The servants’ ball was a recurring feature
of country-house life.

—Giles Waterfield and Anne French, Below Stairs

Chapter 19

The date of the servants’ ball arrived at last, and very little work was accomplished that day. In some ways, it was unfortunate Miss Helen had acted upon Margaret’s suggestion and invited outside guests, because that news caused Mrs. Budgeon to demand the house receive a more thorough cleaning and polishing than usual. But the staff had finished that work the day before.

The servants’ hall was closed once the midday meal was over, and only Mrs. Budgeon, Mr. Hudson, and the hall boy were allowed in, readying the room for the night’s festivities.

Monsieur Fournier labored all day, preparing not only the family’s meals, but also a lavish buffet for the ball. But he seemed happy with the extra work, grinning and humming to himself in an amusing compote of English, French, and foolishness. His hands flew about, dusting this dish with sugar, and that with sprigs of mint.

“Tonight you shall see what you have been missing! Zen tomorrow it is back to burnt sausages and gruel. Quel dommage!”

Margaret offered to arrange Betty’s hair for the occasion, and before she knew it, she had four other women clustered around her in Miss Nash’s room, begging to be next. Margaret curled, pinned, powdered, and rouged, but kept her kohl pencil well concealed. She didn’t want to give anyone ideas.

Fiona wore her own gown but did accept a pair of long gloves and allowed Margaret to dress her hair with a comb of silk flowers. Betty, Hester, Jenny, and Hannah wore the made-over gowns. Margaret demurred when they insisted she should wear one of them, since she had done the work, but she did not wish to draw attention to herself. Especially since she knew Nathaniel Upchurch would be in attendance for at least the first few dances. And what of Joan? She hoped her former maid would not give her away.

Margaret donned the blue dress she had worn at the masquerade ball, but without an apron. In place of her mobcap, she wore a wide blue ribbon as a headband—for ornamentation yes, but also to assure her wig stayed in place during the dancing.

At half past six, the first carriage rattled up the drive from Hayfield, soon followed by a wagon loaded with men young and old in Sunday best. At seven, the doors to the servants’ hall were thrown wide. The long room gleamed with candles dressed in ivy and strung with garlands of colored paper. Wooden boards had been laid over the stone floor for dancing. The buffet table boasted a centerpiece of colorful mums, fresh fruit, and fronds—which Margaret had helped to arrange. Surrounding it were serving dishes resplendent with roasted turkey, salads of every description, and the largest baked salmon she had ever seen swimming in a sea of shrimp sauce, mouth ajar, eyes glassy, curved at head and tail to fit on the platter. There were also delicious-looking desserts—miniature gooseberry tarts, blancmange, and syllabub in tall glasses. Knowing the attendees were likely to drink a little wine punch or ale, Miss Helen and Mr. Hudson had thought it wise to serve food throughout, instead of waiting for a late supper.

Margaret watched nervously as the guests arrived, waiting to see Joan. She hoped the harsh housekeeper had allowed her to attend.

Then, there she was, in the same blue dress Margaret remembered but without an apron. Instead of a cap, a string of beads ornamented her carefully arranged hair. Joan did not look her way. Was she ignoring her? Were they supposed to pretend they did not know one another, to avoid questions of how they had met? But Margaret longed to speak to her again, even as she feared it.

She waited while Joan greeted Mr. Hudson and Mrs. Budgeon, in the role of host and hostess for the evening. Impulsively, she poured two cups of punch and carried them to Joan, hoping her peace offering would not be rejected.

“Hello, Joan,” she said tentatively, braving a smile.

Joan’s eyes widened. “Miss—!”

“Nora. It’s just Nora.” She made no effort to disguise her voice with her former maid. “I’ve brought you some punch.”

Joan eyed it almost warily, Margaret realized with chagrin. Had she given her so much reason to distrust her?

“Imagine that. You servin’ me,” Joan quipped, making no move to take the glass.

“I have some experience at it now. Though nothing to you, of course. I never realized how hard you worked until I came here.”

Joan cocked her head to one side, as if gauging her sincerity. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Then I shall have that punch and thank you.” She accepted the glass at last and lifted it in a toast.

Margaret returned the gesture, and they both sipped.

Margaret said, “I was hoping you would be here.”

“Were you? I figured you gave up and went home since I saw you last.”

“I was tempted more than once, I can tell you. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.”

Joan shook her head in wonder. “I still can’t believe it. You . . . a housemaid.”

Margaret nodded. “Though not a very good one.”

Joan’s eyes danced. “What I wouldn’t have given to be a mouse in the corner the first time you had to empty the slops.”

Margaret chuckled. “Don’t remind me.” She bit her lip, smile fading. “I’ve wanted to tell you how sorry I am for . . . well, everything. And to thank you for helping me.”

Again Joan shook her head. “Sorry and thank you . . . I never thought to hear those two words from you.”

Margaret grimaced. “I’m sorry for that too.”

Tears blurred her eyes. And she was surprised when answering tears brightened Joan’s eyes as well.

Her former maid gripped her fingers. “Now, that’s enough of that. This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”

Margaret returned her watery smile.

A voice at her elbow interrupted them.

“And who is this pretty lady you’re talking to, Nora?” the second footman, Craig, asked, all eagerness. “Do introduce me.”

Margaret grinned first at Joan, then Craig. “Miss Joan Hurdle, may I present Craig . . . I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”

“Craig is my last name! But we already had a Thomas, didn’t we?”

“Oh. Well then, may I present Mr. Thomas Craig.”

“How do you do?” Joan dipped her head.

“A great deal better now you’re here. Say you’ll save a dance for me, Miss Joan, and I shall do better yet.”

Joan smiled. “Very well.”

How pretty Joan looked when she smiled. How had Margaret not noticed that before?

The fiddler arrived late—and somewhat tipsy, Margaret surmised as he began warming up his bow. On cue, Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, Helen on his arm. The crowd instantly quieted in awkward solemnity. Margaret had been so busy helping the other maids prepare for the ball, that she had neglected Miss Upchurch. A pity too. For her hair lay flat and severely pulled back. Her face bare. Her dress . . . What a horrid old thing. Someone had taken a ball dress at least a decade old and added a new ruffled neckline and flounces in a contrasting color and ill-suited material. Still, when Helen looked around the candlelit room and the finely turned out crowd, she smiled broadly, and with that smile she was a real beauty.

“How well you all look!” She beamed.

“Indeed,” Mr. Upchurch agreed. “Now don’t stop enjoying yourselves on our account.” He nodded to the fiddler, who then struck up the notes of the first dance.

As expected, Nathaniel stepped before Mrs. Budgeon, bowed, and asked her for the first dance. Likewise, Mr. Hudson, as the top-ranking male servant, bowed before his mistress. Margaret wondered if sour Mr. Arnold minded the newcomer usurping this honor, but one glance told her Mr. Arnold was busy enjoying yet another cup of punch and liberal samplings of the tempting buffet.

The fiddler played a lively Scottish reel and a few other couples filled in. Margaret watched Nathaniel, surprised to see that he was a better dancer than she remembered, impressed to witness the warmth and respect with which he exchanged pleasantries with his housekeeper. She also watched Miss Upchurch as she danced with Mr. Hudson. They bounded through the steps in lively abandon. Mr. Hudson’s form was a bit ungainly, but he had never seemed so young and handsome as he did while dancing with Miss Upchurch. Margaret wondered if she glimpsed admiration in Miss Helen’s eyes for the house steward as well. She wished again she had taken time with Helen’s hair.

Craig and Joan danced near them in a jaunty facsimile of the steps, their smiles and shy glances more evident than skill.

After the reel “Speed the Plow” was called, Mr. Upchurch escorted Mrs. Budgeon to the edge of the room, bowed, then asked whom he should lead out next. Mrs. Budgeon looked around to locate the upper housemaid, Margaret guessed, but Betty stood behind Mr. Arnold frantically gesturing to be spared.

“Ah. Betty is occupied at present,” Mrs. Budgeon said. “Perhaps the newest member of our staff might receive the honor?” She gestured toward Margaret.

Why had she so blatantly been looking at Mrs. Budgeon, Margaret lamented. The woman must think she was begging a partner!

Nathaniel Upchurch looked her way. Did he hesitate? There was no smile on his face as he nodded to Mrs. Budgeon and walked toward her. Should she demur as well?

He stopped before her and she trained her gaze on his waistcoat, too nervous to look up at him.

“Might I have this dance, Nora?”

“Oh. I thought . . . I am hardly an upper servant.”

“Apparently the first housemaid is avoiding me like the plague. I trust you will not reject me as well.”

Reject me . . . Was it a veiled reference to her cruel rejection of his offer of marriage? She was imagining things. If he’d recognized her he would have tossed her out by now, demanded an explanation, or alerted Sterling Benton. But he had done none of these, as far as she knew.

She swallowed. “No, sir.”

He led her through the steps of the dance, formed those vague half smiles of acknowledgment when they faced or passed one another, but showed little of the warmth he had displayed with Mrs. Budgeon. He had known the housekeeper for years, she reminded herself. And he knew “Nora” not at all, even if she had done him and his steward a good turn that night in London.

She thought of other long-ago nights, when they had danced together at this ball or that. Then he had looked at her with admiration, nearly adoration, in his serious, bespectacled eyes. His fingers had lingered on her hand, her waist, whenever the steps and positions of the dance brought them together. Now his eyes were distant, his closed-mouth smile false, his hand cool and quick to depart. The ballrooms had been larger then, the guests wealthier, the music finer, but if he would only smile at her—truly smile—she would rate this night with this company the more enjoyable occasion.

When the silence between them became strained, he asked politely, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the music to your liking?”

“Yes. Very nice.” What a ninny she was. Why could she not think of one appropriate thing to say?

He asked, “Are the others enjoying themselves, do you think?”

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

“Is this your first servants’ ball?”

“As a mai—matter of fact, yes.”

“And how are you getting on in your position here?”

“Better, I think. Thank you for asking.” She licked her lips and forged a question of her own. “And how fares your father, sir, if I may ask?”

“He fares well, according to his last letter. Thank you for asking.”

Margaret was relieved when the dance ended and Mr. Upchurch escorted her to the perimeter of the room and bowed his farewell.

Helen Upchurch, she noticed, was talking to Mr. Arnold, with whom she had danced the second dance. How puffed up the under butler appeared, swaggering across the room with the lady of the house on his arm.

After the customary two dances, master and mistress took their leave of the party, thanking Mrs. Budgeon and Mr. Hudson, shaking hands, and bestowing a general farewell wave to the assembly on their way out.

Part of Margaret was disappointed they were leaving, but the others were apparently relieved, for the tension in the room faded when the two departed and a relaxed buzz of conversation and laughter rose.

One person, however, did not look happy. Monsieur Fournier. Margaret saw him leaning against the wall, empty glass dangling in his hand, watching Mrs. Budgeon’s every move.

Margaret strolled nonchalantly to the housekeeper’s side.

“Evening, Nora.”

“Mrs. Budgeon.” They watched the fiddler down another glass and wobble a bit as he asked what they wished him to play next.

Someone yelled, “ ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’!”

Margaret said in a low aside, “Mrs. Budgeon, I was wondering. Is it not true that in many houses, the chef is actually higher ranking than the under butler?”

She considered this. “Yes, I believe so.”

“But Miss Upchurch danced with Mr. Arnold, and not Monsieur Fournier. I wonder if that is why he looks so . . . disappointed.”

A small line formed between Mrs. Budgeon’s brows. “But Miss Upchurch has already taken her leave.”

“I know. But perhaps you might at least acknowledge the slight, or offer to dance with him yourself?”

“Me? I hardly think I’m suitable replacement. I don’t imagine Monsieur even likes to dance.”

“I don’t know. I hate to see him looking so sad. He worked so hard for tonight. . . .”

Mrs. Budgeon looked over at the chef and found him looking at her. He quickly looked away and feigned a sip from his empty glass. How strange it was to see him in a brown tweed suit, instead of his customary white coat and hat.

The housekeeper drew herself up. “Thank you, Nora. I will at least compliment Monsieur on the success of his buffet. We don’t want him to feel unappreciated.”

“Good idea.”

As Mrs. Budgeon crossed the room toward him, Monsieur Fournier straightened, pushing away from the wall. His expression was uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure if reprimand or pleasure was coming his way.

It was really too bad of her, but she couldn’t help herself. Margaret had to hear. She walked along the buffet table, plucking a grape here and a fig there as she made her way to the table’s end, listening to their conversation.

“Monsieur Fournier. Good evening.”

“Madame.”

“I hope you are enjoying yourself?”

He shrugged.

“I must compliment you on the buffet. You have outdone yourself.”

“Merci, madame.”

Mrs. Budgeon hesitated. “I am afraid it is my fault Miss Upchurch danced the second with Mr. Arnold. An oversight, I assure you.”

“No matter, madame.”

“You don’t care to dance, I suppose?”

He hesitated. “With you?”

Her mouth parted. She reddened. “Never mind. I thought . . . I only meant . . .”

The fiddler launched into the next tune, and the chef leaned nearer to be heard. “With you, Mrs. Budgeon, I would happily dance.”

He offered his arm, and after a surprised pause, she gave a tentative smile.

Margaret smiled too. In fact, she could not stop smiling as she watched the tall, thin chef dance like a smitten, gangly youth with proper, staid Mrs. Budgeon.

But midway through the set, the fiddler, swaying and doing a little drunken jig as he played, backed into a chair, knocked his mug off the pianoforte, and crashed to the floor, out cold. Margaret was more disappointed for the chef than for anyone else that the dance should be cut short.

Mr. Arnold and Thomas carried the fiddler down the passage to the kitchen, while Betty rushed to clean up the spilled ale. After a moment’s hesitation—it still wasn’t second nature to Margaret to respond to such domestic crises—she hurried to Betty’s aid and righted the chair.

“I am afraid that concludes our ball,” Mrs. Budgeon apologized.

“Not so,” Monsieur said. “Perhaps you might play for us, Mrs. Budgeon.”

Again her mouth parted. She sputtered, “Me? No. I cannot play. Not really.”

“Of course you can. You are very accomplished. I hear you from ze kitchen now and again.”

Her face puckered, surprised and disconcerted. “But . . . I always check to make certain no one is about before I begin. And I shut the door as well.”

“When you play, I leave my room and come into ze kitchen to hear you better.”

She blushed like a schoolgirl. “Oh! I had no idea. I shall never play again.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “Please don’t say so. What a loss of pleasure for us both.”

Jenny, tipsy and brazen, said, “Come on, Mrs. Budgeon. Favor us with a song or two. Something lively we can dance to.”

The housekeeper wrung her hands. “But I never play for an audience. I am woefully out of practice and play very ill.”

“Not at all,” Monsieur insisted.

“None of us can play a note,” Jenny said. “So if you blunder, we wouldn’t know any better, would we?”

Mr. Hudson added gently, “You won’t find a more appreciative audience.”

“I would be too self-conscious with all of you listening.”

“Aww. We promise not to listen too close,” Craig said, his arm around Joan. “We’ll be too busy dancin’. ”

“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Budgeon relented, flustered by all the attention. “If you promise to dance and not listen for my mistakes.”

Everyone clapped and cheered and found partners for the next dance.

Monsieur Fournier stayed near the pianoforte and smiled down at its fair musician. Margaret had no partner this time but watched the dancers with pleasure.

When the song ended, Joan returned to her side, breathless and grinning. “And how are you getting on with that housemaid who barely tolerates you?”

Margaret blew out a breath between puffed cheeks. “Better, I think.”

Joan surveyed the crowd. “Which one is she?”

Margaret nodded toward Fiona, now dancing gracefully with a Hayfield footman. She marveled at the transformation. Fiona looked almost happy, and as elegant as a lady. “That’s her. Fiona.”

Joan regarded the Irishwoman thoughtfully. “I’m not surprised.” She tilted her head. “For all her smiles tonight, that one’s had a hard life. I can tell.”

Margaret asked tentatively, “And you, Joan. How is life at Hayfield—any improvement?”

Joan shrugged. “About the same. Though having this to look forward to has helped. How surprised we were to be invited.” Joan slanted her a knowing glance. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

Margaret only shrugged.

Fred, the hall boy who had been posted upstairs on door duty, ran in and found Mr. Hudson. “Thought you should know, sir. Mr. Lewis Upchurch just arrived. Wants his horses and carriage attended to.”

Mr. Hudson frowned. “He was not expected. Thank you, Freddy.”

He dispatched the groom, who left with a good-natured groan, promising to return in a flash.

Then Mr. Hudson laid a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “You stay here and enjoy yourself, Freddy. I’ll mind the door.”

Fred beamed. “Awfully decent of you, sir!”

But Margaret’s mind was still echoing with Fred’s news. Lewis Upchurch had returned.

Then, before Hudson had even moved, there Lewis was, framed in the doorway, resplendent in evening attire, frock coat and cravat, as though he had just been dining out and not on the road for the last few hours. His valet, Connor, also well dressed, slipped in behind him.

Lewis surveyed the room. “What’s all this, then? A party without me? I’m crushed.” His tone was part hurt, part humor. Was he truly offended or jesting?

“Your brother knew you’d approve,” Hudson soothed, handing him a glass of punch and deftly smoothing things over. “In fact, I believe he credited you with the notion.”

Lewis hesitated, then lifted his chin. “Dashed right too.” He took a long swallow. “Though had I planned the affair there would be real drink instead of this weak woman’s punch.”

“Exactly,” Hudson agreed, a strange glint in his eyes.

Connor, Margaret noticed, skirted the crowd and sidled over to a beaming Hester. He took her hands, spread them wide, and surveyed her new dress with admiration.

Lewis downed the remainder of his cup and strode across the room. “Mrs. Budgeon, I wish to claim my dance as eldest son and master in my father’s absence.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But I am needed to play. We engaged a fiddler, but I am afraid he is, em, indisposed.”

Jenny protested loudly, “Flat-out foxed, more like!”

Mrs. Budgeon offered apologetically, “Perhaps another of the staff will do?”

Once again Betty ducked behind Mr. Arnold. Lewis looked around the room, frowned at Jenny’s saucy gap-toothed smile, hesitated on Joan, then landed on Nora.

His eyes narrowed as he walked toward her. “You look familiar. What’s your name?”

Accent, don’t fail me now! “Nora, sir. Nora Garret.”

“Have we met?”

She almost said she made his bed every morning but feared he would find some unintended innuendo in that. Instead she laughed nervously and looked down at her clasped hands. “Not likely.”

She was aware of Joan’s wide eyes as she looked from this gentleman to her former mistress and back again. Had Joan ever seen Lewis Upchurch? It was possible she had seen him when he called at Berkeley Square once or twice early in the season. She certainly hoped Joan wouldn’t say anything to expose her now. She had enough to worry about, fearing she might expose herself.

Something about the flat gleam in Lewis’s eyes made Margaret wary, but when he offered his arm, she took it.

Nathaniel sat in the cozy sitting room upstairs, spent. Helen sat in an armchair near the fire, book in hand. He was glad they had decided to give the servants their ball. But it had never crossed his mind that in so doing, he might be compelled to dance with Margaret Macy again, and in his very home. He might have reconsidered had he known. His traitorous body had reacted to her nearness, the touch of her hand in his, in annoying fashion.

Hudson gave his telltale double knock and entered when bid. Nathaniel was still not used to seeing his friend in such a role. In Barbados, things had been much more informal between them.

“Good evening, Hudson. Everything all right belowstairs?”

“I . . . believe so, sir. Shall I have tea and sandwiches sent up for you here?”

“Thank you, Hudson, yes,” Helen replied for them both.

Hudson hesitated. “I thought you would want to know that Mr. Lewis has just arrived.”

“Lewis?” Helen’s countenance brightened. “We weren’t expecting him.”

Nathaniel frowned and sat forward. “Where is he?”

“Last I saw him he was dancing with our new housemaid.”

Nathaniel stood abruptly to his feet. Helen rose and stepped to his side, laying a hand on his arm. “Nathaniel . . . careful. Please don’t fight again. Lewis means no harm to . . . anyone, I’m sure.”

It was an odd reaction, he realized after his burst of anger subsided, unless she knew the true identity of the new housemaid.

“I shall just go down and welcome him home.” Nathaniel patted Helen’s hand, extracted himself from her grip, and quit the room. He strode down the corridor and jogged down the stairs. In the basement, the unexpected sound of the pianoforte—along with the aromas of savory meats, yeasty breads, and ale—ushered him down the narrow passageway to the servants’ hall.

From the doorway, Nathaniel saw them, and his stomach clenched. Lewis, tall and handsome, hand in hand with Nora, looking self-conscious. But in a flash, he saw not Nora but Margaret. Not with black hair but with blond. Her simple frock replaced with a gown of fine white satin, jeweled ornaments in her golden curls, eyes sparkling up into the face of his dashing older brother. He felt again the sharp kick of jealousy, the iron weight of dread he had felt two years ago when he realized, She doesn’t look at me that way. . . . And he’d tried to ignore the growing fear that he was losing her. To his very own brother. A man who would never appreciate her, never love her as he did.

Lewis danced Nora through the doorway, all but colliding with Nathaniel, jarring him from his miserable reverie.

Lewis drew up short. “Nate, ol’ boy. Grand party. Well done. Wouldn’t have thought it of you.”

“Mr. Upchurch!” Nora blurted, face blushing. “I . . . I am glad to see you. Again.”

He doubted it. She looked embarrassed. Caught.

Bemused, Lewis glanced from the girl’s flushed face back to him. “A housemaid is glad to see you. And why should that be, I wonder?”

“I have no idea,” Nathaniel said, avoiding her eyes. “What brings you home?”

“I must have sensed something afoot. I can smell a party forty miles off.”

“Apparently.”

Nora pulled her hands from Lewis’s grasp and excused herself, hurrying away down the passage.

Lewis watched her go. “She reminds me of someone. . . . Who is it?”

“One of your many conquests, no doubt,” he said dryly. “Well, I shall leave you to it. Just wanted to welcome you home.”

Retreating into the kitchen, Margaret wrung her hands in time with the twisting of her stomach. Now Nathaniel would think the worst of her. If he still thought her simply a maid, he would now think her a flirt, a saucy light-skirt who had instigated the dance and near tête-à-tête with Lewis. And worse, if he suspected who she was, he would surely think she was up to her old tricks. Trying to woo his older brother. She paced the kitchen, fretting.

One of the hired servers looked up from the tray she was laying with tea and sandwiches. “All right, love?”

Margaret nodded. Then her eyes locked on the tray. “Is that for upstairs?”

“It is.”

“May I take it up?”

The older woman shook her head. “Don’t want them thinkin’ I’m shirkin’ my duty. Yer to be dancin’. Aren’t you enjoying it?”

“I was, but . . . a certain man was becoming a bit forward.”

“A footman, was it?” The woman tsked. “Always a footman.”

Margaret stepped near. “May I please take it up? The sitting room is it?”

“Yes, but . . . Oh, very well. If yer set on it. Any man comes lookin’ fer ya, I’ll send him on his way sharp-like, all right?”

“Thank you.”

Hands trembling, Margaret carried the tray upstairs and along the corridor to the sitting room. This way, she told herself, Nathaniel would see her and know she was not still with Lewis. Would not imagine the two of them alone together somewhere and believe the worst. Using her elbow, she hooked the door and pulled it open, letting herself in. Carrying the tray inside, she kept her head down to mask her anxiety.

“Ah, Nora,” Helen said. “Why are you not at the ball? The hired servers were to relieve you all tonight.”

“I don’t mind. They were busy, so I offered.”

Helen nodded, but Nathaniel watched her through narrowed eyes as she set down the tray on the table before them.

“Shall I pour, or . . . ?”

She hoped to delay her departure, though she was sure her hands would shake if she tried to pour under his scrutiny.

But Helen excused her. “Never mind, I shall pour. You go back downstairs and enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you, miss.” Margaret curtsied and stepped to the door, just as Lewis sailed through it.

He hesitated at seeing her. “There you are. Wondered where you’d gone to.”

“Lewis!” Helen called warmly.

He turned to his sister, “Hello, Helen old girl.” He walked over to kiss her upturned cheek, and Margaret made her escape.

———

Nathaniel wasn’t sure what to think. Would “Nora” and Lewis still be dancing, or lingering alone in the dim passage, had she not been asked to bring up the tray? Or had she really offered, and if so why? She clearly had not taken advantage of a private moment to reveal her identity to Lewis, for he obviously had no idea who she was.

“A ball at Fairbourne Hall, at long last.” Lewis smirked. “I take it the economizing is over?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “No. But we thought it wise to do something good for our people here, after recent . . . misunderstandings. But we still must tighten our belts or we may yet need to take more radical steps. Perhaps even sell the London house.”

“Never say so.” Lewis’s face puckered. “Promise me you will not do . . . In fact, you cannot, without my consent, my being the eldest and all.”

Nathaniel willed himself not to grow angry. “Lewis, you are perfectly welcome to stay and manage the estate if you like, but you cannot manage it from your London club.”

Lewis stared at him, shaking his head. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t remain in Barbados. We were managing fine here on our own. Weren’t we, Helen?”

Helen sipped her tea but made no answer.

Nathaniel said, “Even if that were true, it was time for me to come home.”

One of Lewis’s eyebrows rose. “Barbados didn’t suit you?”

“It wasn’t Barbados I objected to. It was slavery, as you know.”

Lewis pressed, “You think we have problems now? Force Father to give up slave labor and you’ll learn the meaning of financial straits.”

“Money isn’t everything, Lewis.”

Lewis frowned. “Then why do you always ride me about it? Your lofty morals don’t put you in charge, Nate. Nor do they give you the right to sit there and play potentate.”

Nathaniel seethed. “Father put me in charge when you insisted on remaining in London while Fairbourne languished. Had you stayed in Barbados as he wished, I—”

Lewis leaned back and crossed his long legs. “Too dashed hot there. Too much work.” He raised a brow. “Not enough beautiful women.”

“Lewie . . .” Helen scolded, but affection tinged her tone.

Nathaniel inhaled deeply and moderated his voice. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

Lewis shrugged. “No reason. Does a man need a reason to come to his own home?”

“Usually. Do you mean to stay, then?”

“No, not yet. I’ve just come down for a day or two.”

“What are your plans?”

“No plans.” He grinned at Helen. “Just wanted to see my favorite girl.”

Even though Lewis directed the words at Helen, Nathaniel had the distinct impression she was not the “girl” he meant.