Dusters and Dreams Read online

  Dusters and Dreams

  © 2018 by Hannah Buckland

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-62020-832-8

  eISBN: 978-1-62020-838-0

  Scripture quotations taken from The Authorized Version.

  Cover Design and Page Layout by Hannah Nichols

  eBook Conversion by Anna Riebe Raats

  AMBASSADOR INTERNATIONAL

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  The colophon is a trademark of Ambassador, a Christian publishing company.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank my husband for his interest in and support of my writing. Also our sons - our own version of Tom and Dan.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Historic Notes

  Did You Enjoy This Book?

  Contact Information

  CHAPTER 1

  WALKING HOME FROM THE VILLAGE bakery with the sun on her back, Rebecca resisted the urge to skip. Ignoring all grim sayings about the month of March and the wintery conditions it can bring, she was as confident as the roadside primroses that winter was almost behind them. Soon lambs would be playing in the meadows, and the woodland would be carpeted in bluebells. Skipping seemed an appropriate response to the coming of spring, but in the eyes of the good women of the parish, it may have been deemed inappropriate conduct for a vicar’s wife. Many of the formidable matriarchs had welcomed her with wholehearted, even motherly, interest into her new role in village life. But Rebecca was well aware that the churchwarden’s wife and not a few of the charity knitting group could never quite forget how shamefully slow she was at knitting . . . or the fact that she had been a domestic servant.

  Soon Rebecca’s journey took her out of the village, away from twitching curtains and along quiet country lanes to the little cottage she shared with her husband, Jack. When Jack was appointed as relief clergyman to Capford, the powers that be had struggled to find suitable accommodation in the village and so had rented a small property in a neighbouring hamlet. Here he and his capable mother had set up camp, here Rebecca had come to pay a courtesy visit, from here she and Jack had courted, and now here they lived in marital bliss. With characteristic wisdom, Jack’s mother had insisted the newlyweds should start married life alone together and had moved out to live with her daughter Elizabeth. Jack’s sudden posting to Capford was due to the austere Rev. Sidney Brinkhill, the regular rector, having had a serious fall and fracturing his thigh bone. This injury had confined him to bed and resulted in the arch-deacon sending in Reverend Jack Hayworth. This was a two-fold blessing: the congregation, who for many years had suffered spiritual starvation under Rev. Sidney Brinkhill’s dry, dogmatic ministry, benefited from Jack’s evangelical, Christ-centred preaching; and, even more amazingly in Rebecca’s eyes, as a result of Rev. Brinkhill’s accident, she had met her husband. At the time when she was contemplating leaving her post as a housekeeper at a manor in the parish and wondering what to do with her solitary life, Jack had arrived and completely swept her off her feet (despite a twisted ankle).

  Rev. Sidney Brinkhill’s recovery was slow. He had been able to drag himself off his sick-bed to conduct Jack and Rebecca’s wedding service, but his ashen face and frail frame made everyone fear that the next big village occasion would be his funeral service. The church officers had firmly persuaded him back into further convalescence, and Jack continued filling the post pro tem. Now the Hayworths had been married for five happy months, and still there was no mention of Rev. Sidney Brinkhill’s return.

  As Rebecca walked along the quiet, muddy lane to their cottage, she once again rejoiced in the poor state of the road. Unlike many clergymen’s, Jack’s evenings were seldom disturbed. Members of the congregation would think twice before sending for pastoral assistance after dark. The inconvenience of wading through mud or saddling their horse put their spiritual need into perspective, and they often decided to wait until morning. Thus, the Hayworths’ little cottage was their private nest and cocoon. During the winter months Rebecca had replaced the old, shabby curtains with ones of her own choice and making. After three years of being a domestic servant, subject to the will and whim of her employers, Rebecca was now the mistress of her own home and delighted in her new role. Baking, cooking, ironing, and cleaning for one’s own husband—and an appreciative husband at that—was a privilege, not a chore. After years of loneliness, Rebecca blossomed in the sunshine of Jack’s love, laughter, and company.

  The potatoes had roasted to fragrant perfection when Rebecca heard Jack’s feet at the back door. Her heart swelled with joy as she anticipated another cosy evening together by the roaring fire. After rubbing her greasy hands on her apron, she went to greet her husband, but one look at his face told Rebecca that all was not well, and his absent-minded kiss confirmed her suspicions.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, suddenly feeling anxious.

  “I’ll explain over dinner” was his un-reassuring response.

  The quicker Rebecca tried get the food on the table, the longer she took. The gravy refused to boil and the Yorkshire puddings to go crisp, but finally they sat down, said grace, and started eating. However, until she knew what had upset Jack so badly, the food would be tasteless in Rebecca’s mouth.

  “So, what happened today?” she asked, unable to bear the suspense a moment longer.

  Jack put down his knife and fork and lifted his gaze to meet hers.

  “The Rev. Sidney Brinkhill is retiring to Dorset, and I am to parson the parish on a permanent basis.”

  Relief flooded over Rebecca.

  “And what is so bad about that?” she asked.

  “We are to move into the vicarage” came the unexpected reply.

  Rebecca’s relief ebbed away rapidly. “Not that dark, dreary house . . .” Rebecca moaned.

  “Yes.”

  “Surrounded by overgrown elm trees . . . ”

  “And old, sunken graves.”

  They munched the delicious food in sober silence. When Jack had emptied his plate (his appetite seemingly unimpaired by the news), he leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

  “The
problem is that I still won’t actually be the vicar. Brinkhill has the freehold of the vicarage and technically remains the vicar until he dies. He will just continue to pay me as his curate.”

  “So, this isn’t a promotion?”

  “No, thanks to obscure ecclesiastical legalities.”

  “So why do we have to move?”

  “The church wardens and Brinkhill want us to be ‘more accessible.’ They obviously have not considered how difficult it will be to run that huge vicarage on a curate’s income.”

  They sat silently, mulling over the difficulties, until Rebecca asked, “What happens when Brinkhill dies?”

  “I’m not sure, but I suppose we will be offered the freehold.”

  If packing boxes and gradually watching their little cottage grow bare and empty was joyless, much more so was the task of unpacking at the cavernous vicarage. Jack and Rebecca had dutifully waved the Brinkhill family off the premises. Rev. Brinkhill departed with the air of a last prophet leaving the country, Mrs. Brinkhill barely acknowledged the young couple as she fussed around her invalid husband, and Miss Brinkhill’s farewell look at Jack was a mixture of haute disapproval and condescending pity, which stated loudly, “You could have done so much better.” If Miss Brinkhill could have shaken the dust of Capford off her feet, Rebecca felt sure she would have delighted in doing so, but it being March there was no dust to shake—only mud. Having watched the trio disappear out of sight (“Just to make sure they have really gone,” whispered Jack), the daunted couple went inside to see how the men were progressing with furniture moving.

  Their much-loved furniture, which had snugly filled the cottage, now stood sad and small in the vast, forbidding rooms. The whistles and banter of the workmen seemed as incongruous here as it would be in a church.

  Will I ever manage to laugh or joke here? Rebecca asked herself.

  The workmen soon finished their task, leaving the Hayworths in the silence and dusk, surrounded by boxes and odd assortments of household paraphernalia. Rebecca wanted to sit down and cry, but instead she stoked the range and put the kettle on for tea.

  They had yet to decide which reception rooms would be best suited to the function of a study, dining room, or sitting room, but both strongly agreed that Rev. Brinkhill’s former chamber should not be the marital bedroom. It was by far the stateliest room upstairs, but as Jack put it, “If we were to attempt a chaste kiss, I would feel the ire of the Brinkhills resting upon me.”

  Rebecca laughed. “How can we get rid of their lingering presence?”

  “How does one exorcise Brinkhills?” replied Jack.

  “If anyone hears us talking like this,” Rebecca said in playful warning, “we will be forcibly removed from house and parish for heresy before we have even unpacked.”

  So, with various outrageous suggestions of methods of exorcism and more giggling than the old vicarage had heard in a decade, the couple finished their tea and went to bed.

  The architecture of the Capford vicarage showed great lack of imagination. At the front was a grand door which led into a long, overly wide hall ending with a back door. Off the hall on the left side were three doors, two being reception rooms, and the one nearest the back door being the kitchen. Off the hall on the right side were three doors: a reception room, a study, and a pantry. Thus, no rooms interlinked. The stone-floored central area had no windows except three prison-cell ones above each door, which barely allowed in any light. What the hall did allow in though, were drafts. On windy days (and especially nights), these drafts moaned and howled their way under the doors as if they were the dis-embodied occupants of the surrounding graves. When alone for an evening, Rebecca had to steel herself to keep robustly sensible and not let her lively imagination turn unbiblical. One of her first sewing projects was to make draft-excluders for both ends of the corridor, thus eliminating the moaning intrusions on all but the wildest nights. But although the drafts could be somewhat conquered, nothing could be done about the icy coldness of the stone-tile floor. For storing milk and meat, it would have been ideal, but fearing the raised eyebrows of lady visitors, Rebecca ignored her husband’s suggestion of thus utilizing the coolness, and kept their provisions hidden in the pantry like normal, regulated families do.

  If the hall was chilling, the curate and his wife were warmed by the practical kindness of the villagers during the first few days of moving upheaval. Warm pots of steaming casseroles, dishes of meat pudding, and jars of milk were offered at the door, along with good wishes and expressions of appreciation that Jack had been given the role of vicar. As Rebecca gratefully received a meat pie from one little girl, the child confided, “Don’t eat that corner, cos the cat ate a bit.”

  On inspection, Rebecca could see some pastry was missing.

  “Thank you for the warning,” she said with a chuckle, mentally deciding to cut off the corner.

  “Me muver said you ’ave te be ’onest with vicars and the likes.”

  “Is that so?” Rebecca said.

  “Yep, cos otherwise they’ll pray against ya.”

  “How extraordinary!” Rebecca exclaimed, then bending down to her level, she told the child, “I can assure you Reverend Hayworth never ‘prays against’ anyone.”

  “Well, that’s alright then, ain’t it?” replied the girl, turning around to go. Looking back over her shoulder, she added, “But I told the troof anyway, didn’t I?”

  As they ate the (trimmed) pie that evening, Rebecca rehearsed the incident to her husband.

  “Who do they think I am?” he asked, aghast. “Some sort of papal priest cum witch doctor?”

  “Casting magic spells,” Rebecca added.

  “You’re the only one who casts spells,” Jack declared with a laugh. “I’ve been under one ever since I met you. Anyway, I believe the girl is in your Sunday school class, so maybe you can correct her erroneous theology.”

  “And I believe her mother is in your congregation, so maybe you can enlighten her.”

  CHAPTER 2

  THAT EVENING, HALF A MILE down the road at Biggenden Manor, Edward bade his visitors good night and closed the front door. Slamming it shut would have been very satisfying, but good manners prevailed, and he resisted the temptation. He reluctantly crossed the hallway to the drawing room where Sophia was sure to be waiting, keen for a verbal dissection of the evening’s entertainment. But to his relief, his wife has already retired to bed.

  Kicking off his shoes, Edward drew a chair to the fire and slumped into it. There he sat, motionlessly staring at the flickering flames. How irritated he was with his hideous guests! And how utterly irritated he was with himself! After eating far too much rich food and drinking far too much wine, his wealthy neighbours and so-called friends had sat around grumbling about their staff and farmhands. They had mocked their ignorance and stubbornness at not embracing change and agricultural inventions. Over Edward’s best port, they had exchanged swelling threats of how they would deal with any labourer who resisted the introduction of threshing machines and the likes. Their eyes glinted with malice as they boasted of high-handed mastery and gossiped about newspaper stories of labourers sabotaging new equipment. And all the time Edward sat, sipping in silence. How he now wished he had spoken up! With some satisfaction, he imagined swiping their glasses from their pudgy hands and the startled look on their fat, ruddy faces as he ordered them out the door. But the satisfaction was short-lived as he contemplated the hard lot of the labouring class. Over the last decade or so, life had changed more for them than it had for centuries—and not for the better. Amazing new inventions like the threshing machine and mechanical weaving machines had put many people out of work. Country folks desperate for jobs were being uprooted from the village communities their families had been part of for generations and moved to anonymous, crowded, inhospitable towns seeking work. Their once much-valued rural skills, passed on from father to son and learned with pain and diligence, were now outdated and redundant.

  Edward thought of his
own staff. Even at this time of night, various maids were busy in the kitchen and scullery washing the dirty dishes of his visitors, and out in the frosty meadow, Mr. Brookes, his faithful shepherd, would be tending the lambing ewes.

  This thought galvanised Edward into action. He left his comfortable armchair and, drawing back a curtain, looked out into the night until he spotted what he was searching for. There in the distance was the wobbling lamp light—just as he had predicted, Mr. Brookes was still at work. Hardly knowing what he was doing, even less why, Edward crept upstairs, changed into the thick, old trousers that Sophia had threatened to throw away, and having dressed warmly, he stole out of the house toward the sheep pens. Rex, his dog, noticing Edward’s departure, appeared from the warm kennel and stretched, hoping for a nocturnal walk.

  “Sorry, old boy,” whispered Edward, “but you would scare the ewes.”

  The frosty night air dispelled any remaining sense of tiredness from overindulgence, and Edward felt reinvigorated as his boots crunched the frozen grass. Within the cosy protection of the sheep hurdles, most of the flock were quietly slumbering, undisturbed by their shepherd’s familiar presence. But in one corner, Mr. Brookes had a ewe on her side and was half kneeling on her to keep her still. With his big, weather-beaten hands, he was gently easing the ewe’s teat into her reluctant lamb’s mouth. Edward crept forward, not wanting to disturb the process, but curious to see the lamb’s reaction. The lamb refused to suck, but Mr. Brookes patiently repeated the process, squirting some milk into the lamb’s mouth, which he deftly opened with his thumb and forefinger. Finally, the penny dropped and the lamb sucked vigorously on the swollen teat. Mr. Brookes did not relax his hold of the ewe or the lamb but now could acknowledge the arrival of his employer with a nod. Edward watched the newborn lamb as it sucked steadily and occasionally wagged its tail. Eventually the ewe’s patience ran out, and she gave a disgruntled kick, dislodging her lamb from the teat.

  “Okay, ol’ gal,” said the shepherd as he let her go. Mr. Brookes slowly stood up and stretched. “It don’t ’alf give ye pins and needles in ya legs, sittin’ like that,” he said with a laugh, jiggling from one foot to the other. “And what brings you ’ere, sir?”