Chapter 1

It was early winter, and the room was bitterly cold. I lay in the warm, snow-white bedding, utterly exhausted and unwilling to get up. But I knew I had to. The wake-up bell had just rung—it was 5 a.m., and I had twenty minutes to dress and gather downstairs for breakfast.

I was a junior footman at Baker Manor. I quickly put on my shirt and waistcoat, splashed cold water on my face, and then donned the silver-white wig. Hanging on the coat rack was a black footman’s coat with white stripes, which I had ironed perfectly straight the night before. Carefully, I put on the coat, slipped on pristine white gloves, and stepped into my lambskin high-heeled shoes. The reflection in the mirror looked spirited.

As I left my room, I ran into Rhodes, who lived next door. We barely had time to greet each other before hurrying to the servants’ dining hall. The downstairs hall was bustling. A junior maid with an apron smudged with soot was struggling to light the fireplace. The air was thick with the choking smoke of damp firewood—clearly, this maid was a novice with no experience lighting an aristocratic fireplace.

The housekeeper Rachelia rushed over, eyes wide, exclaiming, “Good heavens! How can you be so foolish, girl? You’re driving me mad! Do you want the masters to choke and ruin their breakfast first thing in the morning? Open the windows to air it out, and you lot—help her light the fireplace properly!” She directed the maids in a flurry.

Rachelia was the head housekeeper of Baker Manor, over forty years old. Her brown hair was always neatly coiled into a bun, and she wore a plain black dress without even a hint of pattern. Stern and unsmiling, she could be downright harsh. Under her glare, many dared not speak—like the maid who had messed up earlier, now trembling before Rachelia.

When I entered the servants’ dining hall, it was already packed. Along the long table, three or four footmen dressed like me and over a dozen maids in light pink puffy skirts were seated. I quietly took my place, waiting for the arrival of Baker Manor’s butler.

As a junior footman, my seat was at the very end. Beside me sat Rhodes, also a junior footman. At that moment, he whispered to me about how pretty a new maid across the table was. Just then, the hum of conversation vanished instantly as the butler Pod arrived. Everyone stood, waiting for him to take his seat at the head of the table.

Pod had served Baker Manor for nearly forty years, from a young man to white-haired old age. Rumor had it his family had been the manor’s butlers for generations, and his son, now in secondary school, would inherit the position after graduation. Time had left its marks on his face, yet his daily routine remained unchanged for decades. After Pod sat down, he gestured for everyone to do the same, and the meal began. No one spoke or made unnecessary movements—just swift, silent eating.

Suddenly, the bell rang. On the snow-white walls hung two rows of bells, one of which was swaying. The housekeeper Rachelia immediately stood up and said, “The mistress has woken up. Now bring the coffee upstairs.” As soon as she finished speaking, the mistress’s two personal maids put down their cutlery and hurriedly ran to the kitchen.

The servants at the table left one after another. Rhodes and I went to the main dining room, folded the white printed tablecloth neatly, and placed it in a basket. Then, we took out the newly dried tablecloth from yesterday and carefully spread it over the table.

There were some wrinkles on the pristine tablecloth. I quickly picked up the kettle filled with boiling water to iron it until the cloth was perfectly smooth. Just then, two senior footmen carried in a small table set with silverware and coldly said, “You’re too slow. Haven’t you finished yet?”

I put away the kettle and replied respectfully, “It’s done.” The senior footmen, one after another, methodically arranged the silverware. Suddenly, one of them glanced at Rhodes and me and said coldly, “What are you still doing here? Go do your proper work!”

Rhodes stood nearby, wanting to learn how they set the table. After all, we were junior footmen and had no right to serve meals. However, the senior footmen had no intention of letting us learn what we shouldn’t know and coldly drove us away.

Helpless, Rhodes and I had to go to the kitchen. The kitchen was bustling, with the head chef—a tall, big-bellied man—issuing orders like a king, making the kitchen maids assist him. Freshly cooked food was already placed on silver trays, steaming with aroma, before being covered with shiny silver domes. I took a tray and walked out of the kitchen, standing straight at the entrance of the main dining room, waiting to serve the food after the masters were seated.

Rhodes also stood beside me holding a silver tray, quietly complaining about the two senior footmen earlier. He grumbled, “What’s so great about them? They’re too arrogant.” I quickly whispered back, “Shh, keep it down. They might hear you.”

Rhodes said confidently, “One day, I’ll become the viscount’s personal valet.” I reminded him softly, “You need to be literate to be a personal valet.” He replied, “I’m learning spelling. A while ago, I asked Uncle Brant to buy me books.” Then, glancing at the gloomy window, he asked, “The weather looks bad. Are you going home today?”

I answered, “I requested leave from Butler Pod three months ago—just half a day off. No matter the weather, I have to go back.”

“What for? To give all your wages to your drunkard mother?” Rhodes sneered.

“She has three more children to feed. She needs the money,” I defended.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t immediately spend it all on liquor,” Rhodes scoffed. “You’d be better off buying yourself a new pair of shoes.”

I looked down at my lambskin high-heeled shoes. Though they appeared polished after careful cleaning, the frayed seams at the edges betrayed their age. It was truly unbecoming—if Head Butler Pod noticed, I might be dismissed for tarnishing Baker Manor’s reputation.

“Just have a cobbler fix them,” I muttered, though in truth, my socks were also torn and needed replacing.

“Worn-out shoes and socks, a patched shirt inside—I looked even shabbier than in my past life. I remember back then, I had just become a junior footman at Baker Manor, clutching my hard-earned wages. Ambitious and full of drive, I spent all my money on decent clothes, books for spelling and arithmetic, and even bribed senior footmen to teach me etiquette.”

The hurried day finally came to an end. Carrying a basket of bread baked by the cook for me, I walked along the country path. Early winter in Yorkshire was desolate, with wild grass growing rampant, and occasionally a shepherd or two passed by herding sheep. Black-wooled sheep grazed leisurely, while a mongrel dog chased around them.

I took a deep breath, exhaling puffs of white mist. My nose was probably red from the cold, and I felt a bit breathless. This sensation made me uncomfortable, reminding me of similar pains from memory…

A man suffering from severe typhoid lay on a tattered bed, struggling to breathe. The priest stood by the bedside and asked, “Are you Toker?”

Gasping for air, pale-faced and full of fear, the man looked at the priest and said with difficulty, “Father… why are you here? Have you… come to give me… the last rites…”

The priest replied, “No, I won’t give you the last rites. You will recover. I came only because… if you take advantage of my visit, say, for confession or the like, I’d be more than willing. As a pastor, I always seize every opportunity to reclaim my lost sheep.”

After a long silence, the man wheezed and nodded slightly. The priest began, “The mercy of God is boundless, my child. Please repeat after me: ‘I confess to Almighty God… to blessed Mary ever virgin…'” He paused occasionally to let the dying man keep up. Finally, the priest said, “Now, confess…”

The man murmured something, seemingly using all his remaining strength. He repeated, “I deceived him, betrayed him…” The priest continued, “You are guilty of deceiving others.” By then, the man’s breathing grew even more labored, his body convulsing, tears streaming down. He kept whispering to himself, “Deceived him, betrayed him…”

After a spasm, the man’s breathing gradually stopped. The priest placed a cross on him and asked a neighbor nearby, “Does he have any family?” The neighbor answered, “No one knows. He always lived alone…”

A cold wind blew past, making me shiver as I tried to shake off the memory. The icy grip of death felt as if it were just yesterday. I felt somewhat dazed, unsure if I was still dreaming.

I am a lost sheep, having committed sins. I do not know if the Lord has forgiven me. If He has, why is everything from yesterday repeating? If not, why was I allowed to return with such memories…