The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (37 page)

Margaret carried an armload of yellow chrysanthemums and purple verbena into the stillroom. It was late in the season, and these were the only flowers she could find to brighten the sickroom.

She drew up short at seeing Connor standing again at the worktable—Hester's domain. “Oh. Hello, Connor. Where's Hester?”

“She'll be in the servants' hall about now, I expect.”

He was in shirtsleeves, wearing a black bib-apron to protect his clothing.

Margaret nodded, then hesitated, wondering what he was doing. A mortar and pestle stood on the worktable before him, a jar of something beside it, a bit of powder spread about. “Making something for Mr. Upchurch, are you?”

He looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged easily. “Some elixir or restorative, I imagine.”

He glanced at her, then back to the worktable. “I am not an apothecary, Nora.”

She smiled at him. “Hester says you prepare your own shaving soap and hair tonic. Don't be so modest.”

He shook his head. “I am only grinding a bit of tooth powder.”

“Then I shall leave you to it.” Margaret turned to the sideboard and set about trimming and arranging the flowers in a green glass vase.

The silence between them as they worked felt uncomfortable. Sensing Connor was not completely at ease sharing the close quarters with a maid other than Hester, Margaret didn't tarry over her task. As soon as she had cleaned up after herself, she lost no time in carrying the arrangement to the library upstairs.

———

That night, Connor did not appear for supper. After grumbling about his absence, Mr. Arnold determined they would eat without him, with Mr. Hudson's approval, of course.

“As you like,” the steward said, in his mild-mannered way.

Margaret wondered why Connor was missing the meal—it was unlikely Monsieur Fournier would save him a plate, though she guessed Hester might very well do so in secret. Margaret hoped nothing had happened—that Lewis had not taken a turn for the worse. She decided to check on him as soon as she had finished eating.

After the upper servants excused themselves to take their dessert and port in Mrs. Budgeon's parlor, leaving the rest of the servants to partake of a simple bread pudding in the servants' hall, Margaret excused herself. This brought a raised-brow glance from Fiona, who knew how very fond of sweets Nora was.

“Shall I eat yars, then?”

“Please do.”

Margaret hurried up the passage, pausing to glance into the stillroom. Finding it empty, she continued on her way upstairs and across the hall to the sickroom.

She quietly inched open the door, slowly revealing the library—fire crackling in the hearth, oil lamp burning low on the side table beside the flowers she'd brought, Lewis's prone figure on the bed, and Connor standing over him. It was as she thought, he was missing his supper to check on his master.

The door creaked.

Connor whirled, dropping something from his hand. “Dash it, Nora, you startled me.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I didn't mean to. I only wanted to check on you.”

“Check on me?”

“When you didn't come down for supper, I grew worried. I thought perhaps Mr. Upchurch had taken a turn for the worse.”

The valet lifted his chin in understanding, then turned to regard Lewis. “He does seem a bit worse to me. I was worried myself. That's why I came to sit with him.”

“Where is Mrs. Welch?”

“She excused herself to use the necessary.”

“Oh.”

“It was good of you to check on me, Nora. But why don't you return to your supper?”

“I've already eaten. The others are finishing their pudding. If you hurry, I imagine Hester and Jenny will put together a plate for you.”

“I'm not hungry.”

Both stood awkwardly, looking down at Lewis Upchurch. His color seemed a little better to her, though she was no judge.

Margaret said, “It is kind of you to be so concerned for him, Connor. But you should eat something.”

Connor shrugged. “He is my responsibility, isn't he?”

His ragged tone tugged at her heart. Had she ever inspired such loyalty in a servant? Would she? Gently, she said, “I'll ask Hester to save your supper on the stillroom stove, shall I?”

“Thank you.”

Margaret turned to go, but then hesitated. “I think I made you drop something when I came in and startled you. Shall I help you find it?”

Connor looked about him. “Did I? Perhaps something from the toilet case. I'll take a look after you leave.”

“I don't mind helping.”

“Thank you. But I don't think you want me lifting Mr. Upchurch's bedclothes to search for it in your presence.”

Her neck heated at the thought. “You're right. Well, see you later.”

Nathaniel stood in his bedchamber, eyeing his bed with longing. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to undress, climb under the bedclothes, and sleep for hours. But his spirit was troubled. He felt drawn to pray at his brother's bedside first. Leaving his room, he quietly descended the stairs.

At the half landing, he paused. A figure stood in the shadows, just outside the sickroom door. For a moment, panic seized him. Had Saxby or Preston come to finish the job? But then he realized the figure was feminine. A girl in an apron. Mobcap askew atop dark curls. Margaret—keeping a nighttime vigil. Such devotion. His heart ached to see it. She'd declared she no longer had feelings for Lewis, and he wanted to believe her.

If only he could ignore the evidence of his eyes.

They formed a small investigative unit named the
Bow Street Runners. These were private citizens not paid
by public funds but rather permitted to accept rewards.

—John S. Dempsey, “Introduction to Private Security”

Chapter 28

D
r. Drummond called again the next day. He seemed perplexed as to why Lewis had yet to regain his senses. But he did say he was pleased with how well the wound was healing. The physician gave credit to the surgeon, even though Mr. White had seemed certain Lewis would not survive the first night. Apparently he had taken the time to do his best work anyway. Nathaniel decided he would send the surgeon his gratitude and perhaps a gratuity as soon as he had opportunity.

When the physician had taken his leave, Robert Hudson entered the library.

“Sir? A man was here while you were busy with Dr. Drummond. A Mr. Tompkins. He was asking questions about the shooting.”

“Did the sheriff of Kent send him?”

“That was my first guess. But he isn't a local man. He's from London.”

“London? Why would a London man stray so far?”

“He's a runner, sir. Engaged to look into the matter.”

“Engaged by whom?”

“He would not say, beyond ‘a private citizen.' Someone acquainted with your brother, I gather, who wants to see justice done.”

Nathaniel frowned. “I want that more than anyone. Still, I find it irksome that someone should be investigating the matter without involving me.”

Hudson cleared his throat. “If you don't mind my saying, sir, I deduced from the man's questions that you are one of his chief suspects.”

“Me?”

“Did not many people witness the fight between you and your brother at that London ball?”

Nathaniel groaned.

“Perhaps whoever hired the runner fears justice will not be done if you are overseeing the inquiry—or if local officials are in the pocket of the influential Upchurch family.”

In one sense that was true. Because Helen had urged him not to involve the local magistrates, Nathaniel had gone to see the current sheriff of Kent privately to inform him of the matter. The sheriff was an appointed official with affairs of his own to manage. He was not likely to spend much time looking into the situation, especially when the family was not urging him to do so. He was also an old friend of their father's and understood Nathaniel's request to keep the duel quiet, so as not to endanger Lewis should he recover. Should Lewis die, then that would be another matter entirely.

A thought struck Nathaniel. “Might the man who shot Lewis have hired the runner to keep abreast of Lewis's condition—to discover if we know his identity so he might flee if necessary to avoid arrest?”

Hudson screwed up his face in thought. “It's possible, I suppose. But I wouldn't think he'd want to link himself to the duel for fear of drawing suspicion to himself.”

“Unless he means to divert suspicion by assuming the role of avenger.” Nathaniel ran an agitated hand through his hair. “In any case, we need to find out who is paying this runner.”

“Shall I take it on, sir?” Hudson asked, eyes alight.

Nathaniel studied him. “So eager for any assignment that relieves you of your house steward duties?”

He tucked his chin. “You know me too well.”

Margaret couldn't sleep. Tired of tossing and turning, she pulled on her wrapper and shawl and tucked her hair into her mobcap, just in case. She walked downstairs and out onto the balcony, but it was empty, as was the arcade below. Restless, she took herself down to the main level and across the dark, echoing hall.

She entered the sickroom on the pretense of seeing if the nurse needed anything, only to find Mrs. Welch asleep. Margaret sat in a chair near the door, oddly comforted by Lewis's regular breathing and even by the elderly nurse's soft snoring from the settee across the room. An oil lamp burned atop the mantel. Embers glowed in the hearth. This room was warmer than her own, and Margaret felt comfortable in her nightclothes and shawl. She didn't expect to see anyone at this hour except Mrs. Welch, who wouldn't mind her state of dress—especially as she slept on, undisturbed by her presence.

The tall case clock struck midnight, but sleep felt far away. Margaret's spirit was troubled. For Lewis's sake, for Helen's, for Nathaniel's, even for her own, she thanked God Lewis still lived. But something wasn't right, beyond the fact that Lewis Upchurch had been shot in the first place. It had been three days and he had yet to wake.

Margaret found herself thinking of all those nights her dear papa had been called away—or had gone on his own initiative—to sit at the bedside of an ailing or dying parishioner. She felt somehow closer to her father, keeping vigil in Lewis Upchurch's sickroom.

A creaking door startled her.

A man whispered, “How devoted she is, sitting by his bedside like a loyal hound.”

“Mr. Upchurch . . .” she breathed, rising to her feet. Nathaniel lounged against the doorjamb fully dressed, arms crossed. He did not look pleased to see her there.

She tiptoed to stand near him. She spoke in an accent, and a whisper to avoid waking Mrs. Welch. “I had only come to check on him.”

“And where is the nurse? Or are you assuming that role as well?”

“Of course not.” She gestured toward the settee, where the woman lay on her side, a lap rug over her middle. “I couldn't sleep, while Mrs. Welch clearly does not share that problem.”

She tentatively grinned, but he did not return the gesture.

“I hope, Nora, that you do not cherish any . . . romantic notions about my brother.”

Margaret frowned in surprise. “Why would you say that, sir?” As Nora, she had not knowingly flirted with anyone. Yet Nathaniel had seen them together at the servants' ball. . . .

“You would not be the first to do so, nor the last. . . .” He winced. “God willing, not the last.”

“You needn't worry, sir. I don't think of him that way.”

His gaze pierced hers in the lamplight. “Do you not?”

Why did she feel like he was asking
her
, and not Nora the housemaid? She shook her head. “I do not. Besides,” she faltered. “Your brother is . . . That is, I believe another woman has already captured his heart.”

“Are we speaking of Miss Lyons again?”

“No, sir. Not a London lady.”

“What makes you think so?”

She hesitated. For Lewis's
heart
might have had nothing to do with those late-night rendezvous. She felt her cheeks heat at the thought. “I . . . It's just that . . .”

“You needn't protect him, Nora. I am familiar with my brother's . . . proclivities. But I want to find out who did this.” He gestured toward the unnaturally still figure in the bed. “Anything you can tell me about Lewis's affairs, so to speak, might be important.”

She nodded. “It is only that I have seen him come in very early in the morning.”

“An early ride, perhaps.”

“No, sir. I mean very early. Five or six o'clock in the morning. As though he'd been out all night.”

“And what are you doing up so early . . . beyond spying on my brother?”

“Spying?” She pulled a face. “You forget, sir. While you are still abed, I am up by five thirty, opening shutters and polishing grates.”

He slowly shook his head. “How you must hate it, having to rise before noon.”

She lifted her chin. “I have never slept so late, sir. Even before I . . . came here. What must you think of me!”

His gaze roved her eyes, her face, her cap. “I don't know what to think of you.”

Did he look at her with approval or disapproval? It was difficult to tell in the dim light.

He drew himself up. “It proves nothing. How do you know he had been out all night?”

“He wears the same rumpled clothes and is in need of a shave.”

His eyes glinted. “How closely you regard him, to notice such detail.” He paused. “Still, he might have been out with friends, playing cards or some such.”

“I don't think so.”

“Based on what?”

How awkward this was. How did one describe the subtle things—not the obvious smell of perfume, nor lip rouge on his cravat. But his warm, tousled look. His smirk of satisfaction. His lack of interest in trifling with her . . .

“Let us just say feminine intuition.”

He quirked a brow. “I don't suppose your feminine intuition can conjure the name of this theoretical female friend?”

She shook her head. “No, but he comes home on foot through the side door, so she cannot live too far away. Weavering Street, I would suppose. Or Maidstone.”

He studied her. “And are you jealous of this phantom woman, whoever she is?”

“Not at all.”

His eyes narrowed. “I hope you speak the truth.”

A snort interrupted them. On the settee, Mrs. Welch smacked her lips and muttered something under her breath. The wooden frame creaked as she struggled to sit up.

Nathaniel shook his head and, with an empathetic grimace, slipped from the room. Margaret guessed he hoped to spare the woman the embarrassment of being found asleep on duty. She hesitated, surprised to realize she thought so charitably, so highly, of Nathaniel Upchurch now. Had he changed since her arrival, or had she?

“What? Who's there?” Mrs. Welch murmured. “I was only restin' me eyes.”

“It's all right, Mrs. Welch. It's only me, Nora.”

“Ohhh.” The old woman exhaled in relief. “Forget the tea tray again, did you?”

Margaret smiled to herself. “That's it. Good night.”

Hudson left early the next morning to return to London. In his absence, Nathaniel made the rounds of the estate on his own, but he did not tarry, unwilling to leave his brother for too long. Later, Nathaniel sat at the desk in the library reading correspondence and scouring newspapers for further reports on the slave revolt and its aftermath. Helen had yet to join him.

Now and again he looked across the room at his brother lying so still in the transplanted sickbed. He liked to be near Lewis. Keep him company in this way, even if Lewis was unaware of his presence. Four days and he still hadn't wakened.

The under butler, Arnold, appeared in the doorway and coughed. “Sir, there is a Mr. Tompkins to see you. I've put him in the morning room.”

Tompkins? Was that not the name of the runner who had already questioned Hudson?

Nathaniel rose. “I'll see him there.”

“Very good, sir.”

The man who stood when Nathaniel entered the morning room was short, slight, and bald. He was perhaps thirty or five and thirty, not old enough to have lost all his hair naturally. Nathaniel fleetingly wondered if he shaved his head and why he would do so. The skin of his face was smooth, his brows giving evidence of hair that would be brown, had he any to show.

“Mr. Nathaniel Upchurch, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“John Tompkins.” The man offered neither hand nor bow. “I have a few questions to put to you, sir, if you don't mind.”