“I wasn’t thinking of it for myself.”
“Oh.” Disappointment etched his features, but then his brows rose. “A gift, perhaps? And a fine gift it would be, indeed.”
Margaret licked her lips. “I don’t know. I... How much are you asking?”
“For a fine piece like that? Dear it is, but worth every farthing to the lucky lady who wears it.”
A farthing she could manage, but from the gleam in his eye she guessed he was asking far more. “How much?”
“Oh...” He screwed up his face, lips protruding, as he took in her reticule, her leather gloves, her bonnet...
She knew she would not like his answer.
He named a figure. An astounding figure.
“But... it isn’t real gold, you know. It’s only brass.”
“Pinchbeck, actually.”
“Which still isn’t gold,” she insisted.
“I could let it go for a bit less, for a fine young lady like yourself.”
She huffed. “I am not a fine lady, sir. I am a housemaid.”
“You don’t say? Where are you placed? Fairbourne Hall?”
Margaret turned to leave before she said something she regretted. She reached for the door latch.
“Don’t be hasty, miss,” he called to her. “A pound, two and six. And that’s as low as I can go.”
“Did you give her a pound, two and six?”
His brows furrowed. “Who?”
“The woman who brought it in.” She swallowed and added, “Whoever she was.”
“Well, a man has to make a profit, hasn’t he?”
“From other people’s misfortunes?”
There, she had said too much. She turned and left the shop without another word, ignoring his plaintive calls to reconsider.
She stalked back down the road, back toward Fairbourne Hall. She could not face Betty. Not now. She did not have that much money. Nowhere near it. All she had was the cameo necklace her father had given her. It was likely worth quite a bit more than the chatelaine, but she could never part with it. Not the last gift her dear papa had given her. Perhaps when all this was over and she had her inheritance, she would send Betty a new chatelaine. Or even drive back down in a private carriage and buy back Betty’s chatelaine from the greedy little man, as much as it would gall her to do so.
In the back of her mind, a voice asked, “Will it still be there months from now?” But she resolutely ignored it.
The housemaid’s folding back her
window-shutters at eight o’clock the next day
was the sound which first roused Catherine.
—Jane Austen,Northanger Abbey
Chapter 12
Margaret arose feeling refreshed the next morning. She had gone to bed early the night before, and though she tossed and turned for a time, she had gotten more sleep than usual. Betty had forgotten to come to her room to unlace her stays, so again Margaret had slept in them. Constricting as they were, keeping them on did make dressing in the morning so much the quicker—and possible solo. She hoped Betty had not similarly forgotten to attend to Miss Upchurch. The upper housemaid had been doing what she could to dress her mistress and arrange her hair since the lady’s maid retired, but based on Helen Upchurch’s appearance at morning prayers, Betty’s skills in that department were rudimentary at best.
