CHAPTER 18
VIOLET’S FEET CRUNCHED ON THE white frozen grass as she walked from the vicarage to the church. Her buckets of hot water steamed in the chilly air. This would have been good weather for Christmas, although snow would have been even better.
Instead it had been grey and dreary—similar to her mood. She just couldn’t help always anticipating Christmas with the butterfly stomach of the little girl she used to be. Carol-singing around the village in the dark had seemed such an exciting event. Ma would dress her up warmly and send her off with the rest of the family, while she stayed behind to prepare food for the singers. Pa would lead the singing, so he delegated the care of Violet to one of her older siblings. They in turn forgot her as they found their friends in the crowd of singers, leaving Violet to giggle and whisper with her school chums. She wasn’t really big enough to go door-to-door with a collecting bucket while the singers sang, but she would make it her business to pester a bucket-holder into relinquishing his role so she could take over. Of course, she wanted the householders to give generously to the collection for the church, but she also knew that a well-timed smile could earn her several sweets or mince pies. None of her friends were brave enough to knock on a door, but they admired her bravery and happily shared in her gains.
After the singing, at what seemed midnight to the young Violet, everyone would gather at the Brookes’ cottage for soup and mince pies (Reverend Brinkhill would never have countenanced such an invasion of his vicarage). Ma would rush around the hot kitchen directing her daughters in serving the guests. Violet knew if she set foot in the kitchen she would be roped into service, probably passing around plates of mince pies to the elderly, who hadn’t even done any singing. Instead, Violet would sneak upstairs with a loaded plate, a few candles, and her group of giggling girls. Had Ma realised Violet was in her bedroom with flickering candles and fidgety girls, she would have been horrified, but she was too busy bustling about to notice her absence.
Christmas day—for her younger self—would be equally as exciting. Thanks to Reverend Brinkhill, the morning service lacked any seasonal warmth or joy, but this passed Violet by. She had a pocketful of cough-candies from the toe of her Christmas stocking and was content. Once again, the Brookes’ cottage would be filled with guests, food, and excitement. All her many brothers and sisters returned home, the older ones bringing spouses and babies. There was no one of Violet’s age to play with, but she enjoyed her tiny nieces and nephews and the teasing she received from her brothers-in-law. The married sisters congregated in the kitchen and chatted their way through the chores while Violet was left to mind the babies. Once the work had been done and the babies were asleep, the games began. The very games and exuberance that Reverend Brinkhill had solemnly warned against in the morning were played out to the full. This was the one day in the year that work, debt, and bills could be forgotten and the riches of family life and friendship enjoyed. Prince Albert had introduced the country to the Christmas tree, and Violet longed to have one in their parlour, but Mr. Brookes believed them to be papal or pagan and firmly forbade it. How can a tree be Roman Catholic? wondered Violet. Holly and mistletoe were acceptable in her Pa’s Protestant eyes, so the cottage was liberally decorated with greenery. The branches wilted and yielded to gravity as the rooms heated up, and Violet was instructed to take them outside before the babies would wake up and sample the berries.
Those years had gone, and the babies were now school children. The brothers-in-law still liked to tease her, but she no longer accepted piggyback rides. The games she had loved and that the rest of the family still seemed to love, now seemed ridiculous. And there were now far too many nephews and nieces. The married sisters were much too busy fussing about their broods to help in the kitchen, so Violet had become the family’s scullery maid. I could be at the vicarage, she moaned to herself, then at least I would be getting paid to scrub the pans. Even the caroling had let Violet down: Mrs. Hayworth had taken over the responsibility for refreshments when her husband became the vicar, so instead of singing, Violet was stirring the soup. Many of her former school friends were absent due to work commitments, but those who were present seemed far too busy flirting and devouring the food she had prepared to take time to visit her in the kitchen.
Today marked the end of all seasonal celebrations. She and Mrs. Hayworth were cleaning the church and returning it to its non-high-day normality. The activity suited Violet well, and as she scrubbed the floor, she imagined life as a nun. Until recently she had seen life in monasteries (along with purgatory and Christmas trees) as a terrible Roman Catholic heresy, but to her amazement she had discovered there were Anglican nunneries. The Hayworths had returned from London with various old editions of the St. Martin-in-the-Field’s Parish Post. Being one of the few things she was permitted to read on a Sunday, Violet has perused them and found an interesting article on the Sisters of Mercy in Windsor who devoted their lives to God and the church. These noble women worked tirelessly among the poor and outcasts of society. They befriended unmarried mothers and fallen women. They provided shelter and an opportunity to learn a trade, as well as giving spiritual advice and education. You never hear of unmarried fathers and fallen men, thought Violet. The women always take the blame, while the men just disappear.
Violet imagined herself in the convent. Nobly resisting all temptations of the flesh, she would devote her life to communion with God and the service of others. She would look pure and angelic in a nun’s habit, far beyond the reach of males. She would rise early, sing beautiful plainchant in the chapel as the morning sun, like a ray of blessing from heaven, shone through the stained glass windows onto her serene face. With a heart devoid of selfishness, she would work hard in the monastery for the good of her sisters—and in the community for the good of mankind (but especially womankind).
Violet was aware that if things had gone differently in September and she had not been rescued by her friends, she too could well have been a fallen woman. Society would have treated her with repulsion and contempt. She was thankful to God for sending help. She was also thankful that God is more merciful than society. She knew that He had given fair rules about this sort of attack. If she had cried out for help, even if her cry had gone unheard by human ear, according to God’s rules to Moses, she would be innocent. The realization that God is kinder to us than we are to each other was new to Violet. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was. We give up on people easily, find it hard to forgive, expect loyalty, and easily take offence. God describes Himself as longsuffering, rich in mercy, ready to forgive, and patient. This was exactly the sort of God she needed.
Violet was busy polishing a brass memorial plaque when a messenger boy entered with a letter for Mrs. Hayworth.
Rebecca dried her hands on her apron and opened it. Her face looked grave as she read the contents. “It is from Uncle Hector’s housekeeper,” she told Violet. “Uncle Hector has suffered a stroke. I must go to him right away.”
Violet stood up. “I’ll help you pack your trunk, ma’am.”
“Oh, but Jack is far too occupied to come with me. I daren’t even ask him. What shall I do?”
Mrs. Hayworth looked unusually agitated.
“Let me come with you,” suggested Violet.
“But you are needed to run the house here.”
“I am sure Ma could see to that for a few days.”
Mrs. Hayworth looked at Violet thoughtfully. “I’ll discuss it with my husband. Meanwhile, please gather the things here and hurry to the vicarage to help me get organised.”
Violet scurried around collecting the mops, buckets, and dusters. She desperately wanted to go to London. What an adventure it would be! She often wondered what the capital was like. Something about it had affected Mrs. Hayworth. Since her visit there in September, she had changed. Violet could not put her finger on the problem, but somehow her mistress was unnaturally aloof, even slightly haughty. She no longer laughed freely at comical situations an
d didn’t become animated as easily as she used to. Violet missed her spontaneity and wondered why she was suppressing it. Maybe London ladies were all calm and dreary.
Much to Violet’s delight, Jack decided that his wife was more in need of her services than he was and gave permission for her to accompany Rebecca. Instead of helping pack at the vicarage, she was instructed to go home and pack her own clothes. She ran and skipped through the village and arrived at the cottage out of breath but exuberant.
“Whatever is going on?” asked her puzzled mother.
“Uncle Hector is ill,” exclaimed Violet with what little breath she could catch. “Mrs. Hayworth is going to see him. I am going too.”
And with that she raced upstairs to pack. Finding a trunk was difficult as no one in the family had ever been away. But Mrs. Brookes found an old case in the attic and dusted it off while Violet sorted through her clothes.
“How long are you going for?” her mother called from the attic.
“No idea.”
“Then take your Sunday best and next-best frocks.”
“Is it warm or cold in London?”
“I’ve no idea, but take plenty of vests.”
“I don’t have a decent hat for the journey.”
“Well, you need to look respectable. I’ll pop down the road and borrow one from your sister.”
“And the cape to match, please.”
CHAPTER 19
HAVING WAVED THEM OFF AT Tunbridge Station, Jack and Mr. Brookes were soon out of sight. Rebecca sank into her seat and prayed for a safe journey. It had been kind of Mr. Brookes to take them to Tunbridge with his horse and trap, and it had been kind of Jack to accompany her to the train. In her hand she grasped the instructions he had written.
Alight at Redhill.
Train to Victoria Station. Ask porter which platform.
Front of Station, Cab to 27 Milton Square, South Kensington.
She knew all the details but would have felt lost had she mislaid the note. What a relief it was to have Violet with her! Violet had never set foot outside Kent, but she had a good deal of common sense, was intrepid, and above all was good company.
The windows were steamed up, making it hard to see out, but Violet sat opposite her, nose to pane, staring through a section of glass she had wiped clean. Three gentlemen entered their carriage at the next station. After heaving their bags into the overhead racks, they settled down, unfolded their newspapers, and began reading. Two of the men seemed to be business acquaintances and continued a sporadic conversation through or over their papers.
“Mrs. Hayworth, I have been thinking,” Violet said abruptly, turning her attention from the outside to her mistress. “I believe that as I am accompanying you on a visit, I should be promoted from housemaid to lady’s maid.”
Rebecca glanced at their fellow travelers. The carriage fell silent and, as one, the men buried their heads in their newspapers, but Rebecca knew she had their undivided attention.
“And would this promotion you propose include a pay raise?”
“I think that would be appropriate.”
Rebecca felt acutely aware of the three pairs of ears behind the headlines. Not a page turned. She leaned forward and lowered her voice in the hopes that the rattling of the carriage and the noise of the engine would drown her answer.
“You do indeed have many skills appropriate to the role. Technically you are employed by my husband and not by me, but as your wages come out of the household budget for which I am responsible, I will agree to your proposal.”
“So, I am now a lady’s maid.”
“You are indeed, and I am now a lady who has a maid.”
Rebecca imagined reproachfully raised eyebrows from behind the newspapers. Did their wives conduct their domestic arrangements in such an unorthodox manner? Not a newspaper twitched. How very English! Violet silently rewiped the window and once more turned her attention to the passing scenery, while Rebecca marveled at her maid’s artfulness. Violet is many things, but you can never accuse her of being dull.
The change of train at Redhill Junction went remarkably smoothly, thanks to a kindly porter. Quite a portly porter, Rebecca noticed. He would probably have been helpful anyway, but Violet galvanised him into action by asking him to deal with “her lady’s trunks.” She and Violet could have easily managed them alone, but the chubby man hurried off to find a sack truck, loaded their luggage onto it, and whisked them away to the correct platform, leaving the women to scamper along behind and deliberate, in whispers, the etiquette of tipping. Rebecca was not the sort of lady to watch a man perspire on her behalf and not offer a little for the services rendered, so the good man received his due. With a wide smile and a doff of his cap, he ushered them into the ladies’ waiting room; when the London train eventually arrived, he reappeared to ensure they and their luggage were safely stowed before bidding them good-bye. He wouldn’t have treated the queen herself any better, thought Rebecca as she thanked God for kind people.
Her thoughts went ahead of the train to Uncle Hector. How would he be? He must have been gravely ill at the time the letter was written, for it was penned by his housekeeper, not himself. It was hard to imagine him anything but hale and hearty, although for a long time he had occasionally mentioned a chest complaint. She hoped that he still could communicate and that she could understand him. She had heard of people having strokes and finding it difficult to articulate, even swallow. The family would struggle to make sense of the slurred speech, and the poor patient would become frustrated and withdrawn. How awful it would be for Uncle Hector to suffer like that. Fluency had been such an important part of who he was, as a relative, government adviser, and teacher. How would she feel toward him? She prayed that, even if he was confused and dribbling, she would feel a surge of love toward her one and only uncle, and not instinctive repulsion. She felt guilt even thinking that, let alone having to pray about it. Surely good Christian women should feel only tenderness and compassion for the sick.
At Victoria Station, although there was no porter available to take their luggage, all went smoothly and, once they had jostled their way to the exit, there was no shortage of cabs waiting for their custom. Rebecca hoped she could choose which carriage she took, for she wanted one driven by an older man in the hopes that he might be steadier and less erratic. But after nearly causing a fight by approaching a mature man farther down the road, she realised that she was obliged to take the first in the queue and hope for the best. Violet stared around her.
“It mus’ be market day, surely.”
“I think it is always this crowded.”
“I don’t know what they’re all doing, but they ain’t ’alf busy.”
“It makes Capford seem slow.”
“It makes Tunbridge seem empty!”
“Do you think you’ll like London life?”
“If we survive this cab journey, I might get used to it.”
The welcome Rebecca received at 27 Albert Way was second to none. When all the staff lined up to greet her, she feared the worst. Maybe she had arrived too late. Her mind was put to rest by the housekeeper’s greeting.
“My dear,” she said, sounding like her master, “we are so pleased to see you. Mr. Stubbs has been asking for you ever since he took ill.”
“So he can talk?”
“Oh yes, my dear. Mind you, it’s a bit slurred.”
“May I go and see him?”
“Of course, but will you not take some refreshment first?”
“A cup of tea when I am with him would be most welcome. I am sure my maid, Violet, would also appreciate something.”
After they had been relieved of their outer garments, Rebecca and Violet parted company. Rebecca ascended to Uncle Hector’s chamber, and Violet descended to the kitchen for tea.
Uncle Hector greeted Rebecca with a wide, lopsided smile. His right hand was weak, so he grasped her hand with his left as she leaned over the bed to kiss him.
“Ith tho good to thee
you.”
“I’m pleased to be here, Uncle,” replied Rebecca, drawing up a chair to perch on. “How are you?”
“Noth thoo bad.”
Still holding her hand in a vice-like grip, Uncle Hector described how he had experienced a sudden pounding headache, then collapsed when attempting to rise from the dining room table. His physician had examined him later that day and explained that he had been afflicted with a stroke. Not a bad one, but not one of the mildest kind either. He had prescribed rest for body and mind, and blood-letting.
By now the teapot had arrived and, with her free hand, Rebecca poured the tea. Uncle Hector looked exhausted from so much talking, and once he finally released her hand to take the cup, it shook violently. Rebecca hastily relieved him of the cup and put it to his lips. Tea dribbled down his chin from the drooping corner of his mouth. With tears of frustration Uncle Hector called himself a baby.
“There, there, Uncle, you’re nothing of the sort.” Wiping his chin with her handkerchief, Rebecca blamed the cup and her own inexperience. She rang the bell and asked for a more suitable receptacle to be found. The maid returned with a ceramic cup with a spout. It was very suitable, but Rebecca was hesitant to show her uncle for fear of offending him. “Uncle,” she said at last, “they have found this for you. It isn’t the most elegant china you possess, but it may just help you for a few days.”
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