Swept Under Silence - a kinky noncon tale

The new butler had arrived on a cold autumn morning after the mists had veiled the landscape. The gray hid the mountains, the treeline, the fences and most of the road. The brown horse appeared pulling a single-person wagon. Even though the driver was partially covered by the burlap, the silhouette of his top hat was discernible, as was his hair of thick long curls that were taken by the breeze. A dark black coat hugged his torso, and there was a thin line of lace in his sleeves before his dark blue gloves.

Rose was taken by an uncomfortable ache in her chest and a sense of unease deep in her bones. She brushed the edges between wood and glass with force. Encrusted dust clung despite her efforts. She wanted to run down and join the housekeeper in the greetings, but she didn’t dare. A sense of urgency drove her to persist in her work.

Drizzle and chilly winds had begun a week before. Mrs Serra, the housekeeper, informed Rose that it was common for the cold to blow from the sea nearby, but she knew that it wasn’t so simple. The frigid air originated at the South Pole then traversed both sea and land, ascending the continent, bringing with it humidity and a decrease in temperature. As Copper Peak Hall was built atop a cliff and between a ragged landscape, the migrant winter clouds got trapped above the property. It would be a bleak setting until summer arrived, a harsh climate when it came to mould, lichen, and moss. Over the years, the house had become covered in grime, eaten by humidity, and green bloomed from its most hidden corners. Rose was determined to fight against it. She would not be found incompetent.

Her cousin’s house had been much more sumptuous and decorated. It was a modern, small-town manor with a fashionable and luxurious architecture and decoration. Copper Peak Hall was simpler in comparison, built on stucco and wood, poorer in reliefs and art. It was from a period prior to the availability of numerous commodities, during which architects and masons were unable to reach cities in the countryside. As such, it was simply a plain cube with a clay roof and wooden framed windows, without reliefs or arabesques, but it had many rooms and could be considered comfortable by any gentleman with sense. Money was money anywhere, and could afford the work to make as large a house as one would desire. It was fresh in the summer and dreadfully cold during the short winter. However, it had not been constructed to withstand the moisture without consistent maintenance, and the previous proprietors had failed in this regard.

Mrs Serra had told her when she arrived:

“I’ve been at Copper Peak Hall for thirty years now. I began to work here as a governess, then became the housekeeper when the kids grew up. Now Mr Santos, the son, lives in the capital, and I take he’s happy there. He never came back to visit, and now sold the house to Mr Carvalho. Which is good for us, I mean. There’s little joy in being a keeper to an empty house, and finally, we will have some jobs again, god knows the people in the village need it. I haven’t been able to clean like I used to, and after Julia married — she was the previous maid — Mr Santos didn’t send enough money to hire anyone else. It’s been just us two for a while now, and yolanda, the washing woman who comes by a few days a week.”

Us two meant her and Mr Franco, who was the last manservant, and also an elder. Franco obviously wasn’t up to the task of repairing architectural damage, keeping the garden, the roof, the columns, buying and bringing stores from the village to the house and anything else that required strength. He’d been the one who picked Rose at the village station and brought her over in a small cart pulled by a very flimsy horse, and the task had leaved him extremely tired after.

Rose had asked: “and what sort of man is this Mr Carvalho?”

“Very dashing type, tall, gentle, a wide smile. He came once to inspect the place before buying, and stayed here a few weeks after the business was done to do some housekeeping. I was asked to hire three maids, a gardener and a cook; and Mr Carvalho will hire his servants himself. I expect the gentleman will move here and look for marriage. Finally settle down, as any bachelor should. That would be so exciting. I haven’t held a baby in years,“ Mrs Serra giggled. Mr Franco agreed, “and I hope he might turn the property productive again. On the good days, Copper Peak produced over 6 litres of milk per cow a day, and half of it was turned into cheese. Mr Santos sold all the cattle before moving away. It would be good for the people if there was more work again, yes. The village surely needs it.”

After two months of cleaning, uncovering furniture, polishing forgotten silverware, and fighting against the green and black dots on every wall, Rose was not convinced that Mr Carvalho had made a wise purchase. Where there wasn’t damage on the walls, the flooring or the ceiling were crooked by humidity, and where even those were taken care of, the mould had conquered fiercely. It stained the house like a sickness. The air was always damp, always heavy with the smell of mildew. What did he see in Copper Peak Hall? Why had he chosen to invest in a place so riddled with decay?

And if she couldn’t fight that mess, what would be of her position when the Master of the house arrived? The butler would be her first sign of what was to come.

They finally met when Rose was coming downstairs for lunch, and Mrs Serra was guiding the new arrival throughout the house. The maid stepped to the side, still holding the broom and the bucket close. She had hope to be ignored.

“Ah, yes, and here is Rose. She’s the cleaning maid, recently hired.”

Mrs Serra gently introduced and gestured, presenting the girl as she was a decorated candelabra. Rose made a polite bow, hoping her nervousness was well disguised. The man was still dressed in his travel garments, and those were fine and beautiful, well-made, sober and polite.

“Ah, yes, let me take a look at you, miss Rose.”

Rose lifted her gaze and saw herself reflected into dark hazel eyes that studied her with severity. The man wasn’t elder at all, probably not even thirty, but his sombre expression gave him an older appearance. He reminded Rose of an illustration of a lion she had seen in a book long ago, with his wavy hair and his piercing gaze. His eyes were a bit too small in relation to the rest of his face, but they were deep and well drawn.

“Good morning, sir.”

“This is the butler, Rose, hired by Mr Carvalho. You may address him as Mr Moraes.”

“Tell me, Rose, what do you say of the state of the house?”

Why, why, why did he want to talk to her? She quickly came up with a very polite, very political answer, the best she could muster.

“I can only applaud Mrs Serra in her efforts, sir. The place is very well taken care of. And It’s a pretty house, sir. Very distinguished“

“Yes, for a two century old home, it’s holding itself together. Where do you come from, girl?”

“My previous position was at Rioazul Longhouse, near the city of x, sir.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s a few days of travel away from here.”

“And did you like it there?”

“It was a grand and beautiful manor, I was fortunate to have been there for so long.”

“But not pleasant enough that you didn’t have to search for a new position.”

Rose was overcome by his bluntness and blushed.

“No place is truly pleasant when one is not wanted. They had no use for a fourth maid, and I decided to leave before they took the decision to dismiss me.”

That answer got a smile out of him, though not a pleasant one. Rose didn’t understand why he wanted to know.

“I see. But you are young, aren’t you?”

“I’m twenty, sir.”

“Was that place your first place of employment, then?”

“Ah… Yes.”

“All you knew. Did they teach you properly, would you say?”

“I’m confident in my work, so, yes.”

“I expect that. We don’t know when we might hire other maids, in fact, as the Master will be drawing the funds for renovations.”

A house of that size required at least three maids working together, or else the chores would pile up. Well, if she had wanted a position where she was truly needed, she managed well indeed.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Good.”

They left her with a growing sense of anxiety. As Rose descended the stairs, her thoughts lingered on her conversation with Mr Moraes. The new butler’s demeanour was far more probing than she had expected, hinting that he would not leave her in peace. This was hardly surprising — after all, butlers and housekeepers were typically of a controlling disposition, exactly why they attained their positions. Mrs Serra, being older and more fatigued, displayed little urgency in her duties — she had likely already secured her future should she choose to retire. Thus, she had not troubled Rose during these past two quiet months.

That peace had now come to an end. Rose had never been excellent at the art of keeping her head down and passing unnoticed. But even if she did, it was evident Mr Moraes would not allow her.

As she entered the kitchen, she was greeted by the warm scent of stock and fresh bread. The cook, Ms Silva, was busy chopping vegetables, her thick hands moving deftly. She glanced up and smiled at Rose.

“Grab a plate from the shelf.”

Rose forced a small smile back, trying to shake off the unease that clung to her like the dust she was always sweeping away. She sat at the large communal wooden table in the kitchen, grateful for the break, though her appetite had all but vanished. The employees’ table had space for at least twenty people, denouncing the grandeur of old lost by Copper Peak Farm. Rose couldn’t imagine working in a house that was so crowded.

Ms Silva served her a plate of thick purée and roasted chicken.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Did you meet Mr Moraes yet?”

“He gave you a hard time, didn’t he?” Ms Silva asked, her voice kind and knowing. “He has that haughty way about him. But don’t let him shake you.”

Rose hesitated before answering, stirring her food. “He just… asked plenty of questions right away.”

The cook chuckled softly. “Just assessing you, that’s all. Mr Carvalho will depend on him for everything, he’s probably stressed. He did the same thing with me.”

When Rose was halfway through her meal, another person entered the kitchen. She was a woman about her age, dressed in conservative black, her caramel skin looking somewhat washed out by the dark colour. Her hair was tied back, an apron cinched her waist. Her eyes were cold and tired, as if she had no energy to feel anything besides boredom. She, too, was served a plate, and Ms Silva introduced her.

“This is Mrs Moraes assistant, Gabriela. Gabriela, this is Rose, the cleaning maid.”

“How do you do, Rose?” Gabriela said politely as she took her seat on the opposite end of the table.

“A pleasure to meet you. Welcome to the Hall.”

Gabriela gave a slight nod, her expression remaining inscrutable as she scooped into her food.

“Is the weather always this bleak?”

Rose shook her head.

“Ms Serra said it gets as such during early autumn, like now, and early spring. The sky was bright blue just yesterday.”

“Good. I hate the rain.”

“Me too. Thankfully it will clear in a month, I hope.”

Gabriela studied Rose up and down, her gaze intense for those seconds. Rose didn’t know what to do or say. What was she looking for? Unordinary, unwanted Rose had nothing to offer, and she knew it.

The cook, easing the tension, cleared her throat. “So, Gabriela, what can you tell us about the Master? Everyone is anxious to meet him.”

Gabriela shrugged, dismissive.

“He’s stern, but focused on his work. He relinquishes all the homely duties to Mr Moraes, so he won’t be much of a presence in your lives anyway.”

“But is he the type to throw parties? To have family or friends over? What are we to expect?”

“If he was, he wouldn’t move so far away from the capital. Every so often he will host clients and students. No more than three or four people at a time.”

“What sort of business is he into?” Rose asked.

“Education. He tutors people for important positions.”

“I wouldn’t think it pays that well”, Ms Silva said.

“The right individuals will make substantial payments for someone who can fulfil crucial roles in their homes or enterprises. Finding good help sometimes is quite challenging.”

Rose felt herself warm, uncomfortable with the implications. Mr Carvalho knew what the best looked like. He would not be tricked. Ms Silva interjected, “I must admit, I’m more interested in the Master’s culinary preferences. It’s important to know what he likes to eat—especially if we’re to impress him when he arrives.”

Gabriela’s expression softened for just a moment. “He enjoys simple meals with specific ingredients. Nothing extravagant, but it has to be made by his instructions. Mr Moraes will surely guide you.”

“Good to know,“ the cook replied, smiling. “I’ll make sure to pay attention to every instruction.”

Rose finished her meal, had a small cup of coffee, and reached again for her broom and bucket. As she approached the door to leave, she caught Gabriela’s gaze lingering on her, an unreadable expression on her face.

To Rose’s dismay, Mrs Serra was glad to relinquish most decisions to Mr Moraes as soon as possible. Later that same day, as all the employees gathered for dinner, he announced that woodworkers would arrive in the coming days to begin working on the house, and the service routine would need to accommodate around their hours. He had also hired two assistants to help Ms Silva feed everyone, but no one else to help either Mr Franco or Rose, at least, not yet. And there was so much to do. There was no date for the Master of the house to arrive yet, but by the time he did, Mr Moraes intended to transform the hall into a decent liveable space.

And once more, Rose found herself in his undivided attention. Dark eyes with long eyelashes focused on her like a bored cat would toward anything that was not food.

“Rose, I’ll outline your schedule from now on. Meet me every morning to receive your tasks.”

The employees prayed before supper and then sat together to eat. The meal consisted of vegetables and a rich meat broth with pasta, which was delightful, though Rose only ate the portion she was given. She listened as Mrs Serra gossiped about townsfolk to the butler, while a weary Mr Franco simply nodded in agreement.

Rose and Gabriela sat in front of each other, and the maid assessed the secretary closer now. She seemed younger than she had earlier, rest seemed to restore some colour to her face, but that aloofness lingered. She ate in silence, did not look to the sides or neither lifted her eyes to the maid. There was something about her that reminded Rose of her cousin’s daughter, the one who studied in a catholic boarding school. Ah, yes, the meek complexion, the silent disposition. She probably knew a few psalms by heart, and could quote the bible, mentioning books and versicles.

“Gabriela, could I ask you…”

“I don’t like to talk while I eat, Rose. Maybe later?” Despite not understanding, Rose agreed. Her cheeks got warm with embarrassment.

After dinner, Rose assisted with the dishes and tidied up the kitchen. By the time she finished, the night had deepened, cloaked in darkness. The silence of absent people clung to her chest, haunting. Everyone else had already retreated to rest. The empty corridor bothered her all the way to her room. She walked inside backwards, so she wouldn’t have to see the white silhouette of the bed. If she did, she would burst into tears, and Rose would never be caught like that. She refused.

Next day, she was up at five. The only person who woke before her was Ms Silva to prepare breakfast. Rose had coffee and porridge and moved on up to clean the first floor. Around seven, Mr Moraes found her polishing the handrail of the stairs.

“Rose, do you remember what I said yesterday?”

She stared, baffled.

“Of course, sir.”

His exasperated sigh made her stomach curl.

“And what are you doing?” He gestured as if she were painting the stairs bright pink.

“... I… I am… Well, you hadn’t risen yet, and I figured I should do something in the meanwhile.”

He looked at her and sneered as if she had cussed.

“You are wasting polish on a rail I will probably have torn down by the end of the month. Stop.”

She twisted the rag on her hands.

“Oh.”

“I don’t want you working on anything you weren’t assigned to.”

Her breath faltered. She closed the polish tin, snapping the lid in place.

“I understand, sir.”

“And what time did you wake up?”

“A little before five.”

“What for, pray tell?” He said with perplexed annoyance.

“That’s the time I usually wake up.”

“Did Mrs Serra tell you to?”

“No, sir, that’s just what I’m used to doing.”

“Well, if you keep rising this early, don’t get up. Or do and go read, walk, bathe, whatever you feel like doing it. Just don’t waste your strength and my inventory on unnecessary tasks. Yours is not a thinking job, Rose. You will do as you are told.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

Mr Moraes stood stiff and cold as a statue, reading her expression to grasp what kind of person she was, and Rose knew what kind of sign he was hoping for, but she had never been good at feigning that meekness she saw in Gabriela, or her cousin’s daughter, the other maids and girls. She wanted to curse and make him swallow the can of cleaning product along with the rag.

She looked down. They preferred when she looked to the floor; her cousin, and her husband.

“Now, I need you to clean the footmen quarters. First, remove the dust, open the windows, take all the linens to be washed and change them for fresh ones. Mr Franco will apply new plaster to the walls — and after he leaves each room, you will clean any mess he might have made. Report to me at the end of those tasks. Is that clear?”

“It is,“ she managed to say without hiccups.

The butler still wasn’t done with her.

“People tend to be very loose with their language, Rose. I am not. If I say something, I mean it, and I expect it to be respected. If I fail to make myself clear, I want you to ask me. Don’t run loose. It will not amuse me, and If I find myself annoyed at you often, you will find yourself unneeded at Copper Peak Hall just as you did at your previous employment.”

Bright red, angry and trembling, Rose nodded.

“It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Good. Run along, now.”

Rose throttled off to the kitchens. Her heart thundered with fury and fear, tears of hate escaped her eyes. At the last second, she veered left to reach the women-servant’s apartment, and hurried to her room, where she promptly locked the door. She stomped the floor and pulled her sheets from the bed, sweat ran down her brow as her eyes gazed at the empty cushion, seeing a body that wasn’t there.

Crumbling to the floor, Rose watched her hands tense up against the wood, nails dug on the grain, and veins, tendons, muscles bulged as they pushed the skin. Her nails had been bitten to the pink, sensitive flesh. Callus and cuts marked her fingers. That was her life. There wasn’t anything else waiting out there.

Rose stood in her room for a long moment, let the tide of anger subside into a dull ache. She breathed in deeply, filled her lungs with stale air, then exhaled slowly, releasing the tension with it. In and out, she told herself. Again and again, until the tightness in her chest loosened enough for her to move. Her hands, still trembling, moved automatically to smooth her hair. She tidied her apron, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and turned toward the door.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the faint sound of wind rattling the window panes. The cup of coffee she poured for herself was hot and bitter, the taste sharp on her tongue. She drank it quickly, swallowing the warmth in gulps to light some spark inside that might carry her through the long day.

Then Rose gathered the broom, the duster, the bucket, and mop. She stepped into a part of the Hall that had long been forgotten. There hadn’t been anyone in those rooms in years since the last footmen were let go — Mr Franco lived with his wife in a cottage close to the property. In a normal routine, each servant would take care of their corners, but to break the ancient spell of built-up dust and mould, Rose would have to fight the first battle. She opened the windows, let the cold breeze of morning dew crawl in. The broom moved through, each sweep stirring up clouds. It was like trying to push through water — no matter how much she swept, there was always more circling back around to cling stubbornly to the corners, the walls, the floor. Spiderwebs, thick and tangled, hung from the ceiling, and swayed slightly with the draft. Rose picked at them with the duster, each thread refusing to let go of the wall.

As the morning wore on, the task felt endless. The maid moved from room to room, each one presented its own unique challenge. Some rooms were relatively untouched, just a layer of powder on old furniture and forgotten objects. Others seemed to have been consumed by time — walls streaked with mold, floors covered in grime, windows so thick with dirt that the light struggled to filter through. In one room, she found the hollow silk cocoons of moths on the walls, their delicate forms brittle and lifeless in her hands as she peeled them away. She opened wardrobes and closets, scrubbed at the wooden surfaces with relentless rage. The handles were slick with years of grease and grime, and she wiped them down until they gleamed faintly in the dim light. The windows, once smeared and opaque, were cleared, though they still bore the faint streaks of her effort. There was a sense of satisfaction in the work, though it came slowly, grudgingly, as if the house itself was resisting her attempts to bring it back to life.

It was just after lunchtime when Mr Franco came up with a bucket of freshly mixed plaster to be applied over the damp spots on the walls, and it was around four when Rose came down to eat.

Her stomach growled, and she trembled with hunger and effort. Ms Silva wasn’t around. Rose served herself. She was alone and ate as fast as she could. Her body remembered hunger well enough to forget manners for those few seconds. Bent forward over the table, Rose stared far away, as if she could see the mountains behind the walls, and the caves underneath the soil where ancient rivers had dug tunnels. And in which lived animals and microorganisms that never needed to see the sun. She straightened herself, felt the quiet loneliness of the kitchen gnaw at her. The sounds of clattering dishes, scraping cutlery, and the bustling hum of people working were absent. Only the echo of her heartbeat was in her ears.

If she moved, she might have to go back to work. If she stayed still, she could pretend she had just finished eating for at least an hour. Closed her eyes and let her head rest against the table.

She woke up to Ms Silva as she picked up the plate and placed the coffee cup in its place. Coffee was the only thing that would keep her glued together.

Rose watched the sun set as beams of light painting the wall orange, pink, blue. She scrapped the drops of semi-hardened plaster together as she wiped the powder from sanding. The final mopping was done just as the first bats began to shout their high-pitched cries.

Rose walked to the very last room. She perched herself on the frame of the window, wrapping herself in her apron as if it were a shawl, and pulled a small cigarette of tobacco and tea leaves from her pocket. The damp fog enveloped her, made the flickering light from her lighter feel like the sign of a lighthouse. For a moment, she allowed the sound of the rain to become her sole focus. She had lived in a shared room with Maria most of her adult life, surrounded by three other maidservants, and rarely left the property. How eerie it felt to hear no breaths but her own, even then, after so many weeks.

Maria made her heart ache. She missed her so much.

The day after she turned nineteen, Rose approached Maria for help in changing her position. One night, as the young woman was about to sleep, it struck her that, despite being despised, no one would truly stop her from leaving. If she walked out the door, they might take hours to notice her absence. When they did, it was likely they wouldn’t do anything about it. They wouldn’t send the stable boy after her or call the police. She wasn’t important enough for that.

What she had in the old House of Rioazul was not a true position. She was a maid in name only, defined by her clothes and routine, but maids were paid for their work. They could plan, they could search. What Rose had was servitude. Yet, wasn’t she better at cleaning than most maids? Didn’t she tidy the rooms more thoroughly than Maria? She even did the laundry during the social season and helped in the kitchen when there were parties. She was as much a part of the staff as any of the other girls. But her cousin, the mistress of the house, would never recognize that. As long as Rose stayed under her roof, she would always work for room and board like a beggar—like a dog on a leash.

Maria showed her an ad in the newspaper, helped her send in her application, and even wrote a letter of recommendation. As Rose prepared to flee, Maria gifted her a dress—used, yes, but far better than anything she had ever owned—and a pair of boots. Rose had been wearing the same shoes for five years, ever since her feet had stopped growing.

When the response came, along with the few coins of réis she needed for her journey, Maria packed her a meal and hugged her so tightly that Rose almost cried.

The walk took an hour, leaving her flushed and exhausted. Still, Rose pressed on, fuelled by her anxious spirit. She paid a man driving an ox cart to take her to town, then arranged for another ride to the next town, continuing until she reached the next province a week and a half later. As the days passed, her eagerness morphed into an ache, for she was not one to find peace in such dark, cold loneliness.

“Ah, there you are“ a voice broke through her reverie, startling Rose. She nearly dropped the cigarette she had been holding between her fingers.

Mr Moraes appeared in the doorway, clad in a comfortable smoking jacket, his hair tied back neatly, a single candle lantern in his hand. Rose felt her cheeks flush, the tension in her shoulders almost ache.

“I’m just—“

He smiled and waved his hand dismissively. “Enjoy your smoke, It’s perfectly fine to take a moment for yourself.” He stepped into the room, and the warm glow from his lantern illuminated his face. His eyes, softer now, met hers briefly, and she felt her embarrassment ebb slightly. She offered him a shy smile. He nodded and said:

“The rooms are very well cleaned. The servants will appreciate it.”

Rose blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. A flicker of warmth spread through her chest. “Just doing my work, sir,“ she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“A job well done always deserves praise,“ he said, sitting down next to her by the window. He placed the lantern on the side table of one of the beds, the flame casting a golden halo around the two. “So, allow me.”

“Of course. Thank you,“ Rose managed to answer.

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence hung between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken thoughts. Mr Moraes leaned back slightly, glancing out at the rain pattering softly on the stone pathway the window. “What were you doing?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “Just smoking, lost in thought?”

“I was merely watching the rain.”

“Of course. It’s quite soothing. It makes everything feel fresh and new… even if it’s just for a little while.”

“I suppose so,“ Rose said softly, pulling the cigarette closer to her lips. She took a slow drag, savouring the warmth against the cold air. “I just like to feel its cold against the warmth of my smoke.” A moment of quiet passed before she added, “Ah, have you ever lived in the countryside before, Mr Moraes?”

“No, I’ve spent my entire life in town.”

“When you reside in town, the rain doesn’t bear the same weight as it does out here. Right now, it feels as if I might float away,“ she said, but winced inwardly at her own foolishness.

Rose was taken aback when he sat beside her at the window, producing his own cigar and igniting it with the lantern’s flame. His smoke spiraled upward, merging with the mist.

“I understand. It evokes the sensation of being in a novel,“ Mr. Moraes remarked with a chuckle.

“A novel? What kind of novel?”

“A melancholic one, I would say,“ he mused, exhaling a long puff of smoke. “A tragedy.”

“Oh dear God, I hope not!” Rose gasped, her hand flying to her chest in mock horror. “I haven’t read many such tales, and I’d prefer to spare this house from any ill fortune.”

Mr. Moraes laughed softly. “I devoured plenty of tragedies and mysteries in my youth. There’s often an eerie fog in those narratives, much like this one.” He gestured toward the window, where the mist clung to the glass like a shroud.

“What do you imagine might happen next?”

“I can’t say. I’m uncertain what kind of story this is.”

“Hmmm. I ask myself that as well. Unfortunately, life rarely unfolds as dramatically as fiction.”

“Excitement tends to lose its allure when you’re the one experiencing it.”

Rose drew the blanket tighter around herself. “Indeed. I hope no excitement comes our way.”

“I share that sentiment.” He nodded slowly, though he didn’t elaborate. Rose studied his shoes, too shy to meet his gaze. The velvety slippers denoted refinement and comfort. He probably didn’t come from money, but he built some fortune, however small, along the way.

Rose had smoked only half of her cigarette, but considered that enough, and saved the second half for later inside a candy case she kept in her pocket. Mr Moraes stood after he checked his watch. Rose followed his movement with her eyes, unsure of what to say next. He glanced at the window one last time and then turned back to her.

“It’s about time for supper,“ he said gently. “Shall we?”

Rose hesitated. She had intended to slip in quietly to her room, unnoticed, and maybe skip dinner altogether. It would drag much more attention, though, than if she just followed routine. “Of course, sir,“ she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, and closed the window blinds before following.

Mr Moraes gestured for her to walk out first. This small gesture unsettled her, but she fell into step with him, her heart pounding in her chest. They walked in silence down the hallway and the stairs, turning to the service hall and the kitchens. The distant clatter of dishes and muffled voices from the dining room beckoned them. When they crossed the light, Rose caught as Gabriela’s wide brown eyes turned to them and stared, for many seconds, until Mr Moraes finally left Rose’s side to take the head of the table. Then her gaze darkened, going from her bored expression to a tense glare Rose could easily read as rage.

“Oh, there you are,“ Gabriela said, her tone clipped, to Mr Moraes. She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and made her look… Unhinged. Rose felt a pang of discomfort at the way the butler stopped and glared down at his assistant, echoing her anger. No one else seemed to notice, too busy with their plates and servings and small talk. Discreetly, the butler showed his assistant three raised fingers, counting… Something. And Rose turned away to grab a plate before they realised she had seen it.

The maid felt as if she’d stepped into a narrative she hadn’t chosen to be a part of. Had Gabriela been jealous of her? The mere notion sent a fresh wave of heat to her face. It felt absurd. Why would anyone feel threatened by me? Were they lovers? Rose’s discomfort had reasons: shame as a sensible and modest girl; worry about the possibility that a man like Mr Moraes would abuse his power so; surprise that the stoical Gabriela could hide such a volatile personality; and the concerning idea that the one spiking jealousy had been her, the vulture among songbirds, grim and unwanted Rose.

She felt such an uncomfortable burst of feelings clawing at her throat, and she closed her eyes.

“Is everything all right, Rose?”

They were all sat and served, except for her. All those eyes turned, staring, judging.

“Y-yes, ma’am,“ she mumbled, her cheeks still aflame. “Just a little tired, is all.”

Mr Moraes spoke, and his voice made her skin crawl.

“Rose pushed two days of work in just one, today. I think she can clean the kitchen tomorrow morning, and go to bed early.”

Her stomach twisted at his words, an unsettling mix of frustration and anxiety bubbling within her. “There’s no need, sir.”

“Do as you are told, Rose,“ he instructed, his tone brokering no argument.

“... Yes, sir.” Her voice was barely a whisper, a soft surrender beneath the weight of his gaze. “Thank you.”

The weight of his gaze felt like a heavy cloak draped over her shoulders, suffocating in its insistence. She grabbed a plate, served herself a modest portion of stew, and hoped to avoid any further scrutiny. Yet, as she sat down, she could still feel the weight of Gabriela’s gaze burn into her. All Rose could do was focus on her food, force herself to chew and swallow, to stay grounded.

After only fifteen minutes, Mr Moraes and Gabriela were the first to leave the kitchens, and Rose paid attention to their steps. They reached the creaky door beyond the servant’s wing — beyond each of their rooms — and went on, together, until she couldn’t hear them any more.

By the time she reached her small room, the rain had worsened. She closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it, letting out a breath. Her room felt too small, too enclosed. She picked the linens from the floor, wrapped herself and sat over the bed, trying to understand why she felt so melancholic.

One part was loneliness, and that was easy to recognize as the cold grip on her stomach. There was no one to talk, no one to share her thoughts, to be a reasonable voice to her anxiety. And that anxiety was her truest self already speeding up to calculate all the odds of her getting screwed in that situation. If Gabriela became enraged and used her influence with Mr. Moraes to get Rose fired? She had seen it happen before, at her cousin’s household—one small misstep, a whisper of discontent in the right ear, and a servant’s life could be turned upside down.

She couldn’t afford to lose this job. But it wasn’t just the fear of losing her position that haunted her. There was something else lurking. That tiny little discomfort in her heart… That ache of envy. Rose could never attract the attention of a man like that. It startled her to admit it, even to herself, but it was there—a bitter taste she couldn’t quite swallow. Gabriela had clearly caught the eye of a man of some status and power. The kind of man who Rose might dream for herself if she didn’t know any better. But what did that even mean for her? She wasn’t looking to compete for Mr Moraes’ affections, nor did she want to risk losing her place over something so foolish. Yet, the envy lingered, gnawing at the edges of her mind. Perhaps it wasn’t just about Mr Moraes. It was about being seen, being wanted. About knowing someone noticed her, that she was more than just a shadow moving through the halls.

A burning thrill made her squeeze her thighs together, a wisp of flame ran up her spine. She thought about poetry, then, for poets had been her teachers of life. Only by their words she could even dream to manage the storm that lived inside her heart, day in and out. Orphan, unwanted, ignorant, lonely Rose — who would have taught her to navigate the sea of her sadness? Maria had been wonderful, but she was not inside Rose’s heart to see every pain, every itch, every forbidden wish.

The poets had lived through those feelings just like Rose did. Gonçalves Dias, Almeida Garrett, Fagundes Varella spoke to her sadness and her longing. How she urged to have something to read now to help her understand her desire. Anything to help her ease her pain.

She slept to dreams of corridors and chores. To the shadow of Mr Moraes following her every step. She ran and he followed closely. She pushed the door of her room to lock it, but he kept it open, and walked in after her.

Rose woke up the next day before the sun had risen. Her chest was filled with warm uneasiness. She just wanted to sleep all morning. Instead, she got up, tidied her hair, washed herself briefly. In minutes, she was in the kitchen. She cleaned the dishes for an hour, and imagined all the maids who came before her doing just that. The same dishes, the same sink, day in and out. Many people had lived and died by the same life as she did now. Soon Mr Carvalho would settle in, and she would know her routine for the next years. And maybe she could aspire to become a housekeeper some day. She could find peace in that. She should. What was dusting and wiping for someone who had already dug a grave?

Rose broomed the space and moped the worst stains from the floor. By then Ms Silva had woken as well, and prepared fresh coffee. As the maid sat to drink a warm cup, it was only six in the morning. Mr Moraes words came to her. There were numerous tasks she could start, but the last thing she wanted was to enrage the butler again.

Ms Silva served her toasted bread with ham, and sat to join her in breakfast.

“You are a quiet one, aren’t you, Rose?”

The young woman looked down.

“I suppose I am.”

“The place I worked before had two maids who talked all the time. They seemed like two high society girls, telling all sorts of gossip all day. It was impressive how much they knew about the neighbours.”

Rose felt a small smile tug at her lips as she imagined those girls, their laughter echoing through the halls, their voices as a backdrop to the tedium of daily chores. “It sounds lively.”

“Oh, it was,“ Ms. Silva replied with a chuckle, her eyes sparkling with fondness. “There was never a dull moment, I assure you. They would gossip about everything — who was courting whom, who was in trouble with the law, who was indebted and who could come collecting.”

Rose leaned back slightly, intrigued at what was Mr Silva’s point. “Did you ever join in?”

A soft laugh escaped Ms. Silva’s lips. “Not often. I found that a little distance gave me clarity, but I enjoyed the tales just for the entertainment of it. Sometimes, it got exhausting. All that judgement about people they barely knew… You remind me of those good protestant church maids who preferred to focus on their tasks and their prayers.” Her eyes softened as she regarded Rose. “There’s nothing wrong with that, of course. But please don’t hesitate to share your thoughts. It makes the day go by faster.”

Ah. She would like to talk, Rose realised. With me. Of course, who else would she talk to?

“Ah, I was just thinking about Mr Moraes. What sort of things he will ask today… Yesterday, he scorned me because I did not wait for his instructions. Can you believe it?

“But why, did you do anything wrong?”

“Well, no, but he says he doesn’t want me to work on just anything. That I’m not supposed to take decisions, just do as I am told. In my previous position I had to be doing something, all the time, or I’d be accused of indolence.”

“Huh. As I said so, he looks to be the neurotic type. Likes to know everything that’s happening, where everyone is in, how much money is coming in and out… God help us. At least he doesn’t seem cruel.”

“No, not cruel. At least, not for his own amusement.” Her cousin liked to scold the employees in front of her husband and children. It was how she showed her power. Rose was her favourite target because there was nothing Rose could do. “Still, I hate the feeling of walking on eggshells.”

“That will go away as we know him better, I’m sure.”

“Do you think he might replace Ms. Serra?”

“My bet? I think Mr Carvalho will retire her after he arrives and hire a new housekeeper.”

“And then it might start all over again.”

“Yes. Which is precisely why you can’t focus too much on the uncertainties, you might go crazy worrying about things that might not even come to be.”

It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, though, the maid considered.

“Thank you,“ Rose said softly, taking another sip of her coffee. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

The conversation with Ms. Silva ended in a gentle lull, the older woman giving Rose a knowing smile before rising to begin her day’s tasks. Rose remained seated for a moment. There was something reassuring in Ms. Silva’s practical, grounded approach, yet the uncertainty of her position gnawed at Rose. She finished her bread in silence. The warmth of the coffee soothed her nerves.

Soon Mrs Serra joined them, mumbling about the amount of laundry that needed to be done, and after her, Mr Moraes walked in, dressed in the liveries of his profession, which wasn’t far from what a gentleman would wear to leave his house. He seemed calm and satisfied with the clean kitchen as he sat with his coffee mug, but also very pleased that Rose obediently awaited his words. There was no vestige of his sharp judgement.

He told Rose to spend the day in the butler’s office and the Master’s study, since those would be the ones Mr Moraes himself would use for his work. Rose nodded.

“Yes, sir,“ she murmured, lowering her gaze as Mr Moraes sipped his coffee. Rose swallowed the lump in her throat.

He smiled faintly, his tone measured but pleased.

“Good girl.”

With a brief nod, he dismissed her from the conversation as he turned his attention to Mrs Serra. Rose remained standing for a moment longer, a quiet tension simmering just beneath her skin. Mrs. Silva shot her a brief, sympathetic glance. Rose nodded, grateful for the support, however small it was.

She noticed Gabriela hadn’t come down with the butler, or even at all, and her mind imagined the most sinful scenes. What could a couple do that would keep a lady in bed beyond the proper time? She hugged herself and put her forehead against the cold wall.

Don’t think about it.

The butler’s office was a modest, unassuming chamber adjacent to his room. Rose set to work, determined to transform the space into a pristine haven, as if it had just been constructed. She applied wax to the surfaces, the soft scent of polish mingling with the musty air, replacing the stale odour of old wood and dust. During that time, not even for a moment Mr Moraes walked to his room, for which Rose was thankful.

Next, she turned her attention to the study. That was on the second floor, just before the family chambers. A large walnut desk dominated the space, carved in rough botanical reliefs, and that took most of her time. Rose brushed the felt top, scraped every inch to remove the gray strands of intrusive fibres. An imposing bookshelf lined one wall, now empty of documents — probably taken by the previous owner of the house — and it received the same treatment as the wardrobes from the day before. Soft dusting, a scrub of clean cloth, then waxing.

Rose pulled the curtains back, let in a flood of daylight that brightened the room and transformed the atmosphere from sombre to invigorating. She wiped the glass panes with meticulous care, ensured that the view of the inner yard outside was clear. As she finished, she took a step back, admiring the transformation. The room, now polished and radiant, seemed to breathe easier, and for a moment, so did she.

She hopped downstairs to find her meal. To her surprise, the front doors were opened to the outside patio, which was supposed to be a tranquil space for the household. It was taken by chaos. Beneath the sunlight, men moved to unload carts urgently. The air was thick with the scent of sawdust and fresh-cut timber, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil as the workers moved about. Shouts and laughter punctuated the silence, the once-quiet home now echoing with the sounds of hammers striking nails and the grating of wood against wood. Rose watched from a distance, her heart racing at the sudden influx of life and noise.

They were eight woodworkers in total, plus two men who were responsible for the ox that had pulled the carts of materials. Stacks and stacks of timber took the space and crushed the flowers in the gardens. One of the woodworkers noticed her watching and gave her a nod, a friendly gesture amid the frenzy. Rose offered a tentative smile in return, before she could consider what she would do.

Back in the servants wing, Rose found Ms Silva talking to two young men, her new assistants. They were introduced as Pedro and Jorge, two brothers from the village down the road, a little younger than Rose, both with flushed pale red cheeks and big brown eyes. Ms Silva wrapped her explanation quickly, and then she came to Rose with a plate of rice, beans, vegetables, and chicken. The maid sat down at the edge of the long table, the warm smell waking her famine.

“Are they giving you too much work?” Rose asked.

“Honestly,“ the cook grumbled, shaking his head. “They can barely hold a knife. I’m going to end up regretting this, I swear.”

Rose stifled a laugh. “Just let me know if they chop off a finger. I’d prefer my meals without any blood.”

“Hah! Don’t joke about that, it might just happen!”

Rose bit her cheek, emboldened by her dark curiosity. “Did Gabriela come down yet?”

“I haven’t seen her, no.”

“Did anyone check on her?”

“I imagine Mr Moraes did. I don’t know.”

Rose considered what to do. Should she ask the butler? No, it was best he didn’t know Rose was thinking about his… What should she call Gabriela? His lover? His ward? His mistress? The ambiguity of their relationship made her feel awkward.

“She must feel under the weather.” Rose said. “I was hoping to talk and get to know her, but I guess it can wait.”

“I imagine she will come down for supper, then you will have a chance.”

Before returning to her duties, Rose made her way to the ladies’ servant quarters. She realized she didn’t know which room was Gabriela’s. Her own room was almost the last one in the corridor, and by the entrance door was Ms Silva’s. A mix of anticipation and apprehension fluttered in her chest. She opened the doors, one by one, awaiting to find any of them locked, but none were. No door had baggages inside, or shoes, coats or dressed, the beds weren’t even made with blankets. Gabriela hadn’t yet claimed any of them, and only God knew where she had slept.

“Where are you?” Rose whispered to herself, an eerie chill creeping in her chest.

She knew she shouldn’t interfere; she should let things be. Yet, when Mr. Moraes stopped her at the main staircase—he was descending while she ascended—it felt as though fate was urging her to keep her eyes and ears wide open.

“Rose,“ he said, his tone measured yet commanding. “The renovations will begin today. I want you to ensure the mess stays contained to what’s necessary. Forget about the second and third floors for now—just make sure the first floor remains orderly. The last thing we need is dirt tracking into the dining room.”

“Of course, sir.” She dipped her head, praying her face didn’t betray the rising anxiety coiling within her. As she turned to leave, his voice halted her steps.

“Rose. Were you raised by your mother?” The question caught her off guard, her feet faltering.

“Yes, sir,“ she replied, her voice steady but unsure where this was leading.

“Forgive my impropriety,“ he continued, his gaze heavy, “but did she educate you about the ways of men and women, I wonder?”

A flush of heat crept up her neck, her cheeks burning crimson. “N-no, sir. But a friend taught me.”

“Good. I want you to be careful. Men who don’t belong, men who won’t be staying long, they can be... reckless. Disrespectful. If any of them make you uncomfortable, I expect you to come to me. I’ll handle it.”

Rose blushed, again, so surprised with his gentlemanly attitude towards her. His words, though protective, felt as if they carried an unspoken weight, hanging in the air between them.

“Thank you, sir,“ she whispered, barely able to meet his gaze, which she sensed lingered on her long after she turned. Her steps quickened, but she could feel his watchful eyes trailing her ascent up the stairs.

“Rose.” His voice broke through again, sharp and insistent.

Her heart skipped as her feet stumbled. “Sir?”

“I told you, don’t concern yourself with the second floor.”

“I just need to check if I forgot anything in the Master’s study, sir,“ she replied, her voice tighter than intended.

“Very well. I’ll wait for you then.”

As he spoke, from the opposite corridor Rose was heading toward, a woodworker strode confidently to bring more timbers up the stairs. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, and a small smile tugged at his lips—just enough to make her nervous.

Mr Moraes is looking out for me, Rose told herself, but she wasn’t sure she truly believed it. She paused in front of the study’s door, hand resting on the cold brass handle. The room was as she’d left it earlier, orderly and quiet. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a soft glow on her polishing. She knew there was nothing there that truly required her attention, but it was a convenient excuse. The butler couldn’t know she intended to look for his assistant.

Rose stepped cautiously back into the hallway, her eyes darted left and right. She pushed the door to the first bedroom. It opened, and there was nothing ordinary. She closed it and moved to the next door. Also empty. The last one was the Master’s bedroom.

The door was tightly locked, and didn’t even make a sound. Rose just knew the other woman was on the other side, sleeping on the soft cushions of the rich bed. Later, Mr Moraes would cover her body with his, and kiss her, and love her.

If Gabriela was jealous, Rose was burning up with envy.

Rose ran back before her delay arose any suspicions, and hoped he didn’t notice her cheeks aflame.