Margaret bit her lip and shook the dress to loosen the wrinkles, found a dress brush and gave the skirt and sleeves a quick once-over. She helped Helen on with a freshly laundered shift, then held open a pair of stays without busk or boning. At least this she knew how to do, having helped her sister many times. Helen slipped her arms through the holes and then turned her back toward Margaret, clearly as accustomed to being dressed as Margaret was. Again it was a relief not to be face-to-face with the woman.
“Not so tight, if you please.”
“Sorry, miss,” Margaret murmured, though she thought it a pity. With a little cinching Helen’s feminine figure could be quite attractive.
Finishing the stays, Margaret then helped her into a petticoat and stockings, tying the ribbons above Helen’s knees before helping her into the gown itself.
Finally, Helen sat on a small stool before the dressing table, arranging her skirts about her. She picked up an elegant brush and began stroking her long brown hair, judging her progress in the mirror.
Margaret felt a pang of homesickness, not for the Bentons’ house, but for her sister and brother, even her mother. How often she had brushed her mother’s or sister’s hair, even trimmed Gilbert’s unruly curls now and again.
“Allow me, miss.”
Helen’s motions stilled, and Margaret gently took the brush from her hand. She brushed the woman’s hair with long strokes, pausing when she hit a snarl to carefully untangle it before continuing. Brushing Helen’s hair soothed her and reminded her of Caroline, though her sister’s hair was lighter in hue and weight. In the mirror, Margaret noticed Helen had closed her eyes.Good, she thought.
At closer range now, Margaret noticed a few strands of grey in with the brown.
“Are you able to dress hair?” Helen asked. “If not, I can manage a simple knot on my own.”
How undemanding Helen Upchurch was, Margaret thought, in her loose, bone-free stays, old dress, and easygoing ways.
“It’d be my pleasure, miss, to give it a go.”
“Very well.”
Margaret soon found herself absorbed in the task. She brushed the hair upwards from Helen’s neck and gathered it in one hand, then leaned over to set down the brush. She had seen Helen often enough since arriving to know she wore her hair in a plain, severe knot low at the back of her head. But in Margaret’s opinion, it would look much prettier with soft height. She thought of suggesting heating the clay curling rod, but the day was too warm for a fire. So she settled for leaving out two thick strands at either temple, dampening these with water, winding them up, and pinning the curls to the sides of Helen’s head. These she allowed to dry while she continued to arrange the remaining hair high on the crown of her head.
Margaret leaned over again, snagged the pins, and secured the coil. When she finished, she removed the pin curls from Helen’s temples, pleased when the strands hung in spiraling tendrils on either side of her face. Fortunately, Helen’s hair had some natural curl, unlike Caroline’s, which would hang limp without help from a hot iron.
So engrossed was Margaret in dressing Helen’s hair, that it took her several moments to notice how still, even stiff, Helen had suddenly become.
Margaret glanced up with a start. Helen no longer had her eyes closed, nor was she looking at her own reflection in the mirror. She was staring, eyes wide, at her.
“What are you doing?” Helen breathed.
Margaret’s heart pounded. She stared back, then feigned interest in an imaginary stray lock of hair. Had Helen recognized her, or was she merely offended at the liberties a new maid had taken with her hair? Perhaps Margaret was reading too much into the question.
Swallowing, Margaret chose to respond to the latter meaning and exaggerated her accent. “Just tryin’ to give your hair a bit of height, miss. But I can do it over if ya like.”
She held her breath, feeling Miss Upchurch’s scrutinizing stare on her bowed head. The silence was thick. Margaret’s palms grew damp. Her voice breathy, she asked, “Which earbobs would ya like to wear, miss?”
Helen swiveled on her dressing stool, and Margaret backed up several steps. The woman’s direct gaze was even more intimidating than it had been in reflection. Margaret forced herself to meet that gaze.
Helen asked warily, “Why are you here?”
Margaret was sure Helen must hear her heartta-tombing in her ears. “As I say, miss. I’m only helpin’ Betty today. I meant no harm.”
Helen’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you are about. But I shall be watching you.”
“Yes, miss,” Margaret murmured. “Will there be anythin’ else, miss?”
Helen slowly shook her head.
Margaret curtsied, turned, and strode to the door, feeling Helen Upchurch’s suspicious eyes follow her every step of the way.
———
In the corridor, she nearly collided with Fiona. The thin Irishwoman was out of breath and grim-faced. She glanced from Margaret to the door she had just exited.
