Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 19

  I smiled as I thought of the naughty-boy expression and mischievous twinkle in his eye Pa may have had. At least Pa had enjoyed some parts of his brother’s visits. One thought of my parents led to another, and before I knew it, we had spent the afternoon recalling memories of them.

  Instead of constant criticism of Pa, Uncle Hector had nothing but praise. Ah, he remembered their warm hospitality, their unflagging diligence, and Christian love. His dear brother had been such a faithful preacher, so well read, so wise, and his sister-in-law a rare gem, such a good little housewife, such an admirable cook.

  Sometimes I looked at him, trying to detect some insincerity in his face or speech, but no, these gushing praises flowed from a genuine heart. Every now and again I looked through the window at the falling sun and made an attempt to go, but every time Uncle Hector launched into some hitherto-unknown-to-me story of my father and I sat back, intrigued to hear it.

  At dusk, I could leave it no longer, and with fearful thoughts of highwaymen and pirates, I asked for my shawl to be fetched. Uncle Hector would not hear of me walking back to Broadstairs (he made it sound like a huge journey) and organised a private carriage to convey me door to door. But before I departed, he entreated me to come again as soon and as often as I could.

  “I am not having you just disappearing out of my life again!” he warned.

  I dutifully kissed him good-bye and assured him I would not disappear but would be back in a few days for more stories. I was rewarded by a flush on his fleshy cheeks and a stroke of my arm.

  CHAPTER 28

  MISS MILLER WAS SURPRISED TO see me arrive back in style, carriages being rarely seen in her narrow back street. She was a very satisfactory and attentive listener as I recounted the afternoon’s events.

  My final week in Broadstairs flew by at an alarming speed. I finished reading Shirley, and now that my appetite was thoroughly whetted for Charlotte Brontë’s writing, I returned to the book seller and bought Brontë’s first and more controversial novel, Jane Eyre.

  Day by day my new summer dress took shape and the final result was delightful. I felt almost like Miss Sophia herself! I smiled as I imagined Mrs. Harrington declaring it entirely unsuitable for a woman in my lowly position. Soon I would be forever away from her criticism and censorship. Alas, my frugal budget was thoroughly trampled underfoot when the dressmaker recommended a contrasting bonnet and gloves that perfectly complemented the frock. It seemed utter folly to buy the dress without them.

  Three more afternoons saw me in the plush, smoky drawing room of 42 Regency Road. When Uncle Hector was not in the mood to talk about himself or his brother, we played board games. He tried to teach me bridge, but I could not grasp the complicated rules and thought that the best role for me was the dummy.

  I suggested we stroll together along the promenade, but it seemed that Uncle Hector lived a fairly sedentary lifestyle and preferred not to over-exert himself. I could not help wondering how the Ramsgate sea air could benefit his lungs whilst he was cooped up inside, but politeness prevailed and I kept these thoughts to myself.

  On our final afternoon together (I was leaving for Biggenden the following day), Uncle Hector begged me to come and live with him in London.

  “My dear Becca, I would treat you like my own daughter. You would lack for nothing. You would never have to work again. Your parents would have whole-heartedly approved of the arrangement—which is more than can be said for your current situation.” His pudgy white hands grasped mine, trapping them as he continued. “You could accompany me on my visits to Bath and Tunbridge Wells to drink from their healthy water springs and mingle with high society. I could arrange tuition for you to be instructed in painting, history of art, musicology, or whatever your heart desires.”

  As I looked out of the window, trying to formulate a diplomatic reply, I knew that I would feel like my hands right now: trapped. In my mind’s eye I saw the London house with thick, squishy carpets, sturdy wooden furniture, and heavy velvet curtains preventing the sun’s rays from warming the rooms. A stale smell from lack of air, the aroma of cigar smoke, old men and port filled every room. I imagined being a dutiful hostess to all his aged (maybe groping) friends as they came to play bridge or discuss politics. What a gilded cage it would be!

  I was beginning to taste freedom, and what an enjoyable taste it was! I was not prepared to give it up yet, especially not for a verbose uncle and London. I was utterly determined to say no there and then, but as I turned my gaze from the window to his beseeching eyes, my resolve floundered. I did the cowardly thing and told him I was not free, as yet, to do as I pleased but that I would consider his proposal carefully and write to him with my response.

  Uncle Hector took this answer rather more positively than the spirit in which it was given and seemed satisfied. With mixed feelings I extracted myself from his embrace and whiskery kiss and climbed into the carriage. A feeling of sadness at saying farewell to a loving relative was almost outweighed by a feeling of relief that no one could force me to live with him.

  That last evening at Broadstairs was mild, still, and dry. A full moon shone in the cloudless sky. After some persuasion, Miss Miller wrapped herself up and came with me to sit near the cliff edge. The moon was so bright that we felt safe to venture outside. We sat in companionable silence, absorbing the peaceful scene around us. The darkness had silenced the seagulls, the calm sea lapped at the shore, and the beach was deserted. The shining moon was reflected in the still sea, creating a shimmering track that seemed to come directly to where we sat.

  A multitude of stars twinkled at us. The tranquillity of the sight and the sense of the universe’s magnitude impressed me with awe for our great Creator. The benevolent and powerful God who counts the stars and knows their names in His great goodness sent His Son to save us. He is worthy of my wholehearted trust and confidence to save body and soul, both for time and eternity. A deep sense of peace and happiness filled my heart as I committed myself once again to my God and to His wise and loving plan for my life, whatever it might be.

  As I gazed at the stars, which had shone for thousands of years, my little life and its concerns seemed very insignificant. In another hundred years (unless the Lord returned), the same stars would still be shining and the tides still ebbing and flowing, great constants unaffected whatsoever whether I married or remained single. The only thing that really mattered was my relationship with Jesus Christ, to be loved and forgiven by Him, and I rejoiced to feel a glow of that everlasting love already.

  The slight sea breeze eventually penetrated through our thick cloaks, and Miss Miller and I were obliged to head indoors. An awkwardness fell over us; we both knew this was our last evening together, but instead of producing an easy flow of conversation, our communication seemed stilted and forced. I really wanted to show my appreciation for her kindness and friendship, but one look at her business-like face as she checked her weekly timetable made it clear such sentiments would be dismissed, but these things need to be said anyway so, taking a deep breath, I expressed by gratitude for her hospitality and company.

  As predicted, she brushed it aside with a “don’t mention it” but went on to say she would miss me. Putting down her work, she urged me to come back once I had finished working at Biggenden and whilst I was seeking other employment. I was delighted with the idea and readily agreed to it.

  “Unless you are in Africa,” I laughed.

  “Unless you are married,” she replied.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE SADNESS OF LEAVING BROADSTAIRS and Miss Miller (and even my nun’s cell bedroom) was tempered by the hope of seeing them all again in the near future. Miss Miller watched my carriage disappear up the cobbled high street before wandering back to the school room to commence the working day.

  As the steam train chuffed its way through Kent toward Tunbridge, the cares and concerns of daily life at Biggenden Manor came to the fore of my thinking. I shrank from the thought of handing in my notice, but somehow the ver
y presence of my new books and dress in my trunk—symbols of new independence—gave me courage and determination.

  As planned, I got a ride back to Biggenden with a farmhand who had been selling milk, butter, and eggs at Tunbridge market. My trunk and bags were thrown on the wagon, along with the empty churns and baskets, before we trotted off.

  I tried to shake off the feelings of servile dutifulness and loyalty that engulfed me as we progressed up the drive, but when the Kemps and Rex gave me a hearty (and tail thumping from the latter) welcome, my plans of independence and freedom suddenly seemed selfish. After a much needed cup of tea, Mrs. Kemp eased herself out of her chair and limped through the house to show me what the builders had done.

  The outside work was now complete, leaving only the inside painting and decorating. It seemed highly likely now that everything would be shipshape for the grand arrival of Mrs. Thorpe. Mrs. Kemp’s attitude toward the “so-called improvements” was an amusing mixture of disapproval and grudging admiration. I was impressed with the extension but wished it blended in better with the more austere character of the original rooms.

  As we paused to admire the view from the conservatory, Mrs. Kemp broke into my thoughts.

  “We’re moving owt.”

  I turned to look at her. “You’re moving?”

  “Yep, it is decided,” she said, her face resolute as if I was about to remonstrate. “Me an’ Arfer are moving in with our Sally.” (Sally was their daughter.)

  “But I thought her cottage was full,” I replied.

  “It were full, but me oldest two granddaw’ers ’ave gone inta service, so naw there’s room fer us. We ain’t got much stuff ta take wiv us, and we wanna be gone before ver wedding.”

  “Was this your decision, or did Mr. Thorpe ask you to go?” I queried, my eyes narrowing at the thought of him, under the direction of his mother-in-law-to-be, unceremoniously asking them to pack their bags.

  “Well, ’e said we woz free to go if we wonted, an’ so we fort abowt it and decided we wanna move before fings ’ere change too much.”

  I nodded. “And I think you are very wise.”

  “An’ you, young gal, must look arfter yeself too,” she said, looking at me with motherly eyes.

  I nearly told her of my plan to leave, but then I imagined her shouting this communication into Mr. Kemp’s deaf ears, along with the instructions “but keep it ta yeself,” letting anyone around into the secret too. So I just said I had a few ideas and thanked her for her concern.

  When the Kemps had retired to bed, I sat in my parlour and went through a pile of paperwork. I was pleased to see that Clara had kept a list of ingredients she had used, along with the relevant bills and receipts. My heart sank when I read an invitation (or rather, summons) from the church warden’s wife, asking me to help at the annual Sunday school outing.

  My lack of success at the Ladies’ Mission evenings ruled me out from being invited to help with the many jobs that the good ladies of the church did, but, the reputation of the Sunday school outing being as it was, they had to scrape the barrel when looking for volunteers and approached me. I had gladly accepted the year before, imagining it to be a civilised and enjoyable little picnic with well-behaved children in their Sunday best—and that is how the day started.

  We had gathered in the church yard, the girls in newly washed spring dresses and the boys wearing their best suits and shining boots. Then the vicar, Mr. Brinkhill, in full clerical garb and holding aloft the Sunday school banner, ceremoniously led the way as we marched through the village toward the designated meadow. Villagers waved at us from their garden gates and more children ran to join the parade. Rousing Christian hymns were sung, like “Onward Christian Soldiers,” but before we had left the village the singing degenerated into shouting and the hymns turned into a bloodcurdling war-cry against all Baptists, Methodists, or Papists. The vicar, absorbed in keeping the heavy banner erect and occupied with his own marching, was oblivious to the riotous behaviour. Heavy laden with baskets of food, three ladies and I trailed apologetically behind.

  The appointed meadow seemed to be the one farthest from the village, and we lost sight of the children as we struggled with the provisions. At last we arrived. Once the vicar had ponderously decided where we would “set up camp,” we spread our blankets and prepared the food. The children fought their way to a place on the blankets, stomping on each other as they went, and once we all sat down, the vicar said the longest grace for the food that I had ever heard. The bread, cheese, pastries, and biscuits soon disappeared into over-stuffed mouths and pockets, and gallons of milk were drunk.

  Agnes informed me that the traditional beverage for the occasion had always been the vicar’s wife’s homemade elderflower cordial, but one year the bottles had fermented, causing the children to go home half drunk. The vicar’s wife vehemently denied any connection and suggested that the children had a touch of sunstroke, but as it had been a cloudy day, no one swallowed that story. The tale of the tipsy children spread around the village like wild fire, becoming more and more exaggerated with the telling. From then on, only milk was provided.

  After the picnic, I expected some structured entertainment to take place, but on seeing the vicar settling down under a tree with a book and the ladies busying themselves with the leftovers, I realised the children were just left to their own devices.

  The meadow was on an undulating slope, so that the lower half could not be seen from the picnic area. The boys headed straight for this spot, out of sight but not hearing, and soon raucous shouts indicated that something lively was going on. None of the other grown-ups seemed to notice the noise, but I went to investigate. The boys were playing British Bulldog. Not the relatively gentle variety we used to play in the school yard, but a full blown “shoulders on the ground” version. A big burly lad stood in the middle, calling the name of a small, puny boy who had to run past him to the other side of the field. The big lad would have to catch the runner and bring him down to the ground. If the runner happened to get to the other side, everyone would run across. Anyone caught would join the catcher in the middle, making the game harder and harder. As I watched, a huge muscular boy tripped up a small lad, flinging him to the ground. The little lad arose with a bloody nose and a face covered with fresh cow pat. I was about to rescue the victim, but then I saw his eyes flashing through the cow pat, and with the brutality of an ancient war-painted Briton, he hurled himself at the legs of a youth twice his size, bringing him crashing to the floor. At that point, I remembered that discretion is the better part of valour and retreated up the hill to sit with the other women.

  The girls entertained themselves in a slightly more civilised manner and foraged the hedgerows for flowers and created small posies for the ladies and each other. Once they had exhausted this activity, they made up various skipping games and clapping hand rhymes. Near the end of the afternoon, they were clearly bored, challenging each other to pick as many stinging nettles as possible without getting stung.

  I was relieved when the vicar finally closed his book, heaved and stretched himself into a standing position, and ordered everyone to march back to the village. The troop that arrived back at the church yard was hardly recognisable as the smart one that had left a few hours earlier. The girls’ neat plaits were dishevelled, their dresses creased and stained, some even ripped, while the boys looked like the victims of a natural disaster. The waiting mothers seemed unperturbed by the appearance of their offspring, and each reminded their charges to say “thank you to the kind vicar” before they headed for home, every child clutching a small bag of sweets.

  So it was with reluctance that I put pen to paper and wrote back to the church warden’s wife, agreeing to help. To make matters worse, the event would take place on my twenty-first birthday. What an awful way to spend the day! Then I reminded myself that I no longer celebrated birthdays anyway so should not to fuss about it.

  First thing the next day, I received a telegram from Mr. Thorpe info
rming me he would be returning that evening. I hastily ordered a better cut of meat and made certain his room was heated. By the time he arrived home, tired and hungry, Molly and Clara had already gone home and his meal was spoiling. He declared himself too exhausted to eat a large meal and asked for bread, cheese, and pickles to be sent along to his study. Mr. Kemp eagerly cleared up the somewhat dried out supper.

  I served the food and, just like old times, Edward invited me to sit down and chat. The study was (as yet) untouched by Harrington hands, and as we caught up with each other’s news, the cosy atmosphere of bygone evenings pervaded, making me feel even more traitor-like to contemplate leaving. I did not want to spoil the congenial nature of the evening and said nothing about my plans, but listened attentively to his.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE NEXT MORNING, I BRACED myself for action with the notion that the sooner he knew, the sooner he could plan a replacement, and once again headed for Mr. Thorpe’s study. With great sense of purpose, I knocked on his door only to find him in deep discussion with his land steward. The next time I tried, it was the builder, and so it went on throughout the frustrating day. I had almost given up for the day when, at tea time, Mr. Thorpe caught up with me in the hallway and asked if I wanted to see him.

  My well-rehearsed speech had vanished from my mind and my mouth went dry, but as soon as we were safely within the privacy of his study, I said, “I would like to give notice of leaving your employment, please.”

  Flabbergasted, Mr. Thorpe looked at me. “You, give notice?” he sputtered. “But why?”

  My mind was far from clear, but while rubbing my sweaty palms on my dress, I said, “I have enjoyed working for you, sir—and am grateful for your kindly friendship toward me—but with all the changes afoot for you and Biggenden, I feel that it would be for the best for all if I left.”