So tired... And yet she could not keep her eyes closed. In her mind revolved a painted carousel of objects, duties, instructions, and warnings. Shoe brushes, grate brushes, bed brushes. Open shutters by seven, make beds by eleven. Never drip candle wax. Never wax mahogany. Always scrub hands between blacking and bed making, and whatever you do, don’t speak to the family unless spoken to. Around and around it went. Margaret groaned. She had never imagined the work of a housemaid could be so taxing.
She still found it difficult to grasp that she was doing such work in the manor of the Upchurch family. How strange to be under Nathaniel’s roof. She had seen him at morning prayers, of course, but according to first Mr. Hudson, then Betty, it was unlikely she would see much of the family otherwise, except in passing. What would Nathaniel say to finding her living in his house, eating his food, polishing his floors? He might enjoy the latter, she mused, but resent the former. A good thing, then, that he was unlikely to see her.
Margaret thought about Helen Upchurch, whom she had seen at morning prayers as well. Helen was five years older than Margaret, and the two had had only a passing acquaintance. Still, Margaret had been saddened to hear of her disappointment in love when the man she hoped to marry died a few years before. Apparently she had now resigned herself to life as a spinster.
There was no sign of Lewis Upchurch, the only Upchurch she thought she might turn to—had she the nerve to do so.
Margaret massaged her fingers. She heard a whine, and for a moment feared she had moaned aloud, but then someone scratched at her door. She started up in bed, reaching in a flailing panic for her wig. The door creaked open.
“Just a moment!” she whispered urgently. But it was too late. Whoever it was walked into the room, feet clicking on the floorboards. Margaret’s eyes adjusted just as a damp nose nudged her elbow. In the dim room, she reached for the wolfhound’s grey head, silvery white in the faint moonlight.
“Jester...” she scolded mildly. “What are you doing up here—come to give me another bath?” She stroked the big dog’s ears. “Your master would not approve. A beast with your bloodlines, consorting with a servant?”
Saying the word aloud gave Margaret pause. “I am a servant,” she whispered to herself, incredulous. She lay there, exhausted and sore, thinking she should just pack up and leave. Sneak out and go... somewhere. Anywhere. But at the moment she was too tired to move.
The next afternoon, Nathaniel took himself to the library to write to his father and the family’s solicitor, apprising them both of the situation with the ship and with Fairbourne Hall. He’d hoped to use part of the sugar profits to begin repair work on theEcclesia, but knew he must first bring the languishing estate into order. He and Hudson had completed an initial inspection of the place. The manor roof leaked into the old schoolroom, several laborer cottages needed repair, the orchard had grown wild, one of the tenant farms sat vacant, a fence was down, and the list went on. Nathaniel sighed. As much as he wanted to, he could not in good conscience funnel money into his ship. Not yet.
Through the open library door, he glimpsed his brother sweeping through the hall, unannounced. He supposed Lewis felt he needed no announcing in his own home, infrequently though he slept there.
Nathaniel added his signature to the letter, replaced the quill in its stand, and rose to find and greet his brother. He hoped to make peace with him. And to be firm about the family’s need to get their affairs in order—and keep spending in line with their reduced income.
Arnold appeared in the threshold. “Excuse me, sir, but your brother has just arrived. He did not wish to be announced, but I thought you would want to know.”
Nathaniel found the under butler’s ingratiating manners irritating, but forced himself to reply civilly, “Thank you. Where is he now?”
“The sitting room, I believe, with Miss Upchurch.”
Nathaniel thanked the man again, crossed the hall, and climbed the stairs. His family had long preferred the upstairs sitting room to the formal drawing room on the main level. As he neared the sitting-room door, he heard his brother’s booming voice and his sister’s calm happy tones.
“Lewis, you can’t know how pleased I am to see you.”
“So you’ve said. Twice. Did Nate tell you what he did to me in London?”
“Ask you to come home?”
“He punched me—right in the midst of the Valmores’ ball.”
“He never!”
“He did. Of course, I got my licks in too. Man has to stand up for himself, you know.”
“Oh, Lewie. Is that where that bruise came from? I was afraid you’d been breaking hearts again.”
“Only two or three a week.”
“Lewie...” Helen scolded fondly, “one of these days someone’s father, or brother, or sweetheart will do worse than bruise you.”
“Then perhaps I ought to swear off women. After all, you are my favorite, Helen, and always shall be.”
“Oh, go on. I can tell the difference between charm and a hum, you know.”
“And which has old Nate been giving you?”
“Neither. Though he has been abitoverbearing since he’s been home.”
Helen’s words stung. Nathaniel crossed the threshold in time to see Lewis rub his jaw.
“As I am painfully aware. Had I known things were so bad here, I would have come sooner.”
