Post by landladymeredith on Mar 5, 2015 2:42:14 GMT
Hi, nerds! Long time, no see UvU
I stumbled back here for old times' sake and then I had a realization: I never posted my new original story here! I feel as though I've betrayed all of you ;u;
So here it is: Human, which takes place in the 1880s Victorian Era England and follows the adventures of a girl swept into London's underground. Please leave feedback or comments for me >u<
Chapter One
“Your maids here are quite delightful, Angus.”
The man sitting beside his wife at the table slides his greasy hands underneath my skirt and grabs onto my thigh. I wince as I feel his rough fingertips jam into my skin, though it appears the only one who noticed my odd composure is Mr. Todd, who sits across the table with a troubled expression as he watches me.
“Very sweet, they are,” says the man. “Pretty little things, too.” He fingers the lace along my stockings with his thumb.
“I do pride myself on my house-service, Mr. Clyde.” Mr. Todd is carefully eyeing me. He can’t help me. He doesn’t know what is happening.
As bruises form along my thigh, I carefully slip a glance towards the Mr. Clyde’s wife. Plump, blonde, and without a care in her head she is continuing to chat merrily with the others at the table. She does not notice her husband’s inappropriate behavior within the dark, safe haven of the table.
Most girls would slap such a disrespectful man, scream that he had touched them inappropriately, and in doing so would probably bring down all anger, attention, and embarrassment on her assailant. Yet, I continue with my smiling. No one would believe a maid. I have been told how to handle these kinds of situations.
“Is there anything else you all need?” I ask, my eyes pinned to Mr. Todd in a silent plea for dismissal.
Despite him being the ruler of the house, Mr. Todd has long since learned the language of maids, and with a nod he grants my wish. “You may go, Alice. I will call if we need you.”
To my dismay, Mr. Clyde beside me continues to clutch at my thigh, and I feel his fingertips inch towards my garter belt.
You are not going to touch me.
I quickly and smoothly push one hand under the table and, digging my nails into his skin, I shove his hand away from my leg and push my skirt back down.
I give a slight bow of respect to the guests at the table, and without even looking at Mr. Clyde’s expression I walk away from the table and towards the door leading to the kitchen. Behind me, I can almost hear the waves of anger emanating from Mr. Clyde.
I push open the door to the kitchen and close it behind me. My hand goes to my skirt, feeling the pain he left on my thigh. Thankfully, my garter belt remained in place—I give a sigh of relief when I discover this. I would not be serving Mr. Clyde anytime soon tonight.
I step away from the door and place my hands on the smooth, wooden countertops that sit along the sides of our kitchen. I inhale deeply, taking in the scents that were scattered across the kitchen like flour. The dessert in the oven, the far-off scent of pork and lavish foods—these factors seemed to sharpen my distress. I feel a sickening sense of nausea push into my stomach, and suddenly I want nothing more than to release whatever I had eaten for lunch that afternoon from my stomach.
“Alice?”
I turn my head and see a familiar maid uniform. When I meet the bright blue eyes of the wearer, I release a sigh and I remove my hand from the counter.
“Abby,” I say, making my way to her. “How is everything holding up on your end?”
“Who cares about me? What about you?” Abby asks me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I, embarrassed, bowed my head down as I felt my cheeks heat up. Despite the fact that Abby is my fellow house maid and friend, I am still reluctant to tell her of the events that just occurred.
“It’s nothing,” I murmured.
“Come on, Alice,” Abby pressed. She was persistent, for sure. “What’s the matter? Did something happen while you were serving?”
I twiddle my thumbs. She takes my silence as an answer.
“Something did happen! Come on then, Alice! What did they-”
“Ssh!” I hiss through my teeth. My hand flies to her mouth, covering it up and silencing her. “They might hear us!” Abby’s blue eyes widen, her head shifts just a little, her pale brown curls fall from her shoulder, and she is still.
There is silence between the two of us as we listen. Merry laughter—faint, but sure—can be heard coming from the dining room. I release a sigh of relief and, taking Abby’s hand, I pull her out of the kitchen and into the washroom across the hall.
Abby shuts the door behind us. Though the room is cramped, I can still pull up my skirts and rest my foot on the edge of the sink. Abby blushes; though we are both ladies, it is a little out-of-place for us to show our legs to each other.
I curse my own indecency for a moment and pull my skirt up past my thigh. I had my leg covered for the most part, however my boots only reached to my knees and my stockings only went a little higher than that. Long black straps lead from my gray stockings and lead up to my garter belt, which was thankfully hidden by my skirt. Abby and I may be friends, but even we have limits.
“Mr. Clyde shoved his hand under my skirt,” I murmured, gesturing to the red area below my garter belt. Abby’s eyes widen and she bends down to look at the affected area.
“Bloody Fwoosh's yard,” Abby murmured, “he really grabbed you. It’s bruising on the back.” She looks up to my face. “Did you tell Mr. Todd?”
“I couldn’t tell him right there in the dining room,” I reply. “I think he knew though.”
“Ah, love,” Abby sighs, straightening up and helping me pull my skirt down. “I’m so sick of this sort of thing happening to us.”
Things like the unwelcome groping were no rarity in the house. Though they weren’t exactly commonplace, when I had begun working at the estate when I was fourteen, another maid had been shoved against a wall by a drunken guest. She was saved, of course, just in time, but after that Mr. Todd began to crack down on those acts of unwelcome desire.
A meeting had been called, and the entire staff of the house was told exactly what to do should we encounter any issues with the guests: under no circumstances were we to harm the offender unless he had a maid pinned down and one of the staff members catches him. In that situation, we may push the offender away and hold him back until help arrives. However, we were made aware of one simple fact of the world we live in: of our staff, more than two-thirds are of the lower or middle class.
If we were to make a scene, none of the upper-class guests there would believe us.
So, we were taught to make a quiet getaway; to avoid an offender at the very first sign of trouble. It usually worked; the males of the staff were not as bothered by women (though it did happen on occasion) and the females of the staff learned to handle themselves.
Yet, we all were tired. Of the three maids of the staff—including myself and Abby—we were the most likely to be targeted.
“It can’t be helped,” I said. “No one would believe us if we told. Only Mr. Todd really knows.”
“Well, it should be stopped,” Abby huffed. “You’re far too young to have someone do that to you—you’re only nineteen for God’s sake; and God only knows what it’s done to poor Lizzie.”
Lizzie is the third maid of our trio; the one who had first been assaulted. She’s pretty; with thick yellow hair and fair skin, a smile that lights up the room. However, when she was shoved up against a the red wallpaper in the hallway upstairs, when a stranger’s hand traveled under her skirt and when he said things to her that would forever be trapped in her mind, she was never the same.
Lizzie became quiet and fragile. She had become so bad that our butler demoted her, switching my position with hers. I became the house maid and Lizzie became the scullery maid, upping my wages and lessening hers.
I feel a pang in my chest as I think of her. I can’t imagine anything she must have felt.
“Lizzie should have just up and left this place,” I mutter.
“She can’t, poor thing,” Abby answers. “Her whole family works to get some income. If she leaves here then what other place will take a girl who is scared of her own shadow?”
“You’re right about that,” I say.
Suddenly, there is a knock at the door. Abby grabs my arm in shock and I crane my neck to look at the door.
“Hey!” a male voice yells from outside. “Are you two lovebirds finished in there?”
I feel my face heat up and I angrily march over and open the door. Standing there is none other than Mr. Cooney, Mr. Todd’s butler. He looks tired; his wrinkled skin is coated in sweat and his white hair is going every which way. Nevertheless, as always his black tailcoat and pants are clean as a whistle. I resist taking a glance down to check and see if my own apron is clean and without stains.
“And what in the name of God are you two doing?” Mr. Cooney demands.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Abby says, standing beside me and bowing. “One of the guests-”
I feel a ball of humiliation roll up in my stomach.
“-I had felt sick,” I interrupt, “and Abby was making sure I was alright.”
Mr. Cooney’s hard gray eyes soften a little at my words. “Are you feeling alright, Alice?”
“I am fine now, sir,” I respond. I can feel Abby’s eyes bore into my cheek. “It must have been all the food—the scent was a little overwhelming.”
“Good. Now,” Mr. Cooney begins, turning towards Abby, “Abigail, you go and serve the guests outside. Alice, go and clean the kitchen.” His eyes darken. “Leave not a speck of dirt in there, do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” I can’t help but shake a little under his steely gaze. He may be concerned over my health but he can be quite threatening when it comes to doing our jobs right.
“Good. See to it.” Mr. Cooney claps his hands twice and immediately, Abby and I hurry back to the kitchen. As she hurries by me, she takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze before releasing and hurrying to the liquor cabinet.
As I enter the kitchen I see the familiar dark brown head of hair that is coated in flour and I realize with relief that Finny is back from wherever he was. He is preoccupying himself with getting dessert out of the oven, and the sweet scent of sugar and fruit is almost overwhelming. The pastries Finny has removed from the oven are a golden yellow, cut into delicate, fluffy little squares. He has a bowl of a white, fluffy icing beside him as well as a smaller bowl of blueberries.
Finny, with his clean white chef’s uniform, turns to me and grins cheekily.
“Aye, Alice,” Finny says just as Abby pushes past the door and into the dining room. “You look a bit melancholy; what’s happened?”
“It’s nothing,” I lie. I have no desire whatsoever to tell Finny, a boy of about nineteen—my age—about my experience. So, with a shrug he returns to his work.
“If you could sweep a bit in here while I prepare this,” Finny mutters, “then I’d be f’ever in your debt.” He makes a small gesture with his scarred, calloused hand to the supply closet pressed to the wall a little ways to my right. I smile and turn to the closet, twisting the silver doorknob in my hand and swinging the door open. The broom is nestled among a large array of cleaning supplies, utensils, and remedies.
“Has Lizzie been around at all?” I ask Finny as I grab the room, hoping to stir up some conversation between us.
Finny shakes his head as he spreads a thick icing over each golden pastry before him.
“Nah,” Finny mutters. “She’s in the servant’s quarters. Sleeping, I guess.”
“And is Ivan around?”
“Putting the horses away.”
I begin to sweep up the stray clumps of flour and sugar into a pile on the floor.
“And everyone else?” I ask.
“You’re full o’ questions today, ain’t you?” Finny snickers.
I can’t help but smile a little. “I’m just trying to start conversation.”
“Yeah, well, dinner’s ending,” Finny goes on, pressing blueberries to the top of each pastry, “so the guests will either leave or be too drunk to go anywhere. The rest of the staff is heading to bed, most likely.”
I sigh. “Perhaps I should head that way too.”
Finny tears his gaze away from dessert and looks to me. “Why’s that?”
“Just… tired is all,” I fib. “I’ll clean up here and push off.”
“Ah, well,” Finny responds. “I’ll clean up the counter if you can sweep up in here. Mr. Cooney’ll kill you if you don’t have everything spick n’ spam.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. I made the mess—I should clean it.”
I beam at this and feel a blush creep up onto my cheeks.
“That’d be grand—thank you, Finny.”
Before Finny can respond, the door to the dining room swings open. I turn and expect to see Abby returning from the table, but instead I see one of the guests from the very table she was serving. He is small—about my height and build, however he is as pale the moon outside. Short, dark bangs cradle his forehead, and his eyes are frightening. He’s scowling, his eyebrows furrowed in what I can only assume is annoyance and his eyes are half-lidded and sharp. He wears nice clothes—a cravat hangs from his neck and a nice coat adorns his figure—he must be a nobleman. Despite his angry-looking features he is quite handsome.
I recall seeing him across the table when I had been serving, but I didn’t pay much heed to him after that. He stands in the doorway for what feels like forever, looking Finny and me up and down like we’re meat and he is a wolf.
“Can I help you, sir?” I finally ask.
The man pins his gaze onto me, and under his cold gray eyes I feel my hands clutch my broom a little tighter.
“Sir?” I timidly ask.
There is a silence, and for a moment I see something flicker in his eyes.
“No, thank you,” the man responds. “I just need to use your washroom.”
“Oh,” Finny begins. “It’s right down the hall, a little ways across from here-”
The scowling man barely listens to Finny. With his hair glistening in the light of the kitchen he marches across the floor and out into the hall.
Finny and I wait until we can hear a door close farther away, and then Finny heaves a sigh.
“Well,” he growls, “that was interesting.”
“Indeed,” I murmur. I shrug my shoulders and go back to sweeping. “Maybe someone at the table said something that bothered him.”
“The upper-class gets bothered at every little thing.”
“Probably.”
What an odd man, I think as the broom catches a few crumbs hidden in the shadows.
When the door to the servant’s quarters latches shut behind me, I heave a tired sigh and lean my back against the door.
“Come on, now,” Abby chastises me as she unties her apron. “You can’t be that tired.”
Abby stands in front of the first of the three beds lined up with the headboards against the wall. The beds have plain white sheets, the walls have no decorations. At the end of each bed is a dresser containing each maid’s personal belongings, like clothes and other items. There is a window right above the middle bed, where I sleep, and on the windowsill is a tiny picture frame. On the ceiling there is a dim, flickering ceiling light. I notice that, lying in the farthest bed, there is a lump hidden underneath the blankets.
“Is that Lizzie?” I whisper breathlessly, gesturing to whatever is on the bed. Abby nods.
“Yeah,” Abby answers, her blond hair falling from her shoulder as she turns back to removing her uniform. “She’s been asleep all night. Best not wake her.” She turns her neck to me as she fiddles with the buttons on her dress. “Oy, help a girl out, would you?”
Sighing once again I make my way over to Abby. She has already undid the buttons on her dress, and I help her hoist up her skirt over her head and remove the dress. She stands in a long-sleeved, collared white shirt and her petticoat. She begins to fiddle with the buttons on her shirt.
“Be a dear and help me with my corset,” Abby tells me.
I can’t help but smile a little.
“You and your fancy clothes,” I tease.
Abby gives me a funny look. “We all wear them! It’s just…” She sticks her nose in the air. “… Mine’s a bit tighter.”
I giggle a little. When Abby removes her shirt I help loosen up the ties at the back of her corset.
“So,” she asks me as I pull on a particularly tight string, “how’d it go with you and Finny?”
“Just fine—he cleaned up with me after dessert was served and I got to leave sooner than I thought. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason,” Abby says, her tone playful and teasing. “I just saw that when your back was turned he was… well, to put it simply, he’s crazy for you.”
I feel my face heat up and my eyes widen.
“A-Abby, what are you saying?!” I demand.
“Only that he likes you. A lot.” Abby winks at me. In frustration and annoyance, I aggressively yank at one of the strings and she squeaks in surprise.
“Hey! Watch it!” Abby growls at me.
“Sorry.” I begin to undo the last of the strings and she slips off her corset. Her bare back is turned to me as she pulls her nightgown from her bed. I hold the bottom of her petticoat as she steps out of it, and I straighten up as she shimmies her arms into the sleeves of her nightgown. I’m sure to keep my gaze on the floor as she quickly slips on her white gown.
“You can look now,” Abby murmurs. As I straighten up, she goes on, “I don’t see what your deal is—you’ve always said that you want to get married someday. You’re of the age!”
I narrow my eyes. “You just told me earlier tonight that I’m too young.”
“To be goin’ to town with an older man!” Abby exclaims. “You need someone just as old as you, if not a year or two younger.”
Suddenly, Lizzie stirs a bit from across the room and Abby and I fall silent. She turns over in her sleep, her short brown hair going every which way and her pale skin glowing in the dim light. I wait a moment to see if her sides are rising and falling evenly, and then I heave a sigh of relief.
“Finny’s adorable,” Abby goes on in a whisper. “And he likes you. He’s honorable, kind, hardworking, and he can cook! Why not give him a chance?”
I bow my head down in embarrassment. She’s right—Finny is a good man. But right now I don’t want any part of a romance whatsoever. Maybe soon, but certainly not now. Not when a man I do not know just felt up my thigh.
“Never mind that,” I mutter, “just be ready to help me with my corset.”
Abby rolls her eyes and sits on the bed.
“Right then,” Abby sighs. “C’mere and I’ll untie your apro-”
Suddenly there is a loud knocking on the door. It is quite near pounding at the door, yet not quite there. The sound makes Abby and I jump in fright, and I squeak in surprise at the sound.
There is a silence, and then it comes again.
Abby and I are still and silent when she suddenly says, “Well, go answer it.”
Carefully, I smooth out my skirt and make my way over to the door just as there is another barrage of knocks. Twisting the doorknob in my hand, I carefully pull open the door just a sliver and peek out into the hall.
Mr. Cooney is standing there with a clean white pitcher in one hand and a tray with a clean glass sitting upon it in the other.
“Mr. Cooney?” I ask tentatively. It is quite odd that the butler would come to the maid’s quarters in the dead of the night.
“Pardon me, Alice,” Mr. Cooney whispers breathlessly, “but are any of you still in uniform?”
I open the door a little wider and nod. “Yes, sir. What is it?”
“One of you needs to take this upstairs to Mr. Clyde’s room. The man is stinking drunk and is staying here tonight.” My fear must have shown because Mr. Cooney eyes me suspiciously. “Is something the matter, Alice? Did he do something to you?”
“N-No sir.” Telling him would change nothing; it would only humiliate me further. “I’ll take it up.” Fear clutches at my stomach and threatens to choke me if I speak any further.
“Good. I’d do it myself, but the Master needs me and I must prepare for the morrow.”
I swallow hard and nod. I hold my hands out and Mr. Cooney places the pitcher in my hands—it is heavy, and upon looking inside I see that it is full of water. Holding onto the handle with one hand, I take the tray with the other and thank God that years of working as a maid have left me with strong arms. But for some reason my arm is shaking as I clasp the pitcher.
“Be careful with him—drunkards will do anything nowadays,” Mr. Cooney warns before rushing off down the hall. I stand there, listening to his fading footsteps for what feels like forever. Then they are gone and now there is no going back.
I turn my head towards Abby. She is regarding me with a worried look.
“Do you need me to get back in uniform?” she asks me. “Because I will if you don’t want to.”
I shake my head and force a smile. “No, it’s alright,” I answer. “I can do it. His wife must be staying here too; she’ll definitely see if he pulls anything.”
“Did she see it when he felt you up last time?”
She didn’t. She didn’t and I’m afraid he’ll do something worse, I think. But for some reason I just smile and say, “I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
“Alice, you look white as a sheet.”
“I’ll just be a minute. If anything happens I’ll get out of there right quick.”
I can feel Abby’s eyes boring into my back even as I turn to leave. When I close the door the fear in my stomach claws its way up my throat and suddenly I feel sick. A foreboding, perhaps, or maybe it is simply my own imagination, but I have a feeling that something—probably something not very good—is about to occur.
I run into Mr. Clyde’s wife as I approach the large, shiny wooden staircase that starts in the Great Hall and leads to the bedrooms upstairs. She is strutting down the steps with a dignified air, walking the kind of jaunt that a person who is trying to be seen as a noblewoman would make. Her nose in the air, her dress swaying with each step, she is the epitome of “rich man’s wife.”
When she sees me at the bottom of the stairs, with my head bowed in respect, she hurries down the steps and stops in front of me.
“Are you heading upstairs?” Mr. Clyde’s wife asks me, her voice high-pitched and warm.
“Yes, ma’am,” I respond. “I’m bringing this up to your room.”
“Fantastic!” The woman smiles a sweet smile, taking me aback a little. “You’re free to go right on in—the man’s drunk as ever. He’ll be fast asleep. One you’re at the top of the stairs, turn right, and our room’s just at the end of the hall. Don’t even knock—he won’t mind.”
I nod and bow my head. I can’t help but feel a little relief that the man is asleep. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, and when you’re finished, would you be a dear and tell Mr. Todd to call a coach for us in the morning?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Thank you, dear.”
“Good night, madam.”
“Sleep well, love.”
And with those words and a sweet smile, Mr. Clyde’s wife marches away and turns into a hallway. I can’t help but stare in disbelief. Usually, wealthy ladies aren’t as kind to the help as that woman just was. I decide that she is either a good actress or she’s simply a good woman, and then I proceed to move up the grand staircase.
Nevertheless, my arms are still trembling.
The stairs are white and pristine, made of a fine material akin to marble or perhaps some other substance. The railing is black and solid, cold beneath one’s fingertips. The staircase curves to one side and takes you straight up to the bedrooms and sleeping quarters upstairs. Mr. Todd and whatever guest stays the night sleep upstairs. The hallway that holds these rooms is adorned in a dark red wallpaper as well as different paintings. There is a portrait of Mr. Todd as well as a few framed certificates for whatever awards he’s won.
I mount the staircase and step up into the wide hallway. The fear in my chest is squeezing at my heart, making it beat faster and my arms shake a little more. Reluctantly, I make a turn to the right from the staircase, my breathe coming out in quiet, rapid puffs. The ball of nervousness in my stomach felt huge, and suddenly I realized just how afraid I was.
He’s asleep, I think, trying to calm myself. He won’t do anything. You weren’t at all afraid of him when you pushed his hand off of your thigh—why are you scared now? He’s asleep. He won’t do anything. He’s asleep.
I can see the wooden door at the end of the hall. The floorboards creak a little with each step, but with each agonizing second it seems to quiet a little. My nose itches a tad, but I tell myself to bear it until I was out of the woods.
You have nothing to be afraid of. You weren’t scared before; you shouldn’t be now!
The door is only a little ways off now. I quicken my pace as my confidence slowly begins to grow. As I walk, I set the pitcher on the tray and hold it with both of my hands. I can do it. Nothing’s going to happen. I’ll pour some water and leave. That’ll be it.
I stop in front of the door and take a deep breath. The glass and the pitcher both sit atop the tray, my apron appears to be smooth, and all seems right. I ready myself and tell myself one more time that it will all be alright.
I turn my left shoulder to the door and push it open. It creaks loudly, almost like the call of the banshees in the stories Abby likes to scare the staff with.
I put on a smile and take a step into the room. The light is off, but when I open the door light floods into the room and partially lights it up.
“Mr. Clyde, I have some-”
Something warm and wet hits my cheek.
I stop. That is when I see red. Not the red wallpaper outside, for the wallpaper in the guest rooms are white—as are the bed sheets. At least, they normally are.
This red is sticky, thick, and upon seeing it pooling all across the wooden floor, I swear that my heart stops. Some of it is splattered across the wall, the rest climbing across the floor like rats. It is spattered across the bed sheets, I can see in the dim light, and that’s when I realize what it is. It’s blood—blood that comes from a real, living creature, blood that means that something was wounded. The amount of blood suggests something fatal. I feel dizzy all of a sudden.
I look on the floor and draw in a sharp breath. There, I see Mr. Clyde lying down in the midst of all the blood. He is on his back, blood falling from his mouth, his dark eyes staring right at me. His eyes are glazed over, yet, clear as day, I can see the terror trapped within them. His teeth are red with his own blood, his night gown mostly red but with remnants of white along his sides. There is so much blood. And his eyes are begging me to save him, but I know I’m too late.
My lip trembling, I look up. Three young men, two of whom I recognize as guests we had had over. One of those two is the man Finny and I encountered in the kitchen. This man, failing to hide the shock in his eyes as he stares straight at me, is standing half-turned towards me, a bloodied knife in his hand and a stained handkerchief in the other. The other two men, both taller than the first, are partially hidden away in the dark. But I can see—or maybe I just know—that their eyes are all on me.
Using one hand to hold the tray, my other reaches up to my cheek. I can feel it trembling, but I dare not take my eyes off of the three men in front of me. They stand still, completely still—frighteningly still—as my middle finger touches the wet substance that had hit my cheek earlier.
When I move my shaking hand away, I dare to look at it.
A tiny droplet of blood is stuck to my finger.
The world seems to stop all around me. The weight of the tray leaves my hand, and a scream escapes my lips before the tray and its contents even hits the ground.
I stumbled back here for old times' sake and then I had a realization: I never posted my new original story here! I feel as though I've betrayed all of you ;u;
So here it is: Human, which takes place in the 1880s Victorian Era England and follows the adventures of a girl swept into London's underground. Please leave feedback or comments for me >u<
Chapter One
“Your maids here are quite delightful, Angus.”
The man sitting beside his wife at the table slides his greasy hands underneath my skirt and grabs onto my thigh. I wince as I feel his rough fingertips jam into my skin, though it appears the only one who noticed my odd composure is Mr. Todd, who sits across the table with a troubled expression as he watches me.
“Very sweet, they are,” says the man. “Pretty little things, too.” He fingers the lace along my stockings with his thumb.
“I do pride myself on my house-service, Mr. Clyde.” Mr. Todd is carefully eyeing me. He can’t help me. He doesn’t know what is happening.
As bruises form along my thigh, I carefully slip a glance towards the Mr. Clyde’s wife. Plump, blonde, and without a care in her head she is continuing to chat merrily with the others at the table. She does not notice her husband’s inappropriate behavior within the dark, safe haven of the table.
Most girls would slap such a disrespectful man, scream that he had touched them inappropriately, and in doing so would probably bring down all anger, attention, and embarrassment on her assailant. Yet, I continue with my smiling. No one would believe a maid. I have been told how to handle these kinds of situations.
“Is there anything else you all need?” I ask, my eyes pinned to Mr. Todd in a silent plea for dismissal.
Despite him being the ruler of the house, Mr. Todd has long since learned the language of maids, and with a nod he grants my wish. “You may go, Alice. I will call if we need you.”
To my dismay, Mr. Clyde beside me continues to clutch at my thigh, and I feel his fingertips inch towards my garter belt.
You are not going to touch me.
I quickly and smoothly push one hand under the table and, digging my nails into his skin, I shove his hand away from my leg and push my skirt back down.
I give a slight bow of respect to the guests at the table, and without even looking at Mr. Clyde’s expression I walk away from the table and towards the door leading to the kitchen. Behind me, I can almost hear the waves of anger emanating from Mr. Clyde.
I push open the door to the kitchen and close it behind me. My hand goes to my skirt, feeling the pain he left on my thigh. Thankfully, my garter belt remained in place—I give a sigh of relief when I discover this. I would not be serving Mr. Clyde anytime soon tonight.
I step away from the door and place my hands on the smooth, wooden countertops that sit along the sides of our kitchen. I inhale deeply, taking in the scents that were scattered across the kitchen like flour. The dessert in the oven, the far-off scent of pork and lavish foods—these factors seemed to sharpen my distress. I feel a sickening sense of nausea push into my stomach, and suddenly I want nothing more than to release whatever I had eaten for lunch that afternoon from my stomach.
“Alice?”
I turn my head and see a familiar maid uniform. When I meet the bright blue eyes of the wearer, I release a sigh and I remove my hand from the counter.
“Abby,” I say, making my way to her. “How is everything holding up on your end?”
“Who cares about me? What about you?” Abby asks me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I, embarrassed, bowed my head down as I felt my cheeks heat up. Despite the fact that Abby is my fellow house maid and friend, I am still reluctant to tell her of the events that just occurred.
“It’s nothing,” I murmured.
“Come on, Alice,” Abby pressed. She was persistent, for sure. “What’s the matter? Did something happen while you were serving?”
I twiddle my thumbs. She takes my silence as an answer.
“Something did happen! Come on then, Alice! What did they-”
“Ssh!” I hiss through my teeth. My hand flies to her mouth, covering it up and silencing her. “They might hear us!” Abby’s blue eyes widen, her head shifts just a little, her pale brown curls fall from her shoulder, and she is still.
There is silence between the two of us as we listen. Merry laughter—faint, but sure—can be heard coming from the dining room. I release a sigh of relief and, taking Abby’s hand, I pull her out of the kitchen and into the washroom across the hall.
Abby shuts the door behind us. Though the room is cramped, I can still pull up my skirts and rest my foot on the edge of the sink. Abby blushes; though we are both ladies, it is a little out-of-place for us to show our legs to each other.
I curse my own indecency for a moment and pull my skirt up past my thigh. I had my leg covered for the most part, however my boots only reached to my knees and my stockings only went a little higher than that. Long black straps lead from my gray stockings and lead up to my garter belt, which was thankfully hidden by my skirt. Abby and I may be friends, but even we have limits.
“Mr. Clyde shoved his hand under my skirt,” I murmured, gesturing to the red area below my garter belt. Abby’s eyes widen and she bends down to look at the affected area.
“Bloody Fwoosh's yard,” Abby murmured, “he really grabbed you. It’s bruising on the back.” She looks up to my face. “Did you tell Mr. Todd?”
“I couldn’t tell him right there in the dining room,” I reply. “I think he knew though.”
“Ah, love,” Abby sighs, straightening up and helping me pull my skirt down. “I’m so sick of this sort of thing happening to us.”
Things like the unwelcome groping were no rarity in the house. Though they weren’t exactly commonplace, when I had begun working at the estate when I was fourteen, another maid had been shoved against a wall by a drunken guest. She was saved, of course, just in time, but after that Mr. Todd began to crack down on those acts of unwelcome desire.
A meeting had been called, and the entire staff of the house was told exactly what to do should we encounter any issues with the guests: under no circumstances were we to harm the offender unless he had a maid pinned down and one of the staff members catches him. In that situation, we may push the offender away and hold him back until help arrives. However, we were made aware of one simple fact of the world we live in: of our staff, more than two-thirds are of the lower or middle class.
If we were to make a scene, none of the upper-class guests there would believe us.
So, we were taught to make a quiet getaway; to avoid an offender at the very first sign of trouble. It usually worked; the males of the staff were not as bothered by women (though it did happen on occasion) and the females of the staff learned to handle themselves.
Yet, we all were tired. Of the three maids of the staff—including myself and Abby—we were the most likely to be targeted.
“It can’t be helped,” I said. “No one would believe us if we told. Only Mr. Todd really knows.”
“Well, it should be stopped,” Abby huffed. “You’re far too young to have someone do that to you—you’re only nineteen for God’s sake; and God only knows what it’s done to poor Lizzie.”
Lizzie is the third maid of our trio; the one who had first been assaulted. She’s pretty; with thick yellow hair and fair skin, a smile that lights up the room. However, when she was shoved up against a the red wallpaper in the hallway upstairs, when a stranger’s hand traveled under her skirt and when he said things to her that would forever be trapped in her mind, she was never the same.
Lizzie became quiet and fragile. She had become so bad that our butler demoted her, switching my position with hers. I became the house maid and Lizzie became the scullery maid, upping my wages and lessening hers.
I feel a pang in my chest as I think of her. I can’t imagine anything she must have felt.
“Lizzie should have just up and left this place,” I mutter.
“She can’t, poor thing,” Abby answers. “Her whole family works to get some income. If she leaves here then what other place will take a girl who is scared of her own shadow?”
“You’re right about that,” I say.
Suddenly, there is a knock at the door. Abby grabs my arm in shock and I crane my neck to look at the door.
“Hey!” a male voice yells from outside. “Are you two lovebirds finished in there?”
I feel my face heat up and I angrily march over and open the door. Standing there is none other than Mr. Cooney, Mr. Todd’s butler. He looks tired; his wrinkled skin is coated in sweat and his white hair is going every which way. Nevertheless, as always his black tailcoat and pants are clean as a whistle. I resist taking a glance down to check and see if my own apron is clean and without stains.
“And what in the name of God are you two doing?” Mr. Cooney demands.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Abby says, standing beside me and bowing. “One of the guests-”
I feel a ball of humiliation roll up in my stomach.
“-I had felt sick,” I interrupt, “and Abby was making sure I was alright.”
Mr. Cooney’s hard gray eyes soften a little at my words. “Are you feeling alright, Alice?”
“I am fine now, sir,” I respond. I can feel Abby’s eyes bore into my cheek. “It must have been all the food—the scent was a little overwhelming.”
“Good. Now,” Mr. Cooney begins, turning towards Abby, “Abigail, you go and serve the guests outside. Alice, go and clean the kitchen.” His eyes darken. “Leave not a speck of dirt in there, do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” I can’t help but shake a little under his steely gaze. He may be concerned over my health but he can be quite threatening when it comes to doing our jobs right.
“Good. See to it.” Mr. Cooney claps his hands twice and immediately, Abby and I hurry back to the kitchen. As she hurries by me, she takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze before releasing and hurrying to the liquor cabinet.
As I enter the kitchen I see the familiar dark brown head of hair that is coated in flour and I realize with relief that Finny is back from wherever he was. He is preoccupying himself with getting dessert out of the oven, and the sweet scent of sugar and fruit is almost overwhelming. The pastries Finny has removed from the oven are a golden yellow, cut into delicate, fluffy little squares. He has a bowl of a white, fluffy icing beside him as well as a smaller bowl of blueberries.
Finny, with his clean white chef’s uniform, turns to me and grins cheekily.
“Aye, Alice,” Finny says just as Abby pushes past the door and into the dining room. “You look a bit melancholy; what’s happened?”
“It’s nothing,” I lie. I have no desire whatsoever to tell Finny, a boy of about nineteen—my age—about my experience. So, with a shrug he returns to his work.
“If you could sweep a bit in here while I prepare this,” Finny mutters, “then I’d be f’ever in your debt.” He makes a small gesture with his scarred, calloused hand to the supply closet pressed to the wall a little ways to my right. I smile and turn to the closet, twisting the silver doorknob in my hand and swinging the door open. The broom is nestled among a large array of cleaning supplies, utensils, and remedies.
“Has Lizzie been around at all?” I ask Finny as I grab the room, hoping to stir up some conversation between us.
Finny shakes his head as he spreads a thick icing over each golden pastry before him.
“Nah,” Finny mutters. “She’s in the servant’s quarters. Sleeping, I guess.”
“And is Ivan around?”
“Putting the horses away.”
I begin to sweep up the stray clumps of flour and sugar into a pile on the floor.
“And everyone else?” I ask.
“You’re full o’ questions today, ain’t you?” Finny snickers.
I can’t help but smile a little. “I’m just trying to start conversation.”
“Yeah, well, dinner’s ending,” Finny goes on, pressing blueberries to the top of each pastry, “so the guests will either leave or be too drunk to go anywhere. The rest of the staff is heading to bed, most likely.”
I sigh. “Perhaps I should head that way too.”
Finny tears his gaze away from dessert and looks to me. “Why’s that?”
“Just… tired is all,” I fib. “I’ll clean up here and push off.”
“Ah, well,” Finny responds. “I’ll clean up the counter if you can sweep up in here. Mr. Cooney’ll kill you if you don’t have everything spick n’ spam.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. I made the mess—I should clean it.”
I beam at this and feel a blush creep up onto my cheeks.
“That’d be grand—thank you, Finny.”
Before Finny can respond, the door to the dining room swings open. I turn and expect to see Abby returning from the table, but instead I see one of the guests from the very table she was serving. He is small—about my height and build, however he is as pale the moon outside. Short, dark bangs cradle his forehead, and his eyes are frightening. He’s scowling, his eyebrows furrowed in what I can only assume is annoyance and his eyes are half-lidded and sharp. He wears nice clothes—a cravat hangs from his neck and a nice coat adorns his figure—he must be a nobleman. Despite his angry-looking features he is quite handsome.
I recall seeing him across the table when I had been serving, but I didn’t pay much heed to him after that. He stands in the doorway for what feels like forever, looking Finny and me up and down like we’re meat and he is a wolf.
“Can I help you, sir?” I finally ask.
The man pins his gaze onto me, and under his cold gray eyes I feel my hands clutch my broom a little tighter.
“Sir?” I timidly ask.
There is a silence, and for a moment I see something flicker in his eyes.
“No, thank you,” the man responds. “I just need to use your washroom.”
“Oh,” Finny begins. “It’s right down the hall, a little ways across from here-”
The scowling man barely listens to Finny. With his hair glistening in the light of the kitchen he marches across the floor and out into the hall.
Finny and I wait until we can hear a door close farther away, and then Finny heaves a sigh.
“Well,” he growls, “that was interesting.”
“Indeed,” I murmur. I shrug my shoulders and go back to sweeping. “Maybe someone at the table said something that bothered him.”
“The upper-class gets bothered at every little thing.”
“Probably.”
What an odd man, I think as the broom catches a few crumbs hidden in the shadows.
When the door to the servant’s quarters latches shut behind me, I heave a tired sigh and lean my back against the door.
“Come on, now,” Abby chastises me as she unties her apron. “You can’t be that tired.”
Abby stands in front of the first of the three beds lined up with the headboards against the wall. The beds have plain white sheets, the walls have no decorations. At the end of each bed is a dresser containing each maid’s personal belongings, like clothes and other items. There is a window right above the middle bed, where I sleep, and on the windowsill is a tiny picture frame. On the ceiling there is a dim, flickering ceiling light. I notice that, lying in the farthest bed, there is a lump hidden underneath the blankets.
“Is that Lizzie?” I whisper breathlessly, gesturing to whatever is on the bed. Abby nods.
“Yeah,” Abby answers, her blond hair falling from her shoulder as she turns back to removing her uniform. “She’s been asleep all night. Best not wake her.” She turns her neck to me as she fiddles with the buttons on her dress. “Oy, help a girl out, would you?”
Sighing once again I make my way over to Abby. She has already undid the buttons on her dress, and I help her hoist up her skirt over her head and remove the dress. She stands in a long-sleeved, collared white shirt and her petticoat. She begins to fiddle with the buttons on her shirt.
“Be a dear and help me with my corset,” Abby tells me.
I can’t help but smile a little.
“You and your fancy clothes,” I tease.
Abby gives me a funny look. “We all wear them! It’s just…” She sticks her nose in the air. “… Mine’s a bit tighter.”
I giggle a little. When Abby removes her shirt I help loosen up the ties at the back of her corset.
“So,” she asks me as I pull on a particularly tight string, “how’d it go with you and Finny?”
“Just fine—he cleaned up with me after dessert was served and I got to leave sooner than I thought. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason,” Abby says, her tone playful and teasing. “I just saw that when your back was turned he was… well, to put it simply, he’s crazy for you.”
I feel my face heat up and my eyes widen.
“A-Abby, what are you saying?!” I demand.
“Only that he likes you. A lot.” Abby winks at me. In frustration and annoyance, I aggressively yank at one of the strings and she squeaks in surprise.
“Hey! Watch it!” Abby growls at me.
“Sorry.” I begin to undo the last of the strings and she slips off her corset. Her bare back is turned to me as she pulls her nightgown from her bed. I hold the bottom of her petticoat as she steps out of it, and I straighten up as she shimmies her arms into the sleeves of her nightgown. I’m sure to keep my gaze on the floor as she quickly slips on her white gown.
“You can look now,” Abby murmurs. As I straighten up, she goes on, “I don’t see what your deal is—you’ve always said that you want to get married someday. You’re of the age!”
I narrow my eyes. “You just told me earlier tonight that I’m too young.”
“To be goin’ to town with an older man!” Abby exclaims. “You need someone just as old as you, if not a year or two younger.”
Suddenly, Lizzie stirs a bit from across the room and Abby and I fall silent. She turns over in her sleep, her short brown hair going every which way and her pale skin glowing in the dim light. I wait a moment to see if her sides are rising and falling evenly, and then I heave a sigh of relief.
“Finny’s adorable,” Abby goes on in a whisper. “And he likes you. He’s honorable, kind, hardworking, and he can cook! Why not give him a chance?”
I bow my head down in embarrassment. She’s right—Finny is a good man. But right now I don’t want any part of a romance whatsoever. Maybe soon, but certainly not now. Not when a man I do not know just felt up my thigh.
“Never mind that,” I mutter, “just be ready to help me with my corset.”
Abby rolls her eyes and sits on the bed.
“Right then,” Abby sighs. “C’mere and I’ll untie your apro-”
Suddenly there is a loud knocking on the door. It is quite near pounding at the door, yet not quite there. The sound makes Abby and I jump in fright, and I squeak in surprise at the sound.
There is a silence, and then it comes again.
Abby and I are still and silent when she suddenly says, “Well, go answer it.”
Carefully, I smooth out my skirt and make my way over to the door just as there is another barrage of knocks. Twisting the doorknob in my hand, I carefully pull open the door just a sliver and peek out into the hall.
Mr. Cooney is standing there with a clean white pitcher in one hand and a tray with a clean glass sitting upon it in the other.
“Mr. Cooney?” I ask tentatively. It is quite odd that the butler would come to the maid’s quarters in the dead of the night.
“Pardon me, Alice,” Mr. Cooney whispers breathlessly, “but are any of you still in uniform?”
I open the door a little wider and nod. “Yes, sir. What is it?”
“One of you needs to take this upstairs to Mr. Clyde’s room. The man is stinking drunk and is staying here tonight.” My fear must have shown because Mr. Cooney eyes me suspiciously. “Is something the matter, Alice? Did he do something to you?”
“N-No sir.” Telling him would change nothing; it would only humiliate me further. “I’ll take it up.” Fear clutches at my stomach and threatens to choke me if I speak any further.
“Good. I’d do it myself, but the Master needs me and I must prepare for the morrow.”
I swallow hard and nod. I hold my hands out and Mr. Cooney places the pitcher in my hands—it is heavy, and upon looking inside I see that it is full of water. Holding onto the handle with one hand, I take the tray with the other and thank God that years of working as a maid have left me with strong arms. But for some reason my arm is shaking as I clasp the pitcher.
“Be careful with him—drunkards will do anything nowadays,” Mr. Cooney warns before rushing off down the hall. I stand there, listening to his fading footsteps for what feels like forever. Then they are gone and now there is no going back.
I turn my head towards Abby. She is regarding me with a worried look.
“Do you need me to get back in uniform?” she asks me. “Because I will if you don’t want to.”
I shake my head and force a smile. “No, it’s alright,” I answer. “I can do it. His wife must be staying here too; she’ll definitely see if he pulls anything.”
“Did she see it when he felt you up last time?”
She didn’t. She didn’t and I’m afraid he’ll do something worse, I think. But for some reason I just smile and say, “I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”
“Alice, you look white as a sheet.”
“I’ll just be a minute. If anything happens I’ll get out of there right quick.”
I can feel Abby’s eyes boring into my back even as I turn to leave. When I close the door the fear in my stomach claws its way up my throat and suddenly I feel sick. A foreboding, perhaps, or maybe it is simply my own imagination, but I have a feeling that something—probably something not very good—is about to occur.
I run into Mr. Clyde’s wife as I approach the large, shiny wooden staircase that starts in the Great Hall and leads to the bedrooms upstairs. She is strutting down the steps with a dignified air, walking the kind of jaunt that a person who is trying to be seen as a noblewoman would make. Her nose in the air, her dress swaying with each step, she is the epitome of “rich man’s wife.”
When she sees me at the bottom of the stairs, with my head bowed in respect, she hurries down the steps and stops in front of me.
“Are you heading upstairs?” Mr. Clyde’s wife asks me, her voice high-pitched and warm.
“Yes, ma’am,” I respond. “I’m bringing this up to your room.”
“Fantastic!” The woman smiles a sweet smile, taking me aback a little. “You’re free to go right on in—the man’s drunk as ever. He’ll be fast asleep. One you’re at the top of the stairs, turn right, and our room’s just at the end of the hall. Don’t even knock—he won’t mind.”
I nod and bow my head. I can’t help but feel a little relief that the man is asleep. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, and when you’re finished, would you be a dear and tell Mr. Todd to call a coach for us in the morning?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Thank you, dear.”
“Good night, madam.”
“Sleep well, love.”
And with those words and a sweet smile, Mr. Clyde’s wife marches away and turns into a hallway. I can’t help but stare in disbelief. Usually, wealthy ladies aren’t as kind to the help as that woman just was. I decide that she is either a good actress or she’s simply a good woman, and then I proceed to move up the grand staircase.
Nevertheless, my arms are still trembling.
The stairs are white and pristine, made of a fine material akin to marble or perhaps some other substance. The railing is black and solid, cold beneath one’s fingertips. The staircase curves to one side and takes you straight up to the bedrooms and sleeping quarters upstairs. Mr. Todd and whatever guest stays the night sleep upstairs. The hallway that holds these rooms is adorned in a dark red wallpaper as well as different paintings. There is a portrait of Mr. Todd as well as a few framed certificates for whatever awards he’s won.
I mount the staircase and step up into the wide hallway. The fear in my chest is squeezing at my heart, making it beat faster and my arms shake a little more. Reluctantly, I make a turn to the right from the staircase, my breathe coming out in quiet, rapid puffs. The ball of nervousness in my stomach felt huge, and suddenly I realized just how afraid I was.
He’s asleep, I think, trying to calm myself. He won’t do anything. You weren’t at all afraid of him when you pushed his hand off of your thigh—why are you scared now? He’s asleep. He won’t do anything. He’s asleep.
I can see the wooden door at the end of the hall. The floorboards creak a little with each step, but with each agonizing second it seems to quiet a little. My nose itches a tad, but I tell myself to bear it until I was out of the woods.
You have nothing to be afraid of. You weren’t scared before; you shouldn’t be now!
The door is only a little ways off now. I quicken my pace as my confidence slowly begins to grow. As I walk, I set the pitcher on the tray and hold it with both of my hands. I can do it. Nothing’s going to happen. I’ll pour some water and leave. That’ll be it.
I stop in front of the door and take a deep breath. The glass and the pitcher both sit atop the tray, my apron appears to be smooth, and all seems right. I ready myself and tell myself one more time that it will all be alright.
I turn my left shoulder to the door and push it open. It creaks loudly, almost like the call of the banshees in the stories Abby likes to scare the staff with.
I put on a smile and take a step into the room. The light is off, but when I open the door light floods into the room and partially lights it up.
“Mr. Clyde, I have some-”
Something warm and wet hits my cheek.
I stop. That is when I see red. Not the red wallpaper outside, for the wallpaper in the guest rooms are white—as are the bed sheets. At least, they normally are.
This red is sticky, thick, and upon seeing it pooling all across the wooden floor, I swear that my heart stops. Some of it is splattered across the wall, the rest climbing across the floor like rats. It is spattered across the bed sheets, I can see in the dim light, and that’s when I realize what it is. It’s blood—blood that comes from a real, living creature, blood that means that something was wounded. The amount of blood suggests something fatal. I feel dizzy all of a sudden.
I look on the floor and draw in a sharp breath. There, I see Mr. Clyde lying down in the midst of all the blood. He is on his back, blood falling from his mouth, his dark eyes staring right at me. His eyes are glazed over, yet, clear as day, I can see the terror trapped within them. His teeth are red with his own blood, his night gown mostly red but with remnants of white along his sides. There is so much blood. And his eyes are begging me to save him, but I know I’m too late.
My lip trembling, I look up. Three young men, two of whom I recognize as guests we had had over. One of those two is the man Finny and I encountered in the kitchen. This man, failing to hide the shock in his eyes as he stares straight at me, is standing half-turned towards me, a bloodied knife in his hand and a stained handkerchief in the other. The other two men, both taller than the first, are partially hidden away in the dark. But I can see—or maybe I just know—that their eyes are all on me.
Using one hand to hold the tray, my other reaches up to my cheek. I can feel it trembling, but I dare not take my eyes off of the three men in front of me. They stand still, completely still—frighteningly still—as my middle finger touches the wet substance that had hit my cheek earlier.
When I move my shaking hand away, I dare to look at it.
A tiny droplet of blood is stuck to my finger.
The world seems to stop all around me. The weight of the tray leaves my hand, and a scream escapes my lips before the tray and its contents even hits the ground.
