Free The Maid of Fairbourne Hall by Julie Klassen Page A

her perch as far as the low leather backrest and the baggage behind would allow.
    When the guard had assisted the last passenger, he climbed up to his box at the rear and blew his yard of tin—first the “start,” then the “clear the road,” signal. Margaret cringed. The horn had never seemed so loud from inside a coach.
    The coachman called to his horses, “Get on lads. Walk on.”
    Soon, they were trotting down Southwark streets, gaining speed as they left the metropolis behind. The roads worsened, but this seemed no deterrent to the coachman, snapping his whip and urging his horses faster. Margaret sent up a prayer and held on tight. The careening coach rocked to and fro over the rutted road, and Margaret feared she would lose what little breakfast she had eaten. A man’s hat flew off, and the gusting wind pulled at her bonnet and wig. She could not imagine how the wind must bite and torture in winter. She risked loosing her handhold only long enough to tie the ribbons tighter before gripping the rail once more. At every turn, the coach pitched and the soldier’s body pressed against her side. He needed a bath.
    The stage stopped to pay tolls at several tollgates. The polite soldier leaned near and said, “I prefer traveling by Royal Mail when I can. They don’t have to stop and pay tolls.”
    Margaret nodded her understanding but did not mind the brief stops. They gave her a few moments to rub her aching hand and check her wig and spectacles. Joan, she noticed, bore the journey without complaint.
    Margaret leaned forward, mustered a smile, and said to her, “Could be worse. At least it is not raining.”

Maids attending [hiring] fairs carried distinctive
insignia to indicate their particular skills. Cooks,
for instance, wore a red ribbon and carried a basting
spoon, while housemaids wore blue and held a broom.
    â€”Pamela Horn, introduction to The Complete Servant
    Chapter 5

    S everal hours later, the stagecoach approached Maidstone, the county town of Kent, passing hop fields and cherry orchards as it neared. From across the river Medway, Margaret saw many stone and timber-framed buildings, paper mills, and an impressive church with great arched windows and a castle-like tower.
    The stage rattled over the bridge, and Margaret spied a boat moored along the riverbank and grain sacks being unloaded onto a wagon. The horses then trotted down a street lined with shops, a bluecoat school, and inns. Margaret read the signs as they passed: Gegan, Carver & Gilder, Miss Sarah Stranger, Ladies’ Boarding and Day School, The Queen’s Arms.
    The guard played “home” on his horn and the coach halted before the red brick Star Hotel. Hostellers rushed out to tend the horses, and the guard hopped from his perch. Taking his offered hand, Margaret climbed gingerly from the roof, knuckles aching, legs shaking. The soldier handed down the carpetbag and Joan’s valise, then hopped down himself, tipped his hat, and wished them well.
    Margaret looked around. Maidstone. Only thirty-five or forty miles from London. Not far enough away to Margaret’s way of thinking. And why did the town’s name ring a distant bell in her mind? She had never been there before, and she didn’t think she had any family nearby. If only she did have some kind relative, whom Sterling would not think to search down, who might take her in and hide her away. But she could think of no one.
    Margaret adjusted her windblown bonnet and glanced at Joan. “What is the plan?”
    â€œMy plan is to find work,” Joan said flatly. “I’d advise you to do the same.”
    Inwardly Margaret cringed. She would have to find some way to pay for lodgings, but she had no idea what sort of work she was equipped to do, unless one counted ornamental needlework. She had been an only child until Caroline and then Gilbert came along years later, and her father had treated her more as a