Introduction

Pampered Margaret Macy flees London in disguise to escape pressure to marry a dishonorable man. With no money and nowhere else to go, she takes a position as a housemaid in the home of Nathaniel Upchurch, a suitor she once rejected in hopes of winning his dashing brother. Praying no one will recognize her, Margaret fumbles through the first real work of her life. If she can last until her next birthday, she will gain an inheritance from a spinster aunt--and sweet independence. But can she remain hidden as a servant even when prying eyes visit Fairbourne Hall?

Observing both brothers as an "invisible" servant, Margaret learns she may have misjudged Nathaniel. Is it too late to rekindle his admiration? And when one of the family is nearly killed, Margaret alone discovers who was responsible. Should she come forward, even at the risk of her reputation and perhaps her life? And can she avoid an obvious trap meant to force her from hiding?

On her journey from wellborn lady to servant to uncertain future, Margaret must learn to look past appearances and find the true meaning of "serve one another in love."

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Excerpt

The only aristocrat known to have disguised herself as a servant is Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, in 1786.

—Giles Waterfield and Anne French, Below Stairs

Chapter 1

London

August 1815

He is reading my letters now too. . . .

Margaret Elinor Macy sat at her dressing table, heart pounding. Her face in the looking glass shone pale beneath curly dark hair, her light blue eyes anxious. She glanced from her reflection to the letter in her hand. The seal had been pried open and unsuccessfully re-pressed. Her mother’s new husband had obviously begun checking her post—perhaps fearful the next invitation she received would not be to a ball but rather to take refuge in another house, out of reach and out from under his power.

It was bad enough when the footman began following her everywhere she went, whether the occasion warranted a servant’s escort or not. Then an hour ago she had asked to wear her aunt’s pearl necklace, only to be refused.

“Too many footpads on the streets at night,” Sterling Benton had said. Though she and her mother had always worn their better jewelry before.

Sterling had locked in his safe almost all the Macy family valuables “for safekeeping.” Privately Margaret guessed he’d sold some pieces and locked the rest away so she couldn’t barter them for passage somewhere far away.

He had long since ceased granting her any allowance, claiming strained finances. That might be true, but Margaret knew Sterling had other motives for keeping her dependent on him for every shilling. Though soon to inherit a large sum from her great-aunt, at the moment Margaret was unable to buy herself a hairpin, let alone passage anywhere.

She regarded her wan reflection once more. She was not looking forward to the ball at the Valmores’, though in the past masquerades had been her favorite. She loved the disguises, the mystery, the chance to flirt behind a mask, to pretend she was someone she was not. For weeks she had planned to appear as a milkmaid, a costume the Duchess of Queensberry had donned for a formal portrait, sparking a rage of paintings of gentlewomen in servants’ attire. Margaret guessed she would not be the only “milkmaid” in attendance that evening.

Her coiffeur was a concoction of dark hair piled high with a long spiral curl gracing each side of her neck. But she was having second thoughts about it. Though she had relished the notion of fooling the other guests until masks were removed halfway through the ball, the gown and apron alone did little to disguise her identity. At the moment, however, the very idea of costumes seemed frivolous. Besides, the dark hair did not flatter her complexion.

Reaching up, she yanked the wig from her head.

“Joan!” she called sharply.

The second housemaid had doubled as young lady’s maid ever since Sterling had dismissed Margaret’s abigail. The experienced lady’s maid, Miss Durand, was busy arranging Mother’s hair. Margaret sniffed. As if it mattered how well a married woman looked. Her future did not depend on appearing her prettiest that night.

Joan, a thin, practical housemaid in her midtwenties, hurried in carrying a lace cap and the cape she had been pressing. She tripped over Margaret’s dressing gown, bunched on the carpet where Margaret had let it fall. Why had Joan not picked it up?

“Do be careful,” Margaret snapped. “I don’t want my cape ruined or the cap crushed.”

“Yes, miss.” As Joan righted herself, irritation flashed in her eyes.

Well, she had only herself to blame. After all, it was Joan’s job to tidy the room and care for Margaret’s clothes.

“I need you to dress my hair,” Margaret said. “I have decided not to wear the wig after all.”

“But . . .” The maid bit her lip, then sighed. “Yes, miss.”

Joan had secured Margaret’s blond hair in a tight knot to accommodate the wig, but now she would need to unpin, curl, arrange, and re-pin her hair with soft height and curls at her temples to flatter Margaret’s somewhat round face. She hoped a simple housemaid was up to the task. Margaret guessed she would have to talk her through the process.

Margaret herself had become quite adept at arranging her sister’s hair. Enjoyed it, actually. Fortunately, Caroline had not yet “come out” and was not attending the ball, otherwise three Macy women would never be ready in time.

Joan unpinned the knot and began brushing out Margaret’s fair locks, using, Margaret thought, a bit more force than necessary.

“Gentle, Joan. I have no wish to be bald.”

“Yes, miss.”

Margaret had often been told her fair golden hair was her best feature. She could not, on this night of nights, cover it up. She would need all the appeal she could muster if her plan had any hope of succeeding.

****

Margaret entered wearing the simple blue gown, apron, and mask, with a small lace cap atop her glorious hair and a milk pail in hand. Studiously avoiding the young man beside her, she surveyed the ballroom.

The goddess Diana laughed with a sultan in turban and flowing robes. Egyptians in headdresses, jewels spangling their foreheads, danced with gypsies. Punch’s wife mingled with beggars. Some people sacrificed anonymity for attractiveness. Others, especially those wearing the ubiquitous dominoes—masks over their faces and hooded capes—were unrecognizable. The gay music, colorful costumes, laughter, and jesting created a carnival-like atmosphere. But the jovial feeling did not reach Margaret and did nothing to ease her anxiety.

She saw him across the ballroom, and her muscles tensed—a lithe cat fixing upon her prey. Yet she feared she would be the one left injured.

Lewis Upchurch wore a rakish patch over one eye, but was otherwise perfectly turned out in fine evening attire of black tailcoat, pristine white waistcoat and cravat, knee-length pantaloons, and polished shoes. He stood talking to a man and woman. The man she recognized as Lewis’s friend Piers Saxby. He wore a tricorn hat and kerchief, looking very like engravings she had seen of Blackbeard and other pirates of old. Margaret was acquainted with Saxby’s sister, Lavinia. The two girls had been at school together. Perhaps she might inquire after Lavinia as an excuse to approach the trio.

But she would need to tread carefully. Lewis Upchurch might be a good catch, but he would not be an easy one, and she was by no means certain of her ability to snare him. For a moment she stood where she was, shocked by her mercenary thoughts.

A few years ago, when she learned of the inheritance coming to her upon her twenty-fifth birthday, she’d thought she had no need to marry. Great Aunt Josephine, a spinster herself, had seen to that. Margaret had planned to take her time, marry for love or not at all. But with the odious man beside her determined to spoil that plan, she was willing to compromise. She would never marry a man she loathed, but she could marry charming, handsome Lewis Upchurch. She had been quite infatuated with him once. Had even rejected his brother in hopes of winning him. And Lewis, she believed, had admired her. He had certainly flirted with her.

But then her beloved father had died, and Margaret had lost interest in Lewis Upchurch and society at large. She had remained home in mourning for more than a year. When she had reentered society earlier this season, Lewis had shown renewed if sporadic interest in her, but nothing had come of it. Was she too late?

Pushing back her shoulders, Margaret removed her mask and steeled her resolve. Enticing a proposal from Lewis Upchurch was her best hope, her only plan for escaping the Benton house and the vile snare set for her by Sterling and his nephew.

As if her thoughts, her intentions, had been declared aloud, the young man beside her stiffened. She risked a glance at Marcus Benton and found him following the direction of her gaze across the room. His wide-set catlike eyes narrowed. He looked at her, smile smug beneath his pug nose. He was not a tall man, only an inch or so taller than she. Dark tousled hair fell over his forehead in imitation of casual ease, yet she knew his valet had spent half an hour arranging it. She had once thought Marcus handsome, but no longer.

He took her arm, but she shrugged it off. Inhaling deeply, Margaret strode across the ballroom, empty now between dances. At the head of the room, musicians relaxed over punch and ale, laughing amongst themselves. Directly ahead of her, Lewis Upchurch faced Mr. Saxby and the woman she did not recognize. Like Margaret, her face was exposed. She wore the clingy Grecian robes of a Diana. Margaret would have liked to speak to Lewis alone, but she dared not wait or her courage would fail her. Perhaps the other couple would excuse themselves.

Margaret bolstered herself by remembering that Lewis had shown particular interest in her in the past, seeking her out for dancing, escorting her in to supper on several occasions, calling the next morning as etiquette required. Lewis had been pleasant and attentive, not to mention heartbreakingly handsome. But he had never proposed. Perhaps she had not encouraged him properly. After all, she had been in no hurry to marry.

Until now.

Besides Marcus Benton, only one man had ever proposed marriage to her, and that had been two years ago, before Lewis returned from the West Indies and turned her head. The memory of the way she had coldly and abruptly rejected Nathaniel Upchurch, Lewis’s younger brother, still brought a stab of guilt. Nathaniel would have married her once, but she had certainly crushed any feelings he held for her. At all events, Nathaniel was far away in Barbados, and had been for nearly two years, managing the family’s sugar interests in Lewis’s stead. Even Nathaniel—meek, pale, studious, bespectacled younger son that he was—would have been a better fate than Marcus Benton.

Margaret smiled as she neared the trio, hoping no one noticed her brazen approach. She willed Lewis to look her way, hoping his face would light up when he saw her. She paused before them and Lewis glanced over, but her appearance brought no light to his countenance. If anything, caution shadowed his dark eyes, at least that was how her insecure soul read his expression. Don’t appear too eager, she reminded herself. A man like Lewis Upchurch was accustomed to desperate women and their desperate mammas throwing themselves at him. She must be careful.

“Miss Macy,” he acknowledged politely.

She nodded at him, then turned her most beguiling smile—she hoped—on his friend instead. “Mr. Saxby. You may not remember me, but I was at school with your sister, Lavinia.”

Piers Saxby was a few years older than Lewis, his features somewhat ordinary. But he invariably embellished his appearance with all the trappings of a dandy: fine clothes, quizzing glass, and snuffbox.

The man’s dull grey eyes lit with recognition if not interest. “Ah, Miss Macy, of course. Indeed, I recall Lavinia mentioning your name.” He bowed, and Margaret dipped a curtsy sure to show off her feminine curves. She hoped Lewis was watching.

But when she glanced back up, her heart fell. For Lewis had already returned his attention to the woman beside him. The very beautiful woman, Margaret now saw at closer range.

Sensing her gaze, Lewis Upchurch cleared his throat and said dutifully, “Miss Macy. Have you met the lovely Miss Lyons?”

Margaret turned to the striking brunette. “I have not had that pleasure.”

“Then allow me. Miss Barbara Lyons, may I present Miss Margaret Macy. I believe you are acquainted with her stepfather, Sterling Benton?”

The woman’s dark eyes sparkled. “Indeed I am. An exceedingly handsome man and most charming too. Do you not find him so, Miss Macy? Why, if he were my stepfather I should never leave home.”

Margaret swallowed the hot retort burning her throat and pasted on a false smile. “I don’t actually think of Mr. Benton as a stepfather, as I was already grown when he married my mother.”

“Quite right, Miss Macy.” Barbara Lyons grinned. “If I were you I should not care to think of such a man as my stepfather either.”

Margaret shuddered at the woman’s innuendo.

“How you must enjoy living in Mr. Benton’s fine house in Berkeley Square,” the woman added.

Margaret noticed neither she nor Saxby showed any sign of leaving Lewis’s side.

“I miss the country, actually,” Margaret replied. “And from where do you hail, Miss Lyons?”

“Ah, you must excuse us, Miss Macy,” Lewis Upchurch interrupted. “For Miss Lyons here has promised me the next dance, and the musicians are even now preparing to play.”

“Oh . . . of course,” Margaret faltered, observing with chagrin that as yet only one musician had returned to his place. “Em . . . enjoy your dance.” She again curtsied and turned away.

It hadn’t been the cut direct, but close to it. Cheeks flaming, she walked toward the door, trying not to hurry, hoping her mortification was not obvious to the milling throngs. Nor to Marcus Benton.

She escaped the ballroom and hastened across the hall to the salon designated as the ladies’ dressing room for the evening. Inside, her friend Emily Lathrop tied a cloak about her shoulders and replaced her reticule over gloved wrist.

“Emily! How glad I am to see you. Are you leaving already?”

“Yes. Mamma has a headache and wants to go home.”

“So do I, as it happens. Might I beg a ride?”

“Of course. But surely your family would—?”

“Oh . . .” Margaret feigned a casual air. “The Bentons are not ready to leave, and I do hate to spoil their evening.”

Emily touched her arm, eyes concerned. “They cannot force you to marry him, you know.”

Margaret arched one brow. “Can they not? I shall hold you to it.” She gathered her shawl and followed her friend into the hall.

There, raised voices from the ballroom drew them back to its doors. Bang. Squeal—wood against wood. An overturned chair slid across the floor. The music stopped, one violin shrieking in protest as the musicians lowered their instruments one after the other, and dancers scattered.

Emily grasped Margaret’s wrist and pulled her into the ballroom. Margaret resisted, not wanting anyone to see her dressed to depart, but Emily ignored her and stepped closer. Both young women craned their necks to see past taller gentlemen and ladies’ feathers to identify the cause of the commotion.

Ringed by the cautious but curious crowd, two men stood, chests out, hands fisted. Both were tall and dark-haired. Lewis Upchurch stood facing their direction, his handsome features sparking with shock and irritation. For one moment, Margaret thought the other man was Piers Saxby, offended at the attention Lewis paid Miss Lyons. But in the next she remembered that Saxby wore evening dress beneath his tricorn hat, while the man facing Lewis wore trim buckskin breeches, tall boots, and a riding coat.

“You are needed at home,” the man growled.

Lewis smirked. “And hello to you too.”

“Now.”

The man’s profile came into view—a black beard obscured his features, making him look twice the pirate Saxby had appeared.

“Temper, temper, Nate. Are these the manners you learnt in the West Indies?”

Margaret gasped. It couldn’t be.

“And what of your manners?” the second man challenged. “Did Father not write and ask you to return home and do your duty?”

Nathaniel Upchurch. Margaret couldn’t believe it. Gone were the pale features, the thin frame, the hesitant posture, the spectacles. Now broad shoulders strained against his cutaway coat. Form-fitting leather breeches outlined muscular legs. The unfashionable dark beard emphasized his sharp cheekbones and long nose. His skin was golden brown. His hair unruly, some escaping its queue. Even his voice sounded different—lower, harsher, yet still familiar.

Lewis grinned. “I am doing my duty. I am representing our otherwise dull family during the important social season.”

Nathaniel glanced around as if suddenly aware of their audience. “Will you step outside to speak with me in private or shall I drag you?”

“You might try.”

Nathaniel grabbed Lewis’s arm, and Lewis lurched forward, caught off guard by the strength of the pull.

Beside her Emily whispered, “Is that Nathaniel Upchurch?”

Margaret nodded.

“But he is so changed. Had he not been arguing with his brother, I should not have recognized him. He looks, well, nearly savage, does he not?”

Again, Margaret managed a wooden nod.

“If I did not know better, I would think him a pirate.” Emily drew in a sharp breath. “Perhaps he is! Perhaps he is the Poet Pirate the papers are full of!”

Margaret barely heard her fanciful friend. Her mind was clouded with a vision of Nathaniel Upchurch as she had last seen him. Eyes wide, pained, and misty green behind smudged spectacles. His thin mouth downturned. Dejected.

Regaining his balance, Lewis shook his arm free. “Unhand me, ape.”

At the insult, Nathaniel slammed his fist into his brother’s jaw. Gasps and cries rose among the frozen guests, heating them to agitated life.

Margaret did not realize she had cried out as well, until Nathaniel’s head snapped in her direction.

For a second he stood there, stilled, one hand grasping his brother’s cravat, his other fisted. Across the distance, his gaze met hers. Margaret sucked in a breath at the intensity in those eyes. Intense not with love or longing, but with undisguised disgust. His thin lips twisted into a scowl, making his long nose hawklike.

If she had thought Lewis’s recent snub painful, Nathaniel’s reaction felt far more cutting, though not a single word had been exchanged. It was as she had feared. He had never forgiven her and could not stand the sight of her.

Margaret turned, snagging Emily’s hand and pulling her away.

“What a brute!” Emily panted behind her. “Are you not glad you rejected him when you did?”

Margaret was relieved. How fierce he looked. She had never before been frightened of him, nor had she imagined him capable of violence.

Margaret paused only long enough to whisper in her mother’s ear that the Lathrops were taking her home, then hurried away before she might object. Distracted as she was by the fight, her mother vaguely nodded. Sterling stood several yards away, his gaze trained on four guests in regimentals escorting the Upchurch brothers from the room. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Discussion Questions
1. How would you like to have a servant (or servants) living in your basement, attic, or guest room? Would the help be worth the loss of privacy to you?
2. If you lived a few hundred years ago, do you think it more likely you’d employ servants or be a servant? Why? If a servant, what type of work would you do best?
3. Did anything surprise you about the life of servants in the early 1800s? How well do you think you would cope if you found yourself in service in Regency England tomorrow?
4. Why do you think the author chose the opening quotation “Judge not according to the appearance.” How might that relate to the story?
5. Does Margaret change during the course of the novel, and if so, how?
6. Other than that of Nathaniel and Margaret, what relationship in the story intrigued you the most? How so?
7. If you could choose one character from the book to have over for dinner, which would you choose? What did you like about him or her?
8. Which characters, if any, would you like to know more about? What would you like to see occur in their lives after the story’s end?
9. If this book were ever made into a movie, which actors could you see in the leading roles?
10. If you had to choose one, would you prefer to live in a large country manor like Fairbourne Hall, a charming cottage like Lime Tree Lodge, or a posh London town house?


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