"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will."
Charlotte Brontë
Daisy Rose Greene let herself into the house where she'd lived unhappily for fifteen years. After leaving her black parasol in the urn by the door, she removed the hat pin that held her hated black hat in place and set both on the small table before making her way into the parlor.
It was 1893, she had just buried her much older husband, and rather than the grieving role she was being forced to play she felt like laughing with relieved joy. It was over. It was done. And she was free for the very first time in her life. No father or husband to dictate her every move. Not even a brother to get in her way. She could come and go and live as she saw fit. The thought was enough to make her absolutely giddy.
But society demanded that she first live a lie. Just as she had been living a lie since being forced to marry Bernard at the tender age of sixteen. Her father had decreed she do so and she had been helpless to say otherwise. It was the way of the world that daughters obeyed their fathers and then their husbands without question. And she had done so, all the while nursing an impotent rage at the injustice of it all. She knew herself to be an intelligent woman. She knew she was quite capable of managing a household and the household accounts, because Bernard had been incapable of doing so. A man of careless free will, with a love of drink, and a lightening temper, she had meekly did as he bade lest she suffer his wrath, giving every appearance that she was doing exactly as he told her, before quietly doing what was best. Otherwise they would have been destitute long ago. As it was they lived much further below the means they should have given his large income. They had a respectable home in a respectable, if not posh, community, and were able to afford a cook and a maid, both of whom she considered good friends. They alone knew the truth of her existence and, bless them, had never let any hint of its reality show beyond these walls.
She paused inside the parlor door and looked about the room. The ornate mirror over the fireplace was covered with a black cloth, as was tradition, to prevent any spirits from escaping back into the world. And God knew she didn't want him returning in any capacity! It was the middle of July so no fire burned cheerfully on the grate behind the stained glass screen. The room was stuffy as the windows weren't open to allow the fickle summer wind to enter.
“Welcome home, Miss.”
She turned and found the maid, Finola, standing a few steps behind her.
“Hello, Finola.”
“Are you okay, miss?”
Daisy smiled tiredly.
“Yes, I'm fine.” She gestured toward the windows. “Would you mind opening the windows so the air can move through?”
Finola nodded and gave a short bob.
“Yes, miss. Mavis prepared a light luncheon for you. Would you like for me to bring it to you?”
Daisy started to refuse then reminded herself that she hadn't eaten anything since last night, and suddenly she was very hungry.
“That would be nice, thank you, Finola. But first I need to change clothes.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Oh, and Finola?”
“Yes, miss.”
“No need for formality any longer. I'm Miss Daisy to you and Mavis from now on. There is no reason for strict conformity to continue.”
Finola grinned.
“Yes, Miss Daisy. Where would you like your luncheon served?”
“I'll just have it in the kitchen. I feel the need to be with friends at the moment.”
The maid nodded and took a step back as she motioned toward the hall with one hand.
“Come along then and I'll help you change.”
The two women made their way down the silent hallway and up two flights of stairs to the large bedroom where Daisy and Bernard had slept. Walking inside, Daisy felt the weight of the heavy, masculine décor. All dark wood and dark colors. Particularly red. She hated the room. Especially the obscenely large portrait of Bernard that hung over the fireplace.
He had commissioned it early on in their marriage. Meant to convey a spirit of dominance and power, it had come to represent cruel tyranny for her. Dressed grandly above his station, with his small, pig eyes glaring down at her from a face already showing the florid signs of his love of drink and deviancy, a love which he had shared with her father, it still held the power to send chills down her spine. She'd been a witness to both too often from girlhood.
“I shall have that picture burned,” she declared decisively and was rewarded with another grin from Finola.
“By all means. But first things first. Which dress shall you wear?”
Daisy returned the smile with a wan one of her own.
“I would love anything but black. I am sick of it and I'm not in mourning though society says I should be.” She sighed. “But as I have little choice at the moment, I'll let you decide.”
The maid moved to the heavy walnut wardrobe and opened the doors. Inside were dresses and gowns in two dark colors. Bernard had required she wear only black and brown. Finola removed a dress and held it out for approval. It was brown and sewn in last year's fashion. But the least austere of the lot.
“That will have to do,” Daisy sighed, then lifted her arms and began removing her heavy dark jewelry.
Not long after, the two women entered the vast kitchen where Mavis was industriously kneading bread dough.
“Hello, Miss. One moment and I'll fetch your lunch.”
“It's Miss Daisy now, Mavis,” Daisy instructed, “As I told Finola, the need for formality has passed.”
Mavis smiled warmly.
“Yes, ma'am. Now sit you down there at the table and I'll get your lunch.”
Afterward, Daisy remained in the kitchen and enjoyed the company of her two friends. There were other women with whom she associated, but Finola and Mavis were the only ones she felt close to. Perhaps it was because they alone knew the truth of what life had been like with Bernard. They had remained loyal to her throughout most of her marriage. They had dressed her wounds and held her on occasion when the horror became too much. More than once she had had to order them to stay away when she knew the abuse was coming, for she had known they would have interceded. The love the three women shared was that of a close sisterhood, forged in the fires of one man's evil. Strong and unbreakable. Tensile. And Daisy had seen they received a much higher salary than was normal, most of it coming from her own allowance.
“What will you do now?” Mavis asked as she divided the dough between the bread pans.
“I'm not sure,” Daisy replied.
“She wants to burn the portrait in the bedroom,” Finola announced pertly, “and I say we help her.”
The cook nodded decisively.
“Be a pleasure to.”
There followed a few moments of silence before Daisy came to an irrevocable decision.
“Tonight. We'll do it tonight.”
Mavis and Finola's expression reflected only mild surprise, followed by grim satisfaction.
“Tonight it is,” Mavis agreed, and the women began to plan.
Very late that night, it took all three women to remove the portrait from the wall, though to say they removed it was putting it euphemistically. What they did was shove it up and off the nails that held it and let it crash to the ground. Then, because it was too large and ungainly for them to carry, it was agreed it would be best to carve the canvas up and dismantle the frame. Mavis and Finola used hammers to take care of the frame while Daisy, with dark glee, utilized a large knife to annihilate the canvas portrait. Afterward all of the pieces were removed to the back yard. Luckily the nearest house was quite a distance away so the need for silence wasn't great. They would worry about the light from the fire later.
The pieces were stacked atop the bare area where the garbage and autumn leaves were burned, doused with the kerosene from a lamp, and a match was struck. The pile went up with a great gush, the heat from the flames driving the women back. They watched it consume the wood and canvas in silence for a long while. Then Daisy took a deep breath.
Coincidentally, Daisey worked for me as a caregiver for 10 years. Rose worked six years, and is back working for me again. At work, a good friend and helper, Howard Greene, who directed landscaping at the university, retired. Doing what he loved the best, fishing, with a friend who had just returned from heart surgery, both mysteriously drowned when Greene was an excellent swimmer. The mystery of what happened was never learned.
From my recollection, women who lost their husbands of some standing like that, often turned their house into a rooming house for money in their retirement and to help pay for upkeep of the place.
A powerful and deeply satisfying story you’ve captured, with remarkable clarity, the suffocating world Daisy has endured and the quiet, disciplined strength that allowed her to survive it. The historical setting feels authentic without ever weighing the narrative down; instead, it sharpens the injustice she has lived under and makes her moment of freedom all the more luminous.
The bond between Daisy, Finola, and Mavis is beautifully drawn — a sisterhood forged in hardship, loyalty, and shared courage. Their late‑night destruction of the portrait is not just an act of rebellion but a ritual of release. You render that scene with such vivid emotional truth that the reader feels the heat of the flames and the weight lifting from Daisy’s life.
The final line lands perfectly a triumph that breathes rather than shouts, the kind that comes after years of silence.
May Daisy enjoy her liberation after years of suffering. Your story is a painful reminder of what many women endured. Whether a betrothal is arranged or not, choice can bring on the same.
Kimberly has gone from a well-paid female executive one minute to a desperate woman the next. Thinking her day can't possibly get any worse, she finds out how wrong she is when she goes home. The only way to set things straight is to get even.
Kimberly has gone from a well-paid female executive one minute to a desperate woman the next. Thinking her day can't possibly get any worse, she finds out how wrong she is when she goes home. The only way to set things straight is to get even.
Daisy Rose Greene let herself into the house where she'd lived unhappily for fifteen years. After leaving her black parasol in the urn by the door, she removed the hat pin that held her hated black hat in place and set both on the small table before making her way into the parlor.
