AllFreeNovel
Share Us
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.’
