“Merci,madame.”
Mrs. Budgeon hesitated. “I am afraid it is my fault Miss Upchurch danced the second with Mr. Arnold. An oversight, I assure you.”
“No matter, madame.”
“You don’t care to dance, I suppose?”
He hesitated. “With you?”
Her mouth parted. She reddened. “Never mind. I thought... I only meant...”
The fiddler launched into the next tune, and the chef leaned nearer to be heard. “With you, Mrs. Budgeon, I would happily dance.”
He offered his arm, and after a surprised pause, she gave a tentative smile.
Margaret smiled too. In fact, she could not stop smiling as she watched the tall, thin chef dance like a smitten, gangly youth with proper, staid Mrs. Budgeon.
But midway through the set, the fiddler, swaying and doing a little drunken jig as he played, backed into a chair, knocked his mug off the pianoforte, and crashed to the floor, out cold. Margaret was more disappointed for the chef than for anyone else that the dance should be cut short.
Mr. Arnold and Thomas carried the fiddler down the passage to the kitchen, while Betty rushed to clean up the spilled ale. After a moment’s hesitation—it still wasn’t second nature to Margaret to respond to such domestic crises—she hurried to Betty’s aid and righted the chair.
“I am afraid that concludes our ball,” Mrs. Budgeon apologized.
“Not so,” Monsieur said. “Perhaps you might play for us, Mrs. Budgeon.”
Again her mouth parted. She sputtered, “Me? No. I cannot play. Not really.”
“Of course you can. You are very accomplished. I hear you from ze kitchen now and again.”
Her face puckered, surprised and disconcerted. “But... I always check to make certain no one is about before I begin. And I shut the door as well.”
“When you play, I leave my room and come into ze kitchen to hear you better.”
She blushed like a schoolgirl. “Oh! I had no idea. I shall never play again.”
He placed a hand on his chest. “Please don’t say so. What a loss of pleasure for us both.”
Jenny, tipsy and brazen, said, “Come on, Mrs. Budgeon. Favor us with a song or two. Something lively we can dance to.”
The housekeeper wrung her hands. “But I never play for an audience. I am woefully out of practice and play very ill.”
“Not at all,” Monsieur insisted.
“None of us can play a note,” Jenny said. “So if you blunder, we wouldn’t know any better, would we?”
Mr. Hudson added gently, “You won’t find a more appreciative audience.”
“I would be too self-conscious with all of you listening.”
“Aww. We promise not to listen too close,” Craig said, his arm around Joan. “We’ll be too busy dancin’. ”
“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Budgeon relented, flustered by all the attention. “If you promise to dance and not listen for my mistakes.”
Everyone clapped and cheered and found partners for the next dance.
Monsieur Fournier stayed near the pianoforte and smiled down at its fair musician. Margaret had no partner this time but watched the dancers with pleasure.
When the song ended, Joan returned to her side, breathless and grinning. “And how are you getting on with that housemaid who barely tolerates you?”
