“I am sorry,” said Jack, taking my hand. “That must be the most unromantic marriage proposal in history.”
“But the most exciting,” I offered with a smile.
Then he got down on one knee and said, “My dear Rebecca, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
“I would be delighted,” I replied, and before I knew it and despite my ankle, he had removed me from the armchair, sat himself in it, and had me on his lap.
CHAPTER 38
MOLLY AND CLARA FOUND MY engagement slightly unfathomable. Their reaction was an amusing mixture of bewilderment and envy as they tried to understand how a spinster housekeeper and a greying minister could possibly fall in love. Romance seemed impossible at the grand age of twenty-one, and courting a curate did not come into their definition of fairy-tale love. But in this they were totally wrong; being in love and engaged to Jack was utterly romantic and exciting.
Mr. Thorpe’s initial reaction to the engagement was to worry that I would leave Biggenden earlier than arranged. Only after he had received my assurance that I would stay until he returned could he give his congratulations, but he was far too busy preparing for his own wedding to be interested in hearing our plans.
The villagers’ reaction was also cool. They could approve of a parson in a monk-like single state, or in a well-established family state, but a preacher on his way from one of these positions to another seemed somehow indecent. And to show any sort of enthusiasm or passion about the journey was positively scandalous. But none of this did anything to detract from our intense enjoyment, and the two months between our engagement and wedding flew by in an exciting whirl.
Mr. Thorpe left Biggenden to get married in early July. The only indication we had that the nuptials had taken place was a package of dried up wedding cake that arrived a week later. Within a fortnight of his departure, the first influx of new staff and crates of Mrs. Thorpe’s possessions arrived.
The new housekeeper was exactly as one could expect, seeing as she had been hand-picked by Mrs. Harrington. She was well into her middle years, broadly set with a determined gait that silently proclaimed “I know best.” She immediately made it abundantly clear that my reign was over, my contribution or ideas were superfluous, and that I was no longer needed. Had I not been so occupied with Jack and wedding preparations, I would have felt hurt and offended; had I not promised Mr. Thorpe to stay until his return, I would have gladly left immediately. But as it was I duly vacated the housekeeper’s parlour and made myself scarce. My reduced role consisted of caring for Rex and lending a listening ear to Clara and Molly as they poured out their frustrations at the regime change.
In fact, thanks to the battle-axe new housekeeper, I had a most relaxing summer ever and was able to spend a great deal of time at the Hayworths’ cottage or enjoying long walks with my fiancé and Rex. Mrs. Hayworth welcomed me into the family with all her generous heart. The Lord had fulfilled His promise of “putting the solitary in families.”
Mrs. Hayworth threw her all into helping us plan the wedding, declaring it was like being the groom’s mother and bride’s mother in one, and she was certainly as organised and productive as two ordinary women. By now her eyesight was so much improved that she telegrammed her ophthalmologist, begging his permission to return to normal activities. His cautious reply stated that a gradual return to normal was recommended. His notion of gradual was probably vastly different from hers, but thankfully she had no ill effects from her exertions. Having fitted herself with a wide-brimmed straw hat, she was out into the summer sunshine and off.
I introduced her to Mrs. Brookes, who became a firm friend and ally in organising the wedding breakfast. Mr. Brookes, in his master’s absence, proposed that the threshing barn be used, and he organised some farm labourers to clean it out. Remembering the cosiness of the harvest supper there, I was very happy with the arrangement and hoped Mr. Thorpe would not feel we were presuming too much on his kindness.
Mrs. Hayworth also started packing her boxes with as much pleasure and enthusiasm as she had only recently unpacked them, for she declared she would now go and live with her daughter, Elisabeth. She had lived with her and her family for many years and only moved in with Jack to have peace and quiet while recovering from her cataract operation. I wondered how busy and chaotic Elisabeth’s household was, if moving parish and house with Jack was considered “peace and quiet”!
Jack and I did not want her to feel obliged to move out, but she would not hear our arguments, insisting that newlyweds needed time alone together. Indeed, she often took herself off upstairs to have an early night or to do some sorting out in a poorly disguised attempt to give us time alone.
Right from the start, Jack introduced family worship to our evenings together; we took it in turn, the one reading from Scripture and the other praying. This was a precious new way of becoming closer to each other and the Lord, a habit we hold dear to this day.
I wrote a long overdue letter to Uncle Hector, informing him of my romance and engagement, to which I had an effusive reply, playfully chiding me for being a “sly puss” and insisting on giving me away. I was unenthusiastic at the idea but realised someone had to walk me down the aisle, and he was my closest male relative. Jack encouraged me to accept by pointing out how much pleasure it would give the old man, so I agreed and started enquiring into finding suitable lodgings for Uncle Hector over the wedding.
Every now and again, in planning our future, I had to pinch myself to make sure this was really happening to me and was not just a beautiful dream. My heart was overflowing with gratitude to the Lord for His amazing goodness to me. Now I could thank Him for all the prayers He had left unanswered about Mr. Thorpe and how He had planned something so much better for me.
Almost every afternoon, Jack and I would meet and take Rex for a long walk. We sometimes wandered along the River Medway, sometimes through the woods or through the lanes. On a few occasions, we hitched a lift on a cart going to Tunbridge and spent some happy hours roaming the town or exploring the ancient Norman motte-and-bailey castle. Whether to shield us from gossiping tongues or to enjoy her newfound freedom, Mrs. Hayworth wisely suggested she join us on our day trips as a chaperone. And what a wonderful one she was! Cheerfully perched next to the driver on the cart, adorned with her inevitable straw hat, she was visible for all to see; but once we arrived in Tunbridge, she invented some business to do in town and disappeared. We rarely saw her until the return journey, when, full of her day in town, she would delight us with descriptions of what she had done and seen, making our excursions seem very leisurely, if not lazy, in comparison.
My memory of that summer is one of brilliantly sunny days and peaceful evenings sitting in the Hayworths’ back garden. Just looking around their little cottage gave me a thrill. Within weeks I would be the mistress of the house; as I looked at the cooking range, I imagined myself preparing meals for my husband. Every pot and pan seemed to be charmed with romance. I even felt excited when I saw the mangle outside the back door, at the thought of washing my husband’s clothes! Jack seemed equally keen, for he set to work making a handsome wardrobe to house his wife’s clothes.
We had no idea how long we would be in the village, as no one was quite sure how Rev. Brinkhill’s leg was progressing, but the uncertainty of our future just added to the excitement. I would have gladly set up home in a tepee or igloo, so long as Jack was by my side and the Lord was directing us. Jack laughed when I shared this idea with him and could not decide whether I would make a sweeter squaw or Eskimo!
I had intended to make my own wedding dress, but when Uncle Hector sent me a large banker’s draft, I decided to forgo tradition, probably incurring the scorn of the ladies’ sewing guild, and had the gown designed and made by the friendly dressmakers in Broadstairs. This arrangement involved a three-night stay with Miss Miller, which seemed an awfully long time away from Jack, but by careful planning, it coincided with his London trip to escort Mrs. Hayworth to her ophthalm
ologist, making it more bearable.
Once I was back in Broadstairs, I thoroughly enjoyed my time with Miss Miller, who, as it was in the school holidays, had time to join me on long coastal walks. Twice a day I went for a dress fitting and was always delighted to see the progress and admire the intricate details. The dress transformed me from an ordinary, everyday girl into a fairy-tale bride, making me feel both elegant and pleasantly demure. Miss Miller and I repeatedly expressed our amazement that only four months since our parting, I should be back in order to purchase a wedding dress—for myself! We rejoiced in the Lord’s goodness, for, rather than being jealous of my prayers being answered before hers, Miss Miller saw it as a great encouragement as to how the Lord overrules events in our lives in order to give us the very best.
August fled by and September raced along, bringing back to Biggenden the well-travelled Thorpes. Once I had handed Rex over to his owner and witnessed their joyful reunion, I felt I had fulfilled my obligation and was free to leave the house. Mrs. Brookes kindly volunteered to let me lodge with her for the week between the Thorpes’ return and my wedding. Most of my belongings were already at the Hayworths’ cottage, so all I had to do was to pack my case and walk out. The staff was so busy making the newlyweds comfortable and preparing for the forthcoming arrival of Mrs. Harrington that no one even noticed my departure.
Miss Miller had declined my invitation to the marriage; the start of a new term was the ideal excuse to miss a social occasion where she would know only one person—but Uncle Hector was installed in the best (and only) inn the village boasted of.
I was rather overwhelmed as the Hayworth clan gradually gathered at the cottage for the wedding. They were all very nice and welcoming, but the very knowledge that they were gathered on our behalf suddenly made me feel shy and slightly trapped. As they all chatted in the now stuffy and overcrowded living room, I slipped out to the kitchen to wash up.
“When did you sneak off, my dear?” asked Jack as he put his arms around my waist.
“Only five minutes ago, I thought I would not be missed,” I confessed.
“You needn’t be here working.”
“But I prefer it.”
“As the bride-to-be, you should be out there in the thick of it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my eyes filling with tears. “But I have never had a large family before, and it will take a bit of getting used to. I don’t know all the fun little stories that you are recounting to each other. I don’t know your family traditions and jokes.”
“Ah, Rebecca, it is me that is sorry,” sighed Jack, looking remorseful. “You have been thrown into the deep end, and I should have been more attentive.”
He picked up a tea towel and started drying up, but before long we were interrupted.
“Ah, what a sweet scene of domestic bliss,” teased Jim, my brother-in-law-to-be as he bounded into the kitchen. “I am sure I could find you a flowery pinny if you want one, Jack.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Jack replied with a smile.
“Sorry to tear you from your work, but I was hoping you two would give me a guided tour of your parish. I am especially keen to see the famous rabbit hole.”
We all laughed, and I quickly dried my hands. Talking was always easier when accompanied by walking.
The night before the wedding, I found it hard to get to sleep; the bed was comfortable, but my mind was too busy. This would be my last night sleeping alone, and that raised a few anxieties—not the sleeping component of the arrangement, obviously, but . . . I tried to reassure myself by thinking of all the odd, ugly, and unlikely couples I knew (each village has a few) and told myself, “if they can do it, so can we.” But better than that, I prayed to God, whose wisdom had designed the marriage union—every part of it.
Before I slept, I shed a few tears because my parents would not be sharing the momentous day ahead with me. Just then I would have appreciated a reassuring chat with Ma. I wondered if, up in heaven, they would know I was getting married, or whether all earthly events are hidden from the saints. But at last I slept and on waking felt refreshed and cheerful.
Mrs. Brookes sat me down to a good breakfast, which I merely picked at. After leisurely ablutions, I was helped into my wedding gown by Mrs. Brookes and Violet. I flushed and tingled when I realised it would be Jack helping me to remove it later. Clara ran across from Biggenden and arranged my hair elegantly in a style that would not be spoiled by the veil. By the time the ladies had finished beautifying me, I felt as ladylike as Mrs. Sophia Thorpe and smiled as I imagined her mother’s disapproval at such a lavish gown for a person of my lowly rank. I was delighted by the details, lace, and tucks of the dress that perfectly suited my figure and gave me new confidence.
Of course, even for a wedding, Uncle Hector would avoid walking any distance, so at the appointed time, he arrived in a hired carriage, adorned with flowers on the lamps, to pick me up and escort me to church.
I had always irreverently imagined Rev. Brinkhill conducting our wedding service in his bed cap and nightshirt, so was pleasantly surprised to see him upright and fully robed at the lectern, although not even a wedding service could remove his stern and disapproving look. But when the gallery band struck up, the handsome man waiting at the end of the aisle turned his head and grinned encouragingly as I walked toward him. The look of love and appreciation in his eyes helped to banish any lingering maidenly fears.
Uncle Hector’s puffing and wheezing progress down the aisle made me wonder if he would make it. I imagined abandoning my bouquet and carrying him, and so, instead of uplifting thoughts about the solemn vows I was about to make, my mind was full with ridiculous images of staggering under his corpulent weight. Thankfully, we arrived safely, and Uncle Hector sank heavily and gratefully into a creaking pew, while I took my place alongside Jack.
With a funereal air, Rev. Brinkhill began the “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here . . . ” business and droned his way through the marriage service. This was as we had expected, for as Jack had earlier explained, “We have to ask him. We know he will do it badly, but we will be married, and he cannot interfere with our joy.” So, as we sat, hand in hand, listening to the monotone sermon on the trials and tribulations of married life, we squeezed each other’s hand at each mournful warning and tried to maintain appropriately solemn faces.
Rev. Brinkhill could not stand for long, and it was beneath his dignity to preach sitting down, so much to our relief, his exposition was considerably shorter than normal. Finally the last hymn, “Now Thank We All Our God,” was announced, which we all sang with feeling and hearty gusto; all, that is, except Uncle Hector, who having roared out the first line, succumbed to a coughing fit that lasted until the benediction.
The church bells pealed as we triumphantly left the building as man and wife. I had expected a quiet wedding, but the churchyard was packed with friends, Hayworths, and villagers wanting to throw confetti and wish us well. The whole crowd then proceeded down to the threshing barn, where a scrumptious lunch had been prepared. No one seemed to know or care who was invited and who not, but all joined in and none were excluded; well, almost none, for Mrs. Sophia Thorpe had excluded herself. Apparently, she had decided attending a former servant’s wedding was beneath her dignity and would set an “unusual precedent.” Her mother admired her principled stand, but her husband did not and briefly dropped in to shake Jack’s hand, sample the cider, and give us his best wishes.
After the customary mingling with the guests and speeches, I sat close to my husband and surveyed the happy scene in the barn. Mr. and Mrs. Kemp were silently munching wedding cake in one corner, Mrs. Brookes and Violet were bustling about serving tea as Mr. Brookes tapped a new cider barrel. Agnes happily fussed around her brood of children, and her girth looked suspiciously as if she might soon be adding another to the number. Molly and Clara were flirting playfully with the farm hands, making me wonder how long they would stay in domestic service. Rev. Brinkhill had retired to bed, but
his daughter was sitting bolt upright on a bench, looking as if she had severe indigestion.
I had feared that the dust of the barn would set off Uncle Hector’s chest complaint, but one glance in his direction reassured me. He sat, tankard in hand, chatting animatedly to a group of older men. I could not hear his words, but could imagine him describing how he helped to run the country. Between the groups of men, women, youths, and families ran various children, some only newly acquainted but all joining in a lively game with no regard for their smart wedding outfits.
Amid the chatter and laughter, my mind wandered back over the last few years of my life—from Pemfield vicarage, to becoming a housemaid, then the unexpected move to Biggenden as a housekeeper. And now I’m a wife! I’ve gone from being Rebecca Stubbs, the vicar’s daughter, to becoming Rebecca Hayworth, the vicar’s wife! I did not know what the future held, but I knew the God who holds the future and that I could trust Him and His unfailing promises. My heart swelled with gratitude and joy at His goodness to me.
Jack put his arm around my shoulders, interrupting my musings, and drew me toward him. “Shall we go, Mrs. Hayworth?” he whispered.
I smiled and nodded my consent, and then, having bade all our friends and relatives good-bye and amid cheers and whistles, we left the barn and walked home together.
If it is well told and to the point, that is what I myself desire; if it is poorly done and mediocre, that is the best I could do.
Apocrypha, 2 Maccabees 15 v 38
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