Judith Sachs had lost track of how many years she'd spent as a servant in the grand Boston house, how many times she'd soothed her sore hands in cold water after an endless day of cooking, cleaning, and chasing after children.

Six children, if anyone was keeping score, and she certainly was. Every day, she roused before the sun, her stomach hollow and fists already balled against the morning cold, and set about scrubbing the floors and peeling potatoes and minding the littlest ones who screamed for attention.

One day, after a morning spent lugging wet laundry up and down two flights of stairs, Judith reached her breaking point. Her mistress had scolded her for overcooking the mutton, her master had spilled coffee across a clean tablecloth, and the twins had dumped a pitcher of milk onto the nursery carpet. Judith paused on the back landing, cloth bundle clutched to her chest, and suddenly the prospect of simply walking away crystallized in her mind. She could leave. It was as simple and impossible as that.