Dusters and Dreams

by Hannah Buckland

  Uncle Hector gave a resigned shrug and let Rebecca use it. The tea behaved itself this time, and Uncle Hector quickly drained the cup. Realising that he probably had not drunk much since his collapse, Rebecca refilled his beaker again and again until the tea pot and milk jug were dry. Once he had finished the last drop, Uncle Hector leaned back into his pillow and, mouth sagging, fell asleep.

  Rebecca drank her now cold tea and studied him. Sunk into his pillow with his drooping face, Uncle Hector looked pale, old, and vulnerable. The surge of love Rebecca had wanted to feel did not materialise, but looking at him now, she felt a huge wave of mixed emotions—compassion, responsibility, duty, and tenderness—threatening to overwhelm her. She followed Uncle Hector’s example and closed her eyes, but not to sleep. She was asking for God to help her.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE DAY BEGAN PERFECTLY. THERE had been a sharp frost overnight, giving a satisfying crunch underfoot and a beauty to the landscape. The cloudless blue sky created a magnificent backdrop to the frozen foliage. Edward, dressed in his tweed shooting outfit, mingled with his guests on the driveway. Each man, dressed in almost identical garb and with a double-barrelled twelve-bore gun on their arm, greeted Edward, helped himself to the sherry and fruitcake that maids were handing around, then mingled with fellow-shooters. The sound of boots on gravel and male voices filled the air with excitement and anticipation. Today it was the turn of the Biggenden pheasants to be shot at and decimated.

  In the stable yard the gamekeeper was trying to organise his motley team of beaters. He had no great faith in their ability to operate in a professional manner, for they always failed to recognise the seriousness of their task. Relieved of farm work for the day, the Biggenden workforce was enlisted to flush out the pheasants and drive them toward the guns. Instead of listening to the gamekeeper’s meticulous directions and orders, the team, as excited as the shooters, were jovially bantering together as if on some sort of day trip. This was the most important day in the gamekeeper’s calendar, and no one was paying it the respect it deserved—except maybe Mr. Edward Thorpe, who frequently approached him to discuss wind direction and tactics. Frustrated and with a hoarse voice, the keeper marched off toward the woods with his dogs and was relieved to find that the men followed on after all.

  Edward led his group of equally jovial men toward an open area beyond the woods, which had been designated as the shooting line. He too had misgivings about some of his party. Lord Wilson arriving late and stomped into the gathering like an angry bull. He huffed and puffed at the peg position he drew out of the hat and snapped at his servant, who attended him as a loader, for no apparent reason. Lord Wilson had clearly got out of the wrong side of the bed, but Edward also wondered if he was slightly tipsy already. As they neared their positions, the conversation ceased and an expectant silence descended on the shooters—or Guns, as the keeper insisted in calling them.

  “A gun with a small g is the firing arm they use, but the Gun with a capital G is the person who fires the gun with a small g,” he explained to his bemused, then mocking team.

  “’Ow can we tell whether ya talking with a capital or a small g?”

  “It’s all about context.”

  “I ’ope the ol’ pheasants understand all ya jargon.”

  “Silence, please.” The gamekeeper held up his hands as if pressing back the noise. “We need to spread out and take positions quietly now, before raising the pheasants.”

  “Keep quiet . . . so we don’t scare ’em before we scare ’em,” joked Joe.

  “Wow, boy! You’ve really got the ’ang of this!” teased the gardener.

  “I know,” whispered Joe. “I’m a natural.”

  “But keep ya eye on Benny too,” cautioned the gardener. “I don’t want him near any gun, capital letter or otherwise.”

  From his allotted position, Edward looked down the line at his participating guests. Each stood in alert silence surveying the woods with the intensity of a soldier on watch. The snapping of twigs and the rattling squawk of a few surprised pheasants were the only indication of the forthcoming excitement. The gamekeeper was flushing out the birds, but not alarming them enough to take to their wings before reaching the clearing. Edward’s pulse quickened as he watched the first pheasants appear. For a few seconds the view was magnificent as the beautiful birds fluttered their colourful wings and launched themselves into flight. Their guttural alarm calls were soon drowned by the noise of gun fire, and stricken birds fell from the sky. Edward was too busy shooting to notice his companions, but when he paused to reload, he glanced Lord Wilson’s way. He was alarmed to see Wilson’s erratic and dangerous shots. Sometimes he aimed too high, resulting in an injured but not dead bird, condemning it to a lingering and painful death. Sometimes he aimed too low, blasting the pheasants to pieces. This was not sportsmanship, this was massacre!

  From his place in the woods, Benny saw an injured bird flapping helplessly among the bracken. Breaking rank, he ran toward it. At that moment, Lord Wilson fired low.

  Benny’s scream and stumble indicated a direct hit. The noise of gunshot was immediately replaced by shouting. The beaters ran out of the woods to their bleeding friend. Edward was nearer, so arrived first and pulled out his handkerchief to stem the blood flow from Benny’s leg. It was soon saturated. Benny’s father ripped off his shirt and used it as a bandage, and Joe used his garter as a tourniquet. Mr. Brookes ordered a man to send for Dr. Ward. With the utmost care and gentleness, a few men eased Benny off the ground and carried him toward Biggenden.

  When Edward saw that the situation was being well managed he turned toward Lord Wilson, who spluttered, “Whatever happened, Thorpe?”

  “You shot him!”

  Lord Wilson puffed out his chest. “Rubbish, utter rubbish.”

  “You did. I saw it with my own eyes.” Other shooters gathered around and testified to having witnessed the shot too.

  “Well, what is all the fuss? The boy isn’t dead. He shouldn’t have been near the guns. How ridiculous to bring the village idiot on a shoot!” Lord Wilson looked pointedly at Edward. “It is asking for trouble.”

  It took every ounce of self-control Edward possessed not to punch Lord Wilson in his fat, arrogant, and ruddy face.

  “Sir, please leave my land now!” he ordered through gritted teeth, and then, turning to the other shooters, “Sorry, gentlemen, the shoot is over, please be so kind as to return home.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed home to check on Benny, leaving the guests to pack up, divide the spoil, and chew over the day’s events at their leisure.

  By following a trail of mud and leaves through the house, Edward found Benny and half his workforce in a spare bedroom. Sophia, smeared with blood and mud, was clearly in control. Dr. Ward soon arrived and examined the wound. Benny’s mother had been sent for, and the maids had been ordered to serve the lunch that had been prepared for the shooting party to the workmen instead. At the centre of all the activity lay Benny, pale and drifting into unconsciousness. Sophia stroked the patient’s hair, and the room was silent with all eyes on the physician as he painstakingly extracted leadshot from the wounds. The housemaid’s call that lunch was ready went unnoticed by the audience.

  At last the doctor straightened up and flexed his back. “I believe all the gunshot is out. Now to clean the wounds and dress the leg.”

  Hot water was sent for and bandages were extracted from the doctor’s bag. There was no lack of volunteers to hold up the wounded leg for bandaging, or to arrange Benny under the covers.

  “The femur is peppered but not shattered, and I don’t think the nerve or any other bone or organ has been affected. But those leg wounds are nasty and could easily get infected.” Dr. Ward addressed Benny’s father. “If he had been a couple of yards nearer the gun, the story would have been very different. As it is, he has lost a considerable amount of blood. What he needs now is rest, analgesia, and—when he wakes—plenty of fluids.”

  Satisfied that Benny�
�s life was not in immediate danger and that he was comfortable, the men left the room and headed to the laden lunch table.

  “Dr. Ward, you have done a splendid job. Will you not join us for a bite to eat?” asked Sophia.

  Edward had very little appetite, but his men did not seem to be similarly afflicted. He leaned back in his chair and watched them, the doctor, and his wife chatting and munching away. The dining room was at its best, with the daintiest china and hot-house flower arrangements, in stark contrast to the men wearing their rough, patched-up work clothes. What an incongruous scene it was! But what a decent and agreeable bunch they are. Vastly superior to the intended guests! Their love and concern for poor Benny had been deep and genuine. That is what unites us all, thought Edward. Dear Benny, whose ambitions in life were limited to giving flowers to Sophia, keeping his boots polished, and smiling broadly. How dare Lord Wilson call him the village idiot! There was only one man that day who looked like an idiot, and that was Lord Wilson himself.

  CHAPTER 21

  EVEN LONDON WAS BORING IN February, Violet decided. January and February were her least favourite months, and out of them both she probably liked February the least. The best thing about it was its shortness. Whoever had invented the calendar must have disliked it too and knocked a few days off the end. But a February in Kent was nothing compared to one stuck in a house in South Kensington. Apparently, it was a fashionable place to reside, and she was among the good and the great, but if there were such beings, they are either in hibernation or look remarkably like the rest of us.

  The crisp frosty weather had turned to drizzle or smog. Once Violet had looked around the streets around Milton Square and found that they all looked the same, she had little to motivate her to venture outdoors. Mrs. Hayworth was fully occupied with caring for Uncle Hector, who in Violet’s eyes was lapping up the attention. They had been there for four whole weeks, and the man was more or less recovered, yet he seemed to cling to his niece as if he would wither and die without her.

  Violet felt sorry for Reverend Jack Hayworth losing his wife to an uncle-in-law. She felt sorry for herself for having to be stuck in a town house for so long. She felt sorry for Mrs. Hayworth, who was such a conscientious sort and the epitome of a dutiful niece. She had fed the man, read to him, sung to him, and played the piano for him. The first two nights she slept in a chair by his bed. Violet had felt bad about that. There she was, sleeping in a comfortable bed in her lady’s maid’s room and being waited on by the housemaid, while her mistress roughed it out on a chair. If, as was suggested by the gossipy cook, the Hayworths were the uncle’s sole beneficiaries, well, they deserved every penny. But what would a cook know about her master’s monetary arrangements anyway?

  Being a lady’s maid was the easiest job in the world. Well, it was if you were the lady’s maid of Rebecca Hayworth née Stubbs and were visiting. The expectation of the household was simple. Violet was to assist her mistress as required and keep her room clean and tidy. That was it. But it came with a heavy price: boredom. She was no reader, but even Mrs. Hayworth, who enjoyed reading, found Uncle Hector’s collection of books disappointing. If they had wanted to delve into economics, history, politics, or the history of politics, there would have been plenty to read. But they did not, so there was not. Mrs. Hayworth found a whole pile of Bentley’s Miscellany monthly periodicals in the study and had become gripped by a story called Oliver Twist, written by a certain Charles Dickens. The frustrating thing was that some issues were missing, so there were big gaps in the plot. Violet tried to read it but found it too wordy and depressing.

  Every afternoon when Uncle Hector was asleep, Rebecca and Violet escaped from the house and went for a walk, come rain or shine. Kensington Gardens was their favourite destination. It seemed amazing to be able to walk around a part of the grounds of Kensington Palace, where Queen Victoria was born and lived until she became queen. She had graciously opened some of the park to the public, but only on the condition that they were respectfully dressed. Violet longed to see some un-respectfully dressed individual being forcibly removed, but this never happened. Her favourite part of the ornate park was the Italian Gardens, a gift to Queen Victoria from her doting husband, who had loved gardening. Violet doubted whether he had even lifted a spade once during the construction of the garden, but it was certainly a lovely gift. The garden was not of the grass and trees type but had terraces, fountains, urns, statues, and flowerbeds. Violet felt almost regal as she promenaded along the stone terrace with her lady, following in the footsteps of their monarch.

  A steam engine provided power for the fountains, and Mrs. Hayworth found out that the poor stoker worked throughout the night on Saturday to keep the engine running and the pump going so that on Sunday there was enough water to run the fountains without the engine working. If Sunday went from midnight to midnight, the reasoning seemed illogical. Surely the exhausted stoker flopped into bed after his night’s work, not into a pew. Did Queen Victoria ever visit the garden now? Rebecca and Violet wondered, and would it be painful or comforting to her after Albert’s death? They decided she probably did not, as she seemed to have shut herself away from everything and everyone.

  Shutting oneself away—that reminded Violet of something she wanted to discuss.

  “I spoke to an Anglican nun yesterday,” she said as they reached the fountain.

  “Oh?” Rebecca turned and looked at her.

  “I asked her if I could enter the convent.”

  “Violet! You in a convent? Tell me you are joking.” Rebecca frowned and pursed her lips, as if unsure whether to laugh out aloud or show firm Protestant disapproval.

  This was not an encouraging start. “No, ma’am, I am not joking. I have been thinking about it since September. Nuns do a lot of good, you know.”

  “Is that why you want to join them?”

  “One of the reasons. Anyway, it won’t be that easy. The nun wasn’t too encouraging. She said I would need my father’s written permission and a dowry.”

  Rebecca was grinning. “Both very unlikely.”

  “Can you imagine Pa agreeing to me joining a convent? He would throw a fit. And then asking him to give money.” Violet sighed. “No, it won’t happen.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “Yes, I am a bit. I think religious life would be good for me. I would have time to meditate, I would be away from men, and I could do good works.”

  “You can do all of that now.”

  “But it isn’t so dramatic and romantic.”

  “I can’t see anything romantic about being a nun.”

  “I don’t mean falling-in-love-romantic. I mean the atmosphere, the singing, the stained glass windows, and all that. The nuns do really good work. They rescue fallen women and get them back on the straight and narrow. They run a laundry—the girls get some kind of moral cleansing as they learn the trade of laundering.”

  “Do you think it will bring you nearer to God?”

  “I should hope so. But the nun didn’t look exactly serene.”

  “So that is what you are after—serenity?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I need to know I am forgiven.”

  “Then you are looking in the wrong direction. We can’t find peace by doing good things, being devout, or trying to be perfect. We will fail. The Bible says our righteousness is like filthy rags in God’s sight.”

  They both stared at the fountain, and Rebecca continued:

  “The Lord Jesus has made perfect righteousness by living a perfect life and dying a sacrificial death. He is willing to transfer that righteousness to whoever asks for it.”

  “Why would He want to?”

  “Because of love.”

  “How could He possibly love me?”

  “That is what we all ask ourselves, and no one knows the answer, but His offer is genuine. His love is greater than anything.”

  “But what if I ask Him and He refuses?”

  “He has never done that, and He promises ‘
Whosoever cometh I will in no wise cast out.’”

  “But what if I am not one of His elect?”

  “Who has made you feel that you need forgiveness? That isn’t something you initiated. God has been making you uncomfortable for a reason. That is a sign of His love.”

  “So, what do I have to do?”

  “Nothing.” Rebecca spread her arms wide. “Jesus did it all one thousand, eight hundred and sixty or so years ago. Hand over your sin and guilt to Him and ask Him to give you His righteousness.”

  “Is that what you have done?”

  “Yes, and have to keep doing.”

  “Are you at peace?”

  Rebecca thought hard.

  “Yes, I think so. Not in some amazing floaty sort of way, but somewhere deep inside me I know that I trust the Lord Jesus for my eternal salvation. He is so trustworthy I can leave it all to Him, and I will get to heaven because of His life and death.”

  “Not some floaty way? Do you mean you are not constantly full of joy?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, but that is my fault and not the Lord’s. I should think more of my union with Christ and of heavenly things, but I get bogged down with earthly things. My father always said, ‘We should trust God’s unchangeable promises, not our changeable feelings,’ and that is what I must do. The wonderful thing is that God is so understanding. The Bible says ‘He knoweth our frame and remembereth that we are but dust,’ so He knows that we are weak, yet He continues to love us.”

  “That is good,” Violet said. “Trust God’s unchangeable promises, not our changeable feelings.”

  “Trust Him, Violet, and you will never be disappointed.”

  It was good to talk, and somehow talking while out walking or staring at flowing water was easier than trying to do so indoors.