Uncle Hector, my father’s one and only sibling, but with whom he had nothing in common, took over funeral arrangements and stayed in the village for a week to help sort out my parents’ affairs. He informed Mrs. Brown that he wanted to take me back to London with him, but I was well enough to realise that this would be an awful prospect.
“Please, Mrs. Brown, don’t make me! I don’t want to live in a stuffy town house in the middle of London where I know no one except awful Uncle Hector.”
“But what is so awful about ’im, my dear?” asked Mrs. Brown. “He seems a very obliging man to me.”
“He never spoke one good word about Pa, always belittling him and his work in the parish and always boasting about his own achievements in local government.”
“’E must be a clever man.”
“Humph, only in his own opinion! And then I would have to accompany him to Bath, Ramsgate, or Tunbridge Wells for him to drink the waters or inhale the sea air for his much talked about and fussed-over chest complaint.”
“So you would meet lots of wealthy people.”
“But they are not my type!”
“And ’e be rich, and you will lack for nothing,” continued Mrs. Brown.
“I will lack! I will lack Pemfield, I will lack my old friends, and I will lack you,” I cried. “Oh please, don’t make me go! I won’t be a nuisance here, I promise.”
“Then you will stay, my child, and I am right glad you want to,” said Mrs. Brown as she hugged me tight.
So Mrs. Brown somehow persuaded Uncle Hector that I would be better off among old friends and in familiar surroundings and he returned alone—probably much relieved—to London.
I regained my physical well-being, but my emotions were in turmoil. I felt guilty for letting Pa work himself to death, for not nursing Ma more expertly, and for not dying myself. I felt let down by the Lord, Who allowed all this to happen to me and then I felt guilty for feeling such rebellion. I could not understand what God was doing to me, yet I clung to Him as my only hope of recovery. I knew that He never gave Job an explanation for what happened in his life and He was under no obligation to give me one either.
I missed my parents and our life together so much that it was a physical ache. I found some comfort in the text “Underneath are the everlasting arms,” as support was promised however low I sank. I desperately wished I had a sibling for comfort with whom I could reminisce about home life and share old stories and jokes. But I was an only child, due to the fact that my parents met comparatively late in life.
Ma had been the local school mistress and was secretly seen by the locals as too old-fashioned and religious to ever marry. She had come to the same conclusion herself and had tried to bury the sadness it gave her by being a diligent and kind teacher to all children that came to her small school. She had been well liked and respected by both pupils and parents alike. The elderly vicar of the village retired to live with his daughter in Sussex, and my father became the new incumbent. His evangelical zeal came as a surprise to the villagers who had been used to a vicar who worked only on the Lord’s Day. He began giving a Bible lesson once a week at the school and soon recognised Ma’s virtues. Before long the pair started walking out and then married.
The rather reserved school mistress blossomed into a smiley and friendly vicar’s wife, showing a side of her that had been kept under wraps for many years. My father’s monkish establishment was transformed to a regulated and loving household. At last he had found a companion to share his dreams and sorrows, and to laugh with him about the various foibles of his parishioners. To my parents, marriage was an unexpected blessing, and the subsequent arrival of a baby was their cup running over.
But now the cosy union of this trio was severed and I was left alone. Mrs. Brown kindly listened to my tearful, incoherent recollections of daily life and held me in her arms as I ended up sobbing. She decided it would be best if I went to stay with her in her little cottage and I reluctantly agreed. From there she could carry on her normal daily routine and mother me as best as she could. With tender intuition she gave me time to grieve but also involved me in her chores and socialising as she felt appropriate, so I was not left to sink into the whirling pool of my own thoughts and sorrows.
Miss Miller, the school mistress, frequently called around in the evenings to chat about her day, invite me for a walk or invent some other way of distracting me from my grief. Miss Miller and I had not always enjoyed a good relationship: when I first started school Miss Miller seemed to demand a higher standard of behaviour from a vicar’s daughter. I was supposed to be a beacon of virtue and an example to other girls, but instead I behaved just like the rest of them. Thanks to Ma’s teaching, I found the work rather easy, so had plenty of time to draw silly pictures (often of Miss Miller) on my slate and share them with my row of friends. More than once I was caught and had my knuckles severely whacked. But as the work became more demanding I began to appreciate Miss Miller’s knowledge.
My best friend Bessie left school at the age of fourteen to help on her family farm, but my parents thought that I should stay in schooling longer and learn as much as possible. By this time I was enjoying the challenge of studying and, due to a common interest in geography, had a better relationship with Miss Miller. Each morning I helped her teach the infants and then in the afternoon continued my studies independently. Seeing the little ones progress from total ignorance of their ABCs to reading and writing at a reasonable level was rewarding, but it required such repetition and patience that I vowed never to become a governess or school mistress.
This classroom arrangement lasted only a year, for Ma’s rheumatism had progressed at an alarmingly rapid pace, and it was decided that I should stay at home to care for her and the household. This I did willingly, and much to our relief, Ma’s condition stabilised. Miss Miller continued her contact with the family by having tea with us once a week and amusing us with surprisingly witty tales from the classroom. She kept herself aloof from the villagers and lived a very solitary life but enjoyed a warm friendship with my parents and appreciated Pa’s preaching. Whether out of compassion for me or a sense of indebtedness to my parents, Miss Miller made it her job to support me, and she proved a good friend and an excellent shoulder to cry on.
I gained great comfort from the many letters of condolence I received. Various villagers and even people I had never met wrote to me, expressing their gratitude for my parents’ kindness and generosity; they paid tribute to my parents’ thoughtfulness and the usefulness of my father’s ministry. Pa had been very quick to see where there was a need and quietly supplied what was lacking: a bag of coal, a bottle of tonic, or in one case, a pair of working boots. As I read of how my parents had touched so many lives with their kind words and gifts, I felt privileged and thankful to have been their daughter. I had been greatly blessed in having these two loving people nurture me to adulthood and instill in me some of their values and beliefs. The letters helped me begin to slowly acknowledge that “the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Mrs. Brown and I realised that sooner or later a new vicar would be appointed, and the vicarage would need vacating. We set about this task in a business-like manner, enlisting Miss Miller to help. I allowed myself to keep only small mementos and books as I had nowhere to store bigger items. All our furniture was sold at an auction. I could not bring myself to go and watch the familiar, old items being inspected and prodded by strangers who had no idea of their preciousness. The furniture was neither new nor antique and therefore worth very little in monetary terms. Mrs. Brown insisted in going to the auction to make sure “all was above board.”
While the auction got underway, Miss Miller took me off to draper’s shop to buy a length of material for a new spring dress. We were soon engrossed in comparing various yards of beautifully-printed cloth, enjoying the unique smell of fresh cotton, and were almost able to forget that my family furniture was under the hammer. We finally emerged
from the draper’s, each triumphantly hugging a parcel of material, thread, and buttons, ready to begin our new sewing projects. When Mrs. Brown was satisfied that all had been done decently and in order (apparently she had stood, arms folded, near the auctioneer, giving all who dared bid disapproving stares, as if they were trying to get something for nothing), she joined us for a cup of tea and piece of cake at the Tea Rooms. The auction had gone “as well as could be expected” and had generated a small profit, once the auctioneer had claimed his hefty fee.
After all my parents’ goods and chattels had been sold and their savings calculated, it was found that I was the heiress to a modest inheritance. I had imagined that the smallness of Pa’s stipend, matched with the largesse of his Christian charity, meant he never had any money to save, so I was pleasantly surprised. Now I had a new dilemma of knowing what to do with the money and my life. I could live off the money for about four years and then find a way of earning my keep, or I could deposit the money and start work as soon as possible.
CHAPTER 2
DURING THE FIRST FEW MONTHS following my bereavement, the quiet life with Mrs. Brown suited me very well, but after that I began to feel restless and ready to stretch my wings. I wanted to leave Pemfield, meet new people and, most of all, earn my own living. I was anxious not to become a burden to Mrs. Brown or an object of pity to those I met with. I broached the subject with Mrs. Brown one evening.
“Mrs. Brown, I think it is time I got a job.”
“Why, my dear? You are busy enough ’ere with me.”
“I mean one where I could earn a living.”
“Then ask in the village, but there ain’t much for a girl around ’ere.”
“I mean a job away from Pemfield.”
“Now, why would you want to leave dear old Pemfield, my child?”
“To stretch my wings a bit and be independent.”
“And what do you have in mind?” she asked cautiously.
“Someone offering board and lodging,” I replied. I could tell Mrs. Brown was hurt and puzzled.
“Maybe domestic service,” I continued.
“You would make a good cook,” she ventured.
“But kitchens in big houses are normally below ground level. I would feel like a holed-up rabbit.”
“With your nice up-bringing, you would make a good lady’s maid.”
“But I would have to agree with all the lady’s views and keep mine to myself!”
“Well then, what about an ’ousemaid? Your ma certainly made sure you know how to clean. I remember all those times you rushed through your chores, and your ma caught you just as you were escaping through the door to play with Bessie. She called you ‘Slap dash’ and made you do them all over again properly!”
We laughed together at this, and that is how it was decided that I should look for a housemaid’s position. I wanted the Lord to guide me to the right household and prayed that He would open up a suitable door for me.
I bought The Morning Post and intently studied the “Situations Available” pages. I wrote to various housekeepers in reply to adverts, but my inexperience seemed to go against me, and I received many polite refusals. At seventeen years of age, I was probably considered too old and unmalleable to be a suitable servant. Mrs. Brown could not hide her satisfaction as refusal followed refusal, maintaining that domestic service was beneath a vicar’s daughter; but I, knowing that my parents never looked down on hard work and being ignorant of what the job might entail, continued to hope. Then one day a new advert appeared, one for a housemaid for a large household at Barton Manor, East Sussex. The place name rang a bell with me as Pa had known the vicar there, many years ago, and esteemed him highly for his evangelical preaching. This seemed ideal, and as I wrote to the housekeeper, I prayed that this would prove to be the right post for me.
About a fortnight later I received the reply, and to my delight and Mrs. Brown’s dismay, the housekeeper of Barton Manor requested my presence for an interview in a week’s time. I should be prepared to stay on after the interview, if deemed suitable, in order to start work immediately. My excitement at the imminence of my new adventure was only matched by Mrs. Brown’s disappointment. I felt sorry that I was clearly going against her wishes, but knew I needed to start ploughing my own furrow in life.
I wanted to give Mrs. Brown a sum of money as a thank-you gift for all her love, support, and hospitality to me over the past half a year, but of course she would not hear of it. After some thought, I visited the butcher and the baker, put in a small weekly order for her, and paid ahead for a year. The first delivery would arrive after I had left the village. I hoped this would help to stretch her limited income and lessen her burden.
I had only a week to pack my belongings, finish making my new spring dress, and say good-bye to my dear friends, including Bessie. We had not seen much of each other for a few months due to her all-consuming romance with the blacksmith’s son, Rob. She had made many errands to the blacksmith for her father, but on one occasion whilst waiting for Rob to repair her pruning hook, she got too close. As Rob stoked the fire, a hot coal shot toward her and landed on her skirt. Rob saw the situation and flung a bucketful of icy water over the skirt, causing a shocked, shivering, and soaking Bessie. Her forlorn state seemed to touch his heart, so he handed over his work to another man and took her home to dry by the fire and have a reviving cup of tea. During that informal tea break in the blacksmith’s kitchen, it was decided between them that they should meet up more often. Thus a new romantic attachment was formed. She was now excitedly preparing for marriage but was at a loss regarding how to communicate with me over my parents’ deaths. Our friendship seemed to be slipping away as our paths divided.
As the week quickly sped by, my excitement turned to nervousness, and I began to have cold feet. I wondered why I had ever thought of leaving the only friends I had ever known and my village, full of happy memories. I visited the church and sat silently weeping in our old family pew, almost hearing and seeing Pa in the pulpit.
Oh my dear pa, he had been so helpful to me and so wise in dealing with my spiritual struggles. For a few years I had been a little Pharisee, thinking I (being a decent and respectable citizen) was good enough for God, but Pa’s sermon on the text “I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance” hit me powerfully. I gradually realised I was despising God’s one and only way of salvation—the gift of His eternal Son the Lord Jesus. As Pa read John 3:16, “For God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life” and then later verse 18, “He that believeth on him is not condemned; but he that believeth not is condemned already because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten son of God,” I realised that the greatest sin in all the world is not murder or committing some other gory crime, but not to believe and trust in Jesus Christ as the one and only Saviour of sinners. I pleaded with God to forgive my sins of unbelief and self-righteousness and asked Jesus to come into my heart.
Then one Easter, when I was fourteen years old, during the Good Friday service on the crucifixion, I was struck by how loving Jesus Christ was, to die a death He did not deserve and take our punishment for sin. I knew that my sins added to the heavy load He was bearing and my heart was filled with love and gratitude to Him. Now I knew He was my Saviour; that He had taken my punishment for me and that I no longer had to face condemnation and hell. I had done nothing—He had done everything.
I knew He was strong and trustworthy enough to look after my soul for ever, and without a great thunder bolt from heaven or amazing religious experience, I just relaxed my weary soul onto Christ. My relief at having my inward struggle resolved was clear to my parents, and they were overjoyed.
I was keen to be confirmed and to declare my faith in Christ; when the day, a few months later, finally arrived, I hoped for a real sense of the Holy Spirit in my soul, confirming the step and filling me with joy and peace, but I felt absolutely
nothing. I went through the motions, but inside I was as unfeeling as the pew I sat on. I thought more about my new gown and shoes than my God and Saviour. I was very disappointed and worried that I had been mistaken, but when I confided in Pa he assured me it was not unusual, and that we have to learn to trust God’s unchanging Word more than our changing emotions. Oh how much I missed my dear parents’ wisdom and prayers. I wondered how I could carry on without their wise, practical advice and their cheerful Christian example.
Then I visited our old garden (the forlorn vicarage now being locked and empty). So many happy hours had been spent there weeding the flower beds with Ma or harvesting the knobbly potatoes with Pa. I dug up Ma’s favourite rose bush and transferred it to her and Pa’s grave. The old cherry tree was just beginning to bloom, so I took some flowers to press and dry, and to keep forever in our old family Bible.
During that busy week, I walked around my favourite fields and paths. Pemfield village was situated on the Greensand Ridge, a gentle escarpment overlooking the beautiful Medway Valley, and my favourite paths were the ones offering an extensive view of the woods and fields below. I drank in the familiar sights and smells: the stream through the village that Bessie and I had dammed up so many times, the trees we had fallen out of, the bracken covered slopes we had made dens in, and the paths we had cartwheeled along. I gazed at oast houses, bare hop gardens, orchards, and meadows of Romney sheep and their skipping lambs. The scenes I had taken for granted all my life now seemed so beautiful and precious. I did not know when I would see them again, and I wanted to have a clear picture of them in my mind’s eye as I travelled out of Kent for the first time. The thought that I would not be around to see spring turn into summer nearly brought fresh tears to my eyes, but I reminded myself that the seasons change even in remote East Sussex.
Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 2