The Maid and Her Mistress

Millicent prepared to leave after breakfast, Rosalind barely accepting she'd likely never see her friend again. Isabelle served her tea for the last time, the two of them sharing an embrace by the carriage later that morning. Their quiet driver had prepared the horse and was now loading Millicent's trunk.

"I will write you as often as I can," Millicent promised Rosalind, Isabelle now by the door. "Take care not to mention Isabelle in your replies. I can't have anyone finding out she's here. She knows we won't be speaking again."

"You won't mind not hearing from her?"

"I already trust she'll be well here. Spend time with her and make sure she doesn't take on too much."

After one last goodbye hug, Rosalind watched her friend depart. Isabelle remained by the door.

"I'll tidy the kitchen," she said at once.

"It can wait. Come sit with me so we can have a proper talk."

Rosalind showed much restraint in her conduct, even if she wanted to take Isabelle by the arm and guide her along. The slightest touch was disallowed; she needed to act with decorum despite her indecorous thoughts.

Isabelle waited to be told where to sit rather than choose her seat. Rosalind saw she needed to unlearn these behaviours and it would take time. Rosalind was most comfortable in her rose Damask armchair, a single embroidered cushion resting in the small of her back, an ache there developing. She was only considered old by society's standards, she'd yet to reach the age of forty, her appearance still lovely, according to Millicent. She wore her raven-coloured hair down more after Philip died, he'd always ordered her to keep it up and neat. Only wanton women wore their hair that loose.

"Forgive my nervousness," Isabelle said. "Living in wait of other people has made me this way."

"I understand, which is why I won't make demands of you. But there are some things I struggle with that I didn't when I was your age. If you'd be willing to help, I'd appreciate it. I want you to feel you can deny me, regardless. You were raised to only ever say yes to your duties, which saddens me."

"But it kept me from a harm greater than being a servant. Millicent took wonderful care of me when she could have cast me out. And I was close to her other maid, the two of us spent many nights awake in our little quarters, trying not to wake anyone up as we shared stories."

Rosalind lacked these friendships through most of her childhood, her adolescence just as lonely. She remained an only child, her father disinterested in helping her accumulate her own wealth and status. He couldn't have married her off fast enough, her mother also indifferent to her.

"I am sorry you aren't able to write to your friend, or Millicent."

"They understand why. Penelope and I made sure we'd said our proper goodbyes. She wasn't looking forward to going to Ireland. She might still marry a nice Irish boy, or return to the city when she's older."

"What has you convinced you couldn't do the same?"

Isabelle glanced away. "I seem to have no desire for it. The idea doesn't quicken me the way it does other girls. It never has. Millicent invited a family around whose son took some interest in me. I was polite to him, but when I found myself alone with him, he frightened me. He made no moves to touch me, he was perfectly kind. Millicent still told me to be wary of being alone with some men."

"It's true, not all of them are bad. But you're entitled to your own thoughts about it. The only men I see are when I bother to have something delivered, or if I'm walking by the nearby farm and the owner happens to be tending to his sheep. Even then, I don't remain to converse or exchange many pleasantries. There's nothing wrong preferring the company of others more like yourself."

Isabelle then opened up about her childhood, her first memories of Fredrick riddled with fear. She was sweeping floors and bringing in water by age five, washing linen by age seven and cooking entire meals by age ten. Fredrick liked to discipline her with a switch he used on her open palms, her mistakes only accepted by Millicent. Penelope was already a teenager when they met, and she aided Isabelle in learning her duties with all the patience Fredrick neglected to offer. They weren't made to toil into the night like other maids. Penelope would take her into town to fetch groceries, Isabelle always in her shadow, avoiding everyone's eyes.

"It made me seem mistrustful. Fredrick hated how furtive I was, he liked to suspect I would steal Millicent's jewellery once I knew where it was, she was merely showing me like she would have to her own daughter. Each piece had a story behind it, and she let me try on her pearls, but I would never think to steal from her. She was my protector and I had no reason to betray her."

Rosalind had a personal collection of jewels she'd gathered growing up. She asked Isabelle to come to her room so she could show them off; she wanted Isabelle's approval.

Standing before her dresser mirror, Rosalind picked up her ruby necklace and tried it on Isabelle, the chain resting on her cotton blouse when Rosalind wanted to see it against her pale skin. She told Isabelle to undo some of her buttons, Isabelle less tentative now.

As she touched the jewel in quiet marvel, she asked, "Do you think I could look like a proper lady?"

Rosalind smiled and asked if she could unpin Isabelle's hair. Isabelle agreed, Rosalind carefully pulling each pin as she loosened the gentle locks, taking her chance to touch them as she rested them over Isabelle's shoulders.

"You are a proper lady."

Suddenly tense, Isabelle went to undo the necklace.

"Keep it on," Rosalind said gently as she went to pick out some gold bracelets to put on Isabelle's slender wrists.

Her ears weren't pierced, so Rosalind could only find a few earrings suitable for her. She let Isabelle have a moment of vanity, all the while loving the warmth this brought about in Isabelle's skin. There was a tingle in Rosalind's lips she had to ignore.

"Seeing you in these makes me glad I didn't give them up for money," Rosalind sighed.

Pretty as it all was, they were entirely impractical, this much Isabelle knew. Once she'd taken everything off, she pinned up her hair again and thanked Rosalind for letting her play pretend for a moment.

That afternoon, Isabelle was hanging up the linen she'd spent all morning washing. Rosalind had little to tell her about what to do. Isabelle was also much stronger, she was used to heavy piles of sodden sheets, her arms toned by scrubbing and stirring.

Rosalind found herself upstairs, standing furtively by the window so she could watch Isabelle and how she moved. Overcome with desire, Rosalind let her hands move over her front, turning away from the glass to lean against the wall and close her eyes. She fondled her breast a moment, thinking of Isabelle's hand there. Gathering up her skirts, she tucked her other hand between her legs, finally allowing herself to indulge in her own body. In her mind's eye, she conjured the moment she'd put her necklace around Isabelle's neck, this time kissing Isabelle's shoulder and embracing her. They kissed in this vision, Isabelle turning in Rosalind's arms in response, the two of them liberal with their touches and mouths. The very thought of Isabelle's mouth between her legs made Rosalind gush with excitement, her moaning much like what she'd heard from Isabelle's room the night before. Never able to do this before, now it was utterly simple to make her body quake until her knees nearly gave way. She got her breath back, alone in the quiet room, only then realising she'd left the door open as if in the hope she'd be intruded upon.

The shock of her impropriety made her rush to clean herself up and find some composure. Isabelle was no longer outside, though where she was in the house was an uncertainty. Rosalind found a mirror to check her skin by, waiting for her blush to subside. She was flustered and rather shameful, going to the kitchen to make some tea for them.

Isabelle was already there, boiling the water with the same intention. Rosalind quickly went around the room gathering the cups and saucers.

"Is something the matter?" Isabelle asked.

"Not at all. I felt a bit dizzy and flushed just now, so I had to stop a spell. It happens."

In her want to please, Isabelle finished making the tea, Rosalind deciding they could stay in the kitchen.

"You have such a lovely garden," Isabelle said. "Millicent's courtyard by her laundry door was drab and cold. The only colours were from the weeds and moss that sometimes grew between the cracks."

"If things were up to Millicent and not Fredrick, I'm sure she'd have had you living somewhere more like this."

"She spoke of it, and how cloudy Ireland is, especially where she grew up. I thought it would be better for her to spend her last years somewhere like this instead."

"Were we able to choose, I'd say she would have. I was not aware how much her maladies were bothering her."

"She's been hiding her pain, and I've brought her opium tea for it. Her doctor has been by more frequently than other years. Fredrick shows no sympathy for her. Penelope and I were practically her nursemaids when she was horribly ill with pneumonia the other year."

Rosalind rarely fell so ill she was left bedridden and unable to care for herself. She dreaded it now hearing of Millicent's terrible experiences. It was often said in her circles a week in the country was supposed to be a cure-all for many sicknesses, and she knew being far from others kept her immune to illness.

"Should you fall ill at all, I would care for you," Rosalind said. "But I think you'll find yourself becoming healthier here."

"I already do. My lungs don't feel nearly as full of soot as they did before. I was tempted to go running out in your fields just now."

Even that image evoked passion in Rosalind. This creature becoming bolder and brighter in front of her, such a radiance only a strong-spirited youth could possess. Enamoured, Rosalind could only smile at Isabelle.

"I was apprehensive about coming to stay here," Isabelle confessed. "You've made me feel so safe and welcome, I wish I could do more for you."

Rosalind's wants were entirely improper but no less real. "I'm sure your company will be more than enough for me."

Speaking freely with Isabelle uncaged many thoughts Rosalind never expressed. Over the following days, Rosalind fought to be around Isabelle too much or found excuses for them to do something together.

Isabelle was in the kitchen baking bread one morning, Rosalind alone upstairs. She crept into Isabelle's room, overwhelmed with affection and growing obsessed with learning what she could in secret. She saw a piece of paper resting on the nightstand, slightly yellowed by age and folded over. It may have been a letter or some other private note Isabelle kept, however, Rosalind caved to her curiosity and decided to take a peek at it.

Unfolding the paper, she was shocked rigid. It was a sketch of a voluptuous, naked woman, supine over a couch. The breasts were deliciously round, both nipples pert, the arms tucked behind her head. Her hair was fanned out over the end of the couch, her gaze not on Rosalind's but on something distant, making her a passive object of desire. Rosalind's mouth watered and she wished to linger with this image, but could only put it back where she found it to avoid leaving evidence of her prying.

With the picture now burned into her memory, it dawned on her that Isabelle may have pleasured herself to this image. Had Rosalind discovered a picture of a naked man instead, it would have made far less sense for Isabelle to admit she never wanted to marry.

Rosalind went to the study and looked through the books, vaguely remembering Philip owning several on modern art. She had gazed upon many a naked form painted on canvas. Isabelle's drawing was intended to arouse.

She took out a particular book upon finding it, sitting by the window and turning the pages to come across several lewd images of women cavorting in various states of undress. Philip's penchant for busty women was unfulfilled by Rosalind's less-than-ample chest. Rosalind stayed with these illustrations, some depicting one woman taking another the way a man would, endowed with a fake phallus strapped to her hips. Her breath was shallow once more. She shut the book and put it back, pretending she'd not seen much of anything.

But the floodgate opened and Rosalind was possessed by these ideas. Her fantasies of women were chaste with the fear she wasn't meant to think this way. Isabelle containing similar desires made them compatible, yet to act on them was wrong. Rosalind hoped she wouldn't reveal herself now with this discovery.