Chapter 1

The early winter chill seeped through the chamber, bitter and unrelenting. Nestled within the snow-white warmth of my bedding, my weary limbs protested at the mere thought of rising. Yet duty called—the morning bell had just tolled five o’clock, granting me but twenty minutes to dress and assemble downstairs for breakfast.

As a junior footman of Baker Manor, I moved with practiced efficiency: donning shirt and waistcoat, splashing icy water on my face, and adjusting the silver-white wig upon my head. The black tailcoat with its pristine white stripes, pressed to perfection the night before, hung waiting on the stand. With meticulous care, I fastened the coat, smoothed the spotless gloves, and stepped into the lambskin dress shoes. The mirror reflected a figure of impeccable bearing.

In the corridor, I crossed paths with Rhodes from the neighboring quarters. No words were exchanged—only a hurried nod as we dashed toward the servants’ hall.

Below, chaos reigned. A junior housemaid, her white apron smudged with soot, struggled to light the grand fireplace. The air thickened with acrid smoke—damp kindling betraying her inexperience.

“Good heavens!” came the sharp cry of Mrs. Rachelia, the housekeeper, her eyes flashing with exasperation. “Must you turn breakfast into a suffocation chamber for Their Lordships? Open the windows at once!” With a clap of her hands, she summoned others to rectify the blunder.

Mrs. Rachelia, Baker Manor’s iron-willed matron in her forties, wore severity like a second skin. Her chestnut hair was coiled into an unyielding bun, her plain black dress devoid of frivolity. Under her gimlet gaze, even seasoned staff quailed—as did the trembling maid now shrinking before her.

The servants’ hall hummed with subdued activity when I entered. Along the lengthy oak table, rows of footmen in identical livery and a dozen maids in crisp uniforms stood at attention. I took my place at the far end—the designated station for junior staff—beside Rhodes, who leaned in to whisper about a comely new maid across the table.

Abruptly, the murmurs died. All rose as one when Mr. Pod, the butler, entered. Silence pooled around his footsteps until he claimed the head seat, his arrival marking the unspoken law of hierarchy that governed our world.

Having served at Baker Manor for nearly four decades, Pod had aged from a sprightly young man into one with silvered hair. It was said his family had stewarded the estate for generations, and now his son, still in secondary school, would inherit the position upon graduation. Time had etched its marks upon his face, yet the rhythm of his days remained unchanged through the years.

With a quiet wave of his hand, Pod signaled for the assembled staff to be seated, and the meal commenced in solemn silence. Not a word was spoken, nor an unnecessary movement made, as everyone attended to their plates with brisk efficiency.

Suddenly, a bell chimed. Against the pristine white walls hung two rows of bells, one of which now trembled with urgency. The housekeeper, Rachelia, rose at once. “Her Ladyship has awakened. Bring up the coffee,” she declared. No sooner had she spoken than Her Ladyship’s two lady’s maids abandoned their cutlery and hurried toward the kitchen. One by one, the servants departed from the table.

Rhodes and I proceeded to the main dining hall, where we carefully folded the white damask tablecloth from the long table and placed it in a basket. Then, we unfurled a freshly laundered replacement, smoothing it over the polished surface with meticulous care. A few stubborn creases remained. Seizing the iron filled with boiling water, I pressed them out until the linen lay flawlessly flat.

Just then, two senior footmen entered, bearing a side table laden with silverware. “Too slow. Is this still not done?” one remarked coldly. Retrieving the iron, I bowed slightly. “It is ready now.”

With practiced precision, the senior footmen began arranging the silver. Then, one cast a dismissive glance our way. “Why are you still here? Attend to your own duties!” Rhodes lingered, eager to observe the placement of the cutlery—knowledge forbidden to junior footmen like us. But the seniors would tolerate no such presumption, ushering us out with icy finality.

Resigned, Rhodes and I retreated to the kitchen, where chaos reigned. The head chef, a barrel-chested titan, commanded his battalion of kitchen maids like a monarch overseeing his court. Steam rose from freshly plated dishes, each swiftly covered with gleaming silver cloches.

Accepting a laden tray, I carried it to the dining hall entrance, standing rigidly at attention until the family arrived to be served. Rhodes, balancing his own tray beside me, muttered about the senior footmen. “Who do they think they are? Insufferable.”

I hushed him. “Lower your voice—walls have ears.”

“One day,” he vowed, “I’ll be Viscount’s valet.”

“You’ll need literacy for that,” I reminded him under my breath.

“I’m learning my letters,” he countered. “Had Brant fetch me a book last month.” Then, eyeing the ashen sky through the window, he asked, “Looks foul out. Will you go home today?”

“I requested leave from Mr. Pod three months ago,” I replied. “Only half a day’s holiday, rain or shine, I must return.”

“Return for what? To hand all your wages to that drunken mother of yours?” Rhodes sneered.

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

“Let’s hope she doesn’t trade it all for gin the moment you hand it over,” Rhodes scoffed. “You’d be better off buying yourself a new pair of shoes.”

I glanced down at my lambskin heels. Though carefully polished to a shine, the frayed seams betrayed their age. It was hardly respectable—if Head Steward Pod noticed, I might be dismissed for bringing shame upon Baker Manor.

“A cobbler’s touch will suffice,” I muttered, though in truth, my stockings were threadbare as well, and in dire need of replacement.

Clad in worn shoes, darned stockings, and a patched shirt beneath my livery, I cut a far sorrier figure than in my past life. I remembered then—freshly hired as a junior footman at Baker Manor, clutching my first wages with ambition aflame. Back then, I’d spent every penny on decent attire, books to master spelling and sums, even bribing senior footmen to school me in etiquette.

The hurried day had finally drawn to a close. Carrying a basket of bread baked by the cook, I walked along the country lane. The Yorkshire countryside in early winter lay desolate, with wild grasses overgrown and the occasional shepherd driving his flock past. Black-faced sheep grazed leisurely while a mongrel dog chased about.

I took a deep breath, exhaling plumes of white mist. My nose must have turned red from the cold, and I struggled slightly for air. The sensation unsettled me, stirring memories of a similar agony…

A man stricken with severe typhoid fever lay upon a tattered bed, laboring for each breath. A priest stood by his side and asked, “Are you Toker?” Gasping, pale-faced and wide-eyed with fear, the man rasped, “Father… why are you here? Have you come… to administer… the Last Rites…?”

The priest replied, “No, I shall not give you the Sacrament—you will recover. I am here only because… should you wish to seize this opportunity for confession, I would welcome it. As a shepherd, I seize every chance to reclaim my lost sheep.”

After a long silence, the man gave a faint, wheezing nod. The priest began, “The mercy of God is boundless, my child. Repeat after me: ‘I confess to Almighty God… to blessed Mary, ever Virgin…'” He paused intermittently, allowing the dying man to follow.

Finally, the priest said, “Now, confess your sins…” The man murmured something, as though expending his last strength. He repeated, “I deceived him… betrayed him…”

The priest responded, “You have sinned by deceiving another.” The man’s breathing grew more ragged, his body convulsing as tears streamed down his face. Again and again, he whispered to himself, “Deceived him… betrayed him…”

After one final spasm, his breaths slowed, then ceased. The priest laid a crucifix upon him and turned to a neighbor nearby. “Did he have any kin?” The neighbor answered, “I don’t know. He always lived alone…”

A cold gust swept past, and I shuddered, trying to shake off the memory. The chill of death still felt as fresh as yesterday. A daze came over me—was I still dreaming?

I am a lost sheep, burdened with sin. I do not know if the Lord has forgiven me. If He has, why does yesterday’s torment replay itself? If He has not, why have I been allowed to return, bearing this wretched memory…?