"Do I have to go back out there? I can't....I...I won't!" I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

The cook, Mrs Moore, regards me dismissively and returns her attention back to the bustling kitchen where several other servants and footmen are busy tending to their various duties.
"You can and you will, my girl! Tis' not for the likes of us to question orders from upstairs."

Rolling my eyes my hands go to my (Y/H/C) hair and I tug on it in sheer frustration. This is like a nightmare. An ongoing, never ending nightmare that I can't wake up from.

I've been working in service at Aldermont Hall for eight weeks now, as my impoverished parents can no longer support myself and my three younger brothers. My father is the local blacksmith in the small parish of Thaxted, Northwest Essex, and a chance encounter shoeing the horse of Major Cecil Hanbrooke -- a local wealthy business owner and ex serviceman -- landed me a position working as one of the staff here at the Aldermont Estate, situated in the glorious countryside.

At first I was nervous, wary of leaving home and with good reason. Our modest cottage in the village is a far cry from this huge stately home. Until arriving here, I'd never had to polish silver, buffer oak-panelled floors, and clean out fire grates.
I'm still quite young, yet old enough to be in employment.

Not that I'm work shy, I've grown used to sharing the cramped sleeping quarters with the other girls; Maria, Emma, Enid, Charlotte and Kitty. At first, having to get up at 5:00am each morning to set the fires in each of the rooms was a shock to the system. By the end of the day I'm usually exhausted, and want to fall into bed and sleep.

But that's often easier said than done.
Yes, what makes this job unbearable is the unwanted attentions from the male members of the household. Nothing could've prepared me for that.

As I've only recently come of age, I suppose you could say that I was still naive. Being virginal and innocent to the ways of men and their 'needs' as people refer to it.
Well, I didn't realise that working as a domestic maid often means that having to tolerate being pawed by the upper-class male inhabitants is practically in the job description.

I was shocked to discover this, and it isn't getting any easier.
I won't put up with it, and have spent a lot of my time fighting off Gerald -- the oily, obnoxious oaf of a son -- and even the master, Major Hanbrooke himself.
My unwillingness to engage in their sexual advances doesn't dampen their ardour though. On the contrary, they both seem to like toying with me. Like a game of cat and mouse. It's sick and twisted, the way they get some kind of sordid thrill out of pestering me for sexual favours. It's become their sport and they get off on the power they wield over us helpless girls.

"You're better off just giving into them (Y/N)" Maria told me, sadly. "They won't stop until they get what they want."

Ugh.
Never.
I won't let myself be bullied into being fondled by some dirty old pervert, or his over-amorous son.
Some of the other girls are too afraid to resist because they know they'll lose their job, and work for girls of our class is hard to find in these remote parts.
What's even worse is a couple of them even gave in willingly, bought by the trinkets that are offered to them in return for their 'favours'.
Lace handkerchiefs, bottles of perfume, even diamanté broaches are given to the most enthusiastic bed partners.
It turns my stomach. As much as I'd love a fancy lace hanky or nice bottle of scent, I would never prostitute myself for it.

"Come along girl, get yourself upstairs. They're waiting for dessert." Old Bradley, the head butler barks at me impatiently.

I feel like I want to cry. But of course, I won't.

Taking the large, heavy silver tray that's laden with all kinds of puddings; lemon tart, trifle, blancmange and Victoria sponge cake, I head back up the narrow staircase which leads from the kitchens to the ground floor.

Walking along the hallway my feet turn to lead as I get nearer to the dining room. From inside I hear the excitable chatter and laughter of the guests.
Tonight has been a grand soirée, a lavish dinner-party thrown in honour of a potential suitor for Miss Agnes, Major Handbrooke's youngest daughter. His two elder daughters having already been married-off.

Major Handbrooke also owns a castle estate called Steephill on the Isle of White, which produces for him an enormous yearly unearned income of between 4,000 and 5,000 pounds. His wife, the stuffy Lady Constance, was the daughter of a wealthy colliery owner, and the business passed to Major Cecil when his father-in-law died.
So, heaven only knows how much money this family has, but vindictive gossip is rife amongst the staff that it must only be the allure of cash that has enticed such a titled, handsome, Northern gentleman to court Miss Agnes in the first place.
She isn't considered a beauty, and her demeanour is one of a stuck-up, sour faced spinster.

I haven't seen her suitor for myself, even though he's currently dining with the other guests. It is 'unservantlike' behaviour to look at the upper-class guests, so I tend to keep my eyes mostly fixed on the floor when I'm serving. So I can't really pass comment, but Charlotte and Kitty have been in a tizz all evening, swooning over how attractive 'Sir Thomas Sharpe, Baronet' is.

I've got to admit, I have no idea what rank a Baronet is. All I know is he'll most likely be like all the rest of them from that higher social class.
Stuck-up, rude, conceited and arrogant.
They're all the same.
So much so it makes me laugh that they even refer to themselves as gentlemen.

"Oh but you should see him (Y/N) I ain't never seen such a spectacularly handsome gentleman." Charlotte had raved.

"Handsome is as handsome does." I'd replied stonily. "It's what's on the inside that counts. All the good looks in the world mean nothing if you're ugly on the inside."

To my irritation, my wise words of wisdom were utterly lost on Kitty, as she'd piped up with, "But he seems like a real man of quality. And I'd wager there's a fair bit of muscle underneath those fine clothes."

She and Charlotte had then erupted into a fit of giggles, which only ceased when Mrs Moore threatened to box Kitty's ears for her lascivious talk.

I turn the doorknob with a trembling hand, precariously balancing the trey with the other.
During mealtimes servants waiting-on don't have to knock and wait for permission to enter, so I let myself in and make my way over to the long table, keeping my eyes averted as best I can from the assembled party.
Though I must admit, I'm tempted to steal a look at the supposedly drool-worthy Sir Sharpe.

The ladies are chatting idly about the latest fashions in London, whilst the men seem to be engrossed in a gripping conversation about industrial growth in Manchester.

I make my way slowly around the table with James, one of the younger butlers. He's nice enough and has a bit of a thing going on with Emma. The two of them have an 'understanding' that one day when they can afford it they'll get married.

James asks each guest in turn what they'd like for dessert, and I simply have to hold the trey whilst he dishes the selected pudding out.
Sounds easy enough, but as we reach the detestable Gerald next, my guts twist into sickening, anxious knots.
He shoots me a deliberate, self-satisfied look as I'm forced to stand at the table next to him. I meet his look briefly, then hurriedly look away.
I silently pray that he'll leave me alone and won't dare harass or taunt me in front of the guests, but he's a deplorable little shit....

Even as he continues to talk to the man sitting beside him, he casually reaches down and runs a hand up my outer-thigh.
God I hate him.
I squirm, and try to wriggle away from his straying-fingers without making too much fuss. As much as I'd like to dump this trifle over his fat head, I can't make such a scene.
I'll lose my job.
But not being able to do anything makes my blood boil.

I try to shift my body away from him as much as I can, but the bastard persists. This time he subtly leans right down and slips his hand beneath my dress. I jerk a little abruptly which elicits a whispered "Steady on, (Y/N)" from James.

But it would seem my silent struggle doesn't go completely unnoticed by the guest sitting next to Master Gerald. And I can scarcely believe what happens next, as he clumsily knocks his spoon off the table and onto the floor. Which forces my tormentor to remove his hand hastily.

My first instinct as a maid is to pick the spoon up for the gentleman but he swoops down and grabs it before I have chance.

"Oh dear, how clumsy of me." He says in a well-polished, softly spoken voice. "I wonder would it be too much trouble to ask for another one?"

For the first time I allow my gaze to flicker and rest on the speaker, as it would be rude not to, and Lord have mercy! He is by far the handsomest man I've ever seen.
He has a pale complexion, accentuated by a mane of dark wavy hair which is swept back, emphasising a fair face with high cheekbones and a strong, sharp jawline.
His expression is open and kind, his stormy eyes are blue like the sea in winter, which I could easily drown in if I stare into them for too long.

Suddenly I remember myself and my face flushes hot, seeing his outstretched hand inclined towards me with the spoon, so I manage to find my voice. "Oh....y-yes. Of course, Sir. I'll fetch one right away."

"No need, James can do that..right, James?" Master Gerald pipes up, turning to a perplexed James who is still at my side.

The handsome guest glances at James, and if I didn't know better I could swear they exchange a knowing-look.

"Um, I could Master Gerald, but (Y/N) isn't yet proficient when it comes to serving." James answers in brave defiance.

"Yes and I wouldn't want to deprive everyone of their dessert whilst they wait on me due to my act of clumsiness." The dark stranger adds hurriedly, then forces a strained laugh.

I take the spoon from him graciously, and dip my head in a small bow and hand the tray over to James. Then I almost fall over my own feet in my rush to get to the door.
I don't look back at Gerald. He's no doubt quietly vexed at having been interrupted whilst trying to grope me.

But I do dare to glance back over my shoulder at the handsome guest, who unbelievably is still watching me closely.
Another blush crawls up my neck as he smiles gently at me, before turning back to the table to join in again with the conversation.

I swallow hard.

Handsome is as handsome does.

He....he saved me.
Incredibly, this man seems to be one of a rare, dying breed.
He is a true gentleman.