Margaret thought again of what she had heard about Helen Upchurch’s great disappointment in love, and the rare sympathy in the gossips’ tone as they speculated about her long absence from society. Something about her father refusing his consent to the match and then the man’s untimely death soon after. Poor Helen. She recalled the good-looking man in the miniature portrait on Helen’s dressing table. No wonder she was disappointed.
Helen Upchurch had never been a ravishing beauty, not with that pointed nose reminiscent of her brother Nathaniel’s, nor with her somewhat sallow complexion. But she had been handsome enough and well thought of. It was such a shame, really. Margaret realized that she had done nothing when she’d heard of Helen’s loss. She wondered if she should have, could have helped somehow. Would a kind letter or call really have been so taxing?
Margaret pushed thoughts of the past aside—anxious now to see how Betty fared.
She finished dressing, pinned her blond hair back into its tight bun, positioned her wig, cap, and spectacles, and sat on her bed to await Betty’s knock.... She retrieved her father’s New Testament and read for a quarter of an hour.... Still the attic was quiet. It was time to go down and open the shutters, but again Betty had failed to show up at her door. Had she gone down without her? Was she so very angry with her?
Margaret once again made her way to Betty’s room. The door was closed. She knocked softly, listened, but no one answered.
Gingerly, she pushed open the door. The room was dim, the shutters closed. As her eyes adjusted, Margaret frowned, retracting her head like a turtle encountering an unexpected obstacle. Betty was still in bed. She lay on her stomach, face smashed into her pillow, cheek bunched up, mouth slack. Her arm hung out of the bedclothes, limp, fingers nearly reaching the floor. How strange. Betty never slept late.
“Betty?” she whispered, not wanting to startle her. But Betty did not rouse. “Betty!” Margaret repeated, suddenly fearful the woman was ill... or worse.
She hurried to the window and threw back the shutters. Dawn light seeped into the room. Returning to the bed, she grasped Betty’s shoulder and gently shook her.
The upper housemaid muttered something unintelligible.
“Betty, you’ve overslept. What will Mrs. Budgeon say? I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“Wha’ time is it?” Betty asked, voice thick, as though her mouth were stuffed with cotton wool.
“It’s gone six.”
“Six?” Betty’s eyes popped open. Wincing, she twisted around, sat up, and pressed her hands to her temples. Her complexion greened, and those same hands grasped her mouth in alarm.
Thinking quickly, Margaret grabbed the basin from the washstand and thrust it under Betty’s chin. Betty retched. Then retched again.
She groaned. “The room’s spinnin’, Nora. Just give me a few minutes to gather my wits. The shutters await....” Weakly she fell back in bed, throwing an arm over her eyes.
From the evidence and foul odor, Margaret came to the surprising conclusion that stalwart, dependable, workhorse Betty had been in her cups last night and was paying the devil this morning. On second thought, perhaps not so surprising, considering what she’d had to part with yesterday. But to drink the money away?
Hopefully not all of it.
Again, Betty began to rise, only to moan. “Aw-oh, my head...”
“There, there, Betty. Lie back. Sleep is what you need.” Margaret gently settled Betty back onto her pillows and pulled up the bedclothes. She drained the basin into the chamber pot, rinsed it with water from the pitcher and drained it again. She left the basin next to Betty’s bed. Just in case. She closed the shutters and then took the covered chamber pot out with her to dumpit.
Margaret hurried through Betty’s early morning routine as well as her own, folding back shutters, polishing grates, and sweeping and dusting the main floor rooms Betty usually handled, trusting Fiona was doing the others. Then she hurried down to the basement for the water cans, perspiration trickling down her back and along her hairline. The dashed wig was hot.
She saw Mr. Arnold entering the servants’ hall for breakfast. If she did not scurry in now, she would miss the prayer. Mr. Arnold would not be pleased—Mrs. Budgeon either—but she needed to finish for Betty’s sake. Her stomach growled, but she quickly filled the water cans and carried them up to Nathaniel’s and Helen’s rooms, emptying the slops before returning belowstairs.
When she reached the servants’ hall at last, sweaty and weary, the others were already rising, Jenny beginning to clear.
Mrs. Budgeon’s lip thinned in disapproval. “If you are late, you don’t eat, Nora. Unless you have a valid excuse...?”
Her mild whirled. She was hungry. She would have given her last shilling for one of Hester’s muffins. But what could she say that would not get Betty into trouble? “Um... no. Duties took longer than usual, that’s all.”
“Where is Betty?” the housekeeper asked.
“Uh... In one of the rooms, I expect. She wasn’t hungry.”
Someone snorted.
Jenny giggled, then whispered, “Not surprising. After all she drank last night.”
If Mrs. Budgeon heard, she ignored the comment. “Your duties, yours and Betty’s, are completed I trust?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
