Margaret had not thought of that. She was tempted to point out that Betty had no talent for either hairdressing or making over old gowns, nor any of the other beauty tricks a lady’s maid was supposed to know. But it would be unkind to say so. And—seeing the anger in Fiona’s expression—unwise as well.
“I know you won’t believe me, but I have no wish to be Miss Upchurch’s personal maid.”
Fiona snorted. “And why not? Prefer blacking grates, I suppose?”
“No. It isn’t that. In fact I like dressing her hair, but...” How could she verbalize her real objections?I don’t like the way Helen Upchurch stares at me. I think she recognizes me but is toying with me.Besides, Margaret knew many gentlewomen took their personal maids with them on calls, and to house parties, and shopping... Margaret had no wish to be out and about and increase her chances of being seen. Recognized. Considering her situation, being an invisible housemaid was better by far.
“But?” Fiona prompted.
“You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that you have nothing to fear from me. I don’t want Betty’s job—yours either.”
After morning prayers, while the family ate their later breakfast, Margaret went upstairs to clean the brothers’ bedchambers. She hurried, as usual, dreading being caught in the room should Nathaniel come upstairs. Knowing Lewis had returned to London, Margaret had skipped his room yesterday in her hurry to complete her other duties as well as Betty’s. The amiable Connor had left the room in a mess when he’d packed up while the others were off enjoying their half day, and it took her longer than it should have to clean it this morning. She was behind schedule when she hurried into Nathaniel Upchurch’s bedchamber and began her work there.
Margaret paused in her dusting to inspect a model ship on the dressing chest. This was no child’s toy, but a detailed scale model. A wooden hull, polished and veneered, rigging made of horsehair and silk, masts and spars carved of ivory. How did one dust a ship? She picked up the model in her hands, tipping it back to see the wordEcclesiapainted on its side.
Snap.
Margaret froze at the sound. The main mast had broken off in her hands, taking a small section of decking with it. She sucked in a breath. “No...”
The door opened behind her, and she whirled around. In her panic, she hid the pieces behind her back like a child caught in yet another misdemeanor.
Nathaniel Upchurch strode across the room with barely a glance her way. Did he think servants unworthy of his notice?
He went to his desk, retrieved a book, and turned to go.
Relief—she was not to be caught after all. Once he had gone, she would sneak the ship up to her room and try to repair it herself. But then might she, or Betty or Fiona, be accused of stealing it? A ship such as this would bring a high price in town. No. She could not do it. Besides, she told herself, she was a woman of four and twenty, not a sneaky seven-year-old.
“Sir?” she blurted.
He hesitated at the door, frowning. She supposed he didn’t approve of maids speaking first. “Yes?”
“I’m afeared I broke yer ship,” she said, laying the accent on thick.
His gaze swiftly flew to the pieces she now held forth in her hands.
“I was dustin’ it, sir. I’m dreadful sorry. I shoulda been more careful-like.”
He strode swiftly across the room, eyes riveted on the ship, lips pulled tight. He did not look at her, yet she saw irritation or something worse sparking in his eyes.
He tossed the book back onto the desk with such force that it slid off onto the floor. He paid it no heed. He took first the ship from her hand, then the broken mast, assessing the damage and trying to fit the pieces together.
He murmured to himself, “First the real thing, now this.”
Guilt pricked and coated her innards with remorse. “I shall have it repaired, shall I? Perhaps someone in town might—”
“Leave it,” he snapped. Setting the ship on his desk, he turned on his heel and left the room.
The door slammed behind him, reverberating through her heart. She remembered that look. This feeling. She hated disappointing him yet again.
With a sigh, she returned to her work. Bending to pick up the fallen book, she glanced at it and saw that it was a volume of poetry. Robert Burns. A corner of some paper, a card perhaps, protruded from between its pages like a child sticking out his tongue. It had likely been jarred loose during the fall. Something about the paper snagged her attention. She wondered what poem Nathaniel Upchurch deemed worthy of marking. She slid her fingernail to the spot near the back of the book and opened the pages to see what it was.
She stared. Blinked. Felt her brows furrow. Poem forgotten, she turned the rectangle of thick parchment to right the image upon it. Studied it through her spectacles, then again beneath the lenses. Yes... It was definitely what she thought it was. An intermingled flush and chill ran over her body.
How strange that he had kept this small amateur watercolor. She did not recall giving it to him. Did he not know it was by her hand? Perhaps he had stuck it into the volume to mark some place long ago and had completely forgotten about it, and when he found it later did not remember the artist was the very woman who had spurned him, the woman he despised. Surely he would not have kept it had he remembered.
The painting was one of her better attempts but nothing of any value, monetary or sentimental, surely. It was only a pretty watercolor of Lime Tree Lodge, idealized no doubt, ivy climbing its walls, clematis cascading down its trellis, the garden adrift in honeysuckle blossoms and daffodils, their white cat, Claude, lying across the front steps. The only person in the painting was a young woman in a yellow frock, sitting on a swing at the side of the house, facing away, revealing only a glimpse of profile beneath the white bonnet. She had imagined Caroline as the figure swinging in the side yard, but now that she thought about it, she had owned a yellow frock at some point, whilst Caroline had not.
She was tempted to keep the painting. It was hers, after all. And how she would love to have this reminder of Lime Tree Lodge. Of better days.
