Hours passed like the drip of a leaky tap. The bustle of the house slowed as darkness swallowed the tiny bedroom. I had pulled the bedspread up to my chin but a ghostly chill still hung in the air like a body from the hangman's noose.

I listened intently, the tip tap of servants' boots on the hidden staircase twinkled in my ears. A cool sweat settled on the back of my neck. Staring at the door, I slipped a hand out from under the safety of my covers and pawed for the thick parchment.

I snatched it up and held it to my chest. I closed my eyes and let out a gust of air which morphed into a wispy cloud. Shivering, I fumbled blindly for the familiar taper and match which I struck with practised ease.

My tiny light sent a spiral of shadows across the walls and floors of the room. I light the taper quickly and snuffed out the match, my heart thudding violently at what might be inside.

I ran my fingers over the large envelope in my lap. I groped at the luxurious elegance of the ivory paper. Slumped into the privacy of the attic room, I brought the sturdy paper to my face and ran my eyes over the seal. The seal was imprinted with what looked like a deformed butterfly, it's left-wing had been torn. It was different somehow from his previous insignia but I couldn't figure out how.

Brushing it off, I tentatively opened his letter. I ran my fingers over his neat, precise letters which had no sense of warmth only solemnly informative.

"Dear Miss Diana-Marie Taylor", he wrote. I had not been called Marie in a long time, it ached like an old wound which would never settle.

I hurriedly scanned my eyes across the letter and my heart stopped. "As my wife, I expect no marital duties regarding the wedding bed. I ask you to accept the role of Mistress of Malakoff House and you will receive £200 per month in compensation for your sacrifice."

My head dropped back and I pursed my lips, fat wads of tears forced into my eyes. Hope and Fear flooded my veins, mixing in a wet sludge and I sat paralysed.

He had been serious. The Black Prince of Northumberland, the Masked Stranger had been serious, he wanted me to marry him.

I shoved off the covers and paced across the small track of the room. My flesh burned but the chill of the air hung around me. This was impossible, this was not one of those fairytales which I used to tell Maria and Elizabeth when they were little. I was not a little girl anymore, no longer waif-like or naive though I wish I still was.

I tugged the threadbare blanket around myself as I thumbed for the crack in the floor broads, pulling out my beloved shoe box. My hands shook as I plucked out the portrait of my parents. I rested my head against the edge of my cot as I creased the cracked glass. My mother's white dress sparkled against my tiny candlelight, they looked so happy, hand in hand. Tears silently slid from down my cheeks and soaked my tightly wrapped duvet.

"Are you alright Miss?" came an outside voice. It was dull as if coming from another room which I could not see. I stretched further into the protective warmth that I was cocooned in. I felt at peace there, floating in the liminal waters of sleep.

"Diana, love, get up" the voice called again, giving my shoulder a friendly shake. I groaned and blinked as the harsh light of dawn pierced my eyes. I blinked up at the voice and gave the voice a tired glare when I realised it was Betsy.

"I thought Mrs Cavendish told you not to drink last night" Betsy snarked playfully as I drag myself to my feet and flopped onto the bed in an upright sitting position.

"Believe me, Betsy, I could have done a lot worse" I smirked back as I rearranged the bed and hid the letter under the flat pillow.

"Breakfast s downstairs when you decide to join us, My Lady" she quipped back with a mock bow before hurrying down the stairs.

I sighed, laying my head against the plain white-washed wall, the thin cotton of my chemise made me shiver but I didn't care. It all didn't feel real, the dancing, the letter, the proposal. I felt trapped again but maybe it would be more bearable than waiting here, hoping for another short-term occupation.

I tried to push the memory of the night before and his letter from my mind as I tugged on my corset, stained petticoats and thin gown. My well-worn leather boots made an oddly comforting thudding noise as I descended the stairs. I had felt so beautiful last night, my mother's lace floating around me, but my common work clothes gave me a sense of comforting anonymity.

My boots seeped into the thick Persian rugs in the main hallway as I emerged from the wooden servant's stairs. Although I was supposedly permitted to enter wherever I pleased with 14 Dellcott close, the servant's passages meant I could avoid the prying eyes of Mrs Cavendish.

Dawn flooded from the large windows as I descended to the kitchens. The Cavendish Family would not be up for at least several hours so I was puzzled why Betsy had woken me up so early when most of the house was still sleeping.

As I tip-toed across the polished wooden floor into the Kitchen my nose was hit with the smell of freshly baked bread, fried eggs and roasted bacon. The cook, Mrs Rodgers greeted me with a curt nod and I gave her a polite smile. Mrs Rodgers silently pointed to a steaming plate of eggs, bacon, toast, cheese and sausages and a large mug of tea. My stomach growled as I thanked her quietly before sitting down at the long wooden servant's table and tucking in.

"Happy?" questioned Bety's full voice and I nodded quickly, my mouth full of toast. She let out a thick laugh before plopping herself down in front of me and tucking into her breakfast. The room was quiet other than us women, the scrap of steel cutlery on discount plates and the bubble and hiss of pots and pans.

Moments like these, the quiet ones, were the ones I would miss. The murmuring underworld of 14 Dellcott Close.

"What's with the long face?" Betsy said, startling my silence. She had pushed her now licked-clean plate to the side and was running her finger up and down the side of her chipped tea cup.

Suddenly the morning bells let out their obnoxious high-pitched screaming.

"Time to get to work" Besty moaned out, her voice dragging as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. We pulled ourselves to our feet and began getting the kitchen and dining room ready for breakfast. Though the Cavendish's were a wealthy family, I was still required to help out where ever Mrs Cavendish saw fit which was everywhere.

The large grandfather clock in the hall wall chimed eight o'clock and I walked purposely back up the grand oak staircase to fetch Maria and Elizabeth for breakfast.

My charge's shared room was pitch black as I opened the door slowly so I could slip inside. I could hear their soft snores turn to whines of protest as I opened the thick pink velvet curtains.

"Miss Taylor Miss Taylor it's too early" whined Maria who buried herself in her plush goose pillow.

Instead of whining Elizabeth chucked a pillow at me which I easily caught. I notched my hand to my hip and covered my eyes in annoyance, I wasn't in the mood for their theatrics.

"I am sure you are tired and I am glad you had a pleasant evening but we have lessons and breakfast is getting cold" I sighed, pulling the covers off Elizabeth. She tried to glower at me but it slipped as I pulled on my governess persona.

"Up Up Up Ladies" I continued brightly which was followed by yawns and groans. "Cook has prepared you some sweet ice if you hurry," I lied nonchalantly.

"Really? For Breakfast" Elizabeth responded matter of factly "We aren't little girls anymore Miss Taylor, we are young ladies and we won't be tempted by little ices".

"Really?" I responded, my patience wearing dangerously thin. "Would you like me to go and get Betsy instead?" I said coldly and my charges went white before scrabbling out of bed. I smiled at my little trick, the last time I had Betsy get them up she had pulled off their covers and refused to close the curtains. I breathed a sigh of relief when they pulled themselves out of bed and started to get ready as their two servants came into the room.

Luckily little Jeremey was not my responsibility when it came to mornings. As he was getting older he had his own valet who I passed with a tray of sweet bribes.

I left the girls' room and hurried downstairs to the music room, the only other place besides the room in the attic where I maintained a small level of control. The grand piano stood in state in the corner of the room, I plonked a box of music on the bench and set about picking out pieces from the night before. 

The hours slowly dripped by as I ran through Marie's piano lesson then Elizabeth's drawing lesson then Jeremy's Latin lesson. My calm, well-practised matronly demeanour took a barrage of poor accents and notes which slipped all over the piano like oil. My head began to burn at around three but I pushed on until the lessons were finished at five.

I sat in the nursery, cold, head in my hands whilst the familiar chatter of the dining room next door lingered at the doorway like old cigar smoke. My hands, feet and head pulsed with exhaustion and I knew that I could not carry on like this anymore, I wasn't sixteen anymore.

Though my stomach growled in protest, I dragged myself from the music room up the long winding stairs towards the attic. I sagged onto the bed, rubbing my hand over my eyes, darkness was little help for my head.

I pulled out his letter from under my pillow. It was the only way I now realised. I took up my only fountain pen from the small draw and signed my name, Diana-Marie Taylor, in my most delicate writing at the bottom of the contract.

That night I cried. I cried like I was sixteen again.