Elsie walked back to her small quarters that evening with Bridget's laughter still ringing in her ears. She could hear the whispers already spreading through the corridors, servants placing bets on how quickly she would be thrown, wondering aloud if she even understood what she had agreed to.
Lucy, a fellow maid and one of Elsie's only true friends in the house, caught up with her near the linen closet, worry etched across her face. "You cannot be serious," Lucy whispered, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one listened. "That horse nearly killed old Garrick's nephew. Why would you agree to this?"
Elsie did not answer right away. She simply stared out toward the distant stables where a faint whinny cut through the evening air—sharp and defiant, almost like a warning. Or perhaps, she thought, like a greeting.
"Because," Elsie finally said, her voice quiet but certain, "they think they know me, and they do not know anything at all."
Lucy studied her friend's face, searching for fear and finding none. There was something else there instead: something calm and knowing, a quiet confidence that made no sense for a girl who scrubbed floors and carried linens from dawn until dusk. Lucy did not understand it, but she recognized it as something unshakable.