The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Read Online Free PDF Page B

think put him up to it?”
    The maid’s eyes widened. “But, why . . . ?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œAgreed.”
    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.”
    â€œWhat is wrong with my gowns?”
    â€œNothing. 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.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Joan replied.
    â€œThen why are you still here?”
    â€œI was only packing my belongings, sir.” Joan’s voice quavered, unnaturally high.
    â€œPacking only your belongings, I trust. Let me see what you have in that