Story: It Wasn't Right. Chapter 12.

by Jackie J

Thursday, I call dress down day for Miss Margret. Each Thursday Mistress has business to attend to in the city. Rather plain clothing for a lady of such standing, but the nature of her business requires such, and it is not my place to pry. Having inquired once, and having been severely punished, I know better than to inquire of my Mistresses’ business.

Miss Elizabeth is on time to collect Mistress. Miss Elizabeth, a large and well-spoken lady, now manages Mayfair Domestic Services and from the conversations I have fleetingly overheard, the business is expanding and thriving thanks to the investments made by my Mistress, Miss Margret.

With Mistress and Miss Elizabeth having left Poplars, walking into the kitchen, I contemplate what to prepare for them when they return.  Miss Elizabeth likes my cherry buns, and she did ask for them the previous Thursday. Mistress and Miss Elizabeth are rarely back at Poplars until late afternoon, so I have time to shop and still bake the buns.

The clock in the hall chimes seven, then eight, then nine, Mistress is never this late and I start to worry. A sharp banging of the door knocker makes me jump and I hurry down the hallway to answer the door.

A Tragedy. The ferry from Tower bridge to Greenwich capsized. Five survivors, my Mistress, Miss Margret, Agnes Burtonshaw, not one of them.

Shock, filling my senses at the unthinkable, I stare at a tearful Miss Elizabeth in disbelieve at the news, then collapse in a heap on the hallway tiles.

Laid on a chaise lounge, the acrid scent of salts returns me to consciousness, having fainted in the hallway. Miss Elizabeth’s face is close to mine staring into my bleary eyes. She then hugs me and starts to sob.

“It was awful Milly, awful. They pulled her from the river, there was nothing they could do, she looked like she was sleeping, I have never seen someone like that before, she just looked to be asleep, just asleep, so peaceful.”

Miss Elizabeth, strong she may be physically, but she is obviously traumatised by the events she witnessed. It all seems so unreal, so hard to believe and, in a trance like state, I leave Miss Elizabeth softly sobbing to prepare a pot of tea. I stare at the cheery buns I had baked earlier in the day and cannot help bursting into tears. My mother died during childbirth and my father was of advanced years when he passed. I have been shielded from such trauma, that of sudden death, especially of someone close. Over the initial shock, upset of course, my mind is soon to practical matters. What now for maid Milly Brannigan.

Miss Elizabeth, choosing to stay at Poplars for the night, I prepare her room and help her undress and into bed. Miss Elizabeth seeming to have settled a little took my hand.

“Thank you, Milly, I know you are just one of Mrs Burtonshaw’s maid’s, one of the companies’ maids, but she thought a lot of you, that showed of course by giving you special training, having you for her personal maid. I cannot promise you anything Milly, but I have read your file and I will do my best for you when matters are settled. You would not know this, how could you, but some months ago now, Agnes had become the beneficiary of a wealthy lady’s fortune, she never said who, quite mysterious, but someone she had helped. Everything was going so well. Mayfair Maids could be paid better, and Mayfair domestic services attracted better maids, better maids meaning better clients, better clients meaning increased revenue. All was going so well, now this.”

Miss Elizabeth sniffles and wipes away some tears.

“O’ dear Milly, you must think me so silly why am I telling you all this, you being just a maid. I don’t want you to worry that’s all, about what will happen to you, there is always work for good maids, good maids like you.  Well, that will be all for this evening Milly, we must try and get some sleep, ready to face tomorrow.”

Back in my quarters my mind is racing. Miss Elizabeth obviously does not know about me, who I really am, she thinks me just another of Agnes’s maids, but then why shouldn’t she? Miss Elizabeth also only knows Agnes to be who she is, not Margret Williams that’s for sure. Agnes having successfully lived a double life these last months. It is safe to assume it was Mrs Agnes Burtonshaw that drowned, and the secrets and existence of Miss Margret Williams drowned along with her. A cold shiver runs through me at this realisation. The only people who now know anything about the arrangement, the custodianship of Millicent Williams, by her cousin Margret Williams, are the Notary and Miss Margret Williams maid, maid Milly Brannigan?

I do not sleep well, and in the morning rise early to serve Miss Elizabeth tea in her room. Hard to believe the tragedy of the previous day, that Agnes is truly gone.  I Busy myself preparing eggs and ham for Miss Elizabeth’s breakfast. I am not sure how I should feel? I am sad of course but confused perhaps resentful. Agnes had opened up a whole new world for me, taken me from my wealth and privilege, leading me into the life of domestic service that I so coveted. A life I now lead, but I come back to the question that haunted me the past night.  What now for Milly Brannigan, what now for Mrs Burtonshaw’s prodigy, Mrs Burtonshaw’s lady’s maid?

Miss Elizabeth says little, only not to worry, and that I will be looked after. I am to keep Poplars spotless and that she will return probably in a couple of days when she knows what is happening. Having eaten her breakfast my guest is soon away from Poplars.

Second nature now, I attend to the daily duties on my rota. An easy pretence to assume my Mistress away for the day rather than the truth that Miss Margret Williams will never be returning. It is a truth however that is on my mind throughout the day. I would never consider entering Miss Margaret’s study without her instruction and certainly not without Mistress being in attendance. Things are different now though and, with Agnes deceased, I need to seek how to unravel the conspiracy that we have shared, if I am to regain my life, the life of Millicent Williams, my life at Crestley House.

Becoming ever more anxious I search on every shelf, look through every cabinet, rummage in every drawer. My anxiety turning to concern, everything I find relates to the mistress of Poplars, Miss Margret Williams, then why shouldn’t it? I find letters from Mayfair Domestic Services, from Mrs Burtonshaw to Miss Margret, letters relating to loans made by Miss Margret to Mayfair Domestic Services. Agnes thanking Miss Margret for her investment and support. The Notary file contains the deed of guardianship with various correspondence highlighting specific financial permissions granted to Miss Margret from her cousin’s estate. I sit back, my eyes widening reading one recent letter from the Notary’s office to Miss Margret confirming the acceptance of her cousin’s situation.  Whilst sad news indeed, we thank you for informing us of the deterioration in the condition of your cousin Miss Millicent William’s and that you have placed her in the care of St Michaels Sanatorium for her own safety and well-being.  The file is now updated and payments to St Michaels, for your cousin’s care, will be made from the estate until we are informed otherwise.

Having searched everywhere I cannot find a trace of Agnes Burtonshaw ever being at Poplars.  All records and correspondence relate to Miss Margret Williams even the tradesman’s billing all in the name of Miss Margret Williams.  Anything relating to Agnes and myself is not to be found at Poplars.

Am I upset that I have found that Agnes used my money to invest into her business? no, if she would have asked, I am sure I would have agreed. The extent of her embezzlement I will not be able to ascertain until I am back at Crestley house and have regained control of my finances.

With all the documents back in place, I notice some smears on the polished desktop. I cannot help myself, force of habit, my responsibility, my job, whatever drives me, I return with beeswax in hand I dust off and polish the study furniture.

Early evening, I am sat at the kitchen table, sipping on a mug of tea, reflecting on what I have found.

How long it had been planned, it is doubtful I will never know, but Agnes intended to keep me for her maid and milk my wealth, there can be little doubt of that. I smile at that thought, would I have resisted such a fate, could I have resisted such a fate? Probably not, but that is all changed now. With my Mentor, Mistress, and co-conspirator no longer here to exploit and share my perverse desires, there is an emptiness that is hard to explain. I am sure the traits of my willing demise from Lady to maid, at the hands of Mrs Burtonshaw, will linger, but, back to my life of privilege at Crestley house, those lingering traits, I am sure, will be short lived. With Agnes gone I need to get my life back.

I resolve that, first thing in the morning, I will locate a library and find out more about The Guardianship with the Notary. The guardianship was for twelve months so it will not have that long left to run. But, according to what I have read in the files, Miss Margaret’s cousin and ward, Miss Millicent Williams is currently held in St Michaels sanatorium and, with the Guardian, Miss Margret Williams, indefinitely indisposed, what happens now with the guardianship, I need to find out.

The librarian is most helpful, although I did struggle to speak properly after Agnes’s incessant indoctrination to develop my uncouth speech, she no doubt sensed my struggle and thought me trying to act posh. I gave myself away, when she offered me the reference numbers. with my response.

“Ta Luv” 

I am not a lawyer, but I have read through many legal documents from my days running Williams and Matterson and thought this would not be challenge beyond my scope.  My mind whirls with the clauses and sub clauses, so long since I have tasked myself with such intense concentration. I make notes and sit staring at the now closed volumes of “Guidance for guardianship”.  A tap on my shoulder, by a tall officious gentleman, breaks me from my thoughts.

“You have dropped some papers on the floor, don’t forget them Miss.”

I turn and smile politely, though I have nothing to smile about having spent most of the morning seeking a way to have the guardianship rescinded.

Back at Poplars I sit at the kitchen table and read though my notes again and again. There must be a way.

With all parties compliant and in agreement, entering into a guardianship is quite straightforward, renewing an agreement on its anniversary again straightforward. Cancelling or continuing an agreement on its anniversary, requires only a simple explanation. Revoking an agreement, mid-term, requires some more detail. None of the ways to cancel a Custodian Agreement, due to a change in circumstances, are that difficult. The named Guardian can withdraw from their responsibilities of custodian, citing the change in circumstances. The Ward of the Agreement can prove the conditions for the establishment of the custodianship no longer apply.  Simple in many ways but only if the relevant parties are able to attend a tribunal and testify to the facts, in person. The Custodian of the agreement in question, Miss Margret Williams, will not be available now or ever and the ward of the agreement Miss Millicent Williams, according to the records, held by the Notary, now committed and languishing within the confines of St Michaels sanitorium.

Given the situation, as it appears, that the Ward of the agreement is under medical supervision for a deterioration in its mental condition, cited on the original documents, and the appointed Guardian will not be available to renew the Guardianship agreement, on or at its due anniversary, I find, buried in sub clauses, there is a procedure for just such a circumstance.  Chapter 12, sub section 16, clause 4, note 1V.

Following due diligence by the good offices of the issuing Notary, to locate the appointed Guardian, and its failure to do so, and the ward of the Guardianship remains incapacitated by the reasons stated on the original agreement, the following will apply.  The issuing Notary will assume responsibilities of the Guardian, and the subject of the Guardianship, de facto, becomes a ward of the state. Covenants, bursaries, allowances, and terms agreed at the signing of, or established during the duration of the Guardianship agreement, to continue for three years, at which time a case review will be actioned. Or, until the original Guardian can be found or comes forward. Or, the ward of the guardianship can proof competence to manage its affairs.

My thoughts are a mixture of anger but strangely and more so, admiration. Anger, at myself, for so willingly and naively allowing my perverse desires for the apron and my subjugation, to allow such a secure and complete self-entrapment of my former self, of Miss Millicent Williams. Admiration yes, admiration for the patient manipulation and scheming of Agnes Burtonshaw. Was it her plan all along, I like to think so. To subtly transform a lady of standing and wealth to willingly be her own personal maid, and have that maid, by its own hand, unknowingly agree to the gifting of its wealth.

Having found me at Crestley House, dressed in my absent maid Linda’s uniform, finding the Mistress of the house willing and accepting to be the obedient maid of its temporary housekeeper, no doubt her scheming began from there. My placement, a working maid, my isolation from Crestley house, the guardianship, the training. With what I have discovered, I think it was her plan all along. A pity she did not live to see the fruition of her scheming and hopefully it is not too late to unravel her plotting.

I need to extract Miss Millicent Williams from the Guardianship agreement before she becomes a ward of the state, I must find out who Agnes actually had committed and locked away in the sanitorium in place of the real Miss Millicent?  I scream into the emptiness of the kitchens.

No, no, no, I am Miss Millicent, I am Millicent Williams, I am I am. Who in place of me, who in place of me!

 So intense my conditioning and the reality of being my Mistresses maid, of being Milly Brannigan for so long now, I find it hard to think that we are one and the same Miss Millicent and me.

My head sinks into my folded arms on the table, in mental capitulation to those insidious ingrained thoughts Miss Millicent and me, Miss Millicent and me, no, no, no longer I must try, Milly and me, are one and the same.  No, no we are not the same we are not one and the same, I am Millicent Williams, I am Millicent Williams?

Millicent Williams I may be, but I am the maid at Poplars and Poplars will not keep itself clean. Having worked through my afternoon rota brushing dusting and polishing the upper landings and stairway. I Just have the hallway tiles to scrub and polish then I am finished for the day.

Two days and I have had no contact with Miss Elizabeth.  I am still struggling with how to extract myself from the guardianship, yes myself, I am forcing myself to think that way. I am Millicent Williams; I repeat that over and over whilst at my work. Strange but in my mind, being Miss Millicent dressed and put to work a maid revives those early emotions, when I slipped into Linda’s uniform and tied her apron around my waist for the first time. I know deep down I will never be free of this, this form of madness.

My jobs for the day done, I decide to visit St Michaels Sanitorium, Perhaps I can get to see this imposter that Agnes had committed purporting to be me, to be Miss Millicent Williams.

What a bleak place St Michaels is, more like a prison than a place of sanctuary for the sick of mind.

The stout uniformed guard at the main gate is polite, very polite indeed, and points me to the reception area for female inmates. The word inmates and bars on the windows confirm my thoughts that this is not the hospital its name implies.

I show my identification, the only identification I possess, and I sign the visitors book, Milly Brannigan. Having explained I was Miss Williams maid, before her problems, I ask to see her, and I am taken to a small side room.

I wait for some time before a smiling lady enters. She explains she works with “The friends of the patients” organisation. She carries with her a large ledger which she sits on the table in front of her. Thumbing through the pages she stops and looks up at me.

“Miss Millicent Williams, how sad, what a shame. you were her maid once you say? Quite ironic then.”

The lady then reads details from the ledger.

“The records are showing a very sad case, a rich lady who lost her mind, racked by delusions of being a maid. Brought to St Michaels by her cousin, Millicent’s appointed guardian by the courts, this to avoid further embarrassment for the family.  Millicent has been at St Michaels for less than a year.  The treatment sanctioned by her cousin Margaret was not initially successful, when not sedated she was so convincing, even spoke like a maid, like you do. Shouted at her cousin, called her cousin Agnes for some bizarre reason, screaming to get her out, that there was nothing wrong with her. She wasn’t a rich lady she was just a maid.  It shows here that the doctors have now found the right combination of drugs for her sedation, thankfully the straight jacket is no longer required but her cousin agreed that attempts at rehabilitation would be futile. She is very calm now and sleeps a lot. I would let you see her but her cousin, Miss Margret Williams, a lovely lady, always so well dressed, she visits each month, she demanded no visitors other than herself for fear of her beloved cousin becoming further disturbed. Fees for her care are being paid regularly so you have no need to worry about your old Mistress she will be with us until her cousin applies for her release. With being such an embarrassment to her family I doubt an application will be made and, with her tantrums, when without sedation, it would be highly unlikely to be granted, even if an application was made. Sad, but I feel Miss Millicent Williams will be spending the rest of her days here at St Michaels.”

I cannot leave the place quick enough, that poor woman, whoever she is, no doubt tricked into a wicked pretence to impersonate me by Agnes, then left at St Michaels to scream for her release until drugged into a stupor and silenced.

I am in a state by the time I get back to Poplars, realising the only person getting the Miss Millicent Williams, that is held stupefied within the walls of St Michaels Sanitorium released, and free of the guardianship, is Miss Margert Williams, Millicent’s fictitious cousin, a cousin now dead, dead like her creator, Mrs Agnes Burtonshaw.

I have taken supper and whilst not dark yet, it is getting late. I am about to go to my quarters and take to my bed when I hear the door knocker.

It is Miss Elizabeth, who looks at the gleaming tiles and can smell the polish.

“Good girl Milly, keeping yourself busy, Mrs Burtonshaw would be proud of you. I realise it is late, but I came to tell you I will be coming to collect you in the morning; take you to the hostel, Mr Rogerson will find you a room. You cannot stay here. Mrs Burtonshaw was given the use of Poplars by the benefactor that I mentioned to you. With all that’s happening, the last thing I want the is for the lady who owns Poplars to discover that a common maid is living in her property. I found out the Lady’s name by the way Milly, it was in some files. Miss Margret Williams, did you ever see her here, hear her name mentioned “

I stare at Miss Elizabeth, with all that has happened I am drained, thoughts of regaining my life, that of Millicent Williams have never seemed so distant and I know it will be Milly Brannigan who will be accompanying Miss Elizabeth to the maid’s hostel in the morning.

“Nah, not urd nowt bout a Miss Margret, shall a pack mi stuf Miss?

I look at Milly poor thing, she looks so wretched I doubt she slept much these last days, I need to get her settled at the hostel. I suspect Agnes spoiled her, living in this fancy place, I will need to get her back to some proper maid’s work. And I think I know just the place.

“Yes, Milly your things and Mrs Burtonshaw’s things, when you have everything packed and ready clean your quarters and Mrs Burtonshaw’s rooms, spotless both rooms.”

 Miss Elizabeth leaves, she was in surprisingly good spirits compared to when I saw her last. That is of little concern to me, and I make my way to what was my Mistresses rooms. The rooms in which I have stripped, dressed, bathed, and pampered my mistress. Brushed her fine hair to a sheen, stood and admired her grace. With clothes and belongings packed into trunks, I wobble them down the main staircase into the hallway, before returning to thoroughly clean the rooms and change the linen. The stripping out of my uniforms and the cleaning of my small quarters is a much simpler affair and the possessions of Mistress and her maid soon sit on the highly polished tiles of the hallway.

A flat waggon arrives early the next morning at Poplars to collect the trunks and I join Miss Elizabeth in her carriage, my mistress’s old carriage.  We have travelled some way when I realise Miss Margret’s files remain in the study. I look out of the carriage window it is too late now, there they will remain until found. By which time Millicent Williams will either be long gone from this place or, I shudder at the prospect, Milly Brannigan will not. The scenery through the carriage window changes from bright rural to the greyness of the bustling urban sprawl that is central London.

Mr Rogerson stands by my trunk, that had arrived earlier, and smiles when I descend from the carriage.

“Sorry to hear about Mrs Burtonshaw Milly, we are all upset, even the girls who are not Mayfair maids.  I know you were close Milly; she thought a lot about you she did. Anyways, it’s good to see you back. Miss Elizabeth told me one-week free board for you, and I heard Miss Elizabeth already found work for you. Now that’s good news isn’t it, Milly?”

The carriage moves on, and I don’t know why, what was the trigger, perhaps the hopelessness of my situation, but my shoulders start to shake, and sobbing, I fall into the arms of a surprised Mr Rogerson who comforts me and takes me inside.

I sense his excitement when he takes me through to his rooms and straight to his bedroom. I have said no previously when I was staying here before, but now, emotionally distressed, I have little care. Laid down on his bed he fumbles with my buttons then his own and I do not resist his advances.  His stubby anxious fingers work on and free the tapes of my underwear. I am dry but those same fingers now work and probe me wet. I pant, my breath shallow feeling his weight on me, then his penetration, slow and deep, the man is well blessed. My legs spread wide, he fucks me hard, snorting like a bull and I stare blanky at the flaking ceiling. His body tenses and his hands grip my ass pulling me tight to him and I feel his hot release within me. I have never granted a pathway for sperm, to be so reckless, but I am tired and beyond care.

I look up at his smiling unshaven face and feel is hand behind my head, then his fingers gripping and entwining my hair, pulling me forward. his salty, sweaty, aroma fills my nostrils and his softening seeping tool dangles to my mouth, which, prompted by a tightening of his grip of my hair, opens to receive his gift. I gag, taking his warm shaft which stiffens like a rock sliding over my tongue. My lips curl around his girth and my head bobs to its dictated rhythm.  From the corner of my eye, I see two of the girls from the hostel stood in the bedroom doorway, smiling, watching, bearing witness to my consensual fornication. With my neck sore and his second ejaculation in my mouth, throat, and smeared across my face and in my hair, I am dumped back down onto the bed.

Stood at the side of the bed, buttoning up his trousers and fastening his belt, Mr Rogerson, his eyes wide, smiles down at me. No doubt sensing there is more to be taken from this once proud, refusing, but now willing well, that lays prostrate and dishevelled across his bed. Once forbidden fruit now, apparently easy meat, the way I feel, I sense he may be right. A solitary tear trickles slowly down my cheek, what now for Milly Brannigan?