Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter

by Hannah Buckland

  It was after six o’clock before I was woken by ant bites. Wandering home leisurely, I passed the wheat field, now peacefully deserted of human life, with neat stooks standing upright testifying to the day’s labours. A few rabbits and crows supping on fallen grain disappeared when I clapped my hands. The sun was low in the blue sky, and the whole scene was a perfect illustration of the reality that “The Lord is good to man and beast.”

  The next morning I rose early with enthusiasm and determination. The master of Biggenden might not be present, but I was sure I knew him well enough to issue some benevolence on his behalf. I lit the kitchen range early and got to work baking bread. As soon as the maids arrived they began kneading the dough. We left it to rise on a sunny window ledge whilst we had breakfast before kneading it again. By lunch time we had produced a dozen crusty loaves, which we cut into thick doorsteps, liberally spread with butter and made into cheese and pickle sandwiches. We dusted off some old wicker baskets, lined them with cloths, and packed them full.

  The maids enjoyed themselves as much as I did, as we put on our bonnets and tripped off down the lane to the next wheat field. We were given a warm and hearty welcome by the workers, who invited us to join the impromptu picnic. Our prim, high-necked uniforms contrasted sharply with the unbuttoned necks and rolled up sleeves of the other women, but as I sat eating the fresh sandwiches and sharing a flagon of cider, I felt happy and content, remembering the wonderful days of my childhood spent helping on Bessie’s farm.

  The food disappeared at an alarming rate, as did the cider. The amount some labourers ate and drank would have put me into a stupor, but they were soon back on their feet, ready for the afternoon’s work. We indoor girls reluctantly got up, dusted ourselves down and, empty baskets in hand, returned to more sedate duties. With the bright sunshine outside and the knowledge of the activity less than a field away, the manor felt as restrictive as a prison. I dismissed Clara and Molly early that day, knowing full well that they would be down in the harvest field before you could say “Jack Robinson.” Whether they were propelled by a sense of duty or the wish to admire and flirt with the young, muscular reapers was anyone’s guess!

  I could not sneer at their enthusiasm for male company, as I longed for the evening when we were expecting Edward to arrive home. He arrived after sundown, due to delays on the railway. I quickly prepared a tray of supper for him and was invited to join him in the study. Though tired from travelling, he was full of enthusiasm about his holiday, the shooting, his new boots and outfit, and the Scottish scenery and steam trains.

  I sipped my tea and listened to his lively descriptions. He had been hunting, shooting, fishing, riding, and dancing; he had met many interesting men and stunning ladies. During his time away, he had also come up with a new plan: he would rear pheasants in his woods, employ a gamekeeper, and have high quality game to offer his newfound friends. His woods were most suitable for bird rearing, and he was surprised it had never occurred to him before. This is what Biggenden had been waiting for. The Bridges’ old cottage could be modernised for the new gamekeeper, he added.

  I continued to sip tea and eat cake, deciding to take time to formulate persuasive arguments before sharing my alternative idea for the cottage. He asked me how things had gone at home, and I described the harvest scene and our picnic. He was interested to hear about it and pleased with what we had done, but he seemed somewhat distracted, his mind still somewhere in Scotland.

  As I lay in bed later, my worry was “had he also left his heart there, and with which stunning lady?” Our spheres of life were moving farther and farther apart as he made new friends and explored more of the opportunities that had opened up for him in his new position, whilst I remained not much more than a dependable domestic servant with the willingness to lend a listening ear. Was I supposed to stand forever on the sideline of his life, ready to offer him the applause and encouragement he wanted?​

  CHAPTER 18

  THAT NIGHT WE HAD A severe thunderstorm. The oppressive heat of the previous days made it no surprise. Not being of farming stock, I had never personally witnessed the damage a summer storm can do to a crop in harvest time. At first I enjoyed watching the lightning eerily illuminate the whole landscape and feeling the refreshingly cool air as it blew through my chamber window, heralding the rain, but as my mind became more alert and awake, the danger the farm was in dawned on me, and I prayed earnestly for its safety.

  The storm soon passed and I returned to bed and dozed, but from the pale and drawn face of Edward the next morning, I gathered that he had not slept. He and his foreman had already travelled around the estate to assess storm damage. The hay-ricks had taken a beating but remained intact, thanks to the skilful way they had been constructed. The main damage was to the wheat that remained uncollected in the fields, which the rain and hail had beaten into the muddy soil. It was difficult to assess how much was wasted, since it was impossible to guess the yield of any field accurately until threshing had taken place. Many apples had fallen, but once again the damage was hard to assess. The bruising of the apples remaining on the trees would come out over the next few days.

  Other farmers who still had wheat to harvest had fared far worse: their crops had been partially knocked to the ground and lay like sodden matting. A whole hop garden, heavy with flowers and foliage, had crashed to the ground at a nearby farm. The hops were not yet ready to be picked and would probably just rot in the mud.

  As a point of encouragement, the experienced foreman told Edward, “‘Tis the thing with farming. Ya can always find a farm better off and a farm worse off than ya own.” Farmers develop their own stoic philosophy to cope with the many knocks from the weather, the markets, or the diseases that batter them.

  When I went to bring Edward his coffee, I found him sitting with his head in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and without looking up said, “I don’t think I can cope with this farming malarkey.”

  I felt like embracing him, but instead I just patted his shoulder and offered a few rather pathetic but sincerely meant words of encouragement. He obviously appreciated my feeble efforts of comfort, as he squeezed my hand that lay on his shoulder, raised his downcast eyes to mine, gave a weak smile, and said, “Thanks, old friend.”

  Despite the reduced yield from the harvest, the labourers deserved a reward for their hard work, and the harvest supper needed to be planned. The housework was neglected as we all bustled around the kitchen making pies, puddings, and pastries for this much anticipated evening. Any villager with a connection to the harvest work, however tenuous, would find their way to the great barn to enjoy an evening of fine fare and cider at the landlord’s expense.

  We served a hearty supper, and Edward gave a short speech of thanks for the hard work given during the harvest. This was acknowledged by loud clapping, table banging, and cheering. Then the church gallery band struck up, and the dancing began. As the cider reached the bloodstream, more and more people got up from the benches to dance the night away. My team of housemaids was quickly depleted as they joined in the merrymaking, leaving only Agnes and me to clear the tables and feed the latecomers.

  The cidery breath of the panting dancers, their sweaty bodies, and the dust disturbed by their pounding feet combined to create a heady and intoxicating atmosphere. The daylight dwindled to dusk, and the oil lamps were lit, adding to the cosiness of the now warm barn. Agnes and I looked on longingly as the dancers lined up for various reels, until finally more women were needed to make up a set, and we eagerly took off our aprons and volunteered.

  Many of the dances were new to me, some in circles and some in lines, but I soon got the idea on the movements, and besides, no one seemed to mind mistakes or collisions, rather seeing it as yet another reason to laugh and crack a joke. I was guided through the steps by various villagers; some of the men grasped me in a vice-like grip and dragged me across the barn like a sack of potatoes, while others offered a limp hand and danced with awkward caution, as if I w
as breakable. We weaved between couples, making different formations, stepping forwards, backwards, left or right, first clapping, then holding hands and sometimes linking arms. All of this was performed with great enthusiasm, tempo, and merriment. Each dance would involve swapping partners, linking arms as a foursome, as a couple, or as the sexes, creating different circles.

  Every now and again, I was Edward’s partner, and my feet hardly touched the floor as he swung me firmly down the avenue of clapping dancers.

  “This easily beats the staid dancing of Barton Manor,” he said and laughed as, hand in hand, we danced the length of the barn.

  I longed for the moments to go on forever, but all too soon another girl was his partner, and I found myself with a man with two left feet and hobnail boots.

  Soon after midnight Edward bade the gathering goodnight and made a decorous exit. The dancing produced a thirst and appetite, so the cider jugs and food tables were revisited again and again. Once Edward had departed, much of the allure of the event disappeared, and I became aware of how tired I was. While the fiddlers were pausing for another drink, I slipped out of the barn and made my way to bed.

  The days whirled by, and soon there was a chill in the air, but as the year progressed, so did Edward’s plans for the farm. An experienced gamekeeper was employed (and given Mrs. Bridges’ newly restored cottage, as I had been unable to convince Edward to let the Kemps have it), and a semi mature flock of pheasants was brought in for winter shooting parties. I looked pityingly at the beautiful birds as they walked proudly through the woods or, when startled, sounded a guttural alarm call and took off with a great flutter of their colourful wings, knowing that before long I would be asked to pluck, gut, and roast them.

  Edward’s favourite occupation of an evening became cleaning, oiling, and caressing his guns or looking through shooting catalogues. I listened with mixed emotions to his reports on the progress of the pheasant project, knowing full well that soon I would be instructed to prepare for an invasion of his friends for a shooting party. Indeed, this duly happened and early November found my team and me busying ourselves around the house, airing beds, planning menus, and cleaning the spare rooms.

  Edward’s guests were to be two married couples: Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, and Mr. and Mrs. Harrington accompanied by their youngest daughter, Miss Sophia. These visitors would be joined by Edward’s local shooting companions for one big day of shooting and then enjoy unlimited opportunities for shooting pheasants during their stay.

  Clara, Molly, and Agnes were to sleep at Biggenden so that they could take on any lady’s maid duties required. Mr. Kemp did very little besides polishing the silver, and we fervently hoped that no valeting duties would be required—surely grown-up men could dress themselves for a few days? Edward was keen to employ a handsome young lad from the village, but I persuaded him that we had neither the time nor expertise to train him.

  The day of our guests’ arrival dawned, and I looked around the house with pride. Every polish-able surface shone, each fire was roaring, each lamp trimmed, each bed looked inviting, and appetising aromas emanated from the kitchen (mainly thanks to Agnes). Edward, dressed in a new outfit and smelling of a strong eau de cologne, seemed less satisfied and fussed about like an old mother hen. Was the house too sparse or shabby for his awaited guests, he wondered?

  I was surprised at his lack of composure, but when the guests arrived, things became clearer. I had imagined the young daughter to be a sweet, chubby twelve-year-old girl, but as I saw her emerge from the carriage, I realised my huge mistake. She was a stunningly beautiful young lady with great presence and poise. Miss Sophia wore a beautiful sky blue dress with white lace trimmings, perfectly complementing the blueness of her eyes. Her blonde hair was rolled almost carelessly into a bun, with a few curly strands escaping to give her a soft and carefree look.

  I watched from an upstairs window as she alighted, and I saw Edward, full of smiles, hurrying to meet her and lend a hand. Even from my distant viewpoint, I could glean all I needed to know: Edward was in love, and it was not with me.

  With this new insight, I hurried downstairs to ensure the kettles were boiling for the guests’ afternoon tea. Animated conversation and laughing drifted into the kitchen from the hall and then the sound receded as the guests entered the parlour. I served tea and cake, while Molly and Clara started to unpack the visitors’ trunks. Agnes was busy preparing an elaborate evening meal.

  The conversation in the parlour was centred round the journey and the guests’ first impressions of Biggenden. Miss Sophia found it “quaintly rustic,” and the men were delighted by the number of pheasants they had seen already from the carriage. I silently entered the room, placed the laden tea tray on the table and slipped out again, leaving the ladies to decide for themselves who would preside over the pot.

  The day of the great shoot arrived, and a vast crowd of tweed-clad men bearing guns and capacious game bags gathered enthusiastically at the front door. I led the maids in supplying them with port and rich fruit cake as Edward organised them into groups. All the farm labourers had been enrolled as beaters and were given frantic, last-minute tuition on their role by the gamekeeper. Then, with much noise, pounding of feet, and shouting at dogs, the throng marched down the drive toward the unsuspecting pheasants. All day, as we went about our domestic chores, we could hear the guns. Every minute I expected someone to be accidently shot and brought bleeding to the back door, but nothing untoward happened and by the evening, the cold room was filled with hanging pheasants, the hall with muddy boots and the laundry baskets with sweaty clothes.

  For the duration of the guests’ visit, we servants worked hard, from dawn to dusk and beyond, to ensure everyone was comfortable, well fed, and watered, and that the rooms were clean and pleasant with the fires stoked. Every whim of the guests was met. Breakfasts were delayed for sleepers, and suppers brought forward for hungry shooters.

  We watched with interest as Edward’s guests strolled through the garden, went shooting, paid visits to neighbours, and lounged the evenings away. The upper class fascinated us, as we observed their lives, so very different from our own, but the person we were most captivated by was Miss Sophia. She seemed utterly impeccable in taste and deportment. She had a suitable and beautiful outfit to fit every occasion: for a horse ride, she had a neatly tailored habit; for country strolls, she had a practical but feminine tweed suit. As for day dresses, she had demure but fetching frocks with intricate tucks and folds, beautifully complementing her lovely figure; but in the evening, she outdid all her other outfits with delicate, flowing, almost ethereal white silk dresses. She often had a flower in her hair, which seemed to emphasise how natural her beauty was. It was clear that Edward found her as enchanting as we did, as his adoring eyes followed her around the room.

  So far the only fault we humble servants had found with this goddess was her attitude toward us. She was by no means rude or demanding, but she seemed to view us as a bunch of dated rustic peasants, always finding our ways “quaint” or “homely.” Her harmless observations were given in such a light-hearted, even teasing tone that it was impossible to take offence. Her mother was less reserved in her comments: in her refined opinion, our uniforms were out of date, our meals too substantial to be elegant, and she found it strange to be served at dinner by maids rather than footmen.

  Edward looked uncomfortable when such remarks were made in front of us but made no effort to defend his household. Miss Sophia seemed to sense his discomfort and often managed to playfully change the subject to something more pleasing to Edward. Indeed, throughout her stay, she seemed determined to please her host and to make herself as agreeable as possible—and she most definitely succeeded.

  In everything the house party did, they seemed to naturally evolve into three couples: the two husbands, the two wives (who often stayed indoors, doing fancy work), and Edward and Miss Sophia, and it looked no hardship on their part. During the long evenings, the older men snoozed by the fireside
and the wives chatted, but Miss Sophia entertained them all on the pianoforte.

  The instrument had seemed almost redundant for a long time. I was the only one who played it, occasionally thumping out “Old Hundredth” or some other easy hymn tune, but under Miss Sophia’s elegant fingers, the keys and strings seemed to come alive and sing, and beautiful music flowed out. It was a pleasure to stand outside the door and listen. Edward had enough musical knowledge to appoint himself to page-turning duties, thus ensuring close proximity to Miss Sophia.

  For us, the visit was taking its toll. We were working long hours, trying to be as un-quaint and un-homely as possible, whilst getting all the jobs done and ensuring everyone was happy. I was also low in spirits due to the shattering of my long-held romantic dream. In some ways the heavy workload was a blessing, as it meant I could not wallow in my emotions but had to just get on with organising deliveries, meals, and household chores.

  But one time my thin veneer of normality cracked. Molly and Clara were serving lunch, and they came laughing into the kitchen, declaring that “Mr. Thorpe was positively flirting with Miss Sophie” and speculating when the wedding would be. I swung around from my position at the range and flew at them for gossiping about their superiors. They looked shocked and muttered apologies, but later that afternoon when I was in the scullery, they entered the kitchen and, unaware that I was within ear-shot, started talking about me, calling me an old maid and wondering if “Spinster Stubbs” had ever had a sweetheart. Clara thought it unlikely before adding “and she is too old now.” I did not know what to do. I could not leave the scullery and face them, so I sat behind the door on a milk churn until they had vacated the kitchen, and then I hurried to my room and cried. I was only twenty years old. Was that really too old for romance?