Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 8

  Satan, the great enemy of souls, suggested to me that if God did not care for me enough to give me my heart’s desire, how did I know that He had really answered my prayers for salvation? Surely all the hopes and spiritual experience I knew could turn out to be false and futile on the last great day? Christ’s promise is that “whosoever cometh I will in no wise cast out,” and I believed that I had come, but was my understanding of coming the same as God’s? I never doubted Christ’s power to save, but I started to doubt His willingness. Verses like “Many are called, but few are chosen” and “strait is the gate and narrow is the way that leadeth unto life and few there be that find it” haunted my thoughts and stifled my prayers. If God’s plans were already set and our lives ordered by Him from beginning to end, then what was the point of praying for things to happen? Why not just be a passive puppet and wait for Him to pull our strings and make things happen? How could we be responsible and answerable for our actions while all is predestinated for us? These thoughts spoiled any pleasure I had in feeling that God was my Father and Christ my Saviour, or that I could leave all my cares for time and eternity in His loving arms.

  I hated being in this state of mind and prayed that the questioning thoughts that haunted me might be removed. After a few weeks, this prayer was answered. It was a Sunday evening and the sermon was from Jeremiah 18, where God likens himself to a potter and Israel to clay and asks, “O house of Israel, cannot I do with you as this potter?” During the sermon, the vicar showed us how God was our Creator, creating us and giving us all our reasoning ability; therefore, how futile and sinful it was to use this God-given ability to question Him or think in our arrogance that we know better. He went on to state that it is only due to God’s mercy that we are not cast aside. He concluded by showing us that we are in God’s hands, but they are the best hands to be in, and our prayer should be “Oh God, forsake not the work of Thy hands.” His words melted my hard heart, and as I walked back to the manor, I thanked God for taking me in hand and prayed that I would be submissive to the moulding influence of His Spirit.

  But with no visits from Edward to look forward to, the daily grind of everyday life seemed endless, and as the other housemaids discussed their anticipated changes, I grew restless. Maybe it was time for me to seek a new situation too. I wanted to be submissive to the Lord, but also I needed guidance as to how to spend my Edward-less life. I dearly longed to visit Pemfield and once again be within the safe and loving embrace of my old friends who had known my parents and could reminisce with me. I broached the subject with Mrs. Milton. She kindly agreed that I should have an unpaid week off when the family had gone to London and the house had been thoroughly cleaned. I scribbled a letter to Mrs. Brown with such excitement and enthusiasm that I’m afraid that I told her that I was coming, rather than asking if it were possible, but she obviously didn’t mind, as a reply came shortly afterwards expressing her delight.

  CHAPTER 10

  AS SOON AS WE HAD bundled the family off to the metropolis with their trunks, hat boxes, glove boxes, shoe boxes, and the mountain of other paraphernalia which seemed vital for months of social gaiety, we set to work cleaning the quiet house. The noise levels had reached a crescendo during the last few days as each family member demanded the immediate attention of the servants to help with preparations, all of them believing that their particular wants were the most important. The ladies drove their maids near to distraction as they constantly changed their minds about the clothes they wanted to take and the accessories needed for each outfit. Eliza and Jane packed and repacked their ladies’ trunks until they could hardly remember what was in each trunk or if indeed certain items were packed at all. But now, finally, peace prevailed, and room after room was attacked with mops, dusters, brushes, polishes, and soaps until they sparkled with cleanliness and our hands bled from the various potions used.

  Although we worked hard, there was still a noticeably more relaxed atmosphere. We no longer had to moderate our voices, and meals were timed to suit our work, rather than the family’s whim. With no family to get to bed, we could call the evenings our own and enjoy free time after supper.

  The sound of the messenger boy’s bike on the long gravel drive became a frequent noise, as the family regularly sent a telegram down from London, asking for this broach or that gown to be sent up post haste. Just as these telegrams were becoming a predictable joke with the staff, one of a rather different nature landed in Mrs. Milton’s hands. The message informed her that Eliza had been taken ill and that a replacement was urgently needed. Please could she send one of the housemaids to “act up” until further notice?

  I held my breath and tried to look invisible as Mrs. Milton explained the situation, but Emma almost danced around with child-like exuberance, begging Mrs. Milton to send her and promising she would “be good and work ’ard.” It was difficult to know which of us was the more relieved when Mrs. Milton dismissed Emma with a curt “Stop dancing and get packed up as quickly as you can, but don’t get ideas above your station.” Emma winked at me and skipped out of the room, leaving me to hear Mrs. Milton’s grumbles about staffing levels and work load. At least, she conceded, most of the cleaning had been done.

  Now my time off seemed to hang in the balance. Would Mrs. Milton consider us too short staffed to let me go? Sarah had only two more weeks to work before her wedding, and Mrs. Milton had the extra burden of interviewing potential replacements. Once the house was spotless and we were merely mending laundry, I tentatively asked Mrs. Milton if I could still visit my friends and she replied, “Of course: a promise is a promise,” and then told me I could leave in 48 hours’ time and have five days off. I thanked her warmly and returned to my work with renewed enthusiasm (as far as one can be enthusiastic about mending pillowcases), my mind full of memories of characters and scenes from dear old Pemfield.

  As I waved good-bye to the staff, I felt sorry for Mrs. Milton that she never had time off or any kind of interest outside her work. This wondering about her and her solitary life—stuck in between the underservants and the family, and her lack of blood relatives who cared for her—occupied my thoughts as I walked down the drive to catch the stagecoach. But soon the delights of travelling and the beauty of the countryside around me blotted out all thoughts, and a feeling of anticipation and excitement grew within me as we neared the Kent border.

  After eavesdropping a while on the rather repetitive conversation of two lady passengers on my left about the shocking high price and the equally shocking low quality of groceries available these days, I turned my attention to the middle-aged couple on my right. They seemed well matched in their pettiness and their need to have the last word, so their bickering over trivia continued throughout their journey . . . and probably throughout their married life.

  Once I had gained all the private amusement I could from the conversations left and right, I turned myself and my full attention to the passing landscape through the window. The sun shone as white fluffy clouds swept rainless across the blue sky. The windows of the stagecoach protected us from the sharp, chilly wind outside, but let us enjoy the warmth of the May sunshine. The blossoms had recently disappeared from apple orchards, leaving just the fresh green of the spring leaves. The lambs were confident and playful in the meadows, while their mothers grazed contentedly in the thick grass. Fields of crops looked green and lush with many a trespassing rabbit eating to the full. Coarse and strong bines were beginning once again to creep clockwise up the hop poles.

  Trees waved and bowed as we sped through woodland, and beneath the swaying bows some late bluebells nestled among primroses and buttercups. We passed through villages alive with daily life and toil. Washing flapped on lines, boys rolled marbles, dogs chased our wheels, and people hurried about the streets or stood to chat. Passengers joined and left the stagecoach, always causing it to rock and sway and us to shuffle and fidget until all was arranged and settled. At last it was my turn to disembark, and after stepping on as few toes as possible and
avoiding landing on a fellow traveller’s lap, I extracted myself from the coach, paid the fee, and stepped into the fresh air. Once again, Mr. Hicks would provide the next means of conveyance, so I went to find him and his cart at the market square. He was deeply engaged in farming conversation, so I stood and watched the charismatic auctioneer in action until my driver and his mare were ready.

  Mr. Hicks greeted me with slight indifference, as if he saw me on a daily basis. This attitude suited me well, and to humour him I asked after his livestock, thus beginning a conversation that would last our entire journey to Pemfield.

  Mr. Hicks dropped me off outside Mrs. Brown’s cottage and before I knew it, I was wrapped in her warm embrace. In my arms she felt smaller and frailer than eighteen months ago, and when I looked at her face, I saw hollow eyes and tight pale skin. Her legs were swollen and pitted, indicating immediately to me that she was suffering from dropsy.

  My heart smote me that I had been neglectful of my dear, kind friend. But as soon as she spoke, I knew that Mrs. Brown was still the same calm, happy person, despite her failing body. How we chatted and enjoyed each other’s company that evening! It was lovely to be back in her homely cottage, eating her delicious food, far away from the tyranny of call bells. As we caught up on each other’s news, I was delighted to hear that her daughter was coming to stay the following week and was considering making this a permanent arrangement.

  Of course, I was interested to hear all the village news and especially how the replacement vicar was.

  “I declare I’ve never seen such a minister in all my days,” Mrs. Brown began.

  “Why?” I asked. “Is he good?”

  “Good? Oh yes, ’e’s good all right, at dressing up all posh like and being all theatrical, oh ’e’s good at that, all right.”

  “But what about his preaching? Is the content good?”

  “Well ta be ’onest with you, I don’t ’ear a great deal. Me pew is right near the back.”

  That seemed strange. “Can you not move forward?”

  “No, them seats are taken by some more wealthy folks who pay their seat rent but ’ardly ever come along.”

  “How annoying!” I said, grieved at this injustice.

  “But from what I ’ear, I ain’t missing much. ’E don’t preach like your good old pa used to—nothing solid like.”

  I was unsure whether this harsh assessment by Mrs. Brown was the result of her loyalty to my father or a true depiction of the man, but by Sunday evening I realised she was totally correct. After hearing an appallingly vague sermon with no mention of sin, redemption, or the preciousness of Christ, I had to agree that Mrs. Brown was not missing much and had “meat to eat” that the vicar knew naught of.

  The vicar seemed to assume that all who lived in a Christian country were Christians and the chief end of man was to be nice to others. I was disappointed and annoyed with the vicar, but even more so with Pa’s former church members, who seemed to drink in the syrupy sermon without a splutter. The sidesman made a point of speaking to me after the sermon and expressing how delighted they were with their new vicar “who has none of your poor father’s uncomfortably narrow views” and “respected people’s privacy enough not to visit their homes without being invited.” Maybe I was too thin-skinned, but I felt as if my father’s diligence, both spiritually and practically, had been either forgotten or despised in the village and that his legacy was eclipsed by the new “enlightened” preacher.

  When busy working at the manor, I had often thought with longing of Pemfield as my place of belonging and my home, but now I could see this concept starting to crumble. The Pemfield I knew and stored up in my memory was disappearing. When I went for a walk around the village and fields, retracing my steps, I found that the meadow where Bessie and I used to lie in the hay and chat was now an orchard, trees that we climbed had been chopped down, and as for our lovely old vicarage garden—all my mother’s favourite roses had been grubbed to make a croquet lawn!

  As I knelt to weed my parents’ grave, I was thankful that they were far above these earthly mutations and in the happy realm where there is neither change nor decay. My feelings of no longer belonging were also increased by visiting Bessie, my old best friend and companion in crime, who was now a busy mother of twins. Our day-to-day lives were so different that we had little more to say to each other. My time with her was mainly spent holding crying, regurgitating babies, so any conversation was limited anyway. Bessie seemed rather disappointed that I didn’t regard her squealing offspring with the same adoration as she did, although I did my best to look enchanted.

  The highlight of my stay at Pemfield was the cosy evenings around Mrs. Brown’s warm range with her and Miss Miller. We reminisced about the “good old times” and heard stories about Miss Miller’s pupils. They were genuinely interested in hearing about my work and my fellow servants. In her daily conversation, Mrs. Brown dropped comments that indicated that her thoughts were already in heavenly places. She was like a full ear of corn, bowed down with weight, ripe and ready for harvesting. It began to dawn on me that I would probably not meet her again on this side of the grave. I could not really be sad at this realisation, as she was such a testimony to the Lord’s faithfulness “even to grey hairs,” and her various aches and pains made her long for release.

  How quickly my five days’ leave sped past! Before I knew it, I was back in the stagecoach, bouncing my way back to Barton Manor and the endless round of work. I watched the scenery pass with feelings very different from those on my outward journey. There was no excited anticipation, just a sinking feeling of realising that a monotonous daily grind awaited me.

  My visit to Pemfield had unsettled me, as I had always seen the village as home and had expected this to remain so, but after the changes that had taken place, I felt like a stranger there and wondered what and where home was for me now, or if indeed I even had one. I mused over the elements that make up the concept of home—companionship, love, memories, warmth, family, mutual concerns, and a base to sleep and be accepted exactly as one is. How many of these components can disappear before a home ceases to be home?

  I never considered Barton Manor anything more than a place of work. If it were to become the nearest thing to home for me, I feared I would become as desolate and friendless as Mrs. Milton. Such were my rather despondent musings as I was reluctantly propelled back toward normal, daily life.

  CHAPTER 11

  I ARRIVED BACK AT BARTON Manor just in time for the evening meal. After taking my luggage to my room and neatening myself up, I went straight into the servants’ hall and greeted all the staff. As I was taking the first mouthful of steaming steak and kidney pudding, Mrs. Milton asked if I had heard the latest news. I had not and expected to hear about the latest escapade in London, but what I heard was most unexpected.

  Master Edward had been left a manor and estate by Sir Richard Tenson, an old friend of his father. The deceased gentleman had been involved in the faulty decision-making that eventually contributed to the explosion that killed Master Edward’s father. The guilt of his inaccurate calculations dogged Sir Richard Tenson’s life. He immediately gave up any involvement with the railroads and retreated to his country estate, living there almost hermit style, brooding on his mistake and exaggerating his contribution. He knew of Master Edward’s existence but could not face meeting his friend’s offspring or explaining the fatal incident. With no family or close friends, Sir Richard Tenson had decided to leave all his worldly goods to Edward, and that was no mean amount.

  The news had come via London in a long telegram yesterday, causing much discussion and speculation among the servants. I would have liked to have heard more, but obviously it had been chewed over sufficiently already to satisfy most of the staff and they were not going to repeat it all. I longed for solitude so I could digest this stunning information in peace. I was already sure of two things—that Edward would make a wise and discerning landlord, but also that the gulf between our stations in
life was such that it could not be bridged.

  When I went to bed that night, I thanked the Lord for blessing Edward in such an abundant way and prayed that he might be given all the wisdom and skill he needed in this new sphere. I also felt need of sustaining in my dreary, lowly lot, which seemed to stretch endlessly in front of me. I missed Emma’s lively, observant presence and longed to have a good chat with her. I even missed Sarah’s predictable comments on life, now that she had gone off to prepare for her forthcoming marriage. Everyone seemed to have an exciting future ahead of them except for me. Alone and with a heavy, empty heart, I fell asleep in my attic room, ready to begin duty at the crack of dawn.

  The Davenport family extended their stay in London for several more weeks. Apparently, a certain young, firstborn son was beginning to take a marked interest in Miss Davenport, and a few more weeks might just secure the match. Even Mr. Davenport felt that the further expense in London was worth the gamble if his eldest daughter would catch a wealthy man from good breeding stock.

  We did not object to having the house to ourselves for a while longer and used any spare time helping Sarah prepare for the marriage to her gardener. With or without the Davenport’s blessing (I could not discover which), the kitchen staff raided the pantry to produce an extensive and delicious wedding breakfast for the couple. The gardeners made it their task to supply casks of ale and cider for the event, and they did this with great liberality. We all abandoned the house to attend the marriage service in the village church, after which friends and relatives came to the servants’ hall for refreshments and to dance a few reels. A band of local musicians played most enthusiastically for us, their only reward being a regular supply of food, ale, and cider throughout the evening. As the evening progressed, their playing became less and less accurate, but more and more enthusiastic until at last it was impossible to dance to their endeavours, and it was time to wave the happy couple off. We’d all had a thoroughly enjoyable time, and never was it better illustrated that “when the cat’s away, the mice will play”!