My Son’s Fiancee Slapped A Servant — She Didn’t Realize It Was Me

Part 1

I stared at the stranger reflected in the floor-length mirror of my dressing room.

For forty years, my skin had been accustomed to the cool, heavy slide of imported silk and the suffocating weight of pearls.

Today, I wore a dress of coarse, undyed wool that smelled faintly of damp sheep and harsh lye soap.

It scratched mercilessly at my collarbone with every single breath I took.

My fiercely loyal maid had been weeping silently for twenty minutes as she pinned a plain cotton cap over my silver hair.

She whispered that it was absolute madness, terrified of what my son would do if he ever found out.

I quietly assured her that Dan would not find out until I was entirely ready for him to.

My voice was a dry, hollow rasp, completely devoid of the theatrical warmth I usually reserved for my boy.

My left hip ached terribly whenever it rained, and the knuckles of my right hand were already swelling with the hard, throbbing knots of rheumatism.

I was absolutely not built for grueling physical labor.

But I was built for war.

Dan’s latest letter lay open on my vanity, overflowing with a naive, breathless adoration that made my chest tight.

He had written that I simply must meet Megan, calling her a perfect angel who asked for nothing but his heart.

I did not believe in angels, and I certainly did not believe in the nobility of impoverished gentry.

Megan’s family had been bleeding money from every pore for an entire decade.

Now, suddenly, they had snared the wealthiest unmarried man in the country.

I knew exactly how that kind of trap was laid, having laid one myself a lifetime ago.

I rubbed my bare hands firmly into the cold hearth ash, staining my manicured cuticles a dark, permanent-looking gray.

Poverty is rarely ever clean.

The brutal journey to their estate stripped away the last lingering vestiges of my pride.

By the time I reached the back entrance of their decaying manor, my cheap, stiff leather boots were coated in thick yellow mud.

The heavy, wet hem of my skirt slapped coldly against my ankles, sending a deep chill straight into the marrow of my bones.

I stood before the peeling paint of the kitchen door and raised a hand that felt impossibly heavy.

The door was abruptly yanked open by a frantic young girl who dragged me inside without waiting for a word.

A suffocating wall of blistering heat and the sharp, stinging scent of burned onions rolled out and hit me in the face.

I was shoved roughly toward a deep stone sink piled high with muddy root vegetables.

An oversized pair of wooden clogs was kicked carelessly at my feet.

A massive cook with a face the color of raw beef shoved a dull paring knife into my trembling hand.

She barked at me to peel, threatening to take it out of my hide if I left even an ounce of flesh on the skins.

I plunged my hands into the icy water in the basin, gasping sharply at the immediate shock.

My very first attempt at peeling resulted in the blunt blade slipping and slicing deeply into my thumb.

A bright bead of blood welled up, mixing instantly with the murky, freezing water.

I quietly sucked the copper taste from my thumb and picked the knife back up.

By my third hour at that sink, my lower back was screaming in violent protest with every shift of my weight.

The oversized clogs had rubbed raw, weeping blisters directly onto my heels.

But as the agonizing physical pain set in, so did an absolute, crystal-clear clarity.

Servants are the true masters of any house, holding all its dirty secrets simply because they are treated as invisible furniture.

I listened quietly as the scullery maids hissed about the local butcher refusing to leave meat without hard collateral.

I learned that Heather, the lady of the house, had pawned two silver dining spoons just to secure the evening roast for her guests.

Another maid sneered that Megan had ordered a Paris silk dress by illegally leveraging my son’s unwedded name.

Rage flared blindingly in my chest, and my knife slipped again.

I dropped the turnip with a heavy splash, earning a vicious smack to the back of my head from the cook.

I swallowed the metallic taste of pure fury and forced my eyes obediently to the stone floor.

A drunken footman suddenly stumbled in, slurring that the upstairs maid had fallen violently ill.

He pointed a shaking, unwashed finger at me, ordering me to take the tea tray up to the drawing room.

A dark, cold thrill shot straight through my bone-deep exhaustion.

This was exactly what I had endured the blistering heat and the freezing water for.

I dried my aching, bleeding hands on my apron and lifted the tarnished silver tray.

I ascended the creaking servant stairs, pushing open the heavy oak doors with my hip.

The drawing room was bathed in afternoon sunlight, hopelessly attempting to hide the faded velvet and the desperate illusion of wealth.

Megan sat on the chaise lounge, chewing her thumbnail with an expression of vibrating, frantic irritation.

She did not look like an angel at all.

Heather paced nervously across the worn carpet, wringing her sharp, bony hands together.

To them, I was just a piece of moving furniture wrapped in a gray woolen dress.

I bent my aching knees and set the heavy tray down without making a single sound.

Megan snapped that Dan was late, complaining bitterly about having to listen to him wax poetic about his ridiculous hounds.

Heather hissed at her daughter to remember their precarious position, terrified of the magistrate knocking on their door.

She reminded Megan that Dan was not just a husband, but their absolute only chance at survival.

Megan rolled her eyes, calling my son soft and claiming he looked at her like a pathetic, lost puppy.

She coldly boasted that once the ring was on her finger, she would mold him entirely to her will.

Heather nervously asked what would happen to me, the formidable mother who still controlled the estate’s purse strings.

Megan laughed, a sharp, cruel sound exactly like shattering glass.

She sneered that I was an aging relic and declared I would become nothing more than a nuisance in her house.

She calmly plotted to convince Dan my health was failing so they could lock me away in a distant dower house to rot.

She promised that if I fought back, she would simply cry and force Dan to banish me himself to protect her delicate nerves.

The sheer, naked malice in her voice was absolutely staggering.

She didn’t just want his money; she wanted to isolate him completely and destroy the only family he had left.

I moved forward to hand Megan her porcelain teacup.

My hands, which had been so steady all afternoon, suddenly betrayed me.

A tremor of raw, uncontrollable fury traveled down my arm just as the saucer met her outstretched fingers.

A single dark drop of scalding tea splashed over the rim, landing squarely on her pale yellow dress.

Megan stared at the small brown stain before her angelic face twisted into a mask of pure, ugly rage.

She sprang up from the lounge, shrieking that I was a stupid, clumsy old cow.

The sharp sting of her palm connecting with my cheek was loud enough to stop the grandfather clock, but it was the voice from the doorway that froze the room.