She had attended several in her youth, as the daughter of the family. Her father had insisted upon allowing their small clutch of servants an evening of frivolity and pleasure on Twelfth Night. Lime Tree Lodge was too small to have a proper servants’ hall, and the basement kitchen and workrooms were too cramped for dancing. So Stephen Macy had given them use of the family dining room, pushing the table to the side to be laden with punch and victuals, and the rest of the furniture cleared away for the night. He’d hired several waiters to do the serving and cleaning up and brought in a fiddler to play the dances. When she was old enough to stay up late, she had joined in with the dancing, finding it amusing to put her small silken hands in the gardener’s rough paws and be led around the room in a jig. She had felt a princess among peasants. Now she wondered if they had really looked upon her with the fond benevolence she had imagined, or if they thought her condescending and spoiled. She would not blame them.
When Margaret went to Miss Upchurch’s room to dress her hair the next morning, Helen said, “I must ask you to hurry today, Nora. I’m meeting with Mr. Hudson before prayers to finalize arrangements for the ball.”
Margaret nodded. Gathering the brush and pins, she said, “Would you ever consider inviting the staff of another house to join us?”
Helen looked at her in the mirror. “I had not thought of it. Why?”
Margaret began brushing Helen’s hair. “I met a housemaid from Hayfield when I went to Weavering Street, and she mentioned the house has been in mourning and the servants haven’t had any privileges or entertainments for over a year.”
Helen pursued her lip, considering. “I like the idea. I shall see what Mr. Hudson thinks.”
Margaret bit back a smile. “You have been spending a great deal of time with Mr. Hudson of late.”
“Do you think so? It is only that there are so many details to attend to.”
Is that all?Margaret wondered. “Perhaps a little rouge today, Miss Helen?”
“I’m not sure there’s time.”
Margaret traded hair brush for cosmetic brush. “Won’t take a moment.”
“Oh... very well. Why not.”
Margaret deftly brushed subtle color to Helen’s cheeks and dabbed just a smidge of lip rouge to her mouth. The old rouge pot was nearly empty, she noticed. She would soon need to make more. She switched to fine talcum powder and dusted Helen’s nose, chin, and cheeks.
Helen said wryly, “You are skilled in altering a lady’s appearance, I see. You handle that brush like an artist.”
Margaret shrugged, eyes focused on Helen’s cheek. “It is very like painting, actually.”
“Do you enjoy painting?”
“I did, yes. Though I haven’t done so in ages.”
Margaret gathered Helen’s hair and began to pin it up. “Miss Upchurch, I wonder. Do you remember that trunk of old gowns and things I found when I cleaned the schoolroom?”
“Yes?”
“If you haven’t use for them, would you mind allowing the maids to wear them? For the servants’ ball, I mean. Perhaps I could make over a few of them for the girls who haven’t a stitch beyond their everyday frock to wear.”
“That would be very kind of you, Nora. I am surprised you want to.”
“I would enjoy it very much.”
“Very well. Only don’t fail in your other work. We don’t want Mrs. Budgeon to find reason to dismiss you.” Helen’s eyes twinkled, and Margaret grinned in return.
Margaret found it funny and perplexing that Helen Upchurch still carried on the pretense, addressing her as the maid Nora, while at other times it seemed clear she knew who she really was. Was it merely a game to her or was it to keep her from becoming confused—from calling her Margaret or Miss Macy at an inopportune moment? Or was she enjoying treating her as a subservient? Margaret sensed no malice in the woman’s demeanor, but there was still that reserve, that caution in her aspect, that made Margaret realize she not yet passed whatever test Nathaniel Upchurch’s sister was giving her.
With Mrs. Budgeon’s approval, Margaret asked several of the maids to join her in Miss Nash’s room late one afternoon when their duties were done. She had one gown hanging on the dress form, two laid out on the bed, and two others spread on the worktable. She had in mind which gown would suit each woman but wanted to give them a choice in the matter.
Hester and kitchen maids Jenny and Hannah bustled in first, all giggles and eagerness, while Betty and Fiona held back, lingering in the threshold.
Hester made a beeline for one of the gowns on the bed—a sheer overgown with a silk chemise beneath, both embroidered in a lily-of-the-valley motif.
“It’s gorgeous!” she enthused, holding the gown up in front of herself. It was immediately evident that the slender-cut chemise would not accommodate Hester’s generous proportions. Her cheerful face fell.
Margaret hurried to one of the gowns on the worktable—a full-skirted cream-colored gown to which Margaret had added side and back panels of blue, trimmed with ribbon embroidery in cream to match the original fabric. “Hester, I thought this one, with its blues and creams, would look so well with your perfect complexion.”
“Do you think so?” Hester handed the first gown to slim Hannah and took the second from Margaret, holding it to her shoulders and looking down at the ribbon trim at neckline and bodice.
