I. The arrival

It was common knowledge that a 19th-century man in possession of a successful company and a rich heritage was to own a maid. His being didn’t belong in a kitchen; his time wasn’t to be wasted doing laundry. Yet you had little regard for such traditions. Your kin speculated—stinginess, secrets, perhaps a scandal—but the truth was far simpler: you didn’t need a reason. Self-reliance suited you. 

For two years, you’d lived alone in your estate nestled deep in the woods, not only tending to yourself but also hosting guests without assistance. To the surprise of many, the master poured the tea.

It was near dusk, late winter when a carriage crunched its way down the moss-softened path to your door. The horses snorted, breath misting in the cooling air. No grand stone steps. No footman. Only pine wind and silence.

You had just returned from the forest, mushrooms in your hand, sleeves rolled, your white shirt tucked sloppily into worn pants. Had you known visitors were arriving, perhaps you'd have worn one of the jackets your father gifted you long ago.

A knock. You opened the door. There stood a man in a heavy frock coat, posture straight, eyes familiar.

“John,” you exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve never forgotten, my Lord,” the gentleman said. “The help you gave me in the past… I remember you once said you weren’t in the possession of a servant.”

You nodded. “I still am not.”

“Good,” he replied with a faint smile. “Because I have one here with me. And I would like you to accept her as a gift.”

“You want to gift me… a slave?”

“Precisely.” From his pocket, he pulled a golden pin, the symbol of his new title. “I have been appointed royal couturier to the Duke’s daughter. And I owe it all to you—your introductions, your patronage, your faith in a man who once sold thread in the dirtiest corner of the city.”

“You flatter me,” you said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “But it was your talent that took you to the palace.”

He inclined his head in gratitude, then stepped down and opened the carriage. A girl emerged. Barefoot. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Her eyes are wide and hollow. Her feet met moss rather than gravel, and her thin shoulders shivered in the cold.

“Please accept this slave, my Lord,” the man said. “I made sure to buy the most beautiful one in the county.”

“She is beautiful,” you acknowledged, “but where are her clothes?”

“She had a shirt and trousers when I bought her. I saw no reason to waste fine fabric on a slave.”

“You’re a dressmaker,” you said, your voice flat. “You should know better.”

He didn’t answer. The girl stared at the ground, her shackled ankles trembling. Her skin was marked with scars—especially her back—but her face had been kept untouched, carefully preserved like fine porcelain.

You sighed and opened the door wider. “Your gift is appreciated,” you said quietly. “I will take care of her.”

“The girl is yours now,” he said, bowing reverently. “Do as you please. My gratitude is eternal.”

The girl turned to you and bowed low. “Good evening, master. Thank you for taking me in. I promise I will be good to you.”

Realising you were still holding the mushrooms, you quickly set them aside and offered your hand. She looked at it, puzzled.

You smiled gently. “It’s a handshake.”

Hesitantly, she reached out and touched your hand, her fingers trembling uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, master. Owners don’t usually greet us with such… respect.”

“That’s the bare minimum,” you said. “Come inside.”

She stepped in lightly, nearly silent. The warmth of the house—faint smoke, pressed leaves—hit her like a foreign scent. You closed the door behind her. There was little needed for a bolt and key. No one lived in these woods anyways.

She clutched a small satchel—too small for any valuable possession. Her clothes were thin and frayed. Her eyes flicked nervously across the room. No canes. No bells. No inked ledgers of punishment.

“You may speak freely here,” you said, like offering her a blanket.

“No need, master. I won’t be in any trouble. You won’t even see me.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

She bowed her head. “I’ll do everything you want, whenever you want.”

You reached for a robe hanging near the door. As your hand passed near her head, she flinched—visibly, sharply. Years of training had taught her to stay still, but reflexes didn’t lie.

“Sorry. Did I touch you?”

“No, master. My fault. I’m sorry.”

You held the robe out. “Take this. You look cold.”

“Thank you very much, master. You’re… very kind.”

You inhaled deeply. “I’m not used to having… uhm… someone to look after me. I have no footman. No housekeeper. No cook. There’s little to do,” you said as you scratched your head. “Sorry about that.”

“I’ll make myself useful,” she said. There’s no reason to keep a maid if she’s not deemed useful. She had to find an occupation, or who knows where she might end up.

“I’m sure you will,” you replied gently. “But not tonight. You’ve traveled far.”

You led her down the hallway—not to the scullery, nor a cot in the corner of the kitchen—but to a guest room. A real bed. A folded quilt. A window without shutters.

She stood at the threshold, silent, unsure.

“This will be your room,” you announced. “It is a guest room but I never have guests over so it is a bit dusty. I apologize for that. However, the bed is quite comfy, I hope that makes up for it.” 

You paused for a moment and gestured for her to come in.

“Are you sure, master? A whole room for me?”

“Where else should you stay?” you asked. That statement alone sounded ridiculous to you. Of course, she needed a room. “Thank you very much. I’m forever grateful,” she said, bowing down in gratitude. 

You tried to imagine her previous owner. The aristocrats you have met at the “parties” always seemed to be polite, but they were never kind. Judging by her responses, she must have had a ruthless man. Maybe he let her sleep in a barn, maybe in the basement, or whatever space she found.

“You can rest,” you replied. “No work tonight.”

She nodded. She seemed surprised but grateful. You gave her a nod as well. “Make yourself comfortable,” you told her. 

Then, as you turned to climb the stairs, her voice halted you.

“Please don’t send me back,” she begged. Her voice was frail and trembled.