Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Read online

  He was enthusiastic about the improvements that would be made to Biggenden and the prospect of settling down into contented married bliss. Previously he had in private been critical of and sarcastic about people similar to his future mother-in-law, but now he appeared to be much more accepting. Only once did he even hint at her over-dominating character by saying, “At least the forceful mother-in-law won’t be living here.” I replied, “How can you be so sure? Mothers often end up living with their youngest daughters,” and watched with relish as he considered this awful possibility for the first time.

  I had strictly instructed myself not to venture any opinion on the forthcoming changes or on the family he was to marry into during our evenings together. This resolution was hardly necessary, because, as usual (and now, with hindsight, it was so obvious), Mr. Thorpe did most of the talking and did not bother to ask about me, my welfare, or my personal opinions. His apparent presumption that I would be a permanent housekeeper at Biggenden irritated me. I could almost see with his mind’s eye an image of a grey and wrinkly Mrs. Stubbs, the dear and faithful servant of the family, welcoming his grandchildren with freshly baked biscuits. All very comfortable and reassuring—for him. This assumption, more than anything else, galvanised my intentions to leave Biggenden, and to leave before Mrs. Thorpe and the inevitable Bertha arrived.

  Yes, to leave was certainly my intention—but was it the right thing to do? I needed the Lord’s guidance so much. It seemed as if He was slowly shutting the door for me at Biggenden. Or was the opposite true? Was I to stay there to help the staff through the changes ahead? Was I to sacrifice my own wants, swallow my pride, abandon any ambition, and just keep plodding on?

  When I thought about our great Example, the Saviour and His self-denying life, any self-pity and self-will seemed wrong and unchristian. The Lord knew that all I hoped for in life was to have my own loving husband and family, but so far He had seen fit to deny me this blessing. Was He instructing me to wait, or was it a definite refusal? With an eternity of happiness ahead of me in the life to come, why was I so concerned about the few years or decades I had toiling here below? But heaven and eternity seemed so far away, so distant and intangible, while the cares and needs of daily life pressed with great reality.

  Once again Satan used my spiritual struggles to suggest that God did not care. In my experience, whenever my faith lost its anchor hold on Christ, my soul was swept around like a little boat on a rough sea, battered from side to side and uncertain of the route or destination.

  To make matters worse, Rev. Brinkhill seemed to think his congregation needed some spiritual sifting and preached sermon after sermon on false professors, presumption, and those “with head-knowledge” only. His texts were “Many are called but few are chosen,” “Strait is the gate and narrow is the way,” “I never knew you,” and some of the verses in Jude about deceivers. These solemn and sobering verses pricked my wounded soul to the core, and I began to despair. I felt that my repentance had been too shallow, my understanding of sin too vague, my faith too weak, and my unbelief unpardonable. The vicar described a Christian conversion as such an emotional and dramatic change, a desperate sinner at his wits’ end due to the burden of his sins, led to Christ and receiving forgiveness and immediate, immeasurable comfort, joy and peace—but I had not had such a deep experience and feared I had deceived myself.

  Yet, in my dejection, I still clung to the Lord Jesus and like Peter said, “to whom else can we go?” I pleaded that, if I had never been right in my religious experience, I would be now. I started again coming to Christ with the huge burden of my doubts and fears and pleaded with Him to take me in as He promises to. I begged that He would remember His promise, “And He that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.” This was my prayer for a number of weeks, but it seemed as if heaven’s door was shut against me, and my prayers returned unheard and un-regarded. All I could grasp onto for comfort was the fact that God never lies and that His promises are most sure. I remembered Pa’s advice, “Trust our unchanging God, not your changeable feelings.” I longed to have someone to talk to and remembered with sad longing the friendly conversations I had enjoyed with Mr. Thorpe at Barton Manor after evening services. How times had changed!

  These spiritual agonizings did not fill my every waking hour; indeed, they only swept over me at bedtime or when I had more time to reflect, which would often be on Sunday. Even this caused me concern—surely a really convicted sinner would feel bad all the time! Yet most of the time I was busy with the mundane cares of running a household, and earthly care dominated my thoughts. I would determine within myself to wrestle with the Lord until He gave me relief, yet would fall asleep before I had hardly begun praying.

  During this dark time, there was one source of relief the Lord kindly provided for me. I subscribed to the weekly sermons of Mr. Charles Haddon Spurgeon, a popular Baptist minister in London, whose presentation of the gospel was very similar to Rev. Ryle’s, that is, warmly, urgently, and freely recommending Christ to all. He seemed to be able to stoop down to where I was and encourage me to see what a loving and willing Saviour Christ is. These sermons gave some peace and relief, but my general mood was that of despondency.

  Indeed, on looking back on that winter, it was altogether fairly gloomy. The untimely death on 14th December of Prince Albert, our queen’s beloved husband and consort, cast a mournful shadow over the whole nation. The weather was mild but rainy, so my walks with Rex were wet and muddy.

  Mr. Thorpe was home for only a handful of nights to view the progress of the building work, preferring to spend his time at Kenwood or in the round of social engagements (he previously would have shunned) with the Harringtons. Making big structural changes to a property and even building extensions during the winter months is not advisable, but such was Mr. Thorpe’s eagerness to get the work completed that he asked the workers to push ahead with the plans. Therefore, we were subjected to constant banging, crashing, raised voices, and in-trodden mud. We shut all windows, shutters, and curtains, but still the dust managed to permeate into the house.

  The silver lining to this disruptive cloud was that the house was unfit for entertaining, so we had no guests to deal with. Molly and Clara found it no hardship to keep the workmen’s tin mugs full of strong, sweet tea and would often tarry to banter far longer than necessary. Once again, I was finding it hard to keep them occupied because we could not do any thorough cleaning for as long as the disruption from the building work continued.

  But then our workload increased in an unexpected way. The sister of Agnes’s brother-in-law died tragically of a haemorrhage after a long and complicated delivery, leaving her husband with a new baby son and three other children under six years of age. Agnes’s sister, Mary, lived close by, and although she had a large brood of her own, she helped the grieving widower as much as she could. This practical help even extended to giving suck to the young baby, as she had an un-weaned child of her own. George, the new widower, found it hard to accept his new son, who he couldn’t help but see as the cause of his beloved wife’s death, so Mary tactfully suggested she take the baby into her house to make it easier for everyone.

  Agnes asked if she could work fewer hours in order to help Mary and the bereaved family. I readily agreed and, in a manner Mrs. Harrington would have heartily disapproved of, Mrs. Kemp, Molly, and I shared the cooking duties among ourselves. There was time enough for me to learn some elegant and elaborate dishes and to teach them to Molly.

  Clara had been inspired by Bertha and was keen to gain the skills required to be a lady’s maid, so I asked her to make new uniforms for Clara and herself. This task kept her occupied for many hours. Remembering happy evenings with Emma, I suggested Clara try styling our hair, and she had great pleasure in creating modern, gravity-defying styles. She had the enviable knack of seeing a certain hairstyle, remembering it, and being able to recreate it. Clara’s hope was that Bertha would find Biggenden too rural for her liking and seek a more upmarket
post, but I warned her that Bertha expressed deep devotion to the Harrington ladies.

  “Deep devotion!” snorted Clara, hairpin in mouth. “She exaggerates everyfing, especially ’er deep devotion—only when it suits ’er.”

  Christmas loomed, and it quickly became obvious that Mr. Thorpe would not be celebrating it at Biggenden. Mr. and Mrs. Kemp were to go to their daughter’s home for the day, and Molly and Clara would have the day off. Agnes would be with her family, so I braced myself for a Christmas alone. Maybe it would do me good to have a quiet day at home and to consider the real meaning of Christmas, I thought, but when Agnes realised I would be alone, she insisted that I join her family.

  I put up a feeble protest about not wanting to intrude on a family occasion, but Agnes prevailed and I went—and what a lovely day it was! The cottage was packed full of children and grandchildren, all lively and enjoying each other’s company. The women produced a lavish and delicious meal of roast goose, and after the washing up was finished, we all joined the children for games. We played blind man’s bluff, hunt the thimble, pin the tail on the donkey, and endless rounds of charades. I had almost forgotten how delightful it all is: the loving and trusting attention of a toddling child, the uninhibited way of climbing up your leg, dribbling on you with a beautiful, dimpled grin, and an infectious laugh that encourages you to do silly things over and over again to an ever enthusiastic “’gen!”

  At the end of the afternoon, I left the happy cottage, with baby sick on my shoulder, crumbs in my blouse folds, sticky marks on my skirt where a girl had wiped her candy-filled mouth, and the decision that I should mix with children more often as they enrich life so much—and washerwomen!

  CHAPTER 22

  NEW YEAR BROUGHT A HANDFUL of letters from old friends. Emma was enjoying a life of travel with her lady. She was becoming well acquainted with many of the continental capital cities and rarely wintered in England. Miss Miller had accepted a new post as a school teacher in Broadstairs and hoped to begin in January. She sent the sad news that Mrs. Brown had passed away between Christmas and New Year. This was not a shock to me, but I wished I could have seen her one more time to express my gratitude again for her help in some of the darkest hours of my life. Mrs. Milton sent me a greeting card for the New Year, expressing the hope that I was maintaining a good standard of housekeeping and adding as a post script that she had just trained up all the housemaids to her satisfaction only to learn that one was moving on already!

  The winter progressed as it had started—with long, wet, grey days. Mr. Thorpe came back to Biggenden for about four nights every three weeks to review the somewhat slow progress of the building work and to organise farm affairs.

  On one occasion, I tentatively suggested we were rather overstaffed and that some of us might have some time off. I hoped Mr. Thorpe would suggest I take a visit to Pemfield. Instead, he advised me to give Molly and Clara a fortnight off on half-pay, but stipulated that I was needed to “be at the helm.”

  Molly and Clara viewed this enforced time off with mixed feelings. They were pleased to be free to do as they wished for a while, but they worried about the reduction in wages, which their families relied on heavily. I also felt for them, as a fortnight in February was not ideal for either relaxing or (more likely the case) helping their families with seasonal agricultural work out in the cold.

  Unknown to Mr. Thorpe, I paid them their full rate out of my own pocket; they believed he had had a change of heart. I was annoyed that Mr. Thorpe had not seen fit to give me any leave at all since I had entered his employment, and I was annoyed with myself for not seeking it more vociferously.

  So there we were, Mr. and Mrs. Kemp, Rex, and I in a mainly closed-up and dust-sheet-covered Biggenden. We all shared a common worry about the future—all, that is, except Rex, who was enjoying my less-divided attention. The Kemps sensed their presence was no longer valued but lacked neither will nor power to make any independent plans for their future.

  I was pleased with their homely company in the otherwise empty house but wished they had more inclination to chat. Without the master at home, we did not receive a newspaper, and with so few mouths to feed, we had less frequent visits from delivery boys bringing us local news. There was very little to stimulate any conversation. I frequently told them of the people I met and chatted with whilst walking Rex, but whereas Agnes would in turn have supplied me with the family connections and background or an interesting anecdote of each person I met, the Kemps had no such knowledge, causing the conversation to stop there. The Kemps were not originally from the area but had moved to Biggenden with Sir Richard Tenson. Due to the long hours they had working for him, followed by their limiting infirmities, there were very few people around they could call friends.

  In mid-March, just as it started to look as if the long winter would give way to a brighter and dryer spring, I went down with a heavy cold. Mrs. Kemp plied me with every tonic and healing concoction she could remember, but instead of getting better, I rather grew worse. I continued to be feverish, with a pounding head, blocked nose, aching limbs, and sore throat. I coughed, snorted, and tossed and turned my way through the nights, longing for the day; I would then drag myself around, croaking out instructions in the daytime, longing for the night. The maids urged me to take to my bed, and with too little energy to resist, I did just that.

  Eventually, I started to recover, but was left feeling weak and tired. Had the household been busy or had there been a pressing need for action, I might have gained energy more quickly, but as it was, there seemed little need to push myself. I even absented myself from church, feeling disinclined to walk there, sit in the cold building, and listen to dreary sermons, when it was much easier to sit comfortably by a roaring fire, sipping tea and reading a lively and encouraging sermon by C.H. Spurgeon.

  This slow and leisurely pace of life was rudely interrupted in early April by the master of Biggenden having the audacity to want to lodge in his own abode for a few nights. Unknown to me, when Clara greeted Mr. Thorpe, she said, “Mrs. Stubbs ’as been right poorly,” and on meeting me, he found confirmation in my pale, lack-lustre face and seemed most concerned for my well-being. I was warmed by his anxiety on my behalf, until he said, “We do really need you to be well again for the wedding preparations.” When he went on to ask what could be done to help, I had no qualms and did not hesitate to say, “I need a change of air.”

  It so happened that a few days earlier, I had received a letter from Miss Miller singing the praises of her new surroundings in Broadstairs, with its fresh sea air and beautiful coastal walks. No sooner had Mr. Thorpe agreed to my going (“Take three weeks, take a month, take as long as you require to get your strength back”) than I sent a telegram to Miss Miller, asking if I could pay her a visit. A positive reply came remarkably quickly, and so I got packing, almost feeling my energy returning already.

  The evening before I left, Agnes paid a call to Biggenden and came into my parlour for a cup of tea. She seemed uneasy and distracted, as if she had something she needed to share but did not know how to begin.

  After she had drained her third cup of tea, she leant forward to place the saucer on the table and, studying the tablecloth, said, “I want to ’and in me notice today, Miss.”

  “Hand in your notice?” I repeated, trying to take it in. “Is it due to all the changes ahead of us?”

  “No, Miss. It’s because I am gonna marry George next munf.”

  “Marry George?” I stupidly repeated again. “Next month?”

  “Yes, Miss. It’s the right fing to do and will be good for the lit’le ’uns.”

  I felt truly shocked. Instead of doing the right thing and offering my congratulations, I just stared at her and asked, “Do you love George?”

  Agnes took a long time to reply and finally answered, “George is a good man, and I ’ighly esteem ’im.”

  “But,” I rudely pressed on, “do you want to marry him?”

  “Why, of course, I does, Mi
ss,” she said. “I wonna be ’is children’s new muvver, and it’s an ’onour vat George asked me.”

  In my bewildered state I could have interrogated the poor woman longer, but thankfully common courtesy kicked in and I lamely said, “Well, Agnes, I will really miss you, but I wish you much happiness in your new job . . . sorry, I mean situation.”

  Agnes smiled warmly as she stood up. “An’ I’ll miss you too, Miss, but I am right glad to be ow’ of ’ere before Miss Sophie and ’er muvver takes over.” I smiled back knowingly as she continued. “George says we need to ’ave a right quiet wedding, ove’wise I would ’ave asked ya ta come along and see me wed.”

  “I would love to have seen you get married, but I understand George’s wishes,” I replied.

  “And, Miss, I ’ope and pray ta see the day when you get wed yeself,” said Agnes as she went to the door.

  “Thanks, Agnes, we will hope and pray on,” I said with a wry smile, suppressing a hollow laugh.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE COLD, EARLY LIGHT OF the next morning saw me standing on the platform at the Tunbridge Railway Station, awaiting the service from London to the Kent coast with some apprehension. Never in my life had I travelled by a steam train before, and I began to regret choosing such a modern, dangerous mode of conveyance. I looked around at my fellow would-be travellers and was struck by their uniformly nonchalant air: here a man lit a cigar, there a man leant against a wall reading his newspaper, while others chatted calmly, hardly bothering to look at the giant, billowing engine as it came toward us and amazingly came to a halt right in front of us.