Price of Freedom

It took three days to arrive at the station by way of carriage. Three days for you to swim endlessly in the pool of your own thoughts, pondering again and again when exactly everything started to fall apart. A week ago, a letter arrived at the estate. It was folded neatly in a black envelope lined with gold ink and sealed with the wax stamp of the Duke, the rearing head of a golden lion. For the past ten years, you had done your job perfectly. You had worked tirelessly through grueling hours of hard labor scrubbing at the Lady’s dresses until your hands came away red and endured countless lashes of verbal abuse just for a single letter to send you straight to the pit of hell. 

You gripped the suitcase tightly in your hands as you stood at the entrance to the railroad station. The front parlor was buzzing with chatter. Noble ladies with their hairs bound in tight coils high above their heads, decorated lavishly with feathered hats and equally gaudy dresses. Businessmen with perfectly tailored suits and the latest trend of polished leather boots, representing their distinct houses with jeweled tie pins and gold accents. You tried not to look down at your own considerately more modest dress and blouse. The outfit was an offering from the Marquise that owned the estate you served. It was a mockery of your self and you suddenly felt the urge to rip it to shreds. Your gloved fingers gripped the handle of the suitcase even tighter as you forced a long breath of air through your nose.

“Will you be alright by yourself, Miss?” You turned around and flashed a strained smile at the coach driver. He was a middle-aged man with a full beard who you have seen once or twice around the estate, often when he was scolding the socks off a poor stable boy. 

“I can handle myself from here, thank you.” He shrugged as if to say ‘suit yourself’ before giving the reins a good flick and rolled away. You returned your attention to the tall stone archway and willed your feet to move. 

The man at the ticket window hardly glanced your way, his nimble fingers flying over the harsh keys of the typewriter. “Ticket and registration.” You pulled out a piece of paper and the black letter from the front pocket of the suitcase. The letter had included your identification papers with an updated photograph and a one-way train ticket to the capital. The feel of the paper was completely different in comparison to the forged one you obtained through a backstreet dealer that was used to get a job in the countryside. The man stamped the ticket and you hefted your suitcase over to wait on the platform. The crowd had naturally congregated into groups that drew a distinct line between those of different classes. It was easy to make out the ladies with their entourage of maids and guards along with the common girls and boys who wore simple, efficient clothing. 

You stood apart from the others as you waited. The train could be spotted a mile away as it rattled to a stop in front of you, a plume of exhaust billowing from its head. The doors opened and you waited for the passengers to get off before boarding. The inside cabin was relatively simple in design with red cushioned seats and large curtained windows. You found a space for the suitcase and took a seat near the door. Two girls took the seats facing you but kept to themselves, much to your appreciation. The train left the station behind with a loud toot of its horn and suddenly, a wave of anxiety began to build up in your chest. It was a delayed feeling, you realized, but the more you watched the scenery flash by in a blurred array of colors, the heavier the rock in your chest felt. Without even looking, you could feel the weight of the letter in the pocket of the suitcase, burning a hole big enough to swallow you up. 

It’s been ten years since you've been to the capital and it’s been ten years since you last saw the Duke. All you could remember of that time were cold gray eyes and a mouthful of vile words. You gripped the fabric of your skirts as memories of that time resurfaced. The train ride took thirteen hours before pulling into the station at the capital. You were reluctant to get off but eventually had to. The weight of the suitcase felt even heavier now that you've arrived. 

When you stepped out onto the cobblestone streets, a well-dressed man was waiting next to an extravagant carriage. He bowed with a hand over his heart and greeted you with an even voice. “Miss, the Duke has provided you with this carriage. We will depart for his estate at once.” You sighed and accepted his hand to climb the steps. The interior was comfortable but the blatant display of wealth only added to the tension already present. 

The Duke lived in a grand estate surrounded by vast lands and beautiful gardens, second only to the imperial palace. We arrived at the main entrance and you forced your back to straighten. It may have been ten years already but nothing has changed. I am still an outsider and I still do not belong, you hardened your resolve, however this time, I will not beg. The butler led you through the halls and we stopped in front of a large set of doors. The emblem of the Duke was elegantly carved into the wood, a menacing display of power and authority. The butler knocked and a voice on the other side permitted us to enter. 

You stopped in the middle of the room and appraised the man who sat behind the desk in front of me. He wore a fitted navy suit with gold embellishments that perfectly complimented his dark hair and stormy gray eyes. You had felt numerous different emotions of fear and anxiety on the way here but now that you see his face, all you could feel was anger. An unrelenting fire that had fueled the embers of your heart. He did not acknowledge your presence for the first five minutes and you waited in the silence without wavering. Then, he set down his pen with a resounding clack and folded his hands under his chin. You stared into those hateful dull eyes and clenched one fist at your side. 

“It has been a long time, don’t you think?” He said. 

“What is it that you want, my lord?” His eyes narrowed just slightly and you savored his annoyance like candy on the tip of the tongue. 

“I have let you run around for far too long. It is time for you to come back and inherit the house.” There was ice in his voice. “And you will address me properly, daughter.” 

You nearly laughed out loud. “My lord, let’s not forget the circumstances in which I left in the first place and who it was that kicked me out. I distinctly remember a vast number of vile names called at my back as I took only the clothes I was wearing and a small sack of coins.” He slammed a hand down on the table and the sound echoed through the room, but you were not intimidated. “You were the one who wanted nothing to do with the illegitimate child of a prostitute. I was a mistake to you, my lord. A dark stain on your reputation that you tried so desperately to scrub off that you failed to see just how much of a monster it had turned you into.” 

“You devil!” This time, you did laugh. It brought you great joy to see his composure start to fray at the seams. 

“I heard about your son.” He could not hide the flinch. “What a tragedy. A carriage accident, was it?” 

“You will not speak of him. He is gone now and the responsibility of running this house is in your hands. You will follow exactly what I tell you to do. You will learn etiquette befitting that of a noble lady, not some wretched street rat.” The humor completely faded from your face and was replaced with shards of undiluted anger. 

“My lord,” You spat out the title as if it were poison, “there is no part of your inheritance that I want under my name. Your daughter has been dead much longer than your son and the way you are desperately clinging on to me to save your pitiful excuse of a house only goes to show how pathetic you look in my eyes.” His anger was clearly visible on his face now while yours burned slowly behind your eyes. 

Then he smirked. “No matter if you try to wear pretty clothes, you still are just a smidge of a dirty peasant. Pretty packaging is useless if the contents of the box are but a rotten apple. A street rat will always be a street rat.” The corners of your mouth twitched and you stepped forward to meet his gaze evenly. 

“Ah but my lord, do you know one thing a rotten apple is good for?” You leaned in to align your mouth with his ear. “It can poison anyone who dares to take a bite.” With a sweep of your heavy skirts, you turned and walked away with the sound of his fury following you out. 

You stood at the side of the road with the suitcase by your side and heaved a long breath. Twenty years of oppression with the fear of his fist and it all ended in mere moments. You couldn’t help the grin that sprouted on your face as you laughed into the sky. Twenty years and you never felt more alive than at this very moment. No one has the right to tell us our worth. No one has the right to put a price on our values based on who we were born to or where we grew up. 

We are not our mothers and fathers. you picked up the suitcase and left the estate behind. We are who we make ourselves to be. And from this moment on, I am finally free.