Social Ladders and Hemlock Tea

**Sensitive Content: Moments in this story allude to sexual violence**

It has not been an easy journey, nor a short one. The manor loomed over me for so long, my hope almost sputtered out like the rest of them. No one had believed in my bold plan, none of them have my vision.

The snap of the linens brings me back to the present, where Sylvia is smoothing the crisp white sheets of the master bed. Next, she will fluff the down pillows until they are too plump to comfortably recline on. Then she will empty the chamber pot and scrub the floors before replacing the sprigs of lavender and mint that keep the room smelling fresh.

I know this routine because it was mine for years. I can almost feel the starch of the fabric as Sylvia runs a hand down the bed, smoothing out creases. She is new, brought on after it all happened. The rest of the staff stayed, as I knew they would, so it was only my position that needed filling. It had been filled once before but that…had ended.

Sylvia glances at me nervously and I give her a smile. I am sure the others whispered to her what had happened. She has nothing to fear, as long as she doesn’t pry. She quickly looks away and moves on to plumping the pillows. I return my view to the window.

It is quite the show piece. The old master had shipped in delicate glass panes and commissioned an intricate design for the lead cames. He was often spending lavishly on items for the manor, for himself, for his mistresses. I reach up to trace one of the swirling lines of metal and remember the day I became his favorite, his most doted upon, and the beginning of his end.

I was always planning to kill him. I think of it now as an inevitability, my actions the tool of fate. But it had so often felt impossible, until he noticed me. I am not small, nor particularly pretty. I have the build and look of a maid; sturdy, reliable, strong and flushed, and above all else discreet. Despite my size I am quite adept at disappearing myself when the need arises. Perhaps that is why it took him so long to prey upon me. Or perhaps he was simply bored and had already gotten his fill of the other female staff.

Regardless, when the time came, I was ready. I did not consent, it was not my choice, nor the ideal pathway to my goal, but I did not protest either and this caught his attention. To him, I was practically fawning and our master loved to believe himself loved. It was a short step to favoritism through sly glances and murmured compliments. From the position by his side, it was incredibly easy to add hemlock to his afternoon tea, then nurse him through the aches and pains of the poison. I stoked his already flaming paranoia and kept out the village doctor, the lawyers, other staff. He could trust no one but me.

Soon enough he was reliant on me. Soon enough I was his betrothed. Quite a scandal indeed.

His mysterious illness continued after we wed as I began to slowly increase his doses. It was subtle, I was subtle, but then he hired my replacement.

A reedy thing with large blue eyes that saw too much. She did not like to let me prepare his tea and often insisted on taking over the process. More than once, she walked in on me in the kitchen, tipping my paper packet of poison into the steaming water. It was quite bothersome. The others knew to keep out of my way, but this was a problem I had to address.

The stairs to the servant’s lodgings are quite steep. It is no wonder she broke her neck. Poor dear.

By then the master of the manor was irreversibly ill. I was in his will, his promise on my finger.

The lawyers and doctor did eventually show up, but by then I did not need to interfere, merely let his body crumple in upon itself and cry my tears of distress convincingly.

The first thing I did after he was buried was have the housekeeper hire another maid and asked the butler to see to the removal of the mourning shrouds. No one protested. All had been happy to see the dirt tamped down on the old master’s grave.

The steward is the next distraction to pull me from my musings and self-congratulations. He coughs gently to declare his presence, then hesitates, not knowing how to address me now. I take pity on him. “Lady will do.”

As the wife of the master, I should have been titled earlier, but the staff kept their familiarity while the old man still breathed. Now, however, I pay their wages and respect is unavoidable. Particularly since they have all seen what will happen to those who question me.

“My Lady,” he bows deeply and I grin to myself. The new maid has made herself scarce, clever thing. Perhaps she will last for quite some time. “I received a letter from the physician.”

“Ah, that will be the bill for his lordship’s final treatments.” I hold my hand out, but once again the man hesitates. I frown.

“I thought so too, Lady, but I was instructed to hand it to you directly. If it were merely a charge for service, it would be entrusted to my care.” He licks his lips nervously. He is toeing a line by engaging in this conversation. His curiosity is palpable.

I hold out my hand once more and this time he concedes, setting the thin envelop into my hand, watching it expectantly.

“That will be all.” I dismiss him and his disappointment is evident in the curt bow he executes before turning on his heel and striding out the door.

I remember the days when he used to dismiss me.

The envelop has been hastily sealed; wax drops drip across the back and the glob securing the flap is off center, pressed with the doctor’s emblem only half recognizable. I tsk and snap the seal, pulling out and unfolding the single sheet of stationary contained inside. The message is scrawled, but the wording is clear.

I know what you did.

I smile to myself and toss the letter into the fireplace, certain a housemaid will read it before lighting the evening fire, but not particularly caring. I turn my attention back to the window and the blooming gardens beyond.

It seems my work is not yet done.