My Family Sent Me To Serve A ‘Monster’ — They Never Expected What Happened Between Us

Part 1

The heavy iron gates clanged shut behind the carriage, sealing me inside the darkest estate in the county.

Brenda, the stern housekeeper, leaned close in the rattling carriage and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper.

You haven’t been told the whole truth about why you were sent here as a punishment.

I will tell you plainly before you set eyes on the master of this house.

Do not scream under any circumstances.

He can endure almost anything except the screaming.

My hands remained tightly folded in my lap.

I had done enough answering over the past agonizing month to last a lifetime.

Tears and desperate pleas to the magistrate had accomplished nothing.

Begging my cold-eyed former employer had only resulted in sneers after witnesses were paid to accuse me of a theft I never committed.

Rather than see me hanged, my uncle had called in an ancient debt.

He shipped me off to the one house in the entire country that could never keep a servant.

My new master was the scarred, notoriously unstable Duke who had returned from the wars a monster and locked himself away from the world.

Fear should have been my primary emotion upon stepping into the freezing, cavernous courtyard.

Exhaustion simply outweighed my terror.

The enormous manor loomed above me with half its massive windows completely shuttered.

It felt like a place that had entirely given up on expecting anything good to happen.

A single solitary lamp burned in a high tower window.

Looking up at that flickering light, I knew exactly who was pacing up there.

They called him a beast.

Brenda marched me to a tiny, drafty room and immediately rattled off a severe list of rules.

The master was never to be looked upon directly.

He took all his meals in absolute solitude.

Nighttime was his domain to walk the long, shadowed galleries, and crossing his path was strictly forbidden.

Cleaning his private rooms could only happen when he was confirmed to be absent.

Above all else, no one was permitted to show him pity.

Two footmen had already been thrown out into the snow simply for looking sorry for him.

I asked quietly what exactly my duties were supposed to be in this ghost town.

My assignment was the abandoned East Wing.

Brenda instructed me to dust the shrouded furniture, air out the stifling rooms, and mend whatever fabrics had decayed.

He never set foot in that part of the house.

Those rooms had belonged to his late mother, who had passed away three years prior.

He apparently could not tolerate the sight of her belongings, yet he refused to let them rot into ruin.

The estate needed a warm body to maintain a space that he never wished to see.

Keeping completely out of his way was my only real directive.

For an entire fortnight, I managed to remain utterly invisible.

I pulled the heavy canvas sheets off the antique furniture and threw open the thick velvet curtains.

Sunlight poured into rooms that had been trapped in darkness for years.

Through the artifacts left behind, I gradually came to know the late mother.

A delicate embroidery hoop sat untouched with a half-finished floral pattern.

Pressed dried flowers marked pages in heavy leather-bound books.

A stunning oil portrait hung above the mantle, depicting a young boy with grave, dark eyes.

That bright, unblemished face belonged to the Duke before the brutal wars had forged him into a monster.

I found myself growing deeply fond of the boy in the painting as I dusted the frame every morning.

My first actual encounter with the man himself happened completely by accident.

Sleep had abandoned me long before dawn, forcing me down to the freezing kitchens in search of a fresh candle.

Making my way back through the cavernous main hall, a tall, imposing shadow blocked the dying embers of the hearth.

He stood half-turned away from me, a massive silhouette carved from the darkness.

My feet rooted themselves to the floorboards.

No scream left my lips.

I simply stood my ground while the heavy silence stretched between us.

Taking a steady breath, I dropped into a respectful curtsy.

Good morning, sir.

My voice came out remarkably calm before I turned and continued my steady walk up the grand staircase.

His heavy stare burned into my spine the entire way up, yet I refused to look back.

For the next few weeks, I felt his unseen presence lurking just out of sight.

I would catch the faint creak of floorboards in the gallery while I dusted the high windows.

Humming tuneless melodies to myself, I pretended not to notice the imposing shadow lingering in the doorways.

I wound the old grandfather clock on his mother’s mantle, setting it ticking for the first time in years.

Somewhere in the depths of the house, I knew he was listening to that familiar rhythmic sound.

I pushed my luck one rainy midnight.

Unable to sleep, I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and crept into his mother’s sitting room.

I lit a single taper candle and settled into her favorite velvet chair.

The half-finished embroidery rested on the small table exactly where she had left it.

Picking up the needle, I began working three bright yellow flowers into the faded fabric.

A sudden chill swept into the room, making the candle flame dance violently.

He stood directly in the doorway.

He stepped fully into the candlelight, exposing the horrific scars of the war, and his voice scraped the silence like rusted iron: “What do you think you are doing with her things?”