Nancy knew nothing about her family. Her whole life had been dominated by hard labour and an indoctrination of her worthlessness. She could not read or write and had no ambition beyond keeping out of trouble. The workload at Barton Manor was no worse than what she had been used to all her life since she could walk, and the living conditions, especially the meals, were far superior, so she was content in her own pathetic way. She worked with neither enthusiasm nor resentment, but plodded through her tasks like a pony plodding in a treadmill. She had learned to expect harsh words and never kindness. Her loveless life had made her incapable of feeling—or at least showing—any emotion.
My parents had spent much of their time helping people in need and had instilled this principle in me, so I was naturally moved by Nancy’s plight and desperately wanted to help her. The whole pecking order of the staff made it almost impossible to show concern and offer help, as it would be seen as neglecting my own chores and position. Even the staff’s attitude indicated their belief that Nancy should be grateful for the opportunity to work in such a great house, as if her low start to life was of her own making.
One night after a particularly elaborate dinner party that had created a huge burden of extra work on all the staff, I was finally free to climb the stairs to bed at one o’clock in the morning, but just then I saw Nancy alone in the scullery with piles of pots to scrub. I knew she had risen at five o’clock that morning to light the stoves, and I felt for her. I fought my overwhelming tiredness, rolled up my sleeves, and started washing up alongside her. Her incredulous look either expressed gratitude or the belief that I was deranged. We quickly finished off the washing up and headed wearily for bed.
Mrs. Milton seemed all-knowing at times, and this was one of them; the next day I was called into her room and told in no uncertain terms not to interfere with other people’s work, as it would leave me less able to perform my own tasks and would undermine the structure of the household. The vicarage at Pemfield seemed so far away from Barton Manor, not only in miles, but also in attitudes, principles, and priorities. Without the plumb-line of the Bible to guide me, I would have been reeling in confusion. Even with the teaching of Scripture in mind, I felt confused and at a lost to know how I was to act out my Christian faith in a house full of manmade rules, where I was paid to work and not to think.
CHAPTER 6
ONE OF THE FEW PERKS of the job was the freedom to borrow books from the family’s large library. The library was my favourite place to work. It was on the first floor, and its windows overlooked the extensive gardens. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, but on either side were dark wooden bookshelves. The opposite wall had three large windows with dark red velvet curtains. The other two walls were covered in bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The floor was of highly polished wood, with a large red rug in the middle; there were various little tables with chairs for reading and two comfortable chairs by the fire. The bookshelves were full of beautifully bound books, most of them old, but a few were from recent years.
Mr. Davenport’s grandfather had been a keen reader and had set up the library, which reflected his wide and varied interests. All books were meticulously set out in subject groups, the obscurer the subject, the higher the bookshelf. Servants could avail themselves of any of the books, but we had to sign them out using a register and, of course, all books had to be kept in pristine condition. If a member of the family wanted a book that was being read by a servant, they could identify who had the book from the register and immediately ask for it to be returned. This had been the system in the household for two generations and no one could fault it—mainly because no one used the library now.
Every Tuesday, one of my afternoon tasks was to clean the library, while Emma cleaned the silver and Sarah the billiard room. I carefully dusted the long, wooden shelves of the library, and as I did so, I got to know the books on them. During any rare, quiet intervals of the day, I would rush to the library, borrow a book, and take it to my room for perusal at my leisure. I became rather embarrassed at the long list of “Rebecca Stubbs” in the register, but not embarrassed enough to stop borrowing. I read books on natural history, the kings and queens of England, and many of the (rather heavy going) Puritan writers. Each book took me a long time to read, as I managed to read only a few paragraphs every night before sleep overtook me. As our supply of candles was strictly rationed, I bought my own, and while Emma was applying her nightly face cream and putting rags in her hair, I would curl up in bed and read. Emma warned this was bad for my sight and would give me wrinkles around my eyes, but she did not complain about the extra candlelight.
One June evening, as I walked into the room to return a book, I realised one of the family was in the library. I hastened toward the door, but a voice I had not heard before said, “Stop.” Looking around, I saw a blond young man coming toward me with a grin.
“Aha, I have caught the bookworm red-handed, coming to devour yet another tome,” he said.
“No, sir, I have come to return one,” I replied.
“Then I’d better not continue my bookworm metaphor, as to regurgitate a book sounds rather crude, doesn’t it?”
I nodded and smiled, and then he went on. “So you must be the Rebecca Stubbs who has an uninterrupted line of signatures in the register book.”
I said “Yes, sir” as he walked up to take the book out of my hand.
“Expository Thoughts on the Gospel of Matthew by J. C. Ryle? Why, that is one of my books!” the young man exclaimed.
“Oh, I apologise,” I said quickly.
“No need for that. On the contrary, I am delighted the books I left here have, much to my surprise, been read.”
“And heartily enjoyed, sir,” I replied with more freedom than before. “I am much indebted to you.”
Once again, he waved my comment away. “Not in the least. I am delighted that you have read and enjoyed them, just as I did.”
The incident gave me something new to think about, and I went to bed lighter-hearted, knowing there was another person under the roof who was interested in the writings of a Church of England vicar. The next Sunday evening in church, I noticed that the young man, whom I had learned was Master Edward, not only sat in the congregation but was treated as an expected attendant of this service. He was welcomed back with warmth and affection rather than deference and awe.
By now I had been able to do a quick study of his features and noticed that he was of average build, had blond hair, blue eyes, and a ready smile. He had youthful looks but could look much more mature when deep in thought. That night I questioned Emma a little about Master Edward. She had heard that his parents had been “religious” and his bereavement had made him “very serious.”
The next Tuesday when I arrived at the library to clean, Master Edward was sitting there reading. I apologised for disturbing him and was about to withdraw, but he beckoned me in.
“I was pleased to see you at the Sunday evening service,” he said.
“Yes, I try and attend as often as work permits, sir,” I replied.
“How long have you been working here?” he asked.
“Since April, sir.”
“Have any of the church members befriended you?”
The congregation’s freeness with him gave me courage to treat him in a less stilted manner, and we were soon talking about the church and the congregation. As the minutes passed I began to get restless and finally said, “Excuse me, sir, but if I tarry any longer talking, I will get into trouble with Mrs. Milton.”
“Of course, how silly of me!”
“But I could dust and talk at the same time, sir.”
“What an excellent idea, then I will continue to tell you all I know about the Crookshanks.”
This brief exchange of observations was enjoyable and gave me something to think about for the rest of the day.
I hoped that we would get another opportunity to talk. I was annoyed with myself that an insignificant conversation, which he had probabl
y forgotten by now, could be mulled over so much by me. I clearly lacked interests and excitement in my restricted, monotonous life.
Sunday evenings now gave me a two-fold pleasure: First, I enjoyed attending the church service, and second, afterwards Master Edward would often catch me up as I walked back to the manor and we would have about twenty minutes to chat. The footpath from the village to the manor was secluded, leaving the village at a stile and then crossing a small wood that was carpeted with bluebells in spring. The path then crossed a corner of the estate’s park before climbing steeply up to the gardens. The hedge that surrounded the garden gave privacy to the path, so we could walk with very little fear of being seen. Walking seemed to make us feel freer to talk, and it was not long before we were sharing with each other stories from our childhood.
We had both known what it was to love and lose both our parents and could sympathise with each other in a way very few people can. Master Edward’s mother had been weak with consumption as long as he could remember. She had been a God-fearing woman, and her religious persuasions caused friction between her and her family. They were further alienated from her when she met Master Edward’s father, who was a highly skilled engineer working for the railways. His Christianity and station in life made him a very poor choice of partner in her parents’ sight, and she married without their blessing or money. Master Edward’s parents (Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe) lived happily and comfortably in Hampshire and were delighted when young Edward was born. From very early on in life, Master Edward was taught Bible knowledge and doctrine, and this was matched with the consistent lives of his parents. When Edward was ten, his mother finally succumbed to the illness that had beset her all her adult life. When Edward was twelve, he embraced Christianity for himself. Mr. Thorpe and Edward muddled together the best they could without Mrs. Thorpe, but tragically Mr. Thorpe was killed by an explosion at the railway, along with five other men. Master Edward had previously had very little to do with his mother’s sister’s family, apart from the occasional visit at Michaelmas, but within days of hearing of his double loss, they came to fulfil their guardianship duties toward him, and thus he had come to live at Barton Manor.
The walk from the church to the manor now seemed far too short, and we sometimes lingered along the way, but I was always very conscious of needing to be back in time to fulfil my evening duties.
Our “accidental” meetings in the library on Tuesdays also became a regular occurrence and one that filled me with great pleasure. Master Edward often had an amusing cartoon from Punch or an interesting article ready to show me. One Tuesday, Emma decided that she needed to help me in the library, and I could hardly conceal my disappointment. Was I flattering myself, or did Master Edward look disappointed too? Whatever his feelings, he soon left the library.
Now thoughts of Master Edward filled my waking moments, and his name entered into my every prayer. Had our stations in life not fixed such a gulf between us, I was sure I would have fallen in love with him. It seemed to me that the summer was progressing with undignified haste, and I dreaded the day that Master Edward would return to Oxford to start a new university term. Any interruption to our Tuesday meeting in the library was frustrating, as was the knowledge that Mrs. Milton or Emma could inadvertently stop them at will. Master Edward and I soon found that we shared the same interest in watching people and spotting their oddities; his impressions of his cousins left us weak with laughter. But we could also have good conversations about spiritual matters or concerns and seemed to be in agreement on most matters of a theological nature. During August, by agreement, we both read the same book by a Puritan writer and spent some time each Tuesday afternoon or Sunday evening discussing the content. He teased me about my being the widest-read housemaid in the country, and I retorted that I could limit my conversation to mixtures for various polish recipes if he preferred.
This friendship of laughter and discussion meant a great deal to me, but I still did not know whether he valued it as highly as I did. He was the only one I could confide in so freely, but I did not know if I was just one of a number to him. These questions went around and around my mind as I worked. In normal circumstances, I would have confided in Emma and asked her opinion, but as Master Edward was one of the family that employed me, I felt my familiarity with him may be deemed inappropriate and presumptuous. I also knew that if I tried to explain about our friendship, she might belittle or sully it.
The inevitable final Sunday evening walk came all too quickly, and we ambled as slowly as possible along the pathway, knowing that the next morning, before dawn, Master Edward was to leave for Oxford. I tried to sound cheerful and interested in his studies, but my heart was heavy, and I had a lump in my throat. I was pleased that the gathering dusk hid some of the emotion written on my face. As we said farewell, Master Edward grasped both my hands and said he would remember me and pray for me. He went on to say that he was grateful we had met each other, as I was the easiest person to talk to he had ever known. I wished him every blessing for the new term, and we parted company. As soon as I possibly could, I rushed to my bed and cried into my pillow. My heart was full of sadness at his departure and the warmth of his kind words. I had never felt so close to him or so far away.
CHAPTER 7
I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING with swollen eyes and a dull headache. I had never felt so reluctant about going to work; brushing and dusting all day with no prospect of an unexpected sighting of Master Edward seemed tedious and futile. I dragged myself through my duties with my overactive mind mulling over last night’s parting. I wished I had a reliable friend who could interpret men for me. Even having a brother might have helped. Was Master Edward’s warm farewell merely brotherly? If it was, was it appropriate for a man to be brotherly to someone who is not his sister? As I scrubbed the stairs, my thoughts on the matter changed with every step I cleaned, and I left the task no more decided on the subject than when I began.
My other hope was that Master Edward might write to me. Half of me dismissed this idea as ludicrous. How many Oxford scholars write to housemaids? But how many Oxford scholars leave housemaids in such a friendly manner? I hoped against hope, but the days passed and no communication came for me—just as I had expected, but I was sorely disappointed. I realised Master Edward met and socialised with many interesting people, and a housemaid who may have seemed vaguely interesting in the surrounding intellectual wilderness of his aunt’s home would soon pale into insignificance compared with the brilliant minds of Oxford. Yet, I argued with myself, had we met in another situation, for example in Pemfield, we would have not been so very different in estate. This drew my thoughts on to think about one’s class and position in life. Was it based on our parents’ lot in life, or money, family name, education, or purely one’s present circumstances? Was it right or biblical to question one’s place in society, or should we always “be content with such things as ye have”?
As I got more accustomed to my work, it seemed laughable that at one time I didn’t know a banister broom from a staircase broom, or the recipe for furniture paste. I was less exhausted at the end of the day, and although the job occupied me physically, my mind was free to wander and ponder. I watched the daily lives of Miss Davenport and Miss Annabelle, and I began to wonder who really led the most restricted life: the servants or the served? Their lives were dictated by tradition and family expectations from birth. Unless they married “well,” they would be social failures and nobodies. To marry well often meant suspending one’s own dreams of Mr. Right and marrying a man of wealth whose family reflected the values and interests of your own, no matter how ugly, old, obnoxious, or incompatible he might be.
It had been decided that Miss Davenport should have her coming out at the next London season. The family would arrive in London during May for the opening of the exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts and would spend two months in the capital, socialising in a far larger and “more suitable” circle than their country life at Barton Manor allowed. Mrs. Dav
enport had been complaining for years, or so I was told, that there was such a limited selection of notable families in their part of Sussex to invite to dinner, and the locals were more likely to talk about turnips and cabbages than Turner and Constable. Now, at last, they were going to immerse themselves in a society worthy of them.
Although it was only October, the young ladies were already full of dreams of concerts, balls, dinners, visits, exhibitions, and strolls in parks. They would meet other lively girls—so unlike their parents’ normal visitors—and be introduced to handsome and admiring men. Society would be amazed that two of its most sparkling treasures had remained hidden in the provinces for so long.
Their excitement was infectious, causing Eliza and Jane to talk about nothing else as they helped to plan wardrobes, try out new hairstyles, and mix up new beauty treatments. The weekly Home Notes magazine was studied with great enthusiasm, especially the “Fashions from Paris” page, where the latest patterns were discussed and recommended. Paper patterns were now also available to reproduce Paris fashions accurately—even in remote, rural Barton.
It made us smile that more material was used for the elaborate sleeves than for the narrow waists. But secretly we all longed to try them on and look glamorous for once. The fashionable dresses were clearly not made for women who had to do anything more than look decorative. Suddenly, the normal frocks of the two girls seemed most outdated and provincial, so they were discarded, much to the delight of the lady’s maids who acquired them. Eliza and Jane were to accompany the ladies to the great metropolis, and as neither had been there before, they were looking forward to their own adventures. Emma, Sarah, and I were willing volunteers for any new hairstyle that needed to be practised, but Mrs. Milton made it clear that no such elaborate style should be worn by us “above stairs,” as it was not befitting of our rank. Laughter rang from our rooms as styles were attempted and aborted.
Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 5