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

is little Henry.”
    â€œNamed for his father, he is.” Peg pulled a sack of oats from the cupboard.
    â€œPapa is gone to sea,” a boy of seven or eight piped up. Margaret had not seen him rise from the pallet bed. “I am going to sea one day too.”
    â€œNot for a few more years, Michael. Don’t be in a hurry,” Joan said, an indulgent dimple in her cheek.
    Margaret caught Joan’s eye, and nodded her head toward the stove. Joan frowned at her, uncomprehending.
    â€œHaven’t you got that fire lit yet?” Peg asked, not looking up as she pulled a pot from the cupboard.
    â€œUm. . . . no. I am not certain . . .”
    â€œI’ll do it,” Joan said in a long-suffering manner, placing the child in Margaret’s arms.
    At least this was something Margaret could do. Having two siblings many years younger than herself, she knew how to hold a child.
    Margaret settled the child against her and soon felt dampness seep into her gown. Ugh. She wondered if she could manage to change him. At Lime Tree Lodge, they had employed a nursery maid to deal with soiled nappies.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” the older boy asked her.
    â€œMy name?” Margaret echoed stupidly. “Ah . . .” Her mind whirled. “Elinor,” she said, choosing her middle name.
    â€œBut she goes by Nora,” Joan added, perhaps finding the name too grand—or too close to her real name.
    â€œMake the porridge, will you, Nora?” Peg said. “I’ve got six orders of piecework to finish today.” Peg glanced up. “You do know how to make porridge, I trust?”
    â€œâ€™Course she does,” Joan said. “You go about your work, Peg, and we’ll manage breakfast.”
    Peg nodded and crossed the room to the waiting baskets.
    When her back was turned, Joan whispered, “Peg makes thin gruel for the children. It’s better for their little stomachs.”
    And cheaper , Margaret thought, but did not say so.
    â€œSix parts water to one part groats. Can you manage that? Unless you’d rather change Henry?”
    â€œNo thank you. I shall give gruel a go.”
    â€”——
    Later, after they had eaten thin, lumpy, mildly scorched gruel with neither milk nor sugar, Margaret fumbled her way through drying the pot, spoons, and basins as Joan washed. As she did so, she thought about something Joan had said—that Peg’s name and address were recorded in Benton’s staff records as Joan’s next of kin. Sterling might very well put two and two together and knock on Peg’s door any moment looking for her. Margaret shuddered. She could not stay there long.
    After the dishes were put away, Joan sat down with a wrinkled copy of a newspaper a few days old, reading through the advertisements. Not knowing what else to do, Margaret pulled her comb from her bag and went to work on the little girl’s hair, untangling then plaiting the ginger strands.
    Peg glanced from her sewing to Joan, still bent over the newspaper. “Any luck, Joan?”
    Joan shook her head. “It seems everyone wants maids-of-all-work here in town. That’s one fate I should like to avoid.”
    Reaching the end of the girl’s hair, Margaret looked around for a ribbon or something else to secure it.
    Peg tossed her a thin scrap of muslin. “Here.”
    Margaret tied the end of the plait, and the girl stroked her coppery braid, smiling coyly up at Joan. “Am I pretty, Aunt Joan?”
    Joan looked from her niece to Margaret, then back again. “Pretty is as pretty does, little miss. You remember that.”
    The jab was intended for her, Margaret realized. At the moment, being pretty seemed of little use. What should she do ?

The “Gentleman Pirate” . . . a retired British
army major with a large sugar plantation in Barbados,
abandoned his wife, children, land and fortune; bought
a ship; and