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Avice Gladstone sat at the window seat of her bedchamber, staring out of the tall window at the treeline not far from the manor. Her long, dark curls spilled down her back instead of being piled up in their usual style. The sunlight spilled over her pale skin and simple but elegant dark blue dress, making her look like she was in a painting.
There was a professional knock on her bedchamber door, “Miss Gladstone? Your father needs you downstairs, to meet your new maid.” One of the servants.
Avice stood and answered the door. She gave the middle-aged servant woman at the door a small, polite smile, “I’m on my way.” The woman dipped her head respectfully and left. Avice didn’t want to go downstairs, especially to meet someone new. But she went anyway. Her former lady’s maid, Margeret, had quit after an argument with Avice’s mother. About what, Avice didn’t know.
As Avice descended the elaborate staircase that was the centerpiece of the manor, she stopped on the second to last step when she finally glanced up. Standing next to her mother, near the main doors, was the most striking woman she had ever seen.
Her dress was simple like Avice’s, but in a much more practical style and with muted colors. She was slim, and a few inches taller than Avice. Her fair skin was dotted with many freckles, and her shoulder-length, red-orange hair, a shade Avice had never seen before, was pulled back with a white handkerchief. Avice couldn’t see the color of her round eyes, but she wanted to. There was a faint pink color to the woman’s cheeks, and Avice couldn’t quite tell if it was from cosmetics or the bright sun.
“Avice,” her mother almost snapped, “Come on down. Don’t be rude.” Avice mentally shook herself, descending the last couple of steps and walking over to her mother and the woman. Her mother smiled, “Avice, this is your maid, Ann Sydney.” Avice glanced at Ann, who was smiling at her. Avice smiled back, though she was sure it wasn’t the most beautiful one she had ever given. She was too shaken.
Ann dipped her head, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, m’lady.” Her lilting accent Avice recognized as Irish.
Avice’s mother interrupted before Avice could speak, again directing her speech to Avice, “You need to start preparing for the Paxtons’ ball tonight. Ann will help you.” Avice dipped her head to her mother, strangely no longer regretting having to stuff herself into another fancy dress.
Avice went straight to her bathchamber when she and Ann arrived in her rooms. She began undressing. Ann knocked on the door, “Do you need help, m’lady?”
“No, I’m okay.” She had never let Margret help her undress or dress either. The only item of clothing she asked for assistance with were the fancy ball gowns her mother insisted on shoving her into. Avice called back, “I’ll need your help with the ball gown, though.”
“Yes, m’lady,” She heard Ann’s retreating footsteps as she went over to the intricate wardrobe on the right wall and pulled out some soft underclothes. She donned them quickly, hearing Ann approach. Avice opened the door, letting Ann enter. Ann was still smiling as she held Avice’s bulky gown.
After way too long, in Avice’s opinion, she questioned Ann as she laced up the corset, “I recognize your accent. Are you Irish?”
Ann smiled, casually constricting Avice’s breath and blood flow, “Yes, m’lady. I lived there until I was eleven. My mother was born and raised in Ireland and my father’s an English businessman. That’s why we moved back to London.” The faint blush appeared back on her cheeks, “I’m sorry, m’lady. I’m talking too much.”
Avice found herself smiling, “Nonsense. You have a lovely voice.”
Ann tied the strings of the corset, looking away timidly, “Thank you, m’lady.”
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