The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (4 page)

Joan's eyebrows rose. “Young Mr. Benton?”

Margaret nodded.

“If it's unwanted attention he's giving you, tell his uncle.”

“Who do you think put him up to it?”

The maid's eyes widened. “But, why . . . ?”

“I will explain later. I expect any minute for him to come through that door, and I don't want to be here when he does.”

Joan crossed her arms and asked sullenly, “Why should I help you?”

Obviously not out of affection or loyalty,
Margaret thought wryly. “Because I will write you the most flattering character reference you've ever read. Why, when I'm through, St. Thomas himself wouldn't doubt your abilities.”

Joan's wary expression softened. “Very well. It's a bargain. But I only plan to stay with my sister until I find another place. You'll have to leave when I do.”

“Agreed.”

Joan surveyed her head to toe. “And you're not going anywhere with me dressed like that.”

Margaret glanced down at the flounced day dress of white cambric muslin she'd yet to change out of, her mind quickly skipping to the other gowns in her wardrobe.

But Joan had other ideas. “There's some old clothes of poor Mrs. Poole's up in the attic.” She was referring to the belongings of an ancient housemaid who'd died, bent over her pail and scrub brush, a few months before. “I'll fetch you a frock and cap from there.”

“What is wrong with my gowns?”

“Nothing. If you want Theo to follow us and every pickpocket in London to harass us.”

That was true. If the footman saw her coming downstairs dressed to go out, he would be on her trail before they reached the street.

“I shall be back directly,” Joan said. “Meanwhile, cover up that hair.”

Her hair. Margaret stared at her troubled reflection in the looking glass. Yes, her blond hair would be a beacon in the night. She thought suddenly of the dark wig she had planned to wear for the masquerade ball. She hurried to her dressing table and lifted the wig from its stand, examining it by lamplight. Decisively, she pawed through the drawer until she came upon a pair of scissors. With them, she lopped off the long curls meant to cascade down each shoulder, leaving only a simple curly wig with dark fringe across the forehead. It would do.

Joan had yet to return. Increasingly anxious to leave, Margaret decided she had better begin changing without her. She slipped her arms from her gown, twisted it back to front, undid the ribbon ties, and let the dress fall to the floor. She stood there in shift and stays.
Heaven help me if Marcus comes in now.
She slipped a petticoat over her head, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on two pair of stockings, then her half boots. She went to her wardrobe and found the blue dress and white apron she had worn as a milkmaid and laid them across her bed. Surely they would suffice if Joan failed to find something in the attic. Perhaps anyone who saw her would mistake her for a second housemaid, a friend of Joan's come to call.

She pulled forth her plainest reticule and a carpetbag, and began stuffing in a few necessities. Her mind raced, panicked and muddled.
Think
, she told herself.
Think!
But it was difficult to plan when she had little idea of where she was going or for how long.

Still Joan had yet to return. What had happened to forestall her?

Nervously, Margaret tied her dressing gown over her underclothes and slipped out into the corridor, ears alert for the sound of anyone approaching—friend or foe.

Which was Joan?

Margaret tiptoed toward the stairway and paused. Hearing voices from around the corner, she pressed herself against the wall.

Sterling challenged, “Were you not dismissed earlier this evening?”

“Yes, sir,” Joan replied.

“Then why are you still here?”

“I was only packing my belongings, sir.” Joan's voice quavered, unnaturally high.

“Packing
only
your belongings, I trust. Let me see what you have in that valise.”

“'Tis only clothes and the like, sir.”

Margaret heard shuffling and a clasp being unsnapped and snapped. “Be sure that is all you take or I shall hire a thief-taker to hunt you down.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Benton?” Murdoch called from the landing below. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. But that man from Bow Street is here.”

What man from Bow Street?
Margaret wondered.

“Thank you, Murdoch. I shall be down directly.”

Margaret risked a glance around the corner in time to see Sterling turn his icy blue eyes on the quaking maid. “I trust you will see yourself out and do no mischief on your way.”

Joan nodded.

“Be out in ten minutes or I shall have Murdoch toss you out.”

I won't be a cook; I hate cooking. I won't be a nursery
maid, nor a lady's maid, far less a lady's companion. . . .
I won't be anything but a housemaid.

—Charlotte Brontë, in a letter to her sister Emily

Chapter 3

T
en minutes later, Margaret turned from her dressing table mirror to face Joan.

“Well?”

She wore an old grey frock Joan had unearthed from the attic, the apron she had worn as a milkmaid, and the dark wig pinned securely over her hair.

Seated on the bed, the maid studied her. “It changes you a great deal, miss. But I still think you need a cap.”

The only cap Joan had found had yellowed beyond wearing. Margaret lifted the small lace cap she had worn to the masquerade.

Joan shook her head. “Too fine.” She pulled something from her own valise. “You may borrow my spare. But if you keep it, it'll cost you one of those shillings.”

“Very well.” Margaret pulled the floppy mobcap over her wig and looked at Joan for her reaction. “Now will anyone recognize me?”

Joan tilted her head to one side. “If they look close they will.”

Margaret looked back into the mirror. She lifted a stubby kohl pencil and darkened her eyebrows, as she had meant to do for the masquerade before abandoning plans to wear the wig. She then pulled open the mahogany writing box and from it extracted her father's small round spectacles. She placed them on her nose and hooked the arms over her ears. Again she faced Joan.

“What about now?”

“Much better, miss. As long as you don't talk, I think your brother could pass you in the street and not know you.”

Margaret thought of the accents she had heard daily as a girl, spending hours with first her nurse and then the housekeeper while her mother was busy with this society event or that charity. Nanny Booker was from the north somewhere and Mrs. Haines from Bristol, she believed. Margaret had made a game of mimicking their accents, though now she wondered how charming they had really thought it. “An' wha' if I changed m'voice? Would ya know me then?”

Joan's eyes narrowed. “I don't talk like that.”

Margaret quickly reverted to her normal way of speaking. “I know. And I am not trying to ridicule anyone. Only to disguise myself in every possible manner.”

Joan lifted her chin in understanding, then dubiously eyed the narrow carpetbag. “Is that all you're taking?”

“Well, I cannot take a trunk, can I? Nor do I wish to arouse suspicion when we leave by the servants' entrance.” Margaret riffled through the crammed bag. “I have an extra shift and the milkmaid frock as a spare—it doesn't weigh a thing. A nightdress and wrapper, slippers, comb, tooth powder, and the kohl.” She did not mention her father's New Testament, nor the cameo he had given her, wrapped in a handkerchief. She slipped a shawl over her shoulders and looped bonnet ribbons over her wrist. “What else do I need?”

“Don't forget some of that nice paper for my character,” Joan said.

When Margaret had slid a piece into her bag, Joan blew out a deep breath. “Well, it's time.” She slapped her legs and stood.

Telling Margaret to wait in the room, Joan picked up her valise and crept down the corridor to listen at the top of the stairs. She waved Margaret forward. Margaret slipped from the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She followed Joan down the stairs on tiptoe, barely allowing herself to breathe. They descended one pair of stairs and then another without encountering anyone coming up. At the top of the basement steps, Joan motioned her to wait while she checked the passage below.

The maid's head soon popped back into view and again she waved Margaret down. Together they hurried along the narrow basement passageway, past the kitchen, to the service door at its far end. Joan opened it for her.

Margaret had just stepped through when a voice called from the kitchen behind them.

“Joan? Who's that with you?”

Margaret hesitated, unsure if she should run or turn around. Joan's firm hand on her arm kept her from doing either.

“'Tis only my sister, come to collect me,” Joan said. “You heard I got the push?”

“Oh, Joan. I did,” the female voice commiserated. “And sorry I was to hear it.”

“I didn't steal anything, for the record.”

“Of course you didn't. I'd wager he mislaid the money or spent it hisself. Or that nephew of his pinched it. Not fair is it?”

“No, Mary, it's not fair.”

“Going to your sister's, then, are you?”

“Until I find another place.” Joan gave Margaret a little shove, and she lurched forward, tripping on the bottom step before starting up the outside stairs.

“Good-bye, Joan, and Godspeed.”

Margaret reached street level as Joan trotted up the stairs behind her.

“Let's go,” the maid whispered, without a backward glance.

Margaret, however, looked over her shoulder several times as they crossed the square, fearing any moment the hovering footman or Sterling himself would appear behind them. But all was quiet save for the clicking of their bootheels and the distant
clip-clop-clatter
of horse hooves on cobblestones.

They had made it.

What now? She'd known only that she had to get out of Benton's house that very night. In her panicked hurry she had not even left her mother a note. Even if she had, she knew very well Sterling would have read it. And lost no time in following any unintentional clues it held to find Margaret and drag her back. What would she have written at any rate? She didn't know where she was going beyond Billingsgate. And Joan had made it clear this would only be a brief stay until she found other employment. Margaret hoped it would buy her enough time to figure out her next step. She would write to her mother then.

Ahead of her, Joan strode briskly on, and Margaret strained and panted to keep up. On the next street, a man leaning in a shadowed doorway leered at them. Two militiamen whistled as they passed. Margaret decided she did not like walking London streets at night. “Joan? Joan, wait!” Her voice shook. “How far did you say it was?”

Joan glanced over her shoulder. “Three or four miles, I'd reckon.”

Margaret swallowed. Perhaps she ought to risk going to Emily Lathrop's house instead. It could be no more than a mile or two away.

She recalled the last time she had gone to the Lathrops' in Red Lion Square. She had been vexed with Marcus and Sterling both, and hoped to beg an invitation to stay with Emily for a time. But she had not been in the Lathrops' drawing room an hour when she heard Sterling Benton's name announced and had to sit there while he lamented that her mother had taken ill and needed her at home.

It had all been a ruse. Her mother was in perfect health, although she had been “sick with worry,” and quite put out with Margaret for leaving the house alone—though she had never minded when Margaret spent time with friends before.

At the end of the block, Joan waited for a post chaise to pass, allowing Margaret to catch up with her. “Do you know where Red Lion Square is?”

Joan looked wary. “Yes. My cousin has a post near there. Why?”

“Could you please walk there with me? My friend Emily lives there, and perhaps she might help me.”

Joan shrugged an apathetic reply. “I suppose. 'Tisn't far out of my way.”

Margaret was surprised she agreed so readily. Joan was apparently eager to be rid of her.

As she trudged behind Joan along busy Oxford Street, Margaret rehearsed how to explain her predicament to Emily, mortifying though it was. Emily would be happy to have her, once she quit laughing over her costume. But could she talk her parents into allowing her to stay? They were unlikely to believe her word over Sterling Benton's. Sterling could be so convincing, so persuasive. He would have them believing his nephew the soul of propriety and her a deluded ninny with an overinflated view of her “irresistible” charms. Mr. Lathrop would gently admonish her to be sensible and send her home with Sterling without a second thought.

She shuddered. Perhaps instead of asking to stay, she would ask Emily to loan her enough money to see her out of town and somewhere safe. Margaret would pay her back with interest as soon as she received her inheritance. She loathed the thought of borrowing money from friends. But she would have to set aside her pride. Pulling the mobcap down more snugly over her black wig and spectacles, she realized she already had.

They walked north and then turned into quiet and pretty Red Lion Square. There, Margaret led the way across the square's central garden. She paused behind one of the trees to survey the Lathrop town house across the street. Joan stood behind her. All was still, save for the flicking tail of a horse harnessed to a carriage waiting several houses away.

Margaret was about to cross the cobbles when she realized with a start that she recognized the landau with its brass candle lamps, as well as the coachman at the reins. Margaret retreated behind the tree once more. As she peered around it, the Lathrops' front door opened and Sterling Benton appeared, framed by lamplight at its threshold, speaking in earnest confidence with Emily's father. Sterling shook his head somberly, appearing the perfect image of concerned stepfather. Mr. Lathrop nodded and the two men shook hands.

Sterling had certainly gotten there quickly. She and Joan had left perhaps only thirty or forty minutes before. Of course they had walked, while Sterling had a horse and carriage at his disposal. He—or Marcus, more likely—must have come to her room soon after she'd left and discovered her gone. Thank heaven she left when she did.

Clattering horse hooves galloped into the square, and Margaret peered around the other side of the tree. A man in a chimney-pot hat and cropped coat rode up, quickly dismounted, and tied his reins to a post. The man's hurry sounded an alarm in Margaret's mind. Was this the man from Bow Street Murdoch had announced before Margaret left? Had Sterling planned to hire a watchman but now commissioned the same man to find and apprehend her?

The newcomer trotted up the walkway toward Sterling and Mr. Lathrop. There on the stoop, the three men spoke, Sterling gesturing and frowning. He pulled something from his pocket and handed it to the officious-looking man. She could not see the object clearly from that distance, but based on the way the man studied it, she guessed it might be a framed miniature portrait. The one commissioned by her father for her eighteenth birthday?

Evidently, Sterling had arranged for the runner to meet him at the place he expected to find Margaret. Where he
would
have found her had she arrived even five minutes earlier. Sterling Benton knew her better than she realized, and that thought riddled her with anxiety. Where could she go, where could she hide, where Sterling Benton would never think to look for her?

A few minutes later, Sterling departed in the carriage and Mr. Lathrop retreated inside, yet the runner remained, leaning against the outside stair rail.

“Well?” Joan whispered.

“The watchman, or whatever he is, is making himself comfortable. I don't think he is going anywhere soon.”

“Well, I
must
be going soon,” Joan said. “Are you coming with me or not?”

There was no point in staying. Sterling had gotten there first. Even if she managed to sneak inside and speak with Emily, her father would insist on sending her home. It was no good.

Margaret sighed. “Looks like I am.”

Joan echoed her sigh. “Well, come on, then.”

Staying to the shadows, they crossed the square and returned to the thoroughfare. Joan urged her to hurry, and soon Margaret's thoughts were consumed with dodging flower carts, barrels, carriages, and horse droppings. And with trying to keep sight of Joan's blue frock as she scurried ahead. Soon, Margaret's feet were aching and her side cramping.

Joan turned only long enough to hiss, “Hurry! We've got a long way to go, and it's getting late.”

Margaret eyed the passing hackney carriages with longing but knew she should not spend the little money she had. She bit back a groan and kept trotting along, the carpetbag swinging against her leg. Ahead, Joan strode smartly on, ever eastward, her heavier valise apparently no burden at all. Thirty or forty minutes later, they turned south onto Grace Church Street.

The street narrowed and darkened. The cobbles gave way to uneven paving, refuse-filled gutters, and smells that compelled Margaret to breathe from her mouth.

Finally, Joan turned down a lane signposted Fish Street Hill. There, they passed several old tenement buildings before Joan pushed open a narrow door. Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. Her next inhale brought salt air and the rank odor of rotting fish. They were close to the river here, she guessed. And the docks.

Too tired to care, she followed Joan inside and up two rickety flights of stairs. She stood, numb and mute, as Joan knocked softly on the door of number 23.