“Oh. Well then, may I present Mr. Thomas Craig.”
“How do you do?” Joan dipped her head.
“A great deal better now you’re here. Say you’ll save a dance for me, Miss Joan, and I shall do better yet.”
Joan smiled. “Very well.”
How pretty Joan looked when she smiled. How had Margaret not noticed that before?
The fiddler arrived late—and somewhat tipsy, Margaret surmised as he began warming up his bow. On cue, Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, Helen on his arm. The crowd instantly quieted in awkward solemnity. Margaret had been so busy helping the other maids prepare for the ball, that she had neglected Miss Upchurch. A pity too. For her hair lay flat and severely pulled back. Her face bare. Her dress... What a horrid old thing. Someone had taken a ball dress at least a decade old and added a new ruffled neckline and flounces in a contrasting color and ill-suited material. Still, when Helen looked around the candlelit room and the finely turned out crowd, she smiled broadly, and with that smile she was a real beauty.
“How well you all look!” She beamed.
“Indeed,” Mr. Upchurch agreed. “Now don’t stop enjoying yourselves on our account.” He nodded to the fiddler, who then struck up the notes of the first dance.
As expected, Nathaniel stepped before Mrs. Budgeon, bowed, and asked her for the first dance. Likewise, Mr. Hudson, as the top-ranking male servant, bowed before his mistress. Margaret wondered if sour Mr. Arnold minded the newcomer usurping this honor, but one glance told her Mr. Arnold was busy enjoying yet another cup of punch and liberal samplings of the tempting buffet.
The fiddler played a lively Scottish reel and a few other couples filled in. Margaret watched Nathaniel, surprised to see that he was a better dancer than she remembered, impressed to witness the warmth and respect with which he exchanged pleasantries with his housekeeper. She also watched Miss Upchurch as she danced with Mr. Hudson. They bounded through the steps in lively abandon. Mr. Hudson’s form was a bit ungainly, but he had never seemed so young and handsome as he did while dancing with Miss Upchurch. Margaret wondered if she glimpsed admiration in Miss Helen’s eyes for the house steward as well. She wished again she had taken time with Helen’s hair.
Craig and Joan danced near them in a jaunty facsimile of the steps, their smiles and shy glances more evident than skill.
After the reel “Speed the Plow” was called, Mr. Upchurch escorted Mrs. Budgeon to the edge of the room, bowed, then asked whom he should lead out next. Mrs. Budgeon looked around to locate the upper housemaid, Margaret guessed, but Betty stood behind Mr. Arnold frantically gesturing to be spared.
“Ah. Betty is occupied at present,” Mrs. Budgeon said. “Perhaps the newest member of our staff might receive the honor?” She gestured toward Margaret.
Why had she so blatantly been looking at Mrs. Budgeon, Margaret lamented. The woman must think she was begging a partner!
Nathaniel Upchurch looked her way. Did he hesitate? There was no smile on his face as he nodded to Mrs. Budgeon and walked toward her. Should she demur as well?
He stopped before her and she trained her gaze on his waistcoat, too nervous to look up at him.
“Might I have this dance, Nora?”
“Oh. I thought... I am hardly an upper servant.”
“Apparently the first housemaid is avoiding me like the plague. I trust you will not reject me as well.”
Reject me... Was it a veiled reference to her cruel rejection of his offer of marriage? She was imagining things. If he’d recognized her he would have tossed her out by now, demanded an explanation, or alerted Sterling Benton. But he had done none of these, as far as she knew.
She swallowed. “No, sir.”
He led her through the steps of the dance, formed those vague half smiles of acknowledgment when they faced or passed one another, but showed little of the warmth he had displayed with Mrs. Budgeon. He had known the housekeeper for years, she reminded herself. And he knew “Nora” not at all, even if she had done him and his steward a good turn that night in London.
She thought of other long-ago nights, when they had danced together at this ball or that. Then he had looked at her with admiration, nearly adoration, in his serious, bespectacled eyes. His fingers had lingered on her hand, her waist, whenever the steps and positions of the dance brought them together. Now his eyes were distant, his closed-mouth smile false, his hand cool and quick to depart. The ballrooms had been larger then, the guests wealthier, the music finer, but if he would only smile at her—truly smile—she would rate this night with this company the more enjoyable occasion.
When the silence between them became strained, he asked politely, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is the music to your liking?”
“Yes. Very nice.” What a ninny she was. Why could she not think of one appropriate thing to say?
He asked, “Are the others enjoying themselves, do you think?”
“Yes, sir. Very much.”
“Is this your first servants’ ball?”
