Mrs. Budgeon, looking neat and rested, took her place at the foot. She glanced around the table. “I trust you have all introduced yourselves to Nora?”
Heads nodded and murmurs agreed.
Mr. Hudson stepped into the room and Betty snagged Margaret’s sleeve and all but yanked her to her feet. She belatedly realized that everyone rose when the house steward entered—a sign of respect for the highest-ranking member of staff. Mr. Hudson took his place at the head, sending a sheepish smile toward the under butler, who fastidiously ignored him.
Mr. Hudson gestured for everyone to sit. Then he folded his hands at the edge of the table and bowed his head. The others followed suit.
He prayed simply. “For this food, and this day, and your many blessings, make us truly grateful. Amen.”
The chef, sitting next to the under butler, speared a sausage. He passed the basin of porridge with a scowl and instead sawed off a generous hunk of bread and slathered it with butter. Upon this, he laid two slices of tomato, which he salted and peppered heavily. Then he cut the sausage lengthwise and laid the planks across the tomatoes. He set to his creation with knife and fork.
Margaret ate her porridge with creamy milk but without the sugar she indulged in at home. She sipped her tea with relish, again missing the sugar but not commenting. The warm richness of the tea with fresh milk was pleasure enough.
Mr. Hudson cleared his throat and announced, “Mr. Upchurch has decided to reinstitute the practice of morning prayers. So please assemble in the main hall at nine sharp.”
Margaret saw Mr. Arnold send a look of surprise to Mrs. Budgeon, who ignored him, even though the surprise in her own expression was evident. Beside Margaret, Fiona grumbled, as did several others. The elder of the two footmen rolled his eyes.
“Well, I think it a splendid idea,” Betty said. “We haven’t had prayers since Mr. Upchurch senior went off to the Indies.”
The grumbling faded as they returned to their meal. The chef was the first to excuse himself, likely having a great deal of work awaiting him in the kitchen. A few minutes later the footmen and under butler departed to lay the family’s breakfast upstairs. Mrs. Budgeon glanced at the clock atop the mantel, and that was signal enough that everyone else rose to return to their duties.
Margaret followed after Betty as she stopped in the stillroom to assemble a tray of tea things and a pressed newspaper to take up to Miss Upchurch while Fiona prepared a tray for Mr. Upchurch. Fiona had already taken up cans of hot and cold water and emptied the chamber pots while Betty and Margaret were busy in the public rooms.
Upstairs, Betty gestured for Margaret to wait and then let herself in to Miss Upchurch’s bedchamber to deliver the tea and help her dress. Margaret, who had met Helen Upchurch several times, was only too glad to remain in the corridor.
Afterward, Betty and Margaret returned the tray to the stillroom. The kitchen maids passed by, clad in clean aprons, their hair smoothed back under their caps. Taking Betty’s cue, Margaret followed them up to the main level.
Betty whispered, “It’s the first time these poor girls have been allowed abovestairs.”
At nine, servants from every nook and cranny of the house filed into the front hall, with its broad entrance doors, marble floors, carved ceiling, and impressive main stairway. The staff lined up in rows on the floor near the bottom stair, waiting in fidgets and whispers.
Mr. Arnold muttered, “Didn’t know he’d become a vicar whilst he was away.”
The library door opened, and Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, his sister at his side. Stomach knotting, Margaret slipped a little farther behind the tall chef.
Mr. Upchurch carried a black book in one hand, his other arm still cradled in a sling. He wore a bandage above one eye, which reminded her of a pirate’s eye patch, askew. She wondered how badly he was hurt and why he was determined to lead prayers when he was recovering from recent injuries. How somber he looked—little like the fierce, wild-haired ruffian who had started a brawl at a Mayfair ball. The beard was gone. His hair groomed. The rough sea-voyage clothes replaced with everyday gentleman’s attire: coat, waistcoat, cravat.
Hesitating, Mr. Upchurch handed the book to Hudson, behind him. Then he patted his pockets with his sound hand in vain. Was he searching for his spectacles? He used to wear them, she recalled. He said something in low tones to Mr. Hudson, and Hudson opened the book to a page marked with a square of paper before handing it back.
Mr. Upchurch cast a swift glance at the assembled group. Beside him, Helen Upchurch smiled up at them.
Margaret ducked her head.
“Good morning.” Mr. Upchurch cleared his throat, squinted at the book, then read, “From First Peter. ‘Honour all men. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honour the king.’ ” He turned the page. “ ‘Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.’ ”
Around her, Margaret felt bodies stiffen, and a snotty footman muttered something she was probably better spared.
Fiona huffed. “That’s convenient.”
Margaret shushed the disrespectful maid without thinking, earning herself a glare from the Irishwoman.
Mr. Upchurch tucked the book back under his good arm and bowed his head. “Lord, help us each to serve you well this day, in whatever place you have seen fit to place us. Amen.” He nodded to the group in dismissal and turned away.
His sister offered them what seemed an apologetic smile, perhaps hoping to soften his benediction. The others began to grumble or to stonily make their way back to their posts. But Margaret stood where she was.
Had God seen fit to place her in the service of the Upchurch family? Or had she simply made a muddle of her life?
After breakfast, Nathaniel carried a cup of coffee with him from the dining room into the library. Hudson was already inside, ready for their morning meeting, but he said nothing for several moments. Nathaniel surveyed Hudson over his coffee, sipped, then lowered the cup. “What?”
