Chapter 2: The Price of a Name

I was sold into the Carter family at fifteen.

I vaguely remember that morning. My mother made me two sausage biscuits and dressed me in the new clothes she had sewn herself. Two older women circled around me, examining me as if I were livestock, grinning so wide their mouths could barely close.

The kitchen smelled of fried flour and cheap perfume. My mother’s hands trembled as she buttoned my coat, but her voice was bright, almost brittle. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, but I could feel her guilt clinging to me tighter than the new dress. The two women—the Carter house’s agents—looked me up and down like they were at the county fair, picking out a prize calf. Their laughter scraped at my nerves.

Mother was happy, too—the velvet pouch she held was heavy with shining silver dollars.

She clutched it tight, her knuckles white. It was more money than we’d ever seen at once. I could see the relief in her eyes, how she tried to hide the worry by fussing with my hair.

I thought I was only being sold as a maid to a wealthy household, so I didn't feel much sorrow. In our small Ohio town, almost every girl met such a fate. If you gained favor in the master's house, you might even visit home in the future—what was there to be sad about?

Everyone in the neighborhood knew someone who’d gone to work for the Carters or the Parkers up the hill. The local pastor said it was good fortune. My mother said it was a blessing, and pressed the biscuits into my hands as if they could protect me.

But when I arrived at the Carter estate, I finally understood: I had been bought to be a half-bed wife.

The old Lincoln rumbled up the gravel drive, tires crunching like bones, and the mansion’s porch lights glared down as if sizing me up. The house was bigger than any I’d ever seen—more windows than there were people in my entire grade. I knew then this was no ordinary maid’s job. My heart dropped somewhere deep inside me.

Such tricks were common in the deep, labyrinthine houses of the rich. The young master needed to know of such matters, but to avoid trouble before marriage, the arrangement of the half-bed wife was invented. They would choose girls from quiet, churchgoing families—girls with no one to come looking for them if things went wrong. Upon arrival, we were trained and made to drink bitter herbal tea to keep us from ever causing trouble. We served only on the first and fifteenth of each month, always with a gauze scarf over our faces. After leaving the bed, we would not recognize the master in daily life. No feelings would arise, and the inner household would remain peaceful.

I learned all these rules in the Carter servants’ quarters, whispered from older girls who’d seen it all. The tea tasted like dandelions and medicine, leaving my tongue numb and my stomach hollow. The gauze was scratchy, but they said it was to keep me humble. I kept my head down, eyes on the floor, and did as I was told.

Truly, it was cost-effective.

One of the older maids joked about it when she thought no one was listening: "Cheaper than a divorce settlement, and you never leave a trace."

When Mrs. Carter first saw me, she was all gentleness and grace. I was stripped bare by two older women, standing naked before them all—like livestock. Mrs. Carter, adorned in pearls and diamonds, circled me, scrutinizing every inch, even pinching me in front of everyone. Only then was she satisfied.

She wore a cashmere sweater and a string of pearls so heavy they looked like they could choke her. Her eyes were cold as glass. The other women handled me like a mannequin, turning me this way and that. My cheeks burned with shame.

"A good one. Only such a figure is worthy for my son to enjoy. Take her away for training."

Her voice was honeyed, but the words stung like vinegar. With a single sentence, I was led away again.

Mrs. Quinn was ruthless; I suffered much under her before finally gaining the young master's favor.

She ran the servant quarters with an iron fist, her voice always sharp, her shoes clicking down the hall like gunfire. I learned quickly to keep quiet, to move fast, to never look her in the eye. Every mistake cost me—sometimes a meal, sometimes a bruise.

I had thought that with the young master's favor, my days in the Carter residence would improve. But Mrs. Carter was truly strange. She wanted me to do all I could to please the young master, yet whenever he showed me the slightest kindness, she would fly into a rage and smash cups.

One night, I heard her shouting behind closed doors, the sound of breaking china echoing down the marble hallway. The staff walked on eggshells for days after. I learned to dread any sign of the young master’s interest, because it always meant punishment would follow.

Now, once again, I was kneeling in Willow Grove, the side courtyard. The noble lady in the main seat frowned coldly at me. "Do you know what mistake you have made?"

The Willow Grove was always cold, even in spring, shaded by old trees that never quite lost their leaves. Mrs. Carter sat there in her high-backed chair, looking down her nose at me as if I were a stain on her shoe.

I trembled, my mind racing. But thinking back, I had followed the rules these days—truly, I had made no mistake.

My heart thudded as I tried to recall every action, every word. Had I left a thread out of place, spoken out of turn? But I found nothing.

"This servant does not know..."

My voice shook, barely above a whisper. The other maids glared daggers at me from behind Mrs. Carter’s chair.

"You still dare to argue!" Mrs. Carter scolded harshly. "Then what is this?"

Something was tossed to the floor, so light it barely made a sound.

A soft thud, a scrap of white fluttering at my knees. The silence in the courtyard was heavy.

I looked closely. It was that handkerchief.

My heart clenched. I knew that handkerchief—had stitched it myself in stolen moments after midnight, when the world was quiet.