“I see.”
“And I would prefer someone a bit more sophisticated in the post.”
“Excuse me, sir. What do you mean by sophisticated?”
“I want a more modern free-thinker, like myself. Not some narrow-minded man who takes the whole Bible literally, but one who embraces science and higher criticism.”
“And Darwin?”
“Yes, indeed, his theory is most interesting. Doesn’t it dent your faith, Hayworth?”
“No, not at all. Anything contrary to the Bible is wrong. Darwin’s evolution ideas undermine the Genesis record and all we know about sin, death, and God.”
“Then it is time to look again at Jewish legends.”
“You mean God’s revealed truth!” corrected Jack, no longer awed by his adversary.
“I knew you were narrow-minded, Hayworth.”
“The Bible says, ‘Let God be true and every man a liar.’”
“Trust a parson to start quoting Scripture when he can’t think of his own reply,” retorted Lord Wilson. Then, with a dismissive wave of his arm and a “That will do, Hayworth,” he picked up a periodical and started to read, making it abundantly clear that the conversation was over and Jack’s continued presence in the study would be a source of irritation.
Jack hastily grabbed his hat (he had never been invited to remove his coat) and after bidding the gentleman a good morning (a greeting that was not reciprocated), he left the room with all speed. The carriage used to convey him to the manor was not in evidence, and as no footmen seemed inclined to summon its return, Jack walked home.
Rebecca listened carefully to Jack’s report of his interview. Evening after evening they discussed, dissected, and chewed over Lord Wilson and his information, wondering if he was as powerful in the church as he imagined and wished; ruing the unholy interference of secular considerations in ecclesiastical and spiritual matters; questioning why Reverend Brinkhill had not informed Lord Wilson of his retirement; and repeatedly resolving not to let the news affect them in any way, especially not in preaching the gospel, until they jokingly wondered what they had found to talk about before Lord Wilson stirred their nest!
CHAPTER 5
OF COURSE, EDWARD WAS DELIGHTED when Sophia shyly shared with him the hope that she was expecting a baby. The darling little secret that grew in their minds and her body drew them together most tenderly, but once the news had been announced to the world in general and the Harrington family in particular, everything changed. According to Mrs. Harrington’s wisdom, there was nothing a woman needed more during this delicate period in her life than her mother’s support and guidance. So, following her own mantra, Mrs. Harrington duly descended on Biggenden and made herself comfortable. Edward ruefully asked himself when his mother-in-law would feel they could cope without her and return to Hertfordshire. When the baby turned eighteen?
This afternoon he had won a small victory by spending twenty minutes alone with his wife in the sitting room, drinking tea while his mother-in-law had a nap, but before the teapot was drained, their tête-à-tête was rudely disturbed.
“Why, Sophia!” gasped her mother from the doorway. “You should still be resting in your bed. Think of your poor legs!”
“My poor legs are just fine, Ma,” Sophia said gaily. “And I wanted to join Edward for tea.”
“Then he should have put your feet up. Edward, you must put her feet up.”
Edward found a stool.
“No, that is no good. What Sophia needs is a chaise-lounge so she can recline elegantly.”
And with that Mrs. Harrington rang the bell to get her order executed post-haste.
When all the fussing and rearranging of furniture was over, Mrs. Harrington rang again for a fresh pot of tea.
“Don’t let us delay you, dear Edward,” she purred as she sat down with an air of satisfaction. “I am sure you have plenty to do.”
“You aren’t delaying me,” Edward replied.
Mrs. Harrington sniffed. “Then I hope you are not being slovenly, sitting around all day.”
With difficulty, Edward managed a mild response. “A man is permitted tea with his wife on occasion.”
“Be that as it may, priorities have to be right,” retorted the formidable woman with an air of finality.
She always says that if she has lost one argument and is thinking of another, thought Edward.
“But Sophia and I have some baby talk to do, and as a man you will neither be helpful nor necessary.”
“Mother, you can’t say that!” protested Sophia.
“My bank account may be helpful and necessary,” joked Edward.
“My dear Edward,” his mother-in-law said with a hand to her bosom, “I hope you are not begrudging my darling grandchild basic nursery necessities.”
Edward drew himself to his full height. “Of course not. I by no means implied I was. In fact, I would delight in providing for my own.”
And with that Edward kissed his wife and left the room.
And you need not forget that this baby, whom I am not allowed to join in any discussion about, is actually mine too! he thought quietly to himself as he left the house to inspect the farm.
As he walked, he kicked clods of mud angrily. How could such an interfering woman produce such a wonderful daughter, he wondered, then thinking with a shock, What if the grandmother’s traits come out in our offspring? He pondered this vexing problem as he inspected and prodded the fattening pigs with Mr. Brookes. They were ready for the next market day. As he left the sty, Edward smiled to himself. If mother-in-law were a pig, we wouldn’t breed from her. This irreverent thought tickled him and removed some of the irritation he had been feeling.
Edward wandered through a few meadows to an orchard. The last of the apples were being picked, and the workers were hurriedly loading full bushel boxes onto a wagon ready to be sent to Tunbridge Railway Station and onward to Covent Garden Market in London. The scent of earthy sweetness and the sight of full boxes of shiny apples usually produced in Edward a feeling of satisfaction, but today, despite handling and smelling the abundance of fruit, no such feeling arose. Edward helped the men heave the last bushel onto the wagon, joined in the jovial chatter, and then retraced his steps.
The dissatisfaction Edward felt could no longer be ignored or dismissed. For months, it had grown in his heart, and for months he had tried to suppress it, but the persistent nagging disquiet continued to intrude. As the feeling grew, its features developed and pervaded every area of his life, and only recently had he diagnosed the malady. It was not his shooting friends’ rudeness, the servants’ slovenliness, or his wife’s family that were the root of the problem. It was not the responsibilities of the estate: the leaking roofs of farm cottages, the tenants behind with their rent, or the holes in hedges. It was not the agricultural cares: the foot rot among the sheep, the hail damage of the apples, or the hay stacked too damp. No, his problem was deeper than that, right down in the depths of his soul. He had lost his peace and purpose. He felt empty.
It was not a well-preached sermon that finally confirmed his diagnosis; rather, it was Sophia’s announcement of her pregnancy. Suddenly he realised she would soon be facing possibly the most dangerous day in her life. After all, everyone knew of a woman who had died in child-birth. Sophia had all of this looming ahead, and he was responsible for getting her into the situation. Was she ready for eternity? He had never asked her this question; she seemed so good and sweet it almost felt rude to pose a question like this. But he was well enough grounded in doctrine to know that being good and sweet was not good enough. She needed to trust Christ as her personal Saviour. It was his duty to recommend Christ to her, but he was so distant from the Lord himself that he would feel like a hypocrite doing so. He thought of his unborn child and then of his own childhood. His mother had sacrificed a materially rich lifestyle to marry the man she loved, who also shared her love of Christ. They had very little worldly possessions but a treasure in heaven. They had made it
their concern to bring up Edward to know the Lord. Had he sacrificed everything, but the other way around to his mother—Christ for lifestyle? Heavenly treasure for earthly gains?
These questions had dogged his mind for weeks and hung heavy on his soul. He pleaded with the Lord to forgive him for the weakness of his faith, but his prayers seemed to go unanswered. He had ignored God for a long time and now felt the situation was reversed. And it serves me right, thought Edward.
It had never been a conscious decision to side-line the Saviour. It happened as a gradual drifting away from Him. Now the distance seemed so great that the Lord seemed out of reach. Edward knew that God never completely deserts His people, but was he one of His? He doubted all his previous Christian experiences. Had he just been a little boy with a religious temperament and affectations? He envied people who experienced a remarkable, powerful, dramatic conversion. People who could name and date the day the Lord met with them and could clearly see how and when Christ had entered their lives, and by His Spirit had changed their character, conduct, and outlook. Edward had no special date to remember. There had never been a time he did not fear the Lord or pray. Could his religiosity after his parents’ deaths have been some sort of emotional prop to escape from his sadness and help him cope with his abject loneliness? These plaguing questions removed any assurance, peace, and comfort.
Edward wandered around his land in turmoil, praying as he paced through the fields, and then re-checked his timepiece. With mother-in-law about, I’m like a schoolboy who is not allowed home until bedtime. I shouldn’t feel like this in my own house, he thought rebelliously, and walked back with the determination of a rightful owner. Before entering his study, he silently crept to the sitting room door and listened.
“One nursery, Sophia?”
“Yes, and a pretty one it is too.”
“Pretty it may be, but one is insufficient. It is imperative that the child has different nurseries for night and day.”
“Seems most unnecessary, Mother.”
“Not in the least. Babies need different air to breath during the day and night, and to mix them is most dangerous. Everyone knows that.”
Edward’s eyes grew narrow.
“Many a baby sleeps in the same room as the rest of their family,” Sophia said with assurance.
“But many a baby dies young.”
“Then we will instruct the nursery nurse to open the windows and air the room.”
“Never in the evenings! Night air is bad for babies.”
“In the morning then.”
“Draughts are also dangerous.”
“The room can be aired when the baby is with me.”
A pause indicated a truce, or so Edward thought.
“ . . . and I can choose you a suitable wet-nurse of good nature and breeding, so your dear baby doesn’t imbibe any bad traits from her.”
“Mother,” Sophia protested, “I am not having a wet-nurse, and that is that.”
“You are being very unreasonable, my dear,” answered her mother. “In your delicate condition, your thinking is not entirely rational.”
“I am rational!”
“You need a wet-nurse to get your figure back quickly. That is what Edward would like.”
Edward grimaced and forced himself to stay still. As if she knows me at all, he thought.
“Edward doesn’t just love me for my figure!”
“Men are all the same, dear, and moreover, you need to produce a sibling as soon as possible. If you are breastfeeding, you are delaying the process unnaturally.”
“There is nothing unnatural about breastfeeding, Mother. Think of all the animals!”
“Exactly, darling, think of all the animals! You don’t want to be like some dairy cow, do you?”
Edward could bear it no longer. “Sophia,” he said as he sprang into the room, “you breastfeed our child for as long as you like, and if your figure suffers, or if another child takes longer to come along, don’t you worry. I will admire you the more for it!”
Sophia looked both relieved and embarrassed by his entrance and outburst, and Edward wondered if he had done the right thing. Mrs. Harrington had no mixed feelings though.
“Well, if you two will be so modern and unguidable, I wash my hands of you and will let you learn the hard way. My poor, poor grandchild!” she fumed as she stalked out of the room.
CHAPTER 6
REBECCA HEARD THE NEWS OF Sophia’s pregnancy one morning as she queued at the bakery. She did all the right things: smiled happily, asked if Sophia was keeping well, and declared she was delighted with the news. But inside she felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. Alarmed by her own reaction, she overcompensated by enthusiastically discussing knitting patterns for newborns with the other bread-buyers as the baker filled her basket.
On the short walk back to the vicarage, Rebecca mulled over the news. Oh, of course Sophia has managed to expect a baby within eighteen months of marriage, and no doubt she will have a boy, as society most desires. She has always done the right thing at the right time. And has always looked beautiful doing it too.
Rebecca dumped the basket of provisions on the kitchen table.
“You deal with them, and I’ll make the bed,” she instructed the surprised Violet. Normally she would have discussed the shopping trip and any bargains or encounters with her maid, but today she flounced out of the room.
Once upstairs, instead of making the bed, she flung herself on it and cried. How she hated herself sometimes! She was so unlike the serene vicar’s wife she so wanted to be! Especially a few days every month, when she got cross with Violet, lost every trace of humour, and felt lukewarm toward her husband, even irritated by him. Just like today! And why on such troublesome days as today did she always get that kind of news? Happy family news, the news she so much wanted for herself. She hated her own reaction. She should have been rejoicing with those that rejoice, but instead she was only acting. Of course, even Sophia couldn’t control her future any more than Rebecca could, but it seemed that God heard her prayers more than Rebecca’s, at any rate.
Why won’t God answer my prayers? she thought. Would I make such an awful mother? Would I make my child an idol? What does He think I would do wrong? What have I done to deserve this judgment? Or maybe He knows I will die soon, so is preventing a pregnancy. Or Jack . . . or . . . ” Rebecca tried to second-guess God’s plan and tied herself in painful knots.
I’ve got a wonderful husband, lovely friends, a coop of chickens, and beautiful countryside right outside my back door. I should be content, I should be grateful, but I am just a miserable old hag. Jack will get fed up with me, my friends become too busy being parents, and Violet will give her notice because I am so grumpy. With that, Rebecca rolled over and cried again into her wet pillow.
If I had problems making a pie or cake, I would not hesitate to ask some experienced matron (probably Mrs. Brookes) for sympathy and advice. But in the area of producing a family—something far more significant than a pie or cake—I have no one to turn to. These things are unmentionable and therefore un-shareable. And with that thought came more unstoppable tears.
“Mrs. Hayworth, do ya need an ’and wiv ya bed?” Violet’s question floated up the stairs
Rebecca sat up and wiped her cheek. “No, thank you, I’ll be all right. I’ll be down soon.”
“Cos I think ya’ve got a committee meeting ’ere this afternoon.”
Now Rebecca was on her feet. Indeed she had! She looked at herself in the mirror. What a state! How could she possibly look half decent within two hours? Quickly she splashed cold water on her face from her washstand and smoothed her hair before descending to the kitchen.
“Why, ma’am, you look rough” was Violet’s honest but unhelpful reaction.
Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears again. “But what can I do? All the ladies will be arriving soon.”
“If ya don’t mind, I’ll ’elp you best I can,” offered Violet.
“P
lease do,” replied Rebecca meekly and allowed herself to be guided upstairs.
“First, you need more cold water on them eyes of yours, so ’old these cloths firm,” instructed Violet. “Now find ya best dress, somefing bright and what suits ya.”
“My new pink dress?”
“Exactly right!”
Rebecca almost began to enjoy the fun.
“Good, ma’am,” said Violet with satisfaction. “Now ya just need to do ya hair in a nice playful bun, not all severe and scraped back like, but with a few of ya curls falling ’round ya face.”
“For a committee meeting?”
“Yeah, show ’em all you are relaxed and ’appy.”
Exactly what I am not, thought Rebecca as she sat down at her dressing table and allowed Violet to brush her hair. She looked at Violet in the mirror and saw her determined face, engrossed in her self-appointed task. She’s so kind to me, realised Rebecca suddenly, tears threatening to well up again at this discovery.
When Violet had stuck in the last hairpin and twisted the last curl to her satisfaction, she stepped back. “What do ya think?”
Rebecca stared at the mirror in amazement.
“Violet, you are a wonder. I look okay!”
“No, ya don’t, ya look beautiful, ma’am.”
Rebecca could not resist giving her maid a hug. “Thank you, Violet. You have saved the day.”
“And now I’d better get ya and ya ’usband ya lunch.”
Jack entered the dining room shortly after Rebecca and gazed at her admiringly. “Darling, you look wonderful! Have you had a good morning?”
“Well,” replied Rebecca, smiling, “as the old villagers would say, ‘mustn’t grumble, sir, mustn’t grumble.’”
CHAPTER 7
AUTUMN GAVE WAY TO WINTER, and Capford village was enveloped in a thick, damp fog. But Jack didn’t mind. He threw a log on the fire and relaxed into his armchair. In the kitchen, he could hear his wife humming a hymn tune as she prepared their evening drinks. He smiled with deep satisfaction. The day had gone reasonably well. It was only Thursday, and already his two Sunday sermons were fairly well under way. The members of the Prince Albert Memorial Committee had just left the vicarage, having finally agreed on the font of the wording. Maybe the disbanding of a committee was in sight. What a rare occurrence! Jack chuckled to himself.
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