The Maid of Fairbourne Hall by Julie Klassen Read Free Book Online Page A

are,” Peg explained as if reading her thoughts. “There’s a bit of light from the window, if you need it. And embers in the stove.”
    Joan disappeared into the apartment’s only separate room. She returned a moment later and tossed something onto the floor. Margaret realized with sinking dread that she was meant to sleep on an old blanket on the floor.
    Margaret stood there, waiting for Joan to help her undress. But Joan followed her sister back into the bedchamber.
    Margaret whispered after her, “Joan?”
    â€œYou’re on your own now, miss,” Joan said. “I am a maid no longer.” She shut the door behind her.
    Well. She needn’t be so snippy, Margaret thought, oddly chastised as well as annoyed. She decided she was too tired to undress in any case and settled down atop the thin scratchy blanket on the floor, hoping no mice or rats decided to join her there.

    Margaret awoke on her side, stiff. Her hip bone ached from being pressed against the hard floor. Sunlight, filtering through sooty windows, shone on the grey wool blanket she had pulled over herself in the night. Likely it had once been the golden hue of boiled wool. As she pushed it away, something furry brushed her hand. She gasped and bolted to her feet. A dark, hairy form fell from her shoulder to the floor. She shrieked, only to realize it was not a rat, but her wig. She quickly bent and pulled it on. Another creature appeared before her and she reared back and nearly shrieked again. This creature had a small pale face, curtained by stringy ginger hair.
    â€œHello,” the little girl said, staring at her. “Who are you?”
    â€œI am . . .” Who am I? Margaret’s brain was a fog. She remembered Joan saying she ought not give her real name. Probably wise. If Sterling came here to question Joan’s sister, Peg might say Joan had been there with someone, but not that a Margaret had been there.
    â€œI am a . . . friend . . . of Joan’s.”
    â€œIs Aunt Joan here, too?”
    â€œYes. In your mamma’s room, I believe.” She made no effort to disguise her voice with the child.
    The little girl tilted her head to one side. “What’s wrong with your hair?”
    Margaret reached up and realized her wig was askew. She righted the wig and muttered lamely, “Always a mess in the morning. You, on the other hand, have very pretty hair.” She said it hoping to distract the girl. She did not want her reporting to Sterling or a runner that a blond lady wearing a wig had been there. That would give away her disguise and make Sterling’s search all the easier.
    She eyed the girl’s stringy hair again. “Or you could have. When was the last time you combed it?”
    The little girl shrugged.
    Margaret looked away from the girl to survey her surroundings. One end of the room housed a small stove, cupboards, and table and chairs. The other end held a pallet bed complete with sleeping boy and baskets heaped with fabric. Apparently Joan’s sister was a seamstress of sorts. Margaret spied a piece of broken mirror hanging on the wall by a ribbon and walked over to it, checking her wig and cap and wiping a smear of kohl from between her eyes.
    â€œI want breakfast,” the little girl pouted.
    â€œAnd I want to be a thousand miles from here,” Margaret whispered to the stranger in the mirror.
    Peg stepped out of the bedchamber, tying on an apron and stifling a yawn. She said, “Light the fire, will you?”
    Margaret looked at the little girl. She seemed awfully young to be trusted with fire. It took Margaret a few seconds to realize Peg had asked her.
    Margaret had poked at many a drawing room fire but had never actually laid one. She eyed the small stove. A bucket with a few pieces of coal sat at the ready.
    Joan came out of the room, a toddler on her hip. She glanced at Margaret, then smiled down at the boy. “This