"Why so dressed up?" Mum queried, eating a slice of banana bread for breakfast as I looked at myself in the mirror.

Today, I donned the nicest dress I owned. Made of cream-coloured silk with a subtle striped pattern, it had an off-the-shoulder neckline with a wide, horizontal golden band that sat just below the shoulders, giving it an elegant and classic appearance. The skirt, full and gathered at the waist, gave me a voluminous silhouette. The elegant gown once served as my grandmother's wedding dress and later became one of my mother's favourite evening gowns.

"Do not worry about me," I dismissed, kissing my parents and grandparents farewell. A knock came on the door, and I rushed to it. "Coming!"

When I opened the door, a tall man with a stern expression and a well-worn ledger in hand intruded into our house. I recognised him as a debt collector but could not close the door fast enough.

"Miss Becker?" he questioned.

I nervously clasped my hands together. "Yes, sir. That is me. How may I assist you?"

The man peered around the room with a look of disdain. "I am here about the outstanding debt. Your last payment was missed, again."

I tried to remain composed, but my voice wavered. "I know, and I apologise. I'm doing everything I can to make ends meet."

He flipped through his ledger. "Apologies won't suffice, Madam. You have a fortnight to come up with the arrears. Otherwise, we'll have no choice but to take further measures."

My eyes widened, and a hint of desperation crept into my voice. "Please, I just need a bit more time. I'm seeking employment. I promise I'll repay the debt."

The debt collector smirked slightly. "Employment, is it? You better hope it pays handsomely and swiftly. Otherwise, I'll return. And next time, I shan't be so lenient." He handed me a notice. "Here is your final warning. A fortnight, Miss Becker."

I took the notice with trembling hands, my heart pounding in my chest. "Thank you. I'll find a way. I promise."

"Promises won't keep you out of the workhouse, Madam. Bear that in mind," he said as he turned to leave, looking back over his shoulder.

I closed the door behind him, leaning against it as the weight of his words sank in. "I have to find a way for my family—for our home," I whispered to myself.

My resolve hardened as I turned and watched the debt collector disappear down the cobblestone street. The urgency of the situation crystallised in my mind, and I knew I must secure the caregiver job or face the unthinkable. So, I stood, dusted myself, and marched out of the door for a long walk.

Yesterday, I had discreetly followed the woman from the bakery to her residence and discovered she lived in a place called Windsor Manor. Today, the building loomed ominously behind a large wall of tall, thick hedges, the first floor of the grandeur hidden except for a glimpse of the front foot and the ramp leading to it.

Windsor Manor stood distinguished at the end of a long, winding driveway; its dark, weathered stone walls towered menacingly under a perpetually overcast sky. Despite its eerie exterior, signs of life hinted at its continued occupation. Dim lights flickered behind thick, drawn curtains, casting shadows that danced across the lawn. The tall, twisted hedges surrounding the property were meticulously trimmed, creating a stark contrast with the wild, untamed forest beyond.

Taking a deep breath, I used the heavy, iron knocker, shaped like a snarling beast, to knock on the imposing front door of Windsor Manor and step back onto the porch, waiting anxiously. The door swung open to reveal the same silver-haired woman from yesterday, her eyes narrowing with suspicion, if not outright disdain, as I introduced myself, "Hello, my name is Claire Becker. I heard you were looking for a caregiver. Is that still the case?"

Her voice snapped like a whip. "How do you know we need a caregiver?"

I stumbled back, taken aback by her hostility, and clutched a beam for support. I cleared my throat and answered, "I overheard you mention it yesterday. Do you remember me? You ate some of my banana bread."

She paused, humming thoughtfully when a man's voice from inside called out, "Dearest, who is it?"

She turned, her tone softening dramatically as she answered, "Oh, darling, it is nothing. Just a beggar girl wanting some money." Then, facing me again, her gentle demeanour vanished. "Here, I will give you a little money for the bread." She got some bills and threw them at my face before grabbing the door to shut it. "Now leave."

Her rudeness reminded me of the debt collector. All he wanted was money that I did not have. He wanted to steal my house and force me to their debt prisons. I could not go there. I had to get this job.

With renewed determination, I placed my foot in the way of the door, and the door slammed right on it. I cringed at the pain, but I persisted, trying to be as polite as ever while in pain and dealing with a rude woman. "Thank you, but I am not looking for a handout—I am looking for a job."

"A job?" The male voice grew closer, and soon a man appeared behind the lady, scrutinising me. He wore a frock coat and derby hat with a pocket watch peeking out of his pocket. He had a well-groomed beard and moustache, showing his masculinity and sophistication. I managed the warmest smile I could manage under his intense gaze. "May my wife and I discuss this privately?" he asked.

"Of course." I nodded, surprised he would even ask me for permission and by his courtesy. The man shut the door, leaving me patiently waiting on their stoop. However, their conversation drifted through the thick wood.

"Dearest, you told me yesterday that you were having trouble finding a caregiver, and now we have someone willing. Can we not give her a chance?"

"But darling, did you see her? She is poor. She clearly will not do a good job. We need someone from our class who will take proper care of him."

"I understand, but everyone we have asked has refused. There is no one else. It is practically a miracle from God that she is here."

"Lord Marcus, you are not listening to me. She is likely only here to steal something from us. You know how those vermin think. I cannot believe you are even entertaining the thought of letting that beggar into our home, much less care for our son. What if he does not like her? I do not want my child to be forced to associate with them and their filth."

"No, Lady Beatrice, I think you are the one not listening. I say we give her a chance. If he does not like her, then I will concede. I will find someone 'from our class' to care for our son to soothe your worries if she were to fail. And, Lady Beatrice, she is a human; stop acting as if she were not."

A silence fell upon the conversation, and I could only imagine what they were doing inside before the male voice commented, "I should tell him to prepare for her introduction."

"No, she does not deserve the decency of getting dressed up."

"But he is not even—"

"Enough, Marcus, let us get this over with."

The door opened, and I stood there, smiling as if I had not heard every word of their not-so-secretive conversation.

"Where are my manners?" He removed his hat and bowed slightly. "My name is Earl Marcus Windsor, and here is my wife Countess Beatrice Windsor." Countess Windsor did not spare a glance at me while Earl Windsor made unbroken eye contact with me and spoke clearly when he introduced himself and his wife, which showed his confidence and respect, yet it surprised me how quickly he switched emotions. "And your name, miss?"

"Claire. My name is Claire Becker."

"Well, it is nice to meet you, Miss Becker. Come in; let us discuss the job details and see if you would be a good fit for our son."

He held the door open, and I stepped inside, grateful for the gesture and opportunity. "Thank you," I said, feeling a glimmer of hope.