Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter

  Rebecca Stubbs

  The Vicar’s Daughter

  © 2015 by Hannah Buckland

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-62020-543-3

  eISBN: 978-1-62020-451-1

  Scripture quotations taken from The Authorized Version.

  Cover Design and Page Layout by Hannah Nichols

  eBook Conversion by Anna Riebe Raats

  AMBASSADOR INTERNATIONAL

  Emerald House

  427 Wade Hampton Blvd.

  Greenville, SC 29609, USA

  www.ambassador-international.com

  AMBASSADOR BOOKS

  The Mount

  2 Woodstock Link

  Belfast, BT6 8DD, Northern Ireland, UK

  www.ambassadormedia.co.uk

  The colophon is a trademark of Ambassador

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank my father-in-law, who encouraged me to write in the first place, and Christine for seeing potential in Rebecca Stubbs. Hartelijke bedankt! Thanks also to Helen for her observant reading and special thanks to Dad, who ploughed through the story for agricultural or historic accuracy.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Contact Information

  INTRODUCTION

  For eleven months of every year, the picturesque oast houses that are so much a part of the Kentish landscape stood silent and still, their only inhabitants being farm machinery and field mice. But as August gave way to September and the hop bines in the field swayed heavily with green flowers, the oast houses became the centre of agricultural activity. Their heavy doors were swung open, the rusty machinery was dragged out, and the field mice fled. The farm labourers swept out the oasts to a standard any self-respecting housewife would be proud of, and huge charcoal fires were lit, ready to dry the newly picked hops.

  Harvesting the crop required a large workforce. The coarse, scratchy hop bines had to be pulled down and the precious green seed-cone flowers picked off by hand and then gathered into big sacks called pokes. These pokes were transported to the oast houses, where the fresh, damp hops were carefully dried in kilns over a charcoal fire until crisp and brittle. Once packed into large bags called pockets and stencilled with the farmer’s name, the hops were ready to be collected by the brewery, where the bitter pollen of the hop would give the beer its uniquely tangy flavour.

  A large number of seasonal labourers was needed to harvest the hops, so year after year Londoners from the East End descended upon the rural villages of Kent in order to gain employment, a few weeks of country air, and a few shillings to put aside for winter expenses. Most farmers saw the Londoners as a necessary evil. They provided rows of hopper huts and cook houses to accommodate the multi-generation crowds. Some of these were solid, water-tight brick huts, but others were merely wooden shacks. Straw and sacks were provided for mattress making, and faggots for fires.

  CHAPTER 1

  SLEEP EVADED ME. THE BED was cosy, the temperature agreeable and my body tired, yet my whirling thoughts refused to rest. Why, oh why had I decided to leave my native village of Pemfield to work in a faraway manor house? Why had I not listened to the wise advice of my seniors and stayed put? At the crack of dawn I was to leave my dear friends, those who had lovingly supported me after my parents’ untimely deaths, to become a housemaid among strangers. I—who had never set foot even in the grounds of a stately home and had no idea of the daily life of their inhabitants! My ignorance would be plain to see and the housekeeper was sure to detect it within seconds of my arrival. She would send me straight back with a flea in my ear for wasting her time, and all of Pemfield would be talking of my inadequacy and silly ideas. So much had happened in the last seven months of my life. Was I about to add to its drama by my ill-advised decision? My restless mind reviewed again the sad events that had catapulted me into this situation.

  September of 1857 had begun like any other: with commotion and chaos, laughter and lice, hordes of EastEnders from London descending on our rural Kent village—Pemfield—for hop-picking. As usual my father, the vicar of the parish, wholeheartedly welcomed his temporary parishioners and sought to do them good for both soul and body. His normal, rather staid parish became a hive of activity, gossip, scandal, and friction between villagers and Londoners—and Londoners against each other. The East End invaders were treated with great suspicion by the locals, who blamed them for any vegetables missing from their gardens, clothes from their lines, or apples from their orchards. The Londoners thought the locals were an ignorant bunch and could not appreciate the wisdom gained from living near to the soil and being dependent on the weather.

  Pa went from one hopper hut to another, meeting old friends and new babies. He caught up with the news of another year and—amid friendship and warmth—he would try to recommend Christ to everyone he met. His message was usually received with politeness, thanks to his kindness and office, but most of his words were choked by the cares of this life. Getting pokes filled with hops, cooking meals over smouldering fires, dealing with teething babies, and keeping leaking hopper huts dry occupied most of the daylight hours of the busy workers. Any spare time was spent catching up on the latest scandal or with singing around the campfire with a stiff drink, rather than with reflecting on a distant eternity ahead.

  Ma and I were equally busy in the garden and along the hedgerows picking berries and apples for jam and jelly. This was our favourite time of year, the chilly morning mists breaking into gloriously sunny days ready to be filled with harvesting the abundance of nature. Our cool kitchen floor was littered with baskets of fruit waiting to be chopped, boiled, and sugared. The stove worked overtime, bringing sweet, sticky liquids to gelling point.

  “Before we know it, October will be upon us, and we will be organising the wobbly and precarious display for the Harvest Thanksgiving service,” Ma said as she chopped up some apples.

  “I don’t think any of Pa’s carrots and potatoes will be suitable for display,” I replied, stirring the bubbling jam. “The few the rabbits and slugs haven’t eaten are so misshapen they are not fit for public inspection—we’ll have to hide them behind someone’s prize marrows.”

  “Don’t talk to me about hiding veg!” Ma replied with a smile. “There is no easier way of falling out with a parishioner than by placing his prized product behind a cabbage or cottage loaf!” She sighed and shook her head. “Your poor father, he works so hard in that vegetable patch.”

  “It’s more a labour of love than hard work, isn’t it?” I suggested. “Anyway, he says it is there that his sermons take shape
.”

  “Then, my dear, it might be more fruitful than we think.”

  The thought of Harvest Thanksgiving must have been on her mind, for Ma started humming “Come Ye Thankful People Come,” and before long we were singing it together, with Ma singing the melody and me harmonising with the alto. The words, “All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin,” gave a warm and cosy feeling of food stored in the loft and in the cellar whilst whirling snow drifted outside. But this year we had no inkling of how close the safe gathering would reach.

  That evening Pa arrived late for supper, accompanied by a gust of chilly autumnal air.

  ‘’It smells like a sweet shop in here,” he said as he removed his boots.

  “Damson jam and elderberry jelly,” I explained.

  “What delayed you this time?” Ma asked after grace had been said and as we tucked into beef stew.

  “Zaphnath-paaneah!” Pa said without looking up from his plate. We immediately knew what he meant. By not providing adequate housing, Farmer Joseph Smith was the cause of many problems amongst the hop pickers.

  “So what was it you provided today, which Farmer Smith should have arranged?” I asked.

  “Buckets,” answered Pa. “Buckets to catch the drips in leaky hopper huts.”

  “I thought I was missing a few pails from my wash-house!” exclaimed Ma.

  “And from the state of the row of privies, I doubt if rain-water will be all they are catching,” continued Pa, digging into his dumplings.

  “Oh, Frank,” ejected Ma as I giggled. “Then I will not be wanting my buckets back, thank you very much!”

  “My darling, you may have full peace of mind about that. Have we ever had anything returned which we ‘loaned’ to the hoppers?”

  We continued our supper, after which Pa read a passage of Scripture from the well-worn family Bible and ended the meal with prayer. Then we lingered at the wooden kitchen table, reluctant to get up and start the work of cleaning the dishes, each filled with the lazy contentment that comes from eating good food after a busy day.

  “An infant of a hop-picker is feverish,” Pa announced, breaking the silence.

  “Is he teething?” asked Ma. “I have a lotion for that.”

  “The mother doesn’t think so.”

  “It could be sunstroke; those hop gardens become a sun-trap come noon, and there is so little shelter for the little ones. I can find some calamine for that.”

  “Thank you, my dear apothecary, but the child has been well discussed by the London women, and they do not think it is sunstroke. Between them, those women have more wisdom than. . .”

  He paused for a suitable simile.

  “All the colleges in Cambridge?” I suggested.

  “Exactly!” he replied with a laugh. “And a good deal more common sense too. And by the way, my dear,” he said, turning to me, “it is good to have you back to your normal self again.”

  Indeed it was good to be back to my normal self. The previous week I had written a letter to a young man, ending a four month long courtship—or rather, entanglement. As a young seventeen-year-old, I had been flattered by the attentions of Raymond, a serious and sober-minded church warden ten years my senior. During my infatuation and under his influence, I began to think cheerfulness and humour were signs of a shallow mind and sinful heart, and that a melancholy approach to life befitted true Christians. I held myself aloft from Pa’s humorous comments, which I had previously enjoyed, and tried to cultivate an air of thoughtful silence. Raymond thought I had too much “book learning,” so I stopped voicing my opinions. Raymond thought women should look to their husbands for answers and not trouble their pretty little heads reasoning things out for themselves, so I tried to look decorative, pretty, and receptive to his wisdom.

  The spell was finally broken when I was invited to his parents’ house for Sunday tea and saw the appalling way his careworn and nervous mother was treated by her husband and sons. I suddenly had visions of myself becoming such a down-trodden, unpaid servant with a wedding band. Of course, Raymond managed to get the last word, for I received a reply to my letter stating that I was “an unsuitable partner for a man of his standing.” Indeed, I was most unsuitable, for once again I could run and skip, laugh and chat, and enjoy my father’s humour in a way that I had denied myself for far too long.

  “Oh, Pa, it is good to be back to normal, and thank you for not being sullen like your esteemed church warden.”

  “My pleasure, my dear,” said Pa, “but why should Christians be sullen? We have so much lavished upon us here by our heavenly Father and a wonderful future in glory to enjoy.”

  “You are quite right, Pa,” I replied, “and I hope I never forget that!”

  “Then just be careful who you make sheep’s eyes at next!”

  The following evening, Pa came home looking pale and exhausted.

  “More children are feverish,” he announced as he sank into his chair.

  “Then do let me come to the camp and help you,” pleaded Ma.

  Pa shook his head: “No, my dear, I don’t want you running into danger. Not after all you have suffered recently with your rheumatics.”

  “Then I shall come, Pa,” I said.

  “No. You two stay away and respond to requests from here. But I would appreciate your prayers. Finally, now there is danger, the hoppers are wanting my prayers and are asking the right sort of questions, so I need much wisdom. And stamina.”

  It was not until Pa came home with the sad news of two deaths in the camp that we realised the seriousness of the situation and of Pa’s selfless care for the Londoners.

  The following day, through grief, fear, and some superstition, many of the hop pickers hastily returned to London, leaving the frantic farmer to rally a local workforce. Even the gypsy families, who came to the village as soon as there was any seasonal work to be done, shut their bewildered children into their wagons, put their squawking poultry into baskets, and left the neighbourhood as quickly as their straining ponies could pull them.

  Pa’s workload returned to normal, but he was left exhausted and drained. Within days he himself was confined to bed with a raging fever. Dr. Skinner was suspicious of typhus and with a heavy heart warned us that it could be mild or fatal. He recommended to us a trusted nurse from the neighbouring village, but Ma declined, insisting on attending to Pa’s every need herself. She would not leave the bedside, day or night, and with great intuition seemed to know if Pa’s restlessness indicated a need for a cold compress or hot-water bottle, fresh air or a window closed. Her expressions of love to Pa and her dry, gnarled fingers caressing his pale face brought tears to my eyes.

  Some days Pa was more responsive and communicative than others, and during those times he often wanted us to sing his favourite hymns. Ma and I tried our best to oblige, but when Pa’s once-strident voice joined in as a weak croak, it brought such a huge lump to our throats that we could hardly conceal our emotions. He also wanted us to read from the Scriptures, especially from St. John’s Gospel, so we took turns sitting next to him, holding his hand and reading, particularly concentrating on Christ’s High Priestly prayer. Pa knew it by heart, and his lips moved with ours as we went through the chapter.

  The days when Pa was well gave us hope that he would recover, but this was not to be. In early October, Pa died in his sleep, as easily and comfortably as a worn-out child falls asleep on his parent’s lap, and was taken to his eternal reward. We knew with all certainty that he was now with Christ, which is far better—the Lord he had served faithfully and recommended so warmly, but we sorely missed him. The grief affected us in different ways: I busied myself from dawn to dusk with replying to condolence messages and running the much neglected house, whilst Ma was paralysed with grief and seemed to have given up the will to continue. I nursed Ma day and night, desperately pleading with the Lord to spare her to me. I clung to her frail body as if my hold on her would prevent her departing.

  “Ma,” I said as I stroke
d her tangled hair, “do you remember the time you got rid of Uncle Hector by serving him over-cooked beef and boiled cabbage for days on end? He was always recommending Ramsgate as a place to convalesce. Maybe I could take you there when you are strong enough. Can you remember the time Bessie and I fell into the stream and you found tadpoles in my bloomers?”

  Sometimes I was rewarded with a weak smile, but mostly she seemed unreachable.

  “Ma, the hedgerows are still full of blackberries, and the trees laden with elderberries, so as soon as you are well, we can start making jam and jellies again. Won’t it be lovely to fill our picking baskets with the juicy gleanings and smell the sweet mixture as it bubbles in the pan? You always say it is your favourite smell. Oh, Mama, please stay with me; please don’t leave.”

  The thought of being left alone without either of my parents gave my prayers the raw urgency of the psalmist. But Ma had neither the strength to fight the illness nor the will to live on earth any longer. Ten days after my father’s death, she joined him, slipping quietly away from me and from this life to her heavenly home and to joy unceasing, leaving me alone and comfortless.

  My grief and desolation were indescribable. The only life I had ever known had been swept away, and I was left to pick up the pieces, but there did not seem to be any pieces left to be picked up. I struggled to comprehend the finality of my parents’ departure and could hardly grasp the fact that I would never see their faces, hear their voices, or embrace them again. I longed to hear Pa’s whistling and see Ma hobbling about the kitchen humming to herself, but they were gone forever, leaving only silence and emptiness. Time and time again the reality of it all hit me afresh, the punch never decreasing in strength or painfulness.

  Throughout my parents’ illnesses Mrs. Brown, our washerwoman, had been a valuable support, visiting every day and preparing meals. Now she became my mainstay, helping with all practical arrangements, shielding me from visitors and even moving in so that I was not alone. Mercifully, I became ill myself and was forced to spend a few days in bed, mainly sleeping, and thus I was rather detached from the organisation of funeral affairs. Sleep was a welcome escape for me and I prayed that I, like my parents, would wake on a brighter shore, but I always awoke in my own room at the vicarage and the awful reality of my bereavement would hit me again with fresh pain and clarity.