Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Read online

  I had hardly been at the manor a week when, one morning, all the housemaids were summoned to Mrs. Milton’s parlour.

  “We’re in for it now,” muttered Emma as we stood nervously outside, straightening our aprons and caps before finding the courage to knock on the door and learn of our transgression.

  The cause of angry alarm was an audacious bed-bug biting Miss Davenport. The bug’s actions had been reported to Mrs. Davenport, who immediately called for Mrs. Milton and berated her for allowing sloppy bed-airing to take place. We were then of course summoned to be severely admonished for this poor work. We all stood in a line looking contrite, but inside I was boiling with anger. The young ladies often lay in bed far longer than was planned, not realising or caring that their lie-in upset our routine. Beds had to be made before midday, so sometimes we could not air the beds for as long as was ideal. I wanted to open my mouth and explain fully, but Emma kicked my foot to shut me up, and Mrs. Milton made it abundantly obvious that our only reply was to be an apology, which we duly muttered and escaped.

  “If ya wanna keep ya job, ya need to keep ya mouth shut, and preferably ya brain too,” warned Emma, but the wink that accompanied her words revealed that she felt as infuriated as I did.

  Although the footmen were responsible for most of the lamps in the house, we had to clean and trim the ones in the ladies’ bedchambers. When our morning routine was completed, Mrs. Milton would allocate us a number of rooms that needed a clean-through. In this way all the rooms in the house had a good clean at least once a week. In the summer, our routine work was somewhat reduced as we did not have to light and maintain fires in each room, and did not have to contend with the huge amounts of dust that open fires produce. However, there was no time for taking it easy, for Mrs. Milton filled our time with spring cleaning and mending.

  Any spare time of an evening was spent in the servants’ hall. A piano and old armchairs were provided for our entertainment and comfort. Some of us knitted or sewed, others read the newspaper or a book, and often there was a buzz of conversation. At any time our relaxation could be disturbed by a bell signalling some large or trivial task awaiting upstairs. We would groan and, depending which bell was swinging, the appropriate servant would attend.

  The Matrimonial Causes Act had been passed the previous year, and the Divorce Court had been set up, so every day the newspapers were full of the lurid and lascivious details of the strange matrimonial goings on of the elite. Mr. Davenport’s newspaper found its way to the servants’ hall every evening and became the highlight of the footmen’s evenings as they read out these smutty reports. The daily diet of these stories did nothing to recommend our superiors—rather, we realised they were superior to us only in secrecy, hypocrisy, and deceit. It was especially horrifying, yet gratifying to read of well-known persons who had dismissed servants with pharisaical sternness for some minor moral misdeed, only to be publicly exposed for their own longstanding and complex extra-marital liaisons. Often the conversation in the hall became crude and raucous, and although I admit to finding it amusing, I also felt uncomfortable and preferred to retire. I knew this made me seem prim and humourless, and at times like that I longed for the congenial company I once knew—especially dear Pa and Ma.

  After a hard day’s work when I was feeling stiff and sore, it was not unusual for me to lie in bed sobbing for my parents and my old life, with a heart full to bursting point with longing and sadness. As the breeze of the evening wafted into my attic room I remembered the companionable evenings at the vicarage. While Ma pottered about the garden dead-heading her roses in the cool of the day and Pa tended his vegetable patch, whistling a hymn tune to himself as he worked, I would sit on the wide sitting room window ledge reading a book, absorbed in the story, but ever conscious of the scene outside the window, the scent of roses and cut grass and hope that Ma would not notice the lateness of the hour and send me to bed. Other times, as I lay on my saggy servant’s bed, I remembered Ma and Pa’s loving embrace as they tucked me up in bed and then sang an evening hymn with me. It was easy to delay proceedings by asking Pa difficult questions just as he was saying goodnight. As my mind filled with these beautiful memories and my eyes filled with tears, only stubborn pride kept me from rushing back to Pemfield and admitting that I had made a mistake.

  Day in, day out, from dawn to dusk, I swept and scrubbed, brushed and polished. My body ached all over, and my hands dried, cracked, bled, and chapped. I learned to sprinkle fresh tea leaves on carpets before brushing them to help pick up the dust and give off a pleasant aroma. I learned how to make furniture polish from turpentine, vinegar, linseed oil, and spirits of wine, and the correct use of emery powder, common asphaltum, and muriatic antimony in cleaning and polishing. None of these substances were designed to relieve my sore hands. My knees became dry and hardened from washing the vast entrance hall and brushing the long staircases, so parts of me began to look and feel a decade older than my real age.

  The more I learnt about the internal life of the manor, the more I was surprised and perplexed at the way two groups of people could live in the same house, both mutually dependent on each other, yet hold one another in contempt. The servants were quick to secretly mock their employers, and the family viewed their servants as a necessary evil. The rules about our conduct in front of them seemed designed to reinforce the idea that we were beneath them. When I was sweaty from hard work and had permanently black nails from soot and I met a well-groomed, beautifully dressed, and sweet-smelling lady, I began to feel worthy of their disdain. I had to check these thoughts by reminding myself that my physical appearance only reflected on the honest, hard work I was doing and was nothing to be ashamed of.

  During that first month, I had vast amounts to learn and get used to—I was so exhausted that I just worked, ate, and slept. At the end of the month, Mrs. Milton called me aside and said she was satisfied with my standard of work and that I pulled my weight; therefore, I could remain in the establishment as a permanent second housemaid. I thanked her profusely, but she brushed my gratitude aside, ordering me to quickly change my attire and have a half day holiday. I ran to tell Emma.

  “I’ve proved you wrong. I have not only stayed a week, I have stayed a month and have been told I can stay permanently!”

  “Well, I never,” Emma said with an easy laugh. “Standards ’ave slipped, but I must admit, I ’ave never been so ’appy to be proved wrong. Now get along with ya before ya ’alf day disappears before ya very eyes.”

  CHAPTER 5

  AS I BECAME MORE CONFIDENT in my work, I had time to notice the people around me and how they interacted. My master, Mr. Davenport, was part of the landed gentry, living solely off the rents he received from the tenant farmers on his large estate. He did not waste his time or talent on the practical details of managing and maintaining his vast acreage but left this entirely to his estate manager. With no business cares to trouble him, he was able to devote his time and energy to his great passions of shooting, hunting, and fishing. I learned from a stable lad that his horses were kept in better housing than his staff; they had brand new stables with modern under floor heating. Mr. Davenport was under the illusion that bursts of outrage and fits of temper were signs of power and manliness, while attributes like forbearance, patience, and forgiveness were for lesser men and the weaker sex. His love of fine food and wine had left him with a portly figure, but he walked with a strut of self-importance, reminding me of a robin red-breast.

  Mrs. Davenport was chosen by her husband in the similar way he might choose a new mare. She came from good stock and had fine looks, a mild temperament, and hopefully could produce an heir. She had indeed fulfilled her obligations and provided her husband with two sons, an heir and “a spare,” as well as two daughters. As a great lover of peace, much of her time and energy was given to keeping each family member happy, but she had neither the wit nor wisdom to negotiate lasting peace treaties. As the mistress of the house, her incompetence and neediness could be exas
perating, but it also inspired our pity and loyalty.

  When I joined the household, Miss Davenport and Miss Annabel were aged seventeen and fifteen respectively. They were still being tutored by a governess, but lessons were held only when nothing more important was taking place. The harassed governess had been given responsibility but no authority and was often frustrated by her impossible role. The young ladies had no natural thirst for knowledge, and the governess lacked the imagination to make lessons exciting; this combination resulted in their education being very superficial. Indeed, their father discouraged too much “book knowledge” but was anxious that his girls be accomplished in all “ladylike” skills such as needlework, music, and dance. The girls were brought up to please and captivate men but were not equipped to make sound moral judgments, and no one seemed to notice that this was a recipe for disaster. Emma accurately but rather cruelly pointed out that their greatest protection from men’s unwanted attention was their unfortunate looks. Indeed, their lady’s maids had the huge task of finding ways of creating beauty where nature had not. They used elaborate lotions to tame their hair and tried many modern beauty concoctions to enhance their eyes, cheeks, or lips. We benefited from this, as any rejected or old lotions were passed on to us.

  Miss Davenport and Miss Annabel had spent more time in the company of hired servants than their own parents. From infancy, I was told, they were in the care of a nanny and nursery nurse, seeing their mother only when she visited the nursery or sent for them. An official daily viewing of the infants took place after dinner, with the girls dressed in their prettiest clothes, but at that late hour the poor girls were usually tired and did not always comply with their father’s wishes, so he often sent them back to the nursery in disgrace. Mrs. Davenport was not without natural motherly affections, but this is how she had been brought up and to her it was the “right thing to do.” Her loving but inept attempts at dressing, soothing, and feeding her offspring were greeted with sighs and tuts from the experienced nanny; Ma’am soon realised her presence was not welcome in the nursery, so in order to keep the peace, she reluctantly retreated. The girls had spent many happy hours in the kitchen, playing in the sinks or licking bowls or in the servants’ hall playing games with the houseboy, who was only a few years older. But as they grew older, they “put away childish things.” The very people who had often given them piggy-back rides or kissed their grazed knees were now treated with disdain and aloofness.

  I did not meet the two sons until the summer vacation, as they were termly boarders at a respectable and costly private school. Master Charles and Master Bernard were lively lads who shared their father’s love of outdoor pursuits. They had more of their mother’s mild temperament than their father would have liked, but he did his best to toughen them up. At the ages of twelve and ten, they were still not above visiting us below stairs and would proudly bring pheasants they had shot or fish they had caught for our inspection and admiration. In return, they were rewarded with freshly baked biscuits or treats.

  The Davenports were also wards of an orphan son of Ma’am’s late sister. For the last eight years, Mr. Davenport had been the reluctant guardian of this unfortunate boy who had lost his mother to consumption and his father in a railroad disaster. Master Edward Thorpe had been given the same opportunities as the other children in the household, but he was taught that he was slightly below them in rank. He was always to show gratitude and humility for being allowed the honour of living in their house. Mrs. Davenport was incapable of expressing her love, even to her own offspring, so she was unable to comfort the grieving boy she hardly knew. Master Edward found a mother figure in the governess and was the darling of all the staff. Master Edward was now at Oxford University studying law, being of the lower ranks that have to live by the sweat of their brow. Once again, I did not meet Master Edward until his vacation.

  The whole Davenport family was privileged with all that wealth and influence could provide, but the head of the house did nothing for their spiritual well-being, apart from insisting all attend the Sunday morning service at the local church. From one Sunday morning to another, not a word or deed would indicate that the family had any concern for their eternal welfare or that of their staff. In many big houses, there would be a time of daily prayers that all the household would be expected to attend, but nothing like that occurred at Barton Manor. I enjoyed the company of my fellow servants and, on the whole, they were a decent and honest team, but I lacked true Christian companionship. No one else seemed to understand that Christianity was a living, personal relationship with the Saviour rather than a vague assent to the Apostles’ Creed.

  This lack of understanding was surprising, as the preaching of the vicar, Reverend Penfold, was clear and biblical. He did not hesitate to preach “the whole council of God,” warning of sin, judgment, and eternal damnation and then recommending Christ, His work, and perfect sacrifice. He presented Christ as a most suitable and willing Saviour, one who was truly God and truly man. He showed believers their security in Christ, based on His great promises, faithful love, and limitless power. He encouraged believers to look to Christ for assurance rather than for certain emotions in their own fickle hearts.

  I found Reverend Penfold’s sermons of great comfort and encouragement. When I considered the privilege of being in Christ, I would not swap my place with the richest person in England. I was sad to see my fellow servants and the family sit through powerful sermon after powerful sermon, week after week, with no apparent impression being made.

  Homesickness often wafted over me on Sundays. There was no one to discuss the service with, no sense of the day being special and holy or a day for God-given relaxation. My mind often went to the companionable evenings snuggled up with a religious book by a roaring fire eating toasted tea cakes, or the first Sundays of every month, when after the evening service, all were invited to our house for hymn singing and supper. Many people came, young and old. Miss Miller played the piano in our parlour and anyone could choose a hymn. We usually had soprano, alto, tenor, and bass singers present and the harmonised singing was beautiful; so beautiful that old Mrs. Grey always nodded off, until the clatter of tea cups woke her and her appetite. I am sure a musician would have found many a fault with our amateur rendition of the hymns, but I had never heard such lovely, heart-warming singing, and I longed to hear it again. After about eight hymns, or when our throats were too dry, Ma and I would make the tea and bring in the scones and cakes. The older people tended to stay in the parlour, but the younger ones often drifted into the kitchen and we would sit around the large table chatting and laughing. Sometimes the parlour crowd was noisier than the kitchen group, but it was often the other way around. The parlour people had more of a sense of what were suitable “Sunday subjects” than the youngsters, so became less exuberant. But all that now seemed a million miles away and a different life altogether.

  Mrs. Milton was kind enough to allow me time off to attend the Sunday evening service most weeks. I knew this would give extra work to Emma and Sarah, so I tried to do more chores other evenings. The congregation in the evening was very small, and soon I began to recognise people and be recognised. In the morning I was there as a housemaid of the Davenports, but in the evening I was there as Rebecca Stubbs. Before long I was invited to various older parishioners’ homes for cups of tea on my half day. These little social events were enjoyable, reminding me of the village life I had left behind in Kent. I felt valued once more for the person I was rather than for the tasks I could perform. The work at the manor was absorbing, taking up so much of my time, energy, and thoughts that it was refreshing to remember that there was a life beyond its ornate walls.

  I particularly enjoyed the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Crookshank, the local butcher and his wife. They were a middle-aged couple, and their children had all left home. Mrs. Crookshank would sit and listen to my stories of life at the manor and tell me her family news. Their little home was always calm and inviting, and I felt that here wa
s a place where I could relax and be myself; indeed, during my first few months at the manor, when I was tired all the time, I sometimes had a nap in an armchair by the stove as Mrs. Crookshank prepared the evening meal. Other times I would help her in their small kitchen garden, enjoying the fresh air and genial company. I spent the afternoon of my eighteenth birthday with the Crookshanks, having been given a half day off, but I felt so disinclined to celebrate the day and so loath to lumber anyone with the responsibility of making it special for me, that I did not inform them of the day’s significance. On the way home I popped to the baker and bought myself an iced bun. This was a mistake, for as I sat on the grass verge to eat it, I remembered Ma baking me birthday cakes and letting me lick out the bowl. My eyes filled with tears and the bun turned to sawdust in my mouth.

  My role of housemaid seemed repetitive and mundane, but I soon realised that further down the servant ladder was a far less enviable role—that of the scullery maid, Nancy. She worked from dawn to dusk in the hot, steamy scullery, enduring the wrath of the kitchen maids and the explosive nature of the cook. All the glass and silverware was cleaned and cared for by the footmen, but all the dirtiest, greasiest pots and pans were scrubbed and rescrubbed day by day by poor Nancy. She was also responsible for keeping the various ranges burning and so had to start her day early to ensure the fire was well established and the kettle boiling before the cook entered her domain. The kitchen maids delegated most of the scrubbing of vegetables and plucking of fowls to the hapless girl, ensuring that she didn’t stop from morning to night. I soon learned that Nancy was from the workhouse and did not know her exact age but was told by the workhouse superintendent that she was about fourteen.