The Maid of Fairbourne Hall by Julie Klassen

very coach she sat atop. She shivered at the thought of what he might do if he saw her there.
    The footman opened the door and let down the step.
    Hudson called down, “Mr. Upchurch has been injured. Please assist him inside.”
    The footman offered a hand to the occupant. The coach swayed as the passenger alighted. Margaret sat stiffly, staring ahead, face averted. She was afraid Nathaniel Upchurch might look up and recognize her and send her away before she’d even begun.
    â€œThere you go, sir. Easy does it,” the footman soothed.
    â€œI am not an invalid, man. Let off.”
    â€œOnly trying to help.”
    Margaret risked a glance and saw a tall dark-haired man in rumpled clothing shake off the footman’s hand. A bandage swathed his head, and one arm hung in a sling. A second footman ran forward to help, concern evident in his expression.
    Mr. Hudson addressed the servants. “Please see Mr. Upchurch to his room and draw him a bath.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Margaret watched Nathaniel Upchurch hobble to the door, shaking off the second footman’s hand as he had the first’s. He was certainly not the mild-tempered fellow she remembered from years gone by. She recalled the searing look of disgust he had shot her across the ballroom only a few nights before. It had sent a clear message— I loathe you. He would probably relish an opportunity to revenge himself for her cold refusal of his offer.
    She could definitely not risk revealing herself to him.
    Mr. Hudson drove to the back of the house. There, a groom came forward and took charge of the horses and carriage. Hudson helped Margaret alight, then escorted her down the outside stairs to the basement. Inside, he led her along a passage to a closed door. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Then he asked her to wait while he went alone into the housekeeper’s parlor.
    He knocked, was admitted by a faint “Come,” and disappeared within, closing the door behind him.
    Seeing no one about, Margaret allowed herself to lean against the wall beside the door. She was fatigued from the long, stressful day. Through the closed door she overheard the low rumble of Mr. Hudson’s voice, followed by a silence, then expressions of surprise and concern in a female voice. Unable to resist, Margaret tilted her head nearer the door.
    A woman said, “I realize, Mr. Hudson, that as house steward, you have the right to hire whom you please, but I would have thought, considering you have just come into your position, that you might at least have consulted me.”
    He made some placating reply, but his words were not as distinct as the woman’s, so Margaret made out only a few words, “London . . . help . . . trial.”
    A trial , as in it would be a trial to have her there, or a trial period of employment? A heavy sigh followed. Whichever it was, the housekeeper was clearly not pleased by the prospect.
    The door opened and Mr. Hudson appeared, grim-faced. “Mrs. Budgeon will see you now.” He added on a whisper, “Mind your p’s and q’s.”
    â€”——
    The woman within was not what Margaret had expected. She supposed she’d imagined someone like the woman who had hired Joan—a gloomy-faced matron in a decorous high-necked gown and outmoded cap. The woman before her was only in her midforties. Her dress was black but fashionable, striped with grey and brightened by a pretty lace collar. No dowdy cap crowned her thick dark hair, which was neatly pinned back. Her eyes were brown, her face pleasant if a touch long, her complexion fair, her jawline just beginning to soften. She had been a beauty in her youth, Margaret thought. She was attractive still, except for the stern tightening of her mouth and wary light in her eyes.
    â€œNora, is it?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. Nora Garret.”
    â€œUnder servants use only Christian names