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Mother left early the next morning after breakfast. We said our goodbyes outside in the cold air and embraced. She urged me to ‘work hard and be good’. Then off she went back to Chelmsford with the local farmer on his cart. I felt sad to see her go, but eager to embark on my new life at the rectory now that Sebastian had turned out to be more palatable than the ancient master I had envisioned working for.
When I went back into the warm kitchen, Maggie was fussing over a plump plucked chicken and smearing it with yellow lard. Still feeling hungry, I eyed the bread, butter, and golden honey laid out on the table.
‘Have some more, and there’s a fresh pot of tea made if you’d like another cup,’ said Maggie, flipping the chicken on its back. She didn’t have to tell me twice. Plentiful food was a luxury after barely existing. So I ate, drank, and watched as she inserted handfuls of sage and onion stuffing into the chicken and trussed it with twine.
‘Father Fannon likes a good roast chicken, he does, especially one that’s been well stuffed,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling at me. I commented that it seemed like a large chicken for one man to eat all by himself. But Maggie assured me we would be helping him to eat it, and she planned on making soup and a pie with the leftovers. Despite having had a second breakfast, my mouth watered.
After I’d cleared away the breakfast things, my first task that morning was to dust the books in Sebastian’s study, which led off from the drawing room. I hadn’t noticed any door in the room, but Maggie shooed me out of the kitchen, handing me a duster before I could ask exactly where it was. Sebastian was at church, I assumed.
I went into the drawing room and began searching for the door to the study. After several minutes of aimlessly wandering around and half-heartedly dusting the vases on the sideboard, I came across a black oak door in a small alcove tucked away at the back of the room.
To my amazement, inside was a library room filled floor to ceiling with books. In the middle, surrounded by that literary ocean, was a small writing desk covered with papers and a pot of ink with a quill. Light spilled through a window that had been inset into the bookshelves and a chaise longue in green-and-white-striped silk fitted snugly underneath.
I had never seen so many books. I breathed in that special papery smell that only books seem to exude. As I walked around, my fingertips touched their spines reverently; some seemed fit for kings with rich gold lettering and leather bindings.
One caught my attention more than the others, and I carefully drew it out of the shelf for a closer look. It was a slim volume with a midnight-blue cover and a sprinkling of silver stars on either side of the title. The lettering of the title was also silver and quite long. I touched the letters on the cover expectantly, as if by some miracle, I would be able to read what it said.
‘Ah, a fine choice!’ a male voice said behind me. ‘I’ve had many a good chuckle at the adventures of Lord Alby and his irreverent escapades.’
I turned, and Sebastian was there, peering over my shoulder.
‘Oh!’ I said quickly, feeling my face turn red. ‘I didn’t hear you come in, sir. I was just dusting the books.’ But then unable to help myself, I added, ‘But, Father—I mean, sir, what is this book called?’
Sebastian took the book from my hand and asked, ‘Do you not know, child?’
I shook my head, feeling ashamed. ‘No, sir, I cannot read.’
‘Well then,’ said Sebastian, his green-grey eyes looking into mine intently. ‘There’s no shame in that, Mercy. Most of my parish cannot read. The book is called The Mishaps and Misfortunes of My Misspent Youth in Venice, and it’s by Lord Albert P. Ryder—a most delightful scoundrel if ever there was one.’
He went on to tell me that young men, particularly rich ones, go on a grand tour of Europe, where they learn about art and history and other such things and come back enriched and educated by all the sights they have seen. Lord Alby was one such young man who had toured Italy and was so captivated by Venice and all that went on there that he felt compelled to write about it.
‘What went on there?’ I asked, intrigued. Sebastian shuffled his feet slightly and averted his eyes. I noticed he wasn’t wearing his starched black rector’s clothing but was in well-cut soft beige breeches and a loose white overshirt with a plunging neckline as one might wear as a nightshirt to bed. He seemed more comfortable in this attire, but it struck me as a strange outfit for a rector to wear. I tried not to look at his chest, which was smooth and slightly pinkish, as if he’d taken a little too much sun.
‘Oh, just a bit of nonsense, child. Ahem. But look, I must let you get on with what you were doing. Time’s ticking by, and it’ll be time for luncheon shortly.’ Sebastian handed me the book to insert back on the shelf and walked to the door. By the entrance, he paused and turned to look at me thoughtfully. ‘There’s not much point having all these books if there’s only me to read them. Would you like me to teach you?’
I gaped at him. ‘Oh, yes please, sir!’ He nodded and smiled softly to himself, then slipped out the door. Inserting Lord Alby’s book back into the bookshelf, I resumed dusting. But all the time, I was thinking hard about what Sebastian had said, my heart thudding with expectation.
***
My reading lessons began in earnest the next afternoon in Sebastian’s study or what I thought of privately as ‘the library room’. They continued in the following weeks for an hour each day in the late afternoon when I had finished my duties.
Sometimes Maggie brought in tea and also cake if she had been baking. If she thought anything about my lessons, she kept it to herself, only saying once when she brought in the tea, ‘Father Fannon is doing you a great favour, my dear.’ Then she pursed her lips and said nothing else about it.
Sebastian’s tutoring method was straightforward. Once I had learnt the letters of the alphabet and their sounds, he read children’s stories aloud to me, pointing to each word on the page until I could recognise which words made which sounds. Lo and behold, after a month of stuttering my way through, I could read simple text without too much trouble. He also gave me a small blackboard and a piece of chalk, and I practised writing simple sentences at night in my room until my eyes gave out trying to see by the flickering candle.
During this time, I felt a strange sense of destiny, purpose, and hope all mixed together. Perhaps my life would amount to something and not be ruined, as I was sure it would be, because of the pox. I found myself pondering possibilities and dreaming of things that were quite above my station. Maybe one day I could write a book too. A book like Lord Alby’s—an adventurous one! I knew it was wrong, but I could not help it. Sebastian had opened a door in my mind, and there was no going back.
One afternoon, it was quite mild, as if the season had forgotten it was almost winter. Sebastian said he was so pleased with my progress that we should take our books outdoors as there would not be too many more afternoons like this.
Readily, I agreed and ran to the kitchen to collect my shawl; the sun still hurt my eyes and would burn my scarred skin. Wrapping the shawl around my head, I made my way to the old weeping willow in the field at the back of the house.
There was enough heat in the air to feel oppressive, as if a thunderstorm were brewing. It was hot and sticky, and I was glad to reach the cool shade of the willow. Father Fannon poked his head out through the leaves and looked at me.
‘Will you not take off your shawl and get some sun, child? It’ll be winter soon, and then we’ll all be crying out for it.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t, Father. The sun burns my face now after ... after my sickness.’ I felt suddenly depressed as I remembered why I was now different from everyone else.
‘Pah, the pox!’ said Sebastian, shaking his head so the willow leaves rustled. ‘How I hate the Speckled Monster! This summer, we were luckier than Chelmsford, but we’ve had our own share of it in Braintree. The year I arrived, people were dropping like flies. It’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever encountered. I myself was inoculated in Constantinople some years ago, so it cannot touch me. But my heart goes out to those afflicted and to those like you, Mercy, struggling to deal with its ... consequences.’
