Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (16 page)
During our evening meetings he had genuinely sympathised with the loss of Mrs. Bridges, but I did not want to burden him with the cloud of bereavement pain for my dear parents that descended upon me. After all, he himself was an orphan, and to be drawn into my grief might have caused him to feel bereft once again. My duty as a housekeeper was to run the household efficiently, and I tried to put on a brave face, only to break down in the privacy of my bedroom. I was aware of looking pale and sombre. Of course, the prospect of a fortnight without Edward did little to lift my mood.
I had long since given up hope of gaining encouragement and comfort from the vicar’s sermons. Instead of finding peace as I listened to his monotone, I became increasingly annoyed that his God-given opportunities of speaking to the parish about the Saviour’s worth were invariably wasted. I also became more and more aware of the disapproving faces of Mrs. Brinkhill, his sour wife, and their anaemic, unmarried daughter, but not without feelings of guilt for remaining unmoved by the church services.
Edward explained that he tried to supplement this meagre diet by preaching a sermon to himself in his head from the vicar’s text. I tried this idea, and sometimes it worked, but more often than not, my mind just wandered.
Preaching your own sermon has its advantages, as one knows what train of thought is most likely to warm one’s heart. For instance, I think of the Lord as the Creator of trees, the One who supplies the sun and rain they need, and the One who makes them grow. I follow that with thinking of Jesus as a young man working as a carpenter, making everyday objects with wood, and then those same skilful hands healing the sick, and later those same hands nailed to the very wood He created. Finally, my thoughts will move to those same hands wiping away all the tears of the redeemed in glory. As I say, this sometimes works, but often thoughts of the coming week’s chores or how to handle the maids filled my mind.
What I have always enjoyed, though, is the beautiful liturgy found in
The Book of Common Prayer
. The rich and beautiful phrases chosen by Cranmer in the 1550s express so eloquently the confession, contrition, and praises of the human heart and extoll the holiness and majesty of God. I realised that my reasons for loving the liturgy were a mixture of spiritual resonance, as well as nostalgic reminiscence of people and places where I had first used these words before, chiefly, my father’s old church in our family pew, snuggled up to Ma in her best Sunday dress. I mused on the idea that for three hundred years Christians throughout the land, in humble rural parishes and in splendid cathedrals, had by wonderful language been united in their offering of petition and praise.
Rev. Brinkhill was rather selective in when and how to use the Prayer Book, but generally included just enough to satisfy my taste. Thankfully, at Mrs. Bridges’ burial, the vicar saw fit to use the whole of the set liturgy, so the confident language of precious promises of the resurrection of the dead sounded forth over her open grave, putting life’s little day into perspective.
Ma always maintained that work is a great healer, and with this in mind I galvanised my team of maids to do a thorough clean of Biggenden in the absence of the master. This cleaning task illustrated how far we had progressed at Biggenden: instead of carrying out most of the task myself, I now had a team of three capable girls to do the work as I supervised and cleaned only the most delicate objects like lace and precious china—not that there was an abundance of either in the bachelor establishment.
We all worked hard, but, following Mrs. Milton’s example, I tried to relax the normal daily timetable . . . until I found Molly taking advantage of my leniency and slipping off work early. This was a perpetual problem with the two new maids: if I was relaxed and friendly, they thought they could cut corners and take advantage, but if I was strict and demanding, I detected a subtle rebellion. Agnes seemed to be loyal, but soon I discovered that she also tried to “run with the hare and hunt with the hounds” to remain on good terms with both the girls and me, by agreeing with both parties. I missed the camaraderie of being a housemaid and began to realise what an isolated position housekeepers up and down the country were in as they walked the tightrope of friendliness and authority.
Another growing concern was what to do with Mr. and Mrs. Kemp. Mr. Kemp had aged rapidly during the time I had known him: he was becoming increasingly stooped and was almost completely deaf. He seemed to assume the rest of us suffered with the same affliction and muttered to himself, often uncomplimentary comments. This was proving to be an embarrassment when he greeted guests. Sometimes he completely forgot to do the small routine tasks allocated to him. One’s nose also got the distinct impression that his personal cleanliness was not as good as it could be. He continued to shave daily, but missed some areas, resulting in various tufts of whiskers at different stages of growth around his mouth and jaw line.
Mrs. Kemp gradually did less and less in the kitchen but was as helpful as possible. She seemed well aware of her husband’s dotage and tried to cover up for him, but her arthritic joints prevented her from venturing farther than the kitchen. Sometimes she appeared troubled and distressed by their declining power and usefulness.
Edward had mentioned that he wanted to stop employing the elderly couple before any further social function, but we were at pains to know of a diplomatic and sympathetic way to carry out this plan. Their daughter and son-in-law lived in the village, but their little cottage was already overflowing with children, and they hardly had a penny to rub between them. Then, one morning as I helped to clean up Mrs. Bridges’ house, I had an idea: here was one of Edward’s cottages standing empty, and who were more deserving of filling it than the Kemps? If a few roof tiles were replaced and some whitewash painted on the grimy walls, it would be a decent place to live. Moreover, it was only a field away from their daughter, too far for Mrs. Kemp to walk but not too far for the young legs of grandchildren to run errands or call in after school. I was bursting with enthusiasm for my idea, but I had to keep it under my hat until Edward returned.
Back at Biggenden Manor, the cleaning was completed and I allowed the maids a day off. The Kemps, of course, stayed in the kitchen but enjoyed the luxury of having it all to themselves and were soon dozing contentedly before the range. I packed a picnic, found my stoutest boots and straw hat, and set off on a long walk to enjoy the late August sun. The neighbourhood was full of activity as the farm labourers and casual workers made the most of the sunny weather and were harvesting the wheat.
I stopped to watch the rhythmic movements of the cutters as they worked together in a line, cutting the stalks with their sharp scythes. Women, girls, and boys followed, rapidly but carefully, gathering the wheat stalks into sheaves and taking them to be stood for drying in skilfully crafted stooks. Between the workers, toddlers crawled through the stubble or sat with chubby fingers in dribbling mouths, taking in the scene. Edward’s trusted foreman was overseeing the events and tapping a barrel of Biggenden cider to relieve the thirst of his sweating workforce.
Among the women I noticed Molly’s mother and sisters. It then dawned on me that Molly probably had to do extra chores at home this time of year and that I should not have been so quick to judge her. As I walked on, feeling somewhat guilty that I did not stay to lend a hand, I passed orchards full of ripening apples, hop gardens dark with fully laden bines, and small cottages occupied by only the old, left to keep house and prepare a meal for the hungry labourers.
It seemed strange to me that Edward had seen fit to leave his estate at such a busy and important time of year. His decision, to pursue his beloved pastime when all his employees were working every daylight hour to line his purse, troubled me and seemed out of character. I held out hope that he would come to his senses and return to the manor.
Before long I came to the River Medway. Sitting down on the river bank, I ate my sandwiches and then reclined to enjoy the sunshine on my face. My eyelids grew heavy, and soon the gentle noise of the flowing river and the chirping of crickets sent me to sleep.
It was after six o’clock before I was woken by ant bites. Wandering home leisurely, I passed the wheat field, now peacefully deserted of human life, with neat stooks standing upright testifying to the day’s labours. A few rabbits and crows supping on fallen grain disappeared when I clapped my hands. The sun was low in the blue sky, and the whole scene was a perfect illustration of the reality that “The Lord is good to man and beast.”
The next morning I rose early with enthusiasm and determination. The master of Biggenden might not be present, but I was sure I knew him well enough to issue some benevolence on his behalf. I lit the kitchen range early and got to work baking bread. As soon as the maids arrived they began kneading the dough. We left it to rise on a sunny window ledge whilst we had breakfast before kneading it again. By lunch time we had produced a dozen crusty loaves, which we cut into thick doorsteps, liberally spread with butter and made into cheese and pickle sandwiches. We dusted off some old wicker baskets, lined them with cloths, and packed them full.
The maids enjoyed themselves as much as I did, as we put on our bonnets and tripped off down the lane to the next wheat field. We were given a warm and hearty welcome by the workers, who invited us to join the impromptu picnic. Our prim, high-necked uniforms contrasted sharply with the unbuttoned necks and rolled up sleeves of the other women, but as I sat eating the fresh sandwiches and sharing a flagon of cider, I felt happy and content, remembering the wonderful days of my childhood spent helping on Bessie’s farm.
The food disappeared at an alarming rate, as did the cider. The amount some labourers ate and drank would have put me into a stupor, but they were soon back on their feet, ready for the afternoon’s work. We indoor girls reluctantly got up, dusted ourselves down and, empty baskets in hand, returned to more sedate duties. With the bright sunshine outside and the knowledge of the activity less than a field away, the manor felt as restrictive as a prison. I dismissed Clara and Molly early that day, knowing full well that they would be down in the harvest field before you could say “Jack Robinson.” Whether they were propelled by a sense of duty or the wish to admire and flirt with the young, muscular reapers was anyone’s guess!
I could not sneer at their enthusiasm for male company, as I longed for the evening when we were expecting Edward to arrive home. He arrived after sundown, due to delays on the railway. I quickly prepared a tray of supper for him and was invited to join him in the study. Though tired from travelling, he was full of enthusiasm about his holiday, the shooting, his new boots and outfit, and the Scottish scenery and steam trains.
I sipped my tea and listened to his lively descriptions. He had been hunting, shooting, fishing, riding, and dancing; he had met many interesting men and stunning ladies. During his time away, he had also come up with a new plan: he would rear pheasants in his woods, employ a gamekeeper, and have high quality game to offer his newfound friends. His woods were most suitable for bird rearing, and he was surprised it had never occurred to him before. This is what Biggenden had been waiting for. The Bridges’ old cottage could be modernised for the new gamekeeper, he added.
I continued to sip tea and eat cake, deciding to take time to formulate persuasive arguments before sharing my alternative idea for the cottage. He asked me how things had gone at home, and I described the harvest scene and our picnic. He was interested to hear about it and pleased with what we had done, but he seemed somewhat distracted, his mind still somewhere in Scotland.
As I lay in bed later, my worry was “had he also left his heart there, and with which stunning lady?” Our spheres of life were moving farther and farther apart as he made new friends and explored more of the opportunities that had opened up for him in his new position, whilst I remained not much more than a dependable domestic servant with the willingness to lend a listening ear. Was I supposed to stand forever on the sideline of his life, ready to offer him the applause and encouragement he wanted?
CHAPTER 18
THAT NIGHT WE HAD A
severe thunderstorm. The oppressive heat of the previous days made it no surprise. Not being of farming stock, I had never personally witnessed the damage a summer storm can do to a crop in harvest time. At first I enjoyed watching the lightning eerily illuminate the whole landscape and feeling the refreshingly cool air as it blew through my chamber window, heralding the rain, but as my mind became more alert and awake, the danger the farm was in dawned on me, and I prayed earnestly for its safety.
The storm soon passed and I returned to bed and dozed, but from the pale and drawn face of Edward the next morning, I gathered that he had not slept. He and his foreman had already travelled around the estate to assess storm damage. The hay-ricks had taken a beating but remained intact, thanks to the skilful way they had been constructed. The main damage was to the wheat that remained uncollected in the fields, which the rain and hail had beaten into the muddy soil. It was difficult to assess how much was wasted, since it was impossible to guess the yield of any field accurately until threshing had taken place. Many apples had fallen, but once again the damage was hard to assess. The bruising of the apples remaining on the trees would come out over the next few days.
Other farmers who still had wheat to harvest had fared far worse: their crops had been partially knocked to the ground and lay like sodden matting. A whole hop garden, heavy with flowers and foliage, had crashed to the ground at a nearby farm. The hops were not yet ready to be picked and would probably just rot in the mud.
As a point of encouragement, the experienced foreman told Edward, “‘Tis the thing with farming. Ya can always find a farm better off and a farm worse off than ya own.” Farmers develop their own stoic philosophy to cope with the many knocks from the weather, the markets, or the diseases that batter them.
