The steward supervised the duties of the entire
household, hiring and firing other servants, paying
their wages and controlling expenditure.

—Giles Waterfield and Anne French, Below Stairs

Chapter 22

In the morning, Nathaniel stopped by Hudson’s office to speak to him. “I have a project for you, Hudson. If you don’t mind another trip to London.”

“Not at all, sir.”

Nathaniel studied his friend. “That was quick. And eager. Find the life of a house steward confining, do you?”

“A bit of getting used to, sir,” he said diplomatically. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I don’t blame you.” Nathaniel could have gone to London himself, but he was reluctant to leave Fairbourne Hall so soon after returning. Who am I fooling? he asked himself. It was perfectly obvious he was reluctant to leave Margaret. He pulled the door closed behind him and cleared his throat. “It’s a bit of a . . . private project.”

Hudson leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the desk.

Nathaniel began, “I want you to find out everything you can about a Marcus Benton, and while you’re at it, Sterling Benton, of Berkeley Square, Mayfair.”

Hudson did not blink a lash. “The man who came here looking for his stepdaughter?”

Nathaniel nodded.

“What am I looking for, sir?”

Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “I don’t know exactly. Financial situation, family relations, unexplained absences, anything . . . unusual.” He took another deep breath, contemplating how much to tell the man. He trusted Hudson implicitly, but there was no reason he needed to know—not yet, at any rate—just whom he had hired in the position of housemaid.

Hudson considered the request. “Do I take it you believe the stepfather has something to do with this, em . . . ?”

“Miss Macy.”

“Miss Macy’s disappearance?”

“It is only suspicion at present.”

“What about the girl? She may have run off of her own accord. Shall I investigate her whereabouts as well?”

“I don’t think that necessary.”

Hudson cocked his head to one side, studying him. “May I ask, sir, how you are acquainted with Miss Macy?”

“No, Hudson. You may not.”

Mrs. Budgeon kept a stack of writing paper in the servants’ hall, free for anyone who wished a piece or two to write home. Margaret wondered again if she ought to write to her friend Emily. A defensive measure. When she learned that evening that Mr. Hudson was returning to London once again, she saw it as a definite sign that she should.

My dear Emily,

You have no doubt heard that I have gone away. I know that you, my dearest friend, would never assume the worst. Still, I thought I should write to you, so you will not fret about me. I did send a letter to Mamma—did she tell you? If she has not, then I fear it may have gone astray and never made it into her hands. I hope this letter fares better.

Nothing dire has befallen me. I have not been kidnapped, nor have I eloped, nor have I been compromised—even if cruel gossips are tempted to bandy such nonsense about. (Not you, of course, dear Emily.)

The truth is that I no longer felt safe living under the same roof as Marcus Benton. You know his uncle had been pressuring us to marry, and Marcus had become quite desperate to convince me or compel me by any means necessary—with his uncle’s blessing, no less. Perhaps you will not believe me, or think my estimation of my charms puffed up and my worries foolish fancy. But trust me when I tell you my fears were very real and justified.

I don’t expect you to defend me to fickle society nor to the world at large, but I did want you to know, dear loyal friend, that I am well and safely hidden for now.

Yours sincerely,
Margaret Macy

“Mr. Hudson?” Margaret’s heart beat fast the next morning when she stepped into the steward’s office. Perhaps she ought to have asked Miss Helen to act as her intermediary again, but she didn’t want to press the issue of her identity with the woman, who seemed determined to carry on the ruse for some reason of her own. She hoped Mr. Hudson would not refuse her—or worse, show the letter to Nathaniel Upchurch. He would surely recognize the name and wonder how his housemaid knew Emily Lathrop—closest friend of Margaret Macy. He might easily put two and two together and her secret would be revealed—and her safe hiding place gone with it.

“Yes, Nora?”

“I understand you are traveling to London this afternoon?”

“I am.”

“I wonder if you might do something for me. I don’t want to presume, but—”

“What is it, Nora?” His lips tightened a bit, perhaps anticipating an unreasonable request.

“I was hoping you could post this letter for me. From London.”

“I could post it from Maidstone on my way. . . .”

“From London, if you please.” She hurried to add, “It is bound for London, you see, and will arrive all the quicker.”

“Ah.” He held out his hand. “You do know, Nora, that whoever receives this letter will have to pay the postage.”

“I know, sir.” She placed the letter into his waiting palm.

He glanced down at the direction, brows furrowed, and for a moment she feared he recognized the name. Then his dark expression lifted. Had he perhaps expected a letter to a young man, and did not relish being party to some illicit communication?

He said, “I trust Miss Emily Lathrop will find the postage no hardship?”

“No hardship, sir.”

“Very well, Nora.”

Relief washed over her. She smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Nathaniel stepped from his room, hat and gloves in hand, and Jester at his heel. He needed to go into town to take care of a brief errand. In the corridor, he saw Helen in her bedroom doorway, speaking in low tones to Margaret, who wore bonnet and shawl. He wondered idly where she had been. He skirted the women to avoid interrupting their conversation.

Helen called him back. “Nathaniel, are you driving into Maidstone?”

He turned. “Yes.”

“Good. Would you mind taking Nora to the modiste’s on Bank Street?”

Nathaniel considered. He had already asked for the dogcart to be brought around, so a passenger would be no problem. He enjoyed driving the small sporting carriage, harnessed to a sturdy Cleveland bay. And Jester could ride along as well, which the dog seemed to relish. Best of all, while he was in the bank, no one would be tempted to steal a carriage with a wolfhound sitting watch.

He said, “If you like. I am headed to the county bank very near there.”

“Are you?” Helen’s wide eyes were all innocence. “How convenient, then.”

Nathaniel slanted her a narrow glance. Was his sister up to something?

———

Feeling self-conscious, Margaret followed Mr. Upchurch downstairs and outside, remaining several paces behind him. A small carriage with two tall wheels waited on the drive, harnessed to a single horse.

Nathaniel said to the groom, “The housemaid is going along on an errand for Miss Upchurch.”

Clive lowered the tailboard and gave her a boost up while Nathaniel climbed onto the front bench and took the reins. Jester leapt in behind Nathaniel’s seat, and off they went. How strange it felt to be riding on the back of a vehicle driven by Nathaniel Upchurch.

They passed through Weavering Street and followed the road into town. Around them, men wielded scythes in lush golden fields, finishing up the harvest. Margaret tipped her face to the mild sunshine and breathed in the crisp autumn air. Behind her, Jester took in the passing countryside, tongue lolling, eyes at blissful half-mast in the brisk breeze.

Several minutes later, they rumbled into Maidstone and turned down Bank Street. In front of the ladies’ shop, Margaret alighted.

Mr. Upchurch looked down from his bench. “How long do you need?”

“Not long. Perhaps . . . twenty or thirty minutes?”

He nodded. “I shall collect you here in half an hour’s time.”

She stepped inside the modiste’s. From the shop window, she wistfully watched Nathaniel tip his hat to an elderly matron and return the wave of a passing lad as he drove off toward the bank.

Margaret made quick work of selecting the face powder and new rouge Miss Upchurch wanted. Helen had asked her to purchase the items rather than prepare them in the stillroom. She didn’t want the servants speculating about her sudden interest in cosmetics.

Half an hour later, Mr. Upchurch halted the cart in front of the shop as arranged. She hopped up on the tailboard, reminding herself that a servant would not expect her master to assist her.

He glanced back to make sure she was settled, then told his horse to walk on.

She noticed he turned down an unfamiliar street—taking a different route home. A few minutes later, the road curved to follow a narrow mill leat. Accelerating around the bend, the cart wheel hit a deep hole, and Margaret suddenly felt herself thrust off the tailboard. For one second, a midair weightlessness tingled through her stomach. She gave a little shriek and landed in a bone-rattling thud on the hard road.

Jester barked a warning.

Vaguely she heard Mr. Upchurch call a “Whoa” to the horse some distance ahead. Blood roared in her ears and pain shot from hip to leg. She drew in a ragged breath as stars danced before her eyes.

Jester bounded over and licked her cheek.

Nathaniel jogged to her side. “Are you all right?” Alarm rang in his voice—more than the slight accident called for.

She looked up at him from her unladylike sprawl, gathering her skirts and parcels and trying to sit up.

“Wait. Be still. Jester, down.” He frowned in concern. “Is anything broken, do you think?”

“I . . .” Mentally she surveyed her body. Hip throbbing. Palm burning. Head spinning. Though the latter might be caused by Nathaniel Upchurch’s nearness.

“I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, that’s all,” she murmured. “I’m fine, really.” She tried in vain to push herself to her feet.

Bending low, he took her hand and with his other cupped her elbow and pulled her gently to her feet. Her leg tingled numbly and threatened to buckle.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, steadying her. “Your ankle?”

“Just strained, I think. I’m fine.” She had actually landed on her hip and bum, but wasn’t about to specify that part of her anatomy.

She hobbled a step toward the cart, and suddenly his arm dipped beneath her legs and the other behind her back and she found herself swept up into his arms.

“Put your hands around my neck.”

She felt her face flush, certain she was too heavy, self-conscious at having her side pressed flush to his body, his arm under her knees.

His mouth tightened and his neck beneath his cravat tensed—whether from bearing her weight or concern, she was afraid to hazard.

Reaching the cart, he set her on the tailboard. Jester barked his approval and hopped up behind her.

“Perhaps we ought to have the surgeon or at least the apothecary take a look at that ankle.”

“No, sir. Really, I’m fine.”

He lifted a hand toward her dangling limb. “The left one I believe . . . May I?”

She felt her mouth form an O, but no sound came.

He cupped the heel of her slipper and lifted it gently. His other hand grasped the toe, gingerly rotating her ankle. “Does that hurt?”

She swallowed and shook her head. Actually, it felt heavenly.

His gloved hand worked its way up her stocking-swathed ankle in a series of tentative squeezes. “All right?”

She nodded.

“Let’s see your hands.”

She held them forth for inspection like a grotty waif. Both were dirty, but she’d scraped the left one as well, trying to stop her fall.

Mr. Upchurch withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “Stay here.”

He strode to the lazily flowing mill leat, dipped the handkerchief into the water and returned, squeezing it out as he neared. Again he held her left palm, and with his other hand dabbed at the dirt and scrape. The cool water felt wonderful on her raw, burning skin.

She felt like a child and yet like a cherished woman at the same time. Foolish girl, she told herself. He is only being kind.

He wiped the dirt from her other palm, then looked into her face. “You, em . . .” He cleared his throat. “You might want to, em, tidy your hair. Your . . . cap is a bit askew.”

Dread rippled through her. Oh no. Had her wig slipped? Was any blond hair showing? He appeared self-conscious at pointing it out but not shocked or suspicious.

“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching up to pull down her cap, and hopefully her wig with it.

He turned his back as she did so, stepped a few feet away, and sank to his haunches, studying a series of gouges in the road large enough to bury a cat.

“I attended a commissioners’ meeting, where repairs to this road were approved and funds allocated. Progress is not what it should be. I shall have to speak to the town council.” He rose. “Nora, do sit up front for the rest of the trip. I don’t want to see you knocked off again.”

Her nerves pulsed a warning—too close. “That’s all right, sir. I don’t mind.”

“Please. I insist.” He gestured toward the front bench, high over the cart’s tall wheels.

Uncomfortable at the thought, she said, “Sir. Um. I don’t know that I should be sitting up there. That is, when we reach Fairbourne Hall. I . . . think I would rather walk the rest of the way.”

“But your ankle.”

“It’s fine, sir, truly. Please.”

He gave her a knowing look. “It would not go well for you belowstairs if you were seen riding beside Mr. Upchurch. Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“I see. Very well. But do take care with that ankle.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

As he climbed up and drove on, Margaret wondered if he would have been as kind and attentive had Betty or Fiona fallen from his cart. Probably, she thought.

But she hoped not.

When she reached Fairbourne Hall and delivered the powder and rouge, Helen asked how the errand had gone.

“Fine.” Margaret answered vaguely.

Helen’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Did Mr. Upchurch . . . notice you?”

Is that what Helen hoped would happen? “Not especially. But he was very kind.”

Helen lifted one eyebrow. “Was he?”

Margaret felt her cheeks heat under Helen’s watchful gaze but did not elaborate further.

A few days later, Nathaniel sat in the library, reviewing sketches for a proposed new row of laborer cottages. But he had difficulty concentrating. His mind kept wondering, replaying the scenes from the last weeks. Dancing with Miss Macy at the servants’ ball. Standing near her on the balcony, staring up at the stars. Strolling with her along the moonlit arcade. Carrying her in his arms. . . .

A knock roused Nathaniel from his reverie. He looked up, feeling almost guilty, as if caught doing something he ought not. He was surprised to see Robert Hudson in the threshold.

“Hudson, hello. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Is this a good time, sir?”

“Yes, of course.” Nathaniel straightened and cleared his throat. “How did it go?”

“Very well, I think.”

Nathaniel gestured toward the chair before the desk. “What did you find out?”

“Several interesting things.” Hudson sat and pulled a small leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket. “First, Sterling Benton is indeed in financial straits, over head and ears in debt, according to a talkative banker.”

“You were discreet in your inquiries, I trust?”

“Sir.” Hudson tucked his chin, mouth down-turned, offended he even needed ask.

Nathaniel rotated his hand, gesturing for his steward to continue.

“Sterling Benton has borrowed too much, spent too much, and gambled too much, and refuses to retrench. Evidently very keen on keeping up appearances.”

Nathaniel was reminded of Lewis’s spend-all ways. “Go on.”

“Marcus Benton is Sterling’s nephew and apparent heir—assuming Sterling’s marriage to the forty-something Macy widow results in no offspring.” He opened the leather cover and consulted his notes. “Marcus is three and twenty years of age and is the son of Sterling Benton’s younger brother—a law clerk—who resides in Greenwich. Apparently Sterling sponsored his nephew through Oxford, where he read the law. Marcus has no profession at present and lives the life of a gentleman supported by his uncle’s generosity.”

“Generosity that may be coming to an end.”

Hudson nodded. “So it seems. Marcus has lately come to reside with his uncle and new wife in Mayfair. The wife has three children, but the eldest daughter had been the only one residing at Berkeley Square regularly. Except at school vacations, Caroline Macy boards at a girls’ seminary and Gilbert Macy is at Eton.”

Hudson hesitated. “I know you did not ask me to investigate the missing Margaret Macy, but I did learn something during my inquiries that bears on the situation.”

Nathaniel steeled himself, fearing he might hear something unsavory about Miss Macy’s conduct.

“Go on.”

“Apparently, she will come into a good deal of money from a great-aunt who left her fortune in a trust, which is set to mature at Miss Macy’s twenty-fifth birthday on . . .” Again Hudson consulted his notes.

“November the twenty-ninth,” Nathaniel murmured, lost in thought. He became aware of the high arch of Hudson’s eyebrows but ignored his expectant expression.

“Might explain why an eligible nephew has come to stay,” Hudson said.

Nathaniel screwed up his face in thought. “I wonder why this inheritance has been such a secret before now. I never heard it mentioned before—by her or the gossipmongers.”

“Perhaps she hoped to avoid—what is the term?—fortune hunters. Not that I include you in that lot, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “Does she even know of the trust, do you think?”

“I did not gather it was unknown by her, but rather that she and her parents made a point of keeping it secret from society at large.”

“I wonder if Benton knew before he married into the family.”

Hudson coughed. “Do you mind a little hearsay along with the facts?”

“I suppose not.”

“I gather there was quite a row in the Benton house when Sterling learned the details of the trust. From the tenor of the argument, it seemed evident that he thought his wife was the one inheriting the money.”

Nathaniel stared at his steward, incredulous. “How on earth did you learn the details of an argument between man and wife in their own home?”

“My dear Nathaniel”—Hudson gave him a tolerant smile, reverting to Christian names as they had used in Barbados—“if one wishes to learn what really goes on in a house, one need only sweet-talk the right housemaid.”

Sweet-talk the right housemaid . . . Nathaniel mused. He wondered if he ought to give it a try. And he had just the right housemaid in mind.

Despite his intentions, Nathaniel didn’t manage to see Margaret all day.

That evening, he and Helen had just sat down to dinner when the second footman opened the dining room door and announced their brother. Lewis strode unceremoniously past the young man, and flopped into a chair.

“Lewis,” Nathaniel said. “We did not expect you back so soon.”

“Not that we aren’t glad to see you,” Helen added quickly.

“Hello, old girl. You are looking well, I must say.”

Helen self-consciously touched her curled and styled hair. “Thank you.”

Nathaniel gestured to the under butler. “Another place setting, Arnold.”

“Right away, sir.” Arnold signaled to the first footman, who languidly turned to do his bidding. Arnold, meanwhile, set several glasses before Lewis and poured wine.

Lewis took a long drink, then said, “I had to come and tell you the news.”

“Oh?”

“I saw Sterling Benton in town. You remember him—married the Macy widow?”

Nathaniel felt Helen’s quick look but kept his focus on Lewis. “Yes, what of him?”

“I spent a most diverting evening at White’s, I can tell you. I won several guineas off an obliging solicitor-friend of mine. Well, not friend exactly, but a useful acquaintance.”

Nathaniel frowned at the thought of Lewis gambling away family money—money needed for the estate, but he bit back a reprimand. “I thought you were going to tell us something about Benton?”

“I’m getting to that. Be patient.” Lewis took another drink and gestured for a refill. “I was in a generous mood, having won for once, so I bought this solicitor-friend several rounds. Don’t scold—a wise investment, as it turns out.”

Nathaniel felt his jaw tighten. “How is that?”

“Well, he was well in his cups when Sterling Benton comes in, puffed up and slicked down as usual, that pup of a nephew at his heels.”

Lewis took a long swallow of burgundy. “My friend takes one look at the haughty pair of them, then leans near and tells me he has a few ideas about why the Macy girl went missing.”

Lewis had Nathaniel’s full attention at last.

His brother’s eyes glinted. “He hinted that Miss Macy has quite a tidy fortune coming to her on her next birthday. She’s to be quite the little heiress.”

Helen’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I had no idea.”

“Nor I,” Lewis said, turning to him. “Did you know?”

Nathaniel hedged, “She never said a word to me.”

So, Nathaniel thought, the once-secret inheritance is becoming generally known. He supposed Margaret’s disappearance had loosened the tongues of the few who knew about it, whoever they were.

Lewis returned to his tale. “At all events, I called Sterling Benton over, ignoring the sharp kicks my companion delivered under the table, and asked after Miss Macy. Benton feigned such fatherly concern, but I could tell it was balderdash. So I told him he need not worry about her.”

Helen’s brow furrowed. “What? But how . . . ?”

Lewis grinned. “I believe I may have hinted that I knew where she was . . . and planned to elope with her or some such. I don’t remember exactly, for I had kept pace with that solicitor in all those drinks, sorry to say.”

“Lewisss . . .” Helen scolded.

Lewis waved away the lecture before she could begin. “I’d wager he doesn’t care a whit about the girl, just wants to keep the money in the family. Stab me, I’m half tempted to find the chit and marry her myself. I wouldn’t have to live on the meager allowance Nate wants to leash me to—”

“Don’t.” Nathaniel bit out the single syllable.

Lewis regarded him, one brow raised. “Why not? Want a second shot at her yourself, do you?”

Helen laid a hand on Nathaniel’s forearm. Had she not been there, Nathaniel knew he would probably have lost control and punched his brother again.

Instead he gritted his teeth and warned, “Don’t trifle with Sterling Benton, Lewis. The man is financially desperate. Far more so than we are. There’s no telling what he might do if he thinks you stand between him and a fortune.”

Early the next morning, Margaret began her duties in the drawing room, glad it was Fiona’s day to carry the water and slops. As she opened the shutters, she thought back to Nathaniel Upchurch’s kind attention when she’d fallen from the cart, and to their conversation on the moonlit balcony. His vow to defend her should any man mistreat her. His intense, earnest eyes had captured hers, and she had felt powerless to look away . . . to breathe. Tears had come from nowhere, burning her throat and filling her eyes. Oh, to have a man like Nathaniel Upchurch protect her. Love her.

Click. Somewhere nearby, a door latch opened. That was odd.

Pulse accelerating, she tiptoed to the threshold of the adjoining conservatory and peered around the doorjamb. By dawn’s light seeping through the many panes of glass, she saw a figure—a man with his back to her—gingerly close the terrace door behind him. That door should have been locked. The man turned and crept across the room. For a rash second, she feared it was that pirate Nathaniel had mentioned. But then she recognized the man’s profile. It was Lewis, coming in at dawn, his cravat untied and in need of a shave. He had obviously been out all night again. She wondered with whom.

He pulled up short at seeing her in the doorway but only lifted a finger to his lips and continued past her without a second glance. Apparently too tired—or sated—to bother flirting with her.

Margaret felt a dull stab of disappointment. Disappointment at his behavior, not at his disinterest in her. She had given up all thought of Lewis Upchurch, at least romantically. She hoped the poor girl, whoever she was, knew what she was doing.

Margaret sighed and returned to her work. The carpets were not going to brush themselves.