Merely a Maid

In a rococo mansion where marble cherubs leer at every clandestine sigh, Beatrice—lace cap askew, hands raw from lye—moves like a ghost through corridors thick with camphor and scandal. Her mistress, a velvet-and-violins debutante, treats the manor as a private stage, batting eyelashes that cast crescent shadows sharp enough to slice reputations. Enter the heir apparent: a swaggering roué whose smile is equal parts pearl and switchblade. One glance at the maid’s downcast, moonlit nape and the social order tilts; suddenly the silver cloches reflect not côte de boeuf but the tremor of forbidden appetite. At midnight’s masquerade—confetti of silk, champagne geysers, a jazz band sawing syncopation into the rafters—gloves slap faces, monocles spin like dervishes, and the ballroom becomes a human kaleidoscope. Beatrice, mistaken for a titled coquette beneath a borrowed domino, is swept into a foxtrot that ends in uproar: candelabra topple, dowagers faint into the arms of waiters, the lover duels a cuckold with a breadstick. In the maelstrom, the maid’s apron is trampled under bejewelled heels; yet the roué, blood on his shirtfront, hoists her like a trophy, steers her through French doors, and bundles her into a snorting roadster. Headlamps carve tunnels through topiary darkness; the mansion recedes, its thousand lit windows now a fading constellation. She does not kiss him—her gaze stays fixed on the rear-view mirror where the old life shrinks to a spark—yet her fingers, whitening on the velvet seat, betray a thrill equal parts terror and transfiguration.