Crafting Angry Olivia: The Story of Mrs. Ratford

Holly Ratford was, from the earliest years of her life, the epitome of obedient grace. A brilliant young woman of quiet resilience, she moved through the world as her parents dictated: she wore the clothes they selected, befriended the companions they approved, and even styled her hair to suit their sensibilities. She never voiced dissent. Why would she? Her parents, after all, knew best.

When Holly turned twenty, the announcement of her betrothal came not as a surprise, but as the next expected chapter in her life. The marriage proved a cruel twist of fate. Albert Ratford was a man of ice and iron—stern, aloof, and entirely void of affection. On their wedding night, he offered her not comfort, but cold instruction:
“As my wife, you are to tend to this home and ensure it remains warm in my return. Do not disgrace the name I have given you, and do not expect love.” And so began a union defined not by partnership but by silence.

In the early days, Holly tried endlessly to reach her husband’s heart. She approached him with kindness, with patience, with hope. Yet every attempt was met with the same wall of indifference. That is, until the arrival of a young man sent to renovate their house.

There was no warning, no gradual spark—it was as if time held its breath the moment they met. Holly fought the pull between them, recalling Albert’s demand that his name remain unsoiled. But the connection between her and the young man was undeniable. Their stolen glances grew into quiet, impossible conversations. And five months after his departure, Holly realised she was with child.

With trembling hope, she shared the news with her mother, who had come to visit. She spoke with pride, believing she had fulfilled her wifely duty. But instead of joy, her revelation drew horror. Her mother dropped her teacup, then fainted. Upon regaining consciousness, she screamed and tore at Holly’s hair: “You cannot be with child. Albert cannot father children! Whose child are you carrying?” And in that moment, the obedient daughter shattered.

Horrified to learn that her parents had knowingly married her to a man who could offer neither love nor legacy, Holly pushed her mother away and fled to her bedroom. From behind the locked door, she heard her mother instruct the servants to keep her imprisoned until Albert’s return. Trapped and desperate, Holly considered leaping from the window—but the fall would surely kill her. When her father arrived, tray in hand, he found her collapsed in a heap of tears. He said nothing at first, simply placed the tray on the bed, lifted her gently, and listened. She spoke through sobs. His brow furrowed, but he did not interrupt. He merely offered her the tea and let her weep until exhaustion claimed her. But her slumber was short-lived. A bitter taste on her tongue wrenched her awake. Standing over her was the kitchen maid, eyes brimming with sorrow. The old woman confessed: Holly’s parents had laced her tea with a sedative, then summoned a doctor to rid her of the child—and ensure she would never carry again. Trembling with horror and gratitude, Holly took the maid’s hand. That night, dressed in the plainest garments she could find, she slipped through the servants’ door and vanished into the night.

Her exile led her, after months of wandering, to the quiet town of Gainford. Here, anonymity became her salvation. No longer the polished lady of the manor, Holly was simply Mrs. Ratford—a governess among many. She kept her married name, her maiden one far too recognisable, and learned to live beneath notice. A servant, after all, draws no questions.

But deep within her, the girl who had once obeyed without question had been replaced. What remained was a woman of quiet defiance, shaped by betrayal, braced by pain, and burning—silently—with a rage that would, one day, find its voice in another.