This hand is surely far too fine,
This foot so dainty and small.
The manner of speaking which I have,
My waist, my bustle,
These would never be found
On a lady’s maid!
—André Rieu, “Mein Herr Marquis”
Chapter 15
Horse hooves. The jingle of harnesses. High in the attic, Margaret heard them only distantly.
On that drizzly mid-September afternoon, Margaret had been assigned to clean out the old schoolroom, now used for storage. Beneath the window, pails caught drips from the leaking ceiling. Along the far wall, several trunks lay in a neat row like coffins. In one of these she had found space to stack the primers, slates, and maps which had been left in a dusty, moldering pile in the chimney corner. In another trunk, she found layer upon layer of old ball gowns a decade out of fashion. From Miss Helen’s coming-out days, she guessed.
Mrs. Budgeon had also instructed her to clean out the fireplace and flue after years of disuse. Why now? Margaret had wondered but managed to bite her tongue. Apparently the housekeeper wanted to make sure the new maid didn’t begin to think too highly of herself.
Margaret was attempting to clean the flue with, yes, the flue brush. She was foolishly proud of herself for identifying the correct tool. Vaguely she heard the sounds of hurrying feet and the ringing of bells but, concentrating on her task, paid them little heed.
The angle for cleaning the flue was awkward. Kneeling before the grate, Margaret leaned in, her head inside the fireplace. For a fleeting second, she thought it fortunate she wore a dark wig, for if she was not careful her hair would be black soon enough. With that thought, she pulled the white cap from her wig and tossed it out of range, not wanting to spoil it. Margaret scraped the inside of the flue with her brush, dislodging a wad of sooty buildup and a cloud of dust. She coughed and squeezed her eyes shut, wondering what coal dust did to one’s lungs and vision. She scraped again.
The door behind her burst open and Margaret started, hitting her head on the lintel.
She lowered her head and saw Betty run in, gesturing frantically. “Here you are!” She huffed. “Did you not hear the bells?”
Margaret checked her wig with a black-streaked hand as she backed from the fireplace. “Not really. Not with my head up the chimney. Why?”
“It’s a call to assembly. In the main hall.” Betty surveyed Margaret’s face, wincing. “You’ve got soot on your spectacles. Your face too. But there’s no time. Everyone else is down there already.” She bent and extracted a clean cloth from the housemaid’s box nearby and handed it to Margaret. “Here.”
Taking it, Margaret rose from stinging knees and wiped her hands. “Assembly for what?” she asked. “We’ve already had prayers.”
“Someone’s come, and we’re to assemble immediately. That’s all I know. But that’s ten minutes ago now.”
She poked a hand into Margaret’s back and turned her toward the door. “Let’s go!”
Dropping the cloth, Margaret bent quickly and retrieved her cap, settling it back on her wig. “All right?” She angled her face toward Betty as they hurried to the stairway.
Betty grimaced. “Here, take my handkerchief and wipe your spectacles at least.”
“But that’s your best handkerchief.”
“Go on, we haven’t time to argue.”
Margaret removed her glasses, polishing the lenses as she clambered down the attic stairs, almost tripping and missing a step.
“Better?” she asked, slipping the spectacles on once more.
Betty glanced at her and sighed. “It’ll have to do. Stay in the back.”
They reached the next floor. When Margaret would have continued down the back stairs to the ground floor, Betty pulled her by the wrist past the family bedchambers toward the main stairway the servants were not to use—except when sweeping and polishing. Margaret wondered why but did not argue.
Then she saw. The staff had gathered in the hall below—outdoor servants and estate workers as well. Gamekeeper, carpenter, grooms, stable boys, gardeners, and others she did not know stood on one side of the hall floor. Behind them stood the laundry maids, the hen woman, the spider brusher, and the dairy maid. When the floor had become too crowded, other servants had lined up in rows behind them on the wide steps, filling the stairs past the first landing. Monsieur Fournier, Hester, the kitchen maids, and scullery maid. Behind them Fiona, the footmen, and hall boy. The estate workers were not obligated to attend morning prayers at Fairbourne Hall, so Margaret had never seen the entire staff assembled before.
Margaret followed Betty down the steps, hoping to join the crowd as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. She found herself ducking her head, as though that would make her invisible or draw less attention to her soiled self.
