As they re-entered 27 Milton Square, a gloom descended upon Violet. She had never stayed in such a beautiful and luxurious dwelling, but as the door shut behind her, she felt imprisoned. Two envelopes were awaiting their attention on the hall table—the regular, almost daily letter from Jack and one addressed to Violet. Good old Ma, she thought. Now that she was the offspring farthest away from home, she seemed to have gained favour and significance in her mother’s eyes. The frequent letters were cheerful and chatty, full of the events of Capford. Violet had always considered the goings-on in the village rather mundane and unremarkable, but compared with the four walls of 27 Milton Square, they seemed utterly captivating.
Rebecca smiled to herself and pocketed her letter.
“Another love letter, ma’am?” asked Violet cheekily.
Rebecca’s smile broadened. “Well, it is a letter, and from the man I love, so maybe yes.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Yes, I am. I have got a lovely husband.”
“Not ‘out of sight, out of mind’ then?”
“Oh no, more like ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’”
At the stairs they parted, Rebecca to see if Uncle Hector had woken up, and Violet to her room to read the letter.
“Benny had a week at Biggenden Manor and is now at home. He is getting on well and is his normal smiley self—except, of course, he is still in bed. Mrs. Thorpe visits him a couple of times a week and always takes flowers, picture books, and biscuits. She is turning out to be a good sort. Since Rebecca is away, Mrs. Thorpe has taken over some of her visiting, and the folks like her. The apple pruning is nearly done. Pa and Joe are getting ready for lambing. Joe is repainting the lambing hut. He and Molly are engaged. She is a good, steady girl and will make him a good wife. Agnes soon wants her hat and cape back. She did not realise you would be away for so long. Mrs. Hayworth senior is coming to Capford to help her son while Rebecca is away. I’ve offered him a few meals, but to be honest, he is a bit too independent to help very easily. He was a bachelor for a long time before getting married, and you can tell. Lord Wilson has not been to church since the accident. He don’t seem to want to show his face. Good he has some sort of conscience. I hope the Thorpes send him the doctor’s bill. As far as I have heard, Wilson has not even asked over Benny, let alone sent him anything. I think it is disgusting.”
Violet smiled at her mother’s opinions—she had always had a view on everything. Maybe Violet took after her a bit. She thought about that sudden insight. If she did, at least her opinions were a bit better than her mother’s, who tended to be a bit old-fashioned in her views. Molly a good wife! In an old-fashioned way, maybe. But she would be such a boring fireside companion. She would never offer any original thought about a subject, but just be an attentive and agreeing audience to Joe. Is that what he really wanted? If so, he had changed. He used to like a good old discussion, a good bit of banter, and a good laugh. He was now a church member, so maybe he had become all serious. But there was nothing wrong with a good sense of humour. Pa and the Hayworths were good Christian folks, and they all knew how to have a good laugh. The Hayworths bantered with each other—you could almost call it flirting. She, Violet, would never marry a man she couldn’t tease a little. Without fully understanding the reason why, Violet laid on her bed and cried. She felt so lonely and bored and empty.
As had become their routine in London, Violet took their evening drinks to Mrs. Hayworth’s bedroom and sat with her chatting. The other staff probably thought she was helping with getting her lady to bed, but her ma’am was quite capable of doing that herself and preferred a chat instead. She is probably as bored as I am, decided Violet.
“Violet, are you all right? You don’t look your normal bright self.”
“Oh, sorry, ma’am.”
“No, I’m sorry. What is the matter?”
Tears began to flow again.
“I don’t know. I just feel down and very lonely.”
“Did you get bad news today in your letter?”
“No, just the normal village news.”
“Including?”
“Benny is getting better. Mrs. Thorpe is visiting him a lot and doing other good works around the village. Your mother-in-law is coming, and Joe and Molly are engaged.”
Rebecca was slow to answer.
“Does it bother you that Joe is getting engaged? Wasn’t he your best friend once?”
“Yes, he was. I shouldn’t be bothered, ’cos I had decided I didn’t want to marry him. But all the same, I didn’t want him to marry anyone else.”
“So, that has made you feel down?”
“Maybe.” Violet sighed before continuing. “But I am also so lonely and bored here. Sorry, ma’am, I shouldn’t moan to you, but I have nothing to do all day. I even miss scrubbing pans and mangling cloths.”
“Oh, I am sorry, Violet,” Rebecca exclaimed. “I have been selfish keeping you here for so long. I sensed you were unhappy, but I underestimated the extent. I’ve kept you here because I do so enjoy our walks. I have been selfish. “
“Not at all, ma’am. You are never selfish.”
“I have been, and I will rectify the situation. You must return to Capford.”
“And leave you here alone?”
“Yes. Hopefully I will follow you down shortly. You could prepare the house for my mother-in-law. Jack is a good man, but I am sure the house hasn’t seen a duster in the last four weeks.”
“I will gladly make it spotless, ma’am.”
“Good, and get a good joint of meat for her arrival.”
“I’ll make sure she has a right royal welcome.” Violet paused before adding, “But I can’t really be a lady’s maid being so far from you.”
Rebecca pondered the dilemma.
“Then why not return to the title of housemaid but continue with the pay increase.”
“That sounds good.”
“Yes, very suitable.”
“But will you be all right here alone, ma’am? You are hardly having a fun time yourself, and you don’t half look tired and pale.”
“I’ll be fine, thank you, Violet.” Rebecca pinched her cheeks to bring colour to her face. “Hopefully I can follow you down to Kent soon. Uncle Hector is almost back to his old self, I think.”
CHAPTER 22
TRAVELING INDEPENDENTLY WAS FUN, VIOLET decided. Mrs. Hayworth had waved her off at Victoria Station, and someone from the village would be at Tunbridge Station at her arrival, but in between she was alone, anonymous, and free. No one in the carriage knew the first thing about her and probably had no desire to, either. The feeling was one of liberation. Some people in her situation—going from A to B—had just disappeared. They had failed to arrive at B. If she wanted to, she could get off the train at any station, board one going anywhere, and start a new life for herself. She had a bag of clothes and a few shillings. The fantasy excited her, but only for a few heady minutes, until her sensible side shouted down the idea. She would cause such alarm to all the people she loved and trusted—her parents, the Hayworths, and lots of the village folks. Would Joe be upset, or would her disappearance reinforce his opinion that she was too flighty for marriage? Was that his opinion? It probably was after the bad year she had experienced with the opposite sex. He probably thought she wasn’t trustworthy. And she was beginning to think that too. Could she actually trust herself?
As she despondently tried to analyse her own character, she was reminded of Mrs. Hayworth’s advice about finding peace. Violet had never really considered whether the Lord Jesus was trustworthy. As far as she could remember, the Bible didn’t use the word, but if she was asked to sum up Jesus’s character in two words, she might say He is kind and trustworthy. No, loving and trustworthy is better, for one can be kind, in a professional way, but not loving. Violet thought of all the texts with gospel promises she had learned in Sunday school. They are trustworthy. She looked outside at the beautiful Surrey countryside—its Maker is trustworthy.
The One who organises the seasons, feeds the wild-life, and created the rolling hills is worthy of my full trust, she thought. But as the train moved on, so did Violet’s thoughts. Back to the vicarage for dusting! Boring old dusting! But at least after four weeks it would seem worthwhile. Normally you can hardly see where you have polished and where you haven’t, but with a good layer of dust, it will be easy. Maybe monthly dusting should be the rule. She imagined the conversation:
“Why Mrs. X, what a lovely layer of dust you have on your sideboard.”
“Yes, Mrs. Z, I’ve been watching its growth with pride and interest.”
“I can never seem to get my layer that deep.”
“Patience, Mrs. Z, it takes patience, open fires—and self-control.”
“Now that is where I go wrong, I can’t stop myself reaching for the duster.”
“Poor you, Mrs. Z, displaying such weakness of character.”
Violet smiled to herself, then looked around anxiously to see if anyone had noticed. A little boy was staring at her, so she quickly crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue before staring out the window with feigned interest.
Of all the people in Capford and of all the workers at Biggenden Farm, why did it have to be Joe who went to Tunbridge Market that day? Violet tried to hide her disappointment as he tossed her bags onto the wagon and gingerly took her place on the bench next to him.
“How was the big smoke then, traveler?” Joe asked as he picked up the reins and set the horse in motion.
“Nice, thank you.”
“Did you see the queen?”
“No, but we saw her Italian garden, which is very beautiful.”
“Good.”
Violet stared straight ahead at the horse’s rump.
“Congratulations on your engagement.”
“My engagement?” Joe looked at her in surprise.
“Mother informed me you are engaged to Molly.”
“Then, for once, your mother is wrong.”
“Oh, sorry, I don’t know how that happened.”
“Neither do I ’cos, actually, Molly and I are no longer courting.”
“Oh, Joe!” exclaimed Violet, turning toward him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, don’t be too sorry. She is a nice girl and all that lot, but we didn’t really suit, and it took us a long time to realise. In the end, it was her decision to stop the relationship—she didn’t like my plans.”
“What plans?”
“I want to immigrate to Canada.”
A feather would have knocked Violet clean off the bench.
“For the gold rush?”
Joe laughed.
“No, I don’t want to dig or sieve for gold. I want to be my own boss, have my own farm in a country that values the labourer and has fertile soil.”
“What an adventure! I envy you, being a man and able to make a bold, independent step like that.”
“Yes, I am excited about it.”
“Don’t you think you could be your own boss here?”
“Just look around you, Vi. Half the country is owned by idiots like Lord Wilson. In Scotland, they have cleared ship-loads of crofters off their land, almost starving them, not allowing their animals to roam freely on the vast estates, just so the rich landlords can rear a few more sheep. Up in the Midlands, hundreds of millers are starving or hunting for work they have no skill in due to mechanisation. Even here, fewer farmhands are needed with the threshing machines and stuff that’s coming in. Village life is under threat as more and more folks are forced to the big cities for work. The new factories in the cities are destroying all cottage industry—no one can compete with them. It is only going to get worse.”
“Wow, Joe, I didn’t know you were a radical.”
“You don’t know me much these days, Vi. I’m not the little lad in knee breeches anymore.”
“I know that.” Violet paused and once again studied the horse. “And I am not the silly girl you think I am either.”
“I’ve never thought you silly!” replied Joe, eyes firmly on the road ahead.
“But I have been foolish, what with the Mr. Christopher situation, then with that awful Reuben.”
“You can’t help being attractive to men.”
Violet didn’t know how to respond to that comment.
“But I should have been a better judge of character.”
“We live and learn, Vi.”
“I hope I’ve learned.”
They jogged along in silence until reaching Capford.
“When are you planning to set sail, Joe?”
“Oh, not for a while. I mean to save all I can first. Buying my passage across won’t be cheap, and then I need cash to get started over there. Anyway, I can’t leave your old pa to do the lambing alone, can I?”
“Oh, good.”
“Why good?”
“Because Capford will be odd without you.”
Joe stopped the cart outside the Brookes’s cottage. He heaved down Violet’s bag and plonked it at her feet. “Then let’s make the most of my time here. How about joining me for a Sunday afternoon walk?”
“When?”
“This Sunday.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Yes.”
“Good-bye then.”
“Good-bye . . . and thank you for collecting me.”
“’Til Sunday.”
“Yep, ’til then.”
CHAPTER 23
JACK WAS ALARMED AT THE despondent tone of Rebecca’s last few letters. Gone were the cheerful humour and witty observations. Instead they read like a weather report. If Rebecca could no longer think of what to say and had to fall back on the very English subject of the dreary weather, something was amiss. After cancelling committee meetings and delegating visits, Jack caught the next train to Redhill Junction. Several of his nieces had contracted chicken pox at school, and his mother had delayed her planned visit to help his sister cope with a bedroom of irritable and itchy girls, so that all worked out very nicely.
If anything, Rebecca looked paler than Uncle Hector, who was now up and about and functioning as normal. Jack couldn’t help thinking that the old man was milking his illness rather too much and basking in the care and attention he was receiving as a result. One thing Jack knew for sure was that when he returned to Capford, he would be taking his wife with him. But now that he was up in London, it seemed reasonable and economic to kill two birds with one stone and to consult Mr. Gascoigne again. Rebecca was far from keen on the idea, and it did seem rather undiplomatic even to mention it to her.
“But he did say to come back in six months, darling,” he argued.
“But one month out of those six we have been apart anyway.”
“We don’t want to have to come back in a month’s time, do we?”
“Not unless Uncle Hector needs me.”
“Then we will be apart anyway, so the situation will be the same.”
“I doubt if you will be able to arrange a consultation with him at such short notice,” replied Rebecca triumphantly.
“If there is an appointment available, will you come?”
Rebecca nodded reluctantly.
An appointment was available, and the Hayworths found themselves sitting face to face with Mr. Gascoigne again.
“By your presence here today, I assume there has been no progress in the matter you consulted me about before.”
“That’s correct, sir,” answered Jack, to whom the question was directed.
Mr. Gascoigne fingered his gold pen and looked at Rebecca over his glasses as if she was an uncooperative schoolgirl.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she muttered, studying her hands on her lap.
“And did you follow my advice regarding calmness, moderate exercise, and sitz baths?”
Jack looked at Rebecca in alarm. He had forgotten all the instructions, but she was giving a confident answer.
“Yes, doctor, I have done as you advised.”
&nbs
p; Jack looked at his wife in admiration. How had she managed? He felt a pang of guilt. He had done nothing to help, not even supplying a suitable bath. She wasn’t lying, was she? No, Rebecca was always truthful.
Mr. Gascoigne’s steely gaze turned again to Jack.
“Well, I could do another internal examination, if you insist, but I doubt very much that anything has changed.”
Rebecca looked pleadingly at her husband.
“No, I don’t think that is necessary, thank you, sir,” Jack replied decidedly.
“The next line of treatment I can offer is the application of internal leeches.”
Rebecca gasped, shuddered, and crossed her legs. “Is that a recognised medical procedure, Mr. Gascoigne?”
Rising a few inches in height, Mr. Gascoigne drew in a deep breath. “Of course, it is a ‘recognised medical procedure,’ Mrs. Hayworth. I am no quack.” Then, as if to offer some comfort, he added, “Naturally, the leeches detach themselves and fall out once they are engorged.”
Jack had never seen Rebecca look more horrified and was about to refuse the treatment when the surgeon went on to say, “But, on consideration, you look rather pale anyway, so perhaps the treatment is not advisable in your case at this time.”
“Thank you, sir,” chorused the Hayworths with united heart and voice.
“We are drawing near to the limits of modern medical treatment for infertility,” the doctor concluded. “As mere mortals, we cannot provide what the Almighty deigns to withhold.”
Jack agreed, but doubted if Mr. Gascoigne believed in the Almighty for other reasons than convenience’s sake.
Then rising from his chair, Mr. Gascoigne unexpectedly said, “But I would like to discuss a little more about this delicate matter with Reverend Hayworth, so I request that you leave the room please, Mrs. Hayworth.”
Looking bewildered, Rebecca was ushered out of the room.
“Do find a seat in the hall. We will not be long,” instructed the surgeon before he shut the door with unnecessary firmness.
Now I am in for it, Jack thought, shrinking into his chair.
Mr. Gascoigne returned to his imperial position behind the polished desk and fingered his gold fountain pen. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.
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