The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (3 page)

A few hours later, her brother was packed and ready to leave as well. Gilbert had plans to spend the final few weeks of his term break at a friend's country estate, riding and shooting, until both boys had to return to Eton in early September. Margaret was happy for him, knowing he missed country life as much as she did, but sad for herself. How lonely she would be.

Blinking back tears, she embraced him and kissed his cheek.

“What's all this then, ey?” Gilbert protested her tight hold and grimaced at her tears. “Come on, Mags. I'm not going away forever. I shall see you at the end of next term.”

She forced a smile. “Of course you will. I am only being silly.”

He winked at her. “Well, nothing new there.”

Although they did not speak of it, Margaret knew her young brother was aware of the tension in the house. She did not want him to worry, so she socked him on the shoulder on his way out the door, as any good sister would.

———

Afterward, Margaret went back upstairs to dress for dinner. She dreaded the thought of dining with only Sterling and Marcus. How uncomfortable that would be. She perused her wardrobe, apathetic about what to wear. Where was Joan? She pulled the bell cord to summon the maid to help her dress. Several moments passed, but no one came. Finally she heard the telltale
clitter-clat
of Joan's worn-to-the-nail half boots in the passage outside. But the footsteps hurried right past Margaret's room.

She pushed open her door. “Joan?”

Joan, rushing toward the stairs, turned back at her call.

“Did you not hear the bell?”

Joan looked pale. “Can't stop now, miss. Theo says Mr. Murdoch wants to see me without delay.”

It was clear from her stricken expression that Joan feared she was in trouble. Margaret wondered idly what the girl had done but dismissed the thought. She had enough problems of her own. “But it is time to dress for dinner.”

At the opposite end of the passage a door opened, and Marcus Benton stepped from his room, already dressed in evening attire. Joan stiffened and hurried away. Marcus flicked a frown at the maid, before turning a speculative gaze to Margaret. It was the first time she had seen him all day.

He sauntered toward her. “Don't think I didn't know what you were about last night.”

Not wanting to be alone with him, or risk his following her into her room, Margaret turned and walked toward the stairway, pretending she had not heard him. She would not bother to change for dinner. What did it matter?

He trotted down the stairs beside her. “Throwing yourself at Lewis Upchurch like that—tsk, tsk.”

Margaret bristled. “I did no such thing.”

At the landing, he stepped in front of her and blocked her way, cornering her against the wall. “I cannot say I am sorry he rebuffed you, my sweet. For he could never feel for you the way I do.” He ran a finger down her arm, and she jerked away.

“Did you really think that if he had not offered marriage before, he would do so last night, for all your batting of lashes and flaunting of décolletage?”

Anger and mortification singed her ears, but she could not refute the charge.

“My dear Margaret. I am not the blind fool Upchurch is.
I
am not immune to your charms. Why do you insist on putting me off? I have been patient these many months, but I grow weary of waiting.”

The warm, sweet words soothed her injured pride. His finger tickled her arm once more, sending shivers not altogether unpleasant down her spine. Like his uncle, Marcus embodied a masculine persistence and confidence she had always found appealing. Was her own confidence so lacking? Would she always be malleable in such hands—lose sight of her scruples and self-worth?

“Oh, Margaret . . .” He kissed the back of her hand, and for a moment she allowed him to hold it. Would it really be so bad to marry Marcus Benton? He was a good-looking young man, though more than a year her junior. He had an elegant bearing even for his slight height and was admired by many girls. And Marcus wanted
her
, wanted to wed
her
. How happy Sterling would be. Even her mother would approve—not because she liked Marcus, but because she was desperate to please Sterling, who seemed determined not to be pleased with her on any account. Margaret could buy peace for the household. Blessed peace.

But at what price?

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook herself mentally awake. What was she thinking? Any interest Marcus had in her was purely mercenary, manufactured for his uncle's sake. Oh, that her mother had never told Sterling of her pending inheritance!

Marcus must have mistaken her stillness for acquiescence, for he suddenly grasped her shoulders and pressed his mouth to hers.

She jerked away. “I have never given you leave to use my Christian name, Mr. Benton,” she said coldly. “Much less to kiss me. Please remember that in future.”

She hurried down the remaining stairs, but not before she heard him swear under his breath.

After enduring a strained dinner with only the three of them at the table, Margaret retired to her room early, wanting to avoid the men and weary after tossing and turning the night before. She pulled the bedside bell cord to summon Joan to help her undress and bring her some warm milk. Five minutes later, she pulled again. Still, no one came.

Grumbling to herself in irritation, Margaret stalked to her door. If no one would come to her, then she would go down herself and stretch her restless limbs in the process. She had never ventured belowstairs here in Sterling Benton's house. But as a girl, she had spent many an hour in the warm kitchen and stillroom of Lime Tree Lodge, enjoying a snug afternoon baking biscuits with Mrs. Haines or listening to the housekeeper and nurse swap stories of their lives before entering service.

Margaret descended two flights of stairs. Then, passing silently along the ground floor on her way to the basement steps, she heard muffled voices coming from the study and paused outside its door, which was slightly ajar. She sidled closer and pressed her ear to the crack.

“I have tried.” Marcus's voice.

“Then try harder.” Sterling.

“What would you have me do? I have been as charming and attentive as I know how. She does not like me.”

“She once did. When you first came.”

“Well, apparently she has revised her opinion. She is cold to me now.”

“Then warm her. Have I not placed you here under my very roof? Given you every opportunity?”

Marcus grumbled something Margaret did not hear.

“And last night I saw her talking with Lewis Upchurch. A man who paid her every attention earlier this season. I fear she will stir his interest again, and we shall lose her.”

“Lose her money, you mean.”

“Need I remind you that whoever marries the chit will control her inheritance?”

“But if she does not marry, she will control it herself.”

“And no doubt spend it on gewgaws and falderals and I know not what.” A glass clinked against the table. Sterling's voice had risen, but he moderated it once more. “I shall instruct Murdoch not to allow Upchurch to call—nor any other gentlemen, for that matter.”

“And I tell you, Uncle, Lewis Upchurch is no longer interested in Margaret.”

“Let us hope you are right. Even so, if you have botched things as badly as you say, we can't have her eloping with some opportunistic buck while we're not paying heed.”

Marcus said, “A good thing the inheritance is a well-kept secret. If everyone knew, men would be beating down our doors.” Sarcasm curled his voice. “If only
you
had known, Uncle.”

“You forget yourself, Marcus.” Sterling's cool voice held an undercurrent of warning. “Now,” he gritted out, “I don't care how you do it, just get her to marry you.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Did I not pay for your education, Marcus? Can you really be such a simpleton?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come now. Charm and flattery never fail, at least where Macy women are concerned. Woo her, flatter her, make love to her. And if all else fails . . . compromise.”

“You are not suggesting . . . ?”

“Why not. You have done the like before.”

Marcus hissed, “But she is a
lady
.”

“And will be restored to respectability as soon as she weds you.”

Margaret pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling a cry of outrage and swallowing the acid climbing her throat.

Milk forgotten, she stole back upstairs.
The vile lechers!

Reaching her room, Margaret pushed a chair against the door, doubting it would slow a man for long. She paced back and forth across her bedchamber. She was no match for Marcus physically. If he forced himself into her room, she would be a caged bird, a cornered hare.

One of her father's sermons came to mind, the one about how everyone might take advice from young Joseph. When Potiphar's lascivious wife tried to seduce him, he did not bar himself in his room.

He fled.

She needed to do the same. She would not stay in Sterling Benton's home another night.

But where could she go? She had only the few coins she had found on his dressing table. Those wouldn't take her far. If only her mother were home. For though she had clearly taken Sterling's side to this point, she would never stand for her daughter's ruination!

Margaret heard something and stood still, straining her ears. Had Marcus come to her door already?

Muffled sobbing. What in the world? She crossed to her dressing room and opened the door. Joan slumped against the wall, her pale face blotchy beneath auburn fringe and white cap, her light eyes streaming tears.

“What is it?” Margaret asked, but dread prickled through her, as if she already knew the answer. Had Marcus . . . ?

“It's Mr. Benton. He accused me of taking money from his dressing room. But I never did, miss. I never!”

Margaret's mouth went dry. Her stomach knotted. “I am sorry, Joan. I don't know what to say.”

Joan's round eyes beseeched hers. “You believe me, don't you?”

Margaret pressed her lips together. “Yes.”

Something in Joan's expression shifted. Her brows lowered and she stared at Margaret with disconcerting directness.

Margaret looked away first.

Joan said, “He told me to leave straightaway, but I snuck up here to see you. I hoped you might believe me and write me a character. I won't get another post without one.”

Margaret's mind spun. She had no time to be writing letters. Not now. “I know nothing of character references, Joan. Though I would be happy to vouch for you . . . sometime.”

Joan frowned. “It was you what took the money, wasn't it?”

Margaret swallowed back the guilt churning her innards like spoilt cod. How had Joan guessed? She was usually a better actress than that. “It was only a few coins. I never intended for you to take the blame.”

The tears in Joan's eyes sparked into anger. “And who else would be blamed when the money turned up missing? It's always the maid.”

“I thought . . . I hoped he would not notice.”

“A man like him?”

“It was foolish. I see that now.”

“But you won't go and tell him it wasn't me who took it, will you?”

Margaret hesitated, then shook her head. “I am afraid not. Not yet. I cannot let him know I have any money.”

Joan's face mottled red and white. “Of all the bacon-brained lies . . .”

Margaret reeled. “How dare you? How ungrateful—”

“Me ungrateful?” The cords in Joan's throat stuck out. “What have you ever done for me? It's me what's done for you all these months, up working before you rise and after you're in bed. And for what? To get the sack for taking money you stole!”

The venom in her maid's voice shocked her. She had never known Joan felt this way about her.

An idea struck Margaret and she changed tack. “Where will you go?”

Joan sniffed. “To my sister's. Not that you care.”

“I do care. I . . . I want to come with you.”

Joan's brow puckered. “With
me
? Have you any idea where I'm going?”

“Your sister's, I believe you said.”

“My sister, who lives in a run-down tenement in Billingsgate? You've never ventured into such a neighborhood, I'd wager. And with good reason.”

“Let me go with you. I need to leave. Now. But I cannot go anywhere alone at night. It is not safe.”

“It's not safe where I'm going either.”

“We shall be safer together,” Margaret insisted. “Look, I only took that money because I needed it to escape.”

“Escape? Why should you need to escape?” Joan's lip curled. “Mr. Benton won't buy the new silk stockings you set your heart on?”

Goodness.
Now that Joan had no post to protect, she allowed her tongue free rein. Margaret bit back an angry retort of her own and said earnestly, “No, I need to escape because I fear for my virtue.”