“As a mai—matter of fact, yes.”
“And how are you getting on in your position here?”
“Better, I think. Thank you for asking.” She licked her lips and forged a question of her own. “And how fares your father, sir, if I may ask?”
“He fares well, according to his last letter. Thankyoufor asking.”
Margaret was relieved when the dance ended and Mr. Upchurch escorted her to the perimeter of the room and bowed his farewell.
Helen Upchurch, she noticed, was talking to Mr. Arnold, with whom she had danced the second dance. How puffed up the under butler appeared, swaggering across the room with the lady of the house on his arm.
After the customary two dances, master and mistress took their leave of the party, thanking Mrs. Budgeon and Mr. Hudson, shaking hands, and bestowing a general farewell wave to the assembly on their way out.
Part of Margaret was disappointed they were leaving, but the others were apparently relieved, for the tension in the room faded when the two departed and a relaxed buzz of conversation and laughter rose.
One person, however, did not look happy. Monsieur Fournier. Margaret saw him leaning against the wall, empty glass dangling in his hand, watching Mrs. Budgeon’s every move.
Margaret strolled nonchalantly to the housekeeper’s side.
“Evening, Nora.”
“Mrs. Budgeon.” They watched the fiddler down another glass and wobble a bit as he asked what they wished him to play next.
Someone yelled, “ ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’!”
Margaret said in a low aside, “Mrs. Budgeon, I was wondering. Is it not true that in many houses, the chef is actually higher ranking than the under butler?”
She considered this. “Yes, I believe so.”
“But Miss Upchurch danced with Mr. Arnold, and not Monsieur Fournier. I wonder if that is why he looks so... disappointed.”
A small line formed between Mrs. Budgeon’s brows. “But Miss Upchurch has already taken her leave.”
“I know. But perhaps you might at least acknowledge the slight, or offer to dance with him yourself?”
“Me? I hardly think I’m suitable replacement. I don’t imagine Monsieur even likes to dance.”
“I don’t know. I hate to see him looking so sad. He worked so hard for tonight....”
Mrs. Budgeon looked over at the chef and found him looking at her. He quickly looked away and feigned a sip from his empty glass. How strange it was to see him in a brown tweed suit, instead of his customary white coat and hat.
The housekeeper drew herself up. “Thank you, Nora. I will at least compliment Monsieur on the success of his buffet. We don’t want him to feel unappreciated.”
“Good idea.”
As Mrs. Budgeon crossed the room toward him, Monsieur Fournier straightened, pushing away from the wall. His expression was uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure if reprimand or pleasure was coming his way.
It was really too bad of her, but she couldn’t help herself. Margaret had to hear. She walked along the buffet table, plucking a grape here and a fig there as she made her way to the table’s end, listening to their conversation.
“Monsieur Fournier. Good evening.”
“Madame.”
“I hope you are enjoying yourself?”
He shrugged.
“I must compliment you on the buffet. You have outdone yourself.”
