Ambrose - Episode 1

Episode 1: Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time.

That's how Mila Ferguson liked her stories to start. Once upon a time. When you lived in a once upon a time tale, you were a Princess waiting for your Prince Charming to appear. At least, that's how she imagined it would be if she were in a book.

So, in her journal, she started her entry:

Once upon a time on the far side of England over the rolling hills and meadows, there lived a housekeeper named Mila. She had dark, lovely hair like Snow White and the most pleasant laugh anyone had ever imagined. Even though she cleaned houses for a living Mila was very happy. She came from a long line of housekeepers and butlers. Her father, in fact, was the personal butler to one of the richest men in England.

Mila tended to her job day in and day out as if it were the most important duty in the world. Everyday, she'd watch as life on the Ambrose estate carried on. The resident's very movement made the manor "breathe" with life, as if it too were a living, breathing being.

But this wasn't a fairy tale, and her Prince Charming wasn't going to magically appear like a ghost in the night.

Mila sighed. How she wished for it to be like that. How she wished she too, like Cinderella and Snow White, was meant for love to find her one day.

"All I need is my own set of mice to keep me company or a poisoned apple to come my way."

Mila laughed and stroked her cat, Mr. Fingers who had popped his head out the small cat opening in the front door. "Well, maybe not the apple. Right, Mr. Fingers?"

He mewled in response.

"That's what I thought. Poison apples would not be a good way to start off the morning. Now, journal writing. That's the way to start off a wonderful day in jolly old England."

A gentle breeze wafted through the openings in the porch of her tiny cottage behind Ambrose Manor. The flowers surrounded her with a shower of color that made her heart happy. The blossoms were in full bloom and nature's beauty seemed to make the small, dilapidated cottage appear all the more lovely.

Mila curled up on the porch swing with her cat, Mr. Fingers, and opened her journal to the first empty page. While she stroked the brown tabby, she reflected on the day ahead.

It was such a beautiful morning. It was going to be a beautiful day too, she decided.

At that moment, exactly on time, Ernest Brinks, walked along the small service road that cut through the Ambrose estate. People really were not supposed to linger on the path by the stables, but Mrs. Ambrose always made an exception for Ernest and his dog. How could one not? She wondered.

Mila waved and couldn't help but smile. Man and his hound. Everyday, like clockwork, at eight-fifteen in the morning, Ernest walked his trusty pooch, Dude. He was a frail old man, and probably not in the condition to walk so far, but he managed somehow. Ernest was seventy-five if he was a day.

He tipped his little brown hat at Mila, then reached down to do the same with a similar hat the dog was wearing. Everyone needed an Ernest Brinks with his dog, Dude to brighten their day. Mila was sure it should be a commandment for happiness.

She waved again, and the dog yelped in response. Ernest liked to say Dude had a crush on Mila. But she truly doubted dogs of any breed cared one way or another about her.

Mr. Brink walked by and she smiled knowing tomorrow she'd see him again.

---

After the morning cleaning was done and Mila had witnessed a nasty row between the gardener and the cook, her mind wandered from her happiness mantra to darker memories. It almost didn't seem real now. It had happened so long ago. But this was a reality she couldn't bring herself to face. The secret she witnessed, the threat she overheard, then the dead body being hauled away.

It was slowly eating away at her happiness.

Now, eight years later, she wondered how much longer she could keep quiet. How long she could keep up the charade.

Thinking of such gloomy things, obviously, made Mila concerned about Prudence Raines Ambrose, her sixty-three year old employer. The secret she carried would wound Prudence greatly and this was the only reason she had never revealed it. That and the fact that Prue was slowly losing her mind.

A little over a year ago, Prudence began showing signs of mental delusion. It had gotten worse over the last few months. One episode was so horrific Dr. Fainer prescribed medication. Medication, it seemed, wasn't something that agreed with Mrs. Ambrose. And if Mila had her say about it, the pills that were only making her worse.

To take her mind off such nasty thoughts, Mila walked out onto the terrace of the Ambrose Mansion. The driveway spiraled out in front of her roaming over hill and dale until it came upon the street. Off to the side, and a little behind the house, she could see her little cottage and the stables.

Joe "Bluesman" James, the gardener, was slightly out of her sight attempting to start a pull mower. After a few tries the motor roared to life and Joe was on his merry way trimming the lawn to an acceptable height. Gazing at the aged black man wasn't getting any of her own work done, so when she turned to walk back inside the mansion, a familiar voice boomed over her shoulder.

"Hey there, kiddo."

Mila turned to find a man she hadn't seen in eight years. "Stone? I really can't believe it's you." She couldn't help but jump up and hug him.

"Yeah, it's really me," he said, playfully.

"Why are you here?"

Mila turned toward the porch swing and Stone Jacobs joined her.

"I got a call from Prudence."

It was funny to hear someone call Mrs. Ambrose by her given name. The staff had been informed to call her Prue, not Prudence.

"She worried me. She seemed very agitated. Are things all right with her?"

"She's changed a lot in eight years, Stone. She's not quite the woman you remember. Since they put her on the medication, she's been acting strangely." Mila leaned against the wooden slats and sighed. Someone familiar to feel her pain.

"That's what Rayna was saying. Talking to walls?"

"More like talking to wallpaper. It's funny. She only acts like that in the parlor."

"That's strange," he commented.

"Yup, strange. But other than that it's been same old, same old." She was about to get up and return to work when a question suddenly came to mind.

"Why did Mrs. Ambrose call you in the first place?"

"She told me that I had to come home. That Janette was in danger." Stone's face was solemn.

"But Janette's been dead for eight years."

"I know."