“What a tangled business!” Mr. Brookes nodded his head. “Let’s invite the lad down, and his response is his responsibility, but I for one will be right glad to hear him again.”
The following Sunday, Edward was able to announce that Reverend Jack Hayworth had agreed to conduct the Christmas morning service, the New Year’s Day service, and preach twice on the Sunday in between. A ripple of approval flowed through the congregation as they silently showed their satisfaction by smiles and nods while they found the next hymn. Edward never found public speaking easy and dreaded it when it was his turn to read the sermon. His voice became unnaturally high-pitched and breathless. He had to force himself to slow down instead of galloping through the paragraphs as if the final amen was the finishing post of a race. In the privacy of their home, Sophia aided him as his critic and tutor in the art of expressive and engaging public speaking. After each service, Edward received such warm expressions of appreciation from the congregation that the dreaded duty of choosing and reading the sermon seemed a privilege. In his weakness, he also felt the Lord’s strength and support.
Locking up the new chapel after the afternoon service and wandering back to Biggenden, Edward’s heart swelled with gratitude to his Saviour and King. He had read a sermon on the longsuffering and steadfast love of God, and the phrase aptly described the Lord’s kind dealings with him personally: in spite of his own faltering faith and half-hearted commitment, the Lord had been boundless in mercy and grace. Everything he had to give to the Lord was tainted with sin and mixed motives. Yet even these filthy rags of his own good works were completely covered with the perfect righteousness of Christ.
Although his life was now busier than ever with estate responsibilities, church duties, household concerns, and financial worries, Edward was at peace. As he walked down the Biggenden drive, he found himself humming the last hymn, which expressed his thoughts exactly.
Oh, bless the Lord, my soul!
Let all within me join
And aid my tongue to bless His name
Whose favours are divine.
Oh, bless the Lord, my soul,
Nor let His mercies lie
Forgotten in unthankfulness
And without praises die!
CHAPTER 44
VIOLET STARED AT JOE IN delight and amazement.
“Jack Hayworth to marry us?”
“Yes. When I heard he was coming for Christmas, I thought I might as well drop him a line and ask if he could squeeze that in during his trip to the country.”
“Wonderful! That sorts out the problem then.”
“Exactly. He wrote back saying he would be delighted. But he wasn’t sure if it would be against some sort of rule for him to conduct the service in the old church or new chapel, so he would prefer to do it in your parents’ front room.”
Violet beamed with joy. “Home weddings are so cosy.”
Although they had a license to marry, the couple had postponed their wedding for months due to a lack of available and suitably licensed men to carry out the formalities. Reverend Wilson was out of the question, as was his fee. It was unseemly for them to meet alone in their stable rooms, and the cold, wet weather made a wheelbarrow rendezvous impossible. Joe and Violet longed to be lawfully wedded, able to be together in comfort and warmth, in the privacy of their own home.
“He will do it next Thursday, if we can get the day off.”
“Next week?”
“It means we will be married before Christmas.”
“I can’t take Christmas off! Mrs. Thorpe will still need dressing. Even more so for Christmas!”
“You make her sound like a Christmas goose! You dress ’er and Molly can stuff ’er.” Joe clearly thought his remarks were clever. “Anyway, she won’t take all day to dress. And you can cook me my breakfast before you go.”
Violet rested her head on Joe’s shoulder. Nothing could be more wonderful than waking up next to Joe on Christmas Day and making his breakfast porridge on their little stove. Her heart glowed as she imagined the scene—for her and her very own husband!
“Come on,” she said, jumping up and pulling him to his feet. “We had better tell Ma and then watch her become a whirling flurry of action and ideas.”
Within half an hour, Mrs. Brookes was busy organising the details of the day. The well-laced Christmas cake would be metamorphosed into a wedding cake and with a little extra lace, Violet’s new Sunday frock would become a wedding dress. Mr. Brookes talked through which furniture could be removed and where extra chairs could be placed to allow for the maximum number of guests. Mrs. Brookes found a suitable coffee table and lace cloth on which Jack’s Bible and service book could be placed.
Violet felt butterflies of excitement as she imagined the ceremony taking place among the sagging old armchairs, on the worn and faded carpet, with the non-descript paintings on the wall, all of which had been reassuringly present all her life. She thought of traveling to Canada in April, of trekking through unknown valleys and of setting up home in some remote spot; and all the while the old front room of her parents’ cottage would remain exactly the same—and rightly so. One’s family home should be immune to all change, especially when one has moved out.
“A penny for your thoughts,” whispered Joe, breaking into her contemplations.
“I was just thinking how this room has always been the same throughout my lifetime and how hopefully it will always stay the same. The sameness will be reassuring when we are so far away.”
“Are you getting cold feet?”
“Not at all! I am ready for an adventure—as long as I am with you.”
Joe wrapped his arm around her waist.
“And now that the voyage is only seven to ten days with the new steamers, we can dream of coming back to visit. With the penny-post, a network of railroads, and steamers, the world seems to be shrinking.”
Joe escorted his bride-to-be back to Biggenden Manor for her evening duties. The rain clouds had dispersed, leaving the night sky clear. Tarrying along the path, they gazed up to the heavens.
“Remember stargazing back in lambing season?” asked Joe.
“How could I forget?”
“Stars always seem to preach a sermon, don’t they?”
“Yes, of our smallness.”
“And God’s greatness.”
“And His faithfulness.”
“I am pleased we will see the same sermon in the Canadian sky.”
To Violet, the following six days felt all topsy-turvy and surreal. She wanted to be with her bridegroom-to-be, but hardly had a moment to spare for meeting him. The manor house was occupied by two women, both of whom she had served and one of whom used to be the housekeeper in the building where she was now an honoured guest.
It was a relief to all that Mrs. Harrington had carried out her threat and made a haughty departure. The Hayworths were by no means demanding guests, but all visitors produce more work, especially if there are six of them. No one had yet explained the maxim “Children should be seen and not heard” to the three young Hayworths who, unsettled by the change of scenery, frequently and loudly voiced their displeasure. Hessie Haynes spent most of her time in the nursery or in the farmyard with the twin boys. Grace, being even more perplexed by the move, clung to her new mother. Violet thought her clinginess must be a burden to Mrs. Hayworth, but apparently it was seen as a great step forward in Grace’s bonding process.
One activity that brought smiles to little Grace’s otherwise solemn face was feeding the ducks and hens in the backyard. Any mention of feeding time made her clap for joy, wriggle off her mother’s knee, and toddle after the one responsible for feeding the poultry —usually Clara. Mrs. Thorpe had presented her with a pretty, pink-cheeked rag doll, and ever since Grace had carried it with her wherever she went. Her brown eyes looked deeply into its French knot eyes as she kissed and caressed its smiley (and increasingly grimy) face. By playing with and talking to the dolly, Rebecca had been able to engage Grace in play
and conversation, previously impossible. Everyone was delighted.
When Violet was not involved in the activities at Biggenden Manor, she popped in and out of the stable attic to clean out the cobwebs, sweep the floor, and air the rooms. Once it was all to her satisfaction, she lit the small stove to dispel the dampness. It gave her a strange thrill to see Joe’s clothes neatly stacked in the wardrobe and to put hers alongside. It felt even stranger making up the marital bed. Carrying jugs of water from the stable yard pump up to the kettle made her realise how impractical the arrangements really were. Hopefully the novelty of keeping house would not wear off once they moved on—at the end of the lambing season. Anyway, with a little womanly guile, Violet reckoned she could persuade Joe that the hauling of logs and drawing of water was men’s work.
Violet had hoped to assist her mother with the baking and other preparations for the wedding ceremony, but duty did not allow for such things. She had no doubt that her capable mother and married sisters would manage without her, but Violet wished she could be there to give her opinion on various arrangements. Not that they would listen to her anyway, if her wishes went against the general consensus. Violet had seen her female relatives in wedding-mode before and knew that their combined force was well able to steamroll over something as trifling as the bride’s opinion. The Brookes family had a certain way of doing weddings, and that was that. Maybe, she decided, it was for the best that she was absent. It would save arguments. Let them do things their own sweet way— she would be the one walking off on the arm of Joe by the end of the day.
With great generosity of spirit, Mrs. Thorpe insisted that Violet have two nights off from her normal duties. Whether she wanted to or not, Violet was to spend her last night as a single woman under her parents’ roof. This was something Violet very much wanted, so she failed to put up even polite resistance to her mistress’s instructions. Neither woman thought it was at all unreasonable that Violet was expected back the morning after her wedding night to serve her mistress’s customary cup of tea in bed.
The mixed aromas of baked bread and furniture polish hit Violet as she entered her parents’ cottage that Wednesday evening. Joe was expected anytime, so before she had even been offered a bite to eat, Violet was rushed upstairs to try on her prettied-up dress. Looking at herself in the mirror, Violet was satisfied that the following day, with her hair properly dressed by Clara and with her new bonnet, she would look stunning.
Her mother merely said, “You’ll do,”—but her eyes told a more generous and tender story.
Violet always imagined that one’s wedding eve would be a uniquely special occasion, filled with nostalgic reminiscing and sound parental advice. She was rather annoyed that Joe and her father were treating it like a normal humdrum evening. Sitting in front of the fire, warming their stockinged feet on the rug mat, and drinking cider, they were discussing, instead of matrimonial matters, the likelihood of the Hayworths returning to Capford.
“Everyone wants ’im back,” her father observed.
“With their new wealth, they can do what they want.”
“Country life would be better for the children,” said Mrs. Brookes with a knowing nod.
“I thought ’e were wedded to the work for the poor Londoners, but I had a chat with ’im in the lane today, and ’e said te work was nice, but that Londoners respond better to their own kind.”
“Reverend Hayworth is our kind,” put in Joe.
“That be true,” agreed Mr. Brookes. “Seeing ’im today, wandering down the muddy lanes, ’e looked as ’appy as a sand-boy.”
“And with those three children, Mrs. Hayworth looks so content now,” said Violet. “She is a lovely mother.”
“Of course she is,” replied Mrs. Brookes. “We all knew she would be a great mother.”
The conversation wandered from the Hayworths to Christmas, from Christmas to the weather, and from the bland to the mundane. Violet wanted her parents to retire to bed, but the more she wished them gone, the longer they talked.
Finally, Joe stood up. “I’d better be off—I’ve got an important job on t’morrow.”
“That you ’ave, my lad. That you ’ave,” said Mr. Brookes with a twinkle in his eye.
Violet followed him out, and they embraced on the doorstep.
“That is the last kiss I will give to Violet Brookes,” said Joe.
Violet smiled up at her man. “I hope you will have plenty for Mrs. Joe Mason.” A serious thought came to her, and she asked, “Do you think Reverend Hayworth will say ‘You may now kiss the bride’?”
“I don’t know. Somehow I doubt it—but I will anyway. I won’t need anyone’s permission to kiss my own wife.”
“You wouldn’t dare—not during the service.”
“See if I don’t!” And with a wink, he was gone.
CHAPTER 45
HER LITTLE BEDROOM FELT CROWDED when Molly and Clara arrived. With nervous giggles and some warmhearted teasing, they helped Violet prepare.
“Don’t tug the strings so hard!” Violet gasped as Clara yanked her corset tighter. “I need enough breath to say my vows.”
“Tie the strings up in knots what’ll take Joe all night to undo,” suggested Molly.
“Don’t you dare!” Violet blushed. “He’d probably take his pen-knife to it. And corset ties are expensive; we can’t be having that sort of expense.”
“That sort of expense—Don’t she talk like an old married woman already?”
Once Violet was arrayed in her beautiful wedding dress, Clara set to work on her golden locks. Various elaborate styles were attempted, but none were suitable for accommodating a bonnet.
“I can’t have my bonnet perching on my head like a ridiculous after-thought,” Violet moaned, beginning to feel anxious. “Hurry up, time’s running out!”
“Let’s have a nice, demure roll at the nape of your neck.”
“Joe likes that,” Violet said.
“Now, ya tell us!”
From downstairs, the clinking of cups and saucers and the hubbub of her sisters’ excited voices could be heard. In the marital bedroom, Mr. Brookes grumbled about his top button and stiff collar.
“Leave it to me,” ordered his wife. “And I suppose you want me to knot your tie too?’’
“Of course. Why else did I marry you?”
Violet smiled wryly. How many times had she heard that one? It was all very well for her parents, but she hoped Joe would never become quite so predictable.
Molly and Clara pulled back the curtains and peered out the tiny bedroom window to watch the guests arrive. Their warm breath fogged up the cold glass as they elbowed each other for a better view.
“Here comes ponderous Mr. Grey, his wife on his arm, talking ten to the dozen.”
“Why were they invited?” asked Violet, feeling put out.
Molly glanced back at Violet. “I suppose they had to be, seeing as Mrs. Grey volunteered to make some of the sandwiches.”
Violet wanted to get a good view too, but it seemed undignified for a bride to show her face out of a bedroom window, and anyway, her outfit might get crushed.
“And here comes a gaggle of your nephews and nieces, almost colliding with the Greys,” Clara said.
“Runny noses?”
“Can’t see from here.”
“There are your in-laws-to-be, trying to hide their disapproval behind friendly smiles,” Molly teased.
“Here comes the minister, the man responsible for pronouncing you man and wife. His missus is looking very nice, with little Grace in a sweet little lace bonnet and dragging her dolly.”
“Now Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe are opening the garden gate. She looks as stunning as ever.” Molly quickly turned to Violet. “Nowhere near as stunning as you, I hasten to add.”
“And here is the handsome bridegroom himself!” announced Clara, dramatically drawing the curtains together. “No peeping, Vi!”
“He’s just turned on his heels and fled,” teased Molly from behind the
curtains.
The three girls giggled.
“Keep quiet,” Violet said anxiously. “The guests are coming inside. You had better go down too.”
Violet was pleased to be alone. She perched on the side of her bed and prayed. Her heart was full of gratitude to the Lord for His abundant mercy to her, and she beseeched Him for His presence to continue with her in the new phase of life she was about to begin.
After a while the hum of quiet conversation turned to silence. The creaking of the wooden stairs indicated that her father was coming up to escort her down. Violet stood up and straightened her skirts. Her composure almost faltered when she opened her door and saw the tender look in her father’s eyes. He must have realised, for he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and said, “Let’s show ’em, gal,” before leading her down the narrow staircase.
Squeezing their way between the large, hooped skirts of their guests, Violet and her father reached the fireplace. There, waiting on each side of the coffee table were two smartly dressed men. Reverend Jack Hayworth looked formal and dignified, and Joe appeared abnormally official in his stiff new suit and shiny boots. As handsome as he looked, Violet preferred him in work clothes and an open-necked shirt. This fleeting thought vanished completely when he stepped forward to meet her and shot her a reassuringly cheeky grin. Joe would always be Joe, however trussed up in a formal suit!
Standing on the worn, faded hearth rug, surrounded by friends and family and in the sight of God, Joe and Violet exchanged their marriage vows. As predicted, after pronouncing them man and wife, Jack, being of an older generation, omitted the permission to kiss. But as promised, Joe took the matter into his own hands, pulled his bride to him, and landed a kiss on her lips. There was a moment of awkward silence when the gathered party did not know whether to clap or tut. Mr. Brookes saved the day by striking up the Doxology.
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