Story: It Wasn't Right. Chapter 13.

by Jackie J

Having been seen, whilst bedded by Mr Rogerson, in such a wanton fashion, the moral high ground I may have clung to, is gone now for sure. A lady of wealth and position, a lady like Miss Millicent Williams, would never have given herself in such a way, no matter what the circumstances. It is strangely comforting to accept that it was the maid Milly Brannigan who aroused and took Rogerson’s passion.  A moment of weakness? Caught at a low emotional ebb?  So why, for the third night running, am I still sharing his bed. I know it wasn’t right, I know it isn’t right, but it is what it is.

I had never linked my desires for the apron and its associated subjugation and servitude with sex, not until I had laid with Daniel these past days. Daniel is not a handsome man by any means, and his personal hygiene leaves much to be desired. There is no tenderness in his manner or touch, taking me roughly and at his will. Allowing one so uncouth, to take unconditional possession of me and use me in such an intimate way, bringing new emotions and imaginings for my perverse cravings for debasement. Whilst tempting to continue to take his seed within me, I am now mindful to enforce the rhythm method, but always make good by slobbering and sucking him clean until drained and flaccid.

Miss Elizabeth, engaged in getting to grips with the running of Mayfair Domestic Services and preparing for the funeral of Agnes, I am instructed, until matters are settled, to return to being the maid at Sycamores.

The tragedy on the river Thames, which took Agnes to meet her maker, is the subject of a coroner’s inquiry and Agnes’s funeral is delayed.  I have now returned to living in my own room, Daniel, well back to Mr Rogerson now, decided he had enough of his harlot, he had his reputation to think of.

Kept busy, no different to when I was put to work at the hostel previously, my mind wanders but is never far away from the dilemma I face following Agnes Burtonshaw’s untimely demise. I am doubtful that I will find anyone like her again, and with what I have learned of her scheming, to embezzle my fortune, perhaps it is best that I don’t. My dilemma now, without my mentor, who I wrongly assumed would eventually be helping me return to my life at Crestley House, not planning to keep me for her own personal maid, is, how am I going to regain my true identity. Whilst polishing the large mirror in the hallway, staring at my reflection, I laugh at myself forlornly, true identity indeed and what is that?

Over a year since that fateful day a temporary housekeeper came into my life and took control of me. Perhaps for her own amusement at first, to keep me aproned, having found the glamorous mistress of the house wearing the uniform of her own maid. There was no doubt much to amuse her, having the mistress that she had come to serve willing to be her maid. Perhaps it was watching me so readily accept my lowly status, during those weeks her maid, that she hatched her plans. Deemed that I was no longer deserving or worthy of any status, wealth, or privilege beyond that of a common maid. This past year, starting with registering me to be one of her Mayfair maids, and with my collusion and compliance, she brought me to what stares back at me from the mirror. The plain dumpy maid Milly Brannigan. My true identity? Who would doubt it? and how am I going to prove otherwise now?

I have been complicit all along, driven by my perverse desire for subjugation, the unwitting accomplice to Agnes Burtonshaw’s scheme.  Her scheme to initially indulge, then control, and guide my fantasy into a reality. Transforming me physically and mentally into the embodiment of a common maid, Milly Brannigan. With my compliance assured, in the persona of my fictitious cousin Miss Margaret Williams, she took Milly Brannigan for her personal maid, and, with my collusion, legally acquired access and control of everything Miss Millicent Williams owned. But for her death, that was surely my fate. To be disenfranchised from all I once was and entrapped into a life of servitude, the life of common maid, the life of Milly Brannigan.

I turn away from the mirror and, reflecting on those thoughts, lean heavy against the wall with feelings of despair and resignation, and sigh. Was surely my fate, was my fate? and what is changed with Agnes’s death? I conclude little, the facts are the facts which are never far from my mind.

 I am registered with Mayfair Domestic Services to be one of their certified maids, Milly Brannigan number 015-1905. Miss Elizabeth now holds Milly Brannigan’s file prepared by Agnes, containing my application to become a Mayfair maid, my registration, training records, assignments, correspondence, agreements, photo registration with the police and anything else that Agnes added to endorse and validate the identity of her creation, Milly Brannigan.  And, what of Miss Millicent Williams? A short holiday to the South coast became an open-ended overseas adventure, embellished with tales of romance, a credible subterfuge to veil the development of Agnes’s maid Milly. Easy to see now the folly of my consent to the temporary guardianship. No doubt, not long after the guardianship agreement was endorsed, a selected surrogate patsy, in the guise of Miss Millicent Williams, was committed and institutionalised at St Michaels sanatorium. I can only surmise, from what I was told at the sanitorium, whoever the woman was, that Agnes had convinced to impersonate me, must have realised she had been double crossed. Being left to rot in the madhouse, she begged for release, but her desperate words only confirmed the reason for her incarceration. Subsequently restrained, drugged, and stupefied beyond resistance and sensibility layers of contrived legal documentation testify that the woman held in isolation, for her own safety and wellbeing, in the secluded East wing of the institution, is indeed Miss Millicent Williams formally of Crestley house. Her kindly Cousin Margret Williams had told them so, and how am I, who am I, to prove otherwise?

The sharp rasp of Mr Rogerson’s voice echoes down the hallway.

“Milly, Milly, what are you doing, if you have finished cleaning and polishing down here you can start getting the rooms on the top floor ready for the visitors that will be coming from out of town for the funeral. Now get to it, time to rest when your works done.”

A date is now fixed for the funeral, a verdict of misadventure given by the coroner. Following the inquest, on the rare occasions she visits Sycamores, I try to speak with Miss Elizabeth, but she is always too busy, much too busy to speak with just another one of her maids, that’s all I am to her, just another one of Mayfair’s maids.

Without Mrs Burtonshaw, Agnes, being a maid, being Milly Brannigan is not the same, not the same at all. There was always a belief in the temporary nature of my situation, a mischievous pretence, although, from what I have discovered, that was never the plan for me.  I am taken to be just a maid no different to any of the other maids registered with Mayfair domestic services, and why would I not be?  If only I can get her on her own, speak with Miss Elizabeth, come clean and tell her everything. I can pay her, pay her well, a reward for getting me back to Crestley house. Miss Renwick, Janice, my housekeeper, and the bank manager, he has known me for years, they will help me unravel this web that Agnes spun around me. Surely Miss Elizabeth will understand she will have to understand.

The eve of Agnes Burtonshaw’s funeral arrives, I have not yet been able to speak with Miss Elizabeth and I am having reservations about confiding in her, what proof do I have that I am anyone other than the maid she employs? The only one who was aware of my deceit is about to be put six feet under, a deceit so well contrived and fostered, by Agnes, and myself, to have become a truth in itself.

 A number of mourners are staying at the hostel prior to and on the day of the funeral.

 I have already shown three ladies to their rooms, having paid them little attention beyond a curtsy and a polite “Take your bags Miss”. They, in turn, have found no reason not to ignore me, as they had. The fourth lady I greet smiles, a smile I return. Mrs Madeley from Bracken Hall. On the way up to Mrs Madeley’s room, we share our sadness at Agnes tragic death and despite my predicament I confirm all is well with Milly Brannigan. Mrs Madeley reiterates the offer she made to me when I left Bracken Hall, for me to return to be one of her maids. When I left the employment of Mrs Madeley at Bracken Hall, I believed I would soon be back at Crestley house, a mistress in my own home. At the time, the offer to return to Bracken Hall seemed ridiculous. Now, not that ridiculous for a working maid like Milly Brannigan.

The guests continue to arrive mainly housekeepers who had known Agnes or used her services. Opening the door to yet another visitor, for a moment, I freeze, but it’s too late to do anything, the lady is inside looking straight at me. Why shouldn’t she be here, here with the rest of Agnes’s associates and friends. They knew each other well, friends of long standing.

Beyond my welcoming curtsy I attempt to keep my head lowered for this particular guest, but it probably mattered not. Why would she recognise me for anyone other than what I am, the housemaid taking her baggage up to her room. I close the door behind the entering guest not knowing if to cry, scream, or burst back into the room and confess all. I do neither. I just stand panting for breath. Mrs Renwick, Janice, my housekeeper. She had looked me in the eye when she entered Sycamores and again on the stairs. Not a hint of recognition? Should I be glad she had not recognised me, of course, but should I also be disturbed that she didn’t, of course I am. The last time Janice saw me, long flowing locks framed the fine features of my face and a beautiful dress formed around my lithe figure. Confronted with my mop capped cropped hair, poor complexion, podgy face, and a heavy ill-defined figure swathed in my apron, it would take the most vivid of imaginations to consider that, the heavy booted maid she met, on her arrival at Sycamores, to be anything other than just that, a maid. For that maid to actually be her absent Mistress, Miss Millicent Williams, a mistress so long out of sight and out of mind? That would be preposterous, would it not?

The brief encounter with my housekeeper is an ominous warning, that Miss Janice Renwick will require a lot of convincing that I am, who I am, that I was her Mistress at Crestley house, that I am Miss Millicent Williams and now is certainly not the time.

The funeral is a sombre gathering and I sit at the back of the chapel with the other Mayfair maids. I don’t know what I expected, Agnes Burtonshaw had led a most ordinary life in many ways but yet extraordinary in other ways. Widowed at an early age she had built Mayfair Domestic Services from nothing. Networking with housekeepers throughout the country, supplying maids and covering housekeeper absences herself, she had built an enviable reputation for honesty and reliability. My mind starts to wander listening to the repetitive eulogies. I have thought of little else since my brief encounter with Miss Renwick and stare at the back of the heads in front of me, my housekeeper three rows forward from where I sit. My old life so close and yet so far, I cannot let this opportunity pass, I just can’t, I must speak with her, tell her everything, I resolve to find my way to her room after supper.

A leaden sky and a fine drizzle await us at the graveside and, to the collective mumblings of prayer of those gathered, Agnes’s coffin descends into its prepared grave. The burial ceremony over, tears are in the eyes of most and, through the dabbing of my own eyes I notice that Miss Elizabeth is staring at me from the opposite side of the grave. When our eyes meet, I see a smile grow across her face before turning and, arm in arm with my housekeeper Janice, leave the graveside.

Segregation by status and position, at the meal after the funeral, I am sat with my fellow maids on a table at the back of the room.  I notice that Miss Elizabeth and my housekeeper Janice are sat together, and I pray I am not the subject of their conversation. I reflect on how ridiculous my paranoid thoughts are. Janice blanked me, not recognising me at all and, if Miss Elizabeth knew who I was, that Agnes had confided in her, why had she not said something before, if only to gloat at the absurdity of my desires for the apron.  No, for now my secret is safe, I am sure of it, but I am determined to share it with one other, she may be my only hope.

With everyone at the Hostel settled for the evening, I stand outside the room of my housekeeper a tray containing tea in hand. A deep breath, a knock on the door and I enter.

Janice looks up from a newspaper she is reading and stands from her chair

“Tea how nice, leave it on the table beside the fire, I will take it later.”

I stand staring, what to say, how to explain, I cannot turn back now. Janice glares at my impertinence for not offering my deference and leaving her room.

I force my speech, each word, from its coarse indoctrination back to its once refined tones.

“Please Janice, Miss Renwick, don’t be alarmed it is me, Millicent, Millicent Williams your Mistress, I have been so silly, so stupid, you must help me, please you must help me.”

Janice wobbles, the colour leaves her cheeks, and she slumps back into the large chair staring open mouthed at my revelation.

“What, how, here, why? You can’t be, you can’t, who are you, get out, get out!”

I shout, my speech, some refined more with my developed common tongue.

“Ranger mi horse, Kelvin mi groom, A paid yer ont’ third day er month, Linda is yer maid, her mother wer ill. It’s me, it’s me, you must believe me. I’ll tell yer what happen, everyfin, yer must listen to me, you must help me please Janice.”

I stare at the maid who professes to be my absent Mistress. her voice at first familiar but, becoming excited, her words, the way she speaks, common and coarse. I look into her panicking eyes, my god, is it really her, Miss Millicent, but how, why? A maid here?

I sit in silence, mesmerised, listening for what must be almost an hour. What the maid tells me, Incredible, ridiculous but, having heard her out, I realise she is genuine. It is also clear, that without my help, Milly Brannigan she is destined to remain.  What begs tearfully for my help is no doubt the remnants of my Mistress, Miss Millicent Williams. By her own admission, complicit in her own demise, having willingly accepted to be reduced from a gracious lady to a common maid, under the guidance of my deceased friend Agnes Burtonshaw. I cannot help feeling admiration for Agnes, although I hide it well. Having been told in all its detail, from the time Miss Millicent was discovered aproned, by Agnes at Crestley House, to having a surrogate Miss Millicent Williams committed and securely secreted away in a sanitorium. Effectively leaving Milly Brannigan entrapped into a life of menial domestic servitude, a common maid. A maid that Agnes, whilst legally living off the wealth of a sectioned Miss Williams, had for her personal maid. A scheme so perfect to be admired and the incredulous naivety, of the lady who wished to live the life of a maid, in truth only worthy of nothing more than contempt and ridicule. I am shocked beyond reason and rationalisation that this could have happened, that my Mistress would have done this to herself, but evidently, she has. I need time to think, especially with what has happened in my life, now married and the changes made at Crestley House in her absence! 

I clasp the maids’ calloused hands hiding my emotions

“My Goodness, oh, my goodness, I, I, oh my goodness Miss Williams, that’s, it’s, oh my goodness. I was unsure that I would ever see you again after your last letter, being abroad, having met someone. But that was all a lie, just a lie, to cover up for what you were doing, doing with Agnes, what Agnes was doing with you, what Agnes has done with you. Oh, my goodness, look at you, a maid, a common maid and no more than that, and your name, your name is now Milly, Milly Brannigan you say. With what you have told me I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, I truly don’t. It seems to me that Agnes, having found you wearing one of my maid Linda’s uniforms, was giving you what you wanted, to be a maid, and took Miss Millicent Williams and all she owned in return. But with Agnes’s passing that is all history now, isn’t it. A maid with no Mistress? What to do, what to do indeed? The sanitorium, the Guardianship with power of attorney, sanctioned by the courts, and in the name of a fictitious cousin, who obviously died along with Agnes. Milly Brannigans registration and file held by Mayfair Domestic Services. This is beyond silly, beyond stupid isn’t it. I am still in shock, I need time to think, how to help.”

Still holding the trembling hands of my once mistress, I look into her eyes.

“You say that only you and Agnes knew of this deception, you have told no one, no one else knows about this ridiculousness, you are sure?”

Janice, my housekeeper is holding my hands looking into my weary eyes It is like the bursting of an emotional dam, a cathartic experience, my housekeeper listening attentive to my every word. There was no laughter, mockery, even if she felt my confessions were deserving of such, she did not show it. Judgement, yes, should I expect anything less, beyond stupid, a definite understatement. I was right to trust her, to tell her everything, Janice is going to help me and asks me to confirm that no one else knows what Agnes did with me.

“No Janice, no one else knows anything, it wer our secret, only yer know’t  truth ‘bout wot happened. Am right glad a came ter yer, that yo’ll help mi, thank yer Janice.”

I force a smile at my once Mistress, how easy she slips into her coarse tongue and how hard for her to speak correctly. Agnes, over the months, appears to have conditioned her high-born maid well.

“That’s good to hear Milly, and we must keep it that way, no one else must know. I will help you of course, but for now, nothing must change until I can make the necessary arrangements to get you back to Crestley House.”

Janice mentions the phrase, “Back to Crestley House” and I am filled with emotion and cannot help embracing Janice, but I am pushed away. Janice stands with a stern expression and berates me.

“How dare you, did you not hear what I just said girl? Nothing must change, now off with you, back to your room, remember your place.”

What was I thinking, I wasn’t thinking, nothing must change, I must remember my place, I am not free of my situation yet. Janice is right to remind me.

My eyes cast down to the floor I curtsy before turning and leaving my housekeeper’s room.

“Sorry Miss.”

Watching the maid nervously withdraw from me and, with her gaze respectfully lowered, drop a curtsy of deference before leaving, I sit back into one of the chairs and sigh in amazement. My Mistress, that was, aproned and meekly apologising before lowering a curtsy, to me, her housekeeper. I chuckle to myself.  What an obedient maid she is.

Reflecting on the revelations, what I have been told I chuckle and giggle at the images those recollections conjure up in my mind. My wealthy Mistress, wanting to be a maid, actually becoming a maid and according to what she told me, without my help, a Mayfair maid she fears she will remain. 

Laid in my bed before drifting off to sleep I cannot get the image of my once mistress, the gracious and elegant Miss Millicent Williams, aproned and with her gaze respectfully lowered meekly laying a curtsy of deference, it seems surreal, and I consider the possibilities for my once Mistress and of course for myself.