Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (6 page)

I found Reverend Penfold’s sermons of great comfort and encouragement. When I considered the privilege of being in Christ, I would not swap my place with the richest person in England. I was sad to see my fellow servants and the family sit through powerful sermon after powerful sermon, week after week, with no apparent impression being made.

Homesickness often wafted over me on Sundays. There was no one to discuss the service with, no sense of the day being special and holy or a day for God-given relaxation. My mind often went to the companionable evenings snuggled up with a religious book by a roaring fire eating toasted tea cakes, or the first Sundays of every month, when after the evening service, all were invited to our house for hymn singing and supper. Many people came, young and old. Miss Miller played the piano in our parlour and anyone could choose a hymn. We usually had soprano, alto, tenor, and bass singers present and the harmonised singing was beautiful; so beautiful that old Mrs. Grey always nodded off, until the clatter of tea cups woke her and her appetite. I am sure a musician would have found many a fault with our amateur rendition of the hymns, but I had never heard such lovely, heart-warming singing, and I longed to hear it again. After about eight hymns, or when our throats were too dry, Ma and I would make the tea and bring in the scones and cakes. The older people tended to stay in the parlour, but the younger ones often drifted into the kitchen and we would sit around the large table chatting and laughing. Sometimes the parlour crowd was noisier than the kitchen group, but it was often the other way around. The parlour people had more of a sense of what were suitable “Sunday subjects” than the youngsters, so became less exuberant. But all that now seemed a million miles away and a different life altogether.

Mrs. Milton was kind enough to allow me time off to attend the Sunday evening service most weeks. I knew this would give extra work to Emma and Sarah, so I tried to do more chores other evenings. The congregation in the evening was very small, and soon I began to recognise people and be recognised. In the morning I was there as a housemaid of the Davenports, but in the evening I was there as Rebecca Stubbs. Before long I was invited to various older parishioners’ homes for cups of tea on my half day. These little social events were enjoyable, reminding me of the village life I had left behind in Kent. I felt valued once more for the person I was rather than for the tasks I could perform. The work at the manor was absorbing, taking up so much of my time, energy, and thoughts that it was refreshing to remember that there was a life beyond its ornate walls.

I particularly enjoyed the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Crookshank, the local butcher and his wife. They were a middle-aged couple, and their children had all left home. Mrs. Crookshank would sit and listen to my stories of life at the manor and tell me her family news. Their little home was always calm and inviting, and I felt that here was a place where I could relax and be myself; indeed, during my first few months at the manor, when I was tired all the time, I sometimes had a nap in an armchair by the stove as Mrs. Crookshank prepared the evening meal. Other times I would help her in their small kitchen garden, enjoying the fresh air and genial company. I spent the afternoon of my eighteenth birthday with the Crookshanks, having been given a half day off, but I felt so disinclined to celebrate the day and so loath to lumber anyone with the responsibility of making it special for me, that I did not inform them of the day’s significance. On the way home I popped to the baker and bought myself an iced bun. This was a mistake, for as I sat on the grass verge to eat it, I remembered Ma baking me birthday cakes and letting me lick out the bowl. My eyes filled with tears and the bun turned to sawdust in my mouth.

My role of housemaid seemed repetitive and mundane, but I soon realised that further down the servant ladder was a far less enviable role—that of the scullery maid, Nancy. She worked from dawn to dusk in the hot, steamy scullery, enduring the wrath of the kitchen maids and the explosive nature of the cook. All the glass and silverware was cleaned and cared for by the footmen, but all the dirtiest, greasiest pots and pans were scrubbed and rescrubbed day by day by poor Nancy. She was also responsible for keeping the various ranges burning and so had to start her day early to ensure the fire was well established and the kettle boiling before the cook entered her domain. The kitchen maids delegated most of the scrubbing of vegetables and plucking of fowls to the hapless girl, ensuring that she didn’t stop from morning to night. I soon learned that Nancy was from the workhouse and did not know her exact age but was told by the workhouse superintendent that she was about fourteen.

Nancy knew nothing about her family. Her whole life had been dominated by hard labour and an indoctrination of her worthlessness. She could not read or write and had no ambition beyond keeping out of trouble. The workload at Barton Manor was no worse than what she had been used to all her life since she could walk, and the living conditions, especially the meals, were far superior, so she was content in her own pathetic way. She worked with neither enthusiasm nor resentment, but plodded through her tasks like a pony plodding in a treadmill. She had learned to expect harsh words and never kindness. Her loveless life had made her incapable of feeling—or at least showing—any emotion.

My parents had spent much of their time helping people in need and had instilled this principle in me, so I was naturally moved by Nancy’s plight and desperately wanted to help her. The whole pecking order of the staff made it almost impossible to show concern and offer help, as it would be seen as neglecting my own chores and position. Even the staff’s attitude indicated their belief that Nancy should be grateful for the opportunity to work in such a great house, as if her low start to life was of her own making.

One night after a particularly elaborate dinner party that had created a huge burden of extra work on all the staff, I was finally free to climb the stairs to bed at one o’clock in the morning, but just then I saw Nancy alone in the scullery with piles of pots to scrub. I knew she had risen at five o’clock that morning to light the stoves, and I felt for her. I fought my overwhelming tiredness, rolled up my sleeves, and started washing up alongside her. Her incredulous look either expressed gratitude or the belief that I was deranged. We quickly finished off the washing up and headed wearily for bed.

Mrs. Milton seemed all-knowing at times, and this was one of them; the next day I was called into her room and told in no uncertain terms not to interfere with other people’s work, as it would leave me less able to perform my own tasks and would undermine the structure of the household. The vicarage at Pemfield seemed so far away from Barton Manor, not only in miles, but also in attitudes, principles, and priorities. Without the plumb-line of the Bible to guide me, I would have been reeling in confusion. Even with the teaching of Scripture in mind, I felt confused and at a lost to know how I was to act out my Christian faith in a house full of manmade rules, where I was paid to work and not to think.

CHAPTER 6

ONE OF THE FEW PERKS
of the job was the freedom to borrow books from the family’s large library. The library was my favourite place to work. It was on the first floor, and its windows overlooked the extensive gardens. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, but on either side were dark wooden bookshelves. The opposite wall had three large windows with dark red velvet curtains. The other two walls were covered in bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The floor was of highly polished wood, with a large red rug in the middle; there were various little tables with chairs for reading and two comfortable chairs by the fire. The bookshelves were full of beautifully bound books, most of them old, but a few were from recent years.

Mr. Davenport’s grandfather had been a keen reader and had set up the library, which reflected his wide and varied interests. All books were meticulously set out in subject groups, the obscurer the subject, the higher the bookshelf. Servants could avail themselves of any of the books, but we had to sign them out using a register and, of course, all books had to be kept in pristine condition. If a member of the family wanted a book that was being read by a servant, they could identify who had the book from the register and immediately ask for it to be returned. This had been the system in the household for two generations and no one could fault it—mainly because no one used the library now.

Every Tuesday, one of my afternoon tasks was to clean the library, while Emma cleaned the silver and Sarah the billiard room. I carefully dusted the long, wooden shelves of the library, and as I did so, I got to know the books on them. During any rare, quiet intervals of the day, I would rush to the library, borrow a book, and take it to my room for perusal at my leisure. I became rather embarrassed at the long list of “Rebecca Stubbs” in the register, but not embarrassed enough to stop borrowing. I read books on natural history, the kings and queens of England, and many of the (rather heavy going) Puritan writers. Each book took me a long time to read, as I managed to read only a few paragraphs every night before sleep overtook me. As our supply of candles was strictly rationed, I bought my own, and while Emma was applying her nightly face cream and putting rags in her hair, I would curl up in bed and read. Emma warned this was bad for my sight and would give me wrinkles around my eyes, but she did not complain about the extra candlelight.

One June evening, as I walked into the room to return a book, I realised one of the family was in the library. I hastened toward the door, but a voice I had not heard before said, “Stop.” Looking around, I saw a blond young man coming toward me with a grin.

“Aha, I have caught the bookworm red-handed, coming to devour yet another tome,” he said.

“No, sir, I have come to return one,” I replied.

“Then I’d better not continue my bookworm metaphor, as to regurgitate a book sounds rather crude, doesn’t it?”

I nodded and smiled, and then he went on. “So you must be the Rebecca Stubbs who has an uninterrupted line of signatures in the register book.”

I said “Yes, sir” as he walked up to take the book out of my hand.

“
Expository Thoughts on the Gospel of Matthew
by J. C. Ryle? Why, that is one of my books!” the young man exclaimed.

“Oh, I apologise,” I said quickly.

“No need for that. On the contrary, I am delighted the books I left here have, much to my surprise, been read.”

“And heartily enjoyed, sir,” I replied with more freedom than before. “I am much indebted to you.”

Once again, he waved my comment away. “Not in the least. I am delighted that you have read and enjoyed them, just as I did.”

The incident gave me something new to think about, and I went to bed lighter-hearted, knowing there was another person under the roof who was interested in the writings of a Church of England vicar. The next Sunday evening in church, I noticed that the young man, whom I had learned was Master Edward, not only sat in the congregation but was treated as an expected attendant of this service. He was welcomed back with warmth and affection rather than deference and awe.

By now I had been able to do a quick study of his features and noticed that he was of average build, had blond hair, blue eyes, and a ready smile. He had youthful looks but could look much more mature when deep in thought. That night I questioned Emma a little about Master Edward. She had heard that his parents had been “religious” and his bereavement had made him “very serious.”

The next Tuesday when I arrived at the library to clean, Master Edward was sitting there reading. I apologised for disturbing him and was about to withdraw, but he beckoned me in.

“I was pleased to see you at the Sunday evening service,” he said.

“Yes, I try and attend as often as work permits, sir,” I replied.

“How long have you been working here?” he asked.

“Since April, sir.”

“Have any of the church members befriended you?”

The congregation’s freeness with him gave me courage to treat him in a less stilted manner, and we were soon talking about the church and the congregation. As the minutes passed I began to get restless and finally said, “Excuse me, sir, but if I tarry any longer talking, I will get into trouble with Mrs. Milton.”

“Of course, how silly of me!”

“But I could dust and talk at the same time, sir.”

“What an excellent idea, then I will continue to tell you all I know about the Crookshanks.”

This brief exchange of observations was enjoyable and gave me something to think about for the rest of the day.

I hoped that we would get another opportunity to talk. I was annoyed with myself that an insignificant conversation, which he had probably forgotten by now, could be mulled over so much by me. I clearly lacked interests and excitement in my restricted, monotonous life.

Sunday evenings now gave me a two-fold pleasure: First, I enjoyed attending the church service, and second, afterwards Master Edward would often catch me up as I walked back to the manor and we would have about twenty minutes to chat. The footpath from the village to the manor was secluded, leaving the village at a stile and then crossing a small wood that was carpeted with bluebells in spring. The path then crossed a corner of the estate’s park before climbing steeply up to the gardens. The hedge that surrounded the garden gave privacy to the path, so we could walk with very little fear of being seen. Walking seemed to make us feel freer to talk, and it was not long before we were sharing with each other stories from our childhood.

We had both known what it was to love and lose both our parents and could sympathise with each other in a way very few people can. Master Edward’s mother had been weak with consumption as long as he could remember. She had been a God-fearing woman, and her religious persuasions caused friction between her and her family. They were further alienated from her when she met Master Edward’s father, who was a highly skilled engineer working for the railways. His Christianity and station in life made him a very poor choice of partner in her parents’ sight, and she married without their blessing or money. Master Edward’s parents (Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe) lived happily and comfortably in Hampshire and were delighted when young Edward was born. From very early on in life, Master Edward was taught Bible knowledge and doctrine, and this was matched with the consistent lives of his parents. When Edward was ten, his mother finally succumbed to the illness that had beset her all her adult life. When Edward was twelve, he embraced Christianity for himself. Mr. Thorpe and Edward muddled together the best they could without Mrs. Thorpe, but tragically Mr. Thorpe was killed by an explosion at the railway, along with five other men. Master Edward had previously had very little to do with his mother’s sister’s family, apart from the occasional visit at Michaelmas, but within days of hearing of his double loss, they came to fulfil their guardianship duties toward him, and thus he had come to live at Barton Manor.