Dusters and Dreams

by Hannah Buckland

  “You are a young man, Reverend Hayworth, with a bright future ahead.”

  Jack could neither agree or disagree with this strange comment so remained silent.

  “To produce no offspring can be a great disappointment, not only to a man but also, in a sense, to his ancestors. Indeed, producing an heir is often perceived as a duty rather than mere choice.” The pen rolling continued. “Our laws recognise this expectation and thankfully make suitable allowances.” He paused and continued in a lower tone. “Reverend Hayworth, I have good, respectable colleagues who would be willing to help you.”

  “How?” asked Jack, truly puzzled.

  “I have observed your wife making some unusual remarks. My colleagues could assess your wife and pronounce her deranged as a result of chronic hysteria. This would allow you a legal divorce, and you could re-marry.”

  Jack stiffened. “And what would happen to Mrs. Hayworth?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “We would find her a suitable asylum to live out her days in quietness. Why, some of the newly built asylums are splendid buildings with beautiful parks and gardens.”

  Jack’s hands curled into fists.

  “Mr. Gascoigne, you have totally misunderstood both my character and my relationship with my wife.”

  By now Jack was standing and had thumped the polished table with his fist. The fountain pen bounced slightly. He could no longer keep his speech slow or quiet.

  “How dare you suggest such a hideous solution! I love Rebecca, with or without children. How could I conspire to have her locked up in a madhouse?”

  Mr. Gascoigne slid down his chair, and Jack noticed how breakable his horn-rimmed glasses looked. He resisted the temptation.

  “Many men avail themselves of this option, Hayworth.”

  “Well, they need locking up themselves—along with all your colleagues!” retorted Jack, putting on his hat and striding toward the door. He stopped half way and, reaching in his pocket, pulled out some money. He stomped back and flung it on the desk.

  “And take your filthy lucre. Buy a new fountain pen.”

  “Men of the cloth are often awkward and opinionated,” muttered the surgeon. Jack hesitated, then chose to ignore the comment.

  On exiting the room, he grabbed Rebecca in the hall and stormed out of the building, slamming the door behind him. Rebecca’s feet hardly touched the ground as they hurried away from Harley Street and toward the park. It was not until they were seated on a bench and Rebecca had caught her breath that they exchanged a word.

  “Whatever occurred?” asked the perplexed Rebecca.

  “That man!” growled Jack. “That odious, pig-headed man!”

  “What happened?”

  “He should be lynched.”

  “Whatever happened?”

  Jack rubbed his forehead. “Oh, it doesn’t matter!”

  “Jack, you can’t shout at a surgeon, almost slam his door off its hinges, frog-march me down a London road, then not explain. Did he want to operate?”

  “Operate?” Jack got up and paced around the bench. “I hardly want to tell you what he proposed.”

  Rebecca remained silent as he composed his thoughts.

  “He said he could have you falsely diagnosed as mad and have you locked away.”

  Once the sentence had left his lips, Jack bitterly regretted it. Rebecca looked so shocked and vulnerable.

  Jack sat next to her and took both her icy hands in his. “It is an unthinkable idea. It is what some unscrupulous men do in order to marry again and produce an heir.”

  “That is terrible.”

  “Criminal.”

  “Does he think I am mad?”

  “I bet he thinks we both are.”

  They sat in shocked silence.

  “Does this really happen in this country?” asked Rebecca in a small voice.

  “Apparently so.”

  “Poor women.”

  “Who did he think I am? Do I look like a man who gets his wife locked up? Clergymen can’t get divorced and re-marry anyway—not that I’d want to,” he hastily added.

  Rebecca still looked unhappy and was unusually quiet. Finally, she broke another long silence.

  “Jack, do you regret marrying me now that we realise I am barren?”

  Looking at her drawn and tear-stained face, Jack was almost overwhelmed by the surge of love that erupted from his heart.

  “Never, never, never!” was all he could reply as he hugged and kissed her passionately.

  “We now know what happened to his wife. She isn’t pickled in a specimen jar—she is locked away.”

  That night, in the comfortable London bed, Jack snuggled up to Rebecca and cradled her in his arms until she was asleep. She had never seemed so lovely and precious. Gazing at her innocent sleeping face and tousled hair, every fibre of his being wanted to protect her from everything malicious. What a beautiful wife I have, he thought, gently lifting one of the brown ringlets that lay on the pillow and winding it around his finger. One thing he was sure about: he was taking her home with him tomorrow.

  Jack had not been asleep long when he was awakened by Rebecca grabbing his arm and screaming. His dull, drowsy mind took a while to realise she was having a nightmare and needed waking.

  “You’re all right, Rebecca.”

  “No, I’m not!” came back the irritated reply. “They want to take me away.”

  Jack fumbled for a match and lit a candle.

  “Wake up, darling, it’s only a dream.”

  Rebecca awoke, but her eyes were wide with terror, she was drenched with sweat, and as he held her close, Jack felt her heart racing. Gradually she relaxed next to him.

  “Oh, Jack, that was awful.”

  “I know, my darling.”

  “They were going to lock me away.”

  “Don’t even think of it,” replied Jack. “Tomorrow I am taking you home.”

  “That will be lovely.”

  “Yes.”

  Jack reached over and blew out the candle. “Now let’s get to sleep, and if anyone else dares to creep up on you, I will punch them in the nose.”

  “Then they would take you as well.”

  “Let them try.”

  “At least we would be together.”

  “That is the important thing.” He agreed, squeezing her hand.

  “Good night.”

  “Sleep well, darling.”

  CHAPTER 24

  JACK POLITELY BUT FIRMLY INFORMED Uncle Hector that Rebecca was run-down and needed to return home. Uncle Hector looked crestfallen and Rebecca wavered, but her dear husband remained firm. The kind housekeeper sided with Jack and assured Uncle Hector that they could manage his care, and admitting defeat, the recovered invalid capitulated. Rebecca’s heart felt lighter with every mile the train removed them farther from London, Milton Square, and Harley Street. It was only early March, but the countryside through which they traveled was already showing signs of spring and the promises of renewed life. New hope and optimism seeped into Rebecca as she gazed out the window. She smiled as she watched a field of newborn lambs skipping and playing chase together.

  “That’s good,” Jack said. “You’ve got a smile back on your face. All we need now is some colour on your cheeks.”

  He seemed determined to wrap Rebecca in a protective blanket. Violet could run the home; his mother was soon to arrive and could also assist, and Rebecca was to relax. But she did not want to relax. She had done enough sitting about aimlessly at Uncle Hector’s. She couldn’t wait to be out and about, visiting friends and parishioners and catching up on the news.

  A thrill ran through Rebecca as she crossed the threshold of Capford vicarage. Whoever would have imagined I could fall in love with this draughty, dull house! She smiled to herself as she resisted the temptation to kiss the doorstep. And what a beautifully clean doorstep it was too! Violet had done an amazing job of the housework and had a delicious meal waiting for them. Her genuine pleasure at seeing Rebecca touched
Rebecca’s heart.

  The next day, against her husband’s advice, Rebecca made her rounds to the baker’s queue, the Brookes’s cottage for a cup of tea, and the bedside of an elderly villager. And against Jack’s doleful prediction, she returned to the vicarage with a spring in her step and plenty of interesting gossip.

  The arrival of Mrs. Hayworth senior was another source of enjoyment for Rebecca. The nimble little lady breezed into the vicarage with arms outstretched to embrace both Jack and her daughter-in-law. She always reminded Rebecca of a chirpy little sparrow as she flitted around the house, chatting happily. Everything she said was accompanied by emphatic head movements, which, combined with her warm character, added enthusiasm and sincerity. Within minutes she was teasing Jack and cooing motherly over Rebecca.

  “You’ve had a hard time, my dear,” she said.

  “Oh, Mother, it was not so bad.”

  “Jack told me how selflessly you cared for your uncle.”

  “Maybe he exaggerated.”

  “Oh, no, no.” Her head shook firmly. “For all his faults, Jack does not exaggerate. His letters to me are so terribly brief, exaggeration is impossible.”

  “Mother, I write to you regularly!” protested Jack.

  “I wasn’t talking about regularity, was I?”

  Rebecca thought about the lovely letters Jack had penned to her when she was away. If he disliked letter writing, she would never have suspected it.

  “At least I make use of full stops and other punctuation,” retorted Jack. “Reading your letters makes me breathless.”

  His mother smiled mischievously. “The Greeks didn’t use punctuation.”

  “But most subsequent civilisations have deemed it necessary.”

  Rebecca grinned as she poured the tea. Families are such a great invention.

  The next two weeks were pure delight. It was wonderful to be back in the Kent countryside, and it was wonderful to be back with Jack. Getting back into normal vicarage routine was easy and enjoyable, especially with Jack’s mother by her side. After a few hesitant attempts, it was easy to call Mrs. Hayworth Mother. The word would have stuck in her throat for any other woman, but ever since Jack’s ma had heard of Rebecca how she had lost both her parents to typhus fever within six weeks of each other, she had unreservedly taken Rebecca into her heart and truly mothered her.

  Being an only child, Rebecca would have been totally desolate, were it not for her dear and kind friends. Looking back, she saw how amazingly the Lord had provided her with loyal, trustworthy friends throughout her life: Mrs. Brown had taken her in after her parents’ deaths. Emma had befriended her while she was a housemaid at Barton Manor and had put a smile back on her face. Edward Thorpe had provided a strong though complex companionship for a few years and had been the means of bringing her to Capford. How she had loved Edward! As his housekeeper she had devoted herself to him. More than ever before she had struggled to submit to the Lord’s plan for her life when he gave his heart to Sophia, but with the benefit of hindsight, she saw it was all for the best. Jack had soon moved to the area with his mother, and his love for Rebecca soon eclipsed all others. How blessed she was to be part of the Hayworth family!

  Mother had resided in Capford for only six months, and even then, she had been outside the village, in a cottage at the end of a muddy lane. She had been unable to socialise during that time as she was recovering from cataract operations. Yet despite all of this, she seemed to know and remember all about the parishioners and, when out visiting, charmed everyone with her genuine interest and apt enquiries. Rebecca enjoyed sitting back and watching her at work. Head tilted to one side, she listened attentively to whoever she was visiting, drawing out of them more than they ever intended. She had plenty of amusing stories to tell about her children, grandchildren, and neighbours without ever being disparaging. Her comments jumped from the temporal to the eternal, the physical to the spiritual with ease, yet without flippancy. What an asset she must have been to her vicar husband, thought Rebecca, slightly jealously. Was it purely an amazing character trait, or had she gradually learned through making mistakes? Was it a social talent or evidence of sanctifying grace? Rebecca thought of Elisha watching Elijah and his prayer, “Give me a double portion,” and prayed it for herself.

  It was with mixed feelings that Rebecca anticipated her forthcoming, and in fact any, visit to Biggenden Manor. Mrs. Sophia Thorpe had kindly invited her and her mother-in-law to afternoon tea. At least Mrs. Harrington would not be there, although it would have been amusing to see how she and Mother interacted. Armed with her mother-in-law, Rebecca felt almost sufficiently reinforced to take on the outspoken woman.

  Some sentences are hard to utter without smirking, and “Mrs. Harrington has gone to the South of France to recover her voice” was one of them. But Mrs. Harrington was not the only difficulty. Ever since they had met, Rebecca and Sophia had kept each other at arms’ length. They were as polite and respectful of each other as could be expected of any English lady, but there was no cordial warmth. Visits consisted of superficial pleasantries and polite manners but little more and were in the end rather unsatisfactory.

  Rebecca was unsure whether she wanted to expend energy on deepening their relationship or remain content with the status quo. She had read many good things about Sophia when in London—her visits and care for Benny and others in need, but even those had left her with mixed feelings. Instead of rejoicing in her kindness, Rebecca found herself questioning Sophia’s motives and, if she were honest, resentful of the villagers’ growing regard for Sophia. Rebecca knew that her reaction said more about herself than it did about Sophia. How could another woman, a pleasant woman at that, bring out the worst in her?

  The visit began, like any other, with pleasantries and politeness, bone china tea cups and cake. Bertie was presented to them. He was such a handsome little boy and had such a winning smile that their admiration of him was totally genuine. His mother beamed as they picked him up and fussed over him. Sophia’s face glowed with the love and devotion exclusive to motherhood.

  Eventually, the tea pot was drained, and only crumbs remained of the cake. With her head tilted and her voice full of interest and concern, Mrs. Hayworth senior asked, “Were you brought up in a Christian family, Mrs. Thorpe?”

  Sophia hesitated before replying, “I thought I was, but really it was only Christian in the sense that we went to church on Sunday and would have described ourselves as good Anglicans.” She paused and her listener nodded. “It wasn’t until I met Edward that I realised Christianity is much more than having a moral framework or a Sunday routine. Edward showed me that it should influence one’s whole life and outlook, during the week as well as on Sundays.” An encouraging nod allowed Sophia to continue. “It is a personal relationship with God.”

  “That’s right.”

  Sophia took a building brick from Bertie and fiddled with it. “That is what I really appreciate about Capford. Your son’s preaching is so clear and searching. He leaves us in no doubt about why we need salvation. Until I came here, I thought religion was just about doing good and being decent and upright. Through Revered Hayworth’s ministry, I have also seen my husband grow stronger spiritually.”

  “Are you growing, my dear?” asked Mrs. Hayworth gently.

  Sophia turned the brick around. “If I am, I am just a weak little blade of grass. Most plants grow, but I seem to grow then shrink, grow then shrink.”

  Mrs. Hayworth nodded sympathetically. “I think we all do that. But the Lord said faith is big even if it is as tiny as a mustard seed. It is not about the size of our faith, but where our faith is resting. We are weak, but the Lord Jesus is almighty.”

  “But my motives, even in spiritual things, can be so mixed.”

  “We carry a mixed heart with us right to the grave, my dear. The Lord Jesus doesn’t invite us to trust Him once we are sure of pure motivations. He invites us just as we are. Confess your struggles to Him. He knows them anyway.”


  “Why would He want me?”

  Rebecca could no longer keep quiet. With tears in her eyes, she exclaimed, “That is exactly what I keep asking myself—‘Why me?’—and the only satisfactory answer is because God is love—love itself. It is not about who we are but about who He is.”

  “And pride doesn’t like that,” added her mother-in-law. “We like to try and come up with a reason in ourselves why God should love us and want us, but there isn’t one. We can even proudly reject His love because we can’t understand it.”

  Sophia, as if she could not trust her voice, just nodded.

  “We should accept God’s love like little Bertie accepts yours—unquestioningly, trustingly.”

  Sophia nodded again. “Thank you . . . thank you,” she croaked.

  At that moment, the nursery maid came in to take Bertie away for his afternoon nap. Mrs. Hayworth got to her feet. “We had better be off, my dear.”

  Sophia rose too. “Well, thank you for coming. Please come again, and you too, Mrs. Hayworth—er—junior.” She laughed.

  “Please call me Rebecca.” The smile on her face was sincere.

  “And call me Sophia, like the rest of my friends do.”

  The two Mrs. Hayworths wandered home along the country lanes. The brisk north wind made their shawls flap and tugged at their bonnets.

  “What a lovely young lady!” Mrs. Hayworth said at last.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And what a beautiful baby.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Sometimes it must be hard for you.”

  Rebecca was shocked. “Why, I never complain, do I?”

  “No, you don’t. But wanting a baby is very natural for a woman, and it can be hard to wait. I waited four years for Jim, and they were probably the longest four years in my life.”

  Rebecca gazed into the far distance. “I long for a baby so much, maybe too much. For Jack’s sake, as much as for my own.”

  “It is hard not knowing why we have to wait, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” Rebecca stopped walking. “But it is even harder wondering if it is just waiting or whether the answer is a firm ‘No, never.’”