Story: An Heiress Humbled

This is an old favourite of mine, even as its lady-to-maid aspect is only implied. It's exceptionally well written. Unfortunately, the story never got finished (or I am not aware of a sequel - please let me known if I am mistaken!) and we never get to see Charlotte in a maid's uniform. Still, the elements of social drop that we all like are there. It also has a historic setting, which is always a big plus for me.

In my library it was linked to Alec Leamus's Beyond the Magic Box, but, as one of the readers pointed out, that blog appears to be dead now. Another reader was kind enough to send me a saved copy of this unfinished story so I'm reposting it here to preserve it for the fans.

AN HEIRESS HUMBLED - A BOARDING SCHOOL TALE OF OLDEN DAYS

by Charlotte Fairfax-Hamilton

AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL

The Rolls purred its way softly up the drive to Forsyth Hall. In the back seat, alone, sat the Honourable Charlotte Forsyth - spoiled, pretty and twenty-one. Her thoughts felt fuzzy with a champagne buzz, and she sniffed, very delicately, still tasting in the back of her throat the metallic bitterness of cocaine. Ah, cocaine! How perfectly marvellous it had been of "Squiffy" Bowman-Shaw to introduce her to the delights of that magical white powder! Even if you'd been dancing all night, one little sniff, and rooty toot! - the party could continue! Oh, heaven! What a joy it was to be rich, without any boring parents, and twenty-one!

The past three days in London had been a blur. Parties, balls, young men - a kaleidoscope of memories, spinning round and round inside Charlotte's head. She smiled, careful not to close her eyes, however, and saw, faint through the autumn darkness, the distant lights of Forsyth Hall drawing near. Instinctively, she brushed her fingers against her hair. Exhausted after three days of solid partying she may have been, but Charlotte never looked less than the quintessence of elegance, of London wealth, and Paris chic. A jet-black bob framed an elfin, perfectly pale-complexioned face. Her figure, fashionably slim. Her dress, from Reville's. A single bracelet, topaz and gold. Charlotte's smile faded, to be replaced by her customary pout, but inside, she continued to smile. Yes, being a grownup was indeed the most marvellous fun!

Story: Time and Tide

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 8.3.

by Lady Charlotte

Three Questions
3. Question Three

‘Tell me, Julia,’ said Signora Moretti, ‘back when you were the youngest ever Professor of History at Cambridge, what did Mark Fitzwilliam mean to you?’

I tottered at the question, clutching at the desk. Perhaps it was my exhaustion. The Signora, who had rescinded her instructions that I join the university cleaning team the moment I had begun going to church, had reassigned me to it for the whole of the past week. I stood before her in my hideous yellow housekeeping uniform, my long black hair pulled back into a ponytail and threaded through the gap in my baseball cap. Naturally, I was standing.

‘Well?’

I blinked back tears.

‘Address your comments to Professor Carpio.’ She indicated the stout and bespectacled Filipino sitting behind the desk in front of me. It was his office in which I was standing, having been summoned there from mopping the main hall of the Psychology Department. The Signora had introduced him to me as the psychologist who had been translating my Tagalog for her. I remembered what else she had told me about him – that he was fascinated professionally by my case. And now, here I was, standing before him: an exhausted, dirt-smeared cleaner.

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 8.2.

by Lady Charlotte

THREE QUESTIONS

2. Question Two

"Tell me, Julia," said Signora Moretti, "back when you were the youngest ever Professor of History at Cambridge, did you reckon yourself an atheist?"

I looked at my employer in surprise. For months now, ever since our chat about my one-time feminism, she had only ever summoned me to discuss matters more appropriate to a domestic: cleaning, childcare, errands. Now, out of the blue, an unexpected question once again.

‘I… when, Madam, I…’

Signora Moretti raised a hand. "Silence, Molly. There is no point trying to have a discussion on such a topic with someone whose English and intelligence are as limited as yours. As it happens, I know the answer to my own question. Look."

Story: Molly in Singapore. Part 8.1.

Lady Charlotte, the author of the original story Arriving in Milan, has kindly agreed to take the story where Monica Graz (will a little help from yours truly) have left it. This is the first of at least three questions that our heroine will have to answer. I hope you enjoy this installment as much as I did. And to make reading previous installments of the story easier I've created a Molly saga label. 

by Lady Charlotte

THREE QUESTIONS

1. Question One

“Tell me, Julia,” said Signora Moretti, “Back when you were the youngest ever Professor of History at Cambridge, did you reckon yourself a feminist?”

I stared in consternation at my employer. It was a long time since anyone had called me by my original name – and even longer since mention had been made of my original career. I could feel myself going red – and then I paused to wonder if someone as dark-skinned as I now was could actually go red. I tried to meet Signora Moretti’s eye. Of course, it was impossible. As I did instinctively now, whenever I looked at a European, I found myself lowering my gaze to the floor, and fiddling with the hem of my apron.

“Well, girl?”

I tried to find my voice. “I… I…” A cascade of thoughts and memories had come unbidden into my mind; but my words were humiliatingly inadequate to expressing what I wished to convey. “When I… first… when I no maid, Madam… I no want…”

Story: The Real Story of Cinderella

The Real Story of Cinderella

by Lady Charlotte

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess called Ella. In fact, she was the most beautiful princess in the whole world, and one day, a handsome prince came riding by, and fell head over heels in love with her, and proposed to her on the spot. And Princess Ella accepted. This was because the handsome prince was not only handsome, but also very rich and powerful, and Ella was a total snob.

Once she had married the handsome prince, she became even snobbier. In fact, it was not long before she was the haughtiest, rudest, most arrogant member of the royal family that the poor servants in the palace had ever had to deal with. Ella was UNSPEAKABLY horrid! But the people that Ella was beastliest of all to were not the maids or the footmen, but her own step-mother and step-sisters. They had come to live with her in the palace when Ella had got married, and now they were having the most horrible time. It broke the step-mother's heart, for she found herself quite helpless. Both she and her daughters were very humble and sweet, and naturally would never have dared answer the imperious Ella back.

One day, the handsome Prince, Ella's husband, decided to throw a ball. This was to be a very important occasion, for all the other Princes from around the world were being invited. The handsome Prince hoped to be voted Prince of the Year, a title which was due to be awarded that very night, and the ball was designed to wipe the floor with the opposition. Because Ella was so beautiful and haughty, he hoped that having her on his arm would help him to clinch the title. Naturally, Ella hoped so too.

Story: Arriving in Milan

ARRIVING IN MILAN
By Lady Charlotte
Part 1

At the airport, standing in the passport queue, I see a cleaning woman. She is in marked contrast to the beautifully dressed travelers, surrounded by their expensive luggage, waiting to catch their flights to exotic destinations round the world. The cleaning woman looks weary. She wears a drab, ugly, blue uniform dress. Dusters hang from her pockets. She pushes a trolley loaded with buckets, detergents and mops. The effort causes her to sweat. The uniform clings to her body. A name tag identifies her. I am too far away to read it. I guess that it will not be the name of an Italian, for the cleaner looks foreign. Her skin is dark brown, except for her hands, which are red. Her knees too, I guess, beneath her skirt, must be red. She looks as though she has spent long hours on them, scrubbing floors. What would it be like, I wonder, to be such a woman, so drab amidst such style? I glance at the passport queue, ahead and behind me. Full of tourists, business people, Italian and English. For the Italians, fashion is a religion, and for the English a heresy, but everyone, all the same, is marked by the clothes that they wear. Everyone looks rich. Everyone except for the cleaner. I look back at her. She is gone. I feel a tightness in my stomach, a golden touch of shame. I show my passport. The officer waves me through.