Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (24 page)

By the time I had finished at the dressmakers and had brought a hot pasty for lunch, it was eleven o’clock. I was unsure of the tides so decided to take the cliff path to Ramsgate rather than walk along the shore.

It was easier walking along the path, and before long I reached the outskirts of Ramsgate and headed for the harbour to eat the pasty. On the way, I noticed a road sign, “Regency Road.” That vaguely rang a bell in my memory, and as I sat eating I suddenly remembered why. Of course! Uncle Hector regularly sent us postcards from 42 Regency Road while taking the seaside air for his chest complaint. He normally went in early spring—about now.

I briefly thought that he might be there now and that I should look him up. Then I decided not to. After all, he had never been nice to Pa. I had lived in fear that Uncle Hector would track me down, claim to be my legal guardian, and force me to live with him until I was twenty-one, but now I had only a month before I would come of age. I no longer had to fear a sort of legal kidnap.

As I passed the road sign again, my conscience smote me: “Rebecca Stubbs, here you are within what may be a stone’s throw of your only known blood relative, and you are too selfish to pay him a visit. What would your parents think? Your mother would say you had become self-indulgent, with your fine frocks, seaside vacations, and novel reading.”

At that, I turned around and tracked down number 42. The guest house had a very pleasing appearance and was one in a row of large, well-maintained, bay windowed, whitewashed houses with red roof tiles.

A young housemaid answered the door, but she did not know if Mr. Hector Stubbs was in residence and hurried off to get the landlady. A buxom, middle-aged matron came to the door and knew immediately who I was talking about, and furthermore said that he was reading in the drawing room. She invited me in, and I followed her along a wide hall to the elegant drawing room.

I barely had time to think before I stood face to face with Uncle Hector himself. With tears in his eyes, Uncle Hector hugged me long and hard, as if I were the long lost prodigal son. Such close proximity revealed that Uncle Hector, despite his chest condition, was looking hale and hearty and exactly as he always did—double chin, ruddy cheeks, waxed moustache, and all.

He drew a chair for me, close to his, and holding my reluctant hand in his two soft, plump hands, he exclaimed, “My, how my little Becca has grown into a fine, young lady! How much like my dear brother you look.”

He did not call for the fatted calf to be killed, but he rang the bell and ordered afternoon tea for two. The buxom landlady sensed the significance of the occasion and brought in the platter of sandwiches and tea-bread herself.

“Mrs. Wickens,” said Uncle, “I have the great pleasure of introducing you to my dear niece Rebecca.”

Mrs. Wickens warmly shook my hand and said, “I’ve heard all about you and your dear departed parents from Mr. Stubbs. He was so terribly fond of them and can’t praise them highly enough.”

I tried not to show my astonishment or slight amusement.

As we settled down to our lavish tea, Uncle Hector bombarded me with questions about the last four years. He was shocked to hear I had become a domestic servant. On one occasion he had written to Mrs. Brown, asking her of my whereabouts, and she had replied that I was staying with good friends.

“Obviously a blatant lie!” sputtered my uncle. I tried to justify her reply by saying I did have many friends at my work, but he just shook his head, making his chins wobble, and muttered to himself, “A Stubbs in domestic service. Unthinkable.”

I tried to be vague about my present position and emphasised that I had a lot of freedom and influence, but this did not satisfy the Stubbs pride. He was slightly mollified when I explained that I was about to give notice to end the employment. As soon as possible, I turned the conversation to him, and once on his favourite subject, he soon brightened up and talked energetically about his London life, his many vacations, and his doctor’s orders, whilst consuming vast amounts of cake in large mouthfuls.

Once the platter was emptied and the teapot drained, Uncle Hector sat back and lit a cigar (as recommended by his chest physician). I chuckled as I asked him if he remembered how much Ma had hated the smell. He remembered and also revealed that when Ma had retired for bed, Pa would secretly join him for a puff.

I smiled as I thought of the naughty-boy expression and mischievous twinkle in his eye Pa may have had. At least Pa had enjoyed some parts of his brother’s visits. One thought of my parents led to another, and before I knew it, we had spent the afternoon recalling memories of them.

Instead of constant criticism of Pa, Uncle Hector had nothing but praise. Ah, he remembered their warm hospitality, their unflagging diligence, and Christian love. His dear brother had been such a faithful preacher, so well read, so wise, and his sister-in-law a rare gem, such a good little housewife, such an admirable cook.

Sometimes I looked at him, trying to detect some insincerity in his face or speech, but no, these gushing praises flowed from a genuine heart. Every now and again I looked through the window at the falling sun and made an attempt to go, but every time Uncle Hector launched into some hitherto-unknown-to-me story of my father and I sat back, intrigued to hear it.

At dusk, I could leave it no longer, and with fearful thoughts of highwaymen and pirates, I asked for my shawl to be fetched. Uncle Hector would not hear of me walking back to Broadstairs (he made it sound like a huge journey) and organised a private carriage to convey me door to door. But before I departed, he entreated me to come again as soon and as often as I could.

“I am not having you just disappearing out of my life again!” he warned.

I dutifully kissed him good-bye and assured him I would not disappear but would be back in a few days for more stories. I was rewarded by a flush on his fleshy cheeks and a stroke of my arm.

CHAPTER 28

MISS MILLER WAS SURPRISED TO
see me arrive back in style, carriages being rarely seen in her narrow back street. She was a very satisfactory and attentive listener as I recounted the afternoon’s events.

My final week in Broadstairs flew by at an alarming speed. I finished reading
Shirley,
and now that my appetite was thoroughly whetted for Charlotte Brontë’s writing, I returned to the book seller and bought Brontë’s first and more controversial novel,
Jane Eyre
.

Day by day my new summer dress took shape and the final result was delightful. I felt almost like Miss Sophia herself! I smiled as I imagined Mrs. Harrington declaring it entirely unsuitable for a woman in my lowly position. Soon I would be forever away from her criticism and censorship. Alas, my frugal budget was thoroughly trampled underfoot when the dressmaker recommended a contrasting bonnet and gloves that perfectly complemented the frock. It seemed utter folly to buy the dress without them.

Three more afternoons saw me in the plush, smoky drawing room of 42 Regency Road. When Uncle Hector was not in the mood to talk about himself or his brother, we played board games. He tried to teach me bridge, but I could not grasp the complicated rules and thought that the best role for me was the dummy.

I suggested we stroll together along the promenade, but it seemed that Uncle Hector lived a fairly sedentary lifestyle and preferred not to over-exert himself. I could not help wondering how the Ramsgate sea air could benefit his lungs whilst he was cooped up inside, but politeness prevailed and I kept these thoughts to myself.

On our final afternoon together (I was leaving for Biggenden the following day), Uncle Hector begged me to come and live with him in London.

“My dear Becca, I would treat you like my own daughter. You would lack for nothing. You would never have to work again. Your parents would have whole-heartedly approved of the arrangement—which is more than can be said for your current situation.” His pudgy white hands grasped mine, trapping them as he continued. “You could accompany me on my visits to Bath and Tunbridge Wells to drink from their healthy water springs and mingle with high society. I could arrange tuition for you to be instructed in painting, history of art, musicology, or whatever your heart desires.”

As I looked out of the window, trying to formulate a diplomatic reply, I knew that I would feel like my hands right now: trapped. In my mind’s eye I saw the London house with thick, squishy carpets, sturdy wooden furniture, and heavy velvet curtains preventing the sun’s rays from warming the rooms. A stale smell from lack of air, the aroma of cigar smoke, old men and port filled every room. I imagined being a dutiful hostess to all his aged (maybe groping) friends as they came to play bridge or discuss politics. What a gilded cage it would be!

I was beginning to taste freedom, and what an enjoyable taste it was! I was not prepared to give it up yet, especially not for a verbose uncle and London. I was utterly determined to say no there and then, but as I turned my gaze from the window to his beseeching eyes, my resolve floundered. I did the cowardly thing and told him I was not free, as yet, to do as I pleased but that I would consider his proposal carefully and write to him with my response.

Uncle Hector took this answer rather more positively than the spirit in which it was given and seemed satisfied. With mixed feelings I extracted myself from his embrace and whiskery kiss and climbed into the carriage. A feeling of sadness at saying farewell to a loving relative was almost outweighed by a feeling of relief that no one could force me to live with him.

That last evening at Broadstairs was mild, still, and dry. A full moon shone in the cloudless sky. After some persuasion, Miss Miller wrapped herself up and came with me to sit near the cliff edge. The moon was so bright that we felt safe to venture outside. We sat in companionable silence, absorbing the peaceful scene around us. The darkness had silenced the seagulls, the calm sea lapped at the shore, and the beach was deserted. The shining moon was reflected in the still sea, creating a shimmering track that seemed to come directly to where we sat.

A multitude of stars twinkled at us. The tranquillity of the sight and the sense of the universe’s magnitude impressed me with awe for our great Creator. The benevolent and powerful God who counts the stars and knows their names in His great goodness sent His Son to save us. He is worthy of my wholehearted trust and confidence to save body and soul, both for time and eternity. A deep sense of peace and happiness filled my heart as I committed myself once again to my God and to His wise and loving plan for my life, whatever it might be.

As I gazed at the stars, which had shone for thousands of years, my little life and its concerns seemed very insignificant. In another hundred years (unless the Lord returned), the same stars would still be shining and the tides still ebbing and flowing, great constants unaffected whatsoever whether I married or remained single. The only thing that really mattered was my relationship with Jesus Christ, to be loved and forgiven by Him, and I rejoiced to feel a glow of that everlasting love already.

The slight sea breeze eventually penetrated through our thick cloaks, and Miss Miller and I were obliged to head indoors. An awkwardness fell over us; we both knew this was our last evening together, but instead of producing an easy flow of conversation, our communication seemed stilted and forced. I really wanted to show my appreciation for her kindness and friendship, but one look at her business-like face as she checked her weekly timetable made it clear such sentiments would be dismissed, but these things need to be said anyway so, taking a deep breath, I expressed by gratitude for her hospitality and company.

As predicted, she brushed it aside with a “don’t mention it” but went on to say she would miss me. Putting down her work, she urged me to come back once I had finished working at Biggenden and whilst I was seeking other employment. I was delighted with the idea and readily agreed to it.

“Unless you are in Africa,” I laughed.

“Unless you are married,” she replied.

CHAPTER 29

THE SADNESS OF LEAVING BROADSTAIRS
and Miss Miller (and even my nun’s cell bedroom) was tempered by the hope of seeing them all again in the near future. Miss Miller watched my carriage disappear up the cobbled high street before wandering back to the school room to commence the working day.

As the steam train chuffed its way through Kent toward Tunbridge, the cares and concerns of daily life at Biggenden Manor came to the fore of my thinking. I shrank from the thought of handing in my notice, but somehow the very presence of my new books and dress in my trunk—symbols of new independence—gave me courage and determination.

As planned, I got a ride back to Biggenden with a farmhand who had been selling milk, butter, and eggs at Tunbridge market. My trunk and bags were thrown on the wagon, along with the empty churns and baskets, before we trotted off.

I tried to shake off the feelings of servile dutifulness and loyalty that engulfed me as we progressed up the drive, but when the Kemps and Rex gave me a hearty (and tail thumping from the latter) welcome, my plans of independence and freedom suddenly seemed selfish. After a much needed cup of tea, Mrs. Kemp eased herself out of her chair and limped through the house to show me what the builders had done.

The outside work was now complete, leaving only the inside painting and decorating. It seemed highly likely now that everything would be shipshape for the grand arrival of Mrs. Thorpe. Mrs. Kemp’s attitude toward the “so-called improvements” was an amusing mixture of disapproval and grudging admiration. I was impressed with the extension but wished it blended in better with the more austere character of the original rooms.

As we paused to admire the view from the conservatory, Mrs. Kemp broke into my thoughts.

“We’re moving owt.”

I turned to look at her. “You’re moving?”

“Yep, it is decided,” she said, her face resolute as if I was about to remonstrate. “Me an’ Arfer are moving in with our Sally.” (Sally was their daughter.)