Chapter 3: Betrayals and Bargains

Not long after Penny was gone, Daisy got into trouble too. The house felt emptier without her laughter. The other girls grew quieter, wary, as if waiting for the next storm to break.

She secretly begged the second son in another wing to take her in. It was a desperate gamble, the kind you only make when you’ve run out of options.

Second Son Andrew Whitaker was notorious for his affairs and had a house full of maids and companions—but he was generous and treated his servants well. Rumor had it he slipped extra bills into their pockets, turned a blind eye to mistakes. For some, that was all the kindness they’d ever know.

If she went to him, at least she wouldn’t have to drink mercury tea anymore. It was a small mercy, but in this house, small mercies mattered.

Normally, a request like that wasn’t unusual. It happened often enough that the staff barely blinked. But this time, things were different.

But Evelyn called it betrayal. To her, loyalty was everything. Any hint of disobedience was met with swift, merciless punishment.

In the backyard, the switch fell again and again on Daisy’s body, leaving her bloody and battered. The sound of the lash echoed off the brick walls, sharp and unforgiving. The other maids turned away, their faces pale with fear.

“I always knew you were restless. A lowborn girl like you, trying to seduce the second son? Eating from one hand while reaching for another!” Evelyn’s voice was ice-cold, her words cutting deeper than the switch. She didn’t care about Daisy’s tears, only her own wounded pride.

Daisy sobbed, “Please, ma’am, spare me. I just want to live. I don’t want to end up like Penny.” Her voice broke on Penny’s name. The plea hung in the air, unanswered.

At the mention of Penny, Evelyn grew even more impatient. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth twisting in disgust. She saw only insolence, never fear.

“What nonsense! That girl was just unlucky. When did I ever mistreat her?” She spat the words out, refusing to see the truth staring her in the face.

“Since you’re so eager to seduce men, let’s see you do it to your heart’s content!” With a flick of her wrist, she sealed Daisy’s fate.

She ordered twenty lashes for Daisy and sold her off to a brothel. The staff watched in silence as Daisy was led away, her head bowed, her future stolen. No one dared speak up.

After venting her anger, she swept her gaze over the rest of us in the backyard. Her eyes lingered on each of us, a silent warning burning in their depths.

“See that? This is what happens to traitors!” Her voice rang out, sharp as a bell. The message was clear: step out of line, and you’ll suffer the same fate.

“Servants should know their place. When the master wants someone gone, that’s how it is. That’s how it works around here—master calls the shots, and we all fall in line. Got it?” She paused, letting her words sink in. No one dared meet her gaze.

All the maids and servants bowed their heads and agreed. The words came out in a chorus, flat and lifeless. We were ghosts, not people.

With two housemaids gone in quick succession, the commotion finally reached Charles’s mother, Mrs. Whitaker. She was a formidable woman, her presence filling the room like a thundercloud. When she spoke, everyone listened.

When Evelyn went to pay her respects, she was scolded:

Mrs. Whitaker’s voice was sharp as a whip. “Our family has always treated our staff kindly. Almost lost two lives over the holidays—imagine what people will say if word gets out!”

Worried about being labeled as jealous, Evelyn finally turned her attention to me. Her eyes settled on me, cold and calculating. I knew what was coming before she spoke.

“Grace, would you be willing to serve Charles?” My heart leapt into my throat. I tried to keep my face blank, but my hands shook.

My eyelid twitched, and fear filled my heart. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms. There was no safe answer.

Before I could answer, she said calmly,

She smiled, all false sweetness. “You’re my dowry maid—the personal maid I brought into the marriage. If you’re unwilling, I won’t force you. But you’re of marriageable age now. You can’t wait forever. The other day, Mrs. Dawson asked me to set her son up. Jacob Dawson seems like a decent man.”

Her words were honeyed poison, each syllable a threat wrapped in velvet. I knew what kind of life Jacob Dawson offered—a gambler, a brute, a man no one wanted.

Jacob Dawson was the groundskeeper’s son, just thirty, and a notorious gambler. He’d lost half his wages at the racetrack, the other half in backroom poker games. His father despaired, but no one could stop him.

Looking at her gentle smile, I felt nothing but bitter irony. It was a mercy, she’d say—a choice. But in this house, choice was just another word for obedience.

How merciful she was—giving me a choice, wasn’t she? The word stuck in my throat, sour and untrue. I wanted to laugh, but all I could do was nod.

Just like she gave Penny a choice. I remembered Penny’s smile, her small hands folded in her lap. Some choices are no choice at all.

It’s laughable how people today say that being a companion or housemaid is a willing fall from grace. I thought of all the women who’d been told to be grateful for what they had, as if survival was a sin.

Even people in a law-governed, modern society don’t have the right to refuse overtime—so why expect a maid, sold into servitude, to have the right to choose? I wanted to scream it at the world, but the words caught in my chest. I lowered my head, swallowing my pride.

I lowered my eyes and took a deep breath. “Ma’am, whatever you decide.” The words tasted like ashes. I forced myself to smile, hoping she wouldn’t see the anger burning in my eyes.

That evening, when Charles returned and heard about claiming me, his gaze flickered with obvious interest, then quickly returned to its usual arrogance and disdain. He looked me over, his eyes cold and appraising. It was the look of a man inspecting a new horse, not a person.

As if reluctantly, he said, “Let my wife decide everything.” His voice was bored, dismissive. I could tell he enjoyed the power, even if he pretended not to care.

Evelyn was very pleased with his reaction, smiling softly and sweetly. Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction. She leaned in, her voice low and intimate, as if sharing a private joke.

“Since Grace will belong to my husband from now on, her name must change too. What should we call her?” She said it lightly, as if choosing a puppy from a litter. My stomach twisted.

The man answered without thinking:

He barely glanced my way. “We already have Penny and Daisy—let’s call this one Bristle. Keeps the brush theme.” His words were a careless cruelty, another reminder of my place in this world.

“What a wonderful name! My husband truly is a man of letters, naming his maids after his favorite pens—and with such variety, too.” She clapped her hands, her laughter bright and brittle. The whole room seemed to echo with it.

She was even more delighted, genuinely clapping her hands in praise. The other maids joined in, their applause hollow and forced.

“Bristle, aren’t you going to thank your master?” Her eyes bore into me, daring me to refuse.

I clenched my fists so tightly my nails dug into my palms. I bit my tongue, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

“Thank you for the name, sir.” My voice was steady, but inside I was screaming.

That night, the upright gentleman and his virtuous, gracious wife decided my name and fate over sweet laughter and honeyed words. The room glowed with lamplight, their shadows dancing on the walls. I watched from the doorway, invisible as always.

They were the picture of harmony, envied by all. To the outside world, they were perfect. No one saw the rot beneath the surface.

The next day, I took over Daisy’s duties and began attending to Charles’s daily needs. I rose before dawn, my hands raw from scrubbing, my mind numb with exhaustion. Every task was a reminder of my new place.

When I handed him his coffee, he paused. The mug trembled in my hands. I kept my eyes on the floor, praying he wouldn’t notice.

“Look up.” His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it—a command, not a request.

I kept my eyes down, unmoving. I could feel his impatience growing, the tension thickening between us.

A brief silence. The clock ticked in the background, each second stretching into eternity.

I could feel his gaze roaming over my face—staring, assessing, making my skin crawl. It was the kind of look that left you wanting to scrub your skin raw. I fought the urge to shrink away.

It was like those stares I got in a past life, riding the subway overseas—blatant and invasive. I remembered the way men would leer on the subway, the sense of being watched, hunted. Charles’s eyes were colder, but no less dangerous.

But this man fancied himself noble, with an added layer of contempt in his eyes. He looked at me as if I were beneath him, a thing to be used and discarded.

I had no wish to entangle with him. I quickly tidied up the cups and was about to leave, but a hand suddenly gripped my waist. His fingers dug into my side, possessive and cruel. My breath caught in my throat.

His gaze slid down from my face to the collar of my dress, then slowly, deliberately, reached out his hand. I could feel his breath on my neck, hot and unwelcome. My skin crawled, every nerve on fire.

A wave of disgust rose in me. I wanted to scream, to fight, but I knew better. In this house, resistance only made things worse.

So this was the so-called gentleman. All the talk of honor and virtue was just a mask, hiding the ugliness beneath.

Just as he was about to go further,

A sharp knock at the door broke the spell. I jerked away, heart pounding. A servant rushed in to announce that the mayor’s son had arrived.

The interruption was a blessing. Charles dropped his hand, his face smoothing into a practiced smile. Only then did he let go and leave in a hurry.

He didn’t look back, didn’t say a word. I slumped against the table, relief flooding through me.

Back in the main house, a hard slap landed squarely on my face. The sound echoed down the hallway, sharp and sudden. My cheek burned, tears springing to my eyes.

Looking up, I met Evelyn’s cold gaze. Her eyes were flat, unreadable. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or simply bored.

It seemed that everything that happened in the study had already reached her ears. Word traveled fast in this house. There were no secrets, only stories waiting to be twisted.

“Do you know why I hit you?” she looked down at me. Her voice was icy, her posture rigid. She towered over me, all righteous indignation.

I thought I did. The answer was obvious, but I stayed silent, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

She delighted in offering women to her husband, enjoying how he disdained them, which made his affection for her stand out all the more. It was a game to her—a way to prove her worth by making others less than nothing.

But she never wanted his attention to truly settle on any other woman. The thought of losing even a sliver of his affection was more than she could bear.

Today, Charles’s desire for me had clearly displeased her. I saw it in the tightness of her jaw, the way her fingers clenched around her handkerchief.

She would never blame her husband—only me. It was always easier to punish the powerless.

Behind her, Julia looked on with pity. Her eyes were soft, full of sympathy she dared not voice. I wished I could reach out to her, but the distance between us was too great.

“Ma’am, why get angry with her? Just send her to Mrs. Harper for punishment.” Julia’s voice was gentle, a balm on the raw wound. She tried to shield me, even as she played her part.

She helped Evelyn to a seat, handed her a warm cup of tea, and quietly offered a few words of comfort. The gesture was practiced, the kind you learn after years of surviving in someone else’s house.

Then she shot me a look, signaling me to leave quickly. Her eyes pleaded with me: go, before things get worse.

That night, Julia brought ointment for my swelling and bruises. She knocked softly, slipping into my room like a shadow. The ointment was cool on my skin, her touch gentle.

“You’re going to serve the master now. Ma’am is upset, so a few slaps and scoldings are nothing. We’re just staff—try not to take it to heart.” Her words were meant to comfort, but they only made the pain worse. I nodded, unable to speak.

In the dim lamplight, she applied the ointment for me, her eyes full of sympathy. She dabbed at my bruises with a soft cloth, her hands trembling. We sat in silence, the weight of our shared helplessness pressing down on us.

She knew today was just the beginning. More suffering surely awaited me. We both knew what was coming. There was no use pretending otherwise.

But this was all she could say to comfort me. Sometimes, kindness was just a bandage on a wound that would never heal.

We were less than human—objects with no control over our fate.

I thought of Penny, of Daisy, of all the girls who’d come before us. We were replaceable, disposable, forgotten.

Penny’s story had already proven that conforming to a world that eats you alive doesn’t mean you’ll be safe. There was no safety in obedience, no reward for suffering in silence.

Better to go down fighting than live like the walking dead. The thought burned in my chest, a spark of defiance I refused to let die.