Chapter 2

Our family had been tenant farmers on the Baker estate for generations. Lord Lloyd, the viscount, was an exceedingly miserly landlord who imposed exorbitant taxes. The peasants toiled on the barren land, only to surrender the greater part of their harvest to the estate. By my father’s time, war had broken out, and life grew even harder.

When I was twelve, my father left the village for the town and never returned. My mother bore four children—two sisters, a brother, and me. The youngest, Boal, was barely a year old. As for who his father was, only God could say. From childhood, I knew nothing but hunger and rags.

Back then, I yearned for the life of the gentry, envying the well-dressed servants of the Baker estate. So when I finally became a footman there, I foolishly believed I had shed my wretched, lowly existence and risen among the better sort. But reality soon struck me like a blow to the head.

As I entered the village, the locals greeted me eagerly. “Look! Toker’s back!” someone cried. “Brant’s boy has made something of himself—he’s a footman in the viscount’s household now! Look at his fine clothes!” another marveled. “He looks just like one of those noble gentlemen—that wig of his shines like silver,” a voice mused. Yet amid the praise came a mutter: “Why should he get to be a footman? My son begged just to be a stablehand, and they turned him away.”

Struggling in my heeled shoes along the rutted path, I finally reached home. Our family crowded into a ramshackle wooden cottage, fenced in by a rickety hedge. A few threadbare garments dried on the cart by the door, and a hen pecked lazily at the dirt.

Mother and my sisters welcomed me warmly. The children marveled at the bread I’d brought, while Mother wasted no time demanding my wages. She was a stout woman now, though once she had been the beauty of the countryside. But after Father vanished, she took to drink, starving herself if need be so long as she had gin.

In my past life, I had despised her for always hounding me for coin. She claimed it was for food for my siblings, yet every penny went to the bottle. My wages were meager enough, and what with the costly trappings I had to maintain, I soon stopped giving her anything—cut ties entirely. Years later, I lost all word of them. Even the neighbors knew not where they had gone.

My mother looked at me and chattered away, “When you first said you wanted to work as a footman at the manor, I thought you were joking. Never did I imagine you’d rise so high. I’m so proud of you—the whole village envies me. That old man at the village gate has approached me several times, wanting to marry his daughter to you. But I’d never agree! That girl looks like a goat.”

I handed her all my wages and reminded her, “Use this to buy food.” Her face lit up with joy as she took the money in both hands, carefully tucking it into her apron. Glancing at the bread I’d brought back, she added, “Next time, don’t trouble yourself with bringing bread. Just give me the money—we can bake our own.”

My sister Jasmine, now fifteen, bloomed like a radiant flower, vibrant and full of life. She ran her fingers over my coat and asked, “What’s this made of? It feels so soft—it must be wonderfully warm.” I explained that this black-and-white striped footman’s livery was standard-issue wool from the manor, one to each servant, and easily my most valuable possession.

Little Grace, meanwhile, bombarded me with questions: “Tell us about the manor! What does the Viscount look like? Is the Viscountess beautiful? Do they wear dresses made of silk?” I laughed and indulged them with stories of the estate, their eyes wide with fascination as they hung on every word.

Jasmine gasped now and then, exclaiming, “How marvelous! I’m so envious—could I become a maid there too? Brother, could you ask that Mr. Pod for me?” I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. Those maids are specially trained—they don’t take country girls.” She pouted. “But you’re from the countryside, and they took you!”

I chuckled. “If there’s ever an opening in the kitchen, I’ll put in a word.” But Jasmine stood firm. “I won’t be a kitchen maid. I want to serve the ladies—to touch those exquisite silk gowns and dazzling jewels.”

With only half a day’s leave, I soon had to depart. Bathed in the warm afternoon sun, I hurried back, arriving at Baker Manor just before three o’clock.

Baker Manor was vast—a pale-yellow castle standing at the heart of the sprawling plains, like a wedge of cheese from afar. Yet as one drew near, its true grandeur became undeniable. The fortress sat on a square foundation, a three-story structure housing hundreds of rooms, endless identical corridors, and staircases. When I first arrived, I often got lost—it took months to learn my way around.

The master of the castle was Viscount Lloyd, who, together with his wife, had four children: the eldest son Belon and three beautiful daughters. Belon had been married for years to Vivian, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, yet despite their considerable fortune, the couple remained childless. Among the three young ladies, the eldest, Cheryl, was already wed, while the second and third daughters remained unmarried.

Once, their days had been tranquil and undisturbed. Like all nobility, they reveled in their privileged lives, surrounded by laughter and merriment. Each day was spent savoring fine cuisine and wine, riding and hunting, attending lavish balls—carefree and untroubled. Yet all of this came to an abrupt end today…

The moment I stepped into the castle, I knew history was repeating itself, with no surprises. The servants wore grave expressions, moving about in hushed urgency. Rhodes and the maid Lizbeth quietly informed me, “A terrible thing has happened—young Master Lloyd fell from his horse and broke his neck…”

That night, the castle lay in deathly silence, broken only by occasional muffled sobs. The family was consumed by grief, while the servants remained awake all night, ready to attend to their needs at any moment.

Lizbeth, a lovely lower maid with fiery red hair and a passionate nature, sat by the dim candlelight, stitching as she sighed softly, “Irene has been crying nonstop. I do wish she could find some comfort.”

Rhodes sneered coldly, “Of course she’s crying. She lost her virtue in young Master Lloyd’s bed just last week, and now he’s dead without leaving her a single penny. How pitiful.”

Lizbeth shot him a furious glare. “You truly are a despicable creature.”

“Whether I’m detestable is none of your concern. There are far graver matters at hand—with young Master Lloyd dead, who shall inherit the viscountcy?” Rhodes remarked with keen interest.

“All those highborn sycophants groveling at his feet these years—what a wasted effort. And those senior chambermaids—which of them hasn’t warmed his bed? They must be weeping in hiding now.”

“Must you paint everyone with such a foul brush?” Lizbeth snapped.

“I merely speak the truth. Did the viscount have brothers?” Rhodes pressed on.

“How should I know? Presumably, yes,” Lizbeth replied.

“He did,” I interjected. “His lordship had a brother—a baron—though he passed many years ago.”

“How would you know that?” Rhodes looked startled. “Did the late baron leave any heirs?”

Gazing at the flickering candlelight, I gave a slight nod. “Yes. He had a son, who has since inherited the barony.”

“Then how old is he? Is he wed? Any children? What of his character?” Rhodes fired off in rapid succession.

“How would Toker know such details? All will be revealed when the gentleman arrives at Baker Manor,” Lizbeth dismissed.

The candle flame crackled softly, its light wavering. Staring into its glow, I murmured, “Indeed. Once he arrives… all will be clear.”