Chapter 5

After dinner, the masters moved to the conservatory for tea. The conservatory was lavishly decorated, with pale purple wall coverings dotted with velvet yellow flowers. The seating was varied and complete, including benches, armchairs, ottomans, and small round stools. A black piano stood by the window, next to towering bookshelves.

The guests settled in small groups, the ladies whispering behind fluttering feather fans while the gentlemen spoke loudly and passionately. The butler nodded at me, and I followed him out of the parlor, where fewer hands were needed for the remaining tasks.

“You did well tonight,” the butler praised.

“You flatter me,” I replied modestly.

“Weston broke his leg, so you’ll temporarily take over his duties. If you perform well, I’ll recommend you for promotion to senior footman. Seize this opportunity.” He patted my shoulder.

I was slightly surprised to receive such an opportunity. As we walked, the butler grumbled, “Now I have to find a junior footman to replace you. Good help is hard to find in the countryside, and training another will be tedious.”

As we crossed the empty hallway, he suddenly asked, “What do you think of that baron?”

I glanced at the old butler, noticing a flicker of discomfort on his wrinkled face. “Don’t misunderstand—I’m not gossiping about our masters. It’s just…you know, I’m curious about your impressions. After all, he might become the new master of Baker Manor.”

“I only met him today, so it’s hard to say…but surely you’ve known him longer?” I asked.

“Not at all,” the butler replied. “Though our family has served the Lloyd Family for generations, this is my first time meeting young master Austin. His father didn’t get along with the viscount. If he’d just agree to marry one of the young ladies, everything would be settled. I just worry he won’t.”

“You needn’t fret too much. That gentleman seems respectable and will surely understand the viscount’s predicament,” I reassured him.

“I hope so. Keep tonight’s conversation strictly confidential,” the butler urged.

“Yes, sir,” I replied with a respectful bow.

“Get some rest. Tomorrow will reveal all,” the butler said.

The next day, after the masters finished breakfast, Lizbeth quietly told me, “The mistress’s maid Laila said that baron outright refused the marriage proposal and announced he’d leave the manor tomorrow. The mistress was furious.”

I stayed silent for a moment before resuming my work. Once the masters finished their meal, I sat quietly in the servants’ quarters, waiting to see how things unfolded. The fireplace crackled with flames, sparks snapping.

Two maids whispered as they embroidered. Outside, frost covered the windows, and the gloomy sky hinted at an approaching snowstorm.

After some time, the housekeeper Rachelia hurried in, ordering, “Quick! Prepare the braziers!”

I stood at once and asked, “What happened?”

The housekeeper looked pale and hesitant. I stepped closer and whispered, “What’s wrong? You don’t look well.”

Seeing the two maids had left, the housekeeper panicked, “Disaster has struck! What should we do?”

I soothed her, “Don’t panic. Tell me slowly—what happened?”

Her voice trembled, “How can I not panic? That man—he’s caught some filthy disease! He’ll be the death of us, heavens!”

I asked, “You mean the baron who arrived yesterday?”

“Who else? This morning, he didn’t rise, claiming he was ill with a fever. The doctor examined him and said it was just a mild fever. But by noon, red pustules broke out all over his face—one after another—it’s revolting! It’s smallpox!”

I hurriedly asked, “Has the doctor come again? Is he sure it’s smallpox?”

“The doctor suspects it’s smallpox, but he refuses to come anymore. The master and other guests are hiding in their rooms, too afraid to come out, and ordered me to burn, throw away, or bury everything he used yesterday.”

I tried to calm her, “It’s not confirmed yet, don’t panic yourself.”

She paced anxiously around the room. “What do you mean, not confirmed? One of his two servants has already fallen ill, feverish all over, with exactly the same symptoms. If it’s not smallpox, then what is it? The master, for the sake of face, still told me to find someone to care for him. It’s terrifying—he should just be sent away.”

“Who’s taking care of him now?” I asked.

“No one is willing to go, not even his healthy personal servant. He said he wants to resign.” The housekeeper seemed even more flustered.

“I’ll take care of him,” I suddenly said.

“What did you say?” she asked in shock.

“I said, I’ll take care of him.”

“Are you mad! It might be smallpox—catching it could kill you! Let some lower-ranking footman do it, there’s no need for you. Rhodes will do.”

At this time, my relationship with Rachelia was very good, completely opposite to the previous life.

“It’s fine, I’ll be okay. It probably isn’t smallpox.” I eventually persuaded Rachelia. Carrying a tray, I entered the baron’s room alone.

The room was dimly lit, with heavy crimson curtains covering the windows. On the wide bed, beneath deep blue bedding, a man lay quietly. His face was flushed, his breathing rapid, and his face covered in red rashes. He seemed to be sleeping restlessly.

I placed the tray on the bedside table—it held cold water. Gently touching his forehead, I was surprised by how hot it was. My movement woke him, and he stared at me for a moment before frowning and asking, “Who are you? Why are you in my room? Where’s my servant?”

His voice was hoarse and weak, as if speaking those few words exhausted him. “My lord, your personal servant is ill. I’ll be taking care of you during this time.” With one hand in front and one behind, I bowed slightly.

The room was very quiet. The fire in the fireplace had long gone out, leaving a chill in the air. He breathed heavily a few times, seeming to shiver, and said tremblingly, “I feel very cold.”

“I’ll light the fire now.” I walked to the fireplace and tried again to start the flames. I wasn’t skilled at this task, filling the room with smoke. By the time I returned to the bedside, he had fallen deeply asleep again.

I took out a piece of cotton cloth, soaked it in cold water, folded it neatly, and gently placed it on the baron’s forehead. There was a small stool by the bed, and I sat down quietly, trying not to make a sound. As the fireplace gradually warmed, the room grew cozier.

That afternoon, I sat by his side, changing the cloth on his forehead. As dusk fell, the room grew darker, and the glow from the fireplace flames cast light on his face. I couldn’t help but lose myself in thought.

The man on the bed woke up and tried to sit, but immediately vomited violently. His stomach was empty, so only bitter bile came up, staining the sheets and his underclothes. I helped him change out of the soiled clothes and found fresh sheets to replace them.

After vomiting, he seemed better. Sitting in a chair, he asked, “What illness do I have? Why hasn’t the doctor come to see me?” I lied, “There’s heavy snow outside—carriages can’t get through.”

He sat dazedly in the armchair, facing the mirror, and touched his face. Suddenly, he widened his eyes, gasped heavily, and demanded, “Tell me, what is this? What illness do I have? Where are my servants? The doctor? Call the doctor now!”

His bloodshot, wide-eyed stare frightened me. I comforted him, “It’s nothing, my lord, don’t panic.” But he lifted his clothes and looked at his chest, which was also covered in red rashes. Disbelieving, his lips trembled slightly, “What is this? Is it smallpox?”

“No, my lord,” I quickly said.

“No! Then tell me what this is! Call the doctor! Get the doctor here!” he shouted loudly, then coughed violently again. I patted his back to help him catch his breath and waited for him to calm slightly before saying, “The doctor will come once the weather improves outside.”

“The weather improves? You’re lying. They won’t come. They’re leaving me to die. Will I die?” he said, grabbing my hand, his face pale and expression panicked.

“No, my lord, I’ll take care of you. You’ll be fine,” I reassured him.

Exhausted, he leaned back in the armchair, stared at me for a moment, then suddenly asked, “What’s your name?”

“Toker, Toker Brant,” I answered.