Chapter 3
Linnea had been chosen deliberately.
That took longer to uncover.
Rosamund claimed she picked whichever maid happened to serve the champagne table.
Linnea laughed.
First sound from her that was not fear.
It had no humor in it.
“You asked for me by name.”
Rosamund froze.
Good.
“Why her?”
My father answered.
“Because she knows your rules.”
That made me look at Linnea differently.
She had worked in our household for eight years.
Started at eighteen.
Quiet.
Efficient.
Never social.
I knew her name because I required senior household staff to know everyone’s name.
Apparently she knew mine for another reason.
Three years earlier, Benedict visited while I was away.
He ordered a young waiter to kneel after dropping wine.
Linnea intervened.
Not dramatically.
She simply said:
“Mr. Cillian ended that rule.”
My father never forgot.
Neither did the staff.
Linnea had become an unofficial example.
If the old patriarch could make her submit publicly despite my rule, everyone would understand which Westcott still mattered.
It was not only a test of me.
It was a challenge to my authority through the person who had once invoked it.
I looked at Benedict.
“You paid ten thousand to make a maid crawl because she quoted me three years ago.”
“She challenged me.”
“She reminded you of a rule in a house I control.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Exactly.”
There it was.
Father and son.
Not servant discipline.
Territory.
Linnea had simply stood in the wrong place between two generations.
I hated that more than if Benedict had disliked her personally.
Personal cruelty can sometimes be explained.
Institutional cruelty is cleaner.
More repeatable.
Rosamund whispered:
“Your father said nobody would actually hurt her.”
Linnea looked at the champagne soaking her collar.
I did too.
Rosamund understood.
“Poor choice of words,” she muttered.
“No.”
May you like
I stood.
“Poor choice of values.”
