Helen hesitated only a second. “I... suppose Mr. Saxby must have mentioned it with the rest of the town gossip.”
Benton studied her face. “Yes, Margaret was on the cusp of being engaged to my nephew, Marcus Benton. They did quarrel, I admit. But nothing serious. He is a very forgiving young man and still has every intention of marrying her.”
Another stab of jealousy. Nathaniel clenched a fist and endeavored to keep his expression neutral. “You still haven’t explained why you are here. Lewis has gone back to town.”
“I have already been to see Lewis. Of course he denies any knowledge of Margaret’s whereabouts. I suppose I thought she might have come here to see Lewis and stayed on even after he refused her.”
“Why would Margaret hope for a proposal of marriage from my brother if she is as attached as you say to your nephew?” Helen asked.
“Who can understand women? Perhaps she seeks to make him jealous.”
Helen frowned.
Sterling ran a hand through his thick silver hair. “I am here because I am running out of ideas of where to look for her. I am growing desperate.”
“Why ‘desperate’?”
Sterling regarded Helen warily. “Do you not think me capable of concern for my wife’s children? If only we could be assured she was all right. Receive some word of her...” He handed her the portrait once more. “Are you certain you have not seen or heard from her, Miss Upchurch?”
Helen met his apparently frank gaze a moment longer, then looked at the portrait again. “A woman would not see such a lovely face and not recognize her, Mr. Benton. A man either, not with all that glorious blond hair.” She glanced up at Nathaniel. “Would you not agree, Nate?”
Nathaniel stared dumbly at her. “I... wouldn’t know.”
Helen rose and returned the portrait. “Now, will that be all, Mr. Benton? If I were you, I should not worry. I am certain your wife will receive news of her any day now and by her own hand, assuring you of her continuing health and safety.”
Slowly shaking her head, Helen gave Sterling a feline smile. “A young woman like Margaret Macy—who can guess what she might do on a whim?”
Margaret studied herself in the small looking glass in her room. How changed she was. It was little wonder no one had linked the Margaret Elinor Macy of the portrait to the Nora Garret staring back at her now. The hair and darkened brows were strikingly different, of course. And the smudged spectacles did mask her eyes to some degree. The Miss Macy of old would never have worn so dowdy a cap or a stained maid’s apron. But the changes went deeper than that. Her face was thinner now. After nearly a month of constant hard work, simple meals, and rare sweets, she had lost weight. Her cheekbones were more prominent, with new hollows beneath, and her jawline more defined.
She removed her father’s spectacles. She actually saw better with them. She had probably needed spectacles for some time but had been too vain to admit it. Without the lenses, her eyes still seemed different. But how, she could not say for certain. Less noticeable dark circles now that she was sleeping somewhat better? Less world weary?
And even without the spectacles, she was beginning to see herself more clearly than before.
Housemaids were meant to be invisible, and all
cleaning had to be performed either before the family got up or
while they were absent. As one housemaid later wrote, “It was
assumed, I suppose, that the fairies had been at the rooms.”
—Trevor May,The Victorian Domestic Servant
Chapter 16
After breakfast the next morning, Margaret went upstairs to Miss Upchurch’s room with some trepidation. She wondered if Helen would tell her what had been said behind closed doors yesterday. What Sterling had said, what Helen had revealed... or not revealed. Margaret hoped she would tell her, even as she feared what she might learn.
When Margaret entered, Helen was not sitting at her dressing table as usual. Instead she stood beside her desk, pointing down to a sheet of paper lying atopit.
“Sit.”
Margaret hesitated at Helen’s stern syllable. “What...?”
“I suppose you haven’t paper and ink of your own,” Helen said. “So sit and write your letter here.”
“Letter?”
Helen’s eyes flashed. “To your mother. You do have a mother, I trust? One who might be worrying and wondering where you’ve gone?”
