I am as yet ‘wanting a situation,’ like a
housemaid out of place. I have lately discovered I
have quite a talent for cleaning, sweeping up hearths,
dusting rooms, making beds, etc.; so, if everything
else fails, I can turn my hand to that.

—Charlotte Brontë, in a letter to her sister Emily

Chapter 11

The next day, Margaret backed from the drawing room, pulling the double doors closed as she went. Thomas, the first footman, appeared out of nowhere and gave her arm a playful pinch.

“Fetch me up some German polish, there’s a love.”

Margaret hesitated. Was that one of her duties as well?

Thomas smiled at her. He had very good teeth, though quite large. And something about those gleaming teeth, hard blue eyes, and dark hair reminded her of a wolf.

He gave her a gentle nudge. “You do know where the stillroom is, I trust?”

“Of course.” Chin high, Margaret turned on her heel and padded through the servery and down the basement stairs.

The stillroom. What memories of Lime Tree Lodge it evoked. The snug room with a cheery fire and sunlight from its high windows gleaming off copper kettles and colorful glass bottles. With its own stove, brick baking oven, worktable, basin, shelves displaying pots and jelly moulds, and cupboards containing tea, coffee, and more. Filled with the aromas of spices sweet and savory—ginger and coriander, cloves and rosemary. Where pastries and biscuits were prepared one moment, distilled beverages the next. Vinegars, pickles, and preserves on some days. Soaps, cosmetics, and medicinals on others.

Oh, the hours Margaret had spent perched on a stool in the stillroom at Lime Tree Lodge with Mrs. Haines, cutting ginger biscuits with copper cutters or making toffee.

Belowstairs, she passed the butler’s pantry, kitchen, and the housekeeper’s parlor. The stillroom was next door, the domain of both Mrs. Budgeon and the stillroom maid who carried out her many orders and receipts.

“Hello, Hester.” Margaret smiled at the round, sweet-faced maid as she entered.

“Hello, Nora.” Hester returned her smile and added a wink. “What brings you down to the dungeons this time of day?”

“The footman needs something called German polish.”

“Does he now? And why is that your problem?”

“I don’t know. He asked, so I thought it was something I was meant to do.”

“Thomas was it?”

Margaret nodded.

“Craig is a lamb, but mind you watch that Thomas. Charmer he may be, but lazy in the bargain. Gettin’ the new girl to fetch and carry for him.” She shook her head. “Maybe in your last place housemaids was responsible for furniture polish, but here that’s the footman’s duty. Ah well. You’re here now and I’m glad for an excuse to chat.”

Hester continued on with her work, crushing rose petals into a jar of salt.

“Um . . . have you any of this polish?” Margaret asked.

Hester looked up. “You’ve got to make it, love. Have you never?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Nothin’ to it.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Hester led her to the long, low stewing hearth, where several pots were bubbling and simmering already. She picked up an earthen pot with tripod feet and handle.

“First off, you melt a pound of yellow wax and an ounce of black resin in this pipkin.” Hester gathered the ingredients from various drawers and shelves in the room. She added the wax and the resin to the pot and handed Margaret a wooden spoon. “Once it’s melted, pour in two ounces of spirit of turpentine. Give or take. Now give ’er a good stir.”

Margaret stirred, and once the concoction was fully melted, added the spirit of turpentine.

“All there is to it. I believe that’s the first thing Mrs. Budgeon taught me to make when I come here. So I could make sure the footmen made it correct-like.”

Hester took the covered jar to the stillroom basin, washed it out, then returned to the hearth. “Let’s pour it in here. Careful now. Don’t want to burn yourself. Tell Thomas he needs to wait until it cools before he uses it. He knows, of course, but he’s not above skippin’ a step if he can get away with it.”

Margaret picked up the jar, but the heat singed her hand and she quickly plunked it back on the worktable.

Hester shook her head, bemused. “Your apron, love. Your apron.”

Margaret nodded and took up the jar once more, protected by a corner of her apron. She felt oddly pleased with herself at her small accomplishment, even though she had done little more than stir.

Thomas was waiting in the drawing room when she returned, staring idly out the window. He whirled when she came in, then smiled, relieved not to be caught by a senior servant. Striding over, he gave her nose a cheeky tweak. “There’s a love.”

He took the pot from her, cursed, and bent to quickly set it down. “Dashed thing’s hot!”

She bit back a smile and returned to her own duties.

As arranged, Nathaniel met Hudson outside in the arcade—a long, covered walkway from the house through the rose gardens. It had been a later addition to the original manor. The arcade’s open-air walls consisted of a series of arches supported by ornate pillars. It was there the men met for their morning fencing bout with practice swords.

Fencing was Nathaniel’s favorite way of taking exercise, with riding second, and rambling with the dog third. He was in far better physical condition now than he had been before sailing to the West Indies. When he met Hudson soon after arriving there, the two men had formed the habit of taking regular exercise together, whether fencing, hunting, riding, or even boxing, though the latter had proved a failure never to be repeated.

Nathaniel was the quicker of the two, and his skills finer, which was no surprise considering the classical training he’d received, while Hudson was primarily self-taught. Still, what the man lacked in finesse, he more than made up for in endurance and sheer determination. And how the man perspired! Nathaniel nearly felt sorry for the laundry maids.

After exchanging good mornings and comments about the fine weather, the bout began. Advance, lunge, retreat, retreat. Strike, parry-riposte. Feint, attack, parry-riposte . . . On and on it went in a rhythmic cycle. Now and again a balestra was thrown in, or a rare flèche, until one man slipped up or tired and gave his opponent an opening to score a hit.

Half an hour into the bout, Hudson struck with impressive speed, but Nathaniel parried. Nathaniel lunged and Hudson countered . . . but too late.

“Touché,” Hudson acknowledged.

“Bravo,” Lewis drawled.

Nathaniel glanced up and saw his brother leaning against one of the columns. He had not noticed him come out of the house.

Hudson wiped his forehead with a pocket handkerchief, preparing to continue. He addressed Lewis, “Would you like to give it a go, sir? I don’t mind bowing out.”

Lewis waved away the offer. “Heavens no. Too much dashed work. You two go on.”

Nathaniel panted to catch his breath. “Was there something you wanted, Lewis?”

“Just to let you know I return to London tomorrow.”

Irritation surged. Lewis had yet to help him prioritize the repairs needed at Fairbourne, nor had he agreed to expense-reducing measures for the London house. “Already? But—”

Lewis held up a hand. “Don’t start. I have several things to attend to in town, but I will return soon, I promise.”

That afternoon, Margaret stepped from the servants’ hall just as the under gardener appeared in the basement passage, carrying a basket of long-stemmed cut flowers.

“Hello there, love. New, are you?”

“Yes. I’m Nora Garret.”

“Well, Nora. I would be much obliged if you’d deliver these to Mrs. Budgeon for me. Mr. Sackett’s nippin’ at my heels to get back to work.”

“Of course. They’re lovely. For Miss Upchurch’s apartment?”

He nodded. “And the hall.”

Margaret lifted the basket to her face, inhaling deeply of the sweet aromas of late-summer roses and white clematis, amid other beautiful, though less fragrant varieties.

Betty, she knew, was repairing a torn seam for Miss Upchurch, while Fiona and Mrs. Budgeon were busy taking an inventory of the linen cupboard.

Margaret had already realized no one at Fairbourne Hall had an eye for flower arrangements. What a pleasure it would be after the drudgery of polishing summer-bright grates, sweeping stairs, and emptying chamber pots.

Margaret carried the flowers to the stillroom, knowing Hester would have the containers and implements she would need.

Hester greeted her warmly and welcomed her back into her sunny, warm domain.

For Helen’s dressing table, Margaret chose a blue porcelain vase and filled it with a low arrangement of pale roses, pink asters, blue cornflowers, and dainty white clematis with lovely trailing vines. For the hall she used a gilded bowl and made a taller arrangement of golden chrysanthemums, garden phlox, purple coneflowers, verbena, and greenery. She enjoyed every minute of the task.

“You’ve a gift, Nora!” Hester praised, which pleased her inordinately.

Margaret carried the first vase up to Helen Upchurch’s apartment, a bright chamber of white and blues. Placing the flowers on the dressing table, Margaret rearranged the pretty vanity set, Helen’s collection of porcelain birds, and a framed miniature on either side of the vase. Stepping back, she admired her work. A great improvement.

Then her attention was drawn to the miniature portrait itself. She picked it up once more and studied the face. Was this the man Helen had hoped to marry? An exceedingly handsome man, if the artist’s brush was accurate. How she would like to pick up a brush once again. It had been too long.

Helen’s voice startled her. “Beautiful, was he not?”

Margaret quickly set the portrait down, stunned and chagrined not only to be caught poking about, but to be alone with Nathaniel’s sister.

Risking a look over her shoulder, she was relieved to find Helen’s eyes trained on the portrait.

“Yes, miss,” she replied, accent warbling. “I’m sorry, miss. I . . .”

Helen waved away her apology. She walked over and reverently picked up the miniature, staring down at the face with an expression both dreamy and pained.

Margaret bobbed a curtsy and quickly slipped from the room.

Margaret sat beside Hester in the servants’ hall that night, lingering together with several others after supper, enjoying the camaraderie and the chance to sit and relax after a long day’s work. Around her, everyone listened with fond amusement as Connor regaled them with tales of his five brothers and younger sister.

“All as ginger-haired as he,” Hester whispered in Margaret’s ear.

Connor said, “The first time I went home in my new clothes after I become a valet, no one would come to the door. My own home and they wouldn’t answer my knock. Turns out my little sister had seen ‘some fine gentleman’ coming up the lane and ran to tell my brothers the bill collector had come to call. I went around the back and found them all huddled in the woodshed, hiding from their own brother!”

Chuckles and grins were exchanged around the room, and Connor beamed a charming smile. Margaret could certainly see why Hester was taken with the young man—as all the maids were.

Lewis had always had that same effect on women, young and old alike.

As Margaret made her way up to her room and prepared for bed, she found herself thinking about him. She recalled the first time she had seen Lewis after his return from Barbados more than two years ago—and the effect he’d had on her. . . .

———

Margaret glimpsed a tall dark-haired man striding across the ballroom with such confidence, such presence, that all paused to look. The fact that he was heart-stoppingly handsome caused those looks to linger.

“Who is that?” a debutante near her breathed.

Margaret’s friend, Emily Lathrop, followed the direction of their gazes. “That’s Lewis Upchurch. Nathaniel Upchurch’s older brother.”

Margaret had seen Lewis Upchurch in the past, but he had never taken any notice of her. So while she enjoyed the view, she entertained no thoughts of him beyond surprise at seeing him there.

Margaret turned and looked instead for Nathaniel Upchurch. He saw her at the same moment and crossed the ballroom to meet her, a shy smile on his bespectacled face.

She stepped away from the other young ladies to speak with him. “Good evening, Mr. Upchurch. I see your brother is back. I don’t remember your mentioning he planned to return.”

Nathaniel grimaced. “That’s because I didn’t know. Seems Lewis got bored and decided to return to London without my father’s approval.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“As was I.” He glanced over at the ladies and gentlemen crowding around Lewis, all eager to greet him. “Though we are alone in that sentiment.”

Margaret and Nathaniel danced together twice after that and then he led her to the punch table for a glass of ratafia.

Lewis appeared at his elbow. “Hello, Nate. Do introduce me to this lovely creature you’re monopolizing.”

Nathaniel hesitated, then turned to oblige him. “Of course. Miss Margaret Macy, my brother, Lewis Upchurch.”

“But we have met before, Mr. Upchurch,” Margaret said. “Though it was more than a year ago. I don’t expect you remember—”

“It can’t be,” Lewis protested. “I would have remembered an exquisite face like yours. Do say you’ll dance with me.”

Never had Lewis Upchurch looked at her with such admiration, such intensity in his warm brown eyes. It was as though he were seeing her for the first time. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he had never really noticed her amid all the other women forever flocking about him like chattering hens.

Unsettled and bemused by his charming flattery, she faltered, “Oh . . . well, of course. If you like.”

It was only a dance, she told herself. Nathaniel did not own her, nor was it even proper for the two of them to dance more than twice together in the same evening. They were not engaged.

Even so, she did not miss the wariness that flashed in Nathaniel’s eyes.

Margaret danced with Lewis twice that night, and at the next ball, and by the next week she allowed him to escort her in to supper in Nathaniel’s stead.

Lewis is better looking, a better dancer, more confident, and more exciting, she justified to herself, overwhelmed by the astounding fact that the man everyone wanted, wanted her.

———

With a sigh, Margaret rolled over in her attic bed, wondering yet again why his interest had not lasted.

In the morning, when the staff again assembled for morning prayers, Lewis Upchurch stood in the hall between his brother and sister for the first time. Lewis, Hester had told her, would be returning to London that very afternoon. He had spent only a few days at Fairbourne Hall, but did plan to return soon. This last word had made Hester’s eyes sparkle and brought dimples to her cheeks.

Nathaniel opened the book, then hesitated. He turned to his brother and offered it to him. Lewis waved the offer away, indicating Nathaniel should continue.

Nathaniel did so. He read a brief Scripture and prayed. Margaret liked that instead of reading a prayer by rote every morning, he often uttered prayers of his own invention, crafted in the moment evidently, judging by the screwing up of his face, the occasional pauses, and false starts. Mr. Arnold denounced him a poor cleric. But Nathaniel’s earnest informality in prayer, though in little else, reminded Margaret of her father, also denounced a poor cleric by many. Though not by her.

When Mr. Upchurch lifted his head to dismiss them, Lewis stepped forward before he could do so.

“Just a brief announcement . . .” Lewis began.

Beside her, Fiona stiffened in anticipation and Thomas quietly groaned.

“You are probably not aware, but today is Miss Upchurch’s birthday. She will ask for no gift for herself and tells me she only wishes that everyone would, in her words, ‘be happy and get along.’ ” He shot Nathaniel a telling look, then grinned at his sister. Helen met his glance with a wary one of her own, clearly unsure of his plan.

“In that spirit, and in her honor, I have asked Mr. Hudson to give all of you a half day—this very afternoon, to spend as you please.”

Gasps and exclamations of surprise and delight swept through the assembly. Nathaniel and Helen Upchurch, Margaret noticed, looked as surprised as the rest. Did Lewis not realize what he was doing? How was his sister to enjoy even a decent birthday supper if the entire staff was off duty?

But Helen beamed up at her brother. “That is an excellent notion, Lewis. I could ask for nothing better for my birthday.”

Mrs. Budgeon looked far less pleased. Concerned no doubt about what would be left undone, who would prepare dinner for the staff, not to mention the family, and a whole host of other tasks. She glanced at Mr. Hudson, perhaps seeking an empathetic grimace, but Mr. Hudson rubbed his hands together like a young boy anticipating a treat. The housekeeper rolled her eyes.

Cheerful chatter arose from the staff as they departed in twos and threes like chirpy robins in springtime, talking among themselves, laughing, joking, and hurrying to finish their remaining duties in record time. Only Hester looked deflated. Margaret glanced at Connor and was surprised to see him glaring at his master. Then she understood. For Connor would be leaving with Lewis and unable to share in the afternoon’s pleasure.

———

At one, the staff hurried to their rooms in various parts of the house or stable loft to divest themselves of the marks of their servitude—the caps, aprons, and tools of their trade. Some were going off to visit family in the nearby hamlet of Weavering Street or in Maidstone proper. Others had no family in the area but were making plans with one or two companions to go into Maidstone for an afternoon of revelry, shopping, or just enjoying the out of doors. It appeared Miss Upchurch had authorized the use of the wagon and horses to transport anybody who wanted to go into Maidstone. The groom warned that the wagon would leave The Queen’s Arms at eight sharp and any latecomers would have themselves a long walk back.

Margaret carried her housemaid’s box back to the closet, then started up to her room. She paused on the stairs to retie the laces of her half boot. From below, she heard Fiona and Betty talking as they stowed their own supplies. Apparently they, along with the two young kitchen maids—nieces of Betty’s—planned to walk together into Weavering Street to enjoy an unexpected afternoon with family.

Margaret overheard Betty say, “I suppose we should ask her to join us.”

Fiona hissed, “Why? After what she done to you?”

Betty sighed. “I know. I’m with her day in and day out as it is.”

“That’s right. You need a respite if anybody does.”

The closet door closed. Betty said tentatively, “But she is new and doesn’t know anybody else. I doubt she has anywhere to go.”

Fiona groaned. “Oh, a pox upon you Betty, for yar fun-killing charity. Very well, you ask her. Though I shan’t enjoy my half day half so well as I might.”

Ears burning, Margaret hurried upstairs, slipped into her room, and quickly lay on the bed.

A minute later, Betty knocked once and poked her head in the door. “Nora, a few of us are walking into Weavering Street. One of my brothers keeps a little inn there, so there’s sure to be plenty of food and foolishness. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

“Thank you, but I think I shall just stay here and rest. Maybe do a bit of reading.”

“But it’s a beautiful day.”

Margaret turned on the bed to face her. “Then I shall walk the grounds later. You go on. Have a good time.”

Betty shrugged. “All right, then. I’ll come by to unlace your stays before I go to bed.” She hesitated. “If you change your mind, we’ll be in the Fox and Goose. Just a half mile or so up the road.”

“Thank you.”

Margaret waited until Betty had shut the door and the passage was quiet, then rose and stepped to her open window. She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear distant laughter, whoops, and wagon wheels as the revelers departed, each to their own ideal of relaxation and enjoyment.

Margaret sighed.

Why should it sting? Why should she care? She hadn’t wanted to spend time with servants since she was a girl. Why should she now? She was only lonely because she missed her own friends and family. That was all. She wished for the hundredth time she could write to her mother or sister. But a Maidstone postal marking would reveal her whereabouts.

Margaret wandered around the corner and down the attic corridor, silent now. Several doors stood ajar. None bore locks. Entering the room of a servant of the same sex was not considered taboo. The rooms weren’t theirs, after all—everything belonged to their employers. Betty had told Nora that as the lowest-ranking housemaid, she would likely be assigned to clean the servants’ quarters one day soon. Apparently people in service had little privacy. A situation Margaret had not considered when she’d adopted a wig.

Margaret paused in the threshold of Betty’s room, neat as a pin as usual, with nothing on the washstand save a hairbrush and her week’s allotment of soap. The bedside table was bare as well.

She stepped next into Fiona’s room, smaller than Betty’s, but just as neat. Beside a worn chair pulled near the window was a basket of knitting wool and needles, and on the arm of the chair, a worn copy of the novel Pamela. Margaret grinned. Pamela was an old story about a virtuous maid who tirelessly warded off her master’s attempts at seduction until he finally married her. It was no wonder someone like Fiona might enjoy it. Though she was somewhat surprised to learn Fiona could read. And did.

Her conscience smarting from snooping, Margaret left the room and wandered down the many pairs of stairs to the kitchen, hoping for something to eat. She found Monsieur Fournier seated at the worktable, quill in hand and inkpot nearby, bent over a letter.

“Bonjour, monsieur. I thought everyone had left.”

“Nora.” He straightened. “Come to steal from my kitchen, ey?”

“Yes, please.” She grinned.

He looked at her from under his great bushy black brows. And for a moment she feared he was truly angry. Then he shook his head, one side of his thin mouth quirking. “Ah, very well, ma petite. It shall be our secret, non?”

He rose and bustled about the kitchen. In a few moments, he placed before her a ramekin and a spoon. “Now. Today I prepare zis with East India sugar. Made without slave labor, you see. Mr. Upchurch insists, even though it costs more. So. We shall eat zis in ze name of research, oui?”

Margaret nodded and pierced her spoon through a layer of burnt sugar, dipping into a creamy custard and, at the bottom, a layer of dark chocolate. She placed the intermingled layers in her mouth, closed her eyes, and savored the rich, bittersweet kiss upon her tongue.

“Oh, monsieur. I think I am in love.”

He grinned with satisfaction and picked up his quill once more.

She wondered how he stayed so thin. She took another bite and glanced at him. “What are you writing?”

“I write to my brother. He is a chef as well, but in France. I write to him little improvements to old family recipes. Or to ask him what herbs Mamma put in her potage aux champignons . . .” He lifted an expressive hand. “But I never hear back. I hope all is well.”

“I am sure it is. But with the war barely over . . .”

“Yes, yes. The mail is peu fiable.”

She nodded, echoing, “Yes. Unreliable, indeed.”

His head snapped up, eyes alight with surprise. “You speak French, mademoiselle?”

Too late she realized her error. “Oh . . . no. Not really. My mother has a French lady’s—lady friend, and I heard French spoken now and again. That’s all.”

He studied her, his expression measuring and perhaps even suspicious. Then he seemed to shake it off. “In his last letter, more zan a year ago now, my brother promised to send Le Cuisiniere Impérial—the very best book of French cuisine. But . . . well . . .” He lifted both hands and shrugged. “C’est la guerre.”

Margaret licked her spoon. “Perhaps you should write your own book.”

His dark eyes gleamed. “Perhaps I shall.”

From down the passage, the tinkling of keys filtered into the kitchen and swelled into melody. The old pianoforte being played in the servants’ hall. She looked up in surprise, but monsieur seemed to take it in his stride, listening distantly as he spooned another bite into his mouth.

“Who is that?” Margaret asked, reluctant to leave her sweet dessert to investigate.

“Madame Budgeon.”

“Really? I had no idea she played.”

“She is a woman of hidden talents, Anna Budgeon.”

Anna? Margaret mused, “I wondered if she would take the afternoon off, or do the work of all the missing staff combined.”

“She could no doubt, with vigor to spare.”

He said it with admiration, and she regretted her sarcastic remark.

“And you?” she asked. “Why are you not off at some inn with the others?”

He pulled a face. “I cannot abide English food, Nora. I make no secret of zis. English ale little better. No. I told Mr. Upchurch I appreciate his offer, but I prefer to stay and prepare something extraordinaire for Miss Helen’s birthday. Seulement moi, in a quiet kitchen. Sweet music in my ears and sweet aromas in my nose.”

His last word drew her attention to his abundant nose hairs, and she forced herself to look away. She guessed the scullery maid would not enjoy the mountain of dishes awaiting her return but didn’t say so.

Rising, she said, “Then I shall leave you to it.”

“If you like. Though you are pleasant company.”

“Thank you. And thank you again for the delicious pudding.”

He nodded. “Not going out?”

She shook her head. “Betty was kind enough to ask, but . . . I think I shall do a bit of reading instead.”

His head tilted to one side. “The new maid reads books and speaks French. Très intérresant.”

———

Leaving the kitchen, Margaret tiptoed down the passage and peeked into the servants’ hall. Mrs. Budgeon sat, head bent, hands spread wide, playing with abandon. And though the instrument was not in perfect tune, the housekeeper played very well. Hidden talents, indeed. She wondered who had taught her and guessed Mrs. Budgeon did not often have opportunity to practice and enjoy her skill.

Margaret decided not to disturb her.

She returned to her room but was too restless to read. The warm, sunny afternoon beckoned her out of doors. She tied on her bonnet and retrieved her reticule, which still contained her worldly treasures—her few remaining coins and cameo necklace. Then she trotted down the back stairs and out the servants’ door.

The warm late-August air embraced her. She paused to tip her face to the sunshine, the warmth on her skin as sweet as the pudding had been. The wolfhound, Jester, appeared and trotted beside her, tail wagging.

Her half boots crunched over the pebbled drive as she walked between the kitchen garden and one of the flower gardens, surrounding her with the fragrances of comfrey, lavender, and intermingled floral scents. She followed the hedgerow to the front boundary of the estate. Jester shadowed her as far as the road, but there she told him to stay. She was surprised when the dog obeyed, though he watched her depart with mournful eyes.

She would walk into Weavering Street, she decided. Whether or not she would have the courage to enter the Fox and Goose remained to be seen.

The tiny hamlet of Weavering Street was a collection of cottages and shops that had sprouted up during the building of Fairbourne Hall and continued to succor the spouses of several estate workers. Mrs. Budgeon, Margaret had heard, did the majority of the marketing in large and prosperous Maidstone beyond.

Margaret strolled up the walkway fronting the businesses—a combination butcher shop and bakery as well as a chandler’s shop which sold a bit of everything, displaying its wares in a many-paned bow window. As she passed, she breathed in the delicious aromas of pies and cakes, pungent cheeses, and savory sausages.

She stopped short at the sight of Joan standing beside a gig, its horse tethered near the chandler’s. A jumble of emotions crowded her throat. Nostalgia at seeing a familiar face. Shame at the weakness she had displayed in her former maid’s presence. Gratitude. And fear of rejection.

“Hello, Joan,” she said tentatively.

Joan looked over and also seemed to hesitate. “Well, well. Never thought I’d see you again.” She stepped up to the walkway. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a post nearby.”

“You? What as?”

“Housemaid.”

Joan shook her head in disbelief, then glanced toward the shop door. “Someone came along and hired you after I left?”

Margaret nodded. “Eventually.” Joan didn’t appear interested in long explanations, so instead Margaret asked, “So . . . are you out enjoying a half day as well?”

“Half day? Hardly.” Joan snorted, again glancing toward the shop. “The Hayfields have been in mourning for nearly a year and are broke in the bargain. So no time off, no servants’ ball, no gifts at Christmas, nothing. Several left for better places because of it, which is why I was hired.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Guilt slithered through Margaret. “How is it working there otherwise?”

Joan shrugged. “I’ve had worse. The housekeeper’s a terror, never satisfied. But I’ve got a roof over my head. The food is decent and the others aren’t a bad lot.”

It wasn’t very convincing. “At least you’re not a maid-of-all-work,” Margaret suggested weakly.

“Yes, I avoided that fate, at least.” Joan smirked. “I suppose your place is a bed of roses?”

“Not bad, though one of the other housemaids barely tolerates me.” Margaret almost added, “She reminds me of you,” but thought the better of it.

At that moment, the stern Hayfield housekeeper stepped out of the chandler’s.

“Let’s go, Hurdle. Stop dawdling.”

Joan looked once more at Margaret. “Well, good-bye again.”

“Good-bye, Joan,” Margaret whispered over an unexpected lump in her throat.

She stood there, watching until the two women climbed in and the gig moved on. Then Margaret turned to the chandler’s window, idly wondering what the old biddy had found to buy there.

She casually surveyed the hodgepodge of wares—from cheap candlesticks to cookware to bottles of the latest patent medicines for those who did not wish to venture to a Maidstone apothecary. She regarded the collection with some amusement and, if she were honest, condescension. Clearly, the shop did not have the most elite of clientele. She was about to continue on, when something behind the glass reflected a ray of sunlight, shining, winking at her. She frowned and bent nearer, as much as her stays would allow, to view the object more closely.

Her breath caught. There beside a paltry collection of slightly dented pots and kettles lay a gilt chatelaine in a velvet box. It could not be . . . Chatelaines were not uncommon, she told herself—in fact they had become quite ubiquitous. Even fine ladies wore them, inlaid with mother of pearl and even jewels. This one bore no jewels but a distinct engraving of a stag’s head on the body of the brooch. Empty key chains and three tiny gilt boxes lay in a tangle beneath. Oh no . . .

Before she consciously chose to do so, Margaret stepped inside the shop, only distantly hearing the jingle of the bell announcing her arrival. A diminutive man with thin hair and the bushiest side whiskers she had ever seen stepped forward to greet her, hands clasped before his narrow, vested chest.

“Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

“The chatelaine in the window . . .” She was tempted to ask whose it had been to verify her suspicions. But Betty’s brother lived in the hamlet. She did not want to embarrass Betty before her family, or for word to reach Betty that Nora had been snooping into her affairs. “Who . . . that is, I don’t recall seeing it there before.”

The man shook his head, a sparkle in his eye belying the regretful expression. “No, miss. Just come in today, it did. And a fine piece it is. How lovely it would look pinned to your frock just there.”

She did not like the man eyeing her waist. She frowned. Betty would never forgive her if she heard some Fairbourne housemaid was thinking of buying her cherished chatelaine for herself.

“I wasn’t thinking of it for myself.”

“Oh.” Disappointment etched his features, but then his brows rose. “A gift, perhaps? And a fine gift it would be, indeed.”

Margaret licked her lips. “I don’t know. I . . . How much are you asking?”

“For a fine piece like that? Dear it is, but worth every farthing to the lucky lady who wears it.”

A farthing she could manage, but from the gleam in his eye she guessed he was asking far more. “How much?”

“Oh . . .” He screwed up his face, lips protruding, as he took in her reticule, her leather gloves, her bonnet . . .

She knew she would not like his answer.

He named a figure. An astounding figure.

“But . . . it isn’t real gold, you know. It’s only brass.”

“Pinchbeck, actually.”

“Which still isn’t gold,” she insisted.

“I could let it go for a bit less, for a fine young lady like yourself.”

She huffed. “I am not a fine lady, sir. I am a housemaid.”

“You don’t say? Where are you placed? Fairbourne Hall?”

Margaret turned to leave before she said something she regretted. She reached for the door latch.

“Don’t be hasty, miss,” he called to her. “A pound, two and six. And that’s as low as I can go.”

“Did you give her a pound, two and six?”

His brows furrowed. “Who?”

“The woman who brought it in.” She swallowed and added, “Whoever she was.”

“Well, a man has to make a profit, hasn’t he?”

“From other people’s misfortunes?”

There, she had said too much. She turned and left the shop without another word, ignoring his plaintive calls to reconsider.

She stalked back down the road, back toward Fairbourne Hall. She could not face Betty. Not now. She did not have that much money. Nowhere near it. All she had was the cameo necklace her father had given her. It was likely worth quite a bit more than the chatelaine, but she could never part with it. Not the last gift her dear papa had given her. Perhaps when all this was over and she had her inheritance, she would send Betty a new chatelaine. Or even drive back down in a private carriage and buy back Betty’s chatelaine from the greedy little man, as much as it would gall her to do so.

In the back of her mind, a voice asked, “Will it still be there months from now?” But she resolutely ignored it.