Chapter 1: Rituals Behind Closed Doors

If you asked anyone in Maple Heights, they'd say the young woman married the kind of man folks around here called solid—dependable, upright, the sort you'd trust with your best china or your daughter's hand. But behind closed doors, the story always started with her, with the way she looked at him on their wedding day, a flicker of hope and nerves in her eyes.

From the very first, people in town whispered about their marriage—how it was the sort of match folks in Maple Heights called a 'good old-fashioned union.' The kind the local paper would rush out to photograph for the society page—all lace, white gloves, and the couple standing there on the porch, stiff as fence posts, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. Everyone in town had an opinion, and nobody kept it to themselves for long.

When it came time to hire new housemaids, he named them Penny and Daisy. Folks around here said it was out of respect for his wife, a way to show he wasn't the kind of man who let his eyes wander. Some said it was his way of keeping things proper—choosing plain, forgettable names so no one could accuse him of getting ideas. Others, over a cup of coffee or a game of cards, would murmur, "Well, that's just Charles, trying to keep up appearances."

In the Whitaker house, everything had a reason—especially when it came to naming the help. The staff would snicker quietly in the back halls, saying the names were picked to keep things decent, to make sure no one forgot who was in charge. Everyone knew the rules, even if they pretended not to.

Every time the maids spent the night with him, the young woman would show up herself. She'd bring a glass of bitter herbal tea—"contraceptive," she called it—and stand by to watch them drink every last drop. No one dared refuse. The ritual was as much about control as anything else.

It was a ritual as cold as the marble in the entryway. She’d stand there, back straight, eyes never wavering, watching as each swallow drove a wedge between her and the messiness of other women's bodies. The air would turn icy, and you could almost feel her drawing a line that no one else could cross.

She insisted this was the proper conduct of a lady of the house—that this was how you kept things in order, how you handled your husband’s affairs in a respectable home. She wore her duty like armor, never letting it slip.

She’d say it to anyone who’d listen, her voice clipped and calm, daring anyone to argue. “It’s what’s done in a decent house,” she’d repeat, her chin lifted, daring anyone to say otherwise.

And then Penny died of mercury poisoning, and Daisy was sent away for disrespecting the mistress. The news traveled fast, leaving everyone in the house uneasy.

The staff whispered about it behind closed doors, but no one dared mention it aloud. Everyone knew. No one said a word. The air in the servants’ quarters grew heavy with fear, and the kitchen fell silent each time Mrs. Harper’s heels clicked down the hallway.

And so, the young woman set her sights on me. My heart sank the first time I caught her gaze—sharp, appraising, like she was already deciding where I’d fit in her plans.

It was only a matter of time. I could feel it coming. I knew it in the way she looked at me—like a chess player eyeing her next move. There was a chill to her attention, a quiet calculation that made my stomach knot.

Whenever I went with her to deliver the herbal tea, the master suite always felt half-finished—walls only half-painted, furniture that never seemed to fit. There was always something off, something waiting to happen.

The room felt like a stage set, caught between reality and pretense. The paint stopped short at the corners. Wallpaper peeled. The whole place felt... wrong, as if the house itself couldn’t quite settle into its role.

We’d stand outside the bedroom, ears pressed to the wall, hearts pounding. Every sound mattered.

There was always a hush, a tension in the air, as if we were waiting for a cue. The creak of bedsprings, muffled voices—every little noise was a signal. We learned to read them all, like a secret language.

When the sounds inside finally faded, I’d open the door at just the right moment. Timing was everything.

It was a practiced timing, the kind you only get from repetition. My hand hovered over the doorknob, counting heartbeats, waiting for the instant when silence fell, when it was safe to go in.

Behind the folding screen, Penny knelt on the floor, wrapped in a housecoat. She was helping the man into his shoes.

She moved with careful, practiced motions—her hands gentle, her eyes far away, as if she’d already slipped out of her own skin and left someone else behind to do the work.

The man sitting on the bed was none other than the young woman’s husband, Charles Whitaker, eldest son of the Whitaker family.

He looked every inch the part: pressed shirt, polished boots, the faintest whiff of aftershave lingering in the air. Charles—the golden boy, the one mothers pointed out at church, telling their daughters, "That’s the kind you marry."

He leaned back, his eyes flicking to Penny with nothing but contempt, as if she were something stuck to his shoe.

There was a sneer on his lips, the kind that made you feel small just for breathing the same air. He didn’t bother to hide it, not when no one important was watching.

But the second his wife walked in, his whole face softened. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

His voice changed in an instant—smooth as butter, all charm and practiced affection. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he really meant it.

The young woman glided forward, her face all shy sweetness. “Morning, darling.”

She walked with a dancer’s poise, her eyes bright, lips curled in a gentle smile. The whole thing looked like a family portrait—perfect, polished, a lie you almost wanted to believe.

After their brief exchange, Charles dressed himself and left the room. He moved briskly, not looking back. The moment he was gone, it was like the air finally loosened; everyone could breathe again.

Penny stayed kneeling while Mrs. Harper brought over a large glass of dark, bitter tea and watched her drink it all. The ritual was unbroken.

The tea steamed in the morning light, its smell sharp and metallic. Penny’s hands trembled just a little as she lifted the glass to her lips, but she didn’t dare hesitate.

Afterward, she dipped her head, thanking the mistress for the medicine. Her voice was barely above a whisper, the words rote and empty. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The young woman just waved her hand, dismissing her. “Alright, get to work.”

She didn’t even look at Penny, her attention already drifting elsewhere, as if the girl had ceased to exist the moment the glass was empty.

Penny retreated respectfully, eyes downcast, humble to the point of invisibility. She melted into the background, her footsteps soft on the hardwood floor. She was gone before you knew it.

I watched quietly, a heavy stone pressing on my chest. The helplessness was suffocating.

My hands curled into fists at my sides, frustration burning behind my ribs. There was nothing to do but bear witness. That was the hardest part.

Penny already had sores in her mouth and bloodshot eyes—clear signs of chronic mercury poisoning.

The pale blisters along her gums, the way she winced when she spoke—it was all there for anyone who cared to look. But in this house, sickness was just another inconvenience to be swept aside.

I realized then—there was no such thing as reliable birth control in this era. Not here. Not for girls like Penny.

For all the talk of progress, the truth was grim. The only things close to birth control were old wives’ tales and dangerous brews passed around in whispers.

Glass after glass of that tea was nothing but mercury and arsenic. Each dose was a gamble, a poison disguised as protection. The bitterness in the air was more than just the tea—it was the taste of fear and resignation.

I used to think, watching period dramas, that herbal teas were some kind of miracle birth control. But in reality, where would people here get such things? Especially in a place like this—the herbs were rare and precious, hardly something they’d give to a maid.

It was a childish fantasy, the kind you grow up believing until the world shows you otherwise. In Maple Heights, there were no miracle cures—only hard choices and harder consequences.

I hesitated, then tried to warn her. “That tea is dangerous. Penny’s health is already failing.”

I kept my voice low, hoping she’d hear the worry behind my words. My hands twisted in my apron as I spoke, heart pounding with the risk of saying too much.

She didn’t care at all. “What do you expect? She’s just a housemaid. Should I let my husband suffer for her sake?”

Her words were sharp as a slap. She didn’t even glance my way, her gaze fixed out the window as if the world outside had more value than the girl standing before her.

Pleasing men with her looks is already degrading. She chose this path, so whatever happens is her own fault.

She said it with the certainty of someone who’d never known real hunger or fear. I wondered if she even remembered what it felt like to be powerless.

I could only fall silent. The words stuck in my throat, thick and useless. My chest tightened with anger I couldn’t show.

Even though she and I came from the same place, she fit into this world with uncanny ease—sometimes even more obsessed with keeping up appearances than anyone else.

She wore her new life like a tailored coat, every button fastened, every seam pressed flat. I wondered if she ever missed the world we left behind, or if she’d simply decided to forget.

Good thing I kept my background hidden from the start. I’d learned quickly to keep my head down, to become just another shadow in the hallways. It was safer that way—safer to be invisible.

Her name was Evelyn Harper, daughter of a former state senator. In town, her father’s name still opened doors. The Harpers had been a fixture in local politics for decades, their influence lingering like the scent of old cigars in the courthouse.

She and Charles Whitaker were a perfect match in both status and name. People said they were the future of Maple Heights—the union of two old families, the promise of stability and tradition.

Ever since they got married, everyone said their relationship was perfect. In public, they played their roles flawlessly: the devoted husband, the gracious wife, the house full of well-behaved servants.

He slept with the maids; she forced them to drink the medicine. They worked together seamlessly. It was a partnership built on silent agreements and careful boundaries. They never argued where anyone could hear, never let the mask slip.

Before Evelyn entered the household, Charles had a few housemaids who were even more beautiful, but after she arrived, she disliked them and had them all sent away. She made her preferences clear from the start—no pretty faces, no temptations. The old staff was quietly dismissed, their names erased from the household ledger.

When he found out, he just shrugged and said, “That’s fine. I don’t care for seductive women anyway.” His indifference was legendary. The staff joked he’d hardly notice if the furniture changed overnight, as long as his coffee was hot in the morning.

Later, when the family elders started to gossip about her being too jealous, Evelyn took charge and picked two plain-looking girls as new housemaids. She did it with the precision of a general assembling her troops—no detail overlooked, no decision left to chance.

On the day they got their name tags, Charles personally named them: Penny and Daisy. He made a show of it, standing in the parlor with a glass of bourbon, the names rolling off his tongue like an afterthought.

To Charles, names were just labels—nothing more, nothing less. The staff might as well have been pieces of furniture. Everyone praised him for respecting his wife and not being a womanizer—truly a model husband.

The local ladies’ club gossiped about it for weeks. "If only my husband were so considerate," they’d sigh over bridge and sweet tea, never suspecting the truth beneath the surface.

Evelyn became the envy of all the society wives in Maple Heights. At every garden party, her name was on everyone’s lips. She was the gold standard, the one all the other wives measured themselves against.

At social gatherings, she would often teach others how to keep the maids in line and manage the household. She’d hold court in the drawing room, her voice low and confident, dispensing advice like it was gospel. The younger wives hung on her every word.

“As long as your husband loves and respects you, it doesn’t matter if he takes a few playthings. They can never escape your grasp anyway.” She’d say it with a knowing smile, her eyes glinting with the satisfaction of someone who believed she’d won the game.

When a close friend’s husband took a mistress, she would advise, “They’re just pit stops—he always comes home to you. No matter how nice the detour, one day he’ll come home.” Her words always drew nervous laughter, the kind that left a bitter taste in the mouth. But the other women nodded along, grateful for any scrap of wisdom.

Such words always won her a round of applause. The room would fill with polite clapping, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings and echoing down the hallways.

The society wives all praised her for being clear-headed and wise. They called her practical, level-headed—the kind of woman who knew how to keep her house in order. Secretly, they wondered what it cost her.

I never understood how someone raised in a modern world could fall into a rotting, festering mansion and still feel so at home, like a rat finding its way into the sewers. Sometimes, when I watched her glide through the halls, I wondered if she’d always been this way—if the world had changed her, or if she’d simply been waiting for a chance to show her true self.