Margaret overheard Betty say, “I suppose we should ask her to join us.”
Fiona hissed, “Why? After what she done to you?”
Betty sighed. “I know. I’m with her day in and day out as it is.”
“That’s right. You need a respite if anybody does.”
The closet door closed. Betty said tentatively, “But she is new and doesn’t know anybody else. I doubt she has anywhere to go.”
Fiona groaned. “Oh, a pox upon you Betty, for yar fun-killing charity. Very well, you ask her. Though I shan’t enjoy my half day half so well as I might.”
Ears burning, Margaret hurried upstairs, slipped into her room, and quickly lay on the bed.
A minute later, Betty knocked once and poked her head in the door. “Nora, a few of us are walking into Weavering Street. One of my brothers keeps a little inn there, so there’s sure to be plenty of food and foolishness. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”
“Thank you, but I think I shall just stay here and rest. Maybe do a bit of reading.”
“But it’s a beautiful day.”
Margaret turned on the bed to face her. “Then I shall walk the grounds later. You go on. Have a good time.”
Betty shrugged. “All right, then. I’ll come by to unlace your stays before I go to bed.” She hesitated. “If you change your mind, we’ll be in the Fox and Goose. Just a half mile or so up the road.”
“Thank you.”
Margaret waited until Betty had shut the door and the passage was quiet, then rose and stepped to her open window. She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear distant laughter, whoops, and wagon wheels as the revelers departed, each to their own ideal of relaxation and enjoyment.
Margaret sighed.
Why should it sting? Why should she care? She hadn’t wanted to spend time with servants since she was a girl. Why should she now? She was only lonely because she missed her own friends and family. That was all. She wished for the hundredth time she could write to her mother or sister. But a Maidstone postal marking would reveal her whereabouts.
Margaret wandered around the corner and down the attic corridor, silent now. Several doors stood ajar. None bore locks. Entering the room of a servant of the same sex was not considered taboo. The rooms weren’t theirs, after all—everything belonged to their employers. Betty had told Nora that as the lowest-ranking housemaid, she would likely be assigned to clean the servants’ quarters one day soon. Apparently people in service had little privacy. A situation Margaret had not considered when she’d adopted a wig.
Margaret paused in the threshold of Betty’s room, neat as a pin as usual, with nothing on the washstand save a hairbrush and her week’s allotment of soap. The bedside table was bare as well.
She stepped next into Fiona’s room, smaller than Betty’s, but just as neat. Beside a worn chair pulled near the window was a basket of knitting wool and needles, and on the arm of the chair, a worn copy of the novelPamela.Margaret grinned.Pamelawas an old story about a virtuous maid who tirelessly warded off her master’s attempts at seduction until he finally married her. It was no wonder someone like Fiona might enjoy it. Though she was somewhat surprised to learn Fiona could read. And did.
Her conscience smarting from snooping, Margaret left the room and wandered down the many pairs of stairs to the kitchen, hoping for something to eat. She found Monsieur Fournier seated at the worktable, quill in hand and inkpot nearby, bent over a letter.
“Bonjour, monsieur. I thought everyone had left.”
“Nora.” He straightened. “Come to steal from my kitchen, ey?”
“Yes, please.” She grinned.
He looked at her from under his great bushy black brows. And for a moment she feared he was truly angry. Then he shook his head, one side of his thin mouth quirking. “Ah, very well,ma petite.It shall be our secret,non?”
He rose and bustled about the kitchen. In a few moments, he placed before her a ramekin and a spoon. “Now. Today I prepare zis with East India sugar. Made without slave labor, you see. Mr. Upchurch insists, even though it costs more. So. We shall eat zis in ze name of research,oui?”
Margaret nodded and pierced her spoon through a layer of burnt sugar, dipping into a creamy custard and, at the bottom, a layer of dark chocolate. She placed the intermingled layers in her mouth, closed her eyes, and savored the rich, bittersweet kiss upon her tongue.
“Oh, monsieur. I think I am in love.”
He grinned with satisfaction and picked up his quill once more.
She wondered how he stayed so thin. She took another bite and glanced at him. “What are you writing?”
“I write to my brother. He is a chef as well, but in France. I write to him little improvements to old family recipes. Or to ask him what herbs Mamma put in herpotage aux champignons...” He lifted an expressive hand. “But I never hear back. I hope all is well.”
