Dusters and Dreams

by Hannah Buckland

  Just as Rebecca was pouring the tea and hearing his account of the latest deliberations of the “Bertie Committee,” the front doorbell rang. Jack groaned and looked at Rebecca as they sighed in unison. “Not again.” They both recognised the long, insistent ring; it could be none other than Lord Wilson’s footman. Jack eased himself reluctantly from his comfortable chair and, as a man resigned to the inevitable, went for his overcoat.

  Rebecca followed him to the hallway.

  “Well, I may as well say goodnight now.”

  “I’m afraid so, dear,” replied Jack, giving her a parting kiss. “Please leave a lamp by the back door before you go to bed.”

  Jack sat himself in the luxurious carriage of Lord Wilson and contemplated what was before him—and it did not include sleep. A few weeks ago, Lord Wilson’s elderly mother had declared she was on her deathbed. She was hastily removed from her dowager house and installed in the finest bedroom of Capford Manor. Her physician, Dr. Ward, was summoned and was barely permitted to leave her bedside. Last week the patient had tired of the familiar presence of her longsuffering, and by now somewhat cynical, physician and had demanded a man of the cloth. These were not short, mid-afternoon visits. It was normally at half past ten in the evening when Jack’s presence was required, and he was only permitted to leave when the old woman was sound asleep. No one wished the invalid a deep slumber more than the groom, stable boy, and the Hayworths.

  It was not easy to detect exactly when the lady was asleep. Evening after evening Jack sat at her bedside in the low, flickering light of the fire, willing her to sleep. Never once did she say a word to her guest; her only recognition of his presence was the beady gaze of her right eye. The left eye (if she had one), like her mouth, never opened. Eventually the right eye closed, and Jack would sit motionlessly, hoping to hear a gentle snore. Then he would silently stand to go, but quick as a flash the eye would open and shoot him a disapproving glare, which promptly made him sit down again. Jack found the unblinking, one-eyed glare somewhat disconcerting and often sat lost for words. The eye did not have the same effect on Lord Wilson, who frequently joined Jack in the bedroom. Totally ignoring his mother, Lord Wilson sat next to the fire, tankard in hand, propounding his own theories and decrying others. Jack wondered if the man saw any irony in the fact that he wanted a vicar to pray for his mother on her deathbed yet declared there was no God.

  But tonight was different. Lord Wilson was not at his mother’s side, and having been shown into the room by the nurse, Jack sat alone with the silent patient. She looked frail and tiny in the grand four-poster bed, but the grim set of her jaw and the glare of her eye dismissed any feeling of tenderness that normally arose when one is confronted with such aged humanity. Jack read a chapter from the Bible and then prayed for her and her family. Afterwards he tried as normal to make polite, general conversation about the day’s events and the weather, but it was difficult to keep up the monologue with so little encouragement. He was tired, and the warmth from the fire and dimness of the room were both inviting him to sleep. But the eye was still upon him. If I have to be here at this unearthly hour, Jack suddenly decided, I am going to make it worth my while.

  So, looking straight into her right eye, Jack started talking about eternity. As best as he could, he described the joys of heaven and the horrors of hell.

  “And we are all going to die soon, maybe within days, and we can’t take anything with us, not this grand house, or shiny jewels or fine carriages.”

  Undeterred by the lack of response, he told her how we would all be judged, “Not by how much we have given to charity, or how beautifully we have conducted ourselves. All that matters is what has motivated us and our relationship with Jesus Christ.”

  As much to himself as to the dowager, he enlarged on the suitability of the Saviour. “He, who is God’s eternal Son, came from heaven to live a perfect life and die a death He did not deserve—in agony on a Roman cross—to save all who trust in Him. Would God have allowed His Son to suffer if we could get to heaven in any other way?”

  After giving a description of the kindness, goodness, and mercy of Christ, then quoting some of His beautiful invitations and promises, Jack gazed into the eye and asked, “And are you trusting in Him?”

  The eye closed, and Jack rested back in his chair, somewhat amazed at his own fluency and passion. As he prayed silently for the woman next to him, he felt content that he had done the right thing.

  An hour later, the nurse crept in and beckoned him to leave. She grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously, then whispered with a tear-stained face, “And, sir, thank ye for ya sermon. Ya did me good, ya did me good.”

  CHAPTER 8

  WHEN SOPHIA’S TIME ARRIVED, EDWARD felt hopelessly useless as he was ushered out of the room by the officious family doctor. He wished he could have a role, even if it was just warming up water and transporting it upstairs with the housemaids. Instead, he paced restlessly in his study, drinking numerous cups of coffee and silently pleading with the Almighty to spare his wife and child.

  When he had parted from Sophia and was kissing her moist forehead, she had squeezed his arm and urgently commanded him, “Pray for me, Edward! Pray for me!” Her parting instructions had both touched and delighted him, and they perfectly matched his own impulse, so he prayed and paced, and paced and prayed as never before. He was reminded of the story of Joshua fighting the Amalekites and Moses praying for victory.

  Was giving birth normally this prolonged? What was happening up there? Edward longed for information but knew he was not to disturb the goings-on. When, finally, in the small hours, he heard the welcome cry of an infant, relief and thankfulness flooded over him, but only briefly. The stage immediately after a birth is the most dangerous for the mother, he remembered. His praises were mixed with petitions until the proud physician came down to summon the new father to meet his offspring.

  “May I be the first to congratulate you on the birth of your son and heir, sir,” the doctor said as he shook Edward’s hand.

  “How are they? My son and wife?” Edward felt grown up and responsible as he asked the question.

  “Tip top!” came the hearty reply as they climbed the stairs.

  Edward was amazed that such a tiny scrap of humanity could cause such huge transformations within his household. His beautiful, perfect son not only had his doting parents at his beck and call (and yes, he freely admitted he was already a doting father), but also a highly experienced nursery nurse. And as no highly experienced nursery nurse can be expected to attend to a baby without someone to boss about, delegate to and, if necessary, blame for mishaps, a nursery maid was also employed.

  But the transformation in staff numbers was nothing compared to transformation of his wife. The birth of little Bertie had been prolonged and very difficult. (When leaving the house with his wages and a bottle of port, the doctor admitted to Edward it was so.) Sophia looked so tired and pale, yet she was full of a new kind of vitality. The loving gaze she formally reserved for Edward was now lavishly bestowed on Bertie. Bertie was the centre of her universe, and everyone else had to orbit willingly around him and his needs. Edward looked with awe at the selfless attention his wife devotedly gave little Bertie. Breastfeeding was not easy, yet despite being tired and sore, Sophia tearfully persevered, day and night, until the nursery nurse was satisfied that Bertie was latching on and fully fed.

  The bedroom and nursery became a hive of womanly activity and cooing. Using this analogy, Edward was unsure who was the queen bee—Sophia or Bertie. But one thing he did know: he was an intruder. This the nursery nurse made abundantly clear when she ordered the housemaids to make up a bed for Edward in a spare room. Sophia was not averse to his presence but was so pre-occupied by her new love that she hardly seemed to notice his kisses and congratulations. Edward sometimes sneaked into the nursery to hold Bertie, but more often than not he was caught red-handed and told off by the terrifying nurse.

  “Don’t touch him, he has only
just settled!” was her stock phrase.

  Edward had to content himself with quickly kissing the tiny pink fist of his son and stroking his soft sparse hair under the disapproving eye of the nursery dictator before being shown the door. Edward played with the idea of kidnapping his own son for an hour or two and sitting with him in the study, but with a smile he imagined the female furore it would produce and reluctantly dismissed the plan.

  Edward was relieved to hear that Mr. Harrington would be accompanying his wife on her visit to meet the new grandson. No one quite knew how long their stay would be, but on hearing Mrs. Harrington declare it was “at least until after the christening,” Edward wasted no time in contacting Jack for a convenient date for the ceremony.

  In the meantime, he was enjoying his father-in-law’s company more than he had ever expected. How such a sensible man had managed to remain sane throughout his long marriage to such an odious woman, Edward could only wonder. The man’s main coping technique seemed to be a heavy involvement in various projects and a certain amount of selective deafness. Mr. Harrington’s projects were interesting, and Edward found it refreshing to talk about non-baby matters without incurring disapproval. His father-in-law wanted to know all about the farm and estate, and the two men spent many happy hours plodding the land, commenting on potential improvements and exchanging ideas.

  The evening conversations were interesting and yielded Edward much amusement. He secretly delighted in seeing how quickly any given subject could be related or reduced to the needs of the darling new grandson. Within minutes of Mr. Harrington mentioning the Napoleonic wars, Mrs. Harrington was fretting and praying that her little Bertie would never have to fight for king and country. The subject of the fattening pigs soon (and rather rudely, Edward thought) developed into a discussion about Bertie’s amazing growth rate. And a conversation about coppicing part of a wood was taken over by the grandmother imagining what a fine young man Bertie doubtless would be by the time it needed coppicing again. Mr. Harrington seemed unable to hear these conversational side-tracks and plodded on with his chosen theme, unperturbed by interruptions. Sophia, probably through years of practice, managed to listen to both trains of thought simultaneously and give appropriate answers or noises as required.

  The receiving of afternoon visitors to admire the baby and congratulate the mother was a duty mainly reserved for the womenfolk. But one wet afternoon, Edward and Mr. Harrington joined their ladies for afternoon tea and were rewarded by a visit from Rev. and Mrs. Hayworth. Once the right noises had been made over the new baby, Jack became engrossed in a conversation with Mr. Harrington about his involvement in the local cottage hospital. Edward was half listening but had heard most of the details before. From the other side of the room, he watched the ladies. Sophia, pale yet radiant with their dear child in her arms. Mrs. Harrington holding forth about something or other, and Rebecca looking just like always—reliable and wise. What a dear friend she was, thought Edward. If only I could have a good ol’ chat with her over tea and cake by the fireside. Jack has got himself a good thing.

  The sharp tones of his mother-in-law interrupted his musings.

  “Still no baby on the way for you then, Mrs. Hayworth?”

  Rebecca looked uncomfortable. “No, sadly not, Mrs. Harrington.”

  “Well, how odd! Must be something a bit wrong. Did you do cartwheels when you were young?”

  “Why, yes, I did.”

  “How neglectful of your parents to allow such behaviour! I suspect your womb may well be dislodged. It could be all over the place!”

  Edward saw Rebecca looking desperately toward Jack, and he followed her glance. Jack had his back to the ladies, oblivious of his wife’s pain. Edward moved across the room rapidly.

  “Why, Mrs. Hayworth, you must come and see our new conservatory. You left before we had it furnished.”

  Rebecca looked vulnerable and grateful as Edward guided her out the room and away from her adversary to the conservatory.

  “Thank you, Mr. Thorpe,” she said in a hushed tone.

  Edward suspected she was close to tears. I can’t be dealing with that, he thought and enthusiastically embarked on a botany lecture about the various plants he had brought to enhance the room. Rebecca made all the right remarks. She always was easy to talk to, remembered Edward, and then he guiltily shook off a feeling of wistfulness that unexpectedly engulfed him.

  “Mr. Thorpe, for some time I have wanted to say something about the unfortunate incident between Mr. Christopher and Violet, the maid, but lacked opportunity. I hope it didn’t seem rude and un-neighbourly that we took her on so soon after you had dismissed her.”

  Edward looked at Rebecca blankly.

  “What incident? Whose maid?”

  “Why, the romantic interlude between Mr. Christopher and your housemaid, Violet, which caused her to lose her job here.”

  With anyone else Edward might have bluffed, but he knew Rebecca knew him too well to try that now. He had to admit his complete ignorance to the whole affair and try to laugh it off.

  Now I will look a complete fool in her eyes, he thought angrily. What else am I kept in ignorance of by my wife in my own household?

  Rebecca was unusually quiet on the way home. Cartwheels! she thought. Innocent and fun cartwheels. Could they really have rearranged my reproductive organs? Again she wished she had known how to reply appropriately to the obnoxious Mrs. Harrington who dared talk about her womb in public.

  On reflection, she now had the answer. Yes, if anyone else had the audacity to ask about her producing babies, she would reply piously, “We can only take what the Lord gives.” That should shut them up. What a shame she always had a good answer an hour too late!

  “A penny for your thoughts, darling?” Jack asked.

  “Did you hear any of Mrs. Harrington’s conversation with me?” replied Rebecca.

  “I try not to hear Mrs. Harrington if possible, but was she talking about cartwheels, of all things?”

  “Yes, she certainly was, she thinks—”

  But Jack was not informed of Mrs. Harrington’s opinion on cartwheels, for the couple was interrupted.

  “Ahh, just the people I wanted to see!”

  Jack and Rebecca looked around and beheld Mrs. Grey, the Sunday school superintendent’s wife, puffing up behind them. She stopped to catch her breath.

  “About the Sunday school prize giving.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Grey, that is next Saturday,” said Jack.

  “Indeed,” puffed Mrs. Grey, “but Mrs. Brookes’ hens were eaten by a fox last night.”

  Rebecca dared not look at her husband as she struggled to keep a straight face and asked, “And how does this effect the prize giving?”

  “She normally makes the egg sandwiches.”

  “Why, of course, how could I forget? Well, mine are laying well, so I can make the egg sandwiches,” Rebecca assured the woman.

  “Thank you!” Mrs. Grey beamed before adding, “But not too wet, mind you, we don’t want soggy sandwiches.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Rebecca hid a grin.

  But Mrs. Grey hadn’t finished. “Now, parson, you are a sensible man, aren’t you? Please keep your remarks brief. The tea needs to be served promptly at five o’clock. If you over-run, the tea will stew and the food will dry out.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Grey. I will bear that in mind,” answered Jack gravely.

  “Well then, I bid you good day and enjoy your walk,” Mrs. Grey said with a warm smile before she scurried off in the other direction.

  “No soggy sandwiches, my dear,” teased Jack.

  “And no lengthy discourse!” Rebecca wagged her finger playfully at him.

  As they walked along arm in arm, Jack asked, “What kind of question is that? ‘You are a sensible man, aren’t you?’ Would anyone answer, ‘No, I am not’?”

  Rebecca squeezed her husband’s arm and laughed. How wonderful it was to live with such a sensible man—her definition of sensible, not Mrs.
Grey’s! How very different from life with someone like, for instance, Mrs. Harrington. Wasn’t her husband worth more than ten sons? She must learn to be content.

  CHAPTER 9

  VIOLET ALWAYS ENJOYED THE MONTH of June. It was filled with hard work, but she still reckoned it was her favourite time of the year. The leaves, grass, and crops were still fresh, green, and lush. The strengthening of the sun’s warmth indicated that summer was on the way. The bloom of the orchards had dropped, and in its place tiny fruits began to swell, promising a good harvest. The lambs that had been weak and feeble two months ago were now robust and stocky. June was a month of promise, anticipation, hope . . . and sheep shearing.

  Shearing the sheep was a big event. All the farm workers were involved in gathering in the sheep, herding them down the lanes, then penning them up. Jokes and laughter mingled with the frantic baa-ing of the ewes and lambs as they were temporarily separated. The sun always shone on shearing days, for fleece cannot be shorn when wet, and the sunshine and noise made the atmosphere festive. There was also a great sense of camaraderie as the farm labourers worked together with a common sense of purpose.

  The two main players in this scene, full of action, were Violet’s father, Mr. Brookes, the shepherd, and Joe Mason. They were the head shearers, unbeatable in skill and speed, and Violet was their wool winder par excellence. Villagers could not resist wandering along to the shearing pens to watch Pa and Joe at work and admire their technique. With one easy move, they would select an ewe from the holding pen, turn her head to one side, and bring her to the ground. Resting the weight of the ewe on his thigh, Pa or Joe could hold her front legs and drag the ewe effortlessly out of the pen to the shearing platform. They could keep the ewe still with their knees and left hand as they clipped away at the wool with their right. They clipped close to the skin, just where the old wool was rising and loosening.