On arriving home in Shepherd’s Cottage, Violet was relieved to find it empty. She ran upstairs to change out of her uniform and into working clothes. She felt a slight pang of guilt about her plan, but only the merest twinge. Today her father and Joe Mason would be shearing the last of the sheep, and they would be expecting her. But they would have to cope with the disappointment, for Violet had arranged for Molly to take her place with the shearers so that she could go to the barley field. Violet preferred sheep to barley, but according to Clara, a new seasonal farmhand had arrived who was well worth a look. Violet still expected Mr. Christopher to reappear and claim her, but meanwhile, there was nothing wrong with looking.
The new man surpassed Clara’s most glowing recommendation. Violet spotted him across the field. He was tall, dark, handsome, and very muscular. He had abandoned his shirt, so as he wielded his scythe, Violet admired his manly torso. She just had to make sure she worked near him. Clara was there already, but being a shyer sort, she was admiring from afar. Violet had never been plagued by shyness so, passing her friend, she boldly walked closer to the reapers and started gathering bundles of barley near the newcomer.
The hot afternoon sun burned on her back as she set to work making sheaves and stooks. No one could work like Violet when she wanted to. With rolled-up sleeves and her blouse unbuttoned as far as she dared, Violet toiled away and was finally rewarded with a greeting from the stranger and a swig from his cider flagon. When the foreman halted all work for a quick break, Violet sat down wearily in the shade of a cart and rested her aching back against the wheel. Her tiredness evaporated when the stranger himself joined her.
“Madam, is this seat taken?”
“No, sir, do make yourself comfortable,” she replied, echoing his elevated vocabulary and gathering in her skirt to make more room.
“I ’aven’t ’ad the pleasure of meeting you afore,” he said, flopping himself onto the stubbled ground.
Violet passed him a jam tart.
“I’ve been working.”
“Thought so, I would ’ave remembered ya pretty face.”
Violet blushed and looked demure before speaking again. “You ain’t from around ’ere, are ya?”
“Na,” he replied, mouth full of pastry.
“Where do ya come from?” she continued.
He drank deeply from the cider flagon, wiping his lips with the back of his hand before enigmatically answering.
“I come from ’ere, there, and everywhere.”
“Mysterious!”
“That’s me—mysterious.”
“Mr. Mysterious.”
He grinned, and his brown eyes twinkled. “But you can call me Reuben.”
“And I’m Violet.”
“Pretty name for a pretty lass.”
By now everyone was heaving themselves up and getting back to work, so Violet and Reuben followed suit. Violet smiled to herself as she bent down to gather up an armful of barley stalks. Clara won’t ’alf be jealous!
CHAPTER 12
REBECCA SHOULD HAVE GIVEN VIOLET a sharp reprimand for her slapdash work the previous day, but she was far too busy. Correcting Violet was always problematic, for she frequently got huffy about it and had a habit of answering back. This was not how maids were expected to react, but then Violet was not the typical maid. She was more than that. Despite her faults and immaturity, she was a good friend and ally. Her lively and bold character made her interesting company. Giving her a few days off appeared to be rewarding bad behavior, but it could not be helped. Tomorrow Rebecca and Jack were off to London, the vicarage would be shut up, and Violet could help with the barley harvest. Rebecca was impressed at Violet’s eagerness to help in the field—she really was a tough and willing worker!
Rebecca anticipated the trip with mixed emotions. It would be lovely to meet Uncle Hector again, and she was curious to see his residence, where they had been warmly invited to stay; but seeing the specialist was a different matter. Jack had arranged everything, which was just as well, for venturing into London seemed as adventurous and daunting as a trip to Timbuktu.
The journey from Tunbridge Station to Redhill Junction took them through beautiful countryside. Familiar scenes of harvesting could be observed through the carriage window as they rattled by, but once out of the rural parts of Surrey and on toward Victoria Station, the fields disappeared, and the buildings became taller and closer together.
Rebecca stood bewildered and agog on the platform. She had never seen so many people or heard such a cacophony of noises in all her life! But she was jostled into action by the moving masses; standing still was not the thing to do. She had to keep up with Jack and not lose him in the crowd. This was not easy, for all London men seemed to be wearing black hats like his, not the assortment of flat caps found in rural villages. As she stepped out onto a busy London street, she felt her heart swell. This is London, the home of Queen Victoria, Prime Minister Viscount Palmerston and our government, and the beating heart of the great British Empire! Meanwhile, she clutched her bags and kept her trunk close to her skirt. This is also home to many pick-pockets and scoundrels.
Jack hailed a waiting hansom cab and gave the driver Uncle Hector’s address: 27 Milton Square, South Kensington. When Jack, Rebecca, and all the luggage had been unceremoniously squeezed into the small cab and the driver had moaned about too much baggage, he set off with speed. Rebecca hardly dared look as he weaved the horse through the busy traffic, narrowly missing pedestrians and overtaking stagecoaches. The journey was only two miles, but the excessive fare for the nerve-wracking experience convinced Rebecca that walking would have been the better option, luggage or no luggage.
Uncle Hector’s house was one in a long line of tall terraced houses. They had been built in the last decade and bore all the hallmarks of comfortable, modern living. Each shiny front door had five steps leading up to it, large sash windows on either side, and a small railed balcony above. The effect was beautiful, elegant, and welcoming. As Jack and Rebecca climbed the steps and pulled on the heavy bell chain, they looked at each other. Could a relative of theirs really be living in such a salubrious abode?
They had little time to wonder for Uncle Hector welcomed the couple with delight. Rebecca was encompassed in a warm embrace, and Jack’s hand was gripped by both of Uncle Hector’s and shaken heartily. As he ushered them into the sitting room for a cup of tea, their luggage disappeared upstairs to the large guest chamber by means of an unobtrusive footman.
If the exterior of the house was impressive, so much more was the interior. Even Barton Manor and Biggenden could not boast of the luxury of gas lamps and piped hot water. How much easier for the servants, thought Rebecca. Her feet softly sank in the deep carpet as Uncle Hector propelled her to a comfortable leather armchair. Jack was making his way to another seat via one of many glass-fronted book cases, surreptitiously perusing the contents.
“This truly is a great pleasure,” said Uncle Hector, sitting down heavily in an armchair surrounded with piles of books and papers.
“Indeed, it is,” replied Rebecca.
“How rare it is for me to welcome a blood relative to my abode!”
“We are most grateful, Uncle.”
“I have government advisers and academic students visit me on an almost daily basis, but now I have an actual niece staying.”
Rebecca smiled as she was elevated above the rank of advisers and academics, but whether it was due to her kinship or the intended duration of their visit with him remained ambiguous.
“I presume Ma and Pa never stayed here.”
“No, alas, I never had that pleasure,” replied Uncle Hector solemnly, apparently forgetting how critical he so often had been of his brother and his choice of wife.
The tray of tea arrived.
“Ahh, Becca, you can be in charge of the pot.”
“Happily,” responded Rebecca, and she lavished her uncle with all the attention one can offer in preparing a cup of tea to the desired taste of the
recipient.
“Sir, what is your area of expertise?” asked Jack, who until then had been excluded from the conversation.
“For many years, I was a government adviser for income tax.”
Rebecca looked hopefully at Jack. What could one reply to such a conversation-killing job? This is where husbands can be very useful—even husbands like Jack, who hate anything financial.
“How interesting,” he commented cautiously. “Gladstone has reduced income tax, hasn’t he?”
“Indeed, only this year he reduced it from nine pence to seven pence, despite cuts in duty. Why, he is a remarkable chap. When he became chancellor, the government coffers were nearly empty, but Gladstone has managed to replenish them somewhat without squeezing the pockets of the working man too much. He rightly believes that Parliament is too extravagant and wasteful with taxpayers’ money, and this has made him more popular outside the Commons than within it.”
“Remarkable indeed.”
“Yes, he is a dear friend. Why, he has often sat right where you are now and discussed the country’s finances with me.”
“I thought you had retired, Uncle.”
Uncle Hector’s gaze returned to Rebecca. “Ahh, advisers don’t really retire, dear Becca,” he replied in a rather paternalistic, patronizing tone. “I no longer attend Whitehall, but ministers of the Treasury often visit me to discuss policy.”
“You must be a busy man,” said Jack.
“But that isn’t the half of it.” Uncle Hector shifted in his seat. “Since withdrawing from Whitehall, I have become a private mathematics tutor for university students.”
“Do you enjoy that?”
“To be perfectly honest with you, I am appalled at the ignorance of many of the pupils; they come from privileged homes, have had the best education money can buy, but still have not grasped basic mathematical principles. Either they have wasted their parents’ money in fooling about in class or are naturally, frankly, rather dim.”
The conversation, which almost amounted to a monologue, continued. Rebecca’s mind drifted as she gazed around the room. And what a masculine room it was! She tried to analyse this impression, wondering what made it so very male. The numerous bookcases that lined the walls were mahogany. The dark, shiny wood seemed masculine. Was the word for mahogany le or la in French? Even the glass doors on the cases, with their gothic arches, looked unfeminine.
The fashion of the day was greenery; ferns and evergreen pot plants, like Biggenden Manor now boasted of, but in this room, there was not a plant or flower in sight. Instead of lace mats and ornaments on any table top and windowsill, there were piles of books, papers, and pens everywhere. Strictly speaking, it was not untidy. Rebecca was sure Uncle Hector knew exactly where everything was located, but the room definitely felt cluttered in spite of its lofty ceiling and spacious proportions.
The phrases “Prime Minister Palmerston,” “stabilizing the colonies,” “consolidating the Empire,” “abolishing paper duty,” and “money for the common man” drifted past her in soporific waves. She looked at her husband. She could not think of a subject he was less interested in. Politics was bearable, but economics and taxation? But Jack looked interested and engaged.
What a dear man he was! Imagine being married to a verbose man like Uncle Hector! Did women in that predicament realise before plighting their troth that their men were garrulous, or did the awful realisation dawn too late? Did some women actually enjoy being the captive audience to a chatterbox? Did they routinely feign headaches and retire early, or did they learn how to switch off while retaining an interested facial expression? Dear Jack, she must give him an extra big hug tonight for being just right in conversational matters.
The next morning after a leisurely start, Uncle Hector proposed a guided tour of the important sites in the metropolis, somehow making it sound like a landowner suggesting a trip around his estate. From her previous experience of her uncle’s inactivity, Rebecca was surprised he offered to be their tour guide rather than just pointing out places of interest on a map. But Uncle Hector’s commodious hospitality included the hiring of a private carriage for the day, arranging a copious picnic, and devoting the whole day to his guests. What Uncle Hector did not know about the Palace of Westminster, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, and The Mall was not worth knowing.
“And here is Buckingham Palace, my dears, home to our dear Queen Victoria,” stated Uncle Hector after cautiously descending from the swaying coach and heading toward the iron railings. “Notice the new façade, complete with a central balcony, which, by the way, was Prince Albert’s suggestion. All this was built with money from the sale of the Brighton Pavilion, after Queen Victoria complained to Robert Peel, the then prime minister, that Buckingham Palace lacked space for entertaining.”
“I think nine children could comfortably live there,” joked Jack.
“She doesn’t do much entertaining now, does she?” asked Rebecca.
“Oh no, my dear.” Uncle Hector’s chins wobbled as he shook his head. “Since Prince Albert’s death, she has been in seclusion, and hardly anyone has seen her. She hasn’t opened Parliament since. Rumour has it that her husband’s private rooms are just as he left them and she insists that hot water for shaving be taken up daily.”
“How odd!” exclaimed Rebecca.
“Yes,” added Jack, “and people are beginning to think her mourning has become rather self-indulgent, considering her coronation vows.”
“Quite!” agreed Uncle Hector, lowering his voice to add in a conspiratorial tone, “and this is giving republicans ammunition. Their voice is getting much bolder.”
“Surely, you’re not a republican, Uncle?” teased Rebecca.
“Certainly not!” sputtered Uncle Hector. “But with power and privilege comes duty and responsibility, and I think the queen is ill-advised to prolong her seclusion indefinitely.”
The trio gazed a little longer at the impressive palace. Rebecca wondered if the grieving monarch was gazing out at them. Did her massive abode feel like a lonely gilded cage? Were the iron railings keeping her inside as much as they kept the people out? As the cramped coach swung into The Mall, Rebecca felt a sense of freedom and contentment, worth more than the crown jewels.
Nelson’s column at Trafalgar Square was an awe-inspiring sight. Though Uncle Hector declined to alight, Jack and Rebecca were keen to explore the elegant fountains and magnificent statues in front of the National Gallery. It was a delight to enjoy the monument in silence and marvel at the skill in designing and fashioning such sculptures, but on returning to the carriage, the lecture resumed.
“You can’t begin to conceive how much trouble that colossal column has already caused. There was a competition for the design, which had to be re-run due to organisational problems. The proposed material for the shaft was changed from sandstone to expensive granite. Then four years into the project, the Nelson Memorial Committee ran out of funds, and the Government Office for Woods and Forests—of all departments—took over.”
“Oh dear,” said Jack and Rebecca in unison.
“Then one of the bronze reliefs on the pedestal was found to be adulterated with iron, and the partners in the company that produced it were imprisoned for fraud.”
And you have managed to tarnish our enjoyment of it too, thought Rebecca.
The carriage took them down Whitehall, and Uncle Hector continued his running commentary. If Rebecca was looking out of the right window, he seemed to comment about something on the left side, and vice versa.
“And here is Downing Street, of the famous Number 10 Downing Street.” Rebecca followed his plump finger to the right but missed the road all together.
“Pitt was the last prime minister to reside there. It is said to be in a terrible state, built on soft soil with shallow foundations. Many walls are cracked and floors are buckled. Over the decades, numerous attempts have been made to restore it, but now it is either vacant or used only for occasional meetings. It may we
ll get demolished.”
“Rule Britannia,” muttered Jack under his breath, making Rebecca shake with suppressed laughter.
“Now coming up ahead is the Palace of Westminster—housing our parliament. It was once a beautiful building, but in 1834 there was a terrible fire that took five days to extinguish. In its place, as you can see, they are constructing this hideous building in what they call Gothic Revival Style.” Uncle Hector almost spat out the last three words.
“Sir Charles Berry, the architect who designed this monstrosity, died three years ago, so never will see his creation completed,” Uncle Hector added with some satisfaction. “The limestone he chose to build with is already showing signs of decay, and the project isn’t even completed, so it probably will not last for long anyway.”
Rebecca strained her neck to see past her uncle, through the steamed-up window, to the Houses of Parliament. What she saw seemed very impressive and in no danger of collapse, but she dared not voice her opinion. Instead she squeezed Jack’s knee and was rewarded with a fleeting wink.
All this sight-seeing produced a hunger that turned Uncle Hector’s train of thought from the crumbling architecture of London to the picnic basket. Tapping hard on the ceiling of the coach with his walking stick, Uncle Hector gained his chauffeur’s attention and redirected him to St. James’s Park.
Rebecca was relieved to step out of the stuffy, swaying carriage and was astonished at the beauty that met her eyes. The reflection of the late summer sun danced on the shimmering lake. The trees and bushes around the water were attractively set out, contrasting and complementing each other in colour and shape to produce a most pleasing sight. “Like the Garden of Eden,” whispered Rebecca to herself.
“Rather a lot of Adams and Eves,” teased Jack.
Dusters and Dreams Page 7
