Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (26 page)

I digested this information with interest, marvelling again at the domineering efficiency of Mr. Thorpe’s future mother-in-law. I could almost see the glint of satisfaction in her eyes as she learned I was leaving Biggenden and then plotted how she could use this void to ensure Biggenden was run more along Harrington lines. Biggenden would be a small colony of the Harrington empire, and to ensure its loyalty, she needed trusted and obedient generals on the ground to keep the natives in check.

Mr. Thorpe’s only request was that I stay on until September, when he returned from his trip. He was anxious not to leave Biggenden and Rex alone with the new crew. With a wry smile, he also said he hoped I could educate the housekeeper in “Biggenden ways.” I happily agreed with these terms, as my future plans were by no means decided, and I was anxious that our parting be amiable. Now that he had come to terms with my imminent departure, Mr. Thorpe was touchingly interested in my future and what I hoped to do. I did not want to worry him with my uncertainties so, without lying, I led him to believe that Uncle Hector’s offer was rather more appealing to me than it was. My pride forbade me from explaining how I would be earnestly searching for a way of making an independent living.

As we chatted about our futures, Mr. Thorpe sat down at the long kitchen table and suggested that we have a cup of tea “for old times’ sake.” Over tea he described his planned route around the continent and all the sites and cities he hoped they could visit. I looked at his boyishly animated face and felt a surge of love for him again, but this time it was not the exciting “in love” feeling but rather the friendly warmth and concern one may feel toward a close but sometimes irritating brother. The life he was dreaming of with his glamorous bride sounded nice, but it was not what I would enjoy. I could have imagined myself as the wife of a rural landowner who enthusiastically followed the farming almanac, but not as one who enthusiastically followed the social calendar of the upper class. I felt content that we had shared some good times together, but it was clear that now our lives were naturally drifting apart. I did not know my path ahead, but I knew who was making the path and had full confidence in His wisdom.

That afternoon, Edward left for Surrey to see his beloved Sophia again, and I was left alone in the house for the first time. As the daylight dwindled, I locked all the doors, then checked and rechecked them. I tried to rationalise my unease away by telling myself that Mr. and Mrs. Kemp had hardly been the most able security guards, but such logic did little to help.

I normally enjoyed the solitude of my parlour, but with the awareness of an empty kitchen next door, my enjoyment evaporated. Instead of settling down in front of the stove, I paced around restlessly. The silence had the opposite effect on the noticeably noisy clock, and its hands crept around the face at an unusually sluggish pace. The evening dragged on, and when I could bear it no more, I made a bed of old blankets by the kitchen range for Rex (an arrangement he thoroughly approved of) and went to bed. My normal prayer request for protection during the night hours was pleaded with great earnestness that evening, and thankfully the Lord not only protected me and the house but gave restful sleep as well.

CHAPTER 32

IT WAS WITH AN AIR
of reluctance that I prepared for church the next morning. A mere tickle in the throat or suggestion of a headache would have been an excuse sufficient to skip the morning service, but as I was in good health, I fastened my bonnet, donned my cloak, and left the house. The morning sun shone brightly upon the lush foliage and bluebells. In the orchards the fruit trees were covered in blossom. The beautiful spring sights drove away some of my negativity; if I could not enjoy the preaching, at least I could enjoy creation’s message. By and by I caught up with Mrs. Brookes and fell in step with her. She updated me with the family news, especially of Agnes’ recent wedding.

“And that were the last sermon the Rev’rent gave,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “What has happened to Reverend Brinkhill?”

“’Aven’t you ’eard? Why, ’e’s fallen over en broke ’is leg—right bad.”

“Poor man!” I gasped. “So what about preaching?”

“Impossible. ’E can’t preach for munfs. The bishop ’as sent in a curate to take ’is place.”

Now, I would not wish a broken leg upon anyone, but I had an unholy wave of joy at the thought of the vicar being unable to preach. I tried to check this feeling and sound sincere as I answered that I hoped his leg soon mended.

“Naah,” came the pessimistic reply. “’E’s the wrong side a sixty ta make a quick recovery.”

By now we were at the church porch, so we separated to our normal pews. I prayed that the bishop had sent a good man to the parish. Instead of a feeling of having to endure the service, I felt anticipation. My hopes were not dashed when an energetic man opened the vestry door, walked determinedly up the pulpit step, and opened the service with prayer. His prayer was warm and reverent and bore the marks of a man who knew that he had the ear of Almighty God. He read the Bible with expression and reverence, raising my hopes further that we were in for a good sermon. He preached from the well-known parable of the prodigal son and held our attention well with relevant illustrations, interesting observations, and good eye contact. His description of God as the loving father was heart-warming as he drew parallels between the ways in which they welcome wayward sinners.

He hit the message home by warning us that we need not be “in a far country” to be far from our heavenly Father, but sitting piously in a pew with our hearts somewhere else. “We don’t need to be living riotously, but if we are not in fellowship with the Father, then we are far away.”

From Isaiah and the New Testament, he pointed out some lovely passages that showed the heavenly Father’s loving heart and willingness to welcome sinners. He urged us to come home to the Father and experience His forgiving love.

He was not the most polished or eloquent preacher I had heard, but his earnestness and warmth shone through, making him a compelling speaker. My soul sang for joy as he quoted, “In thy presence is fullness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.”

Then we were suddenly brought back to earth by practical arrangements. Much to my surprise, the curate said, “Now we will take a few moments to privately think on these things while our band members tunes their instruments in preparation for the final hymn.” Looking up, he smiled at the musicians and sat down. I did continue thinking about the sermon, but I also wondered how the curate had reacted to the band’s interruption the first time he preached and was impressed by how he had decided to handle the situation. After a few minutes of screeches and scratches from the balcony, the noise died down, and the band leader called out “Thanks, parson,” at which the curate stood up and said, “Thank you, gentlemen,” before continuing his sermon for another five minutes, pressing home the urgency of being reconciled to God.

I walked home alone with a thankful heart for the invigorating sermon and a welcoming God. I also thought about the curate. I gathered his name was Rev. Hayworth. He was neither young nor old, and the best way I could describe him was as a “family man.” His brown hair had tints of grey around the ears, and his kind brown eyes and friendly face showed evidence of life experience and maybe hardship. I imagined he was a capable father of a young family and was the husband of an able, godly woman.

When I got back to Biggenden, it was strange unlocking and entering a deserted house. After a meal of cold meat and vegetables, I was pleased to get out into the spring sunshine and walk Rex. The day of rest passed slowly, and I leisurely walked, read, and then dozed until the evening service.

The evening service was as good as the morning, and once again our new curate preached an instructive and heart-warming sermon. As I listened to his fervent praying, I felt rebuked for my sluggish and distracted bedtime prayers and resolved to do better. At the end of the service, before the benediction, Rev. Hayworth gave out a notice: “I have been asked to remind you of the Sunday school outing due to take place next Saturday. All Sunday school scholars are warmly invited, and I look forward to joining you on this happy occasion.”

My reaction to this announcement was mixed. I felt glad he was coming, but I also felt sorry for his misguided enthusiasm, stemming from his ignorance of the true nature of the event. With curiosity and some amusement, I wondered how he would handle the situation and began to almost look forward to the trip.

But that week I was not given much time for conjecture. Monday afternoon brought an urgent message from Mr. Thorpe, announcing that he would be arriving on Tuesday afternoon with Mr., Mrs., and Sophia Harrington so they could view the building work and plan the décor. They would be staying until Friday, along with three servants.

Clara, Molly, and I flew into a flurry of domestic activity. The garden boy was roped in to be a messenger as I sent orders and then amendments of orders to all our normal suppliers. Molly’s younger brother was bribed with promises of regular cake to keep all the bedroom and reception room fires burning. He did such a sterling job that we became more concerned about chimney fires than damp, cold rooms. My insistence in keeping the house clean despite its being empty paid off, and Clara had only to do some cursory cleaning and straightening up, while Molly and I set to in the kitchen.

How we missed Agnes’s expertise as we thumbed through the flour-covered recipe books, trying to construct a suitable menu! Then Mrs. Brookes’ youngest daughter, Violet, was offered by her mother as a temporary scullery maid, so we fitted her up in an over-large uniform and got her busy at the sink. Beds were made up in the attic rooms for the Kenwood housemaids and Clara, Molly, and Violet, who had to live-in for the duration of the visitors’ stay.

As instructed by Mr. Thorpe, a carriage was sent to meet the visitors from Tunbridge Railway Station, and the farm wagon was also sent for the staff and all the luggage. We were taken by surprise when one of the servants turned out to be a footman. Clara and Molly giggled when he took his overcoat off and revealed a ridiculously showy uniform. He showed his superiority by studiously ignoring their stares and chuckles. Like an exotic bird among sparrows, he looked completely out of place among the likes of us. But we did not have time to stop and stare but had to scurry around making our guests comfortable and provide them with refreshment. The groom and gardener quickly helped me get a bedroom ready for the footman in the new men’s quarters.

When I met Mrs. Harrington in the hallway, she acknowledged my presence with a triumphant air of one who has got her own way, saying, “Ah, Stubbs, I understand you are leaving.”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“Well, I am pleased you knew the limits of your capability,” she purred.

I snorted but quickly turned it into a cough as she swept into the sitting room, smiling to herself.

Of course, Bertha was back. This time I had prepared my parlour for her intrusion, clearing the desk, ready for her ladies’ delicates. The other maid was Hilda, an under-cook at Kenwood who was considered worthy of a promotion to head-cook at Biggenden. Hilda marched into our kitchen ready to take command of dinner preparations, but halted when she saw that the task was almost completed already. If she was impressed, she hid it well by criticising the combination of dishes. She wanted to throw out our meal plans for the next three days and order food for her own menus.

Molly looked as if she was about to use her wooden spoon on haughty Hilda, so I intervened by explaining how wasteful a change of menu would be because we had already procured most of the ingredients. Finally, common sense won, and after making a few unnecessary changes, Hilda reluctantly gave in. But she still thought she was queen of the kitchen and insisted on moving the kitchen utensils “to their right place,” making it impossible to find anything.

Upstairs, there was also friction about the right place for things. The Harringtons possessed various items of furniture that had been in the family for generations, and they wished Mr. Thorpe and Sophia to have some of these at Biggenden. Her doting parents agreed to let Sophia have whatever heirlooms she wished, and as they walked around the empty space, discussion took place as to what would look nice where.

They were unitedly impressed and delighted by the new rooms, but they were un-united in how to fill them. Any suggestion from anyone else was immediately squashed by Mrs. Harrington. It soon became clear that Sophia was welcome to any family heirloom—as long as it was not one of her mother’s favourites. It became yet clearer that most of them were her favourites and “would not stand the journey.” Mr. Harrington huffed and puffed about his wife’s unreasonableness and then disappeared outside to inspect the workmanship of the brickwork.

Mr. Thorpe later told me that he feared that the rooms would be filled with ugly rejects from Kenwood, so he had quickly suggested that locally made, bespoke furniture would suit the extension very well, and Sophia, always the peace-lover, readily agreed.

During their three-day visit, I had very little time or opportunity to study Mr. Thorpe and his fiancée, but the few brief times I saw them together, I was reassured of their utter devotion to each other. Miss Sophia looked childishly enchanted by the improvements to the house, and according to Bertha, she was counting off the days until she would become Mrs. Thorpe. She told Bertha it would be “such fun” to be mistress of a household and “so grown up” to be a wife.

Bertha was not so smitten with the idea, as she would also have to move to Biggenden and live among rustics. The only consolation was that now a sizeable team of staff was also coming with her, so she would at least have some “decent company.” I expressed my hope that they would be nice to Molly and Clara, but she just shrugged and said, “If they don’t like us, they can leave.”

In the kitchen, things were gradually improving. On Wednesday evening while preparing the lavish meal, Hilda got flustered over lumpy sauce and ended up in tears. Molly came to the rescue by sieving it all and adding more cream, thus gaining Hilda’s gratitude and respect. Through her sobs, Hilda explained she had only been keen to keep her own meal plans as they were dishes she was confident in preparing, and Molly cheered her up by saying that was exactly why she had fought hard for her own too! From that moment onward, they worked well together, exchanging tips and ideas.