Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 18

  The ascetic atmosphere at Miss Miller’s needed counterbalancing, so I headed for the Modern Novel section and was delighted to find Shirley by Charlotte Brontë. I had heard of Brontë and how she had surreptitiously succeeded in getting her novel published by using the male pseudonym Currer Bell, and I was curious to read one of her works. Rather guiltily—for my parents, like many evangelical Christians, did not like novels—I paid for the book and, hugging it close, left the shop.

  A little tearoom just down the road looked invitingly warm and cosy as the wind and rain increased, so with all the courage of a fashionable town lady who buys books from the Modern Novel section, I entered and found a secluded corner. I was pleased to be served by a reassuringly homely waitress, and as I waited for tea and scones, eagerly unwrapped the book, keen to be entranced by the writings of a fellow vicar’s daughter. Even as I read her warning, Do you expect passion, and stimulus, and melodrama? Calm your expectations, reduce them to a lowly standard. Something real, cool and solid lies before you; something unromantic as a Monday morning, my expectations rose, and I knew I was in for a satisfying read.

  I did not do justice to the delicious tea and scones as I devoured page after page of the story, getting to know the inhabitants of the West Riding of Yorkshire. The gentle voice of the waitress, saying, “We are closing shortly, Miss,” brought me back with a jolt to Broadstairs and the 1860s. I apologised, paid my bill and then, carefully secreting the book away in my shawl from the rain and from Miss Miller’s observation, I set off for the schoolhouse.

  Miss Miller was already at home when I arrived. She looked tired again but was more relaxed with the prospect of two days off ahead of her. I am ashamed to say that, at the realisation that she would be around for the next two days, rather than feeling glad of her companionship, my first thought was “I will have fewer opportunities to read.” I chided myself for this selfish thought as I hid Shirley under my pillow and went down to help with the preparation of the evening meal. Later that evening I sat with my inevitable hand-work, inwardly rebelling against the plight of women. How was it that men could sit idly in front of a fire in the evenings, doing exactly as they wished, while women had to keep their hands occupied with some useful needlework?

  I thought the evening would drag, but Miss Miller began reminiscing about Pemfield, and we ended up having a delightful evening as we chatted about old times and dear friends. I especially appreciated being able to talk about my parents with someone who actually knew them. As we recalled various events, the Sunday evening hymn singing and the winter evenings at the vicarage, my heart ached for my dear pa and ma. But the pain was not as intense, tearing my heart as it used to. Rather, it was a warm ache that one would not really be without, as it was the price one pays for loving and being loved unconditionally.

  Saturday dawned bright and sunny, so we set off to explore the shoreline toward Margate. I had only walked the opposite way, so this was all new to me, but it was one of Miss Miller’s favourite walks. We passed three beautiful bays before arriving at Botany Bay, where we sat on the cliff top and ate our lunch before returning to Broadstairs, tired but satisfied.

  On Sunday I was curious to attend Miss Miller’s church. She had warned me that, although the vicar was good man, he had a curate whose preaching left a lot to be desired. As a robed man entered the pulpit, the expression on Miss Miller’s face told me that this was the curate. He was young, handsome, and flamboyant with a great gift of oratory.

  At first I thought Miss Miller was being rather prejudiced against him, but as the sermon progressed, I began to realise that although he used impressive words and flowery language, his message had very little substance. If salvation were to be obtained by good works, his preaching would have been faultless. With warm words and glowing compliments, he congratulated the attentive congregation for their generosity and the good works done for the poor in the community, giving them all a verbal pat on the back. He could have charmed the birds from the trees as he expressed his gratitude for being assigned to such a noble—or in my opinion, condescending—congregation. His buttery words were effective in making the hearers dig deeper into their pockets for the collection, allowing them to go home with a warm, smug feeling of charity bestowed.

  Over the midday meal, I expressed my surprise at the class of the congregation. I had expected the local fishing community to be there, but instead it was the upper class. Miss Miller had also been disappointed when she first realised that although the church was busy supporting the Ragged School and other worthwhile endeavours for the disadvantaged, if one of these beneficiaries did want to come and worship with them, they would receive a less than warm reception and be considered not to know their place.

  The Lord’s Day seemed long and quiet as we sat in the cold best room, reading the somewhat wordy works of Puritan preachers. As I sat, book in hand, daydreaming, it struck me how distant Biggenden and Mr. Thorpe now seemed. I was learning that I could easily enjoy myself away from his presence and influence, and I could think about his impending marriage with the emotional indifference of an ordinary housekeeper.

  I was still only twenty years of age, old enough to make more informed decisions than when I was an inexperienced lass at Pemfield, but young enough to have many opportunities ahead. Opening a small tearoom seemed a nice idea, and I toyed with the idea of selling delicious cakes and pastries from a sweet little kitchen to a loyal and admiring clientele—until Miss Miller’s snoring brought me abruptly back to reality.

  CHAPTER 26

  AS MISS MILLER SNOOZED, I pondered again the confusing subject of unanswered prayer. For many years, my daily—maybe at times hourly—prayer was that God would grant me a godly and suitable husband. It was my heartfelt desire that I could be a help-meet to a man as we served the Lord together. This prayer was so far unanswered. Was I wrong to keep on praying? Was it arrogance to think that I could be useful, spiritually, to a God-fearing man? I had seen a lovely example of this in my own parents and knew what a strong team they had been for the Lord. Was I just saying I wanted to be a spiritual and practical help to a husband as a bargaining tool to have my own way? Deep in my heart I knew this was not the case. I genuinely wanted to work for the Lord—but was I dictating how by more or less saying “I want to work for God’s glory, but only in a marriage relationship”?

  My thoughts spiralled around in my head until Miss Miller stirred. Upon her waking, I went to get her a cup of tea and an (in my opinion) by now stale rock bun.

  We attended the second service, not out of any great desire to be there but because it was expected of someone in Miss Miller’s position. I sat bolt upright on the wooden pew, looking at the preacher, but my mind was far away in Yorkshire with Brontë’s Shirley and Caroline. Afterwards, we returned to the appointed place to sit on a Sunday—the best room. Miss Miller finally lit the little open fire, and we sat around it, toasting crumpets.

  As usual, the eventide made Miss Miller chattier, and we were soon discussing the benefits of public ministry on one’s own spiritual health. Without much thought I asked the question that had been vexing me for a long time: “What do you think of the question of unanswered prayer?”

  As soon as I blurted it out, I regretted bringing up the subject and determined to keep the conversation general. The last thing I wished to do was introduce Edward into the discussion. The question hung in the air as Miss Miller gave the subject her full attention and eventually provided a clear and helpful answer.

  “The first thing to consider is God’s revealed and secret will. If the thing you ask for is against His revealed will—that is, if it is condemned in Scripture—then it is clearly wrong to ask for it, and you can take the answer as a straightforward no. Yet if it is something recommended or encouraged in the Bible and you really desire it and desire it with a genuine, godly motive, then so-called unanswered prayer may be a delayed yes.

  “We are not to try and second-guess the Lord’s secret will for our lives. The thing
we can be most sure of is that, if anyone seeks salvation in Christ, he will receive it: this is very clearly promised, also that for believers all things will work together for good, because that is promised as well.”

  “But how do you know that your intentions and motives are right?” I asked.

  Miss Miller looked into the fire, thought for a while and then said, “I do not know. Christians remain such a mixture of good and bad that we never do anything with a motive that is one hundred percent pure, do we?”

  As I silently nodded in agreement, she continued, “And that is why we need such a compassionate and forgiving Saviour.”

  “But I wish I was more like you,” I moaned. “You seem content with your life here and with the work God has given you, doing it with such diligence and self-sacrifice.” And before I could stop myself, the whole story of Edward—my love for him and his forthcoming marriage—came tumbling out. “How can you be so happy, being single?” I asked in tears.

  Miss Miller turned her eyes from the fire, leant forward, and looked at me intently. “Oh, my dear Rebecca,” she said, “You misjudge my character in a far too favourable manner. I have never had any desire to marry. I have no brothers, and my father squandered our money in gambling. Since my childhood I have almost despised men. In fact, I find it hard to trust anyone and prefer solitude to society. I am happy alone.”

  “But . . . teaching is sociable,” I uttered in surprise.

  “Not really, it is not the meeting of two minds on an equal level, but the imparting of knowledge. The relationship between a teacher and a pupil has clear boundaries and objectives, and that is how I prefer to operate. I often wish I had a sociable nature like yours, which seeks out friendship, but I do not.”

  “Do you want more friends?” I asked, frantically trying to understand her.

  “No, to be honest, I do not. I sometimes think I should want more friends and that it is wrong of me to be so self-sufficient, but it is not in my nature to want companionship. I hate small talk and mind-numbing social gatherings. I do not feel a need to have a ‘soulmate’ to whom I am duty-bound to open up my heart and bare my soul.”

  “So are you happy as you are?”

  “Happy is a strong word. I would prefer to say I was content. Yes, I am content.” Then Miss Miller put on her teacherish look. “But, Rebecca, you must remember the chief end of man is not to be happy in this life, but to ‘glorify God and enjoy Him for ever.’”

  At that moment, I had no intention of being drawn into a discussion of the Shorter Catechism. I had more delving to do. “Do you feel fulfilled, though?”

  Miss Miller paused and needlessly stoked the fire. After some time she looked at me with a wry smile. “As you know, I am no expert in the etiquette of friendship, but since you have entrusted me with your secret about Mr. Thorpe, I am obliged to reveal my own struggle to you.”

  I smiled encouragingly and said, “Not ‘obliged,’ but I am all ears.”

  “I have never told a soul about this before, but I have a burning desire to go to Africa. To teach African children in a mission school.”

  I stared at her, stunned by such an adventurous idea.

  “Yet,” she continued, “it seems so unlikely that a Missionary Society would take on a single lady. I pray daily about this desire, maybe with the fervency you pray for a husband, but so far the Lord has seen fit not to open up a door for me to go. My youthful vigour is behind me, and I have far less now to offer than when I first started praying about it, but I am still in England. I sometimes question my motives: do I really want to go for the good of the African children and for God’s glory, or is it just the adventure it would bring, the thrill of escaping from our over-structured society?”

  Miss Miller’s face lit up, and she had an unusual animation about her as she described the books she had read on Africa, its people, climate, landscape, and wildlife. She wanted to learn an African language, but as the continent is so vast, she didn’t know which would be the most useful. She had started learning some basic Swahili. Through reading the “Missionary Record,” Miss Miller had learnt of Mary Ann Aldersey, the first single woman to go to China as a missionary and who had succeeded in founding a girls’ school in Ningbo. She had found the story very inspiring, but she was so unsure of her motives that she wanted clear guidance before she took a step forward.

  “Maybe the Lord wants someone with a larger heart than mine for the work,” she said with a sigh. And there we sat, two women in a little cottage in Broadstairs, both dreaming of our hopes for the future. Our dreams were poles apart from each other, but the intensity of longing united us.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE DAWN OF A NEW day and working week saw Miss Miller snap back into her “business as usual” mode. As I appeared in the kitchen, she presented me with a paper bag full of my shells and stones.

  “I think they are thoroughly dry now,” she informed me.

  I should have known better than try to decorate her house, and I meekly took them to my room. The day was fine and bright, and I planned another walk toward Ramsgate, but first I had business to attend to. I headed for the dressmakers to get measured for a new summer frock.

  The shopgirls were so friendly and full of advice and ideas of matching fabrics, contrasting lace, and ribbons that my original idea of a plain frock soon went out of the window—along with my original budget!

  By the time I had finished at the dressmakers and had brought a hot pasty for lunch, it was eleven o’clock. I was unsure of the tides so decided to take the cliff path to Ramsgate rather than walk along the shore.

  It was easier walking along the path, and before long I reached the outskirts of Ramsgate and headed for the harbour to eat the pasty. On the way, I noticed a road sign, “Regency Road.” That vaguely rang a bell in my memory, and as I sat eating I suddenly remembered why. Of course! Uncle Hector regularly sent us postcards from 42 Regency Road while taking the seaside air for his chest complaint. He normally went in early spring—about now.

  I briefly thought that he might be there now and that I should look him up. Then I decided not to. After all, he had never been nice to Pa. I had lived in fear that Uncle Hector would track me down, claim to be my legal guardian, and force me to live with him until I was twenty-one, but now I had only a month before I would come of age. I no longer had to fear a sort of legal kidnap.

  As I passed the road sign again, my conscience smote me: “Rebecca Stubbs, here you are within what may be a stone’s throw of your only known blood relative, and you are too selfish to pay him a visit. What would your parents think? Your mother would say you had become self-indulgent, with your fine frocks, seaside vacations, and novel reading.”

  At that, I turned around and tracked down number 42. The guest house had a very pleasing appearance and was one in a row of large, well-maintained, bay windowed, whitewashed houses with red roof tiles.

  A young housemaid answered the door, but she did not know if Mr. Hector Stubbs was in residence and hurried off to get the landlady. A buxom, middle-aged matron came to the door and knew immediately who I was talking about, and furthermore said that he was reading in the drawing room. She invited me in, and I followed her along a wide hall to the elegant drawing room.

  I barely had time to think before I stood face to face with Uncle Hector himself. With tears in his eyes, Uncle Hector hugged me long and hard, as if I were the long lost prodigal son. Such close proximity revealed that Uncle Hector, despite his chest condition, was looking hale and hearty and exactly as he always did—double chin, ruddy cheeks, waxed moustache, and all.

  He drew a chair for me, close to his, and holding my reluctant hand in his two soft, plump hands, he exclaimed, “My, how my little Becca has grown into a fine, young lady! How much like my dear brother you look.”

  He did not call for the fatted calf to be killed, but he rang the bell and ordered afternoon tea for two. The buxom landlady sensed the significance of the occasion and brought in the platter of sandw
iches and tea-bread herself.

  “Mrs. Wickens,” said Uncle, “I have the great pleasure of introducing you to my dear niece Rebecca.”

  Mrs. Wickens warmly shook my hand and said, “I’ve heard all about you and your dear departed parents from Mr. Stubbs. He was so terribly fond of them and can’t praise them highly enough.”

  I tried not to show my astonishment or slight amusement.

  As we settled down to our lavish tea, Uncle Hector bombarded me with questions about the last four years. He was shocked to hear I had become a domestic servant. On one occasion he had written to Mrs. Brown, asking her of my whereabouts, and she had replied that I was staying with good friends.

  “Obviously a blatant lie!” sputtered my uncle. I tried to justify her reply by saying I did have many friends at my work, but he just shook his head, making his chins wobble, and muttered to himself, “A Stubbs in domestic service. Unthinkable.”

  I tried to be vague about my present position and emphasised that I had a lot of freedom and influence, but this did not satisfy the Stubbs pride. He was slightly mollified when I explained that I was about to give notice to end the employment. As soon as possible, I turned the conversation to him, and once on his favourite subject, he soon brightened up and talked energetically about his London life, his many vacations, and his doctor’s orders, whilst consuming vast amounts of cake in large mouthfuls.

  Once the platter was emptied and the teapot drained, Uncle Hector sat back and lit a cigar (as recommended by his chest physician). I chuckled as I asked him if he remembered how much Ma had hated the smell. He remembered and also revealed that when Ma had retired for bed, Pa would secretly join him for a puff.