Ah, I found myself in such a plight, I tell you—I became a slave in my husband’s household.
In a remote village near York, where the wind carries the scent of freshly cut hay, my life, which began with love, turned into unbearable servitude. My name is Eleanor, and I am eight-and-twenty. Three years past, I married William. I thought I had found a family, but instead, I became a modern-day Cinderella—a maid to my husband, his parents, and all their kin. My soul cries out in despair, and I know not how to escape this snare.
**A Love That Blinded Me**
When first I met William, I was five-and-twenty. He was from a neighboring village—tall, with a kind smile and warm eyes. We met at the county fair, and his simple ways won me over. He spoke of family, of children, of life in the countryside where all stand together. I, a city girl, longed for such comfort. A year later, we wed, and I moved to his village. Little did I know that step would seal my fate.
William lived with his parents, Margaret and John, in a large house. His elder brother and family, along with a host of relations, were ever coming and going. I thought I would become part of their lives, a member of this great family. But from the first day, I knew better—they wanted not love from me, but labor. “You’re young and strong, so you must take on the work,” said my mother-in-law, and foolishly, I nodded, not grasping what I had agreed to.
**Servitude, Not Family**
My days became an endless cycle of chores. I rose at dawn to cook breakfast for the household—Father preferred porridge, Mother fancied eggs, and William liked his toast and jam. Then came the sweeping of the vast house, the washing, the garden. By noon, relatives arrived, and I must prepare dinner for a crowd—roast beef, potatoes, gravy, and pudding. By evening, supper, then dishes, and at last I collapsed, spent. So it went, day after day, without rest, without reprieve.
Mother commanded like a sergeant: “Eleanor, you’ve not peeled the potatoes right. Eleanor, the floors are poorly scrubbed.” Father spoke little, but his eyes said, “You are nothing here.” William’s kin, when they visited, scarcely greeted me—they sat at table and waited to be served. My husband, instead of defending me, only said, “Love, don’t cross Mother—she knows best.” His indifference cut like a knife. I thought he would be my shield, yet he became part of the very yoke that bound me.
**The Breaking Point**
Not long ago, I could bear no more. When Margaret once again scorned my soup, and the family left a mountain of dirty plates, I cried out, “I am not your servant! I am a person too!” All fell silent, and Mother coldly replied, “If it displeases you, go back to your city. You’ve grown too used to being waited on.” William said nothing, and that broke me. I fled to the yard, weeping, and knew then—I was trapped. I had nowhere to go—no home in the city, and my own mother far away. Yet to stay was to lose myself entirely.
I began to see the toll it had taken. Once lively and cared-for, now I looked weary, my eyes dull. My friend Lucy, seeing me, gasped, “Eleanor, you’ve grown old! Flee from this place!” But how could I flee when I still loved William? Or did I? His silence, his passiveness, had killed the love I once bore him. I feel myself drowning, and no hand reaches to pull me up.
**A Secret Plan**
I have begun to dream of escape. In secret, I set aside coins—small sums saved from the household allowance. I hope to gather enough for lodging in the city and leave this nightmare behind. But fear grips me—what would my mother say, she who rejoiced at my marriage? What of William? Could I manage alone? And worse, I dread Margaret and the rest would drag my name through the mud before the whole village. Their power here is absolute.
Yet yesterday, as I stood at the stove enduring fresh complaints, I made myself a vow: I will break free. I am no Cinderella, no bondsmaid. I am young, I have strength, and I shall find a way. Perhaps I might work from home, as Lucy does, or return to my old dream of tending flowers. But I will not remain where my life is naught but pots and others’ orders.
**A Cry for Freedom**
This tale is my plea for deliverance. I fell into misfortune by wedding a man whose family sees me as mere labor. Margaret, John, the whole brood—they believe I must serve them. But I cannot endure it. William, whom I cherished, has become part of this tyranny, and it tears my heart asunder. I know not how to leave, yet I must. At eight-and-twenty, I wish to live, not merely survive. Let my flight be my salvation—or my ruin.
