Dusters and Dreams

by Hannah Buckland

  CHAPTER 4

  IN THE PALE LIGHT OF the weak early morning sun, Violet hurried down the lane from the shepherd’s cottage on her way to the vicarage. There was a shortcut across the fields, and she was tempted to take it, but the heavy dew would wet her hem, and anyway, she wanted to show the gossipy villagers that she was not ashamed to show her face.

  Violet had mixed feelings about working for the vicar and his wife. She admitted the need to work but resented her mother organising her life once again. If she had been left alone to sort out her next job, she would have found something in a big town. Admittedly she didn’t have a clue where to start looking, or even if she could get a position without a reference, but she would have done her utmost. But of course, all that would have been too slow for Ma.

  All Ma cared about was usefulness. Everything and everyone had to be useful. That is why their garden boasted of more vegetables and fewer flowers than any other in the village. That is why Violet was always dressed in practical, frill-less frocks when she was young. She shuddered when she thought of the awfully plain, hand-me-down dresses she had had to wear to school. Being the youngest meant she never, ever got new clothes.

  Usefulness was the reason half of Violet’s evenings were spent helping her older siblings with their offspring. Mrs. Brookes generously offered Violet’s services as a babysitter or “an extra pair of hands” willy-nilly, far and wide, totally disregarding her daughter’s own plans. Any expression of reluctance on her part was considered disloyal and selfish. Violet loved every one of her runny-nosed, squawking nephews and nieces, but wished her siblings produced more manageable-sized broods.

  The new Mrs. Hayworth (or Spinster Stubbs, as Violet used to secretly call her) was not bad, as far as superiors go. She had always been a kind and fair housekeeper at Biggenden Manor, providing the maids with ample hand balm, acknowledging a job well done, and being reasonable about gossiping in the kitchen; yet now it would be different. Stubbs had married a vicar, so she was sure to have changed—to have become pious and pernickety or, even worse, ask searching questions about Violet’s spiritual well-being.

  Of course, Violet was grateful she had a job. The whole world had turned against her after the Mr. Christopher incident. What a ridiculous fuss they had all made! Especially her mother. She ought to have been pleased, Violet thought with a smile, ’cos it was useful . . . in giving the village gossips something to wag their jaws about. In this boring backwater village, the last excitement was a runaway dog who had attacked the sheep and had to be shot. Ahh, the gossips loved being totally shocked by the incident: tutting about the dog’s irresponsible owner, the poor ewes, whether they might miscarry their lambs due to the trauma. They chewed over the details as if it were an old bit of mutton. And now it’s me they have their teeth into. And what is so shocking about a kiss? (And a very good kiss it was too!)

  Looking around at the boring old villagers in church last Sunday, she’d guessed hardly a kiss had been exchanged in Capford for years. The thought of some of the sour, grim-faced couples expressing affection was more than the imagination could stretch to. In church, to give them their due, no one is looking their affectionate best—everyone is either attentively listening or looking drowsy. But the way they sat, with a pew of offspring or at least a wide space between them, hardly made them seem lovey-dovey. Courting couples sat shoulder to shoulder even if the rest of the pew was empty, but none of the married folk sat so close. A delightful tingle ran down Violet’s spine as she imagined sitting shoulder to shoulder, leg to leg with Christopher. Why, she would have no complaints if the sermon was an hour, or a five-pointer instead of a three!

  Now, as she made her way to the vicarage, she decided that the village gossips were actually jealous. Who wouldn’t want to be kissed by a young, handsome, rich man? Most of the local women lived such mundane, insular lives. Anyone with any ambition would have left Capford long ago, even if only moving a few miles along the road to a town like Tunbridge or Tunbridge Wells. That would show a bit of imagination and aspiration. But some Capford women wouldn’t even venture there on market day. Violet shrugged. They fully deserved their dreary little lives and petty chin-wagging.

  And I bet the vicarage couple will want to put in their penny-worth too, thought Violet woefully, bracing herself for another earful as she knocked on the vicarage door with an air of defiance and determination.

  The “vicarage couple,” still eating porridge at the kitchen table, invited Violet to join them. Violet felt strangely disconcerted. The vicar, in just his shirtsleeves and unshaved to boot, eating porridge at this hour! I thought religious people rose at the crack of dawn. Yet she sat as bidden and endured the inevitable kindly questions about her parents, siblings, and the lambing season, followed by a Bible reading and prayer. I don’t suppose it’s too bad, sitting ’ere listening to ’im read and getting paid for it.

  Violet soon realised that Mrs. Hayworth had no intention of sitting like a fine lady in her front parlour, delicately employed in fine stitch work. Instead, her mistress rolled up her sleeves and worked alongside her new maid in the mornings, helping and supervising the cleaning, meal preparation, laundry, and baking; then after lunch she would change into her fine clothes and reappear as a proper lady, ready for committee work or visiting. Violet felt proud of her new employer, the way she wasn’t shy of hard work and perspiration but then could dress up all grand in her best frocks and look as genteel as a duchess. It made her toes curl a bit the way the vicar also seemed to appreciate his wife’s fine looks—not to mention the unnecessary number of kisses they exchanged. Nothing that time and a few babies can’t solve, she thought, unconsciously quoting her mother.

  When all was said and done, it wouldn’t be bad working for the Hayworths, especially as it was such a temporary arrangement. Violet felt a bit uneasy. Mrs. Hayworth expressed such delight in having a maid to help her, and she was so pleasant to work with, that it seemed almost treachery to keep her in the dark. So, on the third morning of her employment, while kneading bread, Violet blurted out—

  “Mrs. Stubbs, er . . . I mean Hayworth, I ’ope you realise I may not be with you for long.”

  Rebecca looked up at her questioningly.

  “I mean,” she said looking at Rebecca’s perplexed face, “that I will soon be married and leave you.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Hayworth replied guardedly. “And on what is your assumption based?”

  Violet’s eyebrows shot up. “Why, hasn’t mother told you about Mr. Christopher?”

  “Well, yes, a little.” Rebecca thumped her bread, rather harder than necessary.

  “Well, any day he could return for me!”

  “And then?”

  “Why, it is simple! If he has his parents’ blessing, he will marry me, and if not, he will elope with me up to Gretna Green and marry me there.”

  “And live happily ever after?” Rebecca asked, somewhat sarcastically.

  “Oh, you are just as bad as the rest of them,” moaned Violet, wishing she had not said anything. “I don’t suppose you understand much about romance, being married to a clergyman.”

  “I will ignore your rude comment about romance,” Rebecca replied, looking ruffled, “and tell you a little about the ways of the world. What does this Mr. Christopher what’s-his-name do to earn money?”

  “He was born rich. He doesn’t have to work.”

  “So, it is from his parents?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So, they can easily cut off his money if the way he behaves disgraces the family like, say, marrying a kitchen maid against their wishes.”

  Violet sighed heavily. Here we go again, more doom and gloom. If only her mistress, parents, and everyone else knew Christopher, they would realise how different he was, and if he was so nice, surely his parents weren’t bad. How misunderstood the poor man was!

  Silently the women divided the dough into rolls.

  “But it happened in the Bible,” protested Violet.
<
br />   Mrs. Hayworth looked up quizzically. “What happened?”

  “Romantic love stories.”

  “Where?”

  “Esther,” replied Violet somewhat triumphantly.

  Mrs. Hayworth tilted her head. “I do not think being more or less kidnapped from your own home, taken to the king’s harem, and forced to marry a man far older than you, who could, at a whim, sentence you to death, could be called exactly romantic.”

  “What about Ruth then?”

  Rebecca had heard some very unromantic explanations of the economic and marital agreement that Boaz and Ruth entered into, and still found the near-kinsman aspect hard to understand, but deep down she hoped it was a beautiful love story and so kept silent. Violet took her silence as wholehearted agreement and smugly continued her chores.

  She can’t say I didn’t warn her.

  Now that their domestic situation was under control and the summer was upon them, Jack and Rebecca belatedly turned their attention to the garden. To say that the lawn was flood lit with summer sun, beckoning them to sit outside, would be false on two accounts. Firstly, little sun penetrated the thick canopy of pine and elm branches, and secondly there was little lawn due to the perpetual shadows and the thick carpet of pine-needles and cones that poisoned the soil, rendering it infertile. Jack was all for increasing their log pile by cutting down half a dozen of these overgrown evergreens. But these happy dreams of a sun-filled garden were dashed to pieces by the no-nonsense assessment of Mr. Brookes.

  “If ya cut ’em down, the water level’ll rise, and yer at risk of them graves flooding.”

  This sounded grim.

  “And ya don’t want te run the risk of diphtheria again.”

  He went on to explain. The vicar prior to Rev. Brinkhill had lived in the vicarage with his wife and family. They drew water from a well in the garden. One year diphtheria struck the young family and, one by one, four of the children aged from one year old to eight became ill and died. The local doctor suggested the illness had seeped out of the graves into their well, which was duly filled in.

  As the men continued discussing the garden, Rebecca went to find the graves of these poor little souls. She knelt to read the inscriptions on the lichen covered stones, following the engravings with her finger and imagined the mother’s sorrow. A sturdy, playful eight-year-old son, the first born, full of mischief, laughter, and energy, complaining of a sore throat. Instead of getting better, he got worse. Mild anxiety would turn to grave concern as his symptoms worsened, until his distraught parents, despairing of life, urged their son to commit his soul to Christ and begged the Lord to take up their child in His arms as He did whilst here below. No sooner had they buried him than the next child fell ill, and thus four times they had to stand before an open grave, dug within sight of their living room window, and commit the mortal remains of their offspring to the damp, inhospitable soil. The last victim was a tiny infant, only a year old. An age so dependent and needy, so trusting and loving, but already with hints of her character unfolding. An age when she needed the constant presence of her mother to feel safe; yet that tiny soul had to make the momentous journey from this world to the next with neither parent to escort her. Unless one could trustingly commit their fragile offspring into the loving Heavenly Father’s hands, this thought would be utterly, crushingly unbearable. The little soul fell asleep in her mother’s arms and awoke in the Saviour’s.

  This obviously had been the comfort of the bereaved parents, for on the tombstone of the children was engraved this verse:

  How happy are the infant souls,

  That leave this dark abode.

  And go to dwell in realms of light,

  With their dear Saviour God.

  With deep thoughts and a full heart, Rebecca looked at the mother’s grave alongside it. It was a testament to human resilience and to God’s care that she had lived another thirty years and had borne nine more children. The simple text on her grave stone read, “By grace ye are saved.” These two weather-beaten gravestones preached a silent sermon to Rebecca on the brevity of life and the security of believers in Christ for all eternity. She reluctantly turned away to re-join the men and propose a cup of tea.

  For almost a year Capford estate, village, and church had enjoyed the absence of its landlord and dictator—Lord Wilson. His ailing mother, the dowager, had been advised by her longsuffering physician to winter in southern France. Whether this was for the dowager’s benefit or the physician’s remained a moot point, but to France she went, along with her son, his wife, and their two unmarried daughters. Their winter in the sun extended throughout spring right up until the social season opened in London, and from there the family made their way north to their Scottish estate for grouse shooting without once setting foot in Capford.

  Lord Wilson had delegated responsibility for his estate to his loyal steward, who capably ensured the home farm ran efficiently, that the tenant farmers paid their rent, and that regular church attendance was faithfully maintained by all employees.

  Everyone in the village had grown used to the sight of the superior side pews, which alone could boast of both seat cushions and doors, standing empty from one week to another, so church members were rather taken by surprise when one October Sunday morning those pews were once again filled with the distinguished Wilson family in all their finery. Lord Wilson’s pew position ensured his unobstructed view of the pulpit and the reader’s lectern straight ahead, and the entire congregation to his left. Entire, that is, except where the gallery pillars obscured the view. These were sought after spots, for whoever occupied them could indulge in a well-deserved snooze secure in the knowledge that they were hidden from their employer’s hawk-like eyes. But this prominent position meant he and his family were in full view of the congregation. It was for all to see how restless he became if the minister preached for more than his allotted half hour. Rebecca suspected that, on leaving the church, were you to ask any woman the three sermon points, she might have struggled to reply, but if asked the colour and design of the fine ladies’ hats, she wagered you would have received a full and accurate description.

  If Jack was surprised or disconcerted at Lord Wilson’s presence that October morning, Rebecca saw no sign of it in his preaching. Indeed, he did a fine job of exposition. She hoped Lord Wilson would appreciate the change of minister in his parish as much as his subjects, but his angry scowl and stomping out of church at the end of the service seemed to indicate irritation rather than approval. Lord Wilson’s non-attendance at the afternoon service threw no further light on his mood, for despite insisting his employees attend church twice on a Sunday, he rarely did himself.

  Jack was always tired on a Monday morning. A Sunday of preaching is more exhausting than a long day in a carpenter’s workshop, he thought. He had learned through bitter experience not to attempt sermon preparation on a Monday due to a sluggish brain, but to do something non-ministerial instead. He was not in a gardening mood, but really fancied a few hours of carpentry work. He sat at his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and after rummaging a while, pulled out a plan.

  This is what he really wanted to make—a baby’s cot. The designing phase was complete, all he needed was a word from Rebecca indicating a cot would be required, and he would begin. But month followed month, and no such news came. Jack’s heart ached every time Rebecca’s pain and tears indicated that no baby was imminent. He longed to be the father of Rebecca’s children and felt inadequate as he tried to comfort his grieving wife. The brave face she put on in public made Jack love and feel for her all the more. Only he and the Lord knew her sorrow, and only the Lord could help. Jack was thankful that the cot design was safely hidden away in the drawer again when Rebecca unexpectedly entered the room.

  “A letter for you from Lord Wilson’s footman.”

  Jack read the letter and saw his relaxing morning disappear before his mind’s eye.

  “I am to go and see Lord Wilson.”

  “Was it an invi
tation?”

  “No, more of a summons.”

  “When does he want you?”

  “Probably about five minutes ago. The carriage is waiting. Here, read it for yourself,” snapped Jack, tossing the letter at Rebecca as he left the room to get changed.

  Her husband’s reaction startled her more than the letter. Why should Lord Wilson cause Jack such consternation?

  Jack’s heart was pounding as he took his seat in Lord Wilson’s spacious study. From the paneled walls hung various guns and pistols and heads of unfortunate prey that had come in said fire-arms’ sights. The whole room oozed masculine power and confidence. Jack had little time to admire the surroundings, for his interrogator was too rich and powerful to waste his precious time on pleasantries.

  “Why are you living in Capford vicarage, Hayworth?”

  “Following Rev. Sidney Brinkhill’s unfortunate—”

  “Spare me the details. I know all about his confounded leg!”

  “Well, he was unable to carry out his duties and finally decided to retire.”

  “And not before time!”

  “He asked me to continue as his curate and to live in the vicarage.”

  “Well, I hope you are not presuming on a long residence.”

  “I am not presuming anything, sir,” replied Jack, rubbing his clammy hands on his trousers.

  “That is just as well, because as you well know, I am the landlord around here, and when your Brinkhill eventually dies, I am the one who chooses the next vicar for Capford.”