Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (21 page)

Agnes asked if she could work fewer hours in order to help Mary and the bereaved family. I readily agreed and, in a manner Mrs. Harrington would have heartily disapproved of, Mrs. Kemp, Molly, and I shared the cooking duties among ourselves. There was time enough for me to learn some elegant and elaborate dishes and to teach them to Molly.

Clara had been inspired by Bertha and was keen to gain the skills required to be a lady’s maid, so I asked her to make new uniforms for Clara and herself. This task kept her occupied for many hours. Remembering happy evenings with Emma, I suggested Clara try styling our hair, and she had great pleasure in creating modern, gravity-defying styles. She had the enviable knack of seeing a certain hairstyle, remembering it, and being able to recreate it. Clara’s hope was that Bertha would find Biggenden too rural for her liking and seek a more upmarket post, but I warned her that Bertha expressed deep devotion to the Harrington ladies.

“Deep devotion!” snorted Clara, hairpin in mouth. “She exaggerates everyfing, especially ’er
deep devotion
—only when it suits ’er.”

Christmas loomed, and it quickly became obvious that Mr. Thorpe would not be celebrating it at Biggenden. Mr. and Mrs. Kemp were to go to their daughter’s home for the day, and Molly and Clara would have the day off. Agnes would be with her family, so I braced myself for a Christmas alone. Maybe it would do me good to have a quiet day at home and to consider the real meaning of Christmas, I thought, but when Agnes realised I would be alone, she insisted that I join her family.

I put up a feeble protest about not wanting to intrude on a family occasion, but Agnes prevailed and I went—and what a lovely day it was! The cottage was packed full of children and grandchildren, all lively and enjoying each other’s company. The women produced a lavish and delicious meal of roast goose, and after the washing up was finished, we all joined the children for games. We played blind man’s bluff, hunt the thimble, pin the tail on the donkey, and endless rounds of charades. I had almost forgotten how delightful it all is: the loving and trusting attention of a toddling child, the uninhibited way of climbing up your leg, dribbling on you with a beautiful, dimpled grin, and an infectious laugh that encourages you to do silly things over and over again to an ever enthusiastic “’gen!”

At the end of the afternoon, I left the happy cottage, with baby sick on my shoulder, crumbs in my blouse folds, sticky marks on my skirt where a girl had wiped her candy-filled mouth, and the decision that I should mix with children more often as they enrich life so much—and washerwomen!

CHAPTER 22

NEW YEAR BROUGHT A HANDFUL
of letters from old friends. Emma was enjoying a life of travel with her lady. She was becoming well acquainted with many of the continental capital cities and rarely wintered in England. Miss Miller had accepted a new post as a school teacher in Broadstairs and hoped to begin in January. She sent the sad news that Mrs. Brown had passed away between Christmas and New Year. This was not a shock to me, but I wished I could have seen her one more time to express my gratitude again for her help in some of the darkest hours of my life. Mrs. Milton sent me a greeting card for the New Year, expressing the hope that I was maintaining a good standard of housekeeping and adding as a post script that she had just trained up all the housemaids to her satisfaction only to learn that one was moving on already!

The winter progressed as it had started—with long, wet, grey days. Mr. Thorpe came back to Biggenden for about four nights every three weeks to review the somewhat slow progress of the building work and to organise farm affairs.

On one occasion, I tentatively suggested we were rather overstaffed and that some of us might have some time off. I hoped Mr. Thorpe would suggest I take a visit to Pemfield. Instead, he advised me to give Molly and Clara a fortnight off on half-pay, but stipulated that I was needed to “be at the helm.”

Molly and Clara viewed this enforced time off with mixed feelings. They were pleased to be free to do as they wished for a while, but they worried about the reduction in wages, which their families relied on heavily. I also felt for them, as a fortnight in February was not ideal for either relaxing or (more likely the case) helping their families with seasonal agricultural work out in the cold.

Unknown to Mr. Thorpe, I paid them their full rate out of my own pocket; they believed he had had a change of heart. I was annoyed that Mr. Thorpe had not seen fit to give me any leave at all since I had entered his employment, and I was annoyed with myself for not seeking it more vociferously.

So there we were, Mr. and Mrs. Kemp, Rex, and I in a mainly closed-up and dust-sheet-covered Biggenden. We all shared a common worry about the future—all, that is, except Rex, who was enjoying my less-divided attention. The Kemps sensed their presence was no longer valued but lacked neither will nor power to make any independent plans for their future.

I was pleased with their homely company in the otherwise empty house but wished they had more inclination to chat. Without the master at home, we did not receive a newspaper, and with so few mouths to feed, we had less frequent visits from delivery boys bringing us local news. There was very little to stimulate any conversation. I frequently told them of the people I met and chatted with whilst walking Rex, but whereas Agnes would in turn have supplied me with the family connections and background or an interesting anecdote of each person I met, the Kemps had no such knowledge, causing the conversation to stop there. The Kemps were not originally from the area but had moved to Biggenden with Sir Richard Tenson. Due to the long hours they had working for him, followed by their limiting infirmities, there were very few people around they could call friends.

In mid-March, just as it started to look as if the long winter would give way to a brighter and dryer spring, I went down with a heavy cold. Mrs. Kemp plied me with every tonic and healing concoction she could remember, but instead of getting better, I rather grew worse. I continued to be feverish, with a pounding head, blocked nose, aching limbs, and sore throat. I coughed, snorted, and tossed and turned my way through the nights, longing for the day; I would then drag myself around, croaking out instructions in the daytime, longing for the night. The maids urged me to take to my bed, and with too little energy to resist, I did just that.

Eventually, I started to recover, but was left feeling weak and tired. Had the household been busy or had there been a pressing need for action, I might have gained energy more quickly, but as it was, there seemed little need to push myself. I even absented myself from church, feeling disinclined to walk there, sit in the cold building, and listen to dreary sermons, when it was much easier to sit comfortably by a roaring fire, sipping tea and reading a lively and encouraging sermon by C.H. Spurgeon.

This slow and leisurely pace of life was rudely interrupted in early April by the master of Biggenden having the audacity to want to lodge in his own abode for a few nights. Unknown to me, when Clara greeted Mr. Thorpe, she said, “Mrs. Stubbs ’as been right poorly,” and on meeting me, he found confirmation in my pale, lack-lustre face and seemed most concerned for my well-being. I was warmed by his anxiety on my behalf, until he said, “We do really need you to be well again for the wedding preparations.” When he went on to ask what could be done to help, I had no qualms and did not hesitate to say, “I need a change of air.”

It so happened that a few days earlier, I had received a letter from Miss Miller singing the praises of her new surroundings in Broadstairs, with its fresh sea air and beautiful coastal walks. No sooner had Mr. Thorpe agreed to my going (“Take three weeks, take a month, take as long as you require to get your strength back”) than I sent a telegram to Miss Miller, asking if I could pay her a visit. A positive reply came remarkably quickly, and so I got packing, almost feeling my energy returning already.

The evening before I left, Agnes paid a call to Biggenden and came into my parlour for a cup of tea. She seemed uneasy and distracted, as if she had something she needed to share but did not know how to begin.

After she had drained her third cup of tea, she leant forward to place the saucer on the table and, studying the tablecloth, said, “I want to ’and in me notice today, Miss.”

“Hand in your notice?” I repeated, trying to take it in. “Is it due to all the changes ahead of us?”

“No, Miss. It’s because I am gonna marry George next munf.”

“Marry George?” I stupidly repeated again. “Next month?”

“Yes, Miss. It’s the right fing to do and will be good for the lit’le ’uns.”

I felt truly shocked. Instead of doing the right thing and offering my congratulations, I just stared at her and asked, “Do you love George?”

Agnes took a long time to reply and finally answered, “George is a good man, and I ’ighly esteem ’im.”

“But,” I rudely pressed on, “do you want to marry him?”

“Why, of course, I does, Miss,” she said. “I wonna be ’is children’s new muvver, and it’s an ’onour vat George asked me.”

In my bewildered state I could have interrogated the poor woman longer, but thankfully common courtesy kicked in and I lamely said, “Well, Agnes, I will really miss you, but I wish you much happiness in your new job . . . sorry, I mean situation.”

Agnes smiled warmly as she stood up. “An’ I’ll miss you too, Miss, but I am right glad to be ow’ of ’ere before Miss Sophie and ’er muvver takes over.” I smiled back knowingly as she continued. “George says we need to ’ave a right quiet wedding, ove’wise I would ’ave asked ya ta come along and see me wed.”

“I would love to have seen you get married, but I understand George’s wishes,” I replied.

“And, Miss, I ’ope and pray ta see the day when you get wed yeself,” said Agnes as she went to the door.

“Thanks, Agnes, we will hope and pray on,” I said with a wry smile, suppressing a hollow laugh.

CHAPTER 23

THE COLD, EARLY LIGHT OF
the next morning saw me standing on the platform at the Tunbridge Railway Station, awaiting the service from London to the Kent coast with some apprehension. Never in my life had I travelled by a steam train before, and I began to regret choosing such a modern, dangerous mode of conveyance. I looked around at my fellow would-be travellers and was struck by their uniformly nonchalant air: here a man lit a cigar, there a man leant against a wall reading his newspaper, while others chatted calmly, hardly bothering to look at the giant, billowing engine as it came toward us and amazingly came to a halt right in front of us.

I followed my experienced companions into a carriage and a kind gentleman offered to lift my trunk onto a luggage rack overhead. I spotted a window seat and quickly sat down in the springy, cushioned seat and peered through the glass. With much whistling, great billows of steam, and a quick shudder, we were off.

Somehow I had expected the steam train to be like an unpredictably charging dragon, lurching around and difficult to be kept in control, but on the contrary, the train seemed dignified, steady, and controlled. The rhythmic clackety-clack of the wheels was relaxing and reassuring. I could not stop myself from smiling as I enjoyed the sensation of fast motion and watched the interesting scenery flit past the window. At every station the engine slowed down with a loud hiss to halt miraculously in a carefully calculated manner just where the platform was. People stood to greet passengers or to wave them off, porters hurried to unload crates and boxes, and young lads watched just for the fun of seeing the stoker and his fire.

As we rattled through the countryside, I once again looked at my fellow travellers. Many of them were reading, chatting, or sleeping, looking as relaxed and familiar with their surroundings as they might in their own drawing rooms. How amazingly sophisticated they all look, I thought, unlike me, who is scared she will get off at the wrong station, take too long and miss the stop, fall under the carriage, or fail to find a stage coach at the other end. Yet none of my worries came to pass, and by mid-afternoon I had alighted at Ramsgate Station and found a cab to Broadstairs.

As we approached the coaching inn at Broadstairs, I was pleased to see Miss Miller waving her handkerchief enthusiastically, and I felt most thankful that my travelling adventure was safely completed. As I clambered off the cab and received a rather stiff hug from Miss Miller, I was aware of the screeching of seagulls above us and a brisk breeze.

Miss Miller helped me to carry my trunk, and we set off down a cobbled street at a business-like pace. I wrapped my shawl around me and scampered after her. The wind freed some of my hair from its bun, and the loose strands whipped my face. As I licked my lips, finding they were salty, I felt very excited to be so near to the sea.

We turned a corner and there it was ahead of us: a vast expanse of choppy grey waves extending to the horizon, where it met an equally grey and threatening sky. Far out, it looked deceptively as if it was perfectly still and quiet, but at the shore the waves crashed against the rocks and sand, sending up a soaking spray and creating white foam. Each rolling row of waves seemed determined to beat the previous one in its vigorous advancement up the beach.

I stood stock-still, watching the amazing sight. Miss Miller smiled at my enchanted face and said, with the air of a seasoned seaside dweller, “Ah, the tide is coming in.” We stood quietly side by side, admiring the power of the waves and their unstoppable progress.

I broke the silence by asking, “Do you remember teaching us about King Canute proving he could not stop the tide?”

Miss Miller laughed. “Yes, I do—a very difficult story to explain to children who have never seen the sea.”

The coldness of the wind finally drove us away from the scene and into Miss Miller’s small abode.

The little village school was a “Ragged School”, run by the church and it was built behind the church and rectory. The little two-up-two-down schoolmaster’s house was built alongside the school, but as no schoolmaster could be recruited for the small salary the church was offering, Miss Miller had been accepted. On entering the front door and turning right one stepped straight into the kitchen with a small range; turn left, and through a door one entered the best room, with a small hearth, two chairs, many books, and an old harmonium. This room was used only on Sundays. Just opposite the front door was a small flight of stairs leading to two bedrooms, one either side. The cottage had its own lavatory in the backyard but shared the school pump.