“I’m not marrying that broke-ass law clerk! I’ve already given my heart to someone else!”
That was the 107th time Miss Vivian Hart screamed out the window today.
Tears, snot, drama—the full damn show.
I stood nearby, munching sunflower seeds like I was front row at the opera, silently applauding the power of love—or at least, the sheer volume of this meltdown.
Honestly, I didn’t expect women in this dusty old century to have this much backbone. Girl was ready to throw herself out the window in a corset.
Last month, I woke up not in my shitty studio apartment in Queens, but in a goddamn firewood shed out back of the Hart estate in upstate New York.
Some poor girl knelt beside me, big eyes full of pity. “Daphne, are you feeling better?”
Daphne…
Yeah, I guess that’s me now. Daphne Hart. What a name. Sounds like someone who dies of tuberculosis in chapter five.
I used to be a project manager stuck in corporate hell. Now? I’m a freaking maid in a railroad baron’s mansion. Different timeline, same shit job. Love that for me.
So much for rewriting history. This body’s original owner must’ve kicked the bucket from overwork or undercooked porridge, leaving me stuck scrubbing floors and dodging noble tantrums.
And here I am. Again.
The dramatic mess by the window? That’s my “employer,” Miss Vivian Hart. Only daughter of Mr. Henry Hart, one of the richest men this side of the Hudson.
And yeah, with a name like “Vivian,” she was always gonna be the leading lady in her own delusional romance novel.
Her latest tantrum? She found out her fiancé was still planning to marry her… despite being flat broke.
She’d assumed his poverty would scare him off. Instead, the guy had the audacity to take their engagement seriously. Unbelievable.
Vivian’s manipulative as hell—she cries with the grace of a swan and schemes like a Wall Street shark. Honestly, if that law clerk marries her, it’ll be the death of him. Literally.
Everyone in the estate knows Vivian’s a spoiled menace. Words like “tyrant” and “hellspawn” don’t even begin to cover it.
She especially enjoys tormenting other women—maids, mostly. The previous Daphne, the one whose body I now inhabit, probably died from a stress-induced aneurysm thanks to her.
As a 21st-century feminist temporarily stuck in 1860-something, I figured I had two options: fight back or stay outta her way.
I chose the latter. Self-preservation, baby.
So every day, I watch this girl stage her suicidal love saga just to get out of an engagement, and every day, I thank the gods I’m not her.
Thomas Dalton, the poor bastard she’s engaged to, is apparently one of those bookworm types—read every damn legal volume in the state library by the age of eight. He’s broke, but brainy.
If this was a fair world, he’d go on to become a state senator or some hotshot judge. But if he ends up married to Vivian? He better start writing his will now.
Meanwhile, us servants? We’re living for the drama.
Can’t wait to see if Mr. Henry Hart chooses family reputation or his daughter’s batshit antics.
Vivian finally wore herself out, slumped dramatically into a velvet chair, sniffling like she just got rejected from Harvard.
I was still cracking seeds on the porch steps when Mr. Hart came creeping up behind me like Nosferatu.
“Ahem. Daphne, come here,” he said in that smooth-as-snake-oil voice.
Bad vibes. Real bad vibes.
He gave me that look—half pity, half calculating—and said, “Daphne, we took you in when you were just a stray kid with nowhere to go. Maybe it’s time you repaid that kindness?”
Sir. I may be a maid, but I’m not blind. You got a whole daughter throwing tantrums, and now you’re eyeballing me like I’m the backup plan?
Turns out I was wrong—it wasn’t creepy like that.
No, Mr. Hart wanted me to marry Thomas Dalton. In Vivian’s place.
Excuse me?
We’re doing the ol’ switcheroo now? Is this a Victorian soap opera or a goddamn fever dream?
Mrs. Margaret Hart popped in too, all sweetness and fake concern. “Daphne, sweetheart, Thomas may not be wealthy, but he’s a respectable young man with a bright future. You wouldn’t be a servant anymore—you’d be a wife.”
“A wife!” she said, like it was a prize on Wheel of Fortune.
Lady, you want me to take your daughter’s place in a marriage she doesn’t want, to a man who has no idea I exist, and I’m supposed to be grateful?
Ma’am, that’s not tea—that’s straight-up poison. And you want me to drink it with a smile?
Of course I said yes.
Anything to get the hell away from Miss Vivian Hart and her daily Broadway tragedies. I wasn’t about to die a second time just to be her emotional punching bag.
Back in my old life, I was just a single office drone who couldn’t even survive a blind date without someone asking how many bedrooms I owned. Love? Please. More like a mortgage interview.
And now here I was—getting married. In a damn corset. To a broke stranger with nothing but a law degree and the promise of moral integrity. Cute.
The Hart family didn’t half-ass it either. They sent me off in the full bridal package—horse-drawn carriage, flower girls, a dozen women singing out of key. Looked fancy as hell from the outside.
Too bad all that “dowry” behind the carriage? Just sacks of barley and chopped firewood. Flashy wrapping, cheap core. Story of my life.
They decked me out in some local “jewelry”—a mess of wooden beads, fake silver, and wildflowers glued to a hair comb. I looked like a county fair piñata with a bridal veil.
I was bouncing around so much in that damn wagon, I nearly tossed my guts out before we even got to the Dalton place.
But I’ll give them this—Thomas Dalton’s family may have been dirt poor, but they cleaned the place up. Fresh water sprinkled over the dust yard, a few clay pots with lilacs tied in red ribbon outside the door like it was prom night.
Then night fell. My “husband” finally walked into our candlelit room.
There he was. Thomas.
He walked up, voice soft as a summer breeze. “Darlin’.”
Oh, hell yeah. This is it.
Rip the damn veil off already, I’m dying here.
He lifted it. Slow. Like, funeral slow. Like, “I’m peeling an onion I’m scared of” slow. And then?
He froze.
“…Who the hell are you?”
There it was.
Thomas looked exactly how I expected—pale, lean, decent face, real bookworm vibe. Even mad, he looked like someone who’d apologize if he bumped into a chair.
I yanked the veil off, stood up, stretched my aching back like I was clocking out of a ten-hour shift.
“Name’s Daphne Hart. I used to be a maid at the Hart estate. Miss Vivian ran off with William Walker, and now I’m the replacement bride. Congrats to us, huh?”
I plopped into the nearest chair like I paid rent on it and started shoveling dried figs into my mouth.
He didn’t say a word, but his face said it all.
“Vivian’s chasing rich boys. I’m the consolation prize. You’ve been hoodwinked. Welcome to marriage,” I added with a grin.
Thomas’s jaw clenched. He stomped his foot like a toddler losing a spelling bee. “The Harts think we’re so poor they can just switch brides? This is a damn insult!”
And then he stormed out.
So yeah. Our wedding night ended with him running out like I had fleas and me licking the last of the honey off the apple slices.
The house? Pathetic. Empty walls, broken windows, flickering candles, drafty floorboards. A raccoon wouldn’t bother robbing this place.
Welcome to married life, Daphne. Hope you like sleeping alone and hungry.
Next ten days? Radio silence.
Thomas holed himself up in the east room, reading legal treatises like the world was ending and the only way to stop it was reciting The Federalist Papers backward.
As for me—his brand new wife—I may as well have been a ghost.
Apparently, he was so morally upright that even though he got played, he refused to “dishonor” the original arrangement. He thought it was noble to stay away from me. Buddy, no offense, but I wasn’t exactly trying to jump you either.
I brought him dinner once. Guy couldn’t even look me in the eye.
That level of sexual repression? Almost cute. Almost.
The only one who gave a damn about my existence was his mother, Mrs. Eleanor Dalton. Sweet lady. Sickly as hell, but sweet.
She’d chat with me while lying in bed, voice soft and shaking. “Thomas is a good boy. Real good. Always looked after me when his father was off tutoring. Never once complained.”
No kidding.
The fact that he didn’t throw a fit about the whole bride-swap probably had more to do with not wanting to upset his mom than anything else.
She’d been bedridden again the past week. No one else to cook. No servants. Just me and the world’s saddest kitchen.
And I was so freaking tired of boiled corn mush and pickled cabbage I could scream.
I needed meat. Like real meat. Roast pork, beef stew, fried sausage, barbecue ribs—something that bled.
I tore through every cabinet. Not a scrap.
Look, I don’t care if this man grows up to be President of the United States. If he can’t afford bacon, he’s not husband material.
You know what’s crazy? The guy’s got brains.
I peeked into his books one night—he wasn’t just reading boring court rulings or old sermons. He was knee-deep in engineering reports and river surveys, like Army Corps of Engineers nerd territory. Guy was practically mapping out half of New York with a pencil and prayer.
But when it came to money? Completely useless.
Like allergic-to-wealth useless.
He acted like having a job was beneath him—as if slinging coffee or working a rail office would stain his moral soul.
Meanwhile, our pantry was emptier than a preacher’s flask.
Just when I was about to scream into the void, I heard a voice behind me.
“If the cupboard’s bare, you can go down to Mr. Lee’s mill. There’s coin in the lockbox.”
Then he turned around and left. Didn’t even look up from the book in his hands.
Seconds later, his mom showed up, holding a tiny tin box like it was the Holy Grail. “Daphne, you’ll be in charge of the household now. My health’s poor, and Thomas needs to focus on his studies. His father’s still out teaching… we’ll scrape by.”
I opened the box.
Four coins.
Four.
My heart cracked like a stale biscuit.
Lady, I need meat. I need real food. Not this Depression-era soup kitchen menu.
Was I seriously about to get a second job in 1860-something? Sell soap door to door? Become a laundress?
Hell. What could I even do?
I sighed.
This was going to get ugly.
Turns out, selling embroidery was the only damn thing I could think of.
Good thing Mrs. Eleanor Dalton had hands of gold—back in her prime, she was one of the most talented needlewomen in the county. But as times changed, and arthritis crept in, she shelved her hoops and let the dust settle on her frame.
Nobody wanted her stuff anymore.
But I did.
I mean, hello—I’m not just modern, I am the trend.
Back then, most embroidery was flowers and doves and sentimental garbage, made for folks to hang in their bedrooms or tuck into hope chests.
Screw that. I rebranded her needlework into gift sets.
Seasonal stitched hand fans? One for spring, summer, fall, winter—sold as a girlfriends-only four-pack.
Zodiac monogrammed handkerchiefs? Whole set of twelve, perfect for your entire dysfunctional family reunion.
I even dipped each piece in rosewater and orange blossom to make them smell luxurious. Call it “artisan fragrance”—people ate that crap up like it was perfume from Paris.
When I told Mrs. Dalton I’d managed to sell her two-penny samplers for ten times the price?
She nearly fainted.
Soon I had half the town’s women stitching under me, and guess what?
We were finally eating meat.
Like real meat.
Roast chicken, smoked ham, pork ribs—Thomas Dalton had never seen so much meat on one table in his entire damn life.
That little streak of gluttony? Yeah, it was his golden era.
Thomas had been burying himself in books more than usual lately.
The State Bar Exams were coming up next month. Only happened every three years, and it was his one shot to get out of this broke-ass life and into the federal clerkship track.
He was gonna head to D.C. soon—God help him on that endless train ride from Tennessee to the Capitol.
Even with all the stress and overnighters, though, he started talking to me more.
Not a lot. Just… more.
One day, I came back late from the town fair after hawking some fan sets. The sun had dipped below the ridge, and there he was—standing outside the house, arms crossed, book in hand.
“What’re you doing out here?” I asked, brushing dust off my skirt.
With Thomas, you always had to speak first. If you waited for him to say something, you’d die of boredom before you got a syllable.
“Waiting for you,” he muttered, eyes glued to the page. “It’s past supper.”
That started becoming a thing.
He’d randomly show up while I was stewing pig knuckles, claiming he just wanted to “check the consistency,” then somehow manage to snatch the ladle and “test” it for twenty minutes straight.
Spoiler: he licked the bones clean every time.
I’d be counting and folding embroidered napkins, and suddenly he’d squat beside me, holding them to the sunlight like some textile expert. “Just seeing the quality.”
Boy, you’ve never held a needle in your life.
He started requesting meals mid-study. Like clockwork.
And I had to watch him eat. He didn’t want any leftovers left lying around in his temple of learning.
Okay, what in the actual hell???
And as if that wasn’t enough, he started calling me into his study to help grind ink. I was halfway to carpal tunnel, and he still said it “wasn’t smooth enough.”
Bruh.
“Daphne, the ink’s dry again!”
Thomas’s voice floated from the study like I was some live-in assistant. I peeked in just in time to see him mouthing “My country, ‘tis of thee” like a schoolboy faking focus.
I slammed the ink stick on the table and marched up to him, arms crossed.
He looked up, startled. I stared him down.
He stared back.
Neither of us said a word.
But his ears were turning pink.
You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m standing right here, practically glowing “wife energy,” and you’re blushing like we’re twelve?
“Thomas,” I said.
“Yeah?” he answered, way too fast.
“Do you have a thing for me?”
“…What?”
“I said: Do. You. Have. A. Thing. For. Me.”
He blinked like a deer in the headlights. “I—no!”
“No what?”
“No, I don’t have a thing for you!”
I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t like me?”
“Wait—no, that’s not what I meant—”
“Then what the hell do you mean, Thomas?”
Silence.
He dipped his head so fast he nearly swallowed his pen and went back to writing, but that hand? Shaky as hell.
I made a mental note:
Rule No. 1 of emotionally constipated book nerds: once you call it out, back off. If you press too hard, they retreat like a damn turtle.
So it was time to play the game.
Make him think I’m mad so he panics. Or make him think I don’t care so he starts caring.
Either way? Make him come to me.
So I spun on my heel, flipped my skirt for drama, and slammed the door behind me. Loud.
Let him sit in that awkward silence with a half-dry pen and a whole bunch of feelings he doesn’t know how to handle.
Ever since that night, Thomas Dalton hadn’t said a single word to me.
And I didn’t say a damn thing to him either.
We just kept dancing around each other like two socially constipated porcupines. The cold war lasted right up until the day he packed up to leave for the state bar exam in D.C.
And get this—he didn’t even say goodbye.
No note. No nod. No “Hey, see ya if I pass.”
The man just vanished like a fart in the wind.
So I guess I was invisible after all.
Guess those relationship tips I mentally scribbled down? Total crap.
Maybe he really meant it when he said he “didn’t like me.”
God, that stung harder than a slap.
Still, I put on a brave face—kept the embroidery biz running, took care of Mrs. Dalton like always. But inside? Yeah… I was starting to plan my exit.
Not just because things were weird between me and Thomas. But because deep down, I always knew I wasn’t the woman in his heart.
That spot? It still belonged to Vivian Hart. The real bride. Even if he never admitted it, it was written all over his dumb, conflicted little face.
And sure, maybe it wasn’t love—maybe it was honor or whatever—but that was still one hell of a wall between us.
And honestly? I couldn’t keep pretending I’d be okay living with a man who might someday come home with a second wife… or a third.
I actually tested the waters once with Mrs. Dalton.
“So, ma’am, if Thomas does make it big, and, you know… ends up with a few more wives, what am I supposed to do? Just… smile and stitch?”
She looked me dead in the eyes. Smiled. Kind of.
“Oh honey, all men keep a few extra women once they’ve made it. That’s just the way things are. That’s why you need to have his first baby. That’ll lock in your spot.”
The betrayal? Immediate.
Woman to woman? Really?
I didn’t even bother arguing. She was still mentally living in a time where women were livestock with housekeeping skills.
So yeah, I made up my mind. I was getting the hell out before that future landed in my lap.
I genuinely hoped Thomas would pass.
Not just because I was his… whatever-I-was.
But because, underneath that stiff collar and federalist obsession, he was a good man. A doer. A grinder.
This country needed people like him now more than ever.
The Ainsworth administration was already a joke—everyone knew the federal system was crumbling under railroad corruption and whiskey-soaked lobbyists. If anyone was gonna fix things, it was someone like Thomas: honest, educated, a little insufferable, but dependable as hell.
He always talked about public service like it was a mission from God. Said a real statesman should “lift the poor and check the greedy.”
And I’d nod like a bobblehead. “Hell yes. Talk’s cheap—do the damn work.”
He always stared at me like I was a freak. Like, how could a girl who once scrubbed Miss Hart’s boots quote The Federalist Papers?
But whatever. I kept on.
I spent my earnings fixing up their house. Repaired the roof, patched the drafty windows, even hauled in a real doctor from two towns over to take care of Mrs. Dalton’s cough. She was over the moon, telling every church lady in earshot that she had the best daughter-in-law in the county.
And honestly? I was proud.
I’d made their lives better with my own damn hands.
But then it came time to go.
I wasn’t good at dramatic goodbyes. So I lied. Told Mrs. Dalton I was heading to the next town over to meet a client for a big embroidery order.
I left her a note. And a divorce paper—clean, clear, no drama.
Packed a small bag, tossed in a flask of water, and walked away without a second glance.
As I turned back at the gate, those red ribbons tied to the old clay planters were still fluttering in the breeze. So bright, so full of bullshit hope.
The world beyond the Dalton house? Way bigger than I remembered.
I landed in a dusty little trade town by the river. Rented a room above a livery stable. Not fancy, but I wasn’t exactly gunning for high society.
Used my savings to open a tiny food stand on the main street. And what did I sell?
Wontons.
Yeah, I know. Laugh it up.
But I gave them a twist—pork-stuffed dumplings with real lard folded into the filling, and bone broth slow-cooked in a cast iron pot. The kind of taste that slapped you awake and made you forget your daddy ever drank.
I named it “Winston Street Dumpling House.” Sounded official enough.
Word spread. Fast.
By the third week, I was selling out by noon and closing early just to keep up.
That evening, while cleaning up, I overheard some old guys shooting the breeze by the porch.
“You hear who’s grading the bar this year?”
“Judge Jeremiah Allen himself.”
“No shit?”
“And get this—some kid from Ainsworth County made it all the way to the top. That Dalton boy. Thomas something?”
I froze.
My hands dropped the ladle right into the damn soup.
He passed?
He really made it?
I stood there like an idiot, dumplings boiling over, brain empty.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Next thing I knew, a month had flown by. Business was booming. I had regulars, a decent cash box, and neighbors who liked to talk too much.
That’s when the matchmaking started.
Some widow said Butcher Larry Lee was looking for a new wife. His last one died giving birth. Charming.
Then Boatman Jake Brooks showed up with flowers and asked if I wanted to “settle down and stop working so hard.”
As if hauling nets all day in river muck was a better deal than running a dumpling shop.
I turned them all down.
I already gave up one future with a lawyer-to-be.
I wasn’t about to throw myself into another fire just to be someone else’s “second chance.”
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