Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (9 page)

That evening I smelt trouble when Miss Felicity rang her bedroom bell and then sent a message down saying that she had given her maid the evening off and therefore required me to help her undress. With all the reluctance of a fly being driven into a spider’s web, I obeyed the orders and went to her room. Miss Felicity was standing by the fireside, her eyes full of malice. Her first order was to untie her elegant shoes. As I knelt down to undo the laces, she kicked me, with surprising speed, strength, and accuracy on the nose. The impact knocked me off balance, and I fell on my side to the floor, crashing into the fire guard. Miss Felicity took advantage of my fall and kicked me repeatedly in the ribs. I got up as fast as I could and staggered to the door, catching the blood from my dripping nose. My heart was pounding, and I could hardly hear Miss Felicity’s venomous voice hissing, “Leave him alone.”

I stumbled toward my bedroom, praying I would not meet anyone, and lay shivering on my bed, wondering what to do next. I did not have to wonder for long, as Mrs. Milton soon appeared. Apparently she had been summoned by Miss Felicity, who informed her that I had been unsteady and tumbled in her room, sustaining an injury. She “kindly” suggested to Mrs. Milton that maybe I needed help with a drinking problem. Mrs. Milton, who had seem many things in her time, brushed such a suggestion aside, sensed trouble, and sought me out. She was alarmed to see me in such a state and immediately went about to alleviate my discomfort with a cold compress, leaving questions until later.

My face was swollen and red, but my side hurt the most, making it painful to breathe. Mrs. Milton feared I had broken some ribs and sent for the family physician. He raised an eyebrow when he heard about the incident, and after some painful poking and prodding, announced that he believed my ribs were still intact, but that I had sustained serious bruising. He prescribed pitch plasters, bran tea, and strong analgesia, instructing me to take deep breaths regularly to prevent a chest infection developing. I was unable to stop myself shivering, probably due to the pain and the shock of being attacked in such a vicious manner; I had never in my life seen such hatred directed at me and was aghast.

The kind physician seemed to understand this and administered a sleeping draught to relax my frayed nerves. I soon fell into a fitful sleep, waking every time I moved due the pain in my side and the difficulty breathing through my swollen nose. By the morning I had two black eyes, and my ribs felt as if a bull had trampled over me. Emma was horrified when she saw my face and offered to cut up all Miss Felicity’s gowns. It was an interesting idea, but with a weak smile we rejected it, as Emma needed to keep her job.

Mrs. Milton and Emma insisted that I stayed in bed for the next three days, much to my relief, as any exertion left me tired and aching. Between them, they made sure I was comfortable and well looked after. Of course, they wanted an explanation for the incident, and I gave a mumbled answer that Miss Felicity seemed to be jealous of a perceived friendship between Master Edward and myself. Mrs. Milton looked pitying at me, obviously understanding more than I had hoped about my feelings for Master Edward, and gently told me to be very, very careful, as any friendship like that “can only end in tears.” Indeed, in my battered, bruised, and vulnerable state, her well-meaning words released a torrent of fresh tears, which I shed freely once I was left alone.

If Miss Felicity had planned to make me indisposed and unable to see Master Edward before his return to Oxford, her scheme worked remarkably well. As I lay in my cold attic room, it dawned on me that I would now not see his face or hear his voice until his spring vacation. This restarted the tears that fell all too easily.

I wondered why he sent me no message via Emma, until she explained that Miss Felicity had told him that I had gone on leave for a few days, strongly hinting that I was planning to meet an old sweetheart, and apparently Master Edward had no idea of the real reason for my absence. The only silver lining to my dark clouds was that the Bertrams had also come to the end of their visit and were about to return to Hampshire, much to the secret (or not so secret) relief of everyone. Emma and I plotted our revenge on Miss Felicity, but most of our ideas were wildly unrealistic. At last I remembered a powerful laxative syrup that Mrs. Milton kept in her store room, “just in case.” Somehow Emma managed to “borrow” it and ensure that the laxative was plentifully added to Miss Felicity’s last cup of tea at Barton Manor. We had cruel delight in imagining her uncomfortable and embarrassing journey back to Hampshire.

After tasting the sweetness of revenge, Emma and I were reluctant to leave it there. In the cosy candlelight of our bedroom, we formulated an official-looking letter to Miss Felicity. Anyone with any knowledge of the ways of the judicial system would immediately have identified it as a hoax, but we hoped she regularly filled her pretty little head with fashionable murder novels so would readily swallow the message hook, line, and sinker.

The letter went something like this:

Dear Miss Felicity Bertram,

An act of violent assault was performed at Barton Manor, Sussex on 3rd January, resulting in a domestic servant being gravely injured. Should these injuries lead to her untimely death, we would be forced to open a murder inquiry. At present you are the chief and only suspect. I hereby give notice of your possible pending summons.

Yours sincerely,

PC Fleetfoot

We toyed with the idea of trying to obtain headed note paper from the local constabulary, but on failing to come up with a good plan, I wrote the letter out in my best copper plate handwriting and marked the envelope as
Strictly Private and Confidential.
We never heard about the letter again, but we giggled as much as my sore sides would allow as we imagined her agitation every time the front doorbell rang.

Mrs. Milton suggested I should make a brief visit to Pemfield as I was unfit to work, but I knew that if I arrived there with two black eyes, Mrs. Brown would never let me out of her sight again. I was thankful when snowy weather quickly put travelling out of the question. I felt guilty about not working, as Emma and Sarah had to work even harder, but I also enjoyed the time that I had to read, write, and relax. At last I had time to read my Bible slowly and at leisure. My prayer time was no longer a hurried and sleepy few minutes in the morning, a few request prayers “on the hoof” through the day, and then a tired and sleepy few minutes in the late evening, often (to my shame) falling asleep before the amen. I now had time to focus more on God and His attributes rather than on my requests and needs. My quiet times once again became a source of spiritual enrichment, rather than a routine duty, and I felt grateful that the Lord had given me this unlikely time off to appreciate my Saviour anew.

After a week Mrs. Milton deemed me presentable enough to recommence my duties. With the aid of a little face powder, my appearance would not alarm any of the family or raise any questions. The first week back at work was agony, as my corset pressed tightly on my bruised ribs, causing continuous pain when I moved. Emma helped me to loosen the corset as much as I could within the constraints of my uniform, thus making movement a little more bearable. I am indebted to Emma and Sarah for their kindness to me during the time I struggled to fulfil my duties, as they insisted in giving me the lighter, easier tasks and worked harder themselves. They swept aside my appreciation by joking that I had learned my lesson not to cross a refined gentlelady.

Sarah was in the frame of mind to bestow benevolence on all she met with, as her gardener had become amorous when passing under the mistletoe at Christmas, and their courtship had flourished like a greenhouse flower ever since.

CHAPTER 9

THE SNOW AT THE BEGINNING
of the year lingered long and was followed by a frosty and foggy February. Emma and I were so cold in our drafty attic room that we used our rag rugs as an extra layer on our beds. The glass of water by my bed was frequently frozen in the morning.

Keeping the house warm for the family seemed to be a constant task that we barely succeeded in. The damp air created drafts throughout the house, making the more sedentary members of the household chilly and quarrelsome. A brisk walk in the park might have made the daughters a little warmer and brighter, but it would also have involved getting their boots and hems soiled, so such an idea was unthinkable. Instead they paced around the parlour and drawing room like lions in a cage.

“Dash this hideous weather!” moaned Miss Davenport.

“Moderate your language, my dear,” chided her mother.

“But this miserable weather is making us prisoners in our own home.”

“And no one visits us; even the dressmaker cried off her visit due to the weather. I am annoyed at her lack of commitment,” added Miss Annabel.

“Apply yourself to some cultivating pursuits, my girls. We have a library full of books to read.”

“How utterly boring!” said Miss Annabel’s sister.

“Father forbids us to become bookish,” added Miss Annabel triumphantly.

“Then find your needlework,” suggested their longsuffering mother, only to be greeted with deep sighs.

“What about playing the pianoforte or painting?”

“You and Father hired such incompetent governesses to teach us, that we were never properly instructed in these arts.”

Miss Annabel’s lie stirred my indignation on behalf of the governesses.

“Then try to teach yourself and strive for improvement.”

“And what may I ask, is the point of that?” spat out the elder Miss Davenport. “We never have visitors or anyone to impress with your so-called ‘cultivating pursuits.’ If I had an admiring audience, I may endeavour to shine, but I certainly won’t put myself to that effort for my mother and grumpy sister.”

“May I remind you, young lady, that had you been more obedient and obliging about Gerald Bertram, you could even now be planning your wedding trousseaux and escape to sociable Hampshire,” said Mrs. Davenport, bringing up a sore subject.

“Oh, mother, you are so unreasonable,” huffed her eldest daughter, and she stomped out the room.

Such were the snippets of conversation Sarah and I heard as we stoked the hungry fires, and as we compared notes, it was apparent that the same arguments and subjects were gone over time and time again, with no satisfactory conclusion or reconciliation.

The same could almost be said for the conversations that Emma and I had as we got ready for bed. Her kindness to me after my battering and her pertinent questions forced me to confide in her about my feelings for Master Edward. It was a great relief to have a sympathetic ear to listen to my bottled-up emotions, and they came spilling out like fermented drink when the cork is released. Together we analysed his attitude toward me, our conversations, and his actions. Emma was romantic enough to believe cross-class relationships possible, but realistic enough to know they do not happen very often. We both concluded that Miss Felicity must have seen an amount of interest in me on Master Edward’s part to stir up such vehement jealousy. In her analysis, Emma failed to take into account the one great fact that kept me hoping and praying, that is: “with God all things are possible.” I believed that Master Edward and I could do each other so much spiritual good, and as this would be God-glorifying, it could not be wrong to want such a union.

Emma wanted to stretch her wings and began looking at adverts for lady’s maids. We poured over the Situations Vacant columns of
The Morning Post
, trying to read between the lines to ascertain the type of lady advertising. Emma decided she needed to practise on a kind, respectable, and sociable lady for a few years before launching herself on real aristocracy. She wanted a young and beautiful woman to work for, so that when she had dressed her ladyship and arranged her hair, Emma could feel real pride and satisfaction in her work. She wanted a mistress with original thoughts and an easy manner so that they could discuss the day’s events together and share opinions. All these characteristics could only be observed when meeting the employer face to face, so Emma resigned herself to the idea of wasting many of her precious days off attending interviews. For her, the concept of an interview was that it enabled her to choose the right lady as much as they were choosing the right maid. I helped Emma formulate letters in response to various adverts, and then we waited expectantly for replies.

I was dreading the idea of Emma leaving Barton Manor, as we had become close friends and worked well together. Her laughter and astute observations made her delightful company and often lifted my spirits. She could spark my humour in a way that no other member of staff could. Sarah was also due to leave work soon, as she was marrying her gardener and they were to set up home in one of the estate’s tied cottages. Married women were not permitted to continue their employment, so although Sarah’s wages would have been useful for the newlyweds, she was forced to give notice. Mrs. Milton was dismayed to hear of Emma’s plans and complained that as soon as she had a good working team, someone “goes and leaves, and I am back to square one.”

Mrs. Milton could vaguely understand why Emma wanted to better herself and advance up the domestic service ranks, but she failed to see why Sarah would “chuck in a good job to marry a man, least of all a gardener, of all people.” Despite her disappointment at the breaking up of her housemaid team, she busied herself and us in turning old, rejected sheets into beautiful, embroidered tablecloths and napkins for Sarah. If people had to marry, they might as well do it properly.

Emma was looking for change, and Sarah was getting married, but my life seemed destined to remain the same—but if my future seemed bleak, Nancy’s appeared hopeless. As I contrasted her with my excited fellow housemaids, I once again pitied her lot and wished I could in some way help her.

Nancy never had any time or inclination to take care of her appearance, and although the staff rules stipulated that we should be clean and presentable at all times, in a scullery it is hard to stay in such a condition for long. One quiet evening I tentatively suggested to Nancy that I help her wash her hair with some Castile soap I had recently purchased. She readily agreed and within half an hour, her long brown locks were cleaner and more fragrant than they had been for years. She was obviously pleased with the result; indeed with clean, brushed hair and a smile, she almost looked pretty.