The woman narrowed her eyes at Joan. “Don’t you want to work at Hayfield? What have you heard?” She jerked her head toward Margaret. “Or is there something wrong with her beyond her weak eyes and you’re trying to foist her off on me? Is she your sister or something?”
“No, we’re not sisters. And it’s not that I don’t wish to work for you. I just thought...”
“No, Joan, you take it.” The words were out of Margaret’s mouth before she could think them through or change her mind. The frightened, selfish child within her wanted to grasp Joan’s hand and beg her not to leave her alone, or to beg the matronly housekeeper to take them both, to confess the whole sordid situation and beseech her to help them. But she knew the woman would not care, and would likely not hire either of them if she knew why they were there. Margaret had already gotten Joan dismissed and had forced her to leave her sister’s before she’d found another place. She could not, as much as she was tempted to, take this position from her now.
Joan looked at her, eyes searching. She whispered, “Are you sure, miss?”
Margaret’s knees were turning liquid beneath her baggy frock. Doubts and anxiety were rising by the minute, but she nodded and pulled back her lips in a semblance of a smile.
“Come along, Hurdle,” the woman said. “I have to stop at the chandler’s before we drive home. You may carry the sack of rice we need.”
Joan followed dutifully behind the woman, valise swinging against her leg. She looked back only once, her lips forming a silentI’m sorry.
Margaret’s heart twisted in self-pity followed by a pinch of guilt. She had never apologized to Joan for getting her into this situation in the first place and nowshewas apologizing toher? If she ever saw Joan again, she decided, she would make things right.
Young persons, on their first entering into service, should
endeavor to divest themselves of former habits, and devote
themselves to the control of those whom they engage to serve.
—Samuel and Sarah Adams,The Complete Servant, 1825
Chapter 6
Finally, the stoic cook heaved a sigh, lifted a beefy ankle over the rope and slogged down the cobbled street. The old man sheathed his whittling knife and rose.
“Best head on home, lass,” he said.
Home.Margaret could not return even if she wanted to. And truly, she did not think of Sterling Benton’s house as her home. The real home of her heart was still the home of her childhood. Even the name—Lime Tree Lodge—brought waves of wistful longing, conjured up memories of good smells and warm embraces, of laughter and horse rides and love. Would she never have a real home again? She felt tears prick her eyes but blinked them away. She would. She would find a way to survive the next three months and then claim her inheritance. She would buy a house of her own—perhaps even Lime Tree Lodge, were it ever offered for sale—and invite her sister and brother to live with her, once they were of age.
Even as the thoughts spun through her mind, she knew deep in her heart they were unrealistic. Her sister would marry. Her brother would have a career and eventually a wife and want a home of his own—perhaps a vicarage if he went into the church. Even so, thoughts of her future independence bolstered her courage and Margaret dried her tears.
Around her, farmers loaded remaining produce back into their wagons. The last of the shoppers hauled baskets toward waiting carts and carriages. Margaret’s stomach gurgled a rude complaint. Perhaps a farmer would be willing to give her a bruised apple or the butcher’s lad might part with an unsold pie. The notion of asking was tantamount to begging and caused her stomach to churn, nearly overpowering the hunger. What should she do—take her own advice and go door-to-door seeking a place? Or find some almshouse or church that might allow her to sleep under its roof?Oh, merciful God. I know I have neglected you. I know I have no right to ask you to help me. But I do. Please help me.
“Hello...”
Margaret looked up, startled, into the face of a man standing a few feet away. She had not even noticed him approach. He was a sturdy man in his midthirties, with broad, sloping shoulders and a slightly protruding middle. His hair was light brown, as were his eyes. His features were rounded, pleasant, and for some reason, familiar.
He studied her closely, which discomfited her. She hoped he was not one ofthosemen, looking for one ofthosewomen. He did not look the part and, hopefully, neither did she, but she no longer trusted her first impressions of men.
Perhaps noticing how she dodged his too-direct eye contact, he glanced down. She followed his gaze and realized he was looking at the hairbrush hanging limp in her hand.
“Are you... ?” he began, with a quizzical lift of his brows.
She cut him off, eager in the presence of a prospective employer. “Oh! I was hoping to find a place.” She reminded herself to disguise her voice—but only a little. After all she didn’t wish to be hired as a scullery maid. “As a companion or governess, ideally. Have you any children?”
He ducked his head. “I haven’t any children, no. But—”
“Or perhaps a lady’s maid—hence the brush.” She gave the hairbrush a vague lift. “Or even a housemaid,” Margaret added, hating how desperate she sounded.
He looked at her, head cocked to the side. “You are seeking a place here in Maidstone?”
It seemed an obvious question. “Well... yes.”
A crease formed between his brows. “You don’t remember me.”
She frowned, faltering as she looked at him. “I...”
