Story: The Best Laid Plans. Chapters 1-4.

by Jackie J

Chapter one 

Margret sighed tossing yet another batch of applications received from her solicitor, into the roaring flames of the log fire and sat back in the large leather chair by the hearth clutching two of the more promising letters and attached references. Margret Whittingham-Smythe requirements were very specific but the lack of tempting the correct candidate to apply only fuelled her desires more, she had to be out there somewhere she had to be? Crushing the first of the letters in her hands and rolling the creased paper into a ball Margret flung the documents into the flames in frustration. Too old, the second one ticked most of the boxes but again just the wrong age, this one too young and too tall. 

During the twelve months since she had become obsessed with her smouldering desire, having read the novel by Dauphine le Mur, Margret had prepared the path for her planned adventure and only one cog was left to be slotted into place. Given this last piece of her contrived masochistic puzzle was the most fundamental of all, her planning counted for nothing?

Margret had managed to distance herself from the few friends she had there was no family to speak off and she lived a solitary existence at Woodland manor since the two years of her arrival which fitted well with her plans.  

There was no shortage of applications, why wouldn’t there be? To enjoy the comfort and lavish ambiance of Woodland manor, access to incredible wealth and the lifestyle currently enjoyed by Margret herself. Sure, that was the bait but with only four potential applicants having reached the interview stage in the twelve months that had passed Margret’s fantasy seemed further away from fulfilment than ever.

Francesca Moray having returned to England from Bolivia following the ruination of her reputation and plantation business was keeping a low profile from the authorities fearing extradition back to Santa Cruz de la Sierra to face fraud charges and an inevitable lengthy custodial sentence that would surely follow. Sat in the corner of a coffee house in a bustling nineteen twenties London Francesca chuckled reading the advertisement in the London Times that had caught her eye. An authoritarian governess required for the position of custodian of a country manor? The details were brief with a London address for applications? Francesca smirked this could be the perfect bolt hole for her.

Round pegs in round holes and having sought out the address for applications, obtained an initial application form and completed the details requested. Francesca found some of the details requested a little weird but having returned the documents thought little more of her desperate long shot search for sanctuary. A week later however an impressive envelope arrived at the seedy guest house that Francesca was staying in. The Landlord seeking back rent refused to hand over the mail until his rent was settled. The physical part rent Francesca offered was enough for the envelope to be exchanged.

Still in her dishevelled underwear sat on the small bed of her cramped attic room Francesca was eager to read the contents of the mail and tore open the envelope.

Francesca rocked back on the bed staring up at the ceiling her mind now filled with different thoughts of the view above her that she had with the weight of the slob of a Landlord atop of her not long before. 

Francesca had been invited to attend an interview at the Savoy. She should only attend if she was available to take up the role at short notice and understand that the position was for a twelve-month period. Francesca read through the brief details and mused on the possibilities.

This would be perfect she would be anonymous out in the countryside the authorities would never think to track her there.  Much of what would be expected of her would be explained at the interview but it would be a roof over her head and from the sounds of it quite a comfortable roof. Custodian of a country Manor and authoritarian Governess, how hard can that be?  

Margret Whittingham-Smythe’s only trusted confidant in her scheme was a young lawyer Michael Jones. The two had never met most contact having been through correspondence with only brief verbal exchanges over the telephone. A strange affair but he was being a paid handsomely for his work and with his briefcase at his feet he awaited the arrival of the latest interviewee in the opulent surroundings of the Savoy’s lounge.

Michael had met with the previous four applicants who had reached this stage and, given the precise attributes demanded for the role, he was less than hopeful of a successful outcome but he would go through the motions and take his fee. Whatever he thought personally it would be his client who would make the final decision having reviewed his report.

Taking on board the authoritarian aspect of the role Francesca had dressed the part and her practised stern expression and matronly appearance had Michael feeling a little more confident of a positive outcome when Francesca approached. Michaels eyes not the only ones to feast on the potential of this candidate. Margret unknown and unseen in the shadows of the lounge squirmed watching Francesca approach her solicitor. She had been right to select this particular application from among the many, could this be the one? Outwardly she was perfect, her height, her build, her hair, her demeanour. Margret shivered with anticipation she could only wait now until she received more details from Michael and slipped away. 

Michael looked back up from his notes when the statuesque figure of Francesca came close and was quickly to his feet. She exuded a presence he had not seen with previous applicants, she was quite intimidating but that is what his client had requested wasn’t it to keep Woodland manor’s surly maid in check, to ensure that she kept the manor to the highest standards in the absence of its owner?

“Please, please take a seat, Miss Moray isn’t it?”  

Francesca offered the card she had received concerning the interview.

Francesca had done her homework apart from the physical aspects, which still confused her, the requirement was for a strict authoritarian figure to oversee the running of the manor and took her seat with her back ramrod straight and smoothing down her skirts stared at Michael.

“Yes, Francesca Moray.”

Michael ran through the exacting listings of his client, Miss Francesca Moray ticked every box, she was perfect.  It would seem the holy grail of this exhaustive search had been found. She was single, attractive, height, weight, clothes and shoe size, hair colour and style an exact match, well spoken and educated and from her demeanour would appear to be even more of an authoritarian than required.  Miss Moray would also be available to take up the role at short notice. 

Miss Francesca Moray was certainly and remarkably a match for the strange requirements of his client. He had doubted the position would ever be filled but here she was sat in front of him the round peg for the round hole. Given the basic criteria had been met Michael ran through the terms of the engagement as agreed with his client.

The role of Custodian came with many benefits and Francesca hid her emotions whilst Michael ran through them. The duration of the contract would be for twelve months during which time she would assume the role of “Lady of the Manor” and meet all the obligations that this entailed. Finance would be provided on request, within the generous limits, through Winston Brown and Watkinson solicitors with whom Michael was engaged.  Francesca would have total control of the manor and use of its contents and the only caveat was the strict supervision of the maid who was indentured and tied to the household but had recently, without the supervision of a strict mistress, become lazy and quite surly seeking to rise above her station.

Michael with many previous disappointments behind him was reluctant to show too much enthusiasm, given it would be his client who would make the final decision on the appointment, but informed Francesca she would be hearing from him very soon.

From what Michael had seen and heard if this woman was not the perfect match for his client’s needs then he doubted such a woman would ever be found or indeed existed.

Francesca had applied for this position on no more than a whim but now, having heard what the role would entail explained, confirmed she would accept the position if offered, she was desperate to secure it but managed to hide these feelings from the stolid Michael.

Two days later Margret was pacing the hallway and bent quickly to retrieve the mail that dropped to the mat by the door and ripped open the distinctive envelope from Winston Brown and Watkinson solicitors.

Michael confirmed Margret’s own thoughts that had festered within her since seeing the woman herself that Francesca Moray would be perfect for the role. Having scanned the detail of the letter with feverish excitement Margret clutched the letter to her breast and proclaimed aloud in the emptiness of Woodland manor. 

“Yes, yes, yes”

Having contacted her solicitor for him to confirm the appointment of Francesca Moray Margret had much to prepare the Custodian of Woodland Manor would be arriving the following week.

A letter confirming her appointment, to be Custodian of Woodland Manor along with a first-class rail ticket and directions to the Shropshire retreat from the nearest major town of Telford placed down on the creaky table by her bed Francesca smiled and took a swig from her half empty beer bottle. Why she had been chosen for the role mattered little, she would be out of this dump and away from the attentions of the authorities and the risk of facing the consequences of her fraudulent crimes in Bolivia. The Shropshire countryside, Lady of the manor, she couldn’t wait.  

Chapter two

Margret was beside herself with a feverish excitement of anticipation, at times having thought this day would never arrive. Sat on a wooden stool by the sluice in the kitchen Margret stared into the mirror propped up behind the taps and took a deep breath with shears in hand. It had to be done and the first of her long blonde locks fluttered down into the stone trough. Margret was no expert to the task but with the black dye rinsed through and some final trimming the cut was credible. Gone her long golden tresses replaced with the neat short cut of a raven black bob. With her personal effects and all photographs indeed anything that could possibly link her back to the manor locked away in the attics she was ready, there could and would be no turning back now.  Margret was right to trim her hair in truth more of a shearing than a trim. Stood staring into the full length mirror the effect was beyond her many lucid imagining’s, coupled with her lack of cosmetics, dressed in her maid’s uniform the combination was truly transformational. 

With Michael Jones having been informed, that given a suitable custodian had been found, the Mistress of Woodland manor had already departed on her travels and it would be left to him to conclude matters with Miss Moray.

Francesca had slipped from her lodgings in the dead of night with her meagre belongings reconciling that the landlord had received more than the back rent owed with her payments in kind and was relived to be rid of the squalid place.

A not unpleasant train journey was followed by a lengthy taxi ride along meandering leafy lanes. Continuing through pretty villages of the Shropshire countryside the taxi abruptly stopped and had to reverse having missed the impressive entrance of the driveway leading to Woodlands manor. Driving through the open gates raked gravel from the winding drive ratted against the underside of the vehicle until the taxi parked outside the manor’s entrance. It was all and more than Francesca had imagined.

An impressive period building framed within no less impressive gardens; this was money real money.

With Mr Jones already waiting in the study it was a nervous maid that stood by the door awaiting the ring of the door bell having seen the taxi arrive. 

“Bringgg…” 

The door opened and the maid stood back and lowered a curtsy, the withering look Francesca gave Margret almost took her breath away and she stuttered.

“Miss Moray? Mr Jones is expecting you, should I..

Cut short by Francesca, who stepped boldly across the threshold, the maid was all of a dither fumbling with her apron.

“Out of my way girl where is Mr Jones have you not duties to be attending to?”

The maid humbly pointed down the hallway to the open study door. Francesca strode purposely down the hallway and entered the large study.

The feeling of euphoric exhilaration had Margret on the edge of raptures at being treated with such disdain by this stranger who had entered her home like she owned it. This is what she wanted wasn’t it, what she had schemed and planned for; it was happening it was real!

Taken on a tour of the manor by Michael Francesca had to pinch herself at the opulence that surrounded her, opulence that she would be enjoying. The master bedroom decadent and expansive, closets filled with expensive clothing all in her size, which went some way to explain the strange criteria on the initial application form. Francesca had lived well in Bolivia on the back of her swindling activities but this was on another level, old money and lots of it.

Back in the study Francesca signed off the contract which Michael folded away in his briefcase before handing Francesca the keys to the residence.   

Michael walked to the side of the fireplace and pulled the ornate sash. 

Let me introduce you to the maid I told you about during our tour of the Manor, Miss Whittingham-Smythe who is the owner of this residence, is quite insistent that she expects to see a significant change in the woman’s attitude when she returns. The woman like many of her type is a compulsive liar you must not believe a word she says. According to Miss Whittingham-Smythe she even told some visitors once that she was actually the Lady of the manor, she needs to know her place and be kept in it whatever discipline that takes.

A contrite maid entered the study curtsied and glanced at Francesca but looked quickly away receiving another withering look.

“Sir?”

“This is Miss Francesca Moray she is now the custodian at Woodland Manor until your Mistress returns.  Miss Moray is to be treated no differently than Miss Margret Whittingham-Smythe herself, as far as you are concerned girl, she is the Lady of the manor, you will serve her every need. Your days of being unsupervised within these walls are over do you understand girl?”  

Margret was wet it was happening, over twelve months she had waited for this moment and it was here at last the perfect candidate had been found. The restrictive drab but neat maid’s uniform she wore would no longer be a fleeting experience these would be the only clothes she would know now. The austere basic maid’s quarters she had kept prepared for this very day would now be her only sanctuary from her duties of service. Her fantasy was to be her reality and she lowered a curtsy the words she had repeatedly rehearsed would at last have true meaning and herald her impending and willing subjugation at the hands of her Mistress.

“Yes, Sir Molly will be a good maid for her Mistress.” 

Francesca walked to her maid.

“Don’t slouch girl or I will have you locked into a steel corset straighten that back.”

“I am told you are a compulsive liar but you will learn the value of truthfulness under my stewardship and when your Mistress returns, she will find the disrespectful creature she left behind as become the perfect maid do you understand girl? You are a maid, my maid and if I hear you fantasising about anything else you will be punished and punished severely, do you understand girl?” 

Margret although already apprehensive was pleased that Michael had briefed her now mistress well. Margret had suspected that despite her intricate meticulous planning this could all be ruined that should, through duress, especially in the early days, she confessed her true identity to seek salvation, but the words of Miss Moray satisfyingly slammed that door of potential emancipation closed. A sharp slap across her face was the bolt that sealed it shut. 

Margret recoiled from the sharp slap across her cheek which started to redden and stared with genuine fear at the tightening aggressive eyes of her Mistress who by her words had confirmed that even if in desperation Margret begged for recognition of her true identity this reality of the mistress she had so carefully designed in her fantasy would discount such pleadings to be nothing more than the lies of a fantasist. 

Francesca had cruelly whipped and harangued unconditional obedience into her servants in Bolivia and this maid Molly would be no less compliant when she was finished with her.

Margret composed herself and instinctively curtsied lowering her gaze had she had practised so many times in front of her mirror whilst alone, but she was not alone now she was offering deference to this stranger standing confidently before her who was to take over the comfortable life she had herself enjoyed, this stranger who she had so painstakingly constructed and contrived to be her mistress, the Mistress who was now the lady of the manor. By her own connivance and acceptance, this stranger was to subjugate her, to replace her imaginings with the reality of service, the reality of being a mistress’s maid. She was no longer Miss Margret Whittingham-Smythe the wealthy landed lady of Woodland manor she was its maid, maid Molly. 

“Yes, Miss I understand.”

 Francesca let a cynical smile build across her face seeing the servility expressed by her maid.

“Good girl, now return to your duties I will speak with you later and draw up your rota.”

Michael had been attracted to Francesca at first sight when they originally met in London and watching her putting the maid in her place endeared him further. Molly had shown little or no respect to him when he arrived at Woodland manor and secretly was willing Francesca to slap the surly cow again but suspected it would not be long before she did anyway. Michael never suspecting for a moment that maid Molly was in fact the true mistress of Woodland manor Miss Margret Whittingham-Smythe.

Michael shook hands with the new Mistress of Woodland Manor and with his business concluded gave her his card. He had found a Custodian meeting all the criteria of his mysterious client, Francesca had accepted the position and judging by how she had treated the maid would be a successful custodian just like his client had requested.  

“I will visit once a month and I am sure that Miss Whittingham-Smythe will be most pleased that this vacancy is now filled, any problems just get in touch but hopefully your stay here at Woodland Manor will be a pleasant one.” 

Francesca smiled hardly believing her good fortune two weeks ago she was bordering on being destitute with the threat of extradition hanging over her now she was lady of the manor in the heart of the English countryside. Michael had been the bridge to this opportunity and it would seem that she would not meet the owner of Woodland manor so she would need to keep him on side and her flirting was veiled but not unnoticed by a flattered Michael.

“Once a month Michael I will look forward to that perhaps I will be able to tempt you to stay over?”

Michael blushed slightly at the connotation.

Francesca walked with Michael to the main entrance and into his modest car the lady of the manor watched him weave his way down the driveway and out through the main gates.

Chapter Three

This was what she wanted wasn’t it? The hundreds of applications she had discounted in frustration had led to this. Was this woman not the embodiment of all she could have hoped for? Had Michael not meticulously followed her instructions to the letter? Two months had passed and Molly was still struggling with the fulfilment of the rota her Mistress had prepared for her maid and the twelve months she would be in service already seemed to be like a lifetime stretching out in front of her. 

Her Mistress had settled in and in her imaginings hadn’t she looked forward to her Mistress wearing what were her own clothes adorned in her jewellery ordering her about like the hired help she was? Had she not experienced many pleasant lucid dreams of being confined in the frugal maids’ quarters whilst her Mistress enjoyed the comfort and luxury of what were her private chambers? Perhaps the physical hardship of scrubbing, cleaning and the laundry had been glossed over in her imaginings but her already callusing hands and reddened knees bore testament to her unrelenting toil. Constantly tired from her work and increasingly nervous and unsure brought about by her domineering mistress and her incessant criticism the ex mistress of Woodland manor was learning the harsh reality of a maid’s life.

Verbal abuse she had expected and, in her imaginings, had indeed relished such chastisement at the hands of a strict mistress but these were not imaginings the barbed comments and belittling insults were her reality, wearing her down making her feel weak, useless and stupid. The physical abuse that soon followed at first painful, feeling the hand of her Mistress spanking her bare buttocks, or slapping her cheeks had become an accepted reward for her regular failings to match up to her Mistresses standards. She had no will to resist her abuse she deserved to be chastised and punished, didn’t she? 

Hearing her Mistress’s call bell Molly, wiping her chaffed hands on her apron scurried from the kitchen to the lounge and curtsied.

“Mistress?”

Molly went weak at the knees feeling faint colour draining from her no, no this was not in her scheme but she knew she would have no alternative but to obey her Mistress.

“Molly you are the worst maid I have ever known no wonder your Mistress was so insistent in the terms of my engagement to be Custodian here at Woodland Manor to bring you up to standard. Well I have had enough of your pathetic interpretation of what a Mistresses maid is. I am sick of screaming you into compliance and spanking that worthless lazy backside of yours. Tomorrow a Mrs. Farrow will collect you and take you to her maid’s training school something your Mistress Miss Whittingham-Smythe should have probably done years ago. You will learn the skills you need and after the six weeks course I expect a proper maid to be returned to me. When your Mistress returns, she will soon realise it was money well spent.”

Molly just stared at her Mistress feeling nauseous at the fate laid out before her she had to tell this woman the truth somehow find the strength to end this now but no such words came, she meekly curtsied, an act now requiring no need of pretence or practice it was ingrained within her along with the humble servility she offered her Mistress.

That night laid in her bunk under her thin sheets Margret tossed and turned Mistress Moray was right she was a terrible maid. She had underestimated the true work of a maid and the heavy boots restrictive uniform and underwear she had chosen had been fine in her pretence but in reality, having to be dressed in them every day and all day something else. The meals she prepared for Mistress Moray were never up to the standard required and it was rare her cleaning passed without criticism and resulting verbal or physical chastisement. She had never thought or considered that she would be sent to a maid’s training school but her Mistress had decided and there was little she could do to prevent it. 

Molly’s Mistress had rooted out some old frumpy clothing from the back of the closets for her maid to wear whilst away from the manor and Margret was near to tears when the transport came to collect her. Mrs. Farrow and Francesca spoke regarding the requirements for the maids training whilst the trembling maid remained seated in the hallway whilst she was discussed.

Mrs. Farrow a large lady with a no-nonsense attitude turned to the seated maid.

“On your feet girl, Molly isn’t it, outside and wait for me by my car.”

Molly stood curtsied and walked slowly to the door with her head lowered past the two ladies and out to the small van parked on the driveway to stand waiting by the passenger door. From the discussion she had listened to, whilst they talked about her like she wasn’t there, her training was to be thorough with guaranteed results. 

Stood in the old clothing her Mistress had given her to wear, clothing she should have thrown away months ago she felt sullied, shamed, helpless, owned. She was owned, she was owned by her Mistress and she was being passed on like damaged goods to be repaired and refurbished brought up to standard and tears were not far away. She had wanted to be a mistress’s maid, to feel the emotions of degradation at the hands of a strict Mistress, searched hard to find such a tormentor but not in her wildest imaginings had she considered this. To be taken from her home in rags to be professionally prepared for domestic service.

Her thoughts were disturbed by the sharp words and aggressive tone of Mrs. Farrow.

“Not there, you stupid girl, who do you think you are, in that back, get in the back of the van and quickly.”

Sat on the floor in the back of the small van as it jerked into motion Molly forlornly peered out of the small rear windows at the garages that housed her Daimler and roadster, lowered her head and sniffled warm tears on her cheeks, what had she done to herself? 

Molly drifted in and out of a drowsy sleep being bumped and banged in the cramped rear of the van as it made its way to who knew where certainly not Molly.  

Would this torturous journey never end? Where was she, they had been travelling for hours although Molly had little knowledge of exactly how long.

The van came to a sudden stop and Molly heard voices before the rear doors opened and she was pulled out into the bright sunshine making her squint covering her eyes.

“Come on let’s be having you.”

Mrs. Farrow looked even more intimidating than before and Molly stumbled keeping pace with her Molly’s arm gripped tight in her would be tutor’s grasp.

Molly’s introduction to Penfold Maid’s School was brutal and humiliating in equal measure. Pushed into the hands of two Amazons Molly was stripped of the rags she wore then pinned into a sluice by a powerful hose of cold water. The two women, who looked like twins laughed watching Molly squirm and twist in the force of the spray. A rough towel tossed to her Molly cowered wrapping the towel around her. Marched from the outside sluice into what looked like farm buildings a row of stout doors lined one wall. One of the doors opened, Molly was pushed inside, the door slammed closed behind her and sound of a key in the lock left nothing to the imagination. Shivering from the cold and fear Molly walked towards a small barred window above a basic bunk at the far wall of what reminded Molly of a nun’s cell. There was little to see from it just bushes and scrubland.

This couldn’t be happing to her it couldn’t but it was!

Whilst she could buy and sell them all ten times over and more she wasn’t Margret, Miss Whittingham-Smythe here, she was Molly a delinquent maid, no different from the others she would later meet, all having been sent to Penfold Maid’s School for one purpose and one purpose only, whatever that would take. To transform the incompetent internees into maids of the highest domestic standard. A trained and certified Penfold maid being a much sought-after commodity within the fine houses of rural England.

Dry but naked it was a genuinely frightened Molly that was taken into a large hall a desk at the far end at which sat Mrs. Farrow with her ledgers. The women stood either side looked familiar? Like the women who had doused her in the sluice, what was it? Molly did not have to wait long to find out. Whilst she had cut and dyed her own hair a Penfold maid had a specific style and dragged to a trough on the side wall Molly leaned down and her trimmed hair was cut shorter but neater and a very strong black dye applied. The shortness and masculine parting of her hair was the first stage of the slow and sure transformation of Miss Whittingham-Smythe into a Penfold maid. 

A trainee’s smock was handed to her and the failure to curtsy and thank the tall athletic woman how had given it to her brought a swift and stinging stroke of a cane across the back of her thighs making her squeal and plead, she had to tell them this was a mistake, tell them the truth, who she really was.

“Please I.."

Thwack!

“No stop please I am not.."

Thwack!

Further attempts speak and to tell this woman how she really was resulted in further painful strokes of the cane until Molly’s head lowed sobbing having been whacked into silence.

Mrs Farrow stood from her chair her face stern.

“You speak when you are spoken to here, look at me girl, look at me.”

Molly raised her tearful face to look at Mrs Farrow.

“You are here because you are a lying pathetic excuse for a maid; if you speak out of turn again, I will have you gagged and put in the black room and believe me that is a place you do not want to go. Your Mistress is paying good money for you to be here and you are here to listen and learn. Whatever you knew of maid’s work and how you slovenly completed it before you came here you can forget.”

Mrs Farrow took a pen and wrote into the ledger.

“You are number 382, don’t ever forget that number your name will be returned to you when you are fully trained and certified do you understand 382?

Molly bobbed a curtsy and responded quickly for fear of the cane.

“Yes Miss 382, I am 382 Miss.” 

Mrs Farrow eased herself back into her chair a grin on her face.

“Good 382 now put on your smock and go with 218 your training starts from now and you will learn the less you see of me the better. 218 the collar for 382 if you please”

The coarse fabric of her smock about her 382 looked wide eyed when 218 wrapped a stout leather posture collar around her neck and sealed it with a lock.

Mrs Farrow smirked.

“There is a time to lower your head in deference but at other times you will hold your head high like all Penfold maids.”

Molly, 382 made slow progress with the physical aspects of her training in the first week but impressed her tutors with her numeracy and hand writing when preparing household accounts. Communal eating was the only form of association within the school. 382 was surprised seeing the other women at the school to be trained, many of a similar age and all looking similar with their Penfold styled hair. Any conversation was in stolen whispers, it was no function of maids to know each other business. 379 and 376 had both been divorced and left penniless and thought maid’s work was an easy way to earn money and have a roof over their heads, how wrong they had been.

Laid in her small bunk Margret Whittingham-Smythe pondered her predicament. She wanted to be a Mistress’s maid; she had made painstaking preparations to that end to feel what it was like to be at a strict Mistress’s beck and call to wallow in those exquisite helpless emotions, to be swathed in a uniform of service, all position, privilege and wealth beyond use. Was her situation not now the manifestation of those desires? How strange that a smile came to her face an epiphany of sorts, yes, she must embrace her training become a proficient maid, a real maid, how else could her obsessive desires be truly met? 

A never-ending supply of creased clothing had 382 pressing and folding garments and linen for three days solid. Verbally chastised and whacked into compliance 382 delivered knife edge creases and the smoothest of fabric without faltering. Cleaning, scrubbing, polishing, laying linen, laying and serving table, every task required of a domestic servant 382’s training was relentless and at times painful. The physical and verbal abuse reduced significantly during week three for an increasingly compliant and eager to please 382 now dressed in a blue smock replacing the coarse grey fabric of her initial garment and underwear, plain and basic but underwear never the less. By the time 382 was placed in the kitchens the change in her was obvious and marked. She never moved without instruction and would stand in the classic pose of a Penfold Maid for hours if required. Head high, arms straight hands pressed to her thigh, heels together; back ramrod straight not a flinch, a characteristic painfully instilled within her. 382 had done well with only three visits to Mrs Farrow for punishment her mind becoming increasingly consumed with a need to serve and serve well a need to become a certified Penfold Maid. 

382 having laid table in the morning and prepared a meal during the day was taken to be dressed by her mentor 218. Having bathed 382 relished the feel of her crisp underwear and soft woollen fabric of her dress. The seams on her stockings straightened with pride she stepped into and laced her highly polished shoes. The bow of her apron tied to regulation length her lace trimmed tiara cap sat comfortably pinned to her short hair.

218 smiled watching 382 making final adjustments in the mirror an expression not witnessed until that time by 382 and 382 turned blushing at this unspoken compliment.

A deep breath and 382 was ready and accompanied into the main hall by 218.

Mrs Farrow was sat at the dining table with three of her staff who watched 382 approach, 218 moving to the side of the room adopting the Penfold pose.

The posture collar gone head high 382 was the embodiment of all a Penfold Maid should be. Her curtsy was sharp and crisp without hesitation her voice clear but contrite her eyes bright and attentive but avoiding eye contact with her betters.

 “Should I serve dinner Mistress?”

Mrs Farrow never one to show emotion although she was secretly pleased to see 382 having reached this stage of her training and looking impeccable.

“Yes 382 you may serve.”

Each course served, wine poured 382 displayed all the skills of her training her pose whilst the dinners consumed the fare prepared and served by 382 was a mirror of 218.  Any mere nod or raised hand of a diner brought 382 instantly to their service. The meal over the group moved to sit at and around Mrs. Farrow’s desk whilst 382 cleared table. 

382 called from the kitchens curtsied in front of Mrs Farrow’s desk, the head of Penfold Maids School showing no emotion. The next words by Mrs Farrow brought 382’s gaze from the wall behind into direct eye contact with a smiling Mrs. Farrow.

“Molly step forward I have something for you.”

Molly wobbled forward full of emotion tears in her eyes Mrs. Farrow had called her by her name?

Mrs Farrow stood and approaching Molly placed a sash about her and handed her a certificate. Molly was a fully trained and certified Penfold Maid. The seated staff put their hands together in muted but genuine applause and Mrs Farrow continued.

“Well Molly congratulations I am sure your Mistress will be most pleased. You will be returned to Woodland Manor in the morning.  

Molly was in a daze she had her name back she was no longer a number she was a Certified Penfold Maid.

Molly never forgetting her place curtsied.

“Thank you, Mistress.” 

Mrs Farrow smiled.

“Go with 218 Molly and have your certificate endorsed.” 

Another curtsy before a proud maid joined 218 and headed to the back office of the school. The fingerprint and photographic identification added to the certificate and a retained copy for the school records the certificates were endorsed with the seal of the school.

Filled with a mixture of relief, pride and sense of achievement Molly even smiled whilst the discrete but indelible and distinctive tattoo was etched on the nape of her neck “382, Molly, PMS” 

For a maid this identification, certification and branding would be a passport to domestic service in the finest houses in England for Miss Margret Whittingham-Smythe the consequences would be somewhat different.

Chapter 4

Whilst Francesca’s maid was away, she continued to explore the manor and enjoy the life of luxury she had been so fortunate to have happened upon. The temporary substitute maid the school had provided was in sharp contrast to the maid she had inherited at Woodland Manor. With her distinctive hairstyle and the Penfold livery of her uniform there was no need for chastisement or spankings she was the perfect domestic servant. 

Francesca had driven both of the expensive vehicles that she had discovered in the garages, the roadster was her favourite and was regularly seen speeding down the lanes and through the villages of the area. Having been cautioned for speeding by the local constabulary she chuckled all the way back to Woodlands. The local bobby had, in a matter of fact manner, taken her to be the owner of the impressive car, Miss Margret Whittingham-Smythe? The way she was dressed the expensive jewellery, who else could it be? Francesca not being able to resist flirting with the young and handsome policeman even inviting him to Woodlands should he be passing?

 An inquisitive Francesca had been lady of the manor at Woodland’s for a number of months and having explored every nook and cranny of Woodland manor found it strange that there was no personality to the place, no knick knacks, photographs, letters, documents no evidence at all of the owner of the Manor. The Mistress here however had left everything for her use? Even her clothing, Jewellery, what did this mysterious woman take with her on her travels, who was she and where had she gone?

It was a conundrum that the two monthly meetings with Michael Jones that had already taken place had failed to resolve? He had never actually met Miss Margret Whittingham-Smythe? Michael suggested that when the maid returns from the training, she had been sent on she may be able to shed some light on whom this reclusive woman was? 

Francesca being aware of the influence Michael Jones had on her current and continued cosseted existence at Woodlands chose his second visit to exert a little influence of her own, not that he put up much resistance to her somewhat less than subtle seduction.  Following a lavish meal prepared by Annabelle, the substitute maid, followed by copious amounts of fine wine the pair enjoyed a night of unbridled lust. Their pillow talk in the afterglow of their exertions had only fuelled Francesca’s curiosity more. Having revealed the search for a suitable custodian, meeting such exact requirements, had taken over twelve months and this incompetent maid, what was that all about? Still Michael was happy and perhaps he would reveal more on his next visit? 

 The exchange of maids when Mrs. Farrow returned Molly had Francesca having to do a double take. Annabelle and Molly looked like peas in a pod the distinctive livery of the Penfold uniform, the way they held themselves, their hair, Molly displaying the same short boyish cut that Francesca had admired of Annabelle when she arrived. Mrs Farrow had guaranteed results when she took Woodland Manor’s incompetent maid away to be trained perhaps now Molly will be capable of delivering the same level of service provided by her substitute Annabelle?

Molly was certainly different, the way she cleverly avoided eye contact without appearing distracted, her deliberate neat curtsy, her erect stance, the timely lowering of her gaze, the pristine condition of her smart uniform and that distinctive hair style. The transformation was pronounced and obvious.

Molly returned to her quarters at the back of the house and filled her closet and drawers with the new Penfold uniforms and accessories she had been given. Her training had been intense and at times very painful but the six weeks had given her all the skills she would need to be a true maid at Woodland Manor to fulfil her fantasy, to be a Mistress’s maid.

The service bell rang and Molly made her way to curtsy to her Mistress.

“Well Molly Mrs. Farrow tells me you have been an excellent student I have your certification here something I am sure your Mistress will be most appreciative of when she returns, a certified Penfold Maid very impressive, you must be very pleased? I understand you bare the mark of the school, show me girl.   

Molly curtsied and taking steps forwards towards her Mistress leaned forward to reveal her tattoo her stamp of endorsement on the nape of her neck that proclaimed her a domestic servant, all be it a domestic servant of the highest standard but a domestic servant never the less. 

Francesca smiled at her maids branding and her apparent pride to be emblazoned in such a way very apt. Mrs Farrow having explained to Francesca the true reasoning behind this ritual. Many would try to impersonate a Penfold maid to seek employment but only those branded can prove they are actual Penfold maids. Not that it would be relevant for Molly Francesca understood that her maid was already indentured to Woodland Manor and her Mistress Miss Whittingham-Smythe anyway, she would have no reason to seek employment elsewhere.  

Francesca, unlike Miss Whittingham-Smythe, was no recluse in fact quite the opposite and had met with many people from the nearest village and indeed further afield. She rather enjoyed the somewhat celebrity like status given to her. She was the lady of Mystery who resided at Woodland Manor wasn’t she? Who else could she be? People being keen to make her acquaintance, Francesca was not minded to correct their assumptions, why would she.

 If Francesca was embracing and growing into the persona of the lady of the manor Molly was even more consumed in her roll of a Mistress’s maid? 

Squirming about the manor, in perverse pleasure at her subjugation, Margret’s only regret being that she had not considered the maid’s school before. It was all so very real now much better than before she became a certified Penfold maid. Competent in all the tasks of a domestic house maid, wearing the livery of a real maid, not one that she had pulled together from her imaginings Molly was a real maid, wasn’t she? Her Mistress, like a good Mistress should be, much to the pleasure of her simpering subordinate, was dismissive of her treating her with the disdain befitting her status. This constant and willing reinforcement of her role by the elegant superior lady who was her Mistress beginning to draw an initially thin veil of separation regarding ownership and claim she had to Woodland and the luxurious lifestyle of the Mistress she served.  Having become so engrossed in her fantasy Margret did not question, even in her own mind, the first time in her presence her Mistress was referred to in the name of Margret and subsequently Miss Whittingham-Smythe. She found it so erotically degrading that the Woman who had the use of Woodlands and everything contained within, including herself, would now take her name in the eyes of those visiting Woodland manor. 

Over the ensuing months there were many visitors to Woodland manor most from the locality who had never visited the manor before or ever met the reclusive owner Miss Whittingham-Smythe. Without exception they accepted Francesca not only to be Miss Whittingham-Smythe but to be a most convivial hostess at the receptions she held and also without exception complemented the maid who busied herself at their beck and call serving their needs. Molly was meticulous with her appearance has was the duty of a Penfold maid. Her hair regularly trimmed and dyed like she had been shown. Her uniforms laundered with care, her aprons and caps always starched and brilliant white. Margret Whittingham-Smythe had planned, contrived, schemed, financed and dreamed of her decent into a life of submissive, subordinate servility at the hands of a strict uncaring Mistress and the exquisite reality was becoming beyond her wildest imaginings. Especially satisfying was being chastised in front of guests to the manor for trivial, or more commonly fabricated indiscretions which served to further nurture her reducing self worth and desires for subjugation, her desires to be Molly, Molly the maid.  

Following the most recent visit by Michael, the solicitor of Miss Whittingham-Smythe Mollie was called into her Mistresses study.

Molly entered the study and curtsied.

“Mistress?”

“Molly I have looked for but cannot find any contract for your employment here at Woodland Manor. The certificate from Penfold Maid’s school show’s Miss Whittingham-Smythe to be your sponsor but it also states you are the indentured maid at Woodland Manor in accordance with the conditions contained within. Do you have a copy of these conditions?”

Molly looked at her Mistress with obvious confusion, a contract and conditions? During her meticulous planning Margret had never considered a maid’s contract of indenture?

Francesca huffed.

“Mmm, I thought so, you are indentured aren’t you Molly you know that don’t you?”

Margret was confused, how to reply, that is what she had told her solicitor to write in the brief and contract for the custodian, she couldn’t risk the custodian sacking the maid that would have been a disaster?

Molly curtsied.

“Yes, Mistress indentured to Miss Whittingham-Smythe, indentured to Woodland manor.”

There was a good reason Francesca was anxious to obtain a copy of the indenture contract. The Parsons, who had recently visited with Miss Whittingham-Smythe or so they believed, had asked to have use of the Woodlands maid during a visit by important guests to their home High trees Hall. Lord and Lady Parsons wanting to impress by having a Penfold maid in their service. Francesca had agreed but having considered Mrs Farrows warning, about sought after Penfold maids being poached; an Indenture contract was a legal document of ownership that would settle any disputes of who owned the maid.

“Well the solicitor of Miss Whittingham-Smythe holds no records of your indenture and I have asked him to prepare one to protect Miss Whittingham-Smythe and of course yourself Molly. The original has probably been mislaid so best this matter is officially settled with a new mandate.”

Her daily chores completed and having attended her Mistress whilst she bathed Molly was back in her cramped quarters and reflected on this latest proposed confirmation of her status at Woodland Manor by her Mistress. Already a certified Penfold Maid she was to officially become the indentured maid of Woodlands manor. A contract was being prepared by her own solicitor for her to become the indentured maid within her own home? It was preposterous, ridiculous wasn’t it? Or was it? A shiver of weakening erotic excitement ran through Margret how could she reconcile the absurdity of it all? But she did? It was noted in the agreement, she had stipulated this for the custodian, there should be a document proclaiming the status of the Woodland Manor’s maid, maid Molly, and now there will be. 

It was six months to the day of Miss Margret Whittingham-Smythe sacrificing her idyllic lifestyle to become the maid in her own home that Michael Jones returned to Woodlands manor with the indenture agreement. Given there was no available record of the original indenture Michael explained to Francesca that this agreement would supersede any previous document if indeed one existed. Many such indentures were verbal and seldom used in more modern times with the implications of slavery. Michael had had to trawl through the archives to find any similar agreement to base this new indenture on and had predated the document to whilst Miss. Whittingham–Smythe was still in residence at Woodland manor. To this end he had copied a previous signature of Miss. Whittingham–Smythe and would explain this to his client when she returned believing it was in her best interest. Both Michael and Francesca agreed that when Miss Whittingham-Smythe returned she would be pleased this matter had been attended to. 

Called into the study Molly curtsied then lowered her gaze

“Mistress?”

Michael opened his file laying out two sets of official documents of indenture.

“Molly you are to sign these for your Mistresses solicitor, the indenture you enjoy here at Woodlands.”

The feelings that Margret had felt at the initial mention and her subsequent reflection on this matter swelled up within her again. Margret hid and buried from her conscious thoughts that in six months time her period of self deprecation would be over that this was all transitory wasn’t it? With no thought of consequence or implication, filled with emotions of elation and joyous weakening servility, emotions that she had craved in her imaginings when Mistress of Woodlands manor, there was no Margret Whittingham–Smythe in the room only a Mistress, her solicitor and her maid.

Whilst Francesca was anxious to conclude the matter Michael insisted Molly was given the opportunity to read the text before signing to endorse its legality.

Margret was on the edge of raptures reading the print she was wet and feeling faint the signatory signing herself into no less than serfdom to become no more than a chattel of Woodland manor and Mistress. The meaning of indenture, a term she had so casually added to the constraints of the maid her custodian Mistress would have to adopt laid bare in the document before her. 

Maid Molly to be given shelter, clothing and sustenance in perpetuity in return for her domestic services, sub clauses followed duties, hours of work etc mere detail the word perpetuity resonated in the endorphin filled mind of maid Molly. Even her certification to be a Penfold maid had not raised feelings of such exquisite reckless abandonment of her heritage as this. Molly’s hand quivered taking the pen offered by Michael and scrawled her mark, Molly, under the existing dated signature some two years previous of Miss Margret Whittingham–Smythe that she didn’t question, how could she?

Molly now officially registered to be the indentured maid of Woodland manor and its Mistress.

Francesca impatiently snapped at her maid.

“Right Molly no dawdling back to your duties.”

Molly curtsied 

“Yes Mistress.”

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