Dusters and Dreams

by Hannah Buckland

  Supper was totally forgotten that evening as the household’s actions revolved around the orphans. Goat’s milk was eventually procured and, with Uncle Hector’s old feeding cup, a small amount of fluid was reluctantly swallowed by the boys, though most of it was absorbed by their new clothes.

  That evening, in a rare moment of tranquility, Jack wondered aloud what their names might be. “The girl has said very little but calls both boys ‘baba,’ and when wanting something herself says ‘Gas gink’ or ‘Gas more.’”

  “Gas? However useful the discovery, who would call their daughter Gas?” asked Rebecca. “Maybe her name is Gladys? Grace? G—”

  “Grace!” exclaimed Jack. “It must be Grace.”

  “Hush!” protested Rebecca. “You’ll wake her up, Grace or no Grace. But we’ll try it on her later.”

  “And the lads? We can’t call them Baba One and Baba Two.”

  “David and Jonathan?”

  “Peter and Andrew?”

  “John and James?”

  They looked at the gaunt pair, lying together in fitful sleep.

  “As thin as they are, maybe one should be called Jeremiah,” said Jack.

  “They won’t always be so skinny,” Rebecca protested, gazing at them fondly. “Wait until they have a week’s worth of goat’s milk inside them.”

  “What was your father’s name?” asked Jack.

  “Thomas. And yours?”

  “Daniel.”

  “Tom and Dan. Perfect.”

  “And Thomas and Daniel on official occasions or when in serious trouble.”

  Rebecca couldn’t stop gazing at their innocent, tranquil faces, and she voiced her musings. “Do you know what is so amazing?”

  “What?”

  “There were just the right size clothes in the charity box. God was caring for these children long before we were.”

  A blanket chest was emptied out and transformed into a cot for Tom and Dan, and a little bed was made on the floor for Grace. These sleeping arrangements lasted all of two hours. Just as Jack and Rebecca were getting tired and ready for bed, the infants decided something was amiss and made their discontentment known loudly. The long night was punctuated with trips to the kitchen to warm up the milk and the honey jar; the changing of cloth rags (a more absorbent nappy arrangement was a priority the following day); and wandering around the bedroom singing lullabies that failed to lull. As the pale morning sun shone through the curtains, the exhausted new family lay sprawled on the bed together, finally fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 42

  FEELING EXHAUSTED AND DESPONDENT, REBECCA helped Hessie write a long shopping list of baby items. In the back of her mind, she wondered if Mr. Brocklehurst’s prediction of a week would prove to be correct. Maybe the shopping spree would be a waste of money.

  After another fraught day, Rebecca was pleased to welcome back Kitty with her big basket of shopping. A box of thick nappy squares had been delivered earlier. The basket seemed bottomless as more and more paper bags were pulled out. Safety pins, glass feeding bottles, rubber teats, calf teats, and feeding spoons. With renewed hope, Rebecca warmed yet more milk, praying that it would be ingested rather than soaked into clothing.

  Rebecca woke the next morning, bleary-eyed but bushy-tailed. At five o’clock in the morning, Dan had realised that sucking a calf’s teat was manageable and that goat’s milk was palatable. Having guzzled a whole bottle-full, the resulting hiccoughs had kept him and her awake for another half an hour, but that was a price worth paying. Tom was ahead of his brother in the discovery, but preferred the rubber teat; now their futures seemed more hopeful. The warning of “only a week” rang in her ears, but now she saw it as a challenge rather than a prediction. Mr. Brocklehurst had not calculated in the fact that God works miracles.

  The days and nights ran into each other as Rebecca and Hessie cared for the three needy children. Jack flitted in and out of the domestic scene. He continued his Whitechapel commitments as usual, but also spent much of his scarce free time in the garden shed with his carpentry tools making a cot and wooden bricks. Sometimes Rebecca became exasperated—surely feeding the hungry trio was of more importance than making building blocks! On pondering the situation, Rebecca concluded that, while the arrival of children changes a woman’s daily life completely, a man’s life can continue relatively untouched. Did she envy or pity men for this? Her answer changed on a daily, even hourly, basis.

  Rather against Hessie’s wishes, Rebecca requested a visit from the local physician to perform a medical examination of the children. His pronouncements were a mixed blessing. On one hand, he was helpful in trying to ascertain the age of the infants. As Dan and Tom were pulling themselves up to a standing position and shuffling about on their bottoms, he suggested they were about eight months old. Grace, he imagined, was about two and a half years.

  “Her lack of speech could indicate backwardness,” he added grimly. Packing his bag to leave, he concluded, “At present they look reasonably healthy—underweight, of course, but nothing too alarming or extreme. The trouble is, they may be harbouring diseases. Being from a presumably lower-class family, they are susceptible to a whole host of illnesses. It is not inconceivable that their mother died of consumption. They may be harbouring that, for instance. Only time will tell. I would strongly advise against close, prolonged contact with them, for your own safety. And, whatever else you choose to do, boil their soiled nappies and clean their bottles with boiling water.”

  Having thanked him for his advice, Rebecca ushered him out, then picked up each of the children and kissed them fondly.

  Rebecca marveled how three little children could create such chaos. Every day, more and more baby-related items were purchased, transforming the house from a bachelor pad into a family home. As the boys gained more energy (and they did every day), so did their thirst for exploration. Using anything to heave themselves up on their feet, they either pulled the object over, ending up in a heap on the floor, or succeeded in standing and headed for the next pull-able item. Anything breakable was either removed from the room or elevated to a higher position, away from little hands. Uncle Hector had collected very few china ornaments, but his numerous books were in danger of having pages ripped out or eaten. None would have felt the loss of these learned but boring tomes if they were ingested, but it did not feel quite right to let them come to such a sad end, so Jack moved the ones within reach to the trunk room.

  Dan rewarded anyone who spoke to him with wide, toothless smiles, and Tom chuckled uncontrollably at endless rounds of peek-a-boo. Whether it be day or night, appropriate or inappropriate, the boys’ thirst for fun was unquenchable. They loved being dandled, tickled, and flown through the air. Their faces beamed every time Jack entered the room as they anticipated a good-old rough-and-tumble. Pulling themselves onto their feet on his trouser legs, they vied for his attention. Rebecca couldn’t stop herself from smiling every time she looked at them. She smiled appreciatively at Jack too. When he played with the lads, he looked ten years younger.

  Grace, on the other hand, was most cautious. Perpetually on guard, she seldom allowed herself to play. Sitting solemnly on a chair, thumb in mouth, she sat watching the antics of her brothers. She rarely cried for herself but became acutely distressed if Dan or Tom was removed from the room. In fact, she was inconsolable until they were returned. Her care and concern was in no way reciprocated, for her brothers were too busy exploring their world to notice their sister’s unease.

  The boys were happy to be held, but Grace resisted. The only way to coax her onto one’s knee was to read a picture book. Almost against her better judgment, Grace would gradually come nearer, allow herself to be picked up, and sit—but only for the duration of the story. Rebecca longed to get through to Grace’s tiny, broken heart and lavish it with healing love.

  After a thorough cleaning operation and airing, Uncle Hector’s bedroom became the nursery. In the place of pride stood three beautiful wooden cots lovingly created by J
ack. The children were not as keen on the idea of the cots and the nursery as the adults, but after a week of protests and bedtime tantrums, a reasonable bedtime routine was established and the Hayworths regained the privacy of their bedroom. Auntie Hessie, having become a light sleeper in the course of her work, monitored the nursery during the night.

  Life developed a new kind of normality. Rebecca was unable to attend the soup kitchen, but Hessie continued to accompany Jack twice a week to apply her remedies and potions, which were always much in demand.

  Every evening before bed, Jack and Rebecca crept into the nursery to gaze at the sleeping infants. The boys’ innocent, angelic faces in sleep belied their mischievous daytime characters. In sleep, Grace enjoyed all the peace and tranquility that waking hours denied her.

  “So,” whispered Jack, “is this the start of the Hector Stubbs Memorial Orphanage?”

  He spoke in jest, but Rebecca recognised a serious element to the question. They were still trying to discern God’s will for their lives, and an orphanage now seemed a useful option.

  Rebecca did not reply until they had kissed the sleepers and returned to their own room.

  “I am getting less keen on the orphanage idea,” she said slowly.

  “It would be awfully hard work,” agreed Jack.

  “It isn’t just that.” Rebecca struggled to find the right words. “Orphanages do a good job. Some children thrive in them—the boys might. But Grace, she would grow physically, but she would never open up and flourish. She is like a closed little bud that needs tender nurturing if she is ever to open into a flower.”

  “Will she blossom?” asked Jack sadly.

  “I just hope and pray she will,” said Rebecca. “My heart bleeds for her sometimes. She is such a beautiful little bud that she will make a wonderful flower someday—I hope.”

  “I don’t think an orphanage is the thing for us, either,” Jack confessed as he undressed. “It would be a noble thing to do, and I admire anyone who undertakes such a project, but I just am not convinced that it is something we should be doing. I still think it is my calling to preach, and a house overflowing with children is hardly conducive to sermon preparation.”

  Rebecca’s breath was caught in her throat. “You’re not fed up with these children, are you?”

  “Of course not! I reckon I would fight to the death for them now, they have got me so much.”

  “Exactly.” Rebecca felt the same.

  “An orphanage seems too institutional for us—and for our three.”

  “I want them to be a family with us. A normal little family.”

  “Hear, hear! In fact, while I was at the South Kensington Workhouse today, I bumped into Mrs. Brocklehurst and asked her if she had heard any more about the poor mother’s history or if anyone had come enquiring after the children.”

  Rebecca trembled. “And?”

  “Nothing. No information. No enquiries. She seemed surprised that the children were still alive and kicking. I think she was pleased for us. I then went to the town hall to see the clerk who issues birth certificates and explained our situation.”

  “Oh.”

  “He said there is no more paperwork for taking on children than for taking in a stray dog.”

  Rebecca frowned. “How odd.”

  “He said that some countries like America have adoption laws and whatnot, but there is nothing official over here. He also said that birth certificates aren’t compulsory, so it doesn’t matter that the children don’t have one.” Jack met Rebecca’s frown with one of his own. “I got the distinct impression that the government doesn’t care a ha’penny for orphans, and people can do what they like with them. They are totally surplus to requirements in the world’s eyes.”

  Lifting her chin, Rebecca said, “Then we will keep ours.”

  “Yes, and call them little Hayworths, and no one will be any the wiser.”

  “But, I would feel a bit safer if we were out of London and untraceable to anyone who might claim them.”

  “If their poor mother had had anywhere else to go to or anyone else to help her, she would not have gone to the workhouse. The workhouse is everyone’s last resort. I don’t think we need worry.”

  “I probably will, though.” Rebecca sighed as she climbed into bed.

  “I know God has given them to us, Rebecca, so we shouldn’t worry.”

  Rebecca did not reply. She wanted to agree, but she could not help thinking of poor Job in the Old Testament and his great losses. He said, “The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord.” God had given her children only a few weeks ago, but her love for them was already rooted so deeply in her heart that she could not imagine being able to emulate Job if they were taken away.

  Jack blew out the candle and rolled toward her to say goodnight.

  “Do you think our many prayers for children have been answered?” asked Rebecca as she snuggled into his arms.

  “I certainly do.” Jack kissed her forehead. “Abundantly answered.”

  “I once heard a good minister say that God answers prayer by either giving you what you ask for or giving something better, and I now think he was actually right.”

  “Of course, he was right. Aren’t I always?” teased Jack.

  “Good thing you’re so humble.” Rebecca tickled his ribs and laughed as he yelped.

  CHAPTER 43

  EVEN THOUGH HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW was staying, Edward was pleased to be heading indoors. The chilly northeasterly wind and icy rain were even more biting than Mrs. Harrington’s ridiculous comments—but she was not quite so relentless . . .

  Edward was amazed at the uncomplaining toughness of his workforce who were exposed to the raw elements all day, fencing or tree planting. With hay stuffed in their boots and wearing waxed trousers for warmth, as well as multiple layers of clothing, they moved awkwardly, like living scarecrows.

  Who would choose to be a farm labourer? Maybe no one did choose—fourteen-year-old boys did what their fathers told them and followed in their laborious footsteps. Once a man had been given a tied cottage to live in, he was bound to the farm as long as he wanted a roof over his head. Tied cottage, tied worker. Edward admired Joe’s decision to break loose and risk all for independence. He smiled as he thought of Joe’s shrewdness. He was far too savvy to stay a farmhand all his life. With his practical wit, he would battle his way through any challenges of the new frontier. If he didn’t succeed in farming, Edward imagined him selling superior totem poles to the Red Indians.

  Leaving his dripping outerwear in the hall, Edward headed toward the parlour. Before entering he ran his fingers through his damp hair in a vain attempt to look groomed. As he sat by the warm fire, his wet trousers began to steam.

  “I hardly think your trousers are suitable attire for the parlour,” Mrs. Harrington said with a sniff, wrinkling up her delicate nose. “And if I am not mistaken, they are giving off a distinctly pig-sty odour.”

  “Shall I remove them, then?” asked Edward, standing up and reaching for his buttons.

  “Edward, don’t provoke,” said Sophia, unsuccessfully stifling a laugh.

  “Pecunia non olet,” Edward muttered as he sat down again and waited for his coffee. Money does not stink.

  The coffee pot and its aroma distracted Mrs. Harrington’s attention nicely. But as soon as her mouth was not otherwise engaged, Edward’s mother-in-law recommenced talking.

  “As I was saying, I’m rather shocked at the Hayworths.” She piously nibbled at a biscuit before continuing. “It almost seems to be going against providence. If nature has decreed a woman to be childless, what right does she have to take the matter into her own hands?”

  “They would argue the exact opposite, mother,” said Sophia. “They believe the Lord has brought the children directly onto their path. Maybe they were unable to have children so that these ones would be provided with a loving home. I think it is lovely, and actually—” she turned to face Edward, “I was wondering
if we could invite them down for Christmas and New Year? Little Dan is suffering with the smoggy London weather.”

  “What a good idea!” agreed Edward. “Then Jack could preach at the services.”

  “Invite them to stay here?” Mrs. Harrington put down her cup and saucer in disgust. “Here—at Biggenden Manor?”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “I think that is most unwise. Potentially subjecting yourself, in your expectant condition, and dear little Bertie, to workhouse germs would be folly. Gross folly!”

  “I am sure they have been thoroughly fumigated,” Edward said wryly.

  “This is a serious matter, young man!” snapped the matriarch. “To put your son and unborn child at risk of paupers’ illnesses is not amusing.”

  Edward raised his brow. “Are upper-class illnesses more desirable?”

  “I will not be diverted into an argument of metaphysical speculation,” she said, wagging her finger pointedly. “Once again, I am forced to sit and watch you ignore the long-held and beneficial principles of clear class divides and come up with some madcap plan. If it isn’t your tin chapel or your women’s meetings, you invite any old riff-raff to stay.”

  “Jack and Rebecca aren’t riff-raff, Mother.”

  “Well, all I will say is that if you go ahead with your ridiculous idea, I will not stay. Your brother has invited us to celebrate Christmas with them, and I am minded to accept the offer.”

  “That is a loss that we will bravely bear,” Edward observed under his breath.

  On Sunday while speaking to Mr. Brookes and Mr. Grey, Edward discussed the idea of inviting Reverend Jack Hayworth to preach over the festive season. Both men were delighted by the idea, since the church had survived on a diet of prayer meetings and reading sermons for a number of months. To have an actual preacher to conduct the service would be a luxury—and far less work. And for said preacher to be Jack seemed a dream.

  “But what would the Bishop of Maidstone say?” asked the ever-cautious Mr. Grey.

  “We are an independent church, Hayworth is an independent individual, and we and he can do as we please. Anyway, according to my wife, Hayworth received a letter from his bishop in which he more or less apologised for the unfortunate situation in Capford, but also saying that his hands are tied as Wilson holds the purse-strings.”