Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter

by Hannah Buckland

  Edward decreed that three courses was sufficient and gave a cursory glance and nod to my carefully constructed menu. I ordered double the amount required of all the ingredients and practised the meal on the staff, learning by it that the beef took far longer to cook than I had anticipated. The appointed day of the dreaded meal arrived and saw me frantically darting between kitchen and the reception rooms, rolling pastry that refused to roll, blowing a stove that was reluctant to roar, and checking the flower arrangements. My cooking apron soon had the marks of every ingredient in the recipes.

  A meal that would take the maximum of one hour to eat took me all day to prepare, but at last it was ready. I wished I could present the food better and in a more decorative manner, but all I could manage was for it to look edible. Mrs. Kemp fussed and bossed around her husband, helping him into his best suit (normally reserved for weddings and funerals), and he was sent to the hall to answer the door and greet the guests. Agnes and the girls looked neat and tidy in their clean black dresses with lacey caps and aprons, while I had traces of pastry through my hair, and sweat stuck my clothes to me. We were all nervous but also exhilarated by the challenge of succeeding.

  Mr. Kemp served the wine, while Agnes and Clara served the food. Molly transported the food from the kitchen to the dining room, bringing back used crockery and reports of how the meal was progressing. She had never in her whole life been so close to the gentry and was totally star-struck by the “an’some men ’n bootiful ladies.” The empty platters that kept appearing in the scullery were the only indication I received that the food was acceptable.

  When the ladies had retired to the living room and had been served coffee, Clara returned to the kitchen, exclaiming her amazement at the appetites of the ladies “wiv them tight corsets, I dunno where they put it awl,” which made us all double up with laughter harder and longer than the comment deserved, probably out of relief and exhaustion, although the work was by no means over.

  As the guests relaxed by the log fire, we rolled up our sleeves and started the washing up. While we tidied up, we picked at the leftover food and agreed we were too tired to eat the supper Mrs. Kemp had prepared, because, as Agnes rightly pointed out, “eating supper will only make more washing up.” So, saving it for the next day, we filled up with chunks of bread and cheese, eating as we worked.

  Finally, when Mr. Kemp shuffled in, having closed the door on the last lingering guests, we all collapsed into chairs around the kitchen table, and Mrs. Kemp boiled up some milk for us all, as if we were her young family, “to relax the mind.” We sat nursing our warm cups, longing for bed, but too tired to move. The maids stayed the night as it was too late to walk home. After a while of girlish giggling, Clara and Molly settled in their beds, and we all slept like logs.

  The following morning we reassembled, blurry-eyed, at the breakfast table and ate in a sleepy silence. The maids then set about the task of cleaning the dining and sitting room, expressing surprise at the amount of mess the genteel guests had generated. Crumbs were trodden into the dining room mat, coffee and port had been spilt, chair backs were stained with gentlemen’s Makassar oil, and cigar ash dusted the tables. Even the flowers looked wilted after an evening of glory.

  Mid-morning Edward invited me into his study to “dissect” the previous evening. From his point of view, the evening had gone very well, better than expected: the conversation flowed, the guests were agreeable, the staff did him proud, and (finally he said it) the food was superb.

  I flushed with joy at his assessment. Forgetting the hours of toil in the kitchen, I said that it was my pleasure. After telling me more about his guests and their conversations, he ended our discussion by saying, “We must entertain again, but, as for tonight, I can’t think of anything I would like more than a quiet evening by the fire with you and a slice of your cake.” This, of course, sent me flying back to the kitchen to bake, with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. The cake would not only be for Edward, but for all the staff, to express my gratitude for making our first dinner party at Biggenden a success.

  The next day, as soon as I had organised the maids, I escaped the manor to visit Mrs. Bridges. There was still some leek soup left, and I took a jug of that, along with a loaf of Mrs. Kemp’s freshly baked bread. Since I knew that Mrs. Bridges enjoyed hearing about life at Biggenden, I gave her a full report of the dinner party.

  As she sat in her armchair by the stove, sipping her soup, her face looked strained with pain and weakness. She was wearing a woolen shawl and had a blanket over her knees, but to me she looked smaller and frailer than just a few days ago. Whilst our guests had been dining on their copious meal, it was doubtful that Mrs. Bridges had summoned up either the strength or inclination to prepare herself anything. I was resolved that from now on I would bring her food every day. Her good neighbour ensured that her log basket was always full and her stove alight, but she had a large family of her own to care for and could not do much more.

  I stayed with Mrs. Bridges until twilight, helped her into bed (which was now downstairs), and sat with her until she fell asleep. As soon as she was soundly asleep, I did something slightly dubious. I went to her small desk and looked through her papers until I found what I was looking for: the address of her daughter. I quickly wrote it down, returned the paper, threw a log on the fire, and crept out of the house.

  Late that night, in the privacy of my parlour, I wrote to Elisabeth, explaining that her mother was gravely ill and unlikely to survive a month. I informed her of her mother’s weak, pitiful condition and how she spent most of her solitary time remembering the happier years of her life when her two dear children brightened up the cottage. I begged Elisabeth to hasten a visit to her mother before death would separate them forever.

  I wrestled with and prayed over the phrases and wording of my letter, endeavouring to pull on the daughter’s heart strings as much as possible. Many attempts at the letter were aborted and thrown in the fire, but finally, in the small hours, when I admitted that I could not improve the wording, I sealed the envelope and put it out for posting the next day.

  After obtaining Edward’s consent, I visited Mrs. Bridges twice a day to ensure she had food and drink. There was a local woman who could be called upon to help with births, deaths, and laying out, but her reputation was somewhat dubious, some even saying that dying patients gave up the ghost early rather than be subjected to her rough nursing. Through the grapevine this same woman had heard of Mrs. Bridges’ condition and came to offer her assistance, but, in unison, the kind neighbour and I dismissed her and said that we would cope, thank you very much. One overpowering waft of her breath convinced us she wasn’t even sober enough to care for our dear friend.

  At first I was so convinced that my letter would bring Elisabeth running to her mother’s bedside that I almost told Mrs. Bridges of my actions, but as the days went by, each sapping more and more life from her weak body, I started to run out of hope. As so many things might have gone wrong: the family could have moved, the son-in-law remain unmoved, the post be delayed, and the letter lost, any chance of a happy reunion seemed smaller and smaller.

  Each morning Mrs. Bridges’ eyes sank deeper into her face, and her skin stretched tightly over her cheek bones. High doses of opium were necessary to ease her pain. Instead of speaking or at least acknowledging my conversation, she spent most of the time asleep. I sometimes sat reading the Bible to her or singing softly, but most of the time she seemed unaware of my presence. The cord that held her body and soul together grew weaker every hour, and often I had to look hard to detect any sign of life in her as her strength ebbed away.

  Then, during one afternoon visit, I found her lifeless body tucked up in bed, her waxen face now free from the careworn wrinkles, her soul released from her pain-torn body to the place where her heart had been for a long time. As I gazed through my tears at her lifeless but beautiful face, the truth that “blessed are they that die in the Lord” hit me with great power. Mrs. Bridges’
sorrows and struggles were over, she was forever reunited to her husband and son, but even more amazingly, she was in the presence of her Saviour, gazing upon His beauty.

  As I looked around her poor, damp, sparsely furnished room and thought on her mansion in heaven, I could only rejoice for her but cry for myself, being once again bereft of one I loved. The old grief of losing my parents swept over me anew, and I sat down by the unlit stove, weeping uncontrollably. But the human mind is a strange thing, for as I lifted my head from my hands, it struck me that a painting on the wall was skew-whiff, and it suddenly became important to straighten it.

  In times of great sorrow or shock, I have found that I seem to have a strangely heightened awareness of the trivial details, for example, that the hat worn by a bearer of bad news is at a strange angle or the individual’s coat is missing a button! Maybe I am alone in this or maybe it is a thing common to man. These trivial thoughts at a time of great seriousness have annoyed me as inappropriate and distracting follies, but over the years I’ve begun to wonder if they are the mind’s way of gradually processing and coping with shocking news—and somehow actually helpful!

  So I straightened said painting, and this trivial action awoke my senses, lifting me from inertia, and I went to tell the neighbours.

  CHAPTER 17

  AS I TRIED TO CONTAIN my grief, wanting to help with sorting out Mrs. Bridges’ cottage and the funeral arrangements, Edward was absorbed with preparations for a trip to Scotland with a shooting friend to enjoy the grouse season. A tailor was urgently instructed to produce a tweed shooting outfit, and a number of cases were packed, full of suitable clothes. His excitement infected the whole household, and everyone happily busied themselves on his behalf—the whole household, that is, except me: his enthusiasm could not penetrate my sadness.

  During our evening meetings he had genuinely sympathised with the loss of Mrs. Bridges, but I did not want to burden him with the cloud of bereavement pain for my dear parents that descended upon me. After all, he himself was an orphan, and to be drawn into my grief might have caused him to feel bereft once again. My duty as a housekeeper was to run the household efficiently, and I tried to put on a brave face, only to break down in the privacy of my bedroom. I was aware of looking pale and sombre. Of course, the prospect of a fortnight without Edward did little to lift my mood.

  I had long since given up hope of gaining encouragement and comfort from the vicar’s sermons. Instead of finding peace as I listened to his monotone, I became increasingly annoyed that his God-given opportunities of speaking to the parish about the Saviour’s worth were invariably wasted. I also became more and more aware of the disapproving faces of Mrs. Brinkhill, his sour wife, and their anaemic, unmarried daughter, but not without feelings of guilt for remaining unmoved by the church services.

  Edward explained that he tried to supplement this meagre diet by preaching a sermon to himself in his head from the vicar’s text. I tried this idea, and sometimes it worked, but more often than not, my mind just wandered.

  Preaching your own sermon has its advantages, as one knows what train of thought is most likely to warm one’s heart. For instance, I think of the Lord as the Creator of trees, the One who supplies the sun and rain they need, and the One who makes them grow. I follow that with thinking of Jesus as a young man working as a carpenter, making everyday objects with wood, and then those same skilful hands healing the sick, and later those same hands nailed to the very wood He created. Finally, my thoughts will move to those same hands wiping away all the tears of the redeemed in glory. As I say, this sometimes works, but often thoughts of the coming week’s chores or how to handle the maids filled my mind.

  What I have always enjoyed, though, is the beautiful liturgy found in The Book of Common Prayer. The rich and beautiful phrases chosen by Cranmer in the 1550s express so eloquently the confession, contrition, and praises of the human heart and extoll the holiness and majesty of God. I realised that my reasons for loving the liturgy were a mixture of spiritual resonance, as well as nostalgic reminiscence of people and places where I had first used these words before, chiefly, my father’s old church in our family pew, snuggled up to Ma in her best Sunday dress. I mused on the idea that for three hundred years Christians throughout the land, in humble rural parishes and in splendid cathedrals, had by wonderful language been united in their offering of petition and praise.

  Rev. Brinkhill was rather selective in when and how to use the Prayer Book, but generally included just enough to satisfy my taste. Thankfully, at Mrs. Bridges’ burial, the vicar saw fit to use the whole of the set liturgy, so the confident language of precious promises of the resurrection of the dead sounded forth over her open grave, putting life’s little day into perspective.

  Ma always maintained that work is a great healer, and with this in mind I galvanised my team of maids to do a thorough clean of Biggenden in the absence of the master. This cleaning task illustrated how far we had progressed at Biggenden: instead of carrying out most of the task myself, I now had a team of three capable girls to do the work as I supervised and cleaned only the most delicate objects like lace and precious china—not that there was an abundance of either in the bachelor establishment.

  We all worked hard, but, following Mrs. Milton’s example, I tried to relax the normal daily timetable . . . until I found Molly taking advantage of my leniency and slipping off work early. This was a perpetual problem with the two new maids: if I was relaxed and friendly, they thought they could cut corners and take advantage, but if I was strict and demanding, I detected a subtle rebellion. Agnes seemed to be loyal, but soon I discovered that she also tried to “run with the hare and hunt with the hounds” to remain on good terms with both the girls and me, by agreeing with both parties. I missed the camaraderie of being a housemaid and began to realise what an isolated position housekeepers up and down the country were in as they walked the tightrope of friendliness and authority.

  Another growing concern was what to do with Mr. and Mrs. Kemp. Mr. Kemp had aged rapidly during the time I had known him: he was becoming increasingly stooped and was almost completely deaf. He seemed to assume the rest of us suffered with the same affliction and muttered to himself, often uncomplimentary comments. This was proving to be an embarrassment when he greeted guests. Sometimes he completely forgot to do the small routine tasks allocated to him. One’s nose also got the distinct impression that his personal cleanliness was not as good as it could be. He continued to shave daily, but missed some areas, resulting in various tufts of whiskers at different stages of growth around his mouth and jaw line.

  Mrs. Kemp gradually did less and less in the kitchen but was as helpful as possible. She seemed well aware of her husband’s dotage and tried to cover up for him, but her arthritic joints prevented her from venturing farther than the kitchen. Sometimes she appeared troubled and distressed by their declining power and usefulness.

  Edward had mentioned that he wanted to stop employing the elderly couple before any further social function, but we were at pains to know of a diplomatic and sympathetic way to carry out this plan. Their daughter and son-in-law lived in the village, but their little cottage was already overflowing with children, and they hardly had a penny to rub between them. Then, one morning as I helped to clean up Mrs. Bridges’ house, I had an idea: here was one of Edward’s cottages standing empty, and who were more deserving of filling it than the Kemps? If a few roof tiles were replaced and some whitewash painted on the grimy walls, it would be a decent place to live. Moreover, it was only a field away from their daughter, too far for Mrs. Kemp to walk but not too far for the young legs of grandchildren to run errands or call in after school. I was bursting with enthusiasm for my idea, but I had to keep it under my hat until Edward returned.

  Back at Biggenden Manor, the cleaning was completed and I allowed the maids a day off. The Kemps, of course, stayed in the kitchen but enjoyed the luxury of having it all to themselves and were soon dozing contentedly before the range. I pac
ked a picnic, found my stoutest boots and straw hat, and set off on a long walk to enjoy the late August sun. The neighbourhood was full of activity as the farm labourers and casual workers made the most of the sunny weather and were harvesting the wheat.

  I stopped to watch the rhythmic movements of the cutters as they worked together in a line, cutting the stalks with their sharp scythes. Women, girls, and boys followed, rapidly but carefully, gathering the wheat stalks into sheaves and taking them to be stood for drying in skilfully crafted stooks. Between the workers, toddlers crawled through the stubble or sat with chubby fingers in dribbling mouths, taking in the scene. Edward’s trusted foreman was overseeing the events and tapping a barrel of Biggenden cider to relieve the thirst of his sweating workforce.

  Among the women I noticed Molly’s mother and sisters. It then dawned on me that Molly probably had to do extra chores at home this time of year and that I should not have been so quick to judge her. As I walked on, feeling somewhat guilty that I did not stay to lend a hand, I passed orchards full of ripening apples, hop gardens dark with fully laden bines, and small cottages occupied by only the old, left to keep house and prepare a meal for the hungry labourers.

  It seemed strange to me that Edward had seen fit to leave his estate at such a busy and important time of year. His decision, to pursue his beloved pastime when all his employees were working every daylight hour to line his purse, troubled me and seemed out of character. I held out hope that he would come to his senses and return to the manor.

  Before long I came to the River Medway. Sitting down on the river bank, I ate my sandwiches and then reclined to enjoy the sunshine on my face. My eyelids grew heavy, and soon the gentle noise of the flowing river and the chirping of crickets sent me to sleep.