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I shut down my computer and rubbed my aching neck. The light was fading outside. Becca had left half an hour ago. After reading the first chapter of Mercy’s book and finding out her last name was Graham, I’d become distracted by the thought of her father and wondered if he’d died of smallpox. It seemed likely since it was highly contagious and she herself had had it. Perhaps her father had cared for her and caught it. Or was it the other way round?
As the mortality data I was compiling happened to include Chelmsford in 1766, I’d spent the rest of the afternoon sifting through the Chelmsford Parish Church records for any mention of Graham. There were numerous smallpox deaths in the months before Mercy left for the rectory and some names so hastily scrawled I could only imagine that the church graveyard was in high demand. I had read several other accounts of mass graves being dug to keep up with the mounting toll of the dead, which made my job harder in trying to find one man as often there was only a first name and a date. But my thoroughness paid off. I found mention of one ‘John Graham, blacksmith, PH d 10 June 1766’. ‘PH’ referred to ‘pesthouse’, so it looked like I had my answer. Mercy’s father had died of smallpox, leaving a widow and two children—one of them who not only had contracted the disease and lived to tell the tale but also had written her tale down.
My mind whirled with the possibility of this rare find—an intimate personal account of a pox survivor! I hoped, as the story progressed, she’d reveal more information about her experience as, up until now, Jeremy’s book had been looking rather dry. Mortality stats were all very well, but I knew he was interested in the social impact as well—the psychological effects and the stigma associated with the disease. This woman’s insights could add depth and meaning to his text.
Other questions had sprung up as well as I’d discovered from the flyleaf that the book had been printed in Venice. How on earth did a maid from Chelmsford end up a contessa in Venice? And how had she learnt to read and write so well? Literacy rates were lower amongst the English working classes in rural areas, but perhaps she had attended a charity school. It was all a mystery, but one I was eager to solve.
I wrapped the book in the acid-free tissue paper it had come in and placed it, along with a pair of white gloves, carefully in my handbag. Taking a rare book off-site was a big no-no, and I wasn’t exactly sure why I didn’t just leave it at work and resume reading tomorrow. Perhaps it was Becca’s announcement and me being the last to find out or Jeremy ogling Irish Lucy. Something inside me was wanting to rebel. But I couldn’t waste time dwelling on my actions. A monthly movie night was being held at my flat, and I had to buy snacks and wine and eat dinner.
Walking down the empty corridor and past Jeremy’s office, I wondered if he’d left. Sometimes he worked late, but there was no strip of light under his door, so I assumed he had. Letting myself out of the building’s main entrance, I walked down the path, looking up at the pinkening clouds and enjoying the cool air after being inside all day. I rubbed my neck again and felt glad of a relaxing evening ahead with my friends.
Isabel, Eleanor, Lily, and I were diehard Jane Austen fans; and we watched any movie and documentary we could get our hands on. Tonight was the latest remake of Emma, which we’d seen three times already. But as Isabel said, ‘There are nuances!’ I was looking forward to chilling out, eating junk food, and swooning over Regency dresses (and Mr Knightley).
I was about to head through the wrought-iron gate when I caught sight of Jeremy leaning against the bonnet of his car, facing away from me. My pulse elevated, thinking that I might exchange words with him before he drove home. Even a ‘Good night, Anna’ and a smile would be enough to keep me going, and I could transfer his face onto Mr Knightley’s when I was watching the movie. But I heard him call out a greeting to someone approaching from the other direction, and losing my nerve, I backed away and hid behind the nearest bush. A female voice replied, and there was the sound of kissing—whether on cheeks or lips, I couldn’t tell. Oh god, he was going on a date. Another one!
I pressed my own lips together tightly and breathed hard through my nose while attempting to see what his date looked like. She must’ve been a lot shorter than the bush I was currently peering through as I couldn’t make her out.
Tentatively, I lifted my head up, trying to see through the branches and over the low stone wall. I made out a pair of slim legs encased in tan stockings and the flurry of a floral skirt whisking into the front seat of Jeremy’s black open-top MINI Cooper. The car started up; and the pair of them drove off to indulge in an evening of, I assumed, carnal bliss.
Jeremy had the knack of making women feel special. I knew that very well, and from what I could gather from faculty gossip (Becca) and my own observations (lurking behind bushes), he went on a lot of dates. Was he indeed picky and saving himself for The One or trying to find The One by dating every woman in Oxford between the ages of 30 and 40?
I was starting to feel like a ridiculous nobody, watching and waiting in the wings. But I couldn’t seem to control how I felt about him.
I visited the Sainsbury’s near my flat and loaded up a basket with crisps, nuts, and a couple of bottles of rosé. When I got home, I barely had time to heat a fish pie in the microwave, gulp it down, and chuck some crisps in a bowl before the buzzer rang.
‘Come up!’
Everyone came piling in the door at once with hugs and kisses. I ushered them through to the lounge while Isabel sorted out the wine and some glasses.
‘Is this new?’ asked Eleanor, inspecting the side lamp next to the couch. I flushed a little. I’d bought it last Saturday. Poking around in antique stores was now a hobby of mine after Jeremy mentioned one day it was something he liked to do at weekends. But I hadn’t bumped into him. Yet. Meanwhile, I figured if I didn’t want to look like a pseudo-stalker, I should purchase a few pieces so I could show them to him if he ever came round.
‘It’s new slash old,’ I replied, settling onto the couch. ‘I got it at Antiques on High. Cool, isn’t it?’ The lamp was ornate, having a turquoise decorative base with a delicate flowered shade adorned with amber crystal teardrops.
‘Very,’ she replied. ‘A good find.’ Short-haired and brisk-faced, Eleanor was also a history aficionado; she worked in the same building, but in another section researching the Victorian era. We sometimes met up for lunch. I’d invited her along to our monthly evenings as she’d mentioned that she too was a Jane Austen fan, and she’d got on instantly with Isabel and Lily.
‘As long as it works OK,’ commented Lily, who was on the other side of me, her long legs stretched out on the ottoman. ‘You don’t want your flat burning down.’ Lily was a historical costume maker and often turned up wearing interesting items of clothing. Tonight, she was wearing pale pink lace-up stays over a white T-shirt and a long flowered skirt. With her curly blonde hair and English rose complexion, she looked like a contemporary milkmaid.
‘It’s fine. It’s got a certificate,’ I told her, trying not to show my irritation as Eleanor tested the lamp by flicking it on and off.
Isabel, the fourth member of our group, appeared from the kitchen with a tray upon which was an open bottle of rosé, four glasses, a bowl of Wotsits, and another of crisps. She placed it on the ottoman and began pouring the wine while I searched for Emma in my list of TV movies.
‘Rosé, how civilised,’ said Eleanor, leaning forward from her perch on the end of the L-shaped couch and taking some Wotsits. ‘I think I’ll open one of my cans of cider if you don’t mind.’ She got up and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘After the day I’ve had, I don’t care what it is. I need alcohol,’ said Isabel with a sigh.
‘Why? What happened?’ Lily asked. I was wondering the same thing. Isabel was an art therapist, so it was common for her to have some interesting experiences at work.
‘Oh, I’ve been working with a client going through a break-up. I can’t go into details, but let’s just say she formed an interesting phallic shape with her clay, and it got thrown violently against the wall.’
I raised my eyebrows at that, and I heard Lily give a muffled snigger.
‘Right. Does anyone need the loo? ’Cause I’m pushing play,’ I said.
Perhaps I was feeling overly sensitive tonight, but Mr Elton’s blatant disregard of Harriet despite her infatuation with him was annoying me. The fact that blonde Emma was reminding me of Irish Lucy wasn’t helping.
I squirmed, poured myself another glass of wine, and grumbled under my breath that Mr Elton was a dick.
Eleanor must’ve heard me as she said loud enough for the other two to hear, ‘Methinks we have Harriet in our midst.’ Lily giggled, then smothered it when Isabel, over by the ottoman, looked at her sharply. My gut twisted.
