Chapter 4: Lily Among the Whitmores

The day I entered the Whitmore estate, I saw Mrs. Whitmore feeding koi by the garden pond.

She wore a wide-brimmed hat. Her posture was regal, even in the Georgia heat. The koi darted beneath the lily pads, their colors bright against the green water. She didn’t look up as I approached, her focus on the fish.

She didn’t even look at me, just said, "The lilies are blooming well today. Let’s call you Lily."

Her voice was cool, her words final. I nodded, unsure whether to thank her. The other maids watched from the shadows, their whispers carrying through the garden.

And so, I went from being a boat girl on the Georgia coast to a lily in the Whitmore pond.

My old life faded like a dream. I learned to walk quietly, keep my head down, answer when called. That was just how things went.

I spent five years in the Whitmore household and rarely saw Mr. Whitmore.

His days were filled with meetings and business trips. His presence was felt more than seen. The staff spoke of him in hushed tones, their stories painting him as both hero and mystery.

Only when he came to greet Mrs. Whitmore each day did I catch a glimpse of him.

He’d pause by the garden, his voice low and respectful. Sometimes he’d glance my way, his eyes distant. I never dared to meet his gaze for long.

There were plenty of staff at the estate, and even if I saw him, there was little chance to talk.

The house was always bustling—cooks in the kitchen, gardeners outside, maids flitting from room to room. I melted into the background. Invisible unless needed.

When he looked at me, it was as if he had no memory of the past, as if he’d already forgotten saving me.

Sometimes I wondered if he even recognized me at all. Maybe I was just another face among many, a ghost from a life he’d left behind.

Mr. Whitmore was born into old money and had striking looks, often the topic of gossip among the maids.

They’d gather in the laundry room, trading stories about his latest suit or the way he smiled at the guests. "Did you see the tie he wore yesterday?" one would whisper. "He smiled at Mrs. Harper like she was the only person in the room," another would sigh. It was always some new detail, some secret hope.

They all dreamed that one day they might become his wife.

They’d practice their curtsies, imagine chance encounters in the rose garden, whispering about what they’d name their children. The fantasy kept them warm on lonely nights.

Except for me.

I knew my place.

I kept my dreams small, my hopes tucked away like old letters in a drawer. The world had already taught me not to expect much.

Mr. Whitmore had four personal maids, all pretty and clever.

They wore crisp uniforms, their hair always neat, their manners perfect. They knew how to make him laugh, how to anticipate his needs before he spoke.

As for me, not only was I plain, but my feet were ugly.

I hid them in thick stockings, but the other girls noticed anyway. They’d snicker behind my back, their words sharp as oyster shells.

Growing up on a boat, always barefoot, gripping the deck during storms—my toes had become longer and more curved than most people’s. The other maids teased me, saying I didn’t have people feet, but monkey paws.

They’d leave bananas in my shoes, giggling as I blushed and hurried away. I learned to laugh it off, but the sting lingered.

Even if Mr. Whitmore wanted a dozen wives, my turn would never come.

I accepted it, made peace with it. Some girls were born to be seen, others to serve. That’s just how it was.