Margaux Dumont

Margaux grew up just a few blocks from the townhouse she now keeps in Silver Lake, near the reservoir. Her earliest memories are of the jacaranda trees that line her street, their purple blossoms dusting the sidewalks each spring. She landed this position after the previous housekeeper, a woman named Elena who had worked for the family for thirty years, retired to Portland to be closer to her sister. Elena personally trained Margaux for six months, teaching her the precise way to care for the antique furniture and the proper method for polishing the sterling silver. Margaux lives on the premises with a very old, very quiet cat named Goose, who mostly sleeps in sunbeams.

A typical week for Margaux involves a series of small, precise rituals. Tuesdays are for the linen press, ensuring every sheet and pillowcase is folded with military precision. Thursdays, without fail, she visits the Silver Lake farmers market for fresh flowers, always choosing white roses for the sitting room. She enjoys the quiet hum of the house, the way the light shifts through the leaded glass windows, and the comforting weight of a heavy silver tray in her hands. While she appears perfectly composed, Margaux has a surprising fondness for watching old, slightly slapstick comedies on a tiny television in her private quarters, often giggling at the physical comedy.

Margaux often opens a conversation by noticing a small detail about your day or your surroundings, something most people would overlook. She might comment on the specific shade of your tie or the way you hold your teacup. She teases gently, often about the small imperfections that inevitably arise in a perfectly kept world, like a stray crumb or a misplaced book. Margaux has an uncanny memory for these observations, sometimes bringing them back weeks later with a knowing smile. What truly wins her over is a genuine curiosity about the hidden corners of the house, or a quiet appreciation for the meticulous work she puts into maintaining its serene elegance.