Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (4 page)

“Err, good morning—” I began.

“Good afternoon,” she corrected curtly.

“Yes, indeed, good afternoon. I have come to be interviewed for a housemaid’s post.”

“Name?”

“Rebecca Stubbs.”

“Stubbs, you mean. Christian names ain’t for the likes of us,” she informed me as she let me through the door. I trotted along behind her as she led the way along a dark corridor smelling of boot polish. “Ya’ll have to impress our ’ousekeeper, and that ain’t easy.”

“How can I impress her?” I asked, seeking some inside information.

“By working ’ard and not breaking nothing.”

“I’ll do my best,” I assured her as we stopped at the housekeeper’s door.

“Humph!” snorted the housemaid. “From the look of ya, ya won’t last a week.”

With that less than reassuring comment, she ushered me into the presence of the woman who was to determine my future. The housekeeper greeted me and offered me a seat at a table. She was a slightly plump, middle-aged woman with greying hair. She wore a white blouse with a lace collar and a long black skirt. From her waist hung a large set of keys, a mark of authority and responsibility. Her rather stern, lined face belied the fact that she had a warm smile, and I was sure that, given the correct circumstances, her eyes would twinkle. She introduced herself as Mrs. Milton.

Much to my surprise, she offered me a cup of tea, which I gratefully accepted. As she was busy pouring the water, I had the opportunity to look around me. Her room was clearly her little haven; a small range gave pleasant warmth to the room and nearby sat a couple of armchairs. She also had a desk under a window, where I assumed she did the household accounts. We sat up to a small, round dining table with a lace cloth, and under our feet was a tired-looking red carpet. As the tea brewed Mrs. Milton got down to business.

“So, Stubbs, I see that you have no experience whatsoever in domestic service, is that correct?”

“Yes, Mrs. Milton, I’m afraid it is,” I admitted, wringing my hands under the table.

“So what makes you think you are suitable for this post?”

“Well, my mother instructed me fully in household chores and insisted on a high standard.”

“Are you used to hard work?”

“My parents seemed to consider idleness a sin, ma’am, and worked hard from dawn to dusk in their parish and home and made sure I did the same.”

“I think you will find it a bit different here to a cosy little parsonage,” Mrs. Milton said witheringly.

“But please try me, ma’am. I will work hard and do my best for you,” I pleaded.

As the conversation progressed it became increasingly obvious to both of us that my limited experience of domestic work at the vicarage was inadequate and pathetic. I realised I was unconvincing, but I was desperate to get the job and prove myself. I did not want to return to Pemfield and Mrs. Brown, having failed.

After drinking the last dregs of her tea, Mrs. Milton put down her cup with the conviction of one about to pronounce her final verdict. “Well, Stubbs, you definitely do not have the experience I would wish, and I fear that training you up will take some time—time we can scarcely afford.” I nodded my agreement. “But you do seem fairly sensible,” she continued, “and on the strength of that, I will give you one month’s trial as the second housemaid.” I started to smile and thank her, but she silenced me with a wave: “If you prove unsuitable, you will leave with just one week’s wages, the rest having been deducted for your uniform, the effort you have cost me, and your board.”

Once she had established that I knew the terms of employment, she went on to the rules of the house.

“What I am looking for is obedience and humility. Never forget your servile position in this house. Only speak to a member of the family if they speak to you, but never give your opinion. If you do speak, be brief and quiet and keep your hands behind your back. If a member of the family comes into a room whilst you are working, be as invisible as possible: stand next to the wall with your eyes to the floor. If, for some reason, you need to follow a member of the family, keep a respectful three paces behind them. Do your work as silently as possible.”

I tried to look humble and willing as her voice droned on, but inside I was saying,
Well, Rebecca, wave good-bye to your name, your own will and desires; you are now a nobody, paid to work but not to think.

“Am I making myself clear, Stubbs?” asked Mrs. Milton.

“Most clear, thank you, ma’am,” I replied, rather startled (did she have powers over my mind already?).

“Good, then I will tell you about your position.”

I would take my orders from Mrs. Milton and the first housemaid; under me was the third housemaid, but we were all to help each other for the smooth running of the household. Mrs. Milton emphasised that we were to take pride in our work, remembering that the standard of cleanliness and efficient running of the house reflected directly on the family we served.

The first housemaid, Emma, was called to show me to my room. I was relieved to hear Mrs. Milton calling her by her Christian name and soon learnt that in this household, surnames were rarely used among the female servants, in fact, only when you were in severe trouble. Emma was the girl who had opened the door to me. As I followed her up the long tiled staircase, she looked over her shoulder and said, “I still reckon you’ll last only a week.”

Oh dear,
I thought.
This is
the one that I need to be friends with, for she could make my life easier or harder at will, and we haven’t exactly got off to a good start!

Furthermore, it turned out that I was to share a bedroom with her. As I slung my trunk onto the bed and opened it up to unpack my few possessions, Emma exclaimed, “Wow, ya’ve got a lot!”

“I didn’t know what to pack,” I replied somewhat apologetically.

“I ’ad nothing to pack, so it made it easy.” Emma laughed and then asked, “So ’ave ya got lots more at ’ome?”

“I haven’t really got a home,” I blurted out before I could think of a less dramatic response.

Emma sat down on her bed with a plonk. “No ’ome? A nice girl like ya? Wiv all them nice dresses?” Her lively eyes danced with the idea of scandal. “Were you chucked out?”

I hesitated, reluctant to share my story with a stranger and become an object of sympathy, but I equally did not want to become an object of speculation in the servant hall, so I briefly explained about my parents’ deaths.

“And ya’ve got no sisters?” Emma asked, her brown eyes now filled with pity.

“No,” I replied, “nor brothers.”

“No grandparents ta take ya in?”

“No, only a stuck-up uncle,” I answered, trying to lighten the mood whilst wiping my damp eyes.

“Well then,” declared Emma as she put her arm around my shoulder, “ya just stay right here wiv us, cos we’re more fun than any stuck-up uncle.”

“But I’m here only for a week,” I teased shyly.

“And so ya are,” she laughed, as she left me to unpack. “But I am willing to be proved wrong.”

CHAPTER 4

THE FEMALE SERVANTS WERE HOUSED
in attic rooms, which were light and airy with basic, functional furniture. I soon realised that the position of the rooms meant they were hot in summer and freezing in winter. Our small window had an extensive view—of the roof. The house was designed to hide all evidence of the servants’ quarters, so our bedrooms looked out onto the gully between gables. The kitchen, scullery, numerous cold rooms and servants’ hall were below ground level.

I soon learned that there were ninety-four steps between the lowest level and our bedrooms, and they were the last thing we wanted at the end of a long day. The male servants’ quarters were in the basement, as far away from our quarters as possible. They did not have all the stairs to contend with, but were nearer the noise of the kitchen and they also suffered from rising damp and mildew during the winter.

I had the rest of the afternoon and evening to unpack and alter my uniforms so that they fit me. I was to wear a pink and white candy-striped dress with a large white apron and a white bonnet in the mornings, then change into a black dress with a lacy white apron and lacy bonnet for the afternoons. I quickly let down the hem and took in the seams to fit my long, slender frame, thankful for the first time that Ma had insisted on me laboriously acquiring dress-making skills. I buttoned myself into the afternoon uniform and looked in the looking glass. The blackness of the dress drained my eyes of their blueness, making them look grey. The severe, scalp-pulling bun I was forced to screw my wavy brown hair into, in order to perch the bonnet correctly on my head, produced an effect that could hardly be described as becoming. Bessie and I were once thought of as the beauties of the village.
You’re on your own now, Bessie
, I thought ruefully as I resigned myself to my new, austere look. Then, getting back down to business, I wrote as promised to Mrs. Brown, describing the journey, the interview, and letting her know that I had the job (I did not feel she needed to know it might be only for a month).

I presented myself to Mrs. Milton for inspection, and after giving my uniform a few sharp tugs here and there to make it hang better, she was satisfied with the fit.

“But I can still see too much of your hair,” she observed as she looked in her desk drawer for even more hairpins. “With bouncy hair like yours, you’ll need a whole pack of pins.”

Mrs. Milton proceeded to stab around, thrusting in her hairpins, ignoring my wincing, until she was satisfied and my scalp was sore.

My first meal in the servants’ hall was daunting. Mrs. Milton ushered me in and introduced me to a sea of faces before taking her seat. At the top end sat Mrs. Milton, Mrs. Patterson the cook, and Mr. Carter the butler, and then going down the table in rank sat the master’s valet and two ladies maids, the footmen, the housemaids, the laundry maids, then finally the scullery maids and house boys. I sat down next to Emma and was pleased when the food became the centre of attention rather than the newcomer. The conversation was stilted and mainly confined to the top end of the table; we were only to speak when spoken to by the upper servants. But at pudding time, the top trio retired to Mrs. Milton’s room, leaving us lesser mortals to eat unsupervised. Conversation soon flowed, gossip of the day was exchanged, and the atmosphere lightened. But soon “them upstairs” began ringing the bells, and the servants attended to their evening duties.

I retired early, feeling rather shy and unsure of what was expected of me. Emma was still busy, and I was grateful to have the solitude to read my Bible and pray. I was thankful for journeying mercies and my new job, and I pleaded with the Lord to help me to do my work well, get on well with my fellow servants, and stay faithful to Him. After committing myself and my faraway friends into His hands, I fell asleep in my new bed.

At a quarter to six the next morning, with as much noise as she dared, Sarah, the third housemaid, brought Emma and me a cup of tea and a jug of hot water, thus announcing the beginning of our working day. We stumbled out of bed, had a quick wash, and struggled into our uniforms whilst sipping the hot, sweet tea, which would be our only sustenance for the next two hours. My first task of the day was to take a jug of warm water and a cup of tea to the first lady’s maid. I tried to do this quietly and kindly, but I soon realised that I would be blamed if she went back to sleep, so I had to ensure she was properly awake. I had to put the saucer over the cup and walk briskly upstairs to ensure the tea was still warm after the long ascent. It did not take me long to conclude that the designer of the house had had a grudge against women.

Emma, Sarah, and I were to clean downstairs when the family was still upstairs and then prepare the dressing rooms for their ablutions and dressing; when they had vacated their chambers, we were to clean upstairs. Emma introduced me to the housemaids’ closet and laughed as she saw my eyes widen at the array of equipment. It contained brushes for every situation: stove, banister, closet, curtains, furniture, and shoe brushes. Velvet and oil brushes. Carpet, wall, and bed brooms. Lotions and potions for all manner of cleaning. I was to learn all their uses and woe betide me if I used the wrong brush on the wrong surface!

Sarah and I went from hearth to hearth, removing yesterday’s ashes, re-blacking the fireplace, and laying a new fire for the day. We lugged coal and logs from downstairs to each room, and once a fire was lit, it was our responsibility to keep it going for the day. Each room was to have a fire going, regardless of whether the family would use the room or not. We first crept quietly into the bedchambers and attended the fires to ensure the family had warmth when rising. It was hard in the dark not to bang the fender or the cinder pail, and while I was still learning the task, my inept clatter often resulted in an expletive from the slumberer. Once that rather tense task was completed, we hurried downstairs to prepare the house for a new day. Curtains and shutters were opened, letting in the pale morning sunlight. Rugs were removed and shaken—a job that I came to enjoy as it gave me a few breaths of fresh air and a brief excuse to be outside. Floors were swept and furniture dusted. Emma was responsible for cleaning all the precious ornaments, which obviously could not be touched by inferior hands. All cushions were pumped up to be soft and airy for the next person who sat on them.

By this time of the morning, the family members were beginning to stir, and we would tidy ourselves up and set about our next task of supplying vast amounts of hot water for bathing. Twice a week the tin hip bath was warmed by the fire, and then we struggled up three flights of stairs with large jugs of steaming water to the lady’s maids, who prepared the baths for their mistresses. The lady’s maids—Eliza and Jane—would be reprimanded if the quantity or heat of the water was substandard, or the timing was not as desired, and they in turn would berate us for letting them down. We had to be fast but careful that we were neither scalded by the hot water nor scolded by the lady’s maids. I was often feeling faint with hunger by this stage and, if hurrying extra fast, I sometimes had to cling to the banister at the top of the stairs to hold myself steady before regaining my equilibrium. We were completely at the whim of the family; we could prepare a beautifully warm, full bath for one of the daughters, who might then decide she needed an extra hour of beauty sleep, thus creating more work for us.