We housemaids had more mundane matters to attend to—all the light muslin curtains had to be taken down and replaced by heavy velvet ones for the winter. The weight of yards of velvet made our arms ache as we stood on wobbly ladders. The only people who hated this change of curtains more were the poor laundry girls who had to carefully wash and store them.
The colder weather also hailed the return of the open fires and hauling coal and logs from room to room, with all the extra cleaning involved. The daily chore of blacking the grates was back, along with the vexation of fires that failed to light or smoke that blew into the room. I liked to consider myself an expert at efficient fire lighting, but a cold chimney and an unfavourable wind could cause hours of extra work. Indeed, my precious half day off was sometimes eaten into as I became late in doing the prescribed duties, due to a difficult fire. Sometimes I secretly resorted to the forbidden trick of soaking paper with turpentine to get a reluctant fire going, but Mrs. Milton considered this wasteful and dangerous.
The excitement of the proposed London visit and the daily grind of work did little to erase thoughts of Master Edward from my mind. I was sometimes annoyed with him and felt that he had trifled with my feelings, but then I would blame myself for exaggerating a normal friendship into a romance in my fanciful imagination. I could not talk to Emma about Master Edward, but we could discuss men in general. She had strong views on their behaviour and said that their brain was wired differently from a women’s and that we would never be quite able to understand them. The type of women men like as friends are rarely the type that they eventually marry, she propounded, and all logic and sense seems to desert them as they choose their life-partner. I wondered aloud if Christian men were the same, but Emma retorted that the best of men are men at best.
Some winter evenings, Sarah would visit our bedroom and would curl up at the bottom of my bed; then she, Emma, and I would talk about our dreams for the future. The flickering candlelight would produce a cosy and intimate atmosphere, and we would open our hearts to each other.
“Of course, what I want is an ’andsome man,” Emma said with a sigh.
“Don’t we all?” I replied, laughing.
“A young vicar would suit our Rebecca well, wouldn’t ’e?” suggested Emma.
“I could do a lot worse,” I reasoned.
“Well, we all know what Sarah wants, don’t we?” teased Emma, winking.
The colour rose in Sarah’s cheeks. “What do you know?”
“Everyone knows,” we teased her.
She sat up. “Knows what?”
“About your little soft spot for the under-gard’ner,” Emma said, watching Sarah’s reaction intensely.
“Oh, you mustn’t!” Sarah pressed her palms to her reddened face.
“Don’t be alarmed. We’ve known for a long time, and we honestly wish you well and hope you get him,” I said, feeling for her distress and knowing that I had a bigger secret to hide.
“But what if we don’t get married?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“I’d be a real lady’s maid,” replied Emma. “Not a lady like one of ours ’ere, but a real one—a proper titled one who travels abroad and takes me with ’er. I would see all the sights, then meet me an ’andsome, rich man and abandon the ’elpless lady for wedded bliss!”
We hugged our knees under the covers and laughed at this idea.
“And what about you, Sarah?” I asked.
“I would become a nursery nurse for a good family,” she said, looking into the far distance.
Emma and I exchanged a knowing look – a person who cannot be trusted to dust a precious ornament without dropping it was highly unlikely to be trusted with holding an upper-class heir.
Emma turned to me. “What if ya parson don’t turn up?”
“Then he’ll have to mourn his loss!” I answered and immediately ducked to avoid a flying pillow.
“You, not ’im,” Emma said with a chuckle.
“Oh, me?” I replied in mock surprise. “Well, I would become a housekeeper in a big establishment. I would buy turpentine by the gallon for lighting fires and provide hand salve for the housemaids, who would, of course, love me and realise their good fortune in working for me.”
“And ya’d give them good quality candles,” added Emma.
“And allow them followers,” Sarah chipped in, showing where her mind was.
“And more half days,” I suggested.
“All very nice I am sure, girls, but look at ya candle, Sarah. Unless ya ’op it quick, ya won’t get ta ya room before it dies out!” declared Emma, thus ending our enjoyable conversation and ensuring we got to sleep before midnight.
I was keenly aware of the wide difference in circumstances between Emma and Sarah, and myself. Their wages were sent, almost intact, back to their families, who relied heavily on their contributions, whereas I was able to use my money (after buying hairpins) as I wished. I tried not to flaunt my comparative wealth and was always pleased when I could buy them a small luxury or when they could enjoy my candlelight.
Sarah’s home was only about two miles from the manor, and she sometimes went there on her half days off. When she came back full of stories of her mother’s baking, father’s news, and younger siblings’ latest achievements, Emma always looked anxiously at me, as if afraid it would rub salt into my wound of being without family. I loved her for her awareness and sensitivity. She had received very little schooling, but she was an excellent observer and learned much through watching others. As the middle child in a large family, she had learned to fight her corner and get herself heard.
My friends at Pemfield were in no wise forgotten, and I often wrote to Miss Miller and Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown was not good at “words on paper,” but Miss Miller kept me up to date regularly with the village news. I was always delighted to see a letter waiting for me in the servants’ hall to inform me of recent births, deaths, or romances in the village. I was also told about which vegetables had done well in the schoolhouse garden this year, how many bushels of apples were stored in the loft for winter, and even how many piglets Mr. Hicks’ sow had reared.
My half days were spent either at Mrs. Crookshank’s home or, if the weather was favourable, with a long walk, armed with something tasty from the village bakery, a good book, and writing paper. As the weather became colder, it was hard to know where to go for a quiet read, so I sometimes retreated to a hay barn or the church. I felt robbed of my brief and fleeting liberty if the cold, wet weather forced me to stay at the manor.
The winter crept on with all the disadvantages that I was used to, but few of its previous pleasures. Our room was cold and dark, the work was heavy with endless fires to keep fed, and there was very little respite to enjoy the beauty of the morning frosts or to anticipate cosy evenings around the family fireside. The only thing I seemed to have to look forward to was the prospect of Master Edward coming to the manor for the Christmas vacation. Even that hope was tinged with doubts about how much he valued our friendship and my own stupidity for over-estimating it.
At last the happy day arrived when I heard that Master Edward was expected to return by luncheon and that Sarah was to light a fire in his room. When I happened to meet him in a corridor that afternoon, he gleefully and quickly ushered me into the library for a catch-up chat. I stayed as long as I thought prudent, hearing about his university work, his lodgings, and his late nights of study. His enthusiasm at seeing me banished all my doubts about our friendship, and I left the library with a lighter heart than I had known for the last three months. Rushing through the rest of my afternoon chores was no problem as my heart was singing and my feet barely touched the ground.
As in many rural parishes during the dark winter months, the second Sunday service was conducted in the afternoon rather than in the evening, giving parishioners time to get home and tend to their animals before nightfall. This also suited me well as my solitary walk home from church was undertaken as dusk fell, rather than in total
darkness. Now, once again, I had my companion back and as if he had never been away, we recommenced our rendezvous on Sundays and Tuesdays. No explanation was offered to explain his lack of communication, but as he told me more about the difficulty of his studies and of the long hours of “grind” he had to put in to keep up with the class as he headed toward his final examinations, I could understand that he had no time for trivial correspondence. I also reassured myself that he had little time for socialising and meeting the beautiful, cultured women of Oxford. As opposed to being forgotten by him, I found that during the term, he had collected various snippets from magazines and newspapers to give to me, either for my amusement or instruction.
Not only did Master Edward find the study hard, but to make matters worse, his heart was not in it. He had never wanted to study law, but it was inflicted upon him by Mr. Davenport, who saw it as a suitable subject for a member of his household. As the domineering Mr. Davenport had shown Master Edward such benevolence in allowing him to live in Barton Manor and also firmly held the purse-strings, he was not to be argued with. Master Edward had received a good and sufficient education, but now, compared with his peers, he realised how limited and superficial it was. Master Edward gave vent to his frustrations and vexations to my willing and sympathetic ear.
Much of Master Edward’s leave was spent in the library studying. Never had a fire been so well attended and stoked as the library fire that winter! We both knew that Master Edward was quite capable of throwing a log on the fire himself, but either by a selfless desire not to disturb his study with mundane fire stoking or a selfish desire to see him, I made it my task. I was always rewarded with a witty comment or a “come and look at this nonsense” invitation to see his work.
In mid-December the whole Davenport family, Master Edward included, went away for a few days for an annual trip to visit relatives in Surrey. The valet and lady’s maids escorted the family and always looked forward to catching up with gossip in the host’s servants’ hall. Seasonal festivities kicked off in Surrey with games, charades, and dances. We humbler servants were left at Barton Manor, but our pleasure was no less than theirs as we relaxed from our normal duties and routine and spent our time festooning the house with decorations. The gardeners collected barrow after barrow of holly, mistletoe, laurel, and ivy, and we arranged them with ribbons and lace throughout the living rooms and hall. Our voices no longer had to be moderated, so our laughter could ring out, filling the manor with an air of joy it so frequently lacked. With no bells disturbing our evenings, we felt free to play games and charades, which probably produced more fun and excitement than the more refined entertainment the family was enjoying. The various habits and mannerisms of the family became a central and hilarious theme of our acting and mimicry.
Every day our evergreen decorations became more elaborate and beautiful. We added bows and frills to our hearts’ content. The hall was the focal point of our labours, as we wanted all visitors to be enchanted and impressed. Mrs. Milton had a cupboard full of glistening Christmas decorations that she rummaged through with sparkling eyes as she enthusiastically led our festive project. Years ago the ladies of the house helped with the decorating, but they soon tired of the fun and risk of being scratched by the holly and so were happy to leave it in the capable and imaginative hands of their housekeeper. Compliments on the decorations were often paid to them, which they graciously accepted, never acknowledging who had been the real artists. Yet the fun of decorating and the satisfaction of the result far outweighed the minor irritation of the ladies’ deception.
The Christmas week was a whirlwind of visitors and entertaining. Not only did we have more bedrooms to clean and keep warm, but there was more food to prepare, more dishes to wash, more silver to clean, and more bells to answer. The food was more elaborate than normal, and the mood in the kitchen was tense with the occasional explosion. We all had extra duties to attend to and worked far into the small hours, tidying up and preparing for the next day.
All time off for staff was suspended due to the workload. I wondered what would wilt first, the evergreen decorations or the overworked staff. The only time during daylight hours that I had time to sit and reflect was in church, and then, as I relaxed, tiredness almost overcame me and I struggled to stay awake. I felt rebuked for failing to rejoice in the good news of the birth of Christ, my Saviour. I was also grieved that the family used the Christian feast days for such excess that their staff were too shattered to reflect on the real meaning of Christmas.
Before I went to sleep, my mind often went back to the wonderful Christmases at Pemfield.
On the first Sunday in Advent, Pa always dug out the ancient carol sheets for the evening singing, thus marking the start of the delightful season of anticipation and rejoicing in the amazing gift of Emmanuel: God with us. Throughout Advent we would gather every Sunday evening and practise the carols, almost raising the vicarage roof as we sang well-known Christmas hymns with enthusiasm and festive cheer. The grand finale took place on Christmas Eve when, bearing lanterns and muffled up in warm clothes, all the singers gathered at the vicarage. A few older folks stayed behind to prepare the supper and stir the soup, while the rest of us, with high spirits, laughter, and “goodwill toward men” traipsed around the lanes, singing out the carols to all. The sidesman gave us the note on his pitch whistle and immediately the trebles, altos, tenors, and basses began weaving their melodies together. Fearing that our singing would sound feeble outside, most of us belted out the carols with more gusto than finesse, thus producing a rather nasal roar, more reminiscent of the donkeys than of the angels in the nativity story. But our undiscerning audience approved of our hearty renditions and many a window was thrown open for the inhabitants to express their gratitude, wish us a happy Christmas, or pass out mince-pies.
Once we had toured the village and local farmsteads, we wandered back home to warm up, eat supper, and (for the sake of the soup-stirrers) hoarsely sing a few more carols for good measure. This annual festive activity was the perfect beginning of many happy Christmases, full of church services, rich food, and visiting. Now looking back longingly, I could almost smell soup, and I was left feeling empty, not longing for soup, but for my darling parents and their love.
Moreover my meetings and discussions with Edward were few and far between as he had to fulfil his duties in entertaining guests and I was far too busy to loiter. I had to be satisfied with a smile or nod as we passed each other on the stairs or corridor. I flopped into bed every night, exhausted with the work and disappointed that Edward’s university vacation was slipping away rapidly with so little opportunity to enjoy his company.
CHAPTER 8
AT NEW YEAR, LORD AND Lady Bertram and their offspring arrived to stay for a week. We busied ourselves preparing the guest rooms, which had only recently been vacated. These new guests were rather more distinguished than the Christmas visitors, and Mrs. Davenport made it clear to Mrs. Milton that we were to give an impeccable impression. Apparently the eldest son, Gerald, was “still available” and would be a good catch for Miss Davenport.
We were keen to meet our new guests, but quickly realised that they had little to recommend themselves to us beside a large bank balance and impressive genealogy. As servants are not impressed by either of these, we all took an instant dislike to the visitors but wanted to show them that we were able to give as good a service as anything they would be used to in superior Hampshire. Lady and Miss Bertram were accompanied by their maids, and once they had ensured the ladies were comfortable and suitably attired, they joined us for a cup of tea and regaled us with stories of the ill-treatment they received at their gentle-ladies’ hands.
The Bertrams’ thin veneer of gentility could impress the Davenports, but the constant ringing of bells for our attention to relieve petty inconveniences soon informed us of the visitors’ true natures. All the maids quickly became aware of Lord Bertram’s groping hands, and we nicknamed him the octopus. He particularly targeted Emma, bein
g the prettiest of us all, who was so troubled by his pestering that we had to ensure she was never alone in a room. It was sad to see her looking so worried and vulnerable, so at night we pushed the chest of drawers in front of the bedroom door. It seemed a bit dramatic, but that was how the octopus made her feel. She did not feel entirely safe until he had left.
Regular bulletins from the footmen and lady’s maids were sent to the servants’ hall on how the plan to capture the future Lord Bertram’s affections was going. A sweepstake was taken among some of the staff as to the possible success or failure of the ambitious project. The poor Miss Davenport’s future happiness seemed to be trifled with by her scheming parents and made a thing of careless speculation by the servants. But we soon realised she was not such a hapless pawn in the proceedings when she revealed to Jane that she had no intention of getting “hitched up” before the London season, as “being shackled to a man” would spoil her fun.
Meanwhile, I could not help noticing the attention Miss Felicity Bertram was paying to Master Edward. She seemed to be set on capturing his admiration and had many schemes to do so. She was not without the blessing of average good looks, and to enhance these she spent many hours closeted in her room with her longsuffering maid, applying beauty treatments. She had an amazing selection of beautiful gowns that showed off her figure to the very best advantage. Her maid informed us that she rarely opened a book at home, but on finding out that Master Edward was something of a bookworm, she became a frequent visitor to the library.
Much to my rather unchristian annoyance, Miss Felicity also became a devout churchgoer and attended the Sunday afternoon service. Such a fine lady was not to be expected to walk to and from church, so a carriage was provided. By the time the service had finished, it had begun to sleet, so Master Edward also took the carriage and, much to Miss Felicity’s annoyance, he asked me to join them. She did her best to ignore my presence, but when Master Edward asked my opinion on the meaning of the parable of the talents (the subject of the sermon) and I had the audacity not only to have an opinion but also to voice it, she looked most annoyed. When she offered her opinion that the Apostle Paul was to be admired for writing such useful parables, we could scarcely conceal our amusement; she quickly detected this and shot me a daggered look.
Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 6