At the breaking of dawn, Lady Margaret rose with quiet resolve and straightaway summoned her maid to prepare her for the duties of the day. When she was made ready, she gave orders that Mr. Whitby, along with the overseers of every department within the household, be assembled in the great hall. There she received them with gracious composure, addressing each by name and inquiring, with attentive ear, what provisions were lacking and what improvements might ease their labours. With clear judgment she then spoke of the renovation of the manor, declaring her desire that every chamber, passage, and office should be restored in fair order and in accordance with a discerning taste. Yet, even as she gave direction, her manner bore kindness; for she reminded them that the house was not merely walls and chambers, but a dwelling wherein each servant and steward held an honoured part. Thus did her words blend authority with gentleness, so that all present departed in full knowledge that she governed not only with power, but with care for those entrusted to her.
From the hour of that first assembly, it was perceived by all who served within the manor that Lady Margaret possessed not only the right to command but also the heart to govern. Where before she had been regarded as young and perhaps untried, now she stood before them as mistress indeed. Her words had carried weight, her countenance bore calm dignity, and her attentive consideration of each servant's need wrought a change in their hearts. Respect deepened into loyalty, and loyalty into trust; so that even the most seasoned among them, who had long served under her late father, acknowledged her authority with willing spirit.
Lady Margaret's governance of the manor was soon evident not only within its walls but throughout the whole of Hampstead. When she first summoned her household to account, the servants and overseers had regarded her with cautious eyes, uncertain whether so young a mistress could bear the weight of authority. Yet as the days lengthened into weeks, her conduct dispelled all doubt. She spoke with firmness yet never harshness, she listened as carefully as she directed, and above all, she demonstrated an unwavering resolve to see her designs completed. Thus did the household grow steady in their respect, and the villagers soon marked that the lady of the house possessed a spirit equal to her station.
The work of renovation began with the great dining chamber, which had stood dark and oppressive for near a century. The oak panels upon the walls had gathered dust and soot until they seemed almost black. Lady Margaret commanded the carpenters to strip and polish the wood, restoring its natural grain until the surface gleamed with a rich, golden brown. The ancient table, too, was not discarded, for she held reverence for her father's furniture, but it was burnished to a sheen and its clawed feet strengthened with iron braces forged by the village smith. Upon the floor was laid a Turkey carpet woven with crimson and threads of gold, its pattern a labyrinth of vines and flowers such as few in Hampstead had ever seen. From the ceiling was suspended a chandelier of cut crystal, whose prisms caught the light of a dozen wax candles, casting rainbowed reflections upon the walls. When at last the chamber was revealed, it was as if the very heart of the manor had been reborn, both stately and welcoming.
From thence the labourers proceeded to the withdrawing room. Lady Margaret, with her discerning eye, directed that the cracked plaster mouldings be entirely re-cast. Plasterers from London were summoned to fashion cornices in the shapes of acanthus leaves, laurel wreaths, and tiny cherubic faces, while local painters applied a soft ivory wash to the walls. The upholsterers laboured for weeks, fitting the chairs and settees in velvet of dove grey with trimmings of silver cord. Curtains of damask, heavy yet elegant, were hung upon brass rods, their folds sweeping to the carpet in majestic form. To complement these, she commissioned a series of new hearth tiles, glazed in pale blue and white, depicting pastoral scenes of sheep, cottages, and fields in bloom. So great was the transformation that many among the staff, when first they entered, declared they had stepped into a chamber more fitting for a palace than a manor.
The long gallery, once a draughty corridor where portraits of stern ancestors hung in shadow, was next attended. Stonemasons were brought in to repair the mullioned windows, replacing fractured panes with glass of superior clarity. To keep out the cold winds of Hampstead's hills, Lady Margaret ordered heavier sashes of polished oak, their fittings bound with wrought iron latches. The gallery's ceiling, which had grown discoloured with time, was repainted in a pale sky blue, so that daylight streaming through the tall windows seemed to mingle with the heavens themselves. She commanded that each portrait be removed, cleaned, and reframed in gilt mouldings, so that the faces of her forebears looked down not with gloom but with dignified pride. The gallery became a promenade of splendour, where guests might wander and converse beneath the watchful eyes of history.
The library underwent a transformation equally profound. Shelves of walnut wood were erected, their surfaces polished with linseed oil until they shone like amber. A ladder on brass rails was fitted, that scholars might reach the upper shelves with ease. Into the room were carried volumes bound in calf and morocco leather, their spines stamped with gilded letters. A large globe, imported from Amsterdam, was set in the corner, and a writing desk of rosewood with brass inlay was placed by the window. Lady Margaret declared that knowledge should be housed with dignity, and that the room must inspire both study and conversation. When finished, the library bore the air of both scholarship and elegance, so that even the stewards, unlettered though some were, marvelled at its refinement.
The bedchambers, too, did not escape her attention. Once austere, they were softened with curtains of chintz in patterns of roses and ivy. Quilts of needlework were laid upon the beds, embroidered by village women whose craft Lady Margaret both admired and rewarded. Porcelain basins and ewers, painted with blue garlands, were set upon polished wash stands, and the floors were strewn with rugs of woven wool. She took especial care that the chambers of her servants were not neglected, ordering new mattresses of straw and fresh linen, declaring that comfort was the rightful portion of all who laboured in her house. Such generosity was not soon forgotten, and it bound the loyalty of her household yet more strongly to her.
The works extended also to the exterior. The stonework of the manor, weathered by time, was scrubbed and pointed anew, so that the façade gleamed pale against the green of the lawns. Iron gates at the entrance were reforged, their bars twisted into patterns of vines and leaves, and lanterns of polished brass were set upon stone pillars to light the way for visitors. The gardens, too, were refreshed: gravel walks were laid in clean lines, yew hedges trimmed to precise form, and flower beds planted with roses, tulips, and lilies. A new fountain, carved in marble by an Italian mason, was set at the centre, from which water played in sparkling jets that delighted all who beheld it.
Such labours consumed many weeks, indeed several months, and the hum of industry within the manor was constant. Carpenters with their saws and hammers, masons with their chisels, smiths with their anvils, upholsterers with their needles, all moved in steady rhythm under Lady Margaret's direction. She herself walked the corridors daily, observing the progress with keen eye, praising diligence and correcting negligence. Her presence was neither idle nor overbearing; rather, it conveyed that she was mistress of both vision and execution.
Yet in Hampstead, as in every village, tongues were quick to wag. In the taverns men shook their heads, saying the young lady spent her father's fortune with too liberal a hand. Jonathan's father was loudest in censure, declaring that no good would come out of her, if his son were to marry her; she will squander all of their family's wealth the way she is doing to her fathers. In the marketplace women whispered that the manor was becoming a showpiece fit only for London gentry and that Lady Margaret sought to dazzle rather than to govern. Even in the pews of the parish church, sermons were shaded with warnings against vanity and worldly excess, which many took as gentle rebuke to her endeavours.
But alongside such murmurings rose other voices. There were villagers who had gained employment in the works, and their families praised her for the wages she paid promptly and in full. Craftsmen boasted of their part in the splendour, pointing with pride to the iron gates or the painted basins that bore their handiwork. Mothers spoke gratefully of the linen Lady Margaret had purchased from their looms, and fathers of the carpentry she had commissioned for their sons. Thus the gossip was divided: while some muttered of waste, others declared that she brought prosperity not only to the manor but to the village itself.
Guests who came to the house were astonished. They beheld the new splendour and proclaimed it among the finest seats in the county. One visiting gentleman remarked that it rivalled certain halls in Bath and Oxford. The villagers, too, though some grumbled, could not but feel a stirring of pride that Hampstead now possessed a manor of such elegance. For even when they scoffed at its luxury, they boasted of it to travellers, as though the house reflected glory upon themselves.
Lady Margaret, for her part, bore both praise and censure with equal composure. She gave no answer to her detractors, save that her works were carried out with purpose. And indeed, her purpose was plain: to restore the manor not only as her home, but as a place of dignity for all who served within it, as a wages work for those with a workshop and hasn't gotten to work or sell much and as a beacon of refinement for all who visit. By her steady hand, what had once seemed a fading relic of her father's time was transformed into a house renewed in splendour, yet alive with the warmth of her benevolence.
Thus it came to pass that the people of Hampstead beheld their young mistress in a new light. No longer was she spoken of as merely the daughter of the late lord; she was now acknowledged as a lady in her own right, both capable and resolute. Even those who censured her extravagance could not deny her authority. Respect deepened into trust, and trust into a loyalty that would serve her well in the years to come.