Ch#71
Though I still planned to maintain a discreet presence in Blenheim and depart unobtrusively when the moment arrived, that resolve didn’t require me to stand idly by while others struck at me.
Thus far, I’d taken care to afford Head Maid Marzella a measure of respect—a nod to her decades of service and her climb to such a prominent role.
But her audacious scheme to tarnish the household she managed crossed into outright disgrace, offending both Blenheim and the Duke himself.
She had overstepped beyond redemption.
Having initiated the assault on my standing, she forfeited any mercy I might have shown.
“Fetch Bennet,” I instructed Leta, my decision firm.
Moments later, Bennet appeared, her expression uncertain.
“I’ve summoned you because I need to ask something,” I told her.
“Y-Yes, Your Grace,” she replied.
I passed her the entry ledger that Leta had just delivered.
“Did you leave the castle yesterday? Your name appears right here.”
Bennet accepted the document, her eyes swiftly discerning the truth behind the deception. I watched the calculations flicker across her face.
After a moment’s hesitation, she met my gaze. “That wasn’t me.”
“Not you? Yet there it is, plain as day.”
“The head maid occasionally borrows other maids’ names for her outings.”
I offered a gentle, affable smile. “That’s a relief.”
Puzzlement clouded her features, so I inclined my head, revealing the subtle mark on my brow.
“You’ve heard of yesterday’s mishap, haven’t you? It appears the perpetrator might link back to whoever slipped out then.”
Comprehension dawned, and Bennet gasped in alarm.
“Your Grace! I vow it wasn’t me! The head maid… she took my name without a word!”
“Excellent. I’d feared loyalty might prompt you to shield her.”
Bennet’s shoulders stiffened—she grasped the peril she’d narrowly avoided with her honest reply.
“This poses a serious issue. If the head maid is entangled in such scandalous deeds, how could I rely on her to oversee the household?”
Her face changed.
“Yet as a newcomer here, it seems improper for me to oust her single-handedly,” I continued, eyeing Bennet.
Fortune favored me; she seized the implication at once. Drawing herself up tall, she linked her fingers together.
“If there’s any way I can alleviate Your Grace’s load, command me freely. Make full use of me, I beg you.”
“Music to my ears.”
Pleased, I smiled and motioned her to a seat.
“Take a chair. We have much to go over.”
Within the servants’ quarters on the west wing’s third floor stood a chamber called “Zella’s Parlor.”
This exclusive haven was set aside solely for veteran maids loyal to the head maid over the years.
An invitation marked one as elite.
While ordinary maids took their meals in the communal dining hall, parlor privileges meant private feasts rivaling the nobility’s own—lavish spreads mirroring those of the castle’s lords.
Meat graced every course, fine wine supplanted ale.
Beyond meals, scraps of pastries or confections from the Duke and Duchess’s table lingered invitingly, while lesser maids invited stern reprimands merely for dawdling close.
Thus, when Marzella entered that morning and spied junior maids munching cookies illicitly, shock rendered her mute for an instant.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded icily.
The maids merely regarded her, unafraid.
“I said, what are you doing?” she barked, temper fraying.
Days of strain had worn her thin.
Lady Meisel had commissioned the task—why must I bear the gnawing dread alone?
The Duchess’s abrupt audience with the guild leader had forced Marzella to venture out perilously to relay orders to the thugs.
Their bungled capture had left her sleepless, fretting over exposure.
Worse, rumors swirled of townsfolk pitying the Duchess post-attack, stoking her irritation.
“Out, every one of you! Who authorized you to lounge here?” she commanded.
“I did,” a poised voice announced from behind.
Marzella whirled to find the Duchess framed in the doorway, flanked by her attendants.
The Duchess?
The junior maids sprang up and curtsied neatly.
What brings her here? Marzella wondered, pulse racing—had her role surfaced? Yet the Duchess radiated warmth, no hint of reproach.
Composing herself, Marzella dipped into a bow.
“Not enough seating, evidently,” the Duchess observed, bypassing any salutation.
Bennet, entering on her heels, responded promptly. “We’ll fetch extras from belowstairs.”
Her inflection carried the weight of authority, as if she held Marzella’s own title.
The maids’ earlier defiance toward Marzella, coupled with this unheralded ducal visit—clearly, wheels turned.
Evidently, the Duchess had greenlit their use of the parlor.
Marzella raised her head defiantly. “Your Grace, this is the head maid’s private lounge. The others have their space below.”
“I’m aware. But the lower room cramps far too many,” the Duchess countered lightly.
“Henceforth, they may share this one as well.”
As admiration lit the maids’ faces toward the Duchess, Marzella swallowed her rising ire.
“With all due respect, Your Grace, this space serves for consultations and directives—essential to my duties.”
“Don’t you maintain a sitting room in your personal quarters?” the Duchess inquired softly.
“…I beg your pardon?”
“Your private chambers include an adjoining lounge and study. Precisely as you describe: venues for staff meetings and orders.”
Words failed Marzella—not from lack, but seething rage.
Such accommodations were her prerogative as head maid.
“Wasn’t this originally the maids’ common room? By what right did you seize it?”
“It’s within the head maid’s purview…” Marzella faltered.
Indignation burned; she felt profoundly slighted.
Chief Butler Whitley enjoyed a cottage within the grounds.
Her privileges paled by comparison, and pleas of his lifelong tenure rang hollow—she had poured years into Blenheim too.
“As I’ve noted previously,” the Duchess stated calmly,
“household oversight falls to the Duchess. Given your habit of challenging me at every juncture, best to ease your load and avert errors. Cecilia?”
Promptly, the attendant advanced, extending her palm to Marzella.
“Surrender the estate keys.”
The import hung clear to all.
Parlor maids and onlookers clustered at the threshold hushed.
Marzella quivered.
That jangling cluster—commanding vaults, passages, pantries across the castle core—embodied her dominion. It never strayed from her person.
Yet refusal found no ground.
Finally, she unclasped it from her bodice and yielded it.
Cecilia conveyed it straight to the Duchess.
“Bennet.”
“…?”
The Duchess raised the keys aloft, summoning Bennet forth.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Into Bennet’s grasp they went.
Maids’ eyes widened in shock.
In a heartbeat, the power Marzella had hoarded for years shifted hands.
“Handle the matters we outlined before, return the keys once done, and see these seats swapped for suitable ones.”
“Understood,” Bennet acknowledged evenly, betraying no emotion, and departed keys in tow.
“A-Are you dismissing me from head maid?” Marzella stuttered.
“Whatever for?” The Duchess eyed her with bemused incredulity.
“Then why…”
Marzella balked at voicing Bennet’s name, flicking a look her way. The Duchess traced it.
“Bennet merely serves as my proxy. I can’t traipse about jangling keys myself.”
“I… fail to grasp it,” Marzella murmured.
“Am I not plainspoken?”
“No, utterly transparent,” a maid at her back chirped sweetly.
“You retain head maid status. Voice your views at will. But heed this—the ultimate authority rests with me.”
The Duchess delivered it with a smile.
Yet from the maids’ stunned expressions, Marzella knew they shared her dawning realization—
With Bennet executing the Duchess’s directives in her place, hadn’t that usurped the head maid’s essence?