Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (11 page)

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”!

The next morning it was all hands on deck to clear up all traces of the previous day’s events and return the servants’ hall to its normal austere tidiness. That afternoon, as I was busy sweeping the floor, Mrs. Milton came in with the post and handed me a letter. I recognised the handwriting immediately—it was from Master Edward!

I slipped the envelope into my pocket and longed for an opportunity to read its content. My thoughts were in a whirl, my heart was pounding, and I knew I could be fit for nothing until I knew what was contained in the letter. As soon as I had finished sweeping I hurried to the broom cupboard, sat on an upturned bucket, and opened the envelope. My hands shook as I read the words. Edward wrote about his unexpected good fortune and how he had immediately given up his post to take on his new estate and responsibilities, and then he continued, “The weight of my new situation presses heavily on my shoulders and I need much wisdom from the Lord to be a good landlord and employer. I also feel the need of a wise and sensible friend by my side, one I can trust, who holds values similar to my own, and therefore ask if you would consider becoming my . . .”

I felt faint and shook as I hastily turned the page.

“. . . housekeeper.”

Housekeeper! My heart sank.
Housekeeper
. How foolish and romantic I had been to imagine he wanted me as his wife. I read on, realising that he wanted me to help him run his home, manage the redecorating required, and organise a team of servants. While I should have been flattered by the proposal, I was feeling disappointed as a result of my dreamy, unrealistic, and mistaken imagination.

I folded the letter and sat with my head in my hands, trying to grasp the implications of the message. But this indolence would not do, and I steeled myself to get up and get going with the next task, which was to polish the huge floorboards of the servants’ hall, before my short absence was noticed and questioned. With no Emma or Sarah to work with, I had to complete this large chore all alone, but this perfectly suited my present state of mind.

I was very annoyed with myself for being so disappointed at receiving a proposal so much less than a marriage one. The suggestion clearly showed that he would never see beyond my servant status. This, I told myself severely, was something I had to take on board and never forget. I was not in some romantic “lived happily ever after” novel, but in the gritty, real world of social class and prejudice. I had thought that Edward was above this narrow mindset, or that I could charm him out of it, but I had only been deceiving myself. On the other hand, I told myself, if I was more sensible and realistic, the offer of a role as his housekeeper was very flattering. He clearly thought I was capable of running his house for him and that he could trust me to make good decisions. To see him every day and to help him would be delightful—but only if I stayed sensible and remembered my place, I added.

My romantic and my realistic selves argued and chewed over the proposition as I slowly polished and prayed my way across the room. By the time I had reached the door, the floor was gleaming and I had decided to accept the position and keep any romantic fancies in close check.

Breaking the news to Mrs. Milton was difficult, but after her initial moans and groans at losing yet another of her team, she became surprisingly supportive and was full of tips about various aspects of housekeeping.

“Organisation is the key,” she instructed. “And make it your business to know everyone’s business. Get to know the butcher, the baker, and all your suppliers. If you are loyal to them, they will be loyal to you and give you decent discounts.”

I nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

“And keep good accounts. Enter every expenditure and keep all receipts.”

She showed me her book of accounts. Every now and again, Lady Davenport would request to see the accounts, and Mrs. Milton prided herself in the fact that she could account for every penny entrusted to her. The inspection was on the whole ceremonial and rather cursory, due to Lady Davenport’s poor mathematical skills and lack of understanding of basic economy.

”But that,” said Mrs. Milton, “is no reason to keep shoddy records. A housekeeper,” she added, “should be beyond reproach.”

I nodded again, now feeling totally overwhelmed.

“And you will need new uniforms. Now let me find my tape-measure and get you measured up. Then we can order some nice material. I know just the right supplier.”

I was excited by the thought of wearing a housekeeper’s uniform of neat, patterned blouse and long black skirt. It seemed much more becoming and authoritative than the dresses and aprons I was accustomed to, and they allowed more scope for personal taste and style. I would also wear my hair in a less severe style, maybe letting a ringlet slip out . . . but I checked myself! Of course, I would no longer be addressed as Stubbs but as Mrs. Stubbs (for all housekeepers were known as Mrs.). This concept had struck me as a very strange, and it would make me sound like a plump, middle-aged matron.

It took me a few attempts before I was satisfied with the acceptance letter I wrote to Edward.

CHAPTER 12

IN LONDON, THINGS WERE GOING
decidedly well for Miss Davenport. The young man of good pedigree had become a regular caller at the Davenport’s London residence, and he frequently escorted her to Hyde Park for strolls or rides. The respective families had dined together on a number of occasions and seemed satisfied with the unfolding of events.

Emma sent long and lively letters to me, sharing her delight in exploring London during her free time. She enjoyed the challenge of public transport and had ventured into more places and museums than had the Davenports themselves. Through the servant grapevine, Emma had discovered that a duchess was looking for a replacement lady’s maid for her daughter. Emma had observed the daughter whilst escorting her ladies and was impressed by her vivacious and witty character. When Emma also learned that the family often travelled to Europe, she lost no time in applying for the post. Emma was to have an interview with the duchess the following week and was busy practising her most cultivated articulation and manners. I wished I could be there to witness her endeavours and act out the interview with her in her attic bedroom. All business in London needed to be wound up by 12th August, when all families of influence would disperse to their Scottish estates to begin the grouse shooting season, so both Miss Davenport and Emma were under some pressure to reach their intended goals.

Mrs. Milton lost no time in recruiting two new housemaids. They were both keen and willing to learn but had very little experience of working in a big house. As they had looked with bemusement at the various brushes, potions and polishes, started work and retired, shattered and homesick at the end of a long working day, I was reminded of my early days at Barton Manor and did my best to make them feel welcome. Mrs. Milton and I had only a few weeks to lick them into shape before I left and the family returned. I taught them all the tricks I had learned for making work easier and recommended high doses of hand salve.

A great deal of my scarce spare time was taken up with making farewell visits. As I contemplated my departure from Benton, it dawned on me how much I would miss the good preaching of the Reverend Penfold. Pa always said that hearers are quick to complain and slow to congratulate, and taking this to heart, I wanted to visit the vicarage. I was given a warm and courteous welcome, which, as an example of not showing partiality according to rank, would have pleased the Apostle James. I was invited to join Rev. Penfold and his wife for their afternoon cup of tea and scones. Rev. Penfold was pleased and touched by my expression of appreciation, and the conversation flowed easily as we discussed life in a vicarage, their grown-up children, and my plans. I had visited the vicarage with the fear that it would take up too much valuable time, but left two hours later wishing I had visited more often.