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Sophie had always longed for a family. From her earliest days, sat by her grandmother’s feet in their modest home, listening to tales of princesses with dashing princes and doting parents. She was never unappreciative of grandmama, of course, but Sophie yearned for a proper family. She wanted a caring mama and a doting papa, just like the stories.
When grandmama passed and she was taken to Pennwood Park, her hopes were met to an extent. Earl Richard Gunningworth took her in as a ward. She, too young at first to understand, wondered if she’d be permitted to address him as father. But she was not. She was his ward, of a relation no one spoke of. She did not have a family. Instead, Sophie was given the luxury of the comfortable life of a noble ward. It should have been enough.
It never was.
Then, the Earl married Countess Pennwood. He introduced Sophie to her beforehand.
I must be sweet and good, Sophie told herself the night before their meeting, and then perhaps they shall love me. And we shall be a proper family.
Love her they did not. The Countess was cold and distant. Her eldest daughter was worse. Rosamund was often cruel to Sophie. She would pour tea over her head, ruin her dolls, and rip her dresses. Posy, at least, showed her kindness until her mother shot them a glare. And like a flower suffering from a drought, both girls would wither and separate.
Perhaps, Sophie thought, she was not good enough. She should be content with what she had. And yet, hope continued to burgeon at her chest futilely.
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Hope soon died at the hearth of her not-home when the Earl keeled over, clutching his chest and wheezing, one day in the gardens. The funeral had been fresh when the Countess turned her world right-side-up by having her work as a maid.
The soft fabrics of her dresses turned into rough cloth. Daily bathing and caretaking shifted into a basin of cold water in the morn before the sun rose and late into the eve long after it had darkened outside. Her hands, once soft and delicate, grew callouses from scrubbing floors. Lady Rosamund, as Sophie was required to address her as, grew crueler. Countess Pennwood’s cool distance became icy harshness.
And, through it all, Sophie tended to them dutifully. She learned quickly, for mistakes, especially hers, were met with severity should the Countess catch wind of them.
Her hope that had once burned so bright slowly died out, from a fire to mere embers of a spark, but there was one incident that completely snuffed it out.
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A loud crash reverberated throughout the hall, accompanied by a softer, horrified gasp. Posy stared at the broken pieces of the vase, scattered across the floor. The sixteen-year-old trembled, her eyes brimming with tears.
“Miss Posy, are you hurt?” Sophie asked, carefully avoiding the shards of glass as she hurried to her side.
Posy shook her head. “No. I did not get cut.”
“It was an ugly vase anyhow.” Sophie whispered in Posy’s ear, eliciting a tentative giggle from the young miss.
“Mama is going to be cross with me.” Posy sniffled fearfully. “She said she would take the strap to me if I did not learn to comport myself.”
“It was of no fault of your own, Miss.” Sophie tried.
Posy stared at her miserably. They both knew Araminta was anything but forgiving. Regardless of intention, Posy would be held accountable. Seeing the abject sorrow Posy was drowning in, Sophie steeled her nerves. Posy was the only kindness Sophie knew in an otherwise lonely world, after all. Sophie owed her this.
“I shall take the blame,” said Sophie.
Posy gaped. “You cannot! Mama would–”
She cut herself off, swallowing thickly. Whatever punishment that Posy could have incurred would be indefinitely worse for Sophie. Posy opened her mouth to argue, only for the head maid to enter the hall. “My word, what happened here?”
“It was my fault.” Sophie said quickly. “I was cleaning and I was less careful than I should have been.”
The head maid’s lips pursed into a thin line. Besides the lack of cleaning supplies, Posy’s expression betrayed her guilt. “You are certain?”
Sophie shot Posy a quick smile then squared her shoulders. “Yes.”
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The ninth circle of Hell was a terribly harsh cold according to Dante’s Inferno. Sophie imagined that the Count’s study, now used by the Countess, could rival it. The air felt as though it constricted around her, the Countess’ gaze weighing heavily on Sophie’s chest.
Countess Araminta was almost as beautiful as she was cruel. Her features contorted into a sneer, causing Sophie’s spirit to shrink even further. “Do you think yourself above the work you are here to do?”
“No, ma’am.” Sophie fought back the whimper in her voice.
“You say no, and yet,” the Countess’ tone sharpened dangerously, “you act carelessly. Such insolence would have others packing sans any wage.”
Sophie trembled like a fallen leaf in the wind. In a storm, more like. For there was no storm as unrelenting as Araminta’s fury. Her doe eyes caught the Countess’ and, for a moment, she dared to hope. She allowed the dying spark to reignite into a blazing flame. She’d been good. Obedient. Not enough to be family, but potentially enough to earn mercy.
“Forgive me, ma’am.” Sophie demurred.
“Forgive me.” Araminta mocked. “Insolent girl. I ought to cast you out. Are you aware of the cost of that vase? It was an heirloom! Was that why you pushed it over, hm? Or did you hope the shards would cut Posy? Has your envy grown too unmanageable?”
“No, ma’am! Never.” The horror in her voice held true. Sophie could never do that. Especially not to Posy. “It was a mistake. Truly.”
Araminta sniffed. “So you claim. Wretched girls such as yourself are prone to lie to get yourself out of trouble.”
Sophie shook. Was this it? Was she to be cast out over a vase she did not break?
“You are fortunate I am most merciful.” Araminta declared. “I shall retain you as part of my staff. However, do not think this shall go unpunished.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I would not dare. Thank you for your mercy.” Sophie’s heart raced, brightening with that dreadfully light emotion once more. She could go with having a few months wages docked, a few meals missed.
Araminta smiled. It was far from kind. “Over the desk then. And drop your bloomers.”
Sophie’s lashes fluttered in confusion. “Ma’am?”
“Are you simple?” Araminta snapped. A cold delight twinkled in her eyes, her hand bringing forth a crop. “You are to be punished for your misdeeds or you shall be let go.”
Indecision paralyzed Sophie. The choice before her was no true choice at all. Be whipped or be let go. Swallowing thickly, Sophie braced herself against the desk, bunching her skirt around her hips, cinching them then twisting to form a loose knot. Shaking, she undid her bloomers, baring her backside.
Her heart thudded in her chest, cold beads of sweat dripping down her back. She had not often been subject to discipline on the bare. When the Count had been alive, she was disciplined occasionally by the governesses minding her, via a swat to the bottom or with a rare slippering. And after becoming a maid, Sophie received a strap or ruler to her palm instead of a whipping to her bum.
With a soft whistle, the crop was drawn back then cracked down on Sophie’s bottom. She jerked forwards, stifling her cry by biting down on her lip. Araminta followed suit with another strike. Her aim rang true with each lash she meted out. Sophie tried to keep count, but was soon overwhelmed with pain.
The crop kept striking. Sophie’s pale backside blossomed with red welts that traveled down to the backs of her thighs. Araminta continued, layering lashes over the fresh welts to further the pain. Agony consumed Sophie’s very being, This would be the end of her, she was sure. Eventually, the Countess stopped, when Sophie’s bum and thighs were a deep red, scattered with purple bruises.
“Return to your duties.” Araminta said primly.
Sophie stumbled, the pain searing. She hastily pulled up her bloomers and pulled down her skirt, falling into a curtsy before she fled.
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There were no duties for Sophie to return to that night. The other members of the staff had finished them for her. No one spoke of it, merely leaving Sophie be. She found a small basin of cool water she used to rinse her face and apply liberally to her welted backside.
That night she slept on her stomach and the following days she walked with a limp. The other staff took over a good chunk of her duties. When Sophie tried to argue, they shooed her away. Something settled into place at that.
The embers of hope had been dashed out and along its ashes rested the shards of her shattered heart.
In the end though, it had been worth it for the grateful smile Posy sent her way alongside the ointment she secretly gave her. And from the ashes of her hope rose something new; determination. Sophie was resolute to survive. She would never allow foolish hope to fester again in place of her senses.