Beatrice

Chapter 2

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TRIGGER WARNING:

Potentially distressing material to some readers ahead. This chapter contains depiction and/or strong implication of the following:

•Bullying

• Sexual Harassment

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The next morning, I awoke early, and after quickly dressing in my uniform, I joined the kitchen staff. The chef, a burly man with a no-nonsense attitude, was busy preparing breakfast, his face set in a scowl as he worked.

Once breakfast was ready, I was assigned the task of serving the family. I placed the trays carefully, my hands trembling slightly as I made my way to the grand dining room. The table was set impeccably, with finely polished silverware gleaming in the morning light. The Marquess, Marchioness, and their children were already seated, engaged in a lively conversation.

As I approached the table, I could feel the weight of their gazes on me. I set the first tray in front of the Marquess, whose expression was a picture of cold displeasure. He barely glanced at me as he continued his conversation with his son, the two of them deep in discussion about some business matter.

Next, I placed a plate in front of the Marchioness, who regarded me with a disinterested glance before turning her attention back to her own reflection in a small hand mirror. Her aloof demeanor was matched by her daughter, who was engrossed in adjusting her intricate hairstyle.

Finally, I reached the Lady's place, where her gaze was fixed on me with an air of thinly veiled impatience. I set her plate down with the utmost care, trying to avoid making any mistakes. However, as I finished, I couldn't help but notice the cold, disapproving look in her eyes.

"Finally," she said, her voice sharp and edged with irritation. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

I lowered my gaze, my face flushing with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, My Lady. I've just finished serving everyone."

Her eyes narrowed as she inspected her plate. "Is this what you call a proper serving? The eggs are cold, and the toast is practically burnt."

My heart sank at her words. "I'm sorry, My Lady. I'll bring you a fresh plate immediately."

"Make it quick," she snapped, her irritation evident. "I can't wait forever."

I hurried back to the kitchen, my pulse quickening with anxiety. The chef, busy with his own tasks, glanced up as I entered. "What now?" he asked gruffly.

"The Lady's breakfast is cold. Please prepare a new foods," I explained, trying to steady my voice.

The chef sighed heavily, clearly displeased. "Use the warmer next time. It's there for a reason."

"I will," I said quickly, preparing a new plate with practiced efficiency before returning to the dining room.

When I approached the Lady's place again, I saw that her expression had not softened. I placed the new plate in front of her with trembling hands. Before I could turn away, the Marchioness spoke up, her tone sharp and demanding.

"Is there a problem here, maid?" Her eyes were cold and unyielding.

"No, ma'am," I said quickly, "I'm just correcting the mistake."

The Marchioness's gaze bore into me with critical intensity. "It's not just about getting the food right. It's about the quality of service, and you're falling short."

I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat. "I understand, ma'am. I'll do better."

The Lady, not content with the exchange, added with a derisive sniff, "Better? I hope so. We can't have a maid who can't even serve a decent breakfast."