The housemaid’s folding back her
window-shutters at eight o’clock the next day
was the sound which first roused Catherine.

—Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

Chapter 12

Margaret arose feeling refreshed the next morning. She had gone to bed early the night before, and though she tossed and turned for a time, she had gotten more sleep than usual. Betty had forgotten to come to her room to unlace her stays, so again Margaret had slept in them. Constricting as they were, keeping them on did make dressing in the morning so much the quicker—and possible solo. She hoped Betty had not similarly forgotten to attend to Miss Upchurch. The upper housemaid had been doing what she could to dress her mistress and arrange her hair since the lady’s maid retired, but based on Helen Upchurch’s appearance at morning prayers, Betty’s skills in that department were rudimentary at best.

Margaret thought again of what she had heard about Helen Upchurch’s great disappointment in love, and the rare sympathy in the gossips’ tone as they speculated about her long absence from society. Something about her father refusing his consent to the match and then the man’s untimely death soon after. Poor Helen. She recalled the good-looking man in the miniature portrait on Helen’s dressing table. No wonder she was disappointed.

Helen Upchurch had never been a ravishing beauty, not with that pointed nose reminiscent of her brother Nathaniel’s, nor with her somewhat sallow complexion. But she had been handsome enough and well thought of. It was such a shame, really. Margaret realized that she had done nothing when she’d heard of Helen’s loss. She wondered if she should have, could have helped somehow. Would a kind letter or call really have been so taxing?

Margaret pushed thoughts of the past aside—anxious now to see how Betty fared.

She finished dressing, pinned her blond hair back into its tight bun, positioned her wig, cap, and spectacles, and sat on her bed to await Betty’s knock. . . . She retrieved her father’s New Testament and read for a quarter of an hour. . . . Still the attic was quiet. It was time to go down and open the shutters, but again Betty had failed to show up at her door. Had she gone down without her? Was she so very angry with her?

Margaret once again made her way to Betty’s room. The door was closed. She knocked softly, listened, but no one answered.

Gingerly, she pushed open the door. The room was dim, the shutters closed. As her eyes adjusted, Margaret frowned, retracting her head like a turtle encountering an unexpected obstacle. Betty was still in bed. She lay on her stomach, face smashed into her pillow, cheek bunched up, mouth slack. Her arm hung out of the bedclothes, limp, fingers nearly reaching the floor. How strange. Betty never slept late.

“Betty?” she whispered, not wanting to startle her. But Betty did not rouse. “Betty!” Margaret repeated, suddenly fearful the woman was ill . . . or worse.

She hurried to the window and threw back the shutters. Dawn light seeped into the room. Returning to the bed, she grasped Betty’s shoulder and gently shook her.

The upper housemaid muttered something unintelligible.

“Betty, you’ve overslept. What will Mrs. Budgeon say? I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

“Wha’ time is it?” Betty asked, voice thick, as though her mouth were stuffed with cotton wool.

“It’s gone six.”

“Six?” Betty’s eyes popped open. Wincing, she twisted around, sat up, and pressed her hands to her temples. Her complexion greened, and those same hands grasped her mouth in alarm.

Thinking quickly, Margaret grabbed the basin from the washstand and thrust it under Betty’s chin. Betty retched. Then retched again.

She groaned. “The room’s spinnin’, Nora. Just give me a few minutes to gather my wits. The shutters await. . . .” Weakly she fell back in bed, throwing an arm over her eyes.

From the evidence and foul odor, Margaret came to the surprising conclusion that stalwart, dependable, workhorse Betty had been in her cups last night and was paying the devil this morning. On second thought, perhaps not so surprising, considering what she’d had to part with yesterday. But to drink the money away?

Hopefully not all of it.

Again, Betty began to rise, only to moan. “Aw-oh, my head . . .”

“There, there, Betty. Lie back. Sleep is what you need.” Margaret gently settled Betty back onto her pillows and pulled up the bedclothes. She drained the basin into the chamber pot, rinsed it with water from the pitcher and drained it again. She left the basin next to Betty’s bed. Just in case. She closed the shutters and then took the covered chamber pot out with her to dump it.

Margaret hurried through Betty’s early morning routine as well as her own, folding back shutters, polishing grates, and sweeping and dusting the main floor rooms Betty usually handled, trusting Fiona was doing the others. Then she hurried down to the basement for the water cans, perspiration trickling down her back and along her hairline. The dashed wig was hot.

She saw Mr. Arnold entering the servants’ hall for breakfast. If she did not scurry in now, she would miss the prayer. Mr. Arnold would not be pleased—Mrs. Budgeon either—but she needed to finish for Betty’s sake. Her stomach growled, but she quickly filled the water cans and carried them up to Nathaniel’s and Helen’s rooms, emptying the slops before returning belowstairs.

When she reached the servants’ hall at last, sweaty and weary, the others were already rising, Jenny beginning to clear.

Mrs. Budgeon’s lip thinned in disapproval. “If you are late, you don’t eat, Nora. Unless you have a valid excuse . . . ?”

Her mild whirled. She was hungry. She would have given her last shilling for one of Hester’s muffins. But what could she say that would not get Betty into trouble? “Um . . . no. Duties took longer than usual, that’s all.”

“Where is Betty?” the housekeeper asked.

“Uh . . . In one of the rooms, I expect. She wasn’t hungry.”

Someone snorted.

Jenny giggled, then whispered, “Not surprising. After all she drank last night.”

If Mrs. Budgeon heard, she ignored the comment. “Your duties, yours and Betty’s, are completed I trust?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then, see you are not late for dinner.”

———

Margaret looked at the clock above the mantel. It was the time Betty always veered from her housemaid duties and went up to help Miss Upchurch into her clothes and dress her hair. It would not do for Miss Upchurch to be kept waiting. Word would get back to Mrs. Budgeon all too quickly, and such an omission would not easily be forgiven by the exacting housekeeper.

Margaret went upstairs and, gathering her courage, entered Miss Upchurch’s room once more. She had been inside the apartment several times to deliver water or flowers, but not to help the mistress of the manor prepare for the day.

She folded back the shutters and heard a stirring in the bed behind her.

“Where is Betty?”

Margaret took a steadying breath, reminding herself to alter her voice. She had not seen Helen Upchurch socially in two years. Still, she would have to be careful not to give herself away.

“Somethin’ come up, miss.” To herself she added, Literally. “Betty asked me to come in ’er place this mornin’.”

Helen regarded her. “You’re the new girl.”

“Yes, miss.” Margaret bobbed a curtsy, glad for any excuse to bow her head.

“What is your name?”

“Nora, miss. Nora Garret.”

“Welcome, Nora.” Helen gave her a sleepy smile.

With her gentle smile and dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, Helen Upchurch looked younger and prettier than usual, even in the worn, unadorned nightdress.

“I do hope Betty is all right?” she said.

“Oh, she’ll be right as a trivet in two shakes, I’d wager. We’re all a bit behind after yesterday—that’s all.”

“I do hope the time off on account of my birthday did not cause problems. . . .”

“No, miss. I didn’t mean that. It was right kind of Mr. Upchurch and yourself, ma’am.”

“I am glad to hear it. Did everyone enjoy themselves?”

Margaret poured some of the hot water into the basin and laid out a fresh towel. “Yes, miss. Very much.” Some a bit too much, she thought, then asked, “And did you enjoy your birthday supper?”

“Oh yes. Monsieur Fournier outdid himself. It was a delicious buffet and a lovely evening. Only . . .” She hesitated. “I do wish both of my brothers might have shared it with me.” Helen looked troubled a moment, but then her expression cleared. “But Lewis had pressing business in town and simply could not stay. How disappointed he was to miss it.”

“That’s too bad, miss.”

While Helen washed, Margaret stepped into the dressing room, opened the wardrobe, and surveyed its contents. She was surprised at the modest selection. Many gowns were several years out of fashion, even more so than Margaret’s own gowns had become since Sterling limited their spending.

“What would you like to wear today, miss?” She pulled forth a gown of bishop blue. She had not yet seen Miss Upchurch wear it. It would look so well on her.

Helen sighed. “I don’t know . . .”

“If I may, miss. How about this lovely blue?”

Helen glanced over and her lips parted, then she frowned. “Not that one. I don’t wear that one.”

Then why keep it, Margaret wondered, but knew better than to ask.

“The grey day dress will do fine.”

That one she had already seen Miss Upchurch wear. Several times.

Margaret bit her lip and shook the dress to loosen the wrinkles, found a dress brush and gave the skirt and sleeves a quick once-over. She helped Helen on with a freshly laundered shift, then held open a pair of stays without busk or boning. At least this she knew how to do, having helped her sister many times. Helen slipped her arms through the holes and then turned her back toward Margaret, clearly as accustomed to being dressed as Margaret was. Again it was a relief not to be face-to-face with the woman.

“Not so tight, if you please.”

“Sorry, miss,” Margaret murmured, though she thought it a pity. With a little cinching Helen’s feminine figure could be quite attractive.

Finishing the stays, Margaret then helped her into a petticoat and stockings, tying the ribbons above Helen’s knees before helping her into the gown itself.

Finally, Helen sat on a small stool before the dressing table, arranging her skirts about her. She picked up an elegant brush and began stroking her long brown hair, judging her progress in the mirror.

Margaret felt a pang of homesickness, not for the Bentons’ house, but for her sister and brother, even her mother. How often she had brushed her mother’s or sister’s hair, even trimmed Gilbert’s unruly curls now and again.

“Allow me, miss.”

Helen’s motions stilled, and Margaret gently took the brush from her hand. She brushed the woman’s hair with long strokes, pausing when she hit a snarl to carefully untangle it before continuing. Brushing Helen’s hair soothed her and reminded her of Caroline, though her sister’s hair was lighter in hue and weight. In the mirror, Margaret noticed Helen had closed her eyes. Good, she thought.

At closer range now, Margaret noticed a few strands of grey in with the brown.

“Are you able to dress hair?” Helen asked. “If not, I can manage a simple knot on my own.”

How undemanding Helen Upchurch was, Margaret thought, in her loose, bone-free stays, old dress, and easygoing ways.

“It’d be my pleasure, miss, to give it a go.”

“Very well.”

Margaret soon found herself absorbed in the task. She brushed the hair upwards from Helen’s neck and gathered it in one hand, then leaned over to set down the brush. She had seen Helen often enough since arriving to know she wore her hair in a plain, severe knot low at the back of her head. But in Margaret’s opinion, it would look much prettier with soft height. She thought of suggesting heating the clay curling rod, but the day was too warm for a fire. So she settled for leaving out two thick strands at either temple, dampening these with water, winding them up, and pinning the curls to the sides of Helen’s head. These she allowed to dry while she continued to arrange the remaining hair high on the crown of her head.

Margaret leaned over again, snagged the pins, and secured the coil. When she finished, she removed the pin curls from Helen’s temples, pleased when the strands hung in spiraling tendrils on either side of her face. Fortunately, Helen’s hair had some natural curl, unlike Caroline’s, which would hang limp without help from a hot iron.

So engrossed was Margaret in dressing Helen’s hair, that it took her several moments to notice how still, even stiff, Helen had suddenly become.

Margaret glanced up with a start. Helen no longer had her eyes closed, nor was she looking at her own reflection in the mirror. She was staring, eyes wide, at her.

“What are you doing?” Helen breathed.

Margaret’s heart pounded. She stared back, then feigned interest in an imaginary stray lock of hair. Had Helen recognized her, or was she merely offended at the liberties a new maid had taken with her hair? Perhaps Margaret was reading too much into the question.

Swallowing, Margaret chose to respond to the latter meaning and exaggerated her accent. “Just tryin’ to give your hair a bit of height, miss. But I can do it over if ya like.”

She held her breath, feeling Miss Upchurch’s scrutinizing stare on her bowed head. The silence was thick. Margaret’s palms grew damp. Her voice breathy, she asked, “Which earbobs would ya like to wear, miss?”

Helen swiveled on her dressing stool, and Margaret backed up several steps. The woman’s direct gaze was even more intimidating than it had been in reflection. Margaret forced herself to meet that gaze.

Helen asked warily, “Why are you here?”

Margaret was sure Helen must hear her heart ta-tombing in her ears. “As I say, miss. I’m only helpin’ Betty today. I meant no harm.”

Helen’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you are about. But I shall be watching you.”

“Yes, miss,” Margaret murmured. “Will there be anythin’ else, miss?”

Helen slowly shook her head.

Margaret curtsied, turned, and strode to the door, feeling Helen Upchurch’s suspicious eyes follow her every step of the way.

———

In the corridor, she nearly collided with Fiona. The thin Irishwoman was out of breath and grim-faced. She glanced from Margaret to the door she had just exited.

“What were ya about in there?”

“Just helping out. Since Betty’s not able.”

“I was just going in. Is she angry?”

She thought of Helen’s suspicious face. “Not angry, no.”

“Did ya tell her Betty was . . . ?”

“I only said we were a bit behind after yesterday and I was filling in this morning. That’s all.”

“A bit behind? Sure and that’s a fine way of sayin’ foxed and sick as a dog. Castin’ up her accounts was she?”

“Well . . .” Margaret gestured helplessly.

“Are ya sayin’ you helped the mistress dress?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I should go in and check . . .”

Margaret touched Fiona’s arm. “The mistress is fine. Washed, clothed, hair dressed.”

Fiona breathed a sigh of relief, then murmured, “Which is more’n I can say for Betty.”

“Have you seen her?”

Fiona nodded. “I was just up lookin’ for her and found her sleepin’. Y’ought to have told me.”

“You had your own work.” Margaret’s stomach growled, and she turned away. It was time for morning prayers.

Fortunately for Betty, no one seemed to notice her absence. Afterward, Margaret and Fiona went back upstairs to clean the family bedchambers. When Fiona later rejoined her to help remake the beds, there had still been no sign of Betty.

“Poor lamb,” Fiona said, shaking out the aired bedclothes. “She was low indeed last night. Worried about her ma.”

“Her ma? I thought she had passed on.”

Fiona frowned. “What put that notion into yar head?”

Margaret inhaled. “She showed me her mother’s chatelaine. I assumed . . .” Margaret let her words drift away on a shrug.

“She isn’t dead, only retired. Ailing.” Fiona went to the other side of the bed and helped her spread the sheets. “Mrs. Tidy was a fine housekeeper, until her health failed and she could work no more. Had an apoplexy, poor soul, and needs constant care now. She lives with a widow in Maidstone, and Betty’s wages support them both.”

“Is that why she sold her chatelaine . . .” Margaret breathed, stricken at the thought.

Fiona’s head snapped toward her. “Did she now? And how might you be knowing that?”

“I saw it in the chandler’s window.”

“Is that where she went off to? Never said a word to me. I wondered where she come by all that money for drink. Must have fetched enough for her ma with plenty left over to drown her sorrows.”

“But surely she might have explained . . .”

“Tell her mother, the sainted housekeeper, what never made a mistake in her life, to hear her tell it. Let on her wages was being garnished? Not Betty. She has her pride, hasn’t she?”

Margaret winced. “But not her prized possession.”

“And whose fault is that? All yar fine words won’t get it back neither, so don’t be lookin’ down yar nose at her.”

“I wasn’t.”

Fiona gave her a sidelong glance. “So ya came into Weavering Street yesterday, but couldn’t be bothered to join us?”

“I meant to, but—”

Mrs. Budgeon popped her head in the door. “Here you are. I have just come from the green bedroom. Why is that bed not yet made? It is nearly eleven.”

Margaret glanced at Fiona, but Fiona trained her stony gaze on the pillow in her arms.

“It’s my fault, ma’am,” Margaret said. “I fell behind today, but I’ll soon catch up.”

“You had better.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Thank you for helping out, Fiona.”

Fiona nodded.

Mrs. Budgeon asked, “Have you seen Betty?”

Fiona looked at Margaret.

Margaret faltered, “Um . . . yes. Last I saw her she was in one of the other bedchambers.” Well, that was true to a point, though the bedchamber had been her own.

“When you see her, tell her I need to speak with her.”

At that moment, Betty appeared in the doorway, looking sheepish. “Here I am, Mrs. Budgeon. I am terribly sorry . . .”

The housekeeper said, “You are responsible for overseeing the duties of the under maids, but Nora is not new any longer and must learn to complete her duties on time herself. You and Fiona cannot continue to cover for her.”

Betty’s mouth dropped open. “But . . . I—”

Margaret said quickly, “That’s what Betty is always telling me, Mrs. Budgeon. I shall do better in future. I promise.”

Mrs. Budgeon studied her. “Very well. We shall let it pass this once. I knew yesterday’s idleness would exact its price.”

“Right you were,” Margaret agreed.

In the doorway, Betty nodded, her pale countenance and red-rimmed eyes hinting at just how high a price it was.