At half past six, the first carriage rattled up the drive from Hayfield, soon followed by a wagon loaded with men young and old in Sunday best. At seven, the doors to the servants’ hall were thrown wide. The long room gleamed with candles dressed in ivy and strung with garlands of colored paper. Wooden boards had been laid over the stone floor for dancing. The buffet table boasted a centerpiece of colorful mums, fresh fruit, and fronds—which Margaret had helped to arrange. Surrounding it were serving dishes resplendent with roasted turkey, salads of every description, and the largest baked salmon she had ever seen swimming in a sea of shrimp sauce, mouth ajar, eyes glassy, curved at head and tail to fit on the platter. There were also delicious-looking desserts—miniature gooseberry tarts, blancmange, and syllabub in tall glasses. Knowing the attendees were likely to drink a little wine punch or ale, Miss Helen and Mr. Hudson had thought it wise to serve food throughout, instead of waiting for a late supper.
Margaret watched nervously as the guests arrived, waiting to see Joan. She hoped the harsh housekeeper had allowed her to attend.
Then, there she was, in the same blue dress Margaret remembered but without an apron. Instead of a cap, a string of beads ornamented her carefully arranged hair. Joan did not look her way. Was she ignoring her? Were they supposed to pretend they did not know one another, to avoid questions of how they had met? But Margaret longed to speak to her again, even as she fearedit.
She waited while Joan greeted Mr. Hudson and Mrs. Budgeon, in the role of host and hostess for the evening. Impulsively, she poured two cups of punch and carried them to Joan, hoping her peace offering would not be rejected.
“Hello, Joan,” she said tentatively, braving a smile.
Joan’s eyes widened. “Miss—!”
“Nora. It’s just Nora.” She made no effort to disguise her voice with her former maid. “I’ve brought you some punch.”
Joan eyed it almost warily, Margaret realized with chagrin. Had she given her so much reason to distrust her?
“Imagine that. You servin’ me,” Joan quipped, making no move to take the glass.
“I have some experience at it now. Though nothing to you, of course. I never realized how hard you worked until I came here.”
Joan cocked her head to one side, as if gauging her sincerity. “Is thatso?”
“It is.”
“Then I shall have that punch and thank you.” She accepted the glass at last and lifted it in a toast.
Margaret returned the gesture, and they both sipped.
Margaret said, “I was hoping you would be here.”
“Were you? I figured you gave up and went home since I saw you last.”
“I was tempted more than once, I can tell you. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.”
Joan shook her head in wonder. “I still can’t believe it. You... a housemaid.”
Margaret nodded. “Though not a very good one.”
Joan’s eyes danced. “What I wouldn’t have given to be a mouse in the corner the first time you had to empty the slops.”
Margaret chuckled. “Don’t remind me.” She bit her lip, smile fading. “I’ve wanted to tell you how sorry I am for... well, everything. And to thank you for helping me.”
Again Joan shook her head. “Sorry and thank you... I never thought to hear those two words from you.”
Margaret grimaced. “I’m sorry for that too.”
Tears blurred her eyes. And she was surprised when answering tears brightened Joan’s eyes as well.
Her former maid gripped her fingers. “Now, that’s enough of that. This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”
Margaret returned her watery smile.
A voice at her elbow interrupted them.
“And who is this pretty lady you’re talking to, Nora?” the second footman, Craig, asked, all eagerness. “Do introduce me.”
Margaret grinned first at Joan, then Craig. “Miss Joan Hurdle, may I present Craig... I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”
“Craig is my last name! But we already had a Thomas, didn’t we?”
