Lewis went on, “It is not as though the Macys are closely connected to our family. I am acquainted with the girl, of course—as are we all.” Lewis turned to him. “Doyou still harbor feelings for her?”
“Of course not, but—”
Saxby laid a hand over his heart. “Pray forgive me, Nate. I should not have been so cavalier in breaking the news.”
“You did not err in telling us,” Nathaniel insisted. “We are acquainted with both the Macy family and the Bentons. Of course we would be interested. And disturbed to think that any lady of our acquaintance might be... might have met with some foul fate.”
“Oh, I don’t imagine it is anything as dramatic as all that,” Lewis said.
“Not that the girl doesn’t have a flair for theatrics,” Helen added. “She does, as I recall.”
Lewis shrugged. “More likely she’s gone off in a pet over a spat with a new suitor. Or her mamma refused her a trinket or something of that sort. She’ll return as soon as her purse is empty, and that shall be that.”
“No doubt you are correct,” Nathaniel said, wishing to end this conversation. He was surprised at how much he hoped Miss Macy was all right. For all the resentment he had felt toward her—even wishing she might have her own heart broken one day—he would never wish bodily harm to befall her. The very thought of it made him want to charge off to London, sword blazing, and rescue her. What a fool he was. Even now.
———
Finally, Margaret’s heart slowed to a rate approaching normal. What a start she had been given. Several, actually. First hearing her name called, fearing Sterling had come, then the vase shattering, and Nathaniel Upchurch charging out to see what had happened. He had not recognized her, she assured herself and took another deep breath.
She wiped her hands on her apron and swallowed. She had seen the look on Betty’s face. Felt the silent terror at the thought of losing her place—for something that wasn’t even her fault. Margaret had no intention of making service her life’s work, but Betty did, and for her, being dismissed would be catastrophic.
But nor was Margaret ready to loseherposition—she had barely gotten there, and hated the thought of being put out with barely a shilling to her name. And so she stood there, mute, while Betty picked up the pieces and followed Mrs. Budgeon down to her parlor to discuss the matter.
Twenty minutes or so later, Margaret had just finished dusting the remaining shelves when Betty returned, white faced.
“What did she say?” Margaret whispered.
“She said we was to talk to Mr. Hudson about it, but Mr. Hudson is gone calling on tenants. So I am to see him tomorrow after dinner.”
Again the wordsI am sorrystuck in Margaret’s throat. Instead she said, “It was an accident. Surely they won’t put you out for that.”
Betty’s brow creased in incredulity. “Maids is put out for a few coins gone missing or a piece of china broke. That was a family heirloom. Worth a great deal of money.”
“I... I didn’t mean to startle you. I—”
Betty’s face puckered. “Whydidyou cry out? Did you see a mouse or some-like?”
“No.” Margaret slowly shook her head. “Not a mouse. A ghost.”
At five thirty the next morning, Margaret slipped her hands through the armholes of her stays and stepped into her frock, expecting any moment to hear Betty’s sharp single knock, ready to pragmatically lace up her stays and hurry her along with her brisk “The shutters await, my girl.”
No knock came.
When a clock struck six somewhere in the house and Betty still had not come, Margaret left the stays unlaced beneath her frock and hurried down the passage, around the corner, and along the main attic corridor to Betty’s room. She knocked softly and the door swung open on its hinges. Glancing in, she saw Betty sitting on her small, neatly made bed, staring down at her hands resting in her lap.
“Betty? Are you all right?”
“Hmm?”
Margaret quipped, “The shutters await, my girl.”
No answering grin lifted Betty’s mouth. She was no doubt still upset about the vase.
Margaret stepped into the room. When Betty made no move to rise, Margaret sat gingerly on the bed beside her. She noticed then that Betty held something in her hands. A large gilt brooch ornamented with a stag’s head and several long chains dangling from it. A chatelaine.
“That’s pretty,” Margaret said.
Betty nodded. “My mum gave it to me. She was housekeeper at Mote Park for many years. The mistress gave this to her to mark her twentieth year in service. How proud she was, wearing this pinned to her waist, Mote Park keys hangin’ from it, and these other usefuls as well.” Betty lifted the small pair of candle scissors and ran a finger over three small gilt boxes hanging like appendages from the chatelaine. “This one holds a toothpick, this one a needle and thread, and this one an ear scoop.”
