The chatelaine was gone.
Dread filling her, Margaret hurried into the shop, Nathaniel Upchurch and his dog forgotten. The thin shopkeeper looked up from his counter as she approached.
“The chatelaine, sir. Is it gone?”
“No, it’s right here. Brought it up front to display it proper.”
“Oh.” She exhaled a sigh of relief. “Good.” She hesitated. “May I see what buttons you have?”
“Buttons?” He seemed disappointed but quickly recovered. “Of course.” He pulled out a long shallow drawer filled with buttons of every variety and laid it on the counter before her.
She selected two buttons of varying shades of bluish-green. As she held them up to compare them, the image of Betty’s grieving blue eyes appeared before her. She blinked the image away. Lying on the counter nearby, the chatelaine beckoned her attention, but Margaret resisted, spending the next quarter hour looking not only at buttons, but ribbon trim, lace, and fabric.
In the end she selected four new buttons, a few yards of ribbon, and a length of sheer lawn from which to fashion a fichu. Again the chatelaine drew her eye. For a fleeting moment, she thought about forgoing the falderals and purchasing the chatelaine with Miss Upchurch’s money instead. Would Helen even notice mismatched buttons? But Margaret quickly scolded herself for even considering the idea. She was a vicar’s daughter. A lady. A trusted servant. The irony of considering herself both lady and servant in a single thought struck her, and she bit her lip.
She handed over one of Miss Upchurch’s guineas and then carefully slid the smaller coins the shopkeeper proffered as change into her reticule. As she did she spied her cameo necklace nestled inside. The gift from her father. Irreplaceable. Dear. She pressed her eyes closed.
What would you have me do, Papa?She silently asked.What would you have me do, almighty God?She bit the inside of her cheek, but still tears pricked her eyes.
Heart thudding, Margaret reached in and grasped the cameo necklace by its gold clasp and slowly, reverently extracted it. The hawk-eyed shopkeeper watched every move, his gaze riveted on the gold chain, the fine if modest-sized cameo. She laid the cameo on the counter, its chain spiraling down beside it, her stiff fingers holding firmly to its clasp.
Two mornings later, Helen Upchurch inspected the made-over walking dress in astonishment. “Why, you did more than sew on new buttons, Nora. This is lovely.”
“I’m glad you like it, miss.”
Margaret was very glad, because she had spent far too much time working on it, staying up into the wee hours the last two nights to finish the stitching. She had added a border of trefoils around its hem, contrasting cuffs, and a wide band of the same material at the waist.
Helen looked up at her. “You did all this with only the few coins I gave you?”
“And odds and ends I found in Miss Nash’s old room.”
Helen chuckled. “How strange to hear you say her name when you have never met her.”
“That’s what the others call the room.”
“I suppose they think it odd that I have not engaged another maid?”
Margaret shrugged. “A little.” She hesitated. “May I ask why you have not?”
Helen sat on the dressing room chair and faced her. “You see, Miss Nash was my mother’s maid. Mamma was very fond of her. I was happy to keep her on after Mamma died. But when Miss Nash reached a certain age, she began to slip a little. Mentally and physically. She began doing my hair in little girl ringlets and sewing a great many youthful frills and flounces to my gowns. So I convinced her to retire. She will live out her life in a snug cottage on our estate. She was loath to go, but I assured her she had done her duty by me and I no longer needed a maid dedicated solely to my appearance. I had, after all, given up my social life. My days of balls and routs and flirtations were over. Betty could help me dress and pin my hair when needed. If I hired a new lady’s maid, Miss Nash would take it as a slight, I fear. She might come to think it was not that I no longerneededher, but that I no longerwantedher.”
“And did you?”
Helen sighed. “You saw the condition of my frocks? They were not so much better while Miss Nash was still here. She even once scolded me for no longer fitting into my little-girl stays, as though she had only just noticed I had developed a bosom.”
“But Miss Helen...”
She waved away Margaret’s argument before she could voice it. “The truth is, I really don’t care. I have no desire to spend a great deal of time on my appearance, or the family’s money on fashion. It simply does not matter tome.”
Margaret was formulating a suitable reply, but Helen cut her off with uncharacteristic defensiveness. “On second thought, I shall wear my old grey gown again. I have no need to dress especially well today.”
“But—”
“That will be all, Nora. You may return to your duties.”
That evening, Margaret stood in her room, gently stretching her weary neck, shoulder, and arm muscles as she waited for Betty to come and unlace her stays. Behind her, the bedchamber door banged open.
“How dare you?”
