Chapter 3: The Shame of a Lily Pad

On the plain white handkerchief, only a single lily pad was lightly embroidered.

The thread was green, delicate as a spring breeze. My fingers ached with memory. I was startled, just about to explain, when a slap knocked my head to the side.

The world spun for a second, and I tasted blood at the corner of my mouth. The slap was hard and practiced.

"Shameless thing!"

The words echoed through the courtyard. I pressed my lips together, fighting the sting in my eyes.

"How dare you try to use a handkerchief to make the young master remember you—who do you think you are?"

Mrs. Quinn stepped forward, pointing at my nose, her words sharp as knives. Mrs. Carter, seated above, remained as noble and composed as ever.

The accusation felt absurd, but the venom behind it was real. I kept my gaze fixed on the hem of Mrs. Carter’s skirt, counting the pearls on her bracelet just to ground myself. I wanted to vanish, to melt into the flagstones beneath Mrs. Carter’s stare.

I trembled inside, wanting to explain: "I truly had no such intention, this handkerchief was for... for..."

The words stuck in my throat. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, shame and fear twined together.

The handkerchief was indeed something I had kept in private. But it was not to seduce the young master. Although Henry Carter appeared cold and aloof in public, in private he was...

Different. There was something softer about him in the dark, in those quiet moments between midnight and dawn. Still, my own needs were so small, so invisible—never for him to see.

Every time I left the young master's room, I was always in a sorry state. For the sake of decency, I secretly kept the handkerchief to clean myself.

I blushed at the thought, humiliation burning in my gut. I could never say this out loud—not to Mrs. Carter, not to anyone.

But such shameful words—I couldn't say them aloud.

The silence stretched. My hands twisted in my lap, knuckles white.

Naturally, Mrs. Carter didn't want to hear my explanation, either. She looked at me with disgust and waved her hand dismissively: "Give her fifty slaps, let her remember this lesson."

Her words were cold, final. I saw the other maids’ faces twist with anticipation, some with pity, most with glee.

"If Henry brings me anything else to look for someone, none of you will be spared. All will be thrown out together with this wretch!"

The threat rippled through the room like a chill draft. Even Mrs. Quinn paled.

Everyone knelt to beg forgiveness. When they looked at me again, their eyes were full of even deeper hatred.

I saw my fate reflected in their glares—an outsider, a scapegoat. No one would defend me, not here.

I was dragged out like a piece of trash.

My arms were wrenched, my feet barely brushing the marble tiles as they pulled me down the hall. The world blurred, pain and shame mingling until I was hollow inside.

It was late at night when I finally returned to the inner quarters. The little maid, Piper, who shared my room, looked at my swollen face with barely concealed glee.

She sat cross-legged on her cot, a book open but forgotten in her lap. Her eyes danced with mean delight as she took in my battered state.

"What? Weren't you favored by the young master? Now you've had a good beating—aren’t they worried the young master won’t want you if you’re all banged up?"

Her voice was light, mocking. I tried not to let it sting, but the ache in my face made it hard.

Mrs. Carter certainly wasn't afraid. After all, each time I served, my face was covered with a gauze scarf. The young master probably didn't even know what I looked like—how could he see the injuries on my face? For a half-bed wife, it was enough to keep the skin on your body unmarked. As for the face—what did it matter?

I pressed a cool, damp rag to my cheek, blinking back tears. In this house, faces didn’t matter—only bodies did.

My cheeks throbbed with pain. I didn't want to respond, but Piper still came over to jab at me:

She leaned in, her voice low. "You may have pretty hazel eyes and rosy cheeks, but the young master may not care about you. When the young mistress arrives, your days will be numbered."

Her words hung in the air, sharp as the smell of bleach and old wood that filled our tiny room. The mention of a young mistress was a threat I’d heard whispered for weeks—the promise of my own irrelevance.

Piper had originally been the chief maid in Henry Carter's room. If not for me, she would have become the young master's live-in maid—a personal attendant who sometimes shared his bed. It was almost a certainty, but now it was impossible. Naturally, she resented me.

She’d confided once, late at night, about her dreams of leaving the Carter estate with a little savings and a recommendation letter. I’d stolen that future from her without even meaning to.

But I only smiled. "You're right, Piper. How could I ever have your good fortune?"

My voice was quiet, almost kind. There was no bitterness left—just resignation. Even if she never became a live-in maid, when she came of age, she could take her contract and leave the household. How could she be like me—used up, and left to rot in this mansion?

The silence between us was thick. Piper’s eyes paused; she pouted and said nothing more. I finally had a moment's peace.

She turned away, muttering to herself as she climbed into bed. The moonlight through the window painted long stripes across the floor.

She probably knew, too—whether servant or maid, I was the lowest in the house. Who could be lower than me?

But what could I do?

I stared at the cracked ceiling, counting the seconds until morning, wishing for something—anything—different.