The tenth Duke of Bedford was liable to dismiss any
maid who unwittingly crossed his path after midday, by which
time all housework was supposed to have been completed.

—Trevor May, The Victorian Domestic Servant

Chapter 18

After attending the funeral of an old tenant, Nathaniel walked back into Fairbourne Hall, thinking about the best way to find an industrious young farmer to take the old bachelor’s place. He needed to increase the profitability of the estate if he had any hope of repairing his ship.

Reaching the sitting room, Nathaniel paused in the threshold. Inside, Hudson and Helen stood near one another at the balcony window, heads together, bent over some papers Helen held—lists of things to be done for the servants’ ball, he imagined. His sister wore an attractive green-and-ivory striped gown he hadn’t seen before, with a sash that emphasized her narrow waist.

Helen smiled up at him as he approached. “Hello, Nate.”

“Why, Helen, do my eyes deceive me, or is that a new dress?”

She lifted her chin. “No, it isn’t new. But I own, it has been made over. Nora did it.”

“Nora?” He prayed she could not see his heart suddenly lurch in his chest.

His sister eyed him carefully. “The new housemaid. I don’t imagine you’ve met her?”

“Um . . . yes,” he faltered. “I believe I know who you mean.”

Noticing his discomfort, Hudson said smoothly, “Well, you look lovely, Miss Helen, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Helen dipped her head, pleased but self-conscious. “Thank you, Mr. Hudson. Now, if the two of you would stop staring at me, we have a ball to plan. . . .”

His sister’s face blushed becomingly. How strange to think Robert Hudson had put that blush there. If so, did he mind? It was unexpected and, he admitted to himself, mildly disconcerting to see his ladylike sister on such friendly terms with a man in his employ. He was not quite certain how he felt about it.

But perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps his sister was merely wearing a bit of rouge. He quickly dismissed the notion. His practical sister would never bother with anything as frivolous as cosmetics.

Margaret trudged up the back stairs to the attic and down the passage to her room. She felt bone weary and hoped to rest for half an hour or so until it was time to help Fiona gather the laundry. She nudged the door closed behind her, then took off her apron and spectacles and sat on the bed, sliding off her slippers. A scratch sounded at her door, and before she could respond, the wolfhound pushed it open with his head, as he had done before. She couldn’t think what attracted the dog to her small dim room. Did she still smell of that morning’s sausages?

“I’m too exhausted to play with you, Jester.”

With a little whine, the hound walked to the small oval rug beside her bed, turned around, around again, then lay down, curling himself on the rug, tail tucked, chin resting on his forelegs.

“That’s what I have in mind to do too.”

She lay down on her made bed, pulling the little lap robe over her legs. She had a good thirty or forty minutes to rest. What luxury.

She found her mind replaying her meeting with Nathaniel Upchurch, when he’d summoned her to the library to speak with her. He’d told her to “Come closer. . . . Look at me.” And her heart had pounded so loudly she was sure he would hear it.

Then he stood there and stared at her. Just stared. How unsettling it had been. She’d begun to fear her masquerade was up, and was torn between wanting to bolt and wanting to confess all. But then he’d surprised her by saying he merely wanted to thank her for her help back in London. Why then, after so much time? But what a relief to know that was all he wanted. That her secret was still safe.

On the floor nearby, the dog gave a little sigh of contentment. Margaret smiled, feeling content as well, and drifted to sleep.

After a long and tedious meeting with the church commissioners, Nathaniel felt like shooting something. He thought he might take himself grouse hunting before September got away from him. He looked about for Jester, who was always eager for a jaunt in the woods, but didn’t see the hound anywhere. He asked the footman on door duty, “Have you seen the dog?”

“Yes, sir. Just went up the stairs a bit ago.”

Likely on his way to my bedchamber, Nathaniel thought and headed for the stairs.

He had always been fond of the wolfhound and had missed him whilst he was away. He had thought of taking Jester along to Barbados, but it had made little sense to inflict such a long sea journey on an animal who loved nothing better than to run in the woods, chase down a fox, or stir a bevy of game birds. When Nathaniel was busy or away, he knew the hall boy or groom exercised the dog, but he preferred to do it himself.

In the old days, his mother hadn’t allowed dogs above the ground floor. But the rules had grown more lax since her death. He found he enjoyed Jester’s company and didn’t mind him sleeping on his floor near the hearth. Though the dog didn’t appear every night.

When Nathaniel reached the top of the main stairs, a thin, dark-haired housemaid staggered around the corner, arms full of linens.

“Have you seen the dog?” he asked.

“Aye, sir. Near about run me over. He’s gone up the back stairs.”

“Thank you.” That’s strange, Nathaniel thought. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. A bit of exercise would do him good, he decided as he started up the stairs, especially after forgoing a fencing session with Hudson that morning.

Still, he hesitated to enter the attic, the domain of the female servants. He had rarely ventured there since boyhood, when his daily vigil to the schoolroom had brought him up those stairs nearly every day. But he had no real business there now. What could Jester be doing up here?

Nathaniel walked along the passage, but all the doors were closed. He turned the corner into a side passage. There, at its end, one door stood ajar.

Walking quietly, Nathaniel reached it and glanced in, surprised to see a figure lying atop the made bed, napping peacefully. Nora, or rather, Margaret. And curled on a rug before her bed and looking quite content, lay his wolfhound. Jester’s eyes opened, clearly aware of his presence, but the dog made no move to rise or join him.

Disloyal creature, Nathaniel thought, part amusement, part irritation. Yet he could not blame him for being drawn to that particular door.

Giving up his plans to go shooting, Nathaniel went back downstairs and found Helen in her favorite chair in the family sitting room, needlework on her lap and tea beside her.

“Well, Helen. What do you think of our new housemaid?”

She stilled, then looked up, studying him. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “A bit unusual, do you not think?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How so?”

Did she really not know, or was she hedging, as he was? If so, was Helen trying to protect Margaret . . . or him?

Nathaniel hesitated. He found he was not ready to burst the little bubble he was inhabiting. He was oddly enjoying the strange secret. He was not ready to share it, for then he would have to act differently with “Nora.” Guard himself. Helen would be watching. Wondering.

He feigned nonchalance. “A girl like her, clearly never in service before.”

She stared at him a moment longer, then relaxed and returned her gaze to her embroidery. “I like her. I did not at first, I own. But she has proved most helpful to me.”

“Has she indeed? I am glad to hear it.” He paused. “So, how are plans progressing for the servants’ ball?”

Helen smiled. “Very well, I think.”

Knowing Helen had not initially approved of the new steward, he asked, “And how are you getting on with Hudson?”

She kept her eyes averted, but her needle stilled as she considered. Then her mouth crooked and a dimple appeared in one cheek. She echoed, “I like him. I did not at first, I own. But he has proved most helpful to me.”

Nathaniel grinned. “Shall I announce the ball soon?”

“Yes. Do.”

That night, Nathaniel was surprised to see “Nora” walking away from the house through the moonlit arcade. It was after ten. Why was she not in bed like every other no-doubt-exhausted maid? Was she leaving Fairbourne Hall? He followed her quietly but was relieved when she turned at the end of the arcade and started back at the same pace, apparently out for a simple stroll, like a lady of leisure. Seeing him, she started and looked about her for a place to disappear, but the narrow walkway offered little cover.

“Good evening, Nora.”

She flashed him a look of surprise and alarm, clearly not expecting nor wanting him to address her.

“Sir.” She dipped her head and made to skirt around him, but he halted before her.

“And what brings you outside this evening?”

“Em . . . just takin’ a bit of air, sir.”

He bit back a smile at her accent. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“That’s it, sir.” Reluctantly she turned toward him, head bowed.

“I am sorry to hear it. Do you not find your life here . . . comfortable?”

“I’m not complainin’, sir.”

“I am surprised.”

She darted a glance up at him, moonlight and confusion streaking her face.

“A life in service must be difficult,” he said gently. “I understand you have not been a housemaid before?”

“No, sir.”

“You had not long planned to enter service, I take it.”

She shook her head.

“May I ask what you had planned for your life?”

“I . . . don’t know, sir. Live independent-like, I suppose. Or marry.”

“Oh? And who might the lucky man be?”

She ducked her head once more, clearly uncomfortable. “I couldn’t say, sir.”

Did she think he was trying to seduce her? He was making a poor job of it if he was. Still, he hated the thought of her nurturing a low opinion of his character.

“You needn’t worry, Nora,” he said. “I have no ungentlemanly intentions in speaking to you. Now, I will bid you good-night and hope you sleep well.”

“Thank you, sir.” She scurried past him, back into the refuge of Fairbourne Hall.

During morning prayers the next day, Margaret watched Nathaniel Upchurch carefully, wondering about his strange behavior of the night before. She hoped he had spoken the truth—that he had no improper intentions toward her. Then why had he taken the time to speak with her when he had rarely done so before?

Across the hall, Nathaniel capped his prayer with his usual amen, then removed his spectacles and tucked them into his pocket. He regarded the assembled servants, but instead of dismissing them, he drew his shoulders back and began, “I have an announcement. It has come to my attention that over the last two years, the Christmas and Epiphany festivities here at Fairbourne Hall have been regretfully few. Therefore we have decided—Mr. Hudson, Miss Upchurch, and I—that it is long past time for a servants’ ball.”

Kitchen-maid Jenny let out a whoop, then quickly threw a hand over her mouth. Craig elbowed the hall boy, Freddy, beside him.

Mr. Upchurch allowed a small grin. “I take it the plan meets with your approbation?”

Freddy gushed, “Don’t know ’bout that, sir, but it sounds grand!”

Mr. Upchurch and his steward exchanged a look. Hudson chuckled. Mrs. Budgeon shook her head, but her stern expression was softened by the sparkle in her eyes.

“Miss Upchurch and Mr. Hudson are planning the affair and will no doubt keep you apprised of the details. But for now you are dismissed.”

Instantly the maids began whispering and giggling amongst themselves even as the footmen and grooms laughed and teased each other. Mrs. Budgeon didn’t even reprimand them, which was surprising. Margaret hoped the ball would be a success and they would all enjoy themselves. . . .

Wait. I am a servant, she thought. She would be attending. Her first servants’ ball as a servant.

She had attended several in her youth, as the daughter of the family. Her father had insisted upon allowing their small clutch of servants an evening of frivolity and pleasure on Twelfth Night. Lime Tree Lodge was too small to have a proper servants’ hall, and the basement kitchen and workrooms were too cramped for dancing. So Stephen Macy had given them use of the family dining room, pushing the table to the side to be laden with punch and victuals, and the rest of the furniture cleared away for the night. He’d hired several waiters to do the serving and cleaning up and brought in a fiddler to play the dances. When she was old enough to stay up late, she had joined in with the dancing, finding it amusing to put her small silken hands in the gardener’s rough paws and be led around the room in a jig. She had felt a princess among peasants. Now she wondered if they had really looked upon her with the fond benevolence she had imagined, or if they thought her condescending and spoiled. She would not blame them.

When Margaret went to Miss Upchurch’s room to dress her hair the next morning, Helen said, “I must ask you to hurry today, Nora. I’m meeting with Mr. Hudson before prayers to finalize arrangements for the ball.”

Margaret nodded. Gathering the brush and pins, she said, “Would you ever consider inviting the staff of another house to join us?”

Helen looked at her in the mirror. “I had not thought of it. Why?”

Margaret began brushing Helen’s hair. “I met a housemaid from Hayfield when I went to Weavering Street, and she mentioned the house has been in mourning and the servants haven’t had any privileges or entertainments for over a year.”

Helen pursued her lip, considering. “I like the idea. I shall see what Mr. Hudson thinks.”

Margaret bit back a smile. “You have been spending a great deal of time with Mr. Hudson of late.”

“Do you think so? It is only that there are so many details to attend to.”

Is that all? Margaret wondered. “Perhaps a little rouge today, Miss Helen?”

“I’m not sure there’s time.”

Margaret traded hair brush for cosmetic brush. “Won’t take a moment.”

“Oh . . . very well. Why not.”

Margaret deftly brushed subtle color to Helen’s cheeks and dabbed just a smidge of lip rouge to her mouth. The old rouge pot was nearly empty, she noticed. She would soon need to make more. She switched to fine talcum powder and dusted Helen’s nose, chin, and cheeks.

Helen said wryly, “You are skilled in altering a lady’s appearance, I see. You handle that brush like an artist.”

Margaret shrugged, eyes focused on Helen’s cheek. “It is very like painting, actually.”

“Do you enjoy painting?”

“I did, yes. Though I haven’t done so in ages.”

Margaret gathered Helen’s hair and began to pin it up. “Miss Upchurch, I wonder. Do you remember that trunk of old gowns and things I found when I cleaned the schoolroom?”

“Yes?”

“If you haven’t use for them, would you mind allowing the maids to wear them? For the servants’ ball, I mean. Perhaps I could make over a few of them for the girls who haven’t a stitch beyond their everyday frock to wear.”

“That would be very kind of you, Nora. I am surprised you want to.”

“I would enjoy it very much.”

“Very well. Only don’t fail in your other work. We don’t want Mrs. Budgeon to find reason to dismiss you.” Helen’s eyes twinkled, and Margaret grinned in return.

Margaret found it funny and perplexing that Helen Upchurch still carried on the pretense, addressing her as the maid Nora, while at other times it seemed clear she knew who she really was. Was it merely a game to her or was it to keep her from becoming confused—from calling her Margaret or Miss Macy at an inopportune moment? Or was she enjoying treating her as a subservient? Margaret sensed no malice in the woman’s demeanor, but there was still that reserve, that caution in her aspect, that made Margaret realize she not yet passed whatever test Nathaniel Upchurch’s sister was giving her.

With Mrs. Budgeon’s approval, Margaret asked several of the maids to join her in Miss Nash’s room late one afternoon when their duties were done. She had one gown hanging on the dress form, two laid out on the bed, and two others spread on the worktable. She had in mind which gown would suit each woman but wanted to give them a choice in the matter.

Hester and kitchen maids Jenny and Hannah bustled in first, all giggles and eagerness, while Betty and Fiona held back, lingering in the threshold.

Hester made a beeline for one of the gowns on the bed—a sheer overgown with a silk chemise beneath, both embroidered in a lily-of-the-valley motif.

“It’s gorgeous!” she enthused, holding the gown up in front of herself. It was immediately evident that the slender-cut chemise would not accommodate Hester’s generous proportions. Her cheerful face fell.

Margaret hurried to one of the gowns on the worktable—a full-skirted cream-colored gown to which Margaret had added side and back panels of blue, trimmed with ribbon embroidery in cream to match the original fabric. “Hester, I thought this one, with its blues and creams, would look so well with your perfect complexion.”

“Do you think so?” Hester handed the first gown to slim Hannah and took the second from Margaret, holding it to her shoulders and looking down at the ribbon trim at neckline and bodice.

Margaret said, “Let’s try it on, shall we?”

She helped Hester off with her everyday frock and into the made-over ball gown. The material slid over Hester’s ample bosom and hips easily. Margaret pinched an inch of loose material at the high waist. “Why, it’s a tad big, Hester. I shall have to take it in for you.”

Hester beamed.

“You look a picture, Hester,” Jenny breathed.

“Indeed she does,” Betty said. “What a pity Connor is away in London. Why, if he saw you in that gown, he shouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

Hester blushed prettily.

Margaret noticed that Fiona had disappeared from the doorway. She tried not to let it hurt her but could not quite ignore the sting of disappointment. Her offering—rejected. She forced a smile and helped Betty into a garden frock of pale green satin with capped sleeves and a hem embellished with gold fringe. The soft green flattered Betty’s coloring and dark red hair.

Fiona reappeared in the doorway several minutes later, wearing a gown of white gauze over an underslip of pink silk. “Might this do?”

Margaret stared. “Why, Fiona, it’s beautiful.”

The others stared as well, mouths ajar.

Fiona asked, “Ya don’t think I’ll look out of place—silk purse from a sow’s ear and all that?”

Hannah and Jenny shook their heads vigorously.

Margaret said, “No, you look lovely.”

“Really lovely,” Hester echoed.

Fiona blustered, “Oh, go on with ya. Sure and ya know how to embarrass a girl.”

Margaret began, “The dress is splendid. Where did you—?”

Betty pinched her elbow, and Margaret faltered. “Em . . . where have you been hiding it?”

“At the bottom of my trunk. Never thought I’d have reason to unearth it.”

Margaret stifled her questions and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you did.”