Maid for the Millionaire - jewel crotan (good non fiction books to read .txt) 📗

I hope I don’t screw it up.

That single phrase was all that resonated through my head as I walked through the forest path in the twilight hours of a beautiful day in June. Birds were chirping, the wheels on my suitcase were squeaking, my heart was pounding. As a fresh-out-of college 24 year old girl, my worries had changed in the month since I graduated. Instead of fretting about the extra pounds I had put on or that my term paper was five thousand words too short, I was now concerned with finding the money to put food in my mouth and a roof over my head. My degree was in a saturated field, one that required at least a year of unpaid internships to get lucky enough to be considered for a paid position. I was broke. I couldn’t wait that long.

The road I walked down led to the Carawell estate. The family had been famous in my neck of New England for their wealth and for the scandal involving their missing infant son around fifteen years ago. Victor Carawell was something of a legend in the stock broker business, carrying an uncanny streak of investments that led to untold riches. Many would pay quite a price for his dedication and skill in the trade. Some accused him of being a cheat, an insider. Others proclaimed his intelligence and luck to be entirely self-made. I couldn’t tell you which was my opinion; I had never met the guy. To me, he was my future employer. My ticket to building up my savings account. So I could go on to bigger and greater things. That’s right, I had been accepted to be one of Mr. Carawell’s many maids.

I had done a bit of cleaning as a part time job in college for some extra fun money. It was never anything on the scale of serving a multi-millionaire. Thankfully my friend and former classmate James vouched for me, he had been working an apprenticeship in the stables ever since he graduated ahead of me a year ago. The thought that I would have a friendly face to see in this hidden in the woods mansion comforted me. My heart still pounded as I walked.

When I reached the front doors of the mansion it was 6:15. A full quarter-hour after my scheduled arrival time. As I knocked on the door my mind was fully prepared to make one of many understandable excuses for my tardiness. The bus was late, the hike from the main road to the mansion took nearly ten minutes; it was not an easy location to get to. But seconds after I rang the bell a woman appeared in my sights from behind the front door. She looked distinguished: perfectly parted hair, expensive grey sweater, tight black pencil skirt and the highest heels I had ever seen. No words initially, just a careful stare as her eyes darted up and down. I felt like a lion’s prey being scoped out for its next meal.

“April Thompson?”

“Yes Ma’am. I apologize for my lateness, I...”

“No matter. I’ll be your supervisor. You may call me Helen. Come, let’s get you sized up. Let’s hope we finish by dinnertime.”



Helen led me so fast through the mansion I barely had time to register each of the rooms. The echo of her heels set the pace as my eyes darted through each open door I walked by: The majestic entrance hall with grand staircase, the library with books that stretched to the ceiling, the smells and sounds emanating from the kitchen. As we walked Helen gave me a brief history of the mansion. Her voice reminded me of a cross between an overexcited tour guide and a traditional Catholic high school teacher.

“The Carawell Estate formerly belonged to the Elliot family. It was built in 1927 with renovations in 1940, 1977 and most recently in 1995. The last remaining survivor of the Elliot family, George Elliot, squandered away his inheritance and was forced to sell. Our staff could not be happier to be rid of the selfish git. Victor Carawell is a much more proper man to work for. He and his wife treat us very fairly.”

“Will I be meeting him tonight?”

“April, my dear, I should hope not. Mr. Carawell is a very busy man. Our duty is to make sure the drudgery of daily life does not inconvenience his career. Do the hands of the grandfather clock pay mind to the cogs? If you do your job correctly and efficiently, there will be minimal interaction with the master. And in return, he will compensate you accordingly.”

Part of me was a little disappointed. Victor Carawell was something of a recluse, conducting business entirely from home. To have actually met him in person and to have shaken his hand would put me in a very exclusive group of people. Still, the tone and words in which Helen carried struck true. I was the maid, just a small part in the functioning of this household.

“The mansion is divided into two wings, the east and west. The east wing is which where Mr. Carawell conducts his business. Due to his unique skillset, his trade secrets must be protected. As such, entering the east wing without express permission from Mr. Carawell, Mrs. Carawell or myself is grounds for dismissal.” “No entering the east wing, got it.”

“You will be spending much of your day in the west wing, which contains the dining area, kitchens, parlor, master bedrooms, and head staff quarters. Like the east wing, you are not to enter the master bedroom area without express permission from Mr. Carawell or myself. He occasionally would like dinners or late night snacks to be brought there.”

“Where would I be staying?”

“Our destination in this tour. There is an annex next to the stables outside that houses the maids, butlers and cooks. You will have your own bedroom to retire to at night. Technically, you will be on duty at all hours of the day, but we do try our best to make sure the workload is distributed evenly. You are allowed free reign over the annex, which also contains kitchens for your own use and a recreation area. If you feel like you are missing anything, contact me and I will see what I can do.”

At the end of the hallway there was a large wooden door that led to the outside. A small gravel path traveled for about a hundred yards before connecting with a small building that could easily house ten or twenty employees dormitory style. Helen warned me that the door to the mansion would lock automatically, but I would have my own key and should immediately report in the case of loss. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the stables on the side of the mansion. I wondered if James was working in there that very second. Helen and I entered the annex together.

“The annex will be fairly empty at this time of day. I will show you to your room, where you can unpack and settle yourself for the night. I will return with your uniform.”

Only the muffled sounds of hurried footsteps and doors opening echoed throughout the annex as Helen showed me my personal habitat. I don’t know why I expected it to be as lavish as the rest of the mansion, but it had the bare essentials: bed, desk, drawers, closet and my own personal bathroom. Helen went out to grab my uniform from the annex storage. I took the opportunity to appreciate the view of the mansion out the window.

The woods extended far beyond what I could see. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement on one of the upper windows. There was a man, staring out into the distance as he buttoned up his white dress shirt. The paintings that peppered my initial tour match his face exactly. There was no doubt about it, I was looking at Victor Carawell himself.

Even at this distance I felt very small in his presence. Victor’s face was very youthful and boyish for his age; but the way he buttoned his expensive shirt, groomed his jet black hair, held himself filled me with a sense of power. The eyes that stared into the woods were cold and focused, hinting that he was thinking of a million different things at this very second. I could see why he was so good at selling his skills, just one look at him and I was convinced he was a pro.

The eyes of the billionaire snapped from the woods to the annex, straight at my peeping face. No longer holding the million unique thoughts, they instead focused on the strange girl spying his half dressed self. I panicked, practically leaping away from the window. So much for first impressions.

I unpacked the rest of my things, taking careful note not to look out the window again. Helen arrived right before I finished, carrying my uniform in her arms. She urged me to try it on in the bathroom immediately. There, standing on the cool stone stiles, I modeled for myself. It was a puffy little outfit: frilly lace skirt and a black bodice complete with cute little pink bows lining the hem. It looked and felt distinguished, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling I wouldn’t be out of place in a maid-centric porno. I wasn’t bothered; fancy clothes like these were a rarity and they showed off my curves rather well. I could get used to this.

“How does it feel dear?” Helen questioned through the bathroom door.

“It’s a little tight up front.”

Wrinkles spread across her face as she scowled.

“It used to be mine.”

Oops.

“I’ll see if I can get it adjusted later. I’ll leave you to your things, we start tomorrow morning at 5am sharp.”

Maybe I should have said nothing at all.



Mr. Carawell and I never crossed paths the entire week. Instead, I found myself in the empty rooms, trying my best to stay in the shadows while I cleaned. Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of Mr. Carawell or his wife walking from one room to the next; often with a whole cabinet of servants following them. These casual glances only fed my curiosity; I had never held a job before where I never met my boss. I wanted to greet him, get to know him, understand him. But he was untouchable, always with Mrs. Carawell or an assistant. What made it worse was the fact that aside from that first night through the annex window, he had never even glanced in my direction. I was a shadow in his mansion. 

 During my off hours I would often go down to the stable to talk with James as he tended to the horses. We would catch up on each other’s days, kick back and relax with some beer to unwind from the fancy environment. I tried my best