Mr. Thorpe later told me that he feared that the rooms would be filled with ugly rejects from Kenwood, so he had quickly suggested that locally made, bespoke furniture would suit the extension very well, and Sophia, always the peace-lover, readily agreed.
During their three-day visit, I had very little time or opportunity to study Mr. Thorpe and his fiancée, but the few brief times I saw them together, I was reassured of their utter devotion to each other. Miss Sophia looked childishly enchanted by the improvements to the house, and according to Bertha, she was counting off the days until she would become Mrs. Thorpe. She told Bertha it would be “such fun” to be mistress of a household and “so grown up” to be a wife.
Bertha was not so smitten with the idea, as she would also have to move to Biggenden and live among rustics. The only consolation was that now a sizeable team of staff was also coming with her, so she would at least have some “decent company.” I expressed my hope that they would be nice to Molly and Clara, but she just shrugged and said, “If they don’t like us, they can leave.”
In the kitchen, things were gradually improving. On Wednesday evening while preparing the lavish meal, Hilda got flustered over lumpy sauce and ended up in tears. Molly came to the rescue by sieving it all and adding more cream, thus gaining Hilda’s gratitude and respect. Through her sobs, Hilda explained she had only been keen to keep her own meal plans as they were dishes she was confident in preparing, and Molly cheered her up by saying that was exactly why she had fought hard for her own too! From that moment onward, they worked well together, exchanging tips and ideas.
Poor young Violet worked harder than ever before in her life, washing everything from delicate glasses to fatty pans in the old stone sink. Her hands became red and raw from the hot water, carbolic soap, and baking soda. Every night I plastered her hands with lotion, but it gave only temporary relief. By Friday, she was tearfully grateful to receive her wages and run home.
Meanwhile, Clara was working closely with Lawson the footman and continued to be fascinated with the amount of work he got through in such a gliding, unhurried manner. He had no doubt about his own importance, performing every task with the air of one doing the world in general and us in particular a great favour. By the end of his stay with us, we had no more idea of his personal character, his likes or dislikes, than when we first met him.
It was with happiness and relief that we waved the Kenwood staff off on Friday morning and retreated to the kitchen for a good “chew over.” Molly and Clara had a commendably stubborn streak, making them ready for the challenge of working with the “toffs,” as they called them. They laughed at their superior attitude, saying, “They fink, cos they work for ’em, that they’re the upper clarss too.”
They were soon comparing the peacock-like Lawson with their male friends and neighbours. His thin, white-gloved hands and their muscular, mud-engrained fingers. His smooth delicate steps and their lumbering strides. The lively conversation ended with them both declaring they preferred “real men, like our village lads,” and silently I had to agree.
I let them linger at the table for longer, but I had to get busy making biscuits, as promised, for the Sunday school outing the next day.
CHAPTER 33
THE MORNING OF THE SUNDAY school outing dawned bright and dry. I bade my reflection in the looking glass happy birthday and then resolved to forget the fact. After organising the diminished household (Clara and Molly stayed on to continue tidying up, and Mr. Thorpe was still in residence), I prepared myself for the picnic. I deliberated as I took off my uniform. I knew I really should wear an old frock, but the new blue one looked so tempting and so suitable for the beautiful weather. But it seemed foolish to wear a new dress; it could get grass stained or even pulled on brambles. Then I thought of the new curate. Maybe, just maybe, he was single. Maybe, just maybe, he was looking for a wife.
As I brushed my hair, I tried to dismiss such ridiculous thoughts and remind myself that some preachers follow Paul’s example and stay single for the good of their calling. Anyway, who would want old Spinster Stubbs, even if she was in her best dress? With these admonishing and sensible thoughts, I reached into my wardrobe and put on my dress—the blue one. “To celebrate my birthday,” I lied to myself.
The church yard was heaving with excited children when I arrived. I edged my way through them to the capable, basket-laden matrons, and we exchanged pleasantries. Through the side gate entered Rev. Hayworth, not in clerical garb, like Rev. Brinkhill thought seemly to wear for the occasion, but instead wearing a normal jacket and trousers. But the boys were not looking at his outfit, for all their eyes lit up as they saw what he carried under his arm: a new, leather football. This ball created more compliance than any stern outfit could have done, and he soon had them all assembled for the procession. When announcing that he was looking for some strong boys as volunteers, the normal ringleaders in trouble-making quickly came forward. The biggest boy had the honour of walking ahead with the banner, and the others, the “privilege” of carrying our food baskets.
Unburdened of our baskets, even the stoutest woman could keep up with the procession, if not sing along with the children. Our voices from the back and Rev. Hayworth’s from the front, along with the desire not to fall out with the owner of the football, ensured that only the correct version of each hymn was sung.
At the appointed meadow, Rev. Hayworth halted the procession under a large old oak tree, and we prepared the blankets and food. After a short but thankful prayer, he (rather unnecessarily) urged the children to eat their fill. As usual, the baskets were emptied at an alarming rate, and the children gobbled up the food as if it was a race. Before the curate had hardly started his meal, the older boys were pestering him for the football, but instead of handing over the ball, he got up and went to organise the match himself. The lads were quickly divided into teams, and discarded jackets were used for goal posts.
The boys were happily entertained, but after watching for a bit, the girls grew bored. They half-heartedly made wildflower posies for us and each other and put bluebells in their hair, then mine, but before long they had reverted to their old game of picking stinging nettles. I felt sorry that nothing was organised for them and was just wondering what I could do about it, when a couple of girls asked me if I knew any country dancing.
“I know only a few that I learned at the harvest supper,” I told them apologetically.
“Oh, please, miss, won’t you teach them to us?” the tallest girl urged, with additional pleading coming from her friends.
I wavered and looked across the field; surely this fatherly curate, now only in his shirt sleeves for his energetic involvement in football, would not condemn me for a few innocent dances with the girls? As I was watching, he stopped running, swept his hair back from his warm face, and laughed heartily at the antics of one of the players. I wavered no longer but got up enthusiastically and organised the girls into couples and sets to learn some sequences. The older girls knew more than I, and soon we were singing, clapping, and dancing, in and out, up and down, just like at harvest.
The younger and shyer girls watched us eagerly and then were persuaded to join in. In the distance, I could see the disapproving looks on the older women’s faces. This was not ‘normal’ for a Sunday school outing and therefore hardly proper, but one look at Rev. Hayworth made me insensible to their censorship and determined to give the girls an enjoyable time.
The outing could have run overtime if it were not for the churchwarden’s wife marching to the football pitch and indicating it was time for a cup of milk and walk home.
As we drank our milk, Rev. Hayworth approached me with a warm smile. “Thank you Miss . . . er . . . er—”
“Stubbs,” I provided quickly.
“Miss Stubbs, for entertaining the girls so well. I am sure they much appreciated it, and I—”
He was called off by Mrs. Brinkhill to organise the march back. By now I was sure I liked our new curate very much indeed,
and that feeling put a spring in my step . . . until I overheard the churchwarden’s wife say to Mrs. Brinkhill, “Yes, and poor Mrs. Hayworth, in her situation . . . ”
I did not hear what this situation was, but I had heard enough to crush my new hope. There was a Mrs. Hayworth already.
At bedtime I removed the forgotten bluebells from my hair. They were now wilted and crushed, just like my newly born but now withered hope. I was annoyed with myself that I could feel so deflated after a hope only a few hours old had been dashed. But the combination of disappointment and tiredness from the busy week ensured that I shed a few tears into my pillow before falling asleep.
The next day was again bright and warm, bringing a new optimism. I was slightly disappointed when Rev. Hayworth announced his text to be in Proverbs, making me believe that we would probably have a moralizing sermon, but then he preached from the eighth chapter about wisdom. He proved clearly that the wisdom spoken of was Christ and went through the verses explaining to us Christ’s invitations, His truth, His immense value, and His power. He went on to show His eternal Sonship and how Christ was present at the creation of the world. He rounded off his uplifting sermon by speaking of Christ’s willingness to dwell with sinners from the phrase “and my delights are with the sons of men.” His argumentation was such that by the end of the sermon, it seemed utter foolishness not to put one’s whole confidence in such a great Saviour.
That evening as I sat listening to another excellent sermon from Rev. Hayworth, I was resolved to visit the “poor Mrs. Hayworth.” I looked around the congregation to see if there was anyone new who would fit that description, but seeing none, I decided her “situation” was pregnancy (an unsaid word among refined older ladies) and that she was probably feeling too nauseous to attend church.
The wife of such a decent man had to be a nice person. Once I had forgiven her for marrying him, I would probably enjoy her company and maybe even find the kindred spirit I longed for in this community. So as soon as I was free from duties, which was not until Wednesday afternoon (Mr. Thorpe being invited out to dinner), I baked a batch of ginger biscuits, as they are good for nausea, smartened myself up and, having asked Agnes’ mother for directions, set off for the cottage.
It was quite a long walk, as the only suitable house the church had been able to provide was in a small hamlet the other side of the village, but the colourful hedgerow and the melodies of the songbirds made it very pleasant. The last of the bluebells were joined by buttercups, yellow rattle, and cow-parsley. It was tempting to make a posy, but I knew they would lose their beauty as soon as they were picked.
When I arrived, it seemed that I had come to the wrong house. It was a tiny cottage, hardly big enough for a young family. I knocked at the door and had a long wait before it was eventually answered by an old lady. Now I knew I had been mistaken.
“Sorry, but I was looking for a Mrs. Hayworth,” I said apologetically.
“Then come in, my dear; that is me,” she sweetly replied.
“But . . . I . . . the minister’s wife . . . ” I stupidly blurted.
“No, I am not the wife. I am the mother,” my hostess explained and laughed.
Before I knew it, she had me seated and was putting the kettle on. I tried to gather up my whirling thoughts as she did so. When she turned around to speak to me, Mrs. Hayworth was still smiling. She had a beautiful face, full of laughter lines and expression. Her eyes were brown and friendly, just like her son’s. But they were also bloodshot.
“You must excuse the drawn curtains and dimness,” she said. “Only a month ago I had cataract operations, and I must avoid bright sunlight.”
So that was the “condition” that kept her from attending the church picnic!
I asked her how she was recovering, and she enthused about how she could now see better than she had for years but said she still had to avoid strenuous exercise and exertion, which was awkward when one has just moved house.
“But tell me about yourself,” she said. “I am intrigued to know who you expected to find here.”
My mind had been working fast. Unless I told the full story, I could easily appear to be one of those man-grabbing women who sometimes plague single men of the cloth. Somehow I knew that this happy, sparrow-like lady would find the situation amusing, so I told her how much I liked her son’s preaching, how I had wrongly concluded that he had a wife who was ill, and how I decided to pay a visit.
Dear Mrs. Hayworth laughed heartily, and on seeing the ginger biscuits and putting two and two together, she laughed even longer until I feared for her eyes.
“But your mistake was my gain, my dear,” she said. “I like meeting people, but what with my eye condition and being so far from the village, we are living a rather secluded life. Jack keeps busy in his study or visiting the sick, but we have no visitors.”
Mrs. Hayworth was not nosey or gossipy, but it was clear she loved finding out about people and soon had heard all about me, my work, and my parents. But the conversation was not just one way. She explained about her family too. She had been a widow for seven years. Her husband was a vicar, and she had a son, a daughter, and Jack, her youngest. Her two other children were married with six offspring between them.
She relayed all this information in a chirpy and optimistic style. She was clearly full of energy and enthusiasm. We could have sat chatting all afternoon, but I felt I was holding her back from scurrying on with some task and made a comment to that intent.
“Oh no, my dear,” she assured me. “I am having a lovely time.” Then as she thought a bit, she said, “But I could make use of you, if you don’t mind. Look around and see how bare this room is. Jack has started unpacking, but he has done only the essentials. And his ‘essentials’ only include the pots and pans and all his books. Somewhere deep in a crate are my knick-knacks, which are clearly not essential to him but make a house look like a home. Would you do me the kindness of digging around for them? Jack and the physician completely forbid me to do such things.”
I readily agreed and was soon pulling out all kinds of plates, ornaments, and pictures from crates, listening to the interesting stories behind each one. We were so engrossed in our task that I did not hear the door open and Rev. Hayworth enter. On seeing him, I felt foolish again and wished I had not come, but this feeling soon disappeared as I witnessed the teasing banter between mother and son.
“I have conscripted Miss Stubbs into getting out my so-called clutter,” said Mrs. Hayworth.
“Yes, I see you have a new partner in crime,” answered her son. Then turning to me, he laughed and said, “You could have at least started by putting my books in order.”
“In order? Have they ever been in order?” teased the mother, putting on the kettle for the second time.
As we sat down to more tea, Mrs. Hayworth looked around contentedly at her afternoon’s work. “Now this place is beginning to look more like home,” she said with satisfaction.
Rev. Hayworth looked at me. “Thank you, Miss Stubbs, for your help. These things mean a lot to my mother, and sometimes I fail to appreciate that.”
“Oh, don’t you start berating yourself, my dear,” Mrs. Hayworth said, stroking her son’s knee. “You can’t help being a man.”
We all enjoyed a laugh at that. The laughter continued as Mrs. Hayworth explained how I had come looking for the curate’s wife and not his mother. I blushed as she told the story but was pleased my reason for being there was explained. Once we had finished tea, I made a move to go.
“Now you have found your way here, you must come again soon, my dear,” urged Mrs. Hayworth.
“Indeed, you must,” echoed her son.
I put on my shawl, and Rev. Hayworth fetched his coat. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.
“But, sir, you have only just come in, and it is the other side of the village,” I protested, but my heart skipped a beat.
“I am not averse to walking.” He smiled, donning his coat and opening the door for me.<
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I feared that, without his mother, conversation would be rather awkward, but I was relieved to find this was not the case. Rev. Hayworth was as interesting and interested as Mrs. Hayworth, and our conversation flowed as we walked along the now darkening lanes.
He had done a few years as an apprentice at a joinery firm, having always had a love for carpentry. But after the death of his father, he had become more and more convinced that he should train as a vicar. He resisted this thought for a long time due to his enjoyment of his apprenticeship, but at last he gave in to the Lord’s promptings and applied to do his ministerial training. He studied at Cambridge and had been a curate for a couple of years.
Having been under the authority of various vicars, some good and some awful, he now longed to have his own parish. “Preferably one without a dominating landlord or church warden to obstruct my every plan.”
He found my story from vicarage to servants’ hall astonishing and asked me what my parents would have thought. I had often asked myself that question, but no one had ever asked me. I was slow to reply but answered, “They both had a stubborn, independent streak about them, so after being shocked at how hard my life was as a housemaid, I think they would have approved.”
“But why did you stick at being a housemaid for so long?” he asked.
Again, this was difficult to answer. “I suppose it was to prove to myself I could, and also due to the friendliness of the staff. But most of all, I think that sheer hard work was good for me when I was in such a raw state of bereavement.”
After a long pause, my companion replied, “I think I understand. When my father died, I flung myself into carpentry during the day and studying New Testament Greek in the evenings as an escape.”
“Oh, I am pleased I am not the only one,” I confessed. “I thought that as a Christian and with the firm belief my parents are now in glory, maybe my escapism was somehow wrong and inconsistent.”
Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 21