At Your Service [Tommy Shelby]

Lizzie

Several hours drifted by, when she stirred from her slumber, roused by an insistend knock on her door. A soft voice tells her she needs to be downstairs in half an hour to get some early breakfast before the working day starts. Surprised she even managed to get some sleep, she peered outside, greeted by the sun's gradual ascent from its nocturnal slumber. It had been ages since she'd risen this early.

After a few minutes of vigorously shaking the remnants of sleep from her head, she found herself delving into the depths of last night's unsettling encounter. Vivian couldn't fathom how long Mr. Shelby had been silently lurking in the shadows, a perplexing enigma that left her with a shiver down her spine. The ambiguity of his presence weighed upon her. Was it an eerie intrusion, or meerily a respectful hestitation that had guided him?

She grappled with her thoughts, torn between the whispers of caution that had been relentlessly imparted to her and the haunting image of Mr. Shelby from the previous evening. They all warned her to tread carefully, to tiptoe on eggshells in his presence, painting him as a man without conscience, unburdened by remorse. Yet, she couldn't shake the memory of how he had gazed upon her with a fleeting trace of sympathy in his eyes. Or perhaps, she mused, it was merely a reflection of her own desperate yearning for a moment of empathy in this desolate world.

Vivian confessed to herself the stark truth – loneliness had become her constant companion, a shadow cast upon her existence. In this unfamiliar realm with its elusive rules, her old demons had found a way to resurface, relentless in their pursuit. She had ventured into this unknown territory alone, and the isolation weighed heavily upon her, now more than ever.

In the meantime she has made it downstairs, her presence welcomed by the morning staff. The fragrant aroma of freshly cooked eggs wafted through the air, and she graciously accepted the steaming plate before settling beside Cathy. A warm smile graced Cathy's lips as she greeted her with a radiant, "Morning sunshine."

"How did you sleep last night?" Vivian's thoughts briefly flitted back to the unsettling night she had experienced, unsure if anyone in the house had noticed her late-night screams or her outside cigarette. But in this moment, she chose to wear a mask, responding with a practiced lie about her night's rest, assuring Cathy that she had slept rather well in this enigmatic place. 

Cathy's eyes twinkled with enthusiasm. "Good! That's good," she chirped, her optimism unfazed. "We've got a long day ahead of us!"

And so, they embarked upon the day's laborious journey. Vivian absorbed the intricacies of her newfound occupation, methodically mastering each chore. The art of bed-making, the meticulous preparations for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, attending to the needs of the discerning guests, and maintaining the impeccable order of the house all became her daily toils. There remained an expanse of knowledge yet to be explored, but she understood that it would unfold step by step.

She came to realize that being a maid transcended mere cleaning; it was a multifaceted role that demanded she be a caretaker, hostess, nanny, waitress, gardener, secretary—all roles but one, that of being treated as a fellow human being. The weight of this revelation pressed upon her.

After the first grueling day, exhaustion not only stemmed from the physical demands but also from the looming awareness of the many roles she was expected to fulfill throughout her tenure. She didn't like the impersonal way of lending your whole self and your daily life to just a couple of wellpaying people who see themselves higher than you. She couldn't be certain if they harbored such sentiments, but the unspoken hierarchies seemed palpable. 

She doesn't mind the cleaning, it's the caring for the people in the house she really doesn't want to be doing. Does having money mean you can't take care of yourself anymore?