The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (43 page)

“I know.”

“He is my husband, Margaret. But there comes a point when a woman must protect her children even in the face of her husband's displeasure. I did not stand up to him when that point came, and I am sorry. I hope someday you will forgive me.”

What could Margaret say?
“You did nothing wrong, Mamma, beyond marrying him in the first place. Beyond failing to make it clear your modest marriage settlement would remain modest, that any rumored inheritance from Aunt Josephine would not end in his pockets.”
But Margaret could not come out and say Sterling had only married her for money, money that would never come. It would be too cruel.

Her mother clasped her hands together. “I am relieved neither you nor Caroline has married someone who would not love you for yourself.”

Margaret nodded. The poor woman knew too well what that felt like. “How is Caroline?” she asked.

“Heartbroken. Disillusioned. Angry with Marcus, with us. But she is young, and she will recover.”

“I was so relieved to hear the news.”

“As was I. My introduction of Miss Jackson turned out to be quite propitious.”

“
Your
introduction?”

Mrs. Macy-Benton sighed. “Yes. I introduced her to Marcus, Mr. Jackson being an old acquaintance of your father's. I was almost sorry to do so. But I saw Marcus's marriage to her as the lesser of two evils. And if I don't miss my guess, Miss Jackson will keep him on a short tether from now on.”

Margaret stared at her, impressed.

Her mother retrieved something from her reticule. “This is the card of the solicitor handling Aunt Josephine's estate. The time has come for you to make your wishes known to someone outside our family. You are a grown woman now, Margaret, and there is no need for Sterling or me to act as your guardian any longer.”

She twiddled the card in her fingers. “I went to see Mr. Ford myself this afternoon and made him aware that, regardless of what my husband has told him in the past, Sterling is no disinterested party who will objectively advise you. Mr. Ford and his partner will be happy to fill that role.”

How careful, how nearly timid she was. It smote Margaret's conscience.

She reached out to take the card from her mother, gently grasping her outstretched hand. Her mother looked up in surprise.

“Thank you, Mamma.”

Tears brightened her mother's eyes, and Margaret felt her own fill in reply.

“I forgive you,” Margaret whispered. “And I hope you will forgive me for not sending word sooner, for worrying you.”

“Oh, Margaret.” Her mother held out her arms, and Margaret entered the long-missed embrace.

Margaret went to see the solicitor the very next day.

The grey-haired, bespectacled man rose when she entered. “Ah, Miss Macy. What a pleasure to see you. You gave us all a scare, disappearing the way you did.”

“I am alive and well, as you see.”

He regarded her with small, kind eyes. “I have not seen you since the reading of your great-aunt's will. You have changed, my dear, if you will allow me to say so. You look very well indeed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ford.”

They spoke for half an hour about the inheritance, investment options, and the necessary steps to set up a trust for Gilbert and a dowry for Caroline.

“If you would be so good as to return on your birthday to sign the paper work,” he said, “I will have all I need to deposit the funds into an account in your name at the bank of your choice.”

“Thank you. I would be happy to return on the twenty-ninth. Would two o'clock suit?”

“Perfectly.”

She rose and pulled on her gloves.

He stood as well. “In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you?”

She looked up at him, bit her lip, and considered. “There is one thing. . . .”

When she returned to Berkeley Square, Margaret asked Murdoch if there was anything for her in the post.

“Yes, miss. Three letters.”

She shuffled through them, mood sinking. None from Maidstone.

Murdoch cleared his throat. “And several gentlemen have called for you as well. I told them you were out, but one insisted on waiting. I've put him in the morning room.”

Margaret's heart leapt. “Who is it?”

He handed her several calling cards on a silver salver. She flipped through them, her elation fading. She wasn't interested in any of these men. None were Nathaniel Upchurch.

Serve one another in love.

—Galatians 5:13

Chapter 34

M
argaret and her mother planned a simple evening party for Margaret's upcoming birthday. She didn't want anything lavish, nor many guests. Just her family and Emily Lathrop. Gilbert would remain at school until Christmas, but Caroline had come home for good. She was as educated and finished as Miss Hightower could make her, apparently. Margaret was glad to have her under the same roof once more.

Margaret returned to Mr. Ford's offices on the afternoon of her birthday. She was relieved the waiting was over but was not as thrilled about the fortune as she had expected. This was partly due to all the unwanted attention she was receiving over it from would-be suitors. And partly due to the complete lack of attention from the only suitor she wanted.

Mr. Ford greeted her warmly but with a reserve that told her the news about her special request was not good.

“I looked into the matter as you requested. But I am afraid I was unsuccessful. Ironically, Lime Tree Lodge has recently been for sale. Several interested parties placed bids, including a new clergyman determined to acquire it as his vicarage. The sale was finalized before I could enter a bid on your behalf. I am sorry.”

So close.
Tears pricked her eyes. “Well. Thank you for trying, Mr. Ford.”

“I wish I had better news on your birthday.”

She smiled bravely, the gesture pushing the tears down her cheeks.

He asked, “I don't suppose there are any other properties you would be interested in?”

She shook her head. “Not at present.”

For the next few minutes, he showed her where to sign the rest of the paper work and told her he would let her know as soon as the money was deposited in her name. As she prepared to depart, he congratulated her and wished her every happiness.

“From your lips to God's ears,” she said, over the lump in her throat.

Upon her return to Berkeley Square, Murdoch met her with yet another salver of calling cards and invitations.

Removing her bonnet, she asked, “Any from Maidstone?”

“I'm afraid not, miss.”

She sighed. “Please tell the gentlemen I am not at home to callers today. I find rejecting them so unpleasant and have no wish to do so on my birthday.”

“Very good, miss. I understand.”

She thanked him and went upstairs without looking at a single card.

Margaret knocked softly on Caroline's door and entered when bid. Caroline sat at her dressing table, the new maid brushing her hair.

Margaret held out her hand. “Please, allow me.”

The maid handed over the brush, curtsied, and turned to go.

“Thank goodness,” Caroline huffed. “That girl is inept.”

The housemaid faltered, then scurried from the room.

“Caroline . . .” Margaret gently admonished. “People in service are still people. She's young, but she'll learn. Be kind.”

“Oh, don't fuss at me, Margaret. I doubt she even understood what I said.”

“I don't know. . . . Appearances can be deceiving.” She added in a lower voice, “As you and I have both learned.”

Caroline hung her head. She sat quietly for several moments, then whispered, “I was deceived. I thought Marcus loved me, but he only pretended. He confessed he only asked me to marry him to please his uncle. Sterling was certain it would bring you home.”

“And he was right.” Margaret twisted and pinned Caroline's hair. “You won't believe me now, but it is a blessing Marcus ended the engagement. He would have broken your heart a thousand times over. Better to know it was all an act before the vows were said.”

“I know you're right. But it still hurts.”

“I know, my love. I know.”

———

Margaret went into her own room. She ought to summon Miss Durand to help her dress for dinner. Instead she stood at her window feeling listless and let down. She had so hoped for some word from him.

She glanced out the window at the Berkeley Square garden below and told herself to cheer up. She saw a traveling coach waiting across the street and wondered who had called. With a start, she recognized the coachman on the bench and the young groom climbing up beside him. Clive! It was the Upchurch coach. Nathaniel must have come to call while she was in Caroline's room. The coachman lifted the reins, and the horses began to move off.

Leaving?
Had Murdoch turned away Mr. Upchurch as well?

She flew from her room, drummed down the many stairs and across the hall, heedless of decorum. Flinging open the door, she prayed she would reach him in time. She leapt the stoop and dashed into the street, but the carriage was already turning the corner.

She was too late. The Upchurch coach disappeared from view.

Tears filled her eyes. If only she had not refused to see callers today, of all days. She had only herself to blame, for she had told Murdoch to send all gentlemen away. Foolish girl!

Margaret wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, gave a deep shuddering sigh, and turned toward the house.

She stopped short, breath catching. For there on the front stoop stood Nathaniel Upchurch.

“Mr. Upchurch,” she breathed.

He wore a dark green coat, buff breeches, and tall boots. He did not smile. He only looked at her, his expression inscrutable. “Miss Macy,” he said dryly. “I was told you were not at home.”

Chagrined, she hurried to explain. “I am sorry. I have had a great many callers of late, and I—”

“Suitors, I suppose?”

“I'm afraid so. All desperate fortune hunters, the lot of them.”

His brows rose.

“Oh! Not that I include you among them, Mr. Upchurch. I didn't mean that.” Now that he stood before her at last, she rambled on like a schoolroom miss. She swallowed and gestured vaguely toward the street. “I'm afraid your carriage has left without you.”

He nodded. “I told them to go on. I was determined to wait as long as necessary. Your butler was testy until I told him I had come a long way to see you. For some reason, at the mention of Maidstone he became much more welcoming.”

Her cheeks heated. “Oh.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Where do you tell people you've been?”

“I . . . don't. I say only that I was staying with friends. At least . . . I hope that is true . . . that we are friends?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you want?”

“Of course.”

He stepped from the stoop and walked toward her, studying her as he neared.

Unnerved under his scrutiny, she rushed on, “I am glad you've come. I've been thinking about y—Uh . . . H-how is Lewis?”

“He is doing well.”

“I am glad to hear it.” She hesitated, then gestured toward the house behind him. “Would you like to come in . . . again?”

He winced up at the house, then looked over her shoulder. “How about a turn in the garden instead?”

The day was chilly and the garden spent. But she said, “Of course. Just give me a moment to collect my shawl.” She stepped past him toward the door.

Murdoch, as if sensing her intention—or eavesdropping—hurried out with her shawl and draped it around her shoulders.

“You ran out before I could announce him,” he whispered. “Did I do right in allowing him to wait?”

“You most certainly did. Thank you.”

He leaned near. “From Maidstone, miss?”

She nodded, quaking with nerves and excitement.

The butler bestowed a rare smile.

Together Margaret and Nathaniel crossed the street and entered the long oval garden at the center of the square. Walking beneath a canopy of autumn-red maples, they crushed dry leaves with each step.

Nathaniel abruptly began, “You know you nearly killed me, don't you?”

Margaret gaped up at him. “Killed you? How?”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “You were barely gone a day when we heard Marcus Benton had changed course and married a different lady.”

She nodded. “An American heiress.”

“I know that now. Hudson and I have our ways. But you gave me a few dashed miserable days, I can tell you.”

Her heart tingled at the thought. “I'm sorry. I thought of writing . . . but, well . . .” Her words trailed away.

He nodded. “You don't know how I thanked God when I learned the truth.”

He gestured toward a park bench, and she sat down.

He crossed his arms and remained standing. “Will you ever be able to come back to Fairbourne Hall, do you think? I imagine it could be somewhat awkward for you.”

Come back? How did he mean? As maid, friend, wife? She decided to tell the truth, hoping it wouldn't spoil her chances. “It would be awkward, I'm afraid.”

“Even for a visit, perhaps?”

A visit . . . Then he was not thinking of asking her to marry him. Disheartened, she murmured, “Perhaps a short visit.” She would, after all, like to see Helen again.

Sitting there surrounded by late autumn color, Margaret breathed in great draughts of crisp November air and breathed out a prayer.
Be thankful
, she told herself.
Nathaniel is here. . . . There is hope.

“I would have come sooner,” he said. “But I had something very particular to attend to first.”

“Oh. I see.” She didn't see but hoped he would explain.

“As soon as that was taken care of, I came.” He sank onto the bench beside her. “And of course, I had to see you today, on your birthday.”

“You remembered?”

He turned to her, expression earnest. “I remember everything about you, Miss Macy. Every moment between us—the good and the bad.” He chuckled dryly. “Though I prefer to linger on more recent pleasant moments.”

She tilted her head to look at him. “When I was in your employ, you mean?”

He nodded. “I found I quite enjoyed having you under the same roof. Being able to see you, hear your voice many times a day. I miss that.” His eyes locked on hers. “I miss you.”

Margaret's heart pounded.
Can this really be happening?

———

A hint of a smile, tentative and hopeful, lifted Margaret's lips, and it was all Nathaniel could do not to kiss her then and there in front of every busybody in Mayfair.

Instead, he fished a box from his pocket. “You left something at Fairbourne Hall that belongs to you.”

“Oh?”

My heart
, he thought, but didn't say it, only handed her the flat rectangular box.

Her eyes flashed up at him, then back down at the box. She opened it eagerly.

Inside lay the cameo necklace he had seen the new housemaid pawn at a shop in Weavering Street.

“You bought it back for me,” she breathed, eyes shining. “You have no idea what this means—it was a gift from my father.”

He nodded. “There is more.”

She looked inside the box again. Under the cameo lay a piece of thick paper. She extracted it and handed him the box to hold. She turned the paper over, revealing the small watercolor of Lime Tree Lodge. Her brow puckered. “Thank you, but you might have kept it. I wouldn't have minded.”

He tucked his chin as though offended, and insisted, “I spent a great deal of money on it.”

“On this?” She raised her fair brows, incredulous.

“Not on the painting. On Lime Tree Lodge itself.”

She stared at him, stunned. “You didn't . . .”

“I did.”

“But . . . my solicitor told me some vicar was very keen on buying it.”

“He was. But I was keener.”

“How did you . . . Forgive me, but I know you needed every shilling for Fairbourne Hall and to repair your ship.”

“True.”

“Then, how?”

“I sold my ship. The damage did not lower its value as much as I had feared, and it brought a good price. Besides, I have no need of it any longer.”

“I thought you needed it to transport sugar from Barbados?”