It looks like something out of a Jane Austen novel. The Victorian manor looms over wide, rolling hills of the estates, lines of hedges accentuating the dark colors of the stonework as it stands out on the horizon, outlined by the gray English skies that always threaten to rain.
It’s breathtaking, yet I feel a chill of nervousness run through me. It’s almost like a vampire’s castle, so big and ominous. I can almost imagine bats flying out at night. Still, there’s a certain charm to it that makes me excited.
We pull up, and Cal helps me unload my luggage. “Don’t forget,” he says, checking his watch, “Down in the main hall at noon sharp. Someone will meet you inside to take you to your quarters to change.
“Um, thank you, I-” I start, but Cal is already getting into his car and tipping his driver’s hat.
“Take care, Maisie. And remember what I told you,” he says, leaving me alone at the doorstep, bewildered.
As if on cue, the doors creak open, and I’m greeted by a face that looks refreshingly cheerful for the dour estate.
“Oh, hello there, dearie!” chimes an older woman. She’s dressed in traditional maid’s attire, complete with the black-and-white color scheme, though her uniform is somewhat faded from use. She has blonde hair that’s going white, a plump figure, and a warm smile. “I’m Beth—welcome to Rookswood! You must be Maisie, the new maid.”
“Why yes,” I say, a little taken aback by her warmness. “Pleasure!”
“Yes yes,” Beth says, ushering me inside and gesturing for me to follow. “You too, but we’ll have to catch up later, I’m afraid. Oh, I wish Cal hadn’t brought you so punctually, but Lord Alastair insisted you be here before noon. He’s a bit possessive of his staff, you see.”
I’m a little put off by that. I’m getting a more sinister mental image of a bitter old man who has nothing to do but torment his serving staff. “Right,” I say, a little dazed.
“Don’t worry,” she assures me as she reaches a door up the stairs of the entryway and off to the east. The interior is as lavish and haunting as the outside—old, dark wood, polished marble floors, high chandeliers, and the scent of food baking are the only things bringing life to this gothic manor. “I’m sure this all seems a bit, well, intimidating, and I’ll admit, it’s no cakewalk! But dearie,” she says in a thick Yorkshire accent, “if you come from good domestic stock, I’m sure you’ll do well!”
Stock?
I bite my lip as she pushes me into my quarters, and before I can answer, she chirps, “Your outfit’s on the bed. Noon sharp, meet down at the bottom of the stairs! I’ve got to tend to the scones.”
And just like that, I’m left alone.
I step forward to the four-poster bed, admiring the furnishings of the place. I have to admit, they really didn’t cut costs on the servants’ quarters. This place looks like a luxury hotel room! Then I turn my eyes to the bed, and my heart nearly stops.
The outfit on the bed is hardly a uniform. It has the general colors and cut of a French maid’s uniform, but it’s much...frillier than what Beth was wearing. There are a pair of black stiletto heels on the floor, and thigh-high white socks trail up from them, ending in lace hems with a pink bow at the front of each. The skirt hardly covers...well, anything, and I know there’s no way it’ll cover the white panties I’m wearing today if I ever have to bend over. As I fit the top on, I notice the push it gives my breasts, and the collar plunges down to show off more than a little cleavage. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper to myself as I pick up the little cloth tiara-hat that goes with the ensemble.
I squeeze my narrow frame into the outfit, and I instantly feel myself questioning my life choices as I look myself over in the tall mirror in the room. This isn’t a uniform; it’s lingerie with a maid motif. There are black bows down the front of my corset, which has my breasts nearly spilling out the front, and the stockings do wonders for my legs, but I can imagine my mother having a heart attack at the sight of me.
There must be some mistake, I decide. I cannot strut out in front of all the other domestics in this. Maybe it’s a joke? Of course. Some other domestic is probably seething over the thought of some nobody Welsh girl getting a cushy, well-paying job at this place, and this is how I’m going to get fired. I tear the room apart looking for another outfit, but before I can get anywhere, I hear the bell starting to chime, and my heart sinks. It’s noon.
I look at my travel outfit desperately, but it’s even less suitable for presentation. At least this looks put-together. Under different circumstances, maybe with the right guy, I’d love to wear this, but right now…
No time to decide. Cursing, I slip the heels on and awkwardly make my way out the hallway and down the stairs.
The other staff are already lined up, standing at attention. None of them look over at me. Shit, they’re all in on this prank, aren’t they? Well, I decide with a burning face, if I’m going to get fired, I’m going to do it with my head held high!
/> Then I hear a large door swing open, and my attention goes up to the top of the stairs. My eyes widen at what I see.
A man at least ten years older than me steps forward, piercing blue eyes surveying the assembly at the bottom of the stairs. And they come to a rest on me, narrowing coldly as my heart skips a beat. He’s tall, looming over the staircase like a gigantic bat, clad in a dark suit that’s immaculately tailored. He has stubble on his face, and his dark hair is combed back, making him look like winter itself in his dark, powerful beauty. There’s muscle under that suit, that much is obvious by his build alone. He has a chiseled jaw that stays immobile as he regards me, and I feel so exposed, so self-conscious that I feel my knees start to shake.
Folding his hands behind his back, he steps slowly down the stairs, glaring into my very soul like a vampire putting me into a trance. There’s no way I’m not about to get sacked. His steps are slow, deliberate, and powerful, and as he draws near me, I can tell just how much taller he is than me.
As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, I notice the rest of the staff either bowing or curtsying, to my confusion. This is 2016, how is that still a thing? It’s only once everyone stands up again that I realize I’ve conspicuously failed to follow suit, and Beth casts me a sidelong glance.
But before I can correct myself, the man—Lord Alastair Delaney, I realize—steps up to me, those paralyzing eyes on me again. He’s stripping me with those gorgeous blue eyes that look as sharp and cold as ice, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Follow me to the study,” he says, his voice deep, tone practiced, naturally authoritative. I know exactly what Cal meant when he referred to them as ‘commands.’ “I will teach you how to behave in my presence.”
With that, Lord Alastair turns and starts to walk up the stairs. I glance to Beth for help, but she gives me a meaningful look to follow him, and I swallow before my heels clack up the stairs after him.
He leads me wordlessly through double-doors down a private hallway, lined with tall, old portraits of what I can tell is a dynasty of British blood. I feel terribly alone as his heavy footsteps lead me, and I get the sense that I’m being led to my execution. I say nothing as we reach a heavy door that he pushes open, and I cautiously step in behind him.
And my jaw drops.