Nathaniel seethed. “Father put me in charge when you insisted on remaining in London while Fairbourne languished. Had you stayed in Barbados as he wished, I—”
Lewis leaned back and crossed his long legs. “Too dashed hot there. Too much work.” He raised a brow. “Not enough beautiful women.”
“Lewie...” Helen scolded, but affection tinged her tone.
Nathaniel inhaled deeply and moderated his voice. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure?”
Lewis shrugged. “No reason. Does a man need a reason to come to his own home?”
“Usually. Do you mean to stay, then?”
“No, not yet. I’ve just come down for a day or two.”
“What are your plans?”
“No plans.” He grinned at Helen. “Just wanted to see my favorite girl.”
Even though Lewis directed the words at Helen, Nathaniel had the distinct impression she was not the “girl” he meant.
Life in service could be very regimented and dictatorial,
with little time off and the knowledge that romantic
relations between servants were forbidden in many houses.
—Luxury and Style, “The History of Country House Staff”
Chapter 20
In the morning, Margaret trudged downstairs beside Betty. They were both exhausted from being up so late the night before.
“Fiona looked so lovely in her gown last night,” Margaret said. “I still can’t imagine how she came by it. And did you see her dancing? So graceful and elegant. Almost as if she were a lady.”
Betty sighed wearily, eyes distant. “She might have been once.”
Margaret turned to stare at her.
“Thought she was giving up all this”—Betty lifted her housemaid’s box—“but it weren’t to be.”
Stunned, Margaret grasped Betty’s wrist to halt her progress. “What are you talking about?”
Betty winced, chagrined. “I’m tired and not thinking straight. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you have to tell me now.”
Betty shook her head. “No I don’t. And don’t you be askin’ Fiona either, my girl. That would be foolhardy indeed. Do you hear?”
Margaret nodded. Satisfied, Betty continued down the stairs, but Margaret stood there, mind whirling.
After breakfast and prayers, Margaret set about cleaning Lewis Upchurch’s bedchamber, which had been fastidiously neat until his return the night before, but which had already been marred by his presence—small clothes on the floor, bedclothes in a tangle as though he’d spent the night wrestling angels or someone more earthly, water sloshed onto the washstand, a jumble of toiletry items in disarray. And she didn’t even want to think about what might await her in the chamber pot. The reality of men was certainly different than the pristine image they portrayed in a ballroom.
Where was Connor? She had not seen him since morning prayers. Even with a valet in residence, she would be expected to deliver water and empty slops first thing in the morning, and to return later to clean the room and make the bed. But the valet was responsible for his master’s clothing. Was Connor down in the stillroom, becoming “reacquainted” with Hester? Margaret lofted the bedclothes high, enjoying the way they rose and billowed before settling flat. The door behind her flew open with a bang. She stifled a shriek and spun around, pillow to her chest. A shield.
Lewis Upchurch hesitated fractionally upon seeing her, and then a lazy grin spread over his face. “Well, well. Look who’s here. How kind of you to pay a call after our dance last night.”
He was wearing riding clothes—cutaway coat, leather breeches, Hessian boots. He looked devilishly handsome, and his light brown eyes glinted with confidence and mischief. She had always been drawn to confident men.
She dipped an awkward curtsy, pillow still in arms. “Good day, sir.”
