well, Helen. Or attend an occasional entertainment. I guarantee Lewis has not forgone the latest in haberdashery, nor every lavish party of the season.”

She shook her head. “Do not speak against Lewis, Nathaniel. I will not hear a word against him.”

Nathaniel took a deep breath. “My point was not to disparage Lewis, but to express my concern for you. I hate to see you trapped here. Not living your life.”

She slowly shook her head. “Can you not conceive—a least a little—how I might feel? My chance at happiness was denied me.”

Yes, I do understand, Nathaniel thought, but he refused to admit it aloud. “I am sorry for your loss, Helen. I am. But that was years ago. Do you mean to go on living as though a widow forever?”

“Why not?” Helen’s eyes flashed. “What use have I for frivolous entertainments or to pretend an interest in other men I can never feel? And now . . . now I am a spinster. On the shelf. Do you know how people would talk if I showed up at a ball after all this time? ‘Does she not realize she is too old?’ they would say. ‘Who does she think she is, a debutante?’ ”

“If you think yourself the topic of conversation after all this time, you overestimate yourself.”

Helen’s mouth fell ajar. “What an unkind thing to say!”

“I did not mean . . .” He grimaced. “Why is it you seem determined to twist my every word? I only meant you worry too much—the gossips have moved on a hundred times over.”

She winced. “You still hope to marry me off, then—get me off your hands?”

“Of course not, Helen. I did not say you ought to cast a net for a husband. But could you not socialize with other women?”

“And do what? Play cards? Gossip? I have no taste for either.”

“But it does you no good, living in seclusion like this.”

“How do you know? Excuse me, Nathaniel, but how would you know? You have been gone these two years with little thought to my well-being. Why now do you suddenly care?”

“That is not fair, Helen. You know it was Father’s decision to summon me to Barbados when Lewis chose to return. I know I was not faithful in writing letters, but my every hour was taken up in plantation affairs.”

One eyebrow rose. “Your every hour?” She leaned back, hazel eyes alert. “Did you meet no interesting young ladies your entire time there?”

He inhaled deeply. “I did, actually. Well, one.”

“Oh?”

“Ava DeSante. Her father owns a neighboring plantation. She is accomplished, intelligent, beautiful . . .”

“But?”

“But she could not understand nor respect my objections to slavery.”

Helen blinked. “I am sorry to hear it, but really, were you surprised? From what I understand, slaves are the very lifeblood of plantations. No slaves, no profits—or at least, greatly diminished profits.”

Nathaniel slumped back in his chair. “Yes, as Father never tires of reminding me.”

His sister studied him over her glass while the footmen removed the entrees and laid the next course. “You have changed, Nathaniel, while you were away.”

He paused, his own glass held midair. “For the better or worse? I hate to ask.”

“Both, I think. Your new fervor makes me wary, I admit. But I do respect your stance.” She tilted her head to one side, regarding him. “But you seem, well, harder somehow. Guarded. Did Barbados do that to you, or did she?”

He swallowed. Did Helen refer to Ava, or to her? The truth was, Nathaniel had been illogically relieved when his courtship in Barbados had ended. He shook his head. “If you had seen what I’ve seen, Helen. The vile things men do to other men for the sake of money. . . .”

She asked quietly, “But is that really all it is?”

He did not answer. What did she want him to say—that he was still hurt over his disappointment with Margaret Macy? After all this time? It was imbecilic. He would not do it.

Helen dabbed her lips with a table napkin. “I support emancipation and the need to retrench.” Her mouth rose in a one-sided grin. “Even if it does mean I shall have to curtail my excessive visits to the modiste.”

Nathaniel grinned in return, thankful for her attempt to lighten the moment. Perhaps his sister might warm to him yet.

His grin faded, and he continued to eat without tasting a thing. As much as he tried to fight it, his mind reeled back to the still-painful day Miss Macy cast him aside.

———

Nathaniel waited in the drawing room of the Macys’ modest town house while the footman went to announce him. His hands shook. His pulse pounded. He paced the room, rehearsing the words that would change their lives forever. Yes, a kernel of insecurity lodged within his heart. He was not blind. He had not missed the attention Lewis had paid Margaret since his return. But surely she realized Lewis was only flirting with her. It was his way. Margaret’s feelings, Margaret herself, meant little to his brother and everything to him. She must know that.

A few minutes later, Margaret swept into the room, an expectant smile on her lovely face.

Nathaniel rose, his heart lifting at the sight of her. “Miss Macy.”

“Oh . . .” she faltered. “Mr. Upchurch.” She glanced toward the mantel clock.

Had she been expecting someone else? Nathaniel remained standing, suddenly ill at ease.

Margaret sat stiffly in an armchair and gestured to the settee across from her. “Please, won’t you be seated?”

He considered his options, then sat at the end nearest her chair.

“I wish to speak to you,” he began, a drop of perspiration rolling down his hairline. “About Barbados. About . . . you and me. Our future.” Why must his voice shake like a schoolboy’s?

She stared at him, lips parted.

Nathaniel hurried on, “Because of Lewis’s return, my father has asked me to travel to Barbados to take his place.”

Still she said nothing.

He swallowed and continued, “I realize it might be difficult for you were we to live in Barbados for a time, but when I spoke with your father, he—”

“Live in Barbados?” she sputtered. “I am not moving to Barbados, Mr. Upchurch. I hope I never gave you that impression. I could never leave my family—live at such a distance to them.”

He hesitated, taken aback. He would forgo Barbados for her in a heartbeat, but he hated to disappoint his father. “Ah . . . Well then. I shall write to my father and inform him—”

She rose abruptly. “Don’t. Please don’t say another word, Mr. Upchurch. I fear a misunderstanding has occurred between us. I have no plans to marry in the near future. No plans to marry anyone. If I have led you to believe otherwise, I apologize. I see how you might have thought—earlier in the season, I mean. But at present, no.”

An invisible fist struck him. Pain lanced his chest and his vision blurred. What was happening? He blinked and blinked again.

She clasped her hands before her. “I apologize, Mr. Upchurch, but I cannot marry you. There was a time I thought I could. But things have changed and I am sorry.”

He tasted bile. “Because of Lewis?”

Shame colored her cheeks, yet she lifted her chin. “Yes, I do admire your brother. I cannot deny it.”

Another blow. A kick in the ribs. He drew a painful, jagged breath and said quietly, “I think it only fair to warn you. Lewis is unlikely to marry you.”

Irritation flashed on her face. “And so I should ignore my feelings for him and marry you instead?”

His heart deflated. His hopes . . . crumbled. “Margaret . . . Miss Macy. I . . .” He pressed his eyes shut and cleared his throat. “I had no idea things had gone so far . . . had . . . come to this. I must say, I . . . I am deeply disappointed.”

“Can you not be happy for Lewis and me?”

He stared at her, bewildered. “That I cannot do. Nor can I stand by and watch the two of you and pretend . . .” He slowly shook his head. “I think, after all, I shall sail for Barbados without delay.”

“Then I wish you safe journey, Mr. Upchurch.”

He flinched at her indifference. He shook his head again, stunned and bemused. This was not how he had imagined the events of this day. His gut twisted as he crossed the room. At the door, he turned back. “I wish you never feel as I do at this moment, Miss Macy.” He opened the door, then hesitated. “Or, perhaps . . . I hope you do.”

“Again, I am sor—”

He held up his palm, anger flaring. “Enough. I don’t want your pity. I bid you good-day, madam. And good-bye.”

He turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

———

Nathaniel could still hear it, that door slamming shut in his past . . . and on his fondest dream.