Chapter Text
The carriage rolled to a halt beneath the towering iron gates just as dawn began to stain the sky with pale gold.
Helen Sharp drew a slow breath, her fingeres tightening around the worn leather handle of her suirt.
Ashford House rose before her like something pulled from the pages of a fairy tale. Ivy clung to honey-coloured stone, dozens of windows caught the first light of morning and somewhere beyond the gardens, church bells chimmed the hour.
She had never seen a place so beautiful.
Nor one that made her feel quite so small.
She was yet to meet to Ashton residence, though she was throughly aware of the reputation they held.
Everyone did.
They were the sort of family people spoke about in hushed voices, as though merely mentioning their names carried a certain importance. Newspapers chronicled their every public apperance, shopkeepers displyed sketches of their grand London residence in their windows and mothers pointed to them as exmaples of refinement their daughters could only dream of attaining.
If Ashford House was the heart of England's aristocracy, then its Duchess was undoubtedly its most captivating- and more feared - figure.
Her Grace, Madeline Ashton, Duchess of Ashford, possessed the sort of beauty artists devoted their lives to capturing. Newspapers praised her impeccable fashion, society ladies copied every gown she wore and gentlemen fell hopelessly in love with the woman who never spared them so much as a second glance.
Beside her stoof her husband, His Grace, Ernest Ashton, Duke of Ashford, a man every bit as respectable as his titled demanded. Together, they were hailed as the very image of noble perfection - the golden couple of English society, admired from afar and envied by many. No one questioned the marriage. No one dared.
Yet admiration was often accompained by apprehension.
The Duchess was known to be as cold as the marble halls she inhabited. Her smile was a rarity, her wit was unforgiving and her patience wore thinner than the silk gloves she favoured. A single cutting remark from Her Grace was enough to become the talk of London by nightfall.
The gossipc columns called her the Ice Duchess.
Others preferred the Queen of Thorns.
Whatever the title, one thing remained certain:
There was not a soul in England who did not know the name Madeline Ashton.
Which was precisely why Helen Sharp had nearly laughed when she first read the advertisement.
Lady's Maid required for Her Grace, the Duchess of Ashford.
She had assumed it was some cruel joke. Positions within Ashford House were rarely adversited to the public. When they became available - which was seldom - they were filled through recommedations from the country's most respected households.
Yet there it was, printed nearly amongst the week's vacanies.
Helen appiled with little expectation of reciving a reply.
A fornight later, a cream-coloured envelope embossed with the Ashford crest arrived at ther doorstep.
She was to present herself at Ashford Hourse on the first Monday of May.
Against all odds, she'd been hired.
The carriage had long since disappeared over the hill by the time Helen found herself standing before the wrought-iron gates of Ashford House.
For a moment, she couldn't bring herself to more.
The estate streched before her with acres of emerald lawns towards immaculate gardens bursting with late spring blooms, their sweet fragrance carried on the gentle morning breeze. Gravel paths curved elegantly around marble foutains and neatly scuplted hedges before disappearing towards the grand façade of the house itselfs.
Ashford House was magnificent.
Honey-coloured stone glowed beneath the rising sun, each towering window catching the moring light until the manor appeared almost glided. Ivy climbed its ancient walls with effortless grace, whilst towering oak trees stood like silent sentries guarding the family that resided within.
Helen had never seen anything so beautiful.
Nor anything quite so terrifying.
Her fingers tighented around the worn leather handle of her suitcase unti her knuckles paled beneath her gloves.
What in God's name am I doing here?
She smoothed an invisble crease from the front of her travelling dress for what must have been the tenth time that morning before instinctively reaching up to ensure not a single strand of Chestnut hair had escaped its neat bun.
She had spent years preparing for a position such as this.
Yars perfecting every pleat, every pink, every polished show.
Yet standing before Ashford House, all that practice suddenly felt insignificant.
This was not simply another household.
This was Ashford.
The home of England's most powerful ducal family. The home of the imfamous Ice Duchess herself.
Helen swallowed, her through uncomfortably dry.
One mistake.
That was all it would take.
One crooked ribbon, one missed button, one ill-timed word and she'd find herself dismissed before the day was through. Her belongings would be packed back into the very suitcase she was clutched so desperately and she'd leave through the same gates having squandered the greatest opportunity she was ever likely to recieve.
She drew a slow, steadying breath.
"You've come this far," she murmured to herself. "Don't lose your nerve now."
With that, Helen squared her shoulders, tightened her grip upon her suitcase and began the long walk towards the great oak doors of Ashford House, each step carrying her closer to a life she could scarclely imagine - and to the woman whose name the whole of Great Britain knew.
By the time Helen reached the front steps, her palms had begun to dampen beneath her gloves.
The great oak doors towered above her, each one carved with intricate vines and the Ashford family crest. Up close, the estate seemed even more imposing than it had from the gates. Every polished brass fixture gleamed, every pane of glass sparked and not a single leaf dared stray from the neatly swept stone steps.
Helen swallowed hard.
There was still time to turn around.
The throught came and went as quickly as it had arrived.
She had nowhere else to go.
Taking one final breath, she lifted a trembling hand and grasped the heavy brass knocker.
Three solid knocks echoed through the house.
Then silence.
Helen shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddently acutely aware of every crease in her dress, every loose breath she took, every beat of her racing heart.
What if they've changed their minds?
What if I'm at the wrong entrance?
What if I've already done something wrong?
Before she could spiral any further, the lock clicked.
The enormous doors swung open with surprising ease.
Standing before her was an older gentleman, impeccably dressed in black tailcoat with silver buttons polished to perfection. His posture was straight, his expression composed, though not unkind. Years of service had taught him the art of revealing very little.
His sharp eyes settled on Helen before breifly dropping to the suitcase in her hand.
"You must be Miss Sharp."
Helen immediately dipped into a respectful curtsy,
"Y-yes, sir."
The gentlemant gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
"I am Mr Pembroke, the Duke's butler."
He stepped aside, holding the door open.
"Her Grace's household has been expecting you."
Helen hesistated for only a heartbeat before crossing the threshold.
The doors closed behind her with a heavy thud.
There was no turning back now.
The moment Helen crossed the threshold, she was envloped by a warmth that carried the faint scent of beeswax, fresh flowers and polished oak.
The entrance hall was unlike anything she had ever imagined.
A sweeping marble staircase curved elegantly towards the upper floors, its banister carved with intricate vines that would their way to the landing above. Crystal chandeliers hung from impossibly high ceilings, scattering the morining light into shimmering prisms across the black-and-white tiled floor. Portraits of Ashford long since depared lines the walls, each gazing down with the same composed expression, as though silently judging every soul who dared enter their home.
Even the silence felt expensive.
It was broken only by the quiet rhythm of servants moving about their morning duties. Footman crossed the hall carrying silver trays. Maids disappeared through doorways with baskets of freshly pressed linen. Somewhere in the distance, a grandfather clock chimed the quater hour.
Helen suddently became painfully aware of the scuffed soles of her boots.
"Welcome to Ashford Hourse, Miss Sharp."
Mr Pembroke's voice was calm, yet carried the quiet authorty of a man who had managed the households for decades.
"As you will soon discover, every member of staff has their place. The smooth running of this estate depends upon discipline, discretion and puntuality."
Helen nodded quickly.
"Yes, sir."
"The house currently employs just over fifty servants between the main residence, the gardens and the stables. His Grace and Her Grace expect the highest standards from every one of us."
He began walking across the hall, Helen hurrying to keep pace.
"The west wing is reserved for Their Graces and honoured guests. The east wing houses the family libary, music room and drawing rooms. The servants' hall, kitchen and staff quaters are suited below stairs, whilst the upper floor contains the private apartments."
As they climbed the staircase, Helen couldn't help but glance towards the portraits.
"They've all lived here?" She asked quiety.
"For generations."
His answer was breif but not unkind.
"The Ashfords have occupied this estate for nearly three centuries."
Helen swallowed.
Three hundred years.
Her own family had never lived in the same home for longer than five.
Mr Pembroke stopped outside a pair of ivory-painted doors.
"These are Her Grace's private apartments."
Helen instinctively straightened her posture.
"The Duchess rises promptly at eight. Breakfast is served in her sitting room unless otherwise requested. Her gowns are to be prepared before she wakes, her jewellery laid out accourding to the day's engagement and every room maintatined to an impeccable standard.
He regarded her for a moment.
"Her Gace values effciency."
"I understand."
"I sincerely hope you do."
With a courteous nod, he contined down the corridor.
"If you require anything further, Mrs Hawthorne, our housekeeper, shall be your first point of contact.
Left alone, Helen exhaled a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
"First day?"
Helen turned to find a young maid emerging from a nearbly linen cupboard, balancing a neat stack of folded sheets against her lip. She looked to be only a few years older than Helen herself, with kind eyes and a knowing smile.
Helen smiled poliety.
"Is it that obvious?"
The maid laughed softly.
"You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're wondering whether it's too late to run."
Despire herself, Helen let out a nervous laugh.
"I'm Helen."
"Viola."
Viola shifted the linen in her arms before lowering her voice.
"So…you're Her Grace's new lady maid?"
Helen nodded.
"I am."
Viola's smile faltered.
"Oh."
Helen frowned.
"Oh?"
Another maid passed by in the corrior. Viola waited until she had disappeared before speaking again.
"Don't take this the wrong way…"
Helen's stomach tightened.
"…but they don't tend to last."
"What do you mean?"
Viola glanced towards the Duchess's doors before leaning in.
"The last lady's maid was dismissed."
Helen's shoulders relaxed every so slightly.
"Oh."
"…after six days."
Her relief evaporated.
"The one before her lasted a fortnight."
"And before that?"
Viola hesitated.
"No one really knows."
Helen blinked.
"What do you mean, no one knows?"
"She was simply…gone."
Viola lowered her voice until it was little more than a whisper.
"Some say she was caught gossiping about Her Grace. Others claim she broke a family herloom."
She looked once more towards the closed doors.
"And there are those who swear the Duchess herself had something to do with her disappearance."
Helen gave a nervous laugh.
"Surely not."
Viola offered a small shrug.
"I've never believed it."
A beat passed.
"…Though I wouldn't repeat that within earshot of the staff."
Helen looked at the ivory doors again.
They remained perfectly still.
Silent.
Imposing.
Whatever lay beyond them, she was no longer certain she wanted to find out.
Helen scarcely slept.
Whether it was the unfamiliar bed, the persistent creak of the old house settling around her or the thought of serving the imfamous Duchess before the morning was through, she could not say.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard Viola's hushed warning as clearly as if the maid were standing beside her.
The last lady's maid lasted six days.
The one before her, a fortnight.
The one before that… no one knows.
Helen had laughed at the suggestion that Her Grace had somehow been responsible for the woman's disappearance, but lying awake in the darkness, surrounded by a house that groaned and sighed with every passing house, the rumour seemed far less ridiculous than it had in the light of day. By dawn, she'd managed to convince herself that if she survived her first morining, it would be an achievement in itself.
By the time the servants' bell rang through the corridors, she was already awake.
The household stirred to life with remarkable efficiency.
Maids hurried through the passages carrying baskets of freshly laundered linen. Footman polished silver until it gleamed beneath the candlelight. Somewhere below the stairs, the unmistakable armoa of fresh bread and coffee drifted from the kitchen.
Ashford House never truly slept.
It simply changed shifts.
Helen dressed quickly, smoothing her creases from her plain uniform before pinning on her crisp white apron. Mrs Hawthorne had made one thing abundantly clear with previous evening.
"Her Grace's apartment are to be prepared before she wakes."
Failure was not an option.
With steadying breath, Helen climbed the final staircase towards the Duchess's private apartments.
The corridor was unervingly quiet.
No laughter.
No conversation.
Only the soft ticking of an ornate grandfather clock.
Outaide the bedchamber stood a small trolley, already laden with silver tea service, freshly cut flowers and that morning's newspaper. Beside it rested several carefully wrapped parcels that had arrived from Lonon's finest dressmaker overnight.
Helen carefully unlocked the dressing room.
Even empty, it felt inhabited.
Silk gows lined one wall in every imaginable shade, each protected beneath embroidered garment bags. Shoes stood in immaculate rows beneath polished shelves. A long mahogany dressing table overflowed with crystal perfume bottles, silver-backered brushes and enough jewellery to rival to royal treasury.
Not a speck of dust dared settle.
She set of work immediately.
One gown was removed from the wardrobe and laid carefully across the chaise longue.
Matching gloves. Matching slippers. Matching jewelley.
Every ribbon straightened.
Every button inspected.
Every fold smoothed until perfection stared back at her.
She arranged fresh peonies in the porcelain vase upon the vanity before stepping back to inspect her work.
Still not quite right.
She adjusted the angle of the flowers by barely an inch.
Better.
Much better.
The silence was suddenly broken by a knock at the adjoining sitting room door.
"Miss Sharp?"
Helen hurried to answer.
A footman stoof balancing a polished silver breakfast tray.
"Her Grace's breakfast."
Helen accepted it carefully.
"Thank you."
The footman hesitated.
"You'll be taking that through shortly."
Helen's stomach tightened.
Through?
He offered an apologetic smile, as though he recongised the fear in her eyes.
"Her Grace rises at eight precisely."
He turned to leave before adding over his shoulder-
"And Miss Sharp…"
Helen looked up.
"…whatever you do…"
"…don't keep the Duchess waiting."
The corridor fell silent once more.
Helen looked down at the breakfast tray in her trembling hands.
Eight o'clock was only moments away.