Chapter 60
Stroking Mary’s head fondly as she gazed up with wide, curious eyes, Emily shared a piece of her past tied to Angela for the first time.
“You see, dear, I used to work as a maid in the mansion where Miss Angela lived.”
Emily had worked in the kitchen of the Bilton estate.
The opulent mansion never lacked for ingredients, no matter the season.
Thanks to that, not only the master’s family but also the servants ate heartily, and Emily loved it so much she thought she could spend her whole life there, content to be buried in its grounds.
“But there was one person—just one—who went hungry.”
Emily could never forget the sight: a figure slipping out of a room to hover near the kitchen, hands trembling for want of a single sip of water.
“That was Miss Angela.”
It was strange. How could this happen to the young mistress of this grand estate, of all people?
What’s more, Angela was known within the mansion as a fastidious and sensitive young lady, and her nursemaid, Yvonne, was renowned for taking particular care with her meals. So why…?
Pity outweighing her confusion, Emily offered Angela a glass of lukewarm water.
“Drink slowly.”
At her words, Angela obeyed like a dutiful doll, sipping the water bit by bit.
As she did, a loud rumble echoed from her stomach, resounding like thunder.
Her ears flushed bright red, as if ashamed to reveal her hunger.
She bit her lip, clearly convinced that the involuntary noises of an empty stomach were unbecoming of a noble’s decorum.
“Miss, I baked some cookies for the maids’ afternoon snack. Would you like to taste them and tell me how they are?”
Taking the empty glass, Emily asked the question casually, as if she hadn’t heard a thing.
Angela’s round eyes glistened with unshed tears. A soft “Yes” came in a small voice, and Emily felt a pang in her heart, though she didn’t know why.
She seated Angela at the servants’ dining table and returned with a plate piled high with an assortment of cookies.
Seeing the exhaustion of hunger on Angela’s face, Emily quickly set the plate before her.
Angela didn’t reach for the cookies right away, instead glancing warily at Emily.
“Go on, eat. They’re best when they’re warm—that’s when you can really tell me about the flavor.”
Emily urged her with a gentle smile, and only then did Angela’s hand move toward the cookies.
Her small teeth nibbled clumsily at one, her chewing slow, as if it were a laborious task.
“…They’re delicious, Emily.”
Having barely finished a single cookie from the heaping pile, Angela spoke to Emily.
Emily started, stunned for a moment that the young mistress knew her name.
The mansion employed countless servants, and Emily was tucked away in the kitchen most of the time.
“That banana pudding you made before was really delicious too.”
The words, answering her unspoken question, brought a flush to Emily’s eyes.
She distinctly remembered making that banana pudding over a year ago, crafted from exotic fruit sent as a gift.
“Really?”
Swallowing her tears, Emily asked in a deliberately bright tone. Angela nodded and reached for a second cookie.
“Well, then.”
Watching the cookie disappear bit by bit into Angela’s mouth, Emily spoke up impulsively.
“Could you come back tomorrow? I’ll make a pudding with a different fruit. You can compare it to the banana pudding and tell me which one’s better.”
Surprised by the sudden proposal, Angela paused, then said, “I will.”
“I’ll make it even better than last time,”
Emily teased, playfully clenching her fists.
For the first time since they’d faced each other, Angela smiled.
The gentle curve of her eyes seemed to brighten the whole world.
Determined to see that smile again, Emily made a strawberry pudding the next day.
The day after that, she prepared another treat for Angela, and the day after that, yet another.
This went on for about a month.
Then, one day, Angela entered the kitchen wearing gloves.
It wasn’t as if she were going out, nor was the warm season cold enough to warrant them, so Emily naturally grew curious.
“Why are you wearing gloves…?”
Watching Angela’s hand reach for a snack, Emily nearly bit her tongue mid-question. Her eyes sharpened as she froze.
“Excuse me, Miss.”
Knowing it was improper, Emily reached for Angela’s gloves.
Taking a glove off a child’s hand was no great task, and she easily slipped them from both of Angela’s hands.
Startled, Angela tried to clasp her hands and hide them under the table, but Emily held them firmly.
Her gaze fell on Angela’s hands, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
“Why are they like this?”
The marks were from a whipping. Emily had noticed a red stain on the glove, but now she saw the deep, raw wounds, oozing blood.
“Who did this? Who’s been starving you like this?”
Emily’s eyes blazed as she uncovered the shame Angela had tried to conceal.
“Was it Yvonne?”
Emily asked as if ready to march off and confront her.
But Angela shook her head vehemently. Somehow, that only deepened Emily’s conviction.
“Tell me. If you don’t, I won’t give you any more snacks.”
Though she knew it was wrong, Emily all but threatened her.
Tears welled in Angela’s eyes, likely at the thought of going hungry again.
Emily’s own eyes burned with sympathy, but she gritted her teeth and held firm.
“My… my mother…”
The answer, coerced through intimidation, was shocking.
The words that followed felt like auditory hallucinations.
How could a mother do this?
How could she treat a child she’d raised as her own this way?
For Emily, it was utterly incomprehensible that such things were happening somewhere in this mansion.
“When the Duke returns, I’ll tell him everything.”
Emily decided that was the only way. She would expose every detail of Grace and Yvonne’s atrocities.
There are things people ought to do, and things they shouldn’t.
“…”
Angela shook her head as she gazed at Emily, her eyes steady but heavy with meaning.
It took Emily a moment to understand—not a plea to stop, but a quiet warning that it was futile. Emily, however, clung to a different conviction.
No matter how indifferent Dominic was to the affairs of the household, surely even he couldn’t remain unmoved by something like this—not when it concerned his own child.
“So?”
But Emily’s certainty shattered with that single, curt word. Dominic’s question left her speechless, her resolve crumbling.
With nothing gained, she retreated from his presence, her steps brisk and purposeful as she strode down the corridor.
If Dominic wouldn’t act, she’d seek out Yvonne. And if Yvonne proved unyielding, she’d turn to Grace.
Whatever it took, Emily was determined to unravel this absurd situation.
It was then that someone grabbed her hand from behind.
Startled, Emily turned to find Peter, the stablemaster of Bilton Manor—and her lover—silently pulling her along.
“What—what are you doing?”
Emily resisted, digging her heels in, but Peter didn’t relent.
He tugged her forward, and against her will, she was forced to match his stride.
His steps led them to the garden, where he rummaged through the dense undergrowth beneath the estate’s walls.
At last, he uncovered a small, hidden door and gestured toward it with a nod.
“You first.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Miss Angela sent me. It’s urgent—hurry.”
Peter’s rushed words threw Emily into confusion, but she obeyed, squeezing through a door barely wide enough for an adult.
The mention of Angela’s errand spurred her forward—she assumed it had something to do with the ordeal Angela was enduring.
But it was all a lie. It wasn’t until they reached the river, boarded a boat, and drifted far downstream that Emily realized Angela had orchestrated her escape, sending her beyond Grace’s reach.
No farewell, no words of “stay safe”—just this abrupt parting.
A hollow ache settled in Emily’s chest, and she curled her knees to her chest, tears falling silently.
“She’ll be alright,” Peter said.
His words offered no comfort.
Alone in that wretched manor, Angela wouldn’t be alright.
Without Emily, who would ease her hunger, her pain? Emily longed to turn back, to storm that dreadful place.
But she couldn’t—not when she understood the heart behind Angela’s choice.
In the world of nobles, a maid’s life was expendable, snuffed out without a second thought.
Angela hadn’t been able to let Emily meet such a fate.
I’ll come back for you. I promise.
In her mind, Emily hooked her pinky around Angela’s, sealing a vow only she could hear.
But she knew Angela would understand.
Peter approached his wife, her eyes red from memories, and offered his shoulder.
Emily leaned into him, forcing a smile despite the weight of the past.
“Listen, Mama! I’ve made up my mind!”
Mary, their daughter, clenched her fists with the same fierce determination Emily once had.
“When I grow up, I’m going to be Miss Angela’s maid! I’ll protect her in your place!”
Emily hadn’t shared the full extent of Angela’s trials, wary of how they might affect her daughter’s young heart.
Yet here was Mary, speaking with such love and resolve that Emily’s heart swelled.
Please, let it be so. She and Peter pulled Mary into a tight embrace.
Mary bit her lip, her expression grim as she surveyed the empty room.
Her eyes hardened with a ferocity that seemed impossible for a child who’d once been Angela’s tiny maid.
She stepped out of the bedroom, her small frame carrying a purpose too large for it.
She searched for Yvonne, her feet nearly sprinting down corridors, climbing and descending stairs.
At last, she found her at the end of the first-floor hallway, standing before the massive door that had once led to Grace’s chambers.
Yvonne stood motionless, staring at it, flanked by a sizable retinue of maids and servants.
“Mistress.”
At Mary’s call, Yvonne turned. The maids and servants followed suit, their eyes settling on the girl.
Surprise flickered across their faces—Mary, who’d been locked away, was standing here free. But Yvonne’s gaze remained calm, unsurprised.
She already knew Mary had escaped the manor after her release from confinement.
It had happened when Angela was taken. Yvonne had thought that finding Mary waiting in her room upon her return might soothe the panic of that abduction.
So she’d ordered her release, only to learn Mary had already fled—undoubtedly Angela’s doing.
Yvonne didn’t reprimand the guards for their lapse.
She simply nodded and turned away.
But why had Mary returned, after Angela had gone to such lengths to set her free?
As Yvonne stared silently, the servants exchanged uneasy glances, unsure what to do. Then—
“Why did you do it?”
Mary’s voice was steady, almost unnervingly calm—a tone that would’ve prompted Angela to snap, What’s this? You could talk like that all along? Were you playing me? But Mary herself was only now realizing she could speak with such composure.
“Why?”
She pressed again, but Yvonne remained silent, her lips sealed tight despite understanding exactly what Mary was asking.
“Why did you do that to Miss Angela?”
The mention of Angela’s name sent a subtle ripple through the servants.
Their wary glances turned to curiosity, their eyes glinting with interest.
“Tell me. I need to know. What did she do wrong to deserve that?”
Yvonne’s silence stretched on, unyielding, as if she were staging a quiet protest. Mary stepped closer.
The servants, watching the standoff, surged forward to block her path, forming a human wall around Yvonne.
Mary halted, her steps cut short.
In that moment, something inside her snapped—the last fragile thread of restraint she’d been clinging to.
