Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Read online

  Mr. Thorpe slumped in his chair with his chin on his chest. Then, looking both despondent and accusing, he asked, “How could you do this to me?”

  “I think it will be best for you all,” I repeated.

  “And who, pray tell, is you all?”

  “You, sir, your bride, the new staff, and the Harrington family.”

  Mr. Thorpe sat up straight. “Has Mrs. Harrington suggested this move to you?”

  “Not at all, sir, though I imagine she will approve of it.”

  “Be that as it may, Rebecca, but the point is that I need you and your sensible guidance.”

  “But, sir, you will have your wife to offer you sensible guidance.”

  Mr. Thorpe studied his finger nails a while before replying. “My darling Sophia is an accomplished young lady, but I could not rely on her for sound advice or well-considered reasoning.”

  My astonishment made me say too much. “But, sir, surely to have confidence in your spouse’s opinion is of utmost importance in a marriage?”

  This statement clearly annoyed Mr. Thorpe, and he rather savagely retorted, “This just shows how little you know of love. You always have been surprisingly dim on the subject.”

  I was both hurt and perplexed. I needed to get out the room, so I edged toward the door.

  “So is that your final decision, Rebecca?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I really should be seeing to the staff,” I replied, disappearing out the door before he could reply.

  During the next few days, Mr. Thorpe tried every possible tactic to make me change my mind. One hour he would declared me selfish; the next, unchristian; then thoughtless; then too ambitious. He sometimes begged with boyish playfulness, sometimes scolded me with severity and sometimes whined pathetically. I could easily withstand the scolding and whining, but his boyish playfulness was so like the light-hearted banter we used to enjoy in pre-Harrington days that my heart softened and my determination weakened. I so distrusted my ability to stand firm that I decided that the only way to force myself to stick to my resolution was to tell the staff of my intentions.

  The Kemps digested the news as they did their dinners—with silent approval. Clara and Molly were both shocked—probably imagining, like Mr. Thorpe, that Spinster Stubbs would be at Biggenden for aye. They were also apprehensive about who might replace me, fearing some sweeping regime changes.

  Our immediate priority was the rehousing of Mr. and Mrs. Kemp. We all worked hard to pack up their belongings, marvelling at how many possessions they had managed to fit into their strange pantry bedroom. I had never actually been inside the room before and was horrified to see the conditions they had endured. The outside wall was damp, and mildew covered the plasterwork. Their earthly goods looked sadly dishevelled and pathetic loaded onto a donkey cart, and their owners looked equally uprooted. The housemaids and I tried to make the occasion as cheery as possible, but we all knew life at Biggenden would never be the same again.

  The Kemps were more than happy to live with their daughter, but this did little to make the move, which also marked the end of their working life, any easier. Despite Mr. Kemp’s very minimal involvement in the running of Biggenden, he still saw himself as the man of the house. As he left the house and was helped up onto the wagon bench, he seemed to diminish and looked like a frail old man who no longer knew his role in life. Mrs. Kemp bustled about, ensuring all her breakable possessions were adequately wrapped up—including her husband. She tried to look calm, but an uncharacteristic clumsiness and talkativeness gave her away. She kissed us all and then was heaved up to sit next to the driver. Her voice cracked and her bottom lip trembled as she called out her final instructions. We waved them out of sight, vowing to visit them often before we returned to the empty kitchen with damp eyes.

  Our next job was to thoroughly clean and whitewash the pantry, but for just a while, all we could do was put the kettle on and flop into chairs. All that could be heard was the kettle as we sat in silence, each pondering our loss. The kettle’s whistle jolted us back to life, and as we drank our tea, we reassured ourselves and each other with “It will be nice for them to be with their grandchildren” and similar platitudes. I inadvertently lightened the mood by knocking on the pantry door before I entered—old habits certainly die hard.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE HOUSEMAIDS SEEMED RELUCTANT TO leave me alone in the house that evening. The house felt large and gloomy, despite the fact that Mr. Thorpe was in residence somewhere. So absorbed was their employer with other matters that he was not aware of the Kemps’ departure, and somehow I felt loath to inform him.

  It seemed strangely awkward to acknowledge we were alone in the house, so I continued as if all was normal. The next day was worse as, being a Saturday, the maids had a half day. I cooked a small meal and served half in a silent dining room and half in a silent kitchen.

  By now Mr. Thorpe had realised the Kemps had been rehoused and even visited the newly reclaimed and whitewashed pantry. As we stood in the unnaturally quiet kitchen, I ventured to ask if anything should be done to recruit more staff before the wedding, imagining some of the responsibility would fall to me, but he assured me all was in hand; Mrs. Harrington was overseeing the promotion and transfer of some of her loyal and trusted staff. The new housekeeper would arrive in June, followed by the kitchen staff and male servants in July, around the time of the marriage, ready to be fully operational when the happy couple returned from their bridal tour of the continent.

  I digested this information with interest, marvelling again at the domineering efficiency of Mr. Thorpe’s future mother-in-law. I could almost see the glint of satisfaction in her eyes as she learned I was leaving Biggenden and then plotted how she could use this void to ensure Biggenden was run more along Harrington lines. Biggenden would be a small colony of the Harrington empire, and to ensure its loyalty, she needed trusted and obedient generals on the ground to keep the natives in check.

  Mr. Thorpe’s only request was that I stay on until September, when he returned from his trip. He was anxious not to leave Biggenden and Rex alone with the new crew. With a wry smile, he also said he hoped I could educate the housekeeper in “Biggenden ways.” I happily agreed with these terms, as my future plans were by no means decided, and I was anxious that our parting be amiable. Now that he had come to terms with my imminent departure, Mr. Thorpe was touchingly interested in my future and what I hoped to do. I did not want to worry him with my uncertainties so, without lying, I led him to believe that Uncle Hector’s offer was rather more appealing to me than it was. My pride forbade me from explaining how I would be earnestly searching for a way of making an independent living.

  As we chatted about our futures, Mr. Thorpe sat down at the long kitchen table and suggested that we have a cup of tea “for old times’ sake.” Over tea he described his planned route around the continent and all the sites and cities he hoped they could visit. I looked at his boyishly animated face and felt a surge of love for him again, but this time it was not the exciting “in love” feeling but rather the friendly warmth and concern one may feel toward a close but sometimes irritating brother. The life he was dreaming of with his glamorous bride sounded nice, but it was not what I would enjoy. I could have imagined myself as the wife of a rural landowner who enthusiastically followed the farming almanac, but not as one who enthusiastically followed the social calendar of the upper class. I felt content that we had shared some good times together, but it was clear that now our lives were naturally drifting apart. I did not know my path ahead, but I knew who was making the path and had full confidence in His wisdom.

  That afternoon, Edward left for Surrey to see his beloved Sophia again, and I was left alone in the house for the first time. As the daylight dwindled, I locked all the doors, then checked and rechecked them. I tried to rationalise my unease away by telling myself that Mr. and Mrs. Kemp had hardly been the most able security guards, but such logic did little to help.

  I normally enjoyed the sol
itude of my parlour, but with the awareness of an empty kitchen next door, my enjoyment evaporated. Instead of settling down in front of the stove, I paced around restlessly. The silence had the opposite effect on the noticeably noisy clock, and its hands crept around the face at an unusually sluggish pace. The evening dragged on, and when I could bear it no more, I made a bed of old blankets by the kitchen range for Rex (an arrangement he thoroughly approved of) and went to bed. My normal prayer request for protection during the night hours was pleaded with great earnestness that evening, and thankfully the Lord not only protected me and the house but gave restful sleep as well.

  CHAPTER 32

  IT WAS WITH AN AIR of reluctance that I prepared for church the next morning. A mere tickle in the throat or suggestion of a headache would have been an excuse sufficient to skip the morning service, but as I was in good health, I fastened my bonnet, donned my cloak, and left the house. The morning sun shone brightly upon the lush foliage and bluebells. In the orchards the fruit trees were covered in blossom. The beautiful spring sights drove away some of my negativity; if I could not enjoy the preaching, at least I could enjoy creation’s message. By and by I caught up with Mrs. Brookes and fell in step with her. She updated me with the family news, especially of Agnes’ recent wedding.

  “And that were the last sermon the Rev’rent gave,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “What has happened to Reverend Brinkhill?”

  “’Aven’t you ’eard? Why, ’e’s fallen over en broke ’is leg—right bad.”

  “Poor man!” I gasped. “So what about preaching?”

  “Impossible. ’E can’t preach for munfs. The bishop ’as sent in a curate to take ’is place.”

  Now, I would not wish a broken leg upon anyone, but I had an unholy wave of joy at the thought of the vicar being unable to preach. I tried to check this feeling and sound sincere as I answered that I hoped his leg soon mended.

  “Naah,” came the pessimistic reply. “’E’s the wrong side a sixty ta make a quick recovery.”

  By now we were at the church porch, so we separated to our normal pews. I prayed that the bishop had sent a good man to the parish. Instead of a feeling of having to endure the service, I felt anticipation. My hopes were not dashed when an energetic man opened the vestry door, walked determinedly up the pulpit step, and opened the service with prayer. His prayer was warm and reverent and bore the marks of a man who knew that he had the ear of Almighty God. He read the Bible with expression and reverence, raising my hopes further that we were in for a good sermon. He preached from the well-known parable of the prodigal son and held our attention well with relevant illustrations, interesting observations, and good eye contact. His description of God as the loving father was heart-warming as he drew parallels between the ways in which they welcome wayward sinners.

  He hit the message home by warning us that we need not be “in a far country” to be far from our heavenly Father, but sitting piously in a pew with our hearts somewhere else. “We don’t need to be living riotously, but if we are not in fellowship with the Father, then we are far away.”

  From Isaiah and the New Testament, he pointed out some lovely passages that showed the heavenly Father’s loving heart and willingness to welcome sinners. He urged us to come home to the Father and experience His forgiving love.

  He was not the most polished or eloquent preacher I had heard, but his earnestness and warmth shone through, making him a compelling speaker. My soul sang for joy as he quoted, “In thy presence is fullness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.”

  Then we were suddenly brought back to earth by practical arrangements. Much to my surprise, the curate said, “Now we will take a few moments to privately think on these things while our band members tunes their instruments in preparation for the final hymn.” Looking up, he smiled at the musicians and sat down. I did continue thinking about the sermon, but I also wondered how the curate had reacted to the band’s interruption the first time he preached and was impressed by how he had decided to handle the situation. After a few minutes of screeches and scratches from the balcony, the noise died down, and the band leader called out “Thanks, parson,” at which the curate stood up and said, “Thank you, gentlemen,” before continuing his sermon for another five minutes, pressing home the urgency of being reconciled to God.

  I walked home alone with a thankful heart for the invigorating sermon and a welcoming God. I also thought about the curate. I gathered his name was Rev. Hayworth. He was neither young nor old, and the best way I could describe him was as a “family man.” His brown hair had tints of grey around the ears, and his kind brown eyes and friendly face showed evidence of life experience and maybe hardship. I imagined he was a capable father of a young family and was the husband of an able, godly woman.

  When I got back to Biggenden, it was strange unlocking and entering a deserted house. After a meal of cold meat and vegetables, I was pleased to get out into the spring sunshine and walk Rex. The day of rest passed slowly, and I leisurely walked, read, and then dozed until the evening service.

  The evening service was as good as the morning, and once again our new curate preached an instructive and heart-warming sermon. As I listened to his fervent praying, I felt rebuked for my sluggish and distracted bedtime prayers and resolved to do better. At the end of the service, before the benediction, Rev. Hayworth gave out a notice: “I have been asked to remind you of the Sunday school outing due to take place next Saturday. All Sunday school scholars are warmly invited, and I look forward to joining you on this happy occasion.”

  My reaction to this announcement was mixed. I felt glad he was coming, but I also felt sorry for his misguided enthusiasm, stemming from his ignorance of the true nature of the event. With curiosity and some amusement, I wondered how he would handle the situation and began to almost look forward to the trip.

  But that week I was not given much time for conjecture. Monday afternoon brought an urgent message from Mr. Thorpe, announcing that he would be arriving on Tuesday afternoon with Mr., Mrs., and Sophia Harrington so they could view the building work and plan the décor. They would be staying until Friday, along with three servants.

  Clara, Molly, and I flew into a flurry of domestic activity. The garden boy was roped in to be a messenger as I sent orders and then amendments of orders to all our normal suppliers. Molly’s younger brother was bribed with promises of regular cake to keep all the bedroom and reception room fires burning. He did such a sterling job that we became more concerned about chimney fires than damp, cold rooms. My insistence in keeping the house clean despite its being empty paid off, and Clara had only to do some cursory cleaning and straightening up, while Molly and I set to in the kitchen.

  How we missed Agnes’s expertise as we thumbed through the flour-covered recipe books, trying to construct a suitable menu! Then Mrs. Brookes’ youngest daughter, Violet, was offered by her mother as a temporary scullery maid, so we fitted her up in an over-large uniform and got her busy at the sink. Beds were made up in the attic rooms for the Kenwood housemaids and Clara, Molly, and Violet, who had to live-in for the duration of the visitors’ stay.

  As instructed by Mr. Thorpe, a carriage was sent to meet the visitors from Tunbridge Railway Station, and the farm wagon was also sent for the staff and all the luggage. We were taken by surprise when one of the servants turned out to be a footman. Clara and Molly giggled when he took his overcoat off and revealed a ridiculously showy uniform. He showed his superiority by studiously ignoring their stares and chuckles. Like an exotic bird among sparrows, he looked completely out of place among the likes of us. But we did not have time to stop and stare but had to scurry around making our guests comfortable and provide them with refreshment. The groom and gardener quickly helped me get a bedroom ready for the footman in the new men’s quarters.

  When I met Mrs. Harrington in the hallway, she acknowledged my presence with a triumphant air of one who has got her own way, saying, “A
h, Stubbs, I understand you are leaving.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “Well, I am pleased you knew the limits of your capability,” she purred.

  I snorted but quickly turned it into a cough as she swept into the sitting room, smiling to herself.

  Of course, Bertha was back. This time I had prepared my parlour for her intrusion, clearing the desk, ready for her ladies’ delicates. The other maid was Hilda, an under-cook at Kenwood who was considered worthy of a promotion to head-cook at Biggenden. Hilda marched into our kitchen ready to take command of dinner preparations, but halted when she saw that the task was almost completed already. If she was impressed, she hid it well by criticising the combination of dishes. She wanted to throw out our meal plans for the next three days and order food for her own menus.

  Molly looked as if she was about to use her wooden spoon on haughty Hilda, so I intervened by explaining how wasteful a change of menu would be because we had already procured most of the ingredients. Finally, common sense won, and after making a few unnecessary changes, Hilda reluctantly gave in. But she still thought she was queen of the kitchen and insisted on moving the kitchen utensils “to their right place,” making it impossible to find anything.

  Upstairs, there was also friction about the right place for things. The Harringtons possessed various items of furniture that had been in the family for generations, and they wished Mr. Thorpe and Sophia to have some of these at Biggenden. Her doting parents agreed to let Sophia have whatever heirlooms she wished, and as they walked around the empty space, discussion took place as to what would look nice where.

  They were unitedly impressed and delighted by the new rooms, but they were un-united in how to fill them. Any suggestion from anyone else was immediately squashed by Mrs. Harrington. It soon became clear that Sophia was welcome to any family heirloom—as long as it was not one of her mother’s favourites. It became yet clearer that most of them were her favourites and “would not stand the journey.” Mr. Harrington huffed and puffed about his wife’s unreasonableness and then disappeared outside to inspect the workmanship of the brickwork.