Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (13 page)
After breakfast, I revisited all the downstairs rooms, planning my cleaning campaign. The rooms had hardly been used for months and smelt stuffy with a hint of stale tobacco smoke. I flung open every window that had a working latch, and fresh air wafted in. The morning sunlight revealed the enormity of my task as it shined on grimy windows, ledges of dust, and yards of cobwebs. Agnes had cleaned the study and master bedchamber to an adequate standard for Edward’s arrival, but all other rooms had been neglected by both the previous owner and his overstretched staff.
The dining room was decorated with plain wallpaper, which had been hand stencilled with a pattern of exotic birds sitting in oriental-looking trees. This sort of wallpaper had been popular as it bypassed the wallpaper tax introduced during the reign of Queen Anne, a tax that was not abolished until 1836; plain paper was untaxed, so hand stencilling became the vogue. Now the wallpaper looked tired and grubby, but when washing the walls, I soon discovered to my horror that the pictures were more easily removed than the grime.
The other reception rooms were all painted with what I assumed was a cream paint, but as soon as I started scrubbing, I realised that the original colour was bright white. The yellow tint was the result of years of tobacco smoke. The cream walls had looked respectable, but as soon as a patch was cleaned white, the rest looked awful, so I knew I had once again totally underestimated the size of the spring-cleaning project.
As I was perched up a ladder, Mr. Thorpe entered the room. He was surprised to see the original colour of the paintwork and seemed to realise the enormity of the task I had taken on. I decided to strike while the iron was hot and suggested that we go from room to room, discussing the interiors. I was reluctant to suggest new wallpaper and repainting and so was delighted when he decided for himself that several rooms needed redecorating completely. The remaining rooms would receive a thorough spring clean, and my tentative suggestion that Agnes be employed for extra hours to assist was endorsed.
By the end of my first day at Biggenden Manor, I felt satisfied that the old building was being overhauled and that I had an important role in the task. I had worked hard, but no harder than I would have done in my former job. The luxury of planning my own working day gave me great delight.
That evening Mr. Thorpe remained at home and enjoyed his evening meal alone in the dining room, waited on by Mr. Kemp. We then gobbled up ours in silence around the kitchen table. At nine o’clock on the dot, the Kemps shuffled off to bed, and I was left to serve Mr. Thorpe his evening drink and slice of cake at ten.
On entering his study, I found him relaxed in an armchair next to the open fire, reading a farming periodical. A friendly black Labrador lay at his feet, basking in the warmth of the fire and looking decidedly contented. It was Sir Richard Tenson’s old gun-dog called Rex, and he had clearly taken a shine to his new master. As I poured his tea, Edward invited me to fetch an extra cup and join him. I hurried to the kitchen for a cup and saucer, thoroughly pleased that he had asked me, but wondering what the Kemps would think if they were to hear about it.
Meanwhile, Edward had drawn another armchair near to the fire in a companionable manner opposite his. Whilst sipping tea, Edward told me all about the home farm, its acreage, crops, livestock, and coppicing woods. For someone who had lived a rather urban existence, I was surprised how much knowledge he had already acquired about milking and mangel-wurzels (a kind of beet plant, used as animal feed).
Sir Richard Tenson had let his house go to wrack and ruin, but his land had been well managed by a very capable steward and a team comprised of a herdsman, a shepherd, and a loyal workforce of farm labourers and woodsmen. Most of the staff lived in tied cottages on the estate.
Soon after arriving at Biggenden Manor, Edward had toured his new estate with Mr. Hull, the steward, meeting all the employees, their wives, and families, and inspected the cottages and farm buildings. Edward confessed that he was embarrassed by the respect and deference shown to him by his workforce and how humbling he found the whole experience. He was forcefully hit by the fact that about twenty families were relying on him to keep them employed and housed.
As the last log in the hearth gradually burnt to glowing embers and Rex snored gently on the mat, I reminded myself that another busy day lay ahead tomorrow and reluctantly bade Edward good night.
Cleaning, washing, and polishing occupied my time for the next fortnight. The thirsty wooden panelling and floor drank in any polish I applied and still asked for more. It was satisfying to watch dull wood gradually yielding a beautiful shine and to notice the odour of tobacco smoke and old dust being replaced by the clean smell of polish and soap suds.
During the rigorous process of being washed and squeezed through the rolls of the finger-biting mangle, some of the older curtains gave up the ghost and disintegrated. Once I had got over the shame of admitting another cleaning casualty to Edward and being asked if I was gentle enough with the fragile fabric, I had the great pleasure of choosing and ordering new material from a London catalogue. Agnes and I were rather cautious with beating the ancient rugs and runners after our curtain experience, so after beating out about a decade’s worth of dust, we left the rest to hold the warp and weave together.
Whilst working, I often wondered what Edward’s plans would be for the evening and fervently hoped that he would not be invited to dine out. By nine o’clock my back and limbs would be ready for bed, but whenever invited to join him, my aches and tiredness would vanish. I gladly fetched another cup and stayed up for another hour or more, drinking in the joy of having time alone with Edward and his devoted dog. I often wondered who enjoyed those evenings the most, me or Rex.
The recent arrival of a bachelor with a modest estate proved to be an interesting development in the locality, and Edward received many invitations from the scattering of upper-class families in the area. My private and cynical observation was that families with unmarried daughters seemed more tenacious at pressing an invitation than those without. Edward often moaned to me about the dreariness of these visits, the predictability of the shallow conversations, the length and richness of the meals, and the overbearing, inquisitive mothers.
He was always looking for new reasons to decline an invitation, but when none could be found, he took a rather unchristian pleasure in remembering the most ridiculous or uninformed comments uttered and recounting them to me verbatim the following evening. When the women had eventually retired, the men’s conversation became solely shooting and hunting related. Having no experience with either sport, Edward could not contribute but was the captive audience to tales of sporting events “shot by boring shot, told with much enthusiasm of their own prowess.” He could think of nothing more ridiculous than spending money on raising hundreds of pheasants, paying a gamekeeper to keep them safe, for the sole purpose of inviting friends to shoot the birds as quickly as possible and then “talking about it ad infinitum.”
When not supervising and assisting Agnes with the cleaning, I was busy in the kitchen helping Mrs. Kemp deal with all the autumn fruit that came in abundance to us from the farm and garden. The local children knew that picking a basket of blackberries and handing them in at the kitchen door was rewarded by some sort of tidbit from Mrs. Kemp’s pantry, so we were almost swamped by blackberries. Every day there were pounds more to boil, strain, jell, and jar. Apples arrived by the bushel, and these had to be grouped according to condition and purpose: for immediate use, storage, or bottling. Strictly speaking, bottling and preserve-making was the job of the housekeeper, not the cook, and I hoped that the following year, with less cleaning work to do and providing Mrs. Kemp could be gently persuaded to relinquish her role, I could take it over altogether, but for the time being, I was happy to learn all I could from Mrs. Kemp’s years of experience.
Before the end of September, Edward received an invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Davenport to the wedding of their eldest daughter. Even the letter font seemed to ooze smug satisfaction as it proclaimed to friends and family that they had succeeded in getting a daughter financially secure for life and off their hands. Edward was reluctant to attend the ceremony but went out of a sense of obligation.
Two days at Barton Manor, being wooed by various distant relatives who until then had hardly acknowledged his existence, was “too nauseating to stomach,” and Edward escaped to Biggenden as soon as the bridal pair had left for their continental tour. I had anticipated hearing lots of interesting news about the wedding, the flowers, and the bridal gown, but Edward had noticed only the carriages and food. He also failed to pick up any news from the servants, so his cursory description of the whole trip was wholly unsatisfactory.
With my days full of interesting work and my evenings of interesting company, I felt I had really fallen on my feet in coming to Biggenden and was very grateful to the Lord for this turn of events. The cloud to my silver lining was the preaching at the local church. Biggenden Estate was in the parish of Capford, and this parish was served by a vicar called Rev. Brinkhill. The first Lord’s Day I attended Capford church, I excused the man’s poor performance, putting it down to him having an attack of dyspepsia or the like, but I soon found that his deliverance never varied.
He looked a striking picture with his balding head, white beard, and flowing robes in the high pulpit, and one expected the liveliness of an ancient prophet, but he addressed his congregation in a slow monotone. His sermon structure never varied: he announced his text, explained the key Greek or Hebrew words, and then listed where they were also used in Scripture. His concordance seemed to be his greatest delight in life. The warmest of Bible verses he could reduce to mere technical words and meanings. The glorious invitations and promises of the gospel he narrowed down, sapping them of their fullness and freeness, always encouraging self-examination but discouraging a simple faith in Christ, thus leaving believers questioning their own salvation. Unbelievers became hardened in fatalism as he emphasised election and the sovereignty of God, neglecting man’s responsibility and the reality of gospel invitations.
His eyes were either focused on the lectern before him, the right hand wall between the clock and a memorial tablet, or the point where the back wall and ceiling met. I was used to looking intently at the preacher, but soon I started to follow the example of most of the congregation and became very familiar with the flag stone floor and the knots in the wood of the pew in front.
I was amused and intrigued to find that the church still boasted a gallery band. A small group of ageing men sat in the west gallery with their fiddles and accompanied the singing. All other churches I had attended had long ago replaced their bands with a pipe organ or harmonium. The church was cold and damp, thus making it difficult for the fiddles to hold their pitch.
Every sermon, at the moment the vicar uttered “and in conclusion,” an unholy screeching and scratching of flat, clashing notes emanated from above as the band limbered up for the final hymn. The unharmonious noises drowned out the final utterances—maybe even an application—of the minister for anyone more than halfway back in the church, but neither the minister or the congregation seemed to mind this intrusion. To make the situation even more amusing, the ancient fiddlers were hard of hearing, so their “whispers” of advice to each other were audible to all. In the coming months, I took delight in seeing the startled expressions of visiting clergy as the cacophony of fiddles drowned their concluding remarks.
At first I was amazed at the size of the congregation. Despite the dry preaching, the whole parish attended twice on the Lord’s Day, come wind or rain, but I was soon enlightened to the fact many were there due to a fear of their landlord, rather than the fear of God. The expansive neighbouring estate, including most of the village, was owned by a certain Lord Wilson, who employed most of the villagers and insisted on their regular attendance at the church. He was not a religious man, often failing to attend church himself, but he thought that the teachings of the church would help keep his workers submissive and continually aware of their God-given station in life.
Shortly after my arrival at Biggenden Manor a skilled woodcutter from Lord Wilson’s estate had become greatly exercised about his spiritual condition, and in finding no help from the local vicar, he started attending a Strict Baptist Chapel. The preaching there greatly helped him, and he soon became an assured believer, speaking to his fellow woodcutters of eternal matters. He was convinced that only believer’s baptism by immersion was scriptural and became a member of the chapel. Lord Wilson was so incensed by this behaviour that he dismissed the woodcutter, making him and his family homeless.
Such news travels fast in a small community, so the shocking tale was relayed to us at the kitchen door before Lord Wilson’s horse had been brushed and given water after his hard-driven gallop from the woodcutter’s cottage. I thought I was imparting news when that evening I told Edward of the terrible treatment, but he had already heard the story from his estate manager and was so angered by the lack of religious tolerance shown that he had immediately offered the woodcutter employment and accommodation. I was delighted that Edward had shown such Christian integrity and compassion at the expense of his good relationship with a fellow landowner, but my admiration of him was somewhat dented when he went on to comment “anything to avoid another dinner invitation from Lord and Lady Wilson.”
CHAPTER 15
AS AUTUMN TURNED TO WINTER,
Biggenden Manor became more shipshape and my workload lessened. Painters had been in to redecorate some of the reception rooms. I kept out of their way as much as possible, but painting seemed to produce an unquenchable thirst, requiring cups of tea on an hourly basis. Every time I entered the room with a tray of cups, I was subjected to some lewd but witty comment that would invariably make me blush and become clumsy, so I made my entries and exits as quickly as possible. I suggested that Mr. Kemp deal with the workmen, but apparently the paint vapours set off his lung complaint, so I just had to grit my teeth until the redecorating was finally completed. To give them their due, the painters did an excellent job. It was wonderful to see the manor restored to a well-polished and lived-in home, and I felt proud and privileged to be part of the team that ran it.
