Housemaids were meant to be invisible, and all
cleaning had to be performed either before the family got up or
while they were absent. As one housemaid later wrote, “It was
assumed, I suppose, that the fairies had been at the rooms.”

—Trevor May, The Victorian Domestic Servant

Chapter 16

After breakfast the next morning, Margaret went upstairs to Miss Upchurch’s room with some trepidation. She wondered if Helen would tell her what had been said behind closed doors yesterday. What Sterling had said, what Helen had revealed . . . or not revealed. Margaret hoped she would tell her, even as she feared what she might learn.

When Margaret entered, Helen was not sitting at her dressing table as usual. Instead she stood beside her desk, pointing down to a sheet of paper lying atop it.

“Sit.”

Margaret hesitated at Helen’s stern syllable. “What . . . ?”

“I suppose you haven’t paper and ink of your own,” Helen said. “So sit and write your letter here.”

“Letter?”

Helen’s eyes flashed. “To your mother. You do have a mother, I trust? One who might be worrying and wondering where you’ve gone?”

Margaret swallowed. Realizing there was no longer any point in altering her voice with Helen, she said quietly, “I have wanted to write. But were I to post a letter from Maidstone, would not the postal markings divulge my whereabouts to—”

“To the evil stepfather?” Helen archly supplied. “I have thought of that. Hudson travels to London tomorrow to meet with a shipwright or some such. I will ask him to post the letter while he is there.”

Margaret marveled at her kindness. “Thank you.”

Helen gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Your mother deserves to know you are alive and well.”

“You are right.” Margaret sat down at Helen’s desk, picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink, and began her letter home.

My dear Mamma, Caroline, and Gilbert,

I am sorry I have not written sooner. I hope you have not been unduly concerned about me. I am fine and in good health.

Pray do not worry about me or try to find me. I am content where I am and do not wish to return home for reasons you, Mamma, as well as Mr. Benton, understand.

I trust Mr. Marcus Benton will be taking his leave of Berkeley Square very soon. Do bid him farewell for me.

Attend well to your studies, Caroline and Gilbert, know that I miss you, and never forget how much I love you.

Sincerely,
Margaret

Finishing her letter, she blotted the ink, read it over, and then folded it. She fleetingly wondered if the Turkey Mill watermark—paper milled right there in Maidstone—might give her away. Thankfully, it was the most popular paper the country over.

Helen came over and set a lit candle on the desk—Margaret had not even noticed her leave the room for one. Wordlessly, she handed Margaret a stick of sealing wax. Margaret softened the stick over the flame and then applied a circle of wax to the edge of the letter.

Helen gave her a handled seal stamp. “This one is only decorative, not the family crest or anything identifiable.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” Margaret murmured, pressing the stamp into the wax and lifting it, checking to make certain the seal held. She was glad Helen had thought of that. For though she had addressed the letter to her mother, she had no doubt Sterling would read it as well—and scour it for clues.

Two days later, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, Margaret found herself bored and with nothing to do. Her work was finished. The mending caught up. She had nothing new to read. She thought to have a chat with Betty, but when she paused outside her door, the sound of soft snoring told her the upper housemaid was enjoying a rare and well-deserved nap.

Feeling lonely, Margaret took herself belowstairs. The stillroom was empty—no sign of sweet Hester. She continued on. Entering the kitchen, she found the large room uncommonly quiet. She was surprised Monsieur Fournier and the kitchen maids were not scurrying about as usual, preparing the family’s dinner.

Instead she found the chef alone at the kitchen worktable, feet propped on a crate, eyes closed, listening to . . . ? She paused to listen and heard the faint sound of the pianoforte being played.

“Good afternoon,” she whispered.

The man’s bushy eyebrows shot up as his eyes opened. “Ah, Nora.” He straightened.

She glanced around. “I haven’t seen the kitchen this quiet since we were all given a half day for Miss Upchurch’s birthday.”

He nodded. “The family is dining with an uncle zis evening. So, for a few hours, at least, I am a man of leisure.” He lifted a carefree gesture with both hands.

She smiled. “Something tells me you wouldn’t like being a man of leisure for long. You enjoy your work too much.”

He pursed his lip and pivoted his hand in a gesture of comme ci, comme ça.

She cocked her head to the side, listening to the distant music. “Does Mrs. Budgeon play every Sunday?”

“Not every, but now and again.”

“Has she no family nearby to visit? I never hear her speak of children or a husband.”

He shook his head. “Mrs. Budgeon is not married. It is customary for housekeepers to be called Mrs., whether they are married or no. You know zis, yes?”

“Oh yes. I had heard that.” She regarded him a moment, then asked, “Do you ever think about working somewhere more grand? Where your skills might be better appreciated?”

His eyes sparkled. “You hope to be rid of me?”

Margaret felt her cheeks heat. “Not at all.”

He shrugged easily. “Mr. Lewis did offer me a post in London. He entertains a great deal, I understand. Many distinguished guests.”

“Why did you not accept?”

Monsieur Fournier did not answer for several moments, and she feared she had offended him by prying.

Finally he said, “You know the housekeeper remains at one house—she does not travel for the season. She stays with her maids to keep all ready for the family’s return.”

It was an odd answer. Or was it? “I see . . .” Margaret murmured. She did see, she thought. Or was beginning to.

He cocked his head, listening almost dreamily as another melody melted through the kitchen door. “That is a Jadin sonata. She plays it well, does she not?”

Nathaniel had remained busier than usual during the last week. He had been obliged to attend a series of commissioners’ meetings about local road repairs and to meet with the vicar to devise plans for relief of the parish poor. Because of his responsibilities at home, he’d sent Hudson to London in his stead to meet with a shipwright to discuss repair estimates. During Hudson’s absence, Nathaniel was busier yet, taking on his steward’s duties as well as his own—overseeing the carpenter and slater repairing the roof and the workmen erecting a new fence.

He had greeted Hudson’s return three days later with relief. Hudson reported that the Ecclesia had suffered no further vandalism, and that he had published the reward Nathaniel offered for the capture of Abel Preston, the so-called Poet Pirate. Finally, Hudson handed him the repair estimates from the shipwright. The figures stole Nathaniel’s breath. So high. Too high. They would have to seek another bid.

Now that Hudson had resumed his normal duties, Nathaniel spent the morning catching up on his own correspondence. In the afternoon, he went upstairs to relax with Helen in the family sitting room over a game of draughts. Helen beat him handily. As usual.

Hudson knocked and entered. Helen, Nathaniel noticed, straightened her already impressive posture. His sister always seemed to stiffen in the new steward’s presence.

“Miss Upchurch. Mr. Upchurch.”

“Hello, Hudson,” Nathaniel said. “Did you need something?”

He hesitated. “Actually, I hoped to have a word with Miss Upchurch.”

Helen folded her hands primly in her lap. “Of course, Mr. Hudson. What is it?”

“It is your Miss Nash. Your former lady’s maid, I understand.”

“I know who she is.”

“Of course. I wonder . . .”

Helen’s expression tightened. “Has something happened to her?” she asked quickly. “Has she taken ill?”

“No, miss, it isn’t that. She seems in good health, relatively speaking. But her cottage, on the other hand, is not.”

“Well, fix it. Is that not part of your responsibility as steward, Mr. Hudson?”

Nathaniel was surprised at his sister’s almost snappish tone.

“That’s just it, miss,” Hudson said. “She refuses to allow me or the estate carpenter inside to make repairs. I only learned about the leaking roof and moldering floors when Mrs. Sackett—”

Helen’s brows furrowed. “Mrs. Sackett?”

“The gardener’s wife. She visited the old woman and was appalled at the condition of the place. She convinced her husband to report it to me.”

“I see.” She pulled a face. “No, I don’t see, actually. What has this to do with me?”

Hudson patiently explained, “When I spoke to Miss Nash, at her door, she said she was never allowed men in her rooms at Fairbourne Hall and doesn’t mean to begin now. She said you would understand and support her decision.”

“Oh dear.”

Hudson fidgeted with the coins in his coat pocket. “You see my predicament.”

“I do.” Helen considered. “Perhaps we might go and speak with her together, Mr. Hudson? See if we might make her see reason?”

Hudson’s eyes twinkled. “I’d happily accompany you anywhere, miss. But make Miss Nash see reason . . . ? I shall leave that to you.”

———

An hour or so later, Nathaniel walked across the lawn toward the road, tossing a stick to Jester as he went. He was on his way to meet with the Weavering Street craftsman he’d commissioned to make new cradle scythes for the upcoming harvest.

Hudson and his sister strolled into view, returning from the direction of the estate cottages. They were talking and laughing companionably, apparently successful in their quest. Helen smiled up at Hudson, and he was glad to see his sister warming to their new steward. One look at the man’s beaming face, however, and Nathaniel realized Hudson was long past warm.

Margaret steeled herself, as she always did, when it was time to enter one of the men’s bedchambers—especially the first time of a morning, when the occupant was still in his bed. She had gotten over the initial shock of having to do so but still did not relish the prospect. Her early training was imbedded too deeply within her. Heaven help her if anyone ever found out she had done so not once, but every morning for months.

Margaret took a deep breath and eased open Nathaniel Upchurch’s door. Slipping inside, she closed the door behind her so any corridor noises would not disturb the sleeper. It was too late, however, for the sleeper seemed disturbed already. Nathaniel’s head thrashed from side to side, though his eyes remained closed. What in the world?

One leg, dark with hair, escaped the bedclothes. Cheeks warm, she averted her eyes. She delivered the water, found the chamber pot blessedly empty, and made to leave. But Nathaniel groaned like a man in pain. He was having a bad dream, apparently. A very bad dream. She risked another glance, knowing she ought to slip out before he awoke. How rude an awakening would it be to find a housemaid staring down at him?

He moaned again, a tortured sound. If only he had a valet to rouse him and end his misery. But there was only her. A wave of dark hair fell over his brow, and with those piercing eyes closed, he looked younger, less dangerous. For a moment he reminded her of Gilbert, who had experienced terrible nightmares as a young child. She had never hesitated to wake him, to soothe him, to stroke the hair from his brow.

Margaret took a tentative step forward. From the weak morning light leaking from between shutters and transom, she saw Nathaniel’s face contort. Poor man. Of what must he be dreaming?

Perhaps if she whispered to him, the dream would end, or at least shift, without him waking and she could slip out undetected.

She took another step toward the bed and leaned near. “Sir?” she whispered. “Sir?” Gingerly, she reached a hand toward his shoulder. Dared she give him the barest tap?

His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm. She gasped. His eyes flew open, but they were glazed with that vague, unfocused look she recognized from Gilbert’s sleepwalking days. His eyes might be open, but Nathaniel Upchurch was still asleep.

She tried to extract her arm, but his grip was too tight. “Sir, you’re dreaming. Wake—”

He rolled toward her, grasping her other arm as well. “Margaret?”

Her heart lurched. Was he dreaming of her, or of some other Margaret?

“Cannot save her . . .” The ragged timbre of his voice tore at her heart.

“Sir. You’re all right,” she soothed. “You’re safe.” She hesitated, then lifted one of her captured hands and awkwardly patted his arm. “Margaret is safe.”

He suddenly pulled her toward him and she lost her balance, falling to her knees beside the bed. He pulled her closer yet, until their faces were very near.

Stunned, Margaret did not move quickly enough to escape his grasp. Was not sure she wanted to escape him. Nathaniel Upchurch was dreaming of her, touching her, perhaps about to kiss her. Was she dreaming as well?

She could feel his hot breath on the sensitive skin of her upper lip.

“Margaret . . .” The name was part groan, part growl.

She was filled with a sweet, aching longing to bridge the lingering space between them. She leaned down and their lips met in a feather touch. Sparks thrilled her every nerve. He angled his head to deepen the kiss, pressing his mouth to hers, fervently, fiercely. Her head felt light, her pulse pounded.

What was she doing? The heady, delicious kiss took her off guard. She had never expected such a passionate, forceful embrace from a man she had once thought timid. A man who doesn’t know what he is doing, she reminded herself. Who is dreaming.

She, on the other hand, knew very well what she was doing. She tried to pull away but, leaning over as she was, fell forward, her elbows spearing his chest. Crying out, she scrambled out of his hold and to her feet.

“What on earth?” His voice was different now. Lucid, though still hoarse. Awake.

She turned away, flying toward the door.

Incredulous, he called, “What in heaven’s name . . . ?”

Too shaken to force an accent, she fled without a word.

———

Heaven help him. What had just happened? In his mind swirled a quagmire of conflicting thoughts, images, sensations. . . . Had he been dreaming? Merciful Father. Had some well-meaning servant slipped into his chamber to calm him, only to be pulled into his bed? What had he been thinking? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. The dark putrid smoke of the dream laid over him like a heavy cloak, making it hard to breathe. He could still feel the shock, the fury, the terror of the fire. His ship. Being destroyed.

Pieces of the dream returned to him. Had he been calling out loud enough to bring down a servant from the floor above? Good heavens. He had not had night terrors since boyhood. He supposed with the recent stress it was not surprising they had returned. But the loss of the ship was not the heaviest weight on his chest, not the elusive, nagging thought flitting just out of sight and recall.

When had the dream changed? He had been clashing swords with Preston, both men trying to reach the gangplank and block the other’s escape, when he’d heard a female voice, calling to him. Margaret. He had recognized her voice with a start. What was she doing aboard his ship? How had she gotten there? He looked wildly this way and that, trying to locate her. Was she trapped among the rapidly amassing wreckage of toppled masts and rigging that had once been his prized possession?

He’d tried to call to her, his voice coming as if through a sea of uncarded wool. She would never hear him over the roar of the fire, the crack and bang of falling timber.

Preston took advantage of his distraction and drove his sword deep into Nathaniel’s chest. His heart. Breaking. Oh, Margaret, why? Though she had destroyed his happiness and dreams, still he must rescue her. He ran across the deck, hand to his wound, and pushed a fallen mizzenmast out of his way. The smoke burned his eyes and seared his throat. So dry.

“Where are you? We must disembark. I cannot save her.”

Then suddenly, miraculously, she was in his arms. Safe. Their embrace had felt so real, so sweetly, painfully real. And suddenly the past evaporated. She was there with him, and that was all that mattered. He would not waste one moment. He pulled her close, relishing the feel of her against him. He pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply, as he had long dreamed of doing . . .

Dreamed . . .

Disappointment drenched his soul. It had only been a dream. A delicious, torturous dream. Had there even been a woman in the room? An innocent housemaid come to empty his slops only to be shocked and appalled by his crazed, groping behavior? He had long promised himself he would never trifle with anyone in his employ—that he would respect the female servants as he did the men. Be the benevolent master his heavenly Father was to His servants.

Nathaniel ran a hand over his face. Paused to feel his lips . . . lips he was so certain had been pressed to Margaret Macy’s. What had he done—how would he ever explain? He wasn’t even sure which girl it was. The poor thing might be gone by breakfast, after telling a shocked and disapproving Mrs. Budgeon how he had molested her. Or might she keep her post in desperation, but avoid him in terror all her days at Fairbourne Hall?

He grimaced again, trying to remember exactly what had happened, to sift out fact from fiction, reality from dream, and wishing to block the whole episode from his mind. Would he never be over Margaret Macy? How did she manage to torment him over the distance of years and miles, wherever she was now?

But the longer he ruminated, the more the dream faded and the events blurred, until he was not certain a maid had been in his arms at all. In the dim dawn light his room seemed undisturbed. If only his heart and mind could claim as much.

He looked toward the door. Shut. Would a maid have bothered to close it were she fleeing in fear? Unlikely. So perhaps no one had even yet been in his room.

He glanced across the bedchamber in the other direction, and glimpsed water cans on his washstand. His heart fell. He rose and crossed the room as though approaching a trap about to spring. He hoped against hope these were the cans from the night before. He dipped in his finger and winced.

Still warm. Very warm.

———

After that, Nathaniel had climbed back into bed and lay there for a time, praying. He must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes again, the sun was shining through the windows, brightening his mood, as did the cheerful birdsong. Arnold came in with a tray of coffee and the newspaper and went about setting out his clothes. He seemed the same as always. No disapproving looks or news of a housemaid giving notice.

“And will you be riding this morning, sir? Or fencing?”

“Hmm? Oh. Riding, I think.”

Everything was as it should be. The same as the day before and the day before that. Perhaps a maid had brought in water as usual but otherwise it had all been a dream. He was really quite sure of it now. What a relief. No apologies to make. No woman in his bed. No ghostly Miss Macy with ethereal blond hair whispering to him in the night that he was safe. That she was safe. Perhaps it was a sign. God was telling him he was finally past it. His heart was safe—Miss Macy fared well wherever she’d gone, and was none of his concern. Everything was fine. It was time for Nathaniel to get on with life in the here and now.

Invigorated at the thought, Nathaniel threw back the bedclothes. He swung his legs over and for a moment sat on the edge of his bed, bowing his head in thanksgiving for a new day. The sunlight splayed over his nightshirt-clad knees. Something shone on the plain white fabric like a thread of a brighter hue. He pinched the errant thread between thumb and forefinger, preparing to toss it in the rubbish basket, but stopped. Instead, he lifted the thread before him and in the shaft of sunlight saw it was not a thread but rather a long hair. A long blond hair.

He frowned. Who among his staff had such hair? None that he could think of, though he made a practice of not looking often nor directly at the young women in his employ. He supposed it might have come in by way of the laundry. He would not recognize the laundry maids if he passed them in the street. Or perhaps Lewis brought home some lady’s hair upon his person and it had transferred to Nathaniel via the laundry. Lewis, he knew, had no lack of female admirers of every description. But even as his logical mind tried to reason away the blond remnant, to avoid linking last night’s dream with its subject, he could not succeed for long. He had dreamed of blond Margaret Macy, only to awaken with a long blond hair in his bed? Dear God, have pity on a poor sot. What sort of sign was that?

Margaret pressed two fingers to her lips, still tender from Nathaniel’s kiss. A pair of fingers was not so much different than a pair of lips, she reasoned, but somehow the pressure of her fingers, once soft, now already beginning to roughen, felt nothing like his lips had—firm, smooth, yet punctuated with scratchy whiskers on chin and cheek. Just thinking of it caused her to experience anew the sweet heady tension, the hammering heart rate, the delirium of thought and emotion. She had never felt that way in her life and wondered why.

Margaret had been kissed before. She thought back to Marcus Benton’s forced kiss not so long ago, his fingers biting into the tender skin of her upper arms. But that act had evoked revulsion, anger, fear . . . not the dreamy longing that lingered over her now, that languor of limb and mind. Marcus’s had been an act one wished to forget. Nathaniel’s a moment to savor and relive. She told herself she was being foolish. For he had not known what he was doing. If he had known it was her, really her, he would never have kissed her, held her with such urgency. But he had been dreaming of kissing her, so did that not mean something . . . something wonderful? She thought she had killed any feelings he’d had for her. But perhaps she had been mistaken.

How different she would feel if she believed Nathaniel Upchurch had tried to kiss Nora, a defenseless housemaid. She thought of Lewis’s flirtatious past and Marcus’s outright seduction of girls who felt they had little choice. Margaret thought she understood for the first time why Nathaniel Upchurch never really looked at, and certainly never ogled, his servants. It was to her advantage, for he had not looked at her directly enough to recognize her.

She wondered what it would be like to kiss Nathaniel when he was fully awake. She doubted she would ever know. For awake and in his right mind, a gentleman like Nathaniel Upchurch would only kiss his wife with that measure of unguarded passion. She’d had her chance to be his wife and had spurned it, spurned him. A choice she was beginning to truly regret.

Nathaniel asked Hudson to ride with him that morning, and the steward happily obliged. They rode away from the estate and cantered along a country lane, scaring up grouse and pheasant. Then they slowed their mounts to a leisurely walk, enjoying the swish of horsetails against dragonflies, a gentle September breeze, and companionable silence.

Finally, Nathaniel began, “What do you suppose it means, Hudson, when I dream of a beautiful blond lady and awaken to find a long blond hair in my bed?”

Hudson chuckled. “My goodness, sir. What vivid dreams you must have!”

“You have no idea.”

Nathaniel was confident Hudson knew he was not suggesting he had actually had a woman in his bed. Since his change of heart on Barbados, he had made every effort to keep his ways pure. He asked, “Have we some blond housemaid I am unaware of?”

“You seem unaware of all the maids, sir, if I may say.” Hudson paused to consider, staring up at the blue sky as though a staff roster were written there. “There is a scullery maid with fair hair, but hers is a rather short mop of curls. The laundry maid’s hair might once have been considered blond, but it’s all but grey now. And your sister’s hair is a rich coffee brown.”

Nathaniel gave his steward a sharp look, and Hudson turned away, face reddening. “Not that I have cause to notice.” He cleared his throat. “I can think of any manner of ways a stray hair might have ended in your bedclothes. I will ask Mrs. Budgeon to speak to the laundry maid straightaway, and see that she takes more care in future.”

Nathaniel waved the notion away. “Never mind, Hudson. I was only curious.”

“Very well, sir.” Hudson coughed. “But do let me know if you find any more . . . em . . . souvenirs.”

Nathaniel nodded. He realized he was lost in thought when he looked over to find Hudson studying him with wry amusement.

“Must have been some dream, sir. Did you eat something unusual last night, I wonder?”

“Come to think of it, Monsieur Fournier served herrings in some new garlic sauce, and I ate too many of them.”

Hudson’s eyes glinted. “Herrings, you say? I shall have to remember that.” He sighed. “What a man wouldn’t do to have such dreams.”

For the first time since his return, Nathaniel found his eyes traveling to the female servants he had consciously avoided before, both for their ease of mind and his privacy. He did not stare, only glanced quickly to gain a general impression of hair and stature. Had one of them been in his bedchamber early that morning? Was it her? Or her?

Stop it. None of the women, young or old, seemed unusually uncomfortable in his presence. All turned their backs or heads, feigning invisibility when he neared and then quietly resuming their work once he’d passed. He had not ordained the cold, impersonal system, but it had reigned at Fairbourne Hall since his grandmother’s day, and he had given it little thought before now.

He trotted upstairs, deciding to return to the scene of the morning’s strange dream. A middle-aged housemaid with auburn hair passed him in the corridor, eyebrows high, perhaps surprised to see him returning to his bedchamber at such an early hour, but she made no comment. He opened his bedchamber door and saw the rising billow of bedclothes being lofted over the bed, and the apron of the invisible housemaid beyond.

When the bedclothes lowered and settled, the maid glanced up and gave a little gasp. Unless he was imagining it, her face blanched, then mottled red.

Here then was a housemaid who did seem alarmed by his presence. Or was she merely startled, unaccustomed to being disturbed at this time of day? He looked at her more closely, but the young woman ducked her head, clearly uncomfortable. He recognized her as the new maid Hudson hired, the one who wore spectacles and had broken his model ship. He blinked, trying to recall his dawn awakening. Had the face above him—whether in dream or reality—worn spectacles? Perhaps . . . He couldn’t quite recall. She had turned and fled so quickly.

A fringe of dark hair covered much of the new maid’s brow, the rest of her hair hidden beneath a floppy mobcap. Her eyebrows were dark as well. A pretty girl to be sure, but not the woman who’d left behind a loose blond lock.

“Sorry to startle you. Go about your work. I shall be out of your hair in a moment.” Why was he chatting away with a housemaid who clearly wanted him gone? Out of your hair? He had never uttered such an inane phrase in his life. He had hair on the brain.

Imbecile, he scolded himself. He was harebrained indeed.