Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (25 page)

“But I thought her cottage was full,” I replied.

“It were full, but me oldest two granddaw’ers ’ave gone inta service, so naw there’s room fer us. We ain’t got much stuff ta take wiv us, and we wanna be gone before ver wedding.”

“Was this your decision, or did Mr. Thorpe ask you to go?” I queried, my eyes narrowing at the thought of him, under the direction of his mother-in-law-to-be, unceremoniously asking them to pack their bags.

“Well, ’e said we woz free to go if we wonted, an’ so we fort abowt it and decided we wanna move before fings ’ere change too much.”

I nodded. “And I think you are very wise.”

“An’ you, young gal, must look arfter yeself too,” she said, looking at me with motherly eyes.

I nearly told her of my plan to leave, but then I imagined her shouting this communication into Mr. Kemp’s deaf ears, along with the instructions “but keep it ta yeself,” letting anyone around into the secret too. So I just said I had a few ideas and thanked her for her concern.

When the Kemps had retired to bed, I sat in my parlour and went through a pile of paperwork. I was pleased to see that Clara had kept a list of ingredients she had used, along with the relevant bills and receipts. My heart sank when I read an invitation (or rather, summons) from the church warden’s wife, asking me to help at the annual Sunday school outing.

My lack of success at the Ladies’ Mission evenings ruled me out from being invited to help with the many jobs that the good ladies of the church did, but, the reputation of the Sunday school outing being as it was, they had to scrape the barrel when looking for volunteers and approached me. I had gladly accepted the year before, imagining it to be a civilised and enjoyable little picnic with well-behaved children in their Sunday best—and that is how the day started.

We had gathered in the church yard, the girls in newly washed spring dresses and the boys wearing their best suits and shining boots. Then the vicar, Mr. Brinkhill, in full clerical garb and holding aloft the Sunday school banner, ceremoniously led the way as we marched through the village toward the designated meadow. Villagers waved at us from their garden gates and more children ran to join the parade. Rousing Christian hymns were sung, like “Onward Christian Soldiers,” but before we had left the village the singing degenerated into shouting and the hymns turned into a bloodcurdling war-cry against all Baptists, Methodists, or Papists. The vicar, absorbed in keeping the heavy banner erect and occupied with his own marching, was oblivious to the riotous behaviour. Heavy laden with baskets of food, three ladies and I trailed apologetically behind.

The appointed meadow seemed to be the one farthest from the village, and we lost sight of the children as we struggled with the provisions. At last we arrived. Once the vicar had ponderously decided where we would “set up camp,” we spread our blankets and prepared the food. The children fought their way to a place on the blankets, stomping on each other as they went, and once we all sat down, the vicar said the longest grace for the food that I had ever heard. The bread, cheese, pastries, and biscuits soon disappeared into over-stuffed mouths and pockets, and gallons of milk were drunk.

Agnes informed me that the traditional beverage for the occasion had always been the vicar’s wife’s homemade elderflower cordial, but one year the bottles had fermented, causing the children to go home half drunk. The vicar’s wife vehemently denied any connection and suggested that the children had a touch of sunstroke, but as it had been a cloudy day, no one swallowed that story. The tale of the tipsy children spread around the village like wild fire, becoming more and more exaggerated with the telling. From then on, only milk was provided.

After the picnic, I expected some structured entertainment to take place, but on seeing the vicar settling down under a tree with a book and the ladies busying themselves with the leftovers, I realised the children were just left to their own devices.

The meadow was on an undulating slope, so that the lower half could not be seen from the picnic area. The boys headed straight for this spot, out of sight but not hearing, and soon raucous shouts indicated that something lively was going on. None of the other grown-ups seemed to notice the noise, but I went to investigate. The boys were playing British Bulldog. Not the relatively gentle variety we used to play in the school yard, but a full blown “shoulders on the ground” version. A big burly lad stood in the middle, calling the name of a small, puny boy who had to run past him to the other side of the field. The big lad would have to catch the runner and bring him down to the ground. If the runner happened to get to the other side, everyone would run across. Anyone caught would join the catcher in the middle, making the game harder and harder. As I watched, a huge muscular boy tripped up a small lad, flinging him to the ground. The little lad arose with a bloody nose and a face covered with fresh cow pat. I was about to rescue the victim, but then I saw his eyes flashing through the cow pat, and with the brutality of an ancient war-painted Briton, he hurled himself at the legs of a youth twice his size, bringing him crashing to the floor. At that point, I remembered that discretion is the better part of valour and retreated up the hill to sit with the other women.

The girls entertained themselves in a slightly more civilised manner and foraged the hedgerows for flowers and created small posies for the ladies and each other. Once they had exhausted this activity, they made up various skipping games and clapping hand rhymes. Near the end of the afternoon, they were clearly bored, challenging each other to pick as many stinging nettles as possible without getting stung.

I was relieved when the vicar finally closed his book, heaved and stretched himself into a standing position, and ordered everyone to march back to the village. The troop that arrived back at the church yard was hardly recognisable as the smart one that had left a few hours earlier. The girls’ neat plaits were dishevelled, their dresses creased and stained, some even ripped, while the boys looked like the victims of a natural disaster. The waiting mothers seemed unperturbed by the appearance of their offspring, and each reminded their charges to say “thank you to the kind vicar” before they headed for home, every child clutching a small bag of sweets.

So it was with reluctance that I put pen to paper and wrote back to the church warden’s wife, agreeing to help. To make matters worse, the event would take place on my twenty-first birthday. What an awful way to spend the day! Then I reminded myself that I no longer celebrated birthdays anyway so should not to fuss about it.

First thing the next day, I received a telegram from Mr. Thorpe informing me he would be returning that evening. I hastily ordered a better cut of meat and made certain his room was heated. By the time he arrived home, tired and hungry, Molly and Clara had already gone home and his meal was spoiling. He declared himself too exhausted to eat a large meal and asked for bread, cheese, and pickles to be sent along to his study. Mr. Kemp eagerly cleared up the somewhat dried out supper.

I served the food and, just like old times, Edward invited me to sit down and chat. The study was (as yet) untouched by Harrington hands, and as we caught up with each other’s news, the cosy atmosphere of bygone evenings pervaded, making me feel even more traitor-like to contemplate leaving. I did not want to spoil the congenial nature of the evening and said nothing about my plans, but listened attentively to his.

CHAPTER 30

THE NEXT MORNING, I BRACED
myself for action with the notion that the sooner he knew, the sooner he could plan a replacement, and once again headed for Mr. Thorpe’s study. With great sense of purpose, I knocked on his door only to find him in deep discussion with his land steward. The next time I tried, it was the builder, and so it went on throughout the frustrating day. I had almost given up for the day when, at tea time, Mr. Thorpe caught up with me in the hallway and asked if I wanted to see him.

My well-rehearsed speech had vanished from my mind and my mouth went dry, but as soon as we were safely within the privacy of his study, I said, “I would like to give notice of leaving your employment, please.”

Flabbergasted, Mr. Thorpe looked at me. “You, give notice?” he sputtered. “But why?”

My mind was far from clear, but while rubbing my sweaty palms on my dress, I said, “I have enjoyed working for you, sir—and am grateful for your kindly friendship toward me—but with all the changes afoot for you and Biggenden, I feel that it would be for the best for all if I left.”

Mr. Thorpe slumped in his chair with his chin on his chest. Then, looking both despondent and accusing, he asked, “How could you do this to me?”

“I think it will be best for you all,” I repeated.

“And who, pray tell, is
you all
?”

“You, sir, your bride, the new staff, and the Harrington family.”

Mr. Thorpe sat up straight. “Has Mrs. Harrington suggested this move to you?”

“Not at all, sir, though I imagine she will approve of it.”

“Be that as it may, Rebecca, but the point is that I need you and your sensible guidance.”

“But, sir, you will have your wife to offer you sensible guidance.”

Mr. Thorpe studied his finger nails a while before replying. “My darling Sophia is an accomplished young lady, but I could not rely on her for sound advice or well-considered reasoning.”

My astonishment made me say too much. “But, sir, surely to have confidence in your spouse’s opinion is of utmost importance in a marriage?”

This statement clearly annoyed Mr. Thorpe, and he rather savagely retorted, “This just shows how little you know of love. You always have been surprisingly dim on the subject.”

I was both hurt and perplexed. I needed to get out the room, so I edged toward the door.

“So is that your final decision, Rebecca?”

“Yes, sir, it is. I really should be seeing to the staff,” I replied, disappearing out the door before he could reply.

During the next few days, Mr. Thorpe tried every possible tactic to make me change my mind. One hour he would declared me selfish; the next, unchristian; then thoughtless; then too ambitious. He sometimes begged with boyish playfulness, sometimes scolded me with severity and sometimes whined pathetically. I could easily withstand the scolding and whining, but his boyish playfulness was so like the light-hearted banter we used to enjoy in pre-Harrington days that my heart softened and my determination weakened. I so distrusted my ability to stand firm that I decided that the only way to force myself to stick to my resolution was to tell the staff of my intentions.

The Kemps digested the news as they did their dinners—with silent approval. Clara and Molly were both shocked—probably imagining, like Mr. Thorpe, that Spinster Stubbs would be at Biggenden for aye. They were also apprehensive about who might replace me, fearing some sweeping regime changes.

Our immediate priority was the rehousing of Mr. and Mrs. Kemp. We all worked hard to pack up their belongings, marvelling at how many possessions they had managed to fit into their strange pantry bedroom. I had never actually been inside the room before and was horrified to see the conditions they had endured. The outside wall was damp, and mildew covered the plasterwork. Their earthly goods looked sadly dishevelled and pathetic loaded onto a donkey cart, and their owners looked equally uprooted. The housemaids and I tried to make the occasion as cheery as possible, but we all knew life at Biggenden would never be the same again.

The Kemps were more than happy to live with their daughter, but this did little to make the move, which also marked the end of their working life, any easier. Despite Mr. Kemp’s very minimal involvement in the running of Biggenden, he still saw himself as the man of the house. As he left the house and was helped up onto the wagon bench, he seemed to diminish and looked like a frail old man who no longer knew his role in life. Mrs. Kemp bustled about, ensuring all her breakable possessions were adequately wrapped up—including her husband. She tried to look calm, but an uncharacteristic clumsiness and talkativeness gave her away. She kissed us all and then was heaved up to sit next to the driver. Her voice cracked and her bottom lip trembled as she called out her final instructions. We waved them out of sight, vowing to visit them often before we returned to the empty kitchen with damp eyes.

Our next job was to thoroughly clean and whitewash the pantry, but for just a while, all we could do was put the kettle on and flop into chairs. All that could be heard was the kettle as we sat in silence, each pondering our loss. The kettle’s whistle jolted us back to life, and as we drank our tea, we reassured ourselves and each other with “It will be nice for them to be with their grandchildren” and similar platitudes. I inadvertently lightened the mood by knocking on the pantry door before I entered—old habits certainly die hard.

CHAPTER 31

THE HOUSEMAIDS SEEMED RELUCTANT TO
leave me alone in the house that evening. The house felt large and gloomy, despite the fact that Mr. Thorpe was in residence somewhere. So absorbed was their employer with other matters that he was not aware of the Kemps’ departure, and somehow I felt loath to inform him.

It seemed strangely awkward to acknowledge we were alone in the house, so I continued as if all was normal. The next day was worse as, being a Saturday, the maids had a half day. I cooked a small meal and served half in a silent dining room and half in a silent kitchen.

By now Mr. Thorpe had realised the Kemps had been rehoused and even visited the newly reclaimed and whitewashed pantry. As we stood in the unnaturally quiet kitchen, I ventured to ask if anything should be done to recruit more staff before the wedding, imagining some of the responsibility would fall to me, but he assured me all was in hand; Mrs. Harrington was overseeing the promotion and transfer of some of her loyal and trusted staff. The new housekeeper would arrive in June, followed by the kitchen staff and male servants in July, around the time of the marriage, ready to be fully operational when the happy couple returned from their bridal tour of the continent.