Chapter 2
The grand corridor leading into the dining hall was lined with cream marble columns, the air significantly cooler here than in the crowded, festive room beyond the heavy mahogany doors. Nell stood in the shadows of the archway, her heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against her ribs. She balanced the silver serving tray, her knuckles turning white.
"Nell, what are you doing?" hissed Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, grabbing her arm near the serving station. "Look at your apron! It’s completely rumpled. Miss Vane will have you thrown out into the snow."
"I... I tried to iron it, Mrs. Gable," Nell whispered, her voice cracking, a fresh tear escaping her puffy eyes. "My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I can't stop seeing Rosa."
"I know, child, I know," Mrs. Gable replied, her tone softening with profound pity. "But you have to hold it together. Just serve the drinks and get back to the kitchens. Do not look at the fiancée. Just keep your head down."
"I don't think I can do this," Nell sobbed quietly, clutching the edges of her silver serving tray. "It’s Christmas Eve. Rosa was supposed to be here."
Rosa, the previous housekeeper, had died just weeks ago. Celia had claimed it was a sudden heart attack, but Nell knew the horrifying truth. Celia had forced Rosa to test a poisoned gift intended for a rival. Rosa had died in agony, and Celia had concealed the circumstances from Rowan, bullying Nell into silence and forcing her to take Rosa's place as the 'taster'.
"You have to survive tonight, Nell," the older woman pleaded, giving her a gentle push. "For your own sake. Now go."
Nell took a shuddering breath, forcing her trembling legs to move forward. She navigated the narrow spaces between the velvet dining chairs, her eyes fixed firmly on the polished wood of the banquet table. She could feel the heat radiating from the towering Christmas tree, the gold ornaments flashing in the warm light, mocking the absolute darkness in her heart.
"More champagne over here, sweetheart," a capo slurred, snapping his fingers at Nell as she passed his chair.
"In just a moment, sir," Nell replied, her American accent thick with unshed tears, not breaking her stride.
She reached the head of the table. Celia was laughing musically at something a politician had said, her champagne gown shimmering. Rowan sat silently, his broad shoulders squared, observing the room with cold detachment.
Nell stepped into the immediate, bright circle of the head table. With trembling, careful fingers, she lowered the heavy silver serving tray onto the carved walnut sideboard situated directly beside Rowan. The metal clinked softly against the wood.
Rowan turned his head, his dark eyes taking in the housemaid’s disheveled appearance. He noticed the askew headband, the creased dress, and the utter devastation carved into her delicate features.
"Nell," Rowan said, his deep voice unexpectedly gentle. "You should not be working tonight. You should be resting."
Before Nell could answer, Celia turned her attention toward the sideboard. Her polished smile widened into something cruel and sharp as she looked at the broken maid.
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"Nonsense, Rowan," Celia interjected smoothly. "Work is the best distraction for grief. Isn't that right, Nell?"
Nell kept her head bowed, unable to meet the woman's eyes. "Yes, Miss Vane," she whispered into the tense air.
