#maid reader

Duchess Frances and Duke William Monroe had always fought over toys and trinkets since they were young. These small squabbles never ended, even when they reached adulthood. Especially when they both had their sights set on you, the pretty little maid. Both siblings were incredibly competitive over you, their sweet, oblivious maid.

You had been with them since they were children since you were the daughter of a maid. And once you were a teen, you worked for the family too… and those two siblings made your life a living hell. You had no idea that they did such awful acts upon you for your utmost attention rather than sadistic pleasure, but how were you to know the truth? They merely learned love through what they observed between their cold parents.

Frances used to cut your hair without your permission and stuff the remnants into a tin under he bed, while William had a much stranger habit. He enjoyed keeping your dirty socks. They were both so strange to you as the years went on. What started at childish bullying turned into a strange dynamic they had with no other house servant.

When adulthood finally came, Frances Monroe became a diva. Unlike her war commander brother, who threw elaborate parties and had gaggles of women dancing on his arms, she’d flaunt her furs and jewelry amongst the party guests. And she made you, her maid, do her hair and makeup multiple times a day just so she could have your hands on her. Frances adored the attention she recieved from other women, but didn’t like the attention of men… the socialite didn’t quite understand why, but she gravitated towards you. You were the only one who indulged her every command and it made her feel special. Even though Frances failed to realize you didn’t quite have a choice.

Your hands were constantly making finger waves in her French bob. You swore your hands were in the permanent shape of the comb and your hands smelled constantly of sugar water. Yet Frances was never satisfied.

“Redo it. You can’t possibly think this hairstyle is acceptable for my party guests.” She’d tell you each time despite how good the hair looked. This was all to have your constant attention… and to keep you away from her older brother, William.

When you finally had free time, you’d be hounded by William who wanted you to fetch him all kinds of assortments. Whether it was drinks or snacks, he’d ask for them in bountiful amounts. Yet that wasn’t the worst part, the worst part was when William had you feed him and it was always a show.

William would beckon you over like a dog in front of so many people before he’d have you nearly straddling his lap to hand-feed him an appetizer or an olive from his martini. His blue eyes would be half lidded and dazed… like you were yet another woman he wanted as a conquest. It made you sick.

You hated those two spoiled brats. The hours you worked as a servant were so long and demanding and the pay? It was so low, you almost felt like a pet rather than a worker. You worked multiple jobs since the Monroes' cutback on servants in the manor. There were hardly any male servants due to the ongoing war… and you knew it was only a matter of time before one of the few men left in this house might try to put their hands on you. You had heard stories from other maids… and you had no interest in being a bed warmer and ultimately, known as a trollop it’s why you’ve been saving most of your checks. You needed enough for a ticket to sail across the Atlantic to America… maybe you’d find a better life in New York than working for this awful Duchy.

You sat up as you went to the hidden hole you had hidden under your mattress where you kept a metal tin full of shillings. You had about £14 that you’ve collected over three years. It’d be enough for a boat ticket… You only made about that much a year as a parlor maid. Which was more than what you made years ago. You were grateful for the meager pay rise because you were that much closer to freedom. You packed your tin back where it was before you made sure it was secure once more. The last thing you needed was for someone to discover this… you had been talking to a sailor for a few months now on getting on the hair and he promised you a spot if you ever truly needed it. You took great advantage of your looks to get what you wanted. And you were hopeful that he’d keep his word.

The days went on and you noticed William began to seek you out more and more. Whether it be to ask you to fetch him a beverage or to stand as close as possible beside you while you dusted. It unnerved you how he looked at you, yet the older maids could do nothing to help you.

“I’ll be going to war soon,” William told you softly. His blue eyes filled with longing. “…meet me in my room tonight.”

Frances angrily stormed into the room when one of the maids let it slip that William asked you that request. Her blue eyes were narrowed as her pin curls were still pinned to her head since she had waited all morning for you, specifically, to come to her room to take them out despite her having a personal maid.

“How dare you indulge my brother! You are to be at my beck and call, not his!” She huffed in annoyance, her pale cheeks flushed red. “I’m far better company than that sheik! Look at my hair! I need you to fix it.”

You obediently followed her to her room as she practically dragged you. Frances complained the entire time as you fixed her blonde bob for her. The socialite was leaning into your hands the whole time which made your job even more difficult. If only you looked up to see the dazed expression on her face, then you’d know how Frances really felt. Frances felt the feelings for you that a man would feel for a woman and that really upset her. Because Frances knew she could never truly have you. She’d have to marry a nobleman one day. Unless… She took you back with her.

It rained that night, but you quietly went to William’s room as he asked. You didn’t want to upset him since William had a worse temper than Frances, herself.

He was quick to wave you over to him as he sat in his chair. His blue eyes studied your form in an emotion you could only describe as reverence. Which was odd since he was a known ladies' man. Yet you never truly looked into whether or not he genuinely joined those ladies in his room. He was just a privileged elite in your eyes anyways.

“You’ve grown so beautiful.” William quietly told you, and his hand went to grab yours. His grip was as tight as the coils of a snake around its prey. “It’s not fair that my sister keeps you all to herself.”

The moment he went to try to pull you into his lap, you quickly tried to push away from him. His blue eyes widened before they became half-lidded. Did you enjoy teasing him? How naughty…

“I’m sorry, my lord. I hadn’t meant to offend you-“ William chuckled as he continued to let his hands roam your body. He had been holding back for so long but no other woman could get him quite as worked up as you did.

“Nonsense. I’m finally able to appreciate you and your beautiful body now that my father isn’t here. Do you know how hard it was to keep all the men away from you all these years? I didn’t want another man to ever touch you, sweetheart.” William smiled. “I’ve been carrying a torch for you for years and now I finally get to touch you.”

The moment he went to pull you in for a kiss, you shoved him before you fled. The Duke hardly had time to register what had just happened before he gave chase. If you glanced back, you would have see the expression of pure panic on his face. William had thought you liked him too… You had never lashed out like this before!

“Wait! Please-“

But you rushed into your room and took out that little tin full of money from under your mattress before you fled down the staircase. A few servants merely gave you a glance at first until they saw the young master chasing you. The room soon descended into pandemonium, which of course attracted Frances to exit her room in shock. Her blue eyes widened when she saw you rushing out the door in only your maid uniform and your little, metal tin.

“Wait! Where are you going?!” Frances soon descended the stairs as well, yet she wasn’t quick enough. You were out that door. Both siblings screamed for you over and over again, but you drowned them out.

the air in the featherington kitchens is thick with the smell of cheap tallow candles and the sharp, stinging scent of vinegar. your back aches from hours of hunching over the floorboards.

"move faster, girl! the drawing room won't polish itself, and lady featherington expects the brass to shine like the sun by morning," mrs. varley barks, her own face flushed with the stress of keeping a crumbling household looking like a palace.

you don't look up, your fingers stinging as the harsh cleaning solution seeped into the small wounds on your knuckles. the wounds you got from stitching a tear in prudence’s oldest silk gown. a gown that had been dyed three times already to make it look like a new season's fashion.

the other maids are whispering in the corners. snide remarks about who had finished their chores and who is lagging behind.

in the featherington house, every mistake is a reason for a deduction in pay, and every maid is looking for a way to stay in mrs. varley’s good graces at the expense of someone else.

you reach into your apron pocket, feeling the few coins you had received last week. it was a pittance. you had counted them a dozen times, hoping the math would somehow change, but the reality remained: after the "economizing" lady featherington had insisted upon, there was barely enough to cover the cost of your own tea, let alone send anything home.

the sound of a bell clanging violently from upstairs makes everyone jump.

"perhaps it’s miss philippa," varley snaps. "maybe she’s dropped her embroidery again. go on, and don’t you dare let her see those red hands. put your gloves on, though god knows they’re more thread than wool now."

you stand up, your knees cracking, and wipe your hands on your stained apron. the opulence of the hallways upstairs is a cruel joke compared to the damp cold of the servant’s quarters.

as you hurry up the back stairs, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a silver tray. tired eyes, hair escaping its pins, and a look of quiet desperation that you can't quite mask.

the weight of it all, the endless work, the lack of pay, the constant fear of being let go, feels like a stone in your chest. you just need to get through this final hour. you just need to make it to the back gate.

the thought of john, of his calm voice and the way he actually looks at you like a person, was the only thing keeping your feet moving. you adjust your cap, take a deep breath of the dusty air, and step into the hallway, bracing yourself for another round of demands.

you step into the drawing room.

lady featherington paces the drawing room, her eyes darting over every surface. "the silver, girl! it looks too dull. if the guests see a single smudge, they shall think us destitute."

"i’ve polished it twice today, my lady," you say softly, keeping your head low. your stomach gives a quiet, treacherous growl; the kitchen rations have been cut back again to ensure the "proper" hors d'oeuvres could be served at the next promenade.

"then polish it a third time," she snaps, though not with malice. more with the desperate, sharp edge of a woman whose world is built on a crumbling foundation. "and mind the beeswax. use it sparingly. we must make the tin last until the end of the month."

mrs. varley enters then, clutching a small wooden box. she catches your eye, a flash of shared exhaustion passing between you. she opens the box to reveal the week’s wages. lady featherington looks at the coins, her lips thinning into a tight line.

"is that all that remains after the grocer was paid?" the lady asks.

"it is, ma'am. the prices in mayfair are rising, and with the girls needing new ribbons—"

"yes, yes," lady featherington interrupts, waving a hand. she turns to you, her expression almost apologetic for a fleeting second before the mask of the matriarch returns. "you’ll have to take a reduced portion this week. we must all make sacrifices for the family’s standing."

she hands you a few meager coins. it isn't even enough to cover the cost of the tea you’d brewed for them that morning. they aren't throwing plates or shouting insults; they were simply squeezing you dry, penny by penny, to keep their own feathers plucked and proud.

"thank you, my lady," you whisper, though the words feels like lead.

"be quick with that silver," she calls out as she sweeps toward the stairs. "and don't let me find you idling. there's plenty of work to be done before the sun sets."

you tuck the coins into your apron, the weight of them mocking your empty pockets.

as soon as the house settles into its evening hush, you know exactly where you need to go. the alleyway is the only place where you aren’t just a budget line to be trimmed.

the lanterns of mayfair flicker low, casting long, wavering shadows against the stone walls of the alleyway behind grosvenor square. it is the only place quiet enough for a stolen moment, far from the prying eyes of lady featherington.

the damp night air clings to your skin, but the heat of your frustration is enough to keep you warm. you pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the fabric thin and fraying at the seams. a constant reminder of the featherington household’s "delicate" financial state.

john is already there, leaning against the cold brickwork, his livery crisp even in the humidity of the london night. when he sees you slipping through the back gate, his weary expression softens into a genuine smile that reach his eyes, a stark contrast to the sharp glares you’d been receiving from mrs. varley all day.

"rough shift?" he asks softly, reaching out to steady you as you step over a muddy puddle.

"rough doesn't begin to cover it, john," you sigh, leaning your forehead against his shoulder for just a second, letting the scent of his clean soap ground you. "between the extra polishing for the upcoming ball and the constant errands for philipa and prudence, i feel like i’m running on nothing but tea and spite."

he chuckles, a low, comforting sound that vibrates through his chest. "i’ve heard the whispers through the servants' hall. it’s cutthroat out there lately, especially with the ton breathing down everyone's necks for the season."

although it is cold, the heat of your frustration is enough to keep you warm. "it would be manageable if the pay matched the labor," you say, pulling back to look at john, your frustration finally bubbling over. "i checked the ledger again when the housekeeper wasn't looking. the featheringtons are... well, they’re 'economizing' again. i’m doing twice the work for a pittance."

you pull a few meager coins from your pocket, the metal dull in the moonlight. "i can barely afford new stockings, let alone save anything for my mother’s medicine. mrs. varley has us scrubbing the floorboards with vinegar until our hands bleed just because lady featherington thinks the house smells of poverty. i’m invisible until a ribbon needs ironing or a corset needs hauling."

john’s smile fades, replaced by a look of quiet, simmering concern. he steps forward and catches you in a brief, firm embrace. "you’re trembling," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your hair.

"i'm angry, john," you snap, though your voice cracks.

he pulls away just enough to take your hands in his. his large, warm thumbs brush over your knuckles, tracing the raw, red patches where the stitching and the scrubbing have bitten deep. he doesn't offer empty platitudes; he looks at the coins in your palm with a hard, protective edge. "it's more than cruel," john says firmly. "it's theft. they're standing on your back to keep their heads above water. you’re not invisible to me, and you're worth much more than whatever coins they’re hoarding to keep up appearances."

he looks back toward the grand, brightly lit pillars of the bridgerton house, where music drifts from the drawing room, then down at you with a thoughtful glint in his eyes.

"you know," he starts tentatively, "the bridgertons are different. they’re a handful, heaven knows, but they treat us like people. they actually know our names, and the ledger there is honest. there’s a vacancy coming up in the scullery, and i heard mrs. Wilson mention they might need another lady’s maid soon with hyacinth growing up."

he squeezes your hands, his gaze intense and sincere. "you don't have to fight this alone. do you want me to put in a word? ask if they’d see you for an interview? i hate seeing you run ragged for a family that doesn't appreciate the soul you put into your work. i’d much rather see you across the hall than across the square."

you look at him, the warmth in his gaze doing more to comfort you than any extra pounds ever could. the idea of being near him every day, in a house that doesn't feel like a sinking ship, feels like a dream. "you’d really do that for me? after all the trouble with the households being at odds?"

"in a heartbeat," he whispers, leaning down so his forehead rests against yours. "let me talk to the butler tomorrow morning. we'll get you out of that house, i promise."

you look away, your gaze drifting toward the darkened windows of the featherington house. "i don't know, john. the mood in the square is... poisonous lately. lady featherington is already paranoid, and you know how the ladies are acting. it’s a war out here. i heard the countess of pembroke practically bought a cook right off the sidewalk last week, offering double the silver just to spite her neighbor."

you bite your lip, feeling the weight of the situation. "the featheringtons don't have enough staff as it is. if i leave for a house as grand as the bridgertons, and for better pay, lady featherington will see it as a desertion. or worse, she'll think lady bridgerton is trying to 'poach' me. it might make things even harder for the girls who stay behind."

john’s expression remains steady, though a small, weary smile touches his lips. "it isn't poaching to offer a fair wage for honest work, even if the ton treats us like prize horses at an auction. let them have their petty wars. the only thing that matters is that you aren't the one paying the price for their pride."

he steps closer, blocking the wind. "the featheringtons might have fewer hands, but that is because they don't value the ones they have. let the ladies fight over their silk and their staff. i just want you somewhere safe, where you can actually breathe."

you look back at him, the logic warring with your fear of the fallout. "you think mrs. wilson will see me?"

"she knows quality when she sees it," he says confidently, giving your hands one last, firm squeeze. "and she knows i wouldn't bring her someone unless they were the best. let me handle it. you just be ready to say yes."

you look down at your hands, the light of the lamps catching the raw skin of your knuckles. the prospect of the bridgerton house is a light at the end of a very dark tunnel, but the fear of the "maid war" still gnaws at your stomach. lady featherington is a woman who sees every loss as a personal insult, and the gossip in the square travels faster than a carriage.

"i want to, john. i truly do," you whisper, pulling your hands back slowly to tuck them into your apron. "but i need to think on it. if i leave now, with the household in such a state, mrs. varley will make life miserable for the others just to compensate. and if lady featherington finds out i'm moving to a house she's already jealous of... it could get ugly."

john looks like he wants to argue, his mouth opening to tell you that you owe them nothing, but he stops himself when he sees the genuine worry in your eyes. he nods slowly, respecting the weight of the decision.

"i understand," he says softly. "it's a lot to weigh. just don't wait until there’s nothing left of you to save."

“Y/N, my sweet maid,” Sherlock looked torn. He wanted you to stay in his bedroom, but at the same time, he didn’t want you to feel ashamed. “I don’t want to dishonor you. Go to your room. I won’t ruin your reputation. Soon enough, you’ll share the room with me.” Something flashed in his eyes, but it was soon replaced by a kind smile.

“Th-ank you, Sherlock…master.” You nodded, grasping for his hand. “But—will you come to me tonight? I’ll be waiting for you.”

His face lit up at your words. “Of course, sweet maid. I have a few matters to take care of first. I’ll be joining you soon.”

Sherlock thumbed through the papers, every piece of information he had gathered for weeks. “Nothing,” he huffed, flinging a book across the room. “Weeks of investigating her case, and I found nothing.”

“Master?” You knocked at the door, calling his name. “It’s late. You should rest, master.”

“I need to read more…” Sherlock sighed deeply. He rubbed his tired face, disappointed in himself for not discovering more about the person who was leaving you at the orphanage. “I’ll be there soon.”

“No,” you opened the door and stepped inside. “Sherlock, you need sleep. You look worn out, and it’s already so late.” You averted your gaze. “Please.”

“Just a little longer, Y/N.” Sherlock watched you nervously chew on your lower lip. “What is it? Do you need anything?” The observant detective knew that something must be off when you entered the study without knocking.”

“I can’t sleep without you,” you murmured, shyly glancing at your master. He rose from his seat to step toward you. His features softened as he gently touched your cheek.

“I’ll be coming with you.” He said, thumb brushing over your skin. “I can finish the papers tomorrow.” Sherlock kissed your temple, making you feel warm. “We will go to bed now.”

The next morning, Sherlock told you to sleep in. He wanted you to have a peaceful slumber after everything you had to endure because of Irene.

He rose early to go back to his study, hoping to find out more about your past. Sherlock angrily huffed when his brother entered his study.

“Mycroft, what brings me the pleasure of your presence?” Sherlock looked up from the papers he was studying. He wanted to find out more about your past and present his answers to you as a wedding gift.

“I heard rumors, brother.” Mycroft stiffly stood in front of Sherlock’s messy desk, glancing at the few belongings his brother got from the nun.

“About what?” Sherlock dismissively asked. He didn’t have time to waste on useless rumors and gossip that people liked to spread.

“You and your little maid,” his brother replied, scrunching up his nose. “I knew you had a barely tamable libido, but stooping so low that you are having an affair with the maid…that’s a new low even for you.”

Sherlock slammed his fist onto the desk, making Mycroft flinch at Sherlock’s sudden outburst. “I did not touch my maid inappropriately. Who spread those vicious lies about her? She’s an innocent and honest woman.”

“Well, your lady friend Irene is running around town, telling everyone you are about to throw your reputation and talent away for a whore. The wench living within your walls.” Mycroft watched his brother’s features darken with amusement. “Is it true?”

“I would never ruin Y/N. I’m going to make her an honest woman. She’s going to be Mrs. Sherlock Holmes soon enough.” Sherlock brushed his brother’s concern off. “Whatever Irene Adler told you were lies. She came here, laying hands on my maid. I had to kick her out for crossing one too many lines.”

“Brother, you can’t be serious!” Mycroft scoffed at his brother’s stubbornness. “Sherlock, you should know your place and hers. A maid cannot become your wife. She’s a worthless wench!”

“What did you say?” Sherlock rose from his seat, knocking his chair over, to storm toward his brother. Mycroft’s ears rang after his brother landed a punch to his face. He stumbled back, not surprised by his brother’s outburst.

“Well, brother,” Mycroft wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think this is a first. You never attacked me for a woman before. Not Lady Lexington, not Irene Adler, nor any other woman. Your little maid must be very special to you.”

Sherlock panted heavily. He glared at his brother, ready to attack him again to defend your honor. “She’s not a wench! My little maid is innocent!”

“I know,” Mycroft smirked at his brother. “I wanted to find out if you are worth calling her your wife.”

“What are you talking about, brother? You are talking in tongues,” Sherlock snapped at his brother. “Moments ago, you told me I cannot wed her! I won’t back down. I will ask for her hand. Mother gave me her blessings and Grandmother’s ring.”

“You seriously want to wed your maid?” Mycroft challenged his brother, stepping toward him. “Yes or no!”

“YES!” Sherlock yelled. “I will ask my maid, my Y/N, to become my wife. I don’t want anyone else but her!”

“Good,” Mycroft replied, unimpressed by his brother’s outburst. “In that case, I have good news. I found out more about her past and why your friend wanted to get his hands on her.”

“Acquaintance, not friend,” Sherlock corrected. “Now tell me what you found out!”

Part 10