Part 1:
The mansion doors groaned open with a quiet, ancient sound. Jenny stepped inside, her new boots muffled by the velvet carpet. The air smelled faintly of rose oil, aged wood, and something colder like secrets left too long in a locked room.
The ceiling arched high above her like a cathedral, yet she had never felt smaller.
Portraits lined the hallway, men and women of fine blood, noble bearing, and stony faces. They stared down at her as though they could smell her unworthiness, their gilded frames gleaming like quiet accusations.
Behind her, the footsteps of the woman echoed softly. The mistress.
She hadn't given her name. She hadn't needed to.
Her presence filled the air like expensive perfume, overpowering, inescapable.
Jenny didn't dare look back.
"Your room is this way," a servant mumbled, leading her up the grand staircase. Jenny followed, clutching her small bundle tighter, like a child dragged through a stranger's house.
Each step away from the entrance felt like sinking deeper into something permanent. Irrevocable.
Part 2: The Room of the Forgotten
The room they gave her was beautiful.
Canopy bed. Carved mirror. A small fireplace that crackled warmly.
But it was empty. And far too quiet.
She sat at the edge of the bed, running her fingers along the bedsheets, too fine to be comforting. In the mirror, she barely recognised herself. Pale, tired, too young to wear the title of wife.
Somewhere down the corridor, she heard a woman laugh.
Not just any laugh.
Her laugh.
The mistress.
It was light. Familiar. Possessive.
Jenny flinched.
It was only then that the tears came, silent, steady, shameful.
She wiped them quickly. She didn't want to cry here. Not in this room. Not in this house.
But the truth of her reality had weight.
She was no longer a girl in her aunt's home, but she still wasn't free.
She was a bride with no wedding. A wife with no husband. A stranger in a house that already belonged to someone else.
Part 3: A Place at the Table, Yet Not a Seat
Dinner was a quiet performance.
The long table was set with silver cutlery and candlelight, but only three chairs were occupied.
The earl sat at the head. Jenny at his right.
The woman, the mistress, sat at his left.
She poured him wine. She laughed softly at something he said. Her hand brushed his shoulder too easily.
Jenny didn't eat. Her throat was too tight.
No one addressed her. Not even him.
She had been invited, dressed, and placed, but not welcomed.
Her presence was tolerated. Her silence was expected.
The woman glanced at her now and then with a triumphant curve to her lips, as though this were a game already won.
And Jenny?
She said nothing.
Because what do you say when you've been gifted into a war you never asked to fight?