Chapter 2
Chelmsford, 1766
One day, several months after I’d recovered from the pox, my mother told me she was putting an advertisement in The Chelmsford Chronicle to offer my services as a housemaid. I was flabbergasted that she would do this to me.
No matter how much I protested, she wasn’t to be swayed, and I knew she was desperate for money. With the death of my father, who had been the village blacksmith, we were struggling to make ends meet. Many an evening, my mother cried in the kitchen as she cut up the last of the bread or served my sister and me an apple each for supper. We had some help from the parish, but not enough to feed the three of us. Now I was to be ousted from my house into someone else’s to become their maid. And then there was the matter of how I now looked.
I shrunk at the thought of strangers seeing me and pulled my grey shawl tighter round my shoulders. The days were cooler now that summer was over, and it was a relief to have some kind of covering to protect myself from prying eyes—not that I ventured out much anymore.
‘Mercy, be grateful that you’ve had the pox,’ said my mother, seeing my action. ‘There’s many a girl who can’t be employed at this time because people think she may bring it into their homes.’
One scant advantage of contracting the pox and surviving was that you were immune to the disease forever after. But this knowledge did little to comfort me, for my life was no longer worth living. I had become a creature to be pitied, avoided, or stared at. Oh, and they did stare and remark.
‘That’s all very well,’ I replied. ‘But there are those who won’t like to be reminded of it every time they see my face.’
Before the pox, I used to be happy and carefree. But I had become a much-altered girl, one that brooded sullenly on her appearance and who shrunk at the slightest sideways glance. I felt like a monster; and I acted like one—preferring darkened rooms and being alone. My reflection was an enemy that I would try to befriend, but even a slivered glimpse of the crude pockmarks scattered across my cheeks and forehead was enough to sink my heart like a stone.
The pox, though I’d survived it, had scarred me for life. So I didn’t feel grateful that I’d had it. I was only sorry I had missed my chance when Death had come calling.
***
The advertisement was answered by the rector of Braintree, a small market town just north of us.
Father Sebastian Fannon said in the letter he wrote to my mother that he wished for my services to begin next week. He sounded ancient, and I could only imagine what kind of disarray I would find. I was still quite weak and barely able to keep my own bedroom neat and tidy, let alone clean a whole house.
As my leave-taking grew closer, I tortured myself with thoughts of how Father Fannon and his household would despise me as soon as they saw me.
Too soon for my liking, the day arrived. It was arranged that Mother was to accompany me on the four-hour journey to the rectory and stay overnight to help me settle in. She was then to return to Chelmsford the following day.
My mood that Monday morning was as grey as the early-morning sky. I embraced my younger sister briefly and lifted my small bag into the cart, which was tethered to an impatient horse. The local boy we had hired for the journey was having trouble restraining it from tossing its head about. But once we got moving, it calmed down and clopped steadily down the road with an occasional snort in the brisk autumn air. Summer was well and truly over; and so, it seemed, was my freedom.
We kept a leisurely pace down the narrow country lane, and though it was barely light, I kept my grey shawl fastened tightly round my head so it covered most of my face. It hindered conversation and also served to keep me warm and protect me from the curious glances that we received from the odd passer-by.
Mother tried at first to make conversation about how wonderful it was that I was going into paid employment. But as she would be getting the majority of my wages, I couldn’t share the sentiment. Unable to contend with my monosyllabic grunts, she lapsed into silence; and we clopped along, stopping only for a quick lunch of bread and cheese on the roadside.
It was early afternoon when we reached the outskirts of Braintree, and I felt light-headed with fear. I was neither emotionally nor mentally prepared for what lay ahead.
‘Well, here we are then,’ my mother said brightly, looking around with interest as we passed some small thatched cottages, but they were hardly any different from those in our own town. The dark clouds that had been overhead all morning had dissipated, and I felt the sun warming the top of my head, and my spirits rose somewhat. Perhaps, just perhaps, I would cope.
We clopped through the main street, which was much quieter than Chelmsford’s bustle, but I kept my head down anyway. The rectory was the last property of the town, situated away from the main thoroughfare in its own grounds. It was an imposing three-storey red-brick structure with two large bay windows out front and two smaller dormer windows upstairs. A groomed gravel drive, bordered by a carefully clipped box hedge, wound its way up to a black oak front door. Beds of white dahlias bloomed beneath the bay windows.
The place was certainly bigger and grander than I had expected. For my mother also, by the way she was gaping with an open mouth. We had expected Braintree’s rectory to be on a par with that of our own modest parish, but it appeared we were wrong. At least I won’t have to worry about getting paid, I thought.
We got out of the cart and stood there for some minutes before the horse decided it had had enough of us and started wandering off back the way it had come. Since Mother had arranged a lift home with a local farmer, she called out to the boy that she would pay him when she returned. He raised a hand as they ambled off down the road.
As much as I wanted to walk on that nicely raked gravel drive, we found the servants’ path and made our way round to the back door. Upon knocking, we were greeted by a kind-faced woman who introduced herself as Margaret, Father Fannon’s cook.
She was as all cooks should be: rosy-cheeked, wide-hipped, and displaying a comforting manner which immediately put me at ease. We were bustled into a large airy kitchen with a well-scrubbed wooden table and a black leaded stove.
‘Well, my dear, let’s have your shawl. It’s warm in here, so you shan’t have need of it.’ Margaret held out her hand and slowly, I unwrapped my shawl and gave it to her. To give her credit, Margaret didn’t flinch, but her eyes widened fractionally when she glimpsed my face. We stared at each other for a second, and I thought I saw pity in her expression. But then it was gone, and she smiled broadly at me and hung my shawl on a nearby hook.
‘Now then, my dear, would you like to see your room? It’s in the attic, but quite comfortable.’ I nodded, wondering if I was to be sharing the space.
‘You’ll be on your own. There are no other servants here but me and a man from the town who comes weekly to do the garden,’ she supplied, as if guessing my thoughts. ‘The last girl we had left rather suddenly like. So Father Fannon has been doing what he can to keep things tidy, but you know what men are like.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Them’s idea of cleanliness is not that of a woman’s.’
‘Is Father Fannon at home?’ asked my mother expectantly.
Margaret waved a hand nonchalantly as she hefted my bag with ease up the kitchen staircase leading to the first floor.
‘He’s off communing with nature as it’s fine afternoon but he’ll be in shortly to meet you,’ she said. ‘The back of the house opens out onto a field. So he often takes walks, sketches, or sometimes holds informal Bible studies.’
My mother raised her eyebrows at this, but to me, Father Fannon sounded rather interesting. Perhaps he wasn’t an ancient stick-in-the-mud as I had thought.
We reached the top of the stairs, and I saw that an intricately woven carpet runner stretched down the hallway to the main stairwell. My mother remarked on its fineness.
‘Oh yes, Father Fannon got that from his trip to Constantinople. ’Twas a mission to send it here, but he insisted on having it,’ huffed Margaret as she proceeded up the next flight of stairs.
I lingered behind, seeing a number of framed pictures mounted on the left-hand wall. I looked closer and saw they were pencil sketches of plants and trees. The right-hand side of the hallway was taken up with a series of latticed windows that faced the open field Margaret had described.
I peered through and thought I saw a figure moving briskly towards a large weeping willow. The glass was so smeared and grubby, though, that I couldn’t be sure. I made a mental note to put cleaning the windows at the top of my list of jobs.
My room was up a very narrow winding flight of stairs. Despite being in the attic, it was much brighter and more comfortable than my dark poky room at home, which, although it had been scrubbed thoroughly and all my clothes and bed linen burnt, held unwelcome memories of my sickness.
‘This is nice,’ said my mother as we looked around. The white-walled room had a sloping ceiling that, had I been taller, would’ve caused me to constantly duck my head. It was clean but sparsely furnished with a small oak dresser, a hard-backed chair, and a single bed made up with a plain white coverlet dotted with small scarlet roses. A fitting coverlet for one such as me, I thought ruefully, bouncing on the bed to test the mattress. It was firm, but not too hard.
I crossed to the window, which looked out onto the gravel path below and beyond to the road. If I kept myself concealed behind the soft blue curtain, I would be able to see anyone who approached the house, and they would not see me.
A door slammed somewhere below in the main part of the house, and Margaret started.
‘Lord love us, that’ll be Father Fannon come to meet you, and here’s me not even with the kettle on. Mrs Graham, you’ll be in with me for t’night in my room off the kitchen. Shall we get you settled in down there? Mercy, we’ll give you a moment to unpack. Just come down when you’re ready. The drawing room’s down the hallway from the kitchen, opposite the dining room. The first door on the right.’
I nodded.
‘Don’t say much, does she?’ I heard her comment to my mother as they went out of the room.
My heart was pounding as I left my room and ventured back downstairs to the warm kitchen. I breathed in the aroma of bread, rosemary, and freshly made seed cake. Then rather reluctantly, I set off to find the drawing room. I didn’t even know why it was called such a room. Is this where Father Fannon also does his sketching? I wondered.
I had changed into my best overskirt and a front-laced bodice of pale green. All had been newly acquired from the local seamstress on credit once my mother knew there’d be money coming in. A matching green velvet ribbon, last year’s birthday gift from Father, held back my dark hair. But however much I tried, I knew that my efforts to beautify myself were in vain. I could only hope that Father Fannon, being a man of God, would overlook the distasteful state of my face, for he would have far more opportunity to see it than I would.
I crept into the room so softly that Father Fannon didn’t see me at first, and I had the advantage of looking without being looked at. He was talking to my mother in the bay window while Margaret set up the tea on the sideboard.
He was much younger than I had thought, perhaps in his thirties, but only just, and of medium height and slim build. Thick flaxen hair fell in a lock over a broad forehead. He seemed ill at ease in a well-starched rector’s outfit with a black waistcoat, breeches, and a white silk cravat tied at his throat.
Margaret noticed me then and beckoned me to help her serve the tea, saying over her shoulder, ‘Father, here’s Mercy.’
Then before I knew it, my hand was taken in a warm grip, and I found myself staring into an inquisitive pair of green-grey eyes.
‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ said Father Fannon, scanning my face at a closer range than I would’ve liked.
‘How do you do, Father,’ I mumbled, dropping an awkward curtsy.
‘Oh, she does speak after all,’ I heard Margaret say and chuckle to herself.
‘Well, of course she does,’ said Father Fannon, helping himself to a slice of seed cake and sprinkling the carpet liberally with crumbs. Margaret subtly handed him a plate.
‘Mercy and I will be great friends, won’t we, child?’ he continued, sitting on the sofa and crossing his legs stiffly. I passed him a cup of tea.
‘Er ... yes ... Father,’ I said, not too sure about being called ‘child’ by a man barely out of his twenties. I myself was 18 years old.
‘Oh please, call me Sebastian. I can’t stand all this “Father” business, though I know Maggie here won’t hear of calling me anything else. Thinks she might get struck by lightning otherwise.’
He laughed at this, spraying more crumbs on the carpet. I wondered if I would have to clean them up. Margaret, or should I say Maggie, handed my mother a plate with a piece of cake and gestured to the sofa. Mother looked a bit surprised to be invited to sit with the rector but obediently took her seat next to him.
‘Well now, Father, if I may say, it is your title. And who am I to disrespect a man of the cloth?’ Maggie said, pouring tea for Mother. Sebastian seemed to find this very funny and guffawed loudly. Luckily, he wasn’t chewing on any cake this time.
My mother raised her eyebrows at me as if to say ‘Is this man mentally unhinged? Perhaps this was a mistake.’
Indeed, Sebastian seemed unlike any rector I had ever met. When I thought of our own in Chelmsford, with his balding head, spectacles, and habit of sticking his beak into everyone’s business, the difference was as chalk to cheese. Sebastian’s kindly, relaxed manner was refreshing and I felt relieved that I wasn’t going to be scorned as I had feared.