Three:
Cold Light of Morning

Dawn hadn't yet broken when Elsie found herself jolted out of sleep by a flicker of candlelight. She mumbled something unsavory and blinked wearily, trying to figure out where the light was coming from. Abruptly, she realized that it was bloody freezing in the room and the single candle was the only thing allowing Fiona to see as she got dressed for the morning. "Good morning," Elsie murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

Fiona smiled at her and said, "G'morning, Miss Elsie. You should go back to sleep a little longer. It's half three; I've got to get Beryl and the other kitchen maids up. I'll come back at six."

"No, I'm up," Elsie reassured her with a yawn. "Do you want some help with your hair, dear?"

"Yes, please," Fiona said. "Beryl usually does it while we get some tea before Mrs. Oren comes down to the kitchen. But I think she'd like to eat her breakfast instead."

Elsie dragged herself out of bed and stifled another yawn. She took her time, plaiting Fiona's long black hair in a single braid down her back – quite appropriate for a young girl. "There," she said softly, "you look lovely, Miss Fiona."

"Thank you, Miss Elsie," Fiona said very sweetly. "Did my daddy come to say goodnight? I tried to stay awake –"

"He did," Elsie said, "but I don't know if he'll be doing it much more."

Fiona frowned. "Why? Doesn't he love me anymore?"

"Of course he does," Elsie said, "but he saw me in my nightdress last night and it's not exactly what you would call proper unless he meant to court and marry me, Fiona. And I am very certain that your father would not want to do such a thing if he still loves your mother very much."

"I wouldn't mind you being my new mummy," Fiona said cheerfully. "You're very nice."

"Shouldn't you be going to wake the kitchen maids up?" Elsie said, trying to shift the conversation quickly. "You wouldn't want Mrs. Potter to get cross with you."

At the mere mention of the housekeeper, Fiona went scarily pale and hurried to secure her shawl around her shoulders. "Yes, Miss Elsie," she said in a hollow, almost frightened voice.

"Fiona, what's wrong, love?" Elsie asked gently.

"Nothing, Miss Elsie," the little girl whispered. "Go back to sleep." With that, she disappeared from the room, taking the candle with her. Elsie sighed and went back to bed, determined to find out later what was troubling the child so much.

For the first time in years, Charles Carson was plagued by dreams.

A teasing smile, a wry twist of the lips, and a whisper of, "Come now, Charlie, surely such a man as yourself knows how to please a lady." She bit her lower lip, a habit he thought might be borne of nervousness, but in this case only served to make the blood pump harder through his veins.

Of course he knew how to please a lady – of course he did, of course. He knew every taste, every flicker of skin against skin that drove a woman wild with lust… Lust. This was all just lust. He wanted the new housemaid; that was all. It did not have to be anything more than want and need and animal instincts; he did not have to see in her all the wonders of life, the universe, and everything.

And as such, he realized that it was only a dream – a breath of a wish made upon god's most unlucky star. And because it was a dream, he had control over everything; over his emotions, over his heart… over her.

He met her kiss for kiss, a deeper need awakening in him that he could not account for, nor acknowledge.

Charles Carson awoke to the sound of one of the hallboys knocking and announcing it was six o'clock. His union suit was stuck to him in a wet, sticky mess, and he felt such shame in that moment, his face hot and angry with the last remnants of his misspent desire.

God, how he loathed himself. He couldn't even keep himself pure and devoted to Alice in his dreams; how on earth could he manage it in reality?

Sophie Potter was not an idle woman, nor was she stupid. She knew there was far more to the Scottish maid than had been stated in her interview. And she was determined to find out all of the bitch's secrets. It had been Grace Burke that had hired her; Sophie wasn't at all sure what the old biddy had seen in her at all. Her work was shoddy, her attitude beyond all measure, as though she were too bloody good to work in such a good house.

She'd thought to punish her by putting her in the room with Carson's brat, but the easy, familiar way she had treated the little ingrate at breakfast had belied that effort. It rankled Sophie's cockles; it had taken so much persuasion for Fiona to even spare her a glance, and here the Scottish Whore came in and stole that rug right out from under her. If only Charles would look up from his work for just a moment and see that Sophie was waiting for him –

She made certain to send Elsie out to change the linens in the family's wing; the task was daunting, and would take hours. That would give her plenty of time to have a rummage round her things.

It became painfully obvious that Elsie Hughes didn't have many things at all. Her clothes were all serviceable and plain. Her undergarments were practical, cotton, muslin, no lace – and they smelled faintly of her musk, which made Sophie wrinkle her nose. Surely Scotswomen washed their underthings and weren't dirty, filthy whores! After a few minutes more, she came across Elsie's Bible, the name of Burns inscribed in the flyleaf, births and deaths and a single marriage recorded.

And without warning, Sophie Potter had found Elsie Hughes's weakness.

She would love every moment of lording it over the smug, insufferable bitch.

She could almost feel how wonderful it would be to have the Scotswoman roll over in submission for her.

And with that, she smiled.

END PART THREE