Dusters and Dreams

by Hannah Buckland

  Instead of living under her parents’ roof and gaze, Violet now had a pretty, little attic room at Biggenden Manor. Because she was now a lady’s maid and needed somewhere to mend and modify delicate garments, Violet had the whole room to herself. It was her little kingdom, and she loved the privacy. Equally as enjoyable was life in the kitchen—the lively conversations during staff meals and lazy companionship at the end of a busy day. Molly was now head cook, and thanks to an absorbing interest in the wheel-wright’s new apprentice, could wholeheartedly congratulate Violet on her engagement to Joe. Clara had recently been promoted to housekeeper, and she was finding her new role challenging and lonely.

  “Now I know ’ow ol’ Stubbs felt when we were giggling li’le girls an’ she were responsible.”

  “I’m not a giggly li’le girl.”

  “No, Violet, ya’re a mature engaged woman, but ya’ll always be giggly, I bet.”

  “Dyeing these ridiculous feathers for me lady’s new hat wipes any smile off me face.”

  “I’d raver be messing about wiv feathers than doing me weekly accounts.”

  “This isn’t messing about. It’s science.”

  “I’ll ’elp ya, if ya ’elp me wiv me number work.”

  “Deal!”

  Clara and Violet felt mature and experienced as they oversaw the training of the young housemaids who were keen and dutiful but tryingly uninitiated.

  “They’re still wet behind the ears, Clara,” moaned Violet, having had to remake her lady’s bed yet again after the maids had done a poor job.

  “Were we as ’opeless once?”

  “No. It’s these youngsters—all slapdash and slipshod.”

  “So says the ancient lady’s maid at the great age of seventeen!” the twenty-year-old housekeeper said with a smile.

  “Nearly eighteen, I’ll have you know.”

  “And don’t ’it me wiv the pilla, t’would be a bad example!” Clara laughed as she retreated out the bedroom.

  Violet had thought that the vicarage had been the hub of parish activity, but now it seemed that Biggenden Manor and farm were the centre of action. The threshing barn was soon to be required for its original use, so many evening meetings were held to discuss the future of the break-away congregation. The easiest option would be for them to go their separate ways and join existing non-conformist churches in the area—the Strict Baptists or the Methodists. But the sense of unity was so strong that no one felt inclined to affiliate themselves with another group.

  Mr. Thorpe generously offered to give the congregation a couple of acres of land so that a new building could be erected. The proposal was pounced on with alacrity, and soon plans were being drawn up. The premises would be a plain, multi-purpose hall with no ecclesiastical trimmings and be as suitable as a general meeting venue as for a divine service. As in Nehemiah’s day, the faithful folks of Capford strengthened their hands for this good work and started to build. Like Sanballat, Lord Wilson was wroth and took great indignation but found he was unable to interfere.

  The building project was not the only thing to provoke Lord Wilson to wrath. During his brief absence from Capford to take the sea air in Ramsgate, his eldest daughter had redirected the carriage taking her to church and attended the barn service instead. Such blatant flouting of his authority and display of independent willfulness was intolerable. Miss Wilson was whisked off to London the very next week and frog-marched to the most fashionable ballrooms and theatres. Lord Wilson knew only one cure for headstrong daughters, and that was marriage.

  Violet was pleased to hear via the servant grapevine that Lord Wilson was also annoyed with his nephew, Reverend Mervin Wilson. Instead of being grateful to his uncle for finding such a suitable place for him to cut his teeth as a vicar, he seemed nonchalant and downright lazy. Lord Wilson hadn’t expected him to pastor the parish, but he did expect a different sermon every week, and not just a different text. After a month, Lord Wilson realised what the parishioners had concluded within days—his relative was devoid of both personal charm and intellectual flare. Purposely forgetting the trifling details of Jack Hayworth’s dismissal, Lord Wilson bemoaned all the trouble he had taken to secure this post for his nephew. There was certainly no prospect of diverting evening debates with this oaf of a parson, and Lord Wilson felt his loss.

  All these interesting topics and many more were thoroughly discussed over meals with the other servants in the Biggenden kitchen and in the dressing room with Mrs. Thorpe as she was having her hair styled. Each fact and theory was neatly recorded in beautiful copperplate handwriting by Sophia and sent off to Rebecca. From the letters she received back, Sophia and Violet suspected that Rebecca was bored and homesick for Capford, for she wrote in length of Jack’s interesting exploits but mentioned precious little of her own doings.

  Having risen up the ranks, Violet’s work was no longer as strenuous or tiring as before, but her hours were still long. She had to be available from the moment Mrs. Thorpe awoke to the moment she was gowned, groomed, and ready for bed. On a normal day, Violet knew she was unlikely to be called between the duties of dressing her mistress for dinner and bedtime, so she often sneaked out to meet Joe. They stayed within earshot of the kitchen door, and if Violet was unexpectedly needed, a coded whistle from Clara would send her running back to attend to Mrs. Thorpe. As much as she liked her duties, Violet was always pleased when the Thorpes went out for the evening and left her knowing exactly how much time she had for courting. Parting from Joe without a proper good-bye was never satisfactory.

  One warm evening in July, Joe was impatiently waiting at the washing line when Violet appeared.

  “I thought you would never come. Did she want to try a new hair-do?”

  “I’m no later than usual. Anyway, I thought you would still be busy harvesting.”

  “We finished one field, and the next isn’t quite ready. If you didn’t expect me, why are you here?” Joe teased.

  Ducking under the clothes line, they headed toward the kitchen garden, through the gate, and toward the big, wooden wheelbarrow.

  “We need to talk, Vi,” said Joe as he brushed away the soil and gestured to Violet to take a seat.

  “This sounds serious,” said Violet, puzzled by his tone as she sat herself in the barrow and let him squeeze in beside her.

  “Mr. Thorpe spoke to me today, offering us the use of the vacant rooms above the stable.”

  “Oh,” said Violet, none the wiser.

  “He said that they were built to board male servants, but as they don’t have any, we could have it as a little house if we wanted.”

  “Do we want it? I thought we were going to wait.”

  “I don’t find waiting easy, Vi,” Joe said carefully with a sideways glance. “And I keep wondering why we should wait, especially as we made a good few bob for the Hayworths’ stuff we sold.”

  “I thought we had talked all about it. We are waiting so we save money, so we don’t set up home, and so . . . ” Violet’s voice petered out as she stared at the radish row.

  “So we don’t have babies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. Babies travel. Maybe even travel better than expecting mothers.”

  Violet smiled to herself. Only medical men or farmers would talk about reproducing in such a matter-of-fact way.

  “But if we get married, I would have to give up work.”

  “No. I sorted that one out with the boss too. He said you could continue for a while, ’cos you would be easily reachable from our rooms. They even have a bell so you can be summoned.”

  Violet silently digested the information. Joe caught her nearest hand and looked at her intently.

  “So, darling, what do you think?”

  “It’s a nice idea.”

  Joe heaved Violet onto her feet and whirled her around between the vegetable rows.

  “Mind me hair, Joe. I’m still on duty.” She laughed then and planted a big kiss on his stubbly cheek.

/>   “You’ll soon be my wife.”

  “Only if I approve of the stable loft.”

  “I’d live in a pig-sty, so long as you were with me.”

  “The stable loft sounds romantic, doesn’t it.”

  “It certainly does.”

  The unwelcome sound of a shrill whistle interrupted their embrace.

  “How inconsiderate!” Joe said and reluctantly released her with a sigh. Violet blew a raspberry in the direction of the summons, but after pecking Joe’s cheek, she dashed toward the back door.

  “We’ll explore the rooms tomorrow!” called Joe as she retreated.

  Sticking up a thumb as she ran, Violet showed her approval of the plan.

  Even in her excitement, Violet realised that the stable rooms were decidedly inconvenient. Joe joked that the only thing to recommend them was their potential and water-tightness, but he worried about the disadvantages. The two rooms were of a decent size and were highly suitable for their current job of storing horse food, but not for living in. They were not adjoined but both came off the same corridor. Violet teased him that they could have one room each. Using their imaginations, they tried to visualise the dingy rooms with clean windows, curtains, and furniture.

  Any spare time the couple had between the wheat and apple harvests was spent cleaning up the rooms and making them habitable. Generations of spiders were driven out, and the grimy walls were washed and whitewashed. With Violet’s elbow grease, the windows became transparent again and the floorboards shone. Joe and his father constructed a bed-frame, and his mother got together enough feathers to make a mattress.

  One Saturday when Violet had a half day, she and Joe went to Tunbridge Market and returned with a second-hand cooking stove, a few ill-matching chairs, and a table. Their families dug deep into their kitchen cupboards and supplied them with a strange assortment of cooking utensils and crockery. Joe and Violet were delighted with their treasures. After a good sanding and polish, the chairs looked fairly respectable, and a gingham tablecloth hid the stained surface of the old table.

  Violet and her married sisters got busy making cheerful curtains and rag mats for the attic rooms, and her mother presented her with a beautiful patchwork quilt for the bed. All in all, everything was hodgepodge and perfect! Now all they needed was a day off together to tie the knot, but a day off in harvest was unthinkable, so they and their lovenest would have to wait until at least October.

  CHAPTER 39

  THROUGH THE WARM SUMMER, UNCLE Hector slowly but steadily improved. He could now take a few steps, but his left hand was still useless. His speech had become more understandable, but his emotions were still uncontrolled. His pathetic reliance on Rebecca’s presence for reassurance was a heavy ball and chain that kept her captive.

  Hessie cared for Uncle Hector’s physical needs and did her utmost to protect Rebecca from exhaustion, although she must have been exhausted herself. Rebecca purchased a wicker bath chair that she had seen advertised in a magazine. It opened up her and Uncle Hector’s world. Any day that Uncle Hector was feeling well enough, Jack and the footman would carry him down the stairs and into his new chair. Being only a shadow of the man he used to be, moving him around was not difficult now. On wet days, he would sit in the parlour listening to Rebecca playing the piano or reading to him. On sunny days, she would take him outside, even venturing as far as Kensington Gardens and the rose garden in particular. Protected in warm tartan blankets against the mild summer breeze, Uncle Hector was as passive as an infant. His sunken, watery eyes gazed in silence as Rebecca pointed out the beauty of the flower beds, the statues, and the water features. She always wanted to tarry longer, but her patient’s tiredness, chilliness, or incontinence always brought their trips to an abrupt end.

  Rebecca wished that Jack would sometimes have an evening at home, for she longed for interesting company and to hear stories of life beyond the walls of 27 Milton Square. She knew he was doing important work and realised the soup-kitchen attendees’ needs were greater than her own, but she couldn’t help wishing. Even better would be the opportunity to accompany Jack!

  “Please let me come with you tonight,” Rebecca asked again over dinner.

  “You have enough cares at the moment, without my loading you with more.”

  “I want to see it for myself.”

  “You’ll be shattered with tiredness.”

  “So what?” snapped Rebecca. “Being stuck in this prison is shattering too. I need to escape just for a little while and see who else is out there in the world beside Uncle Hector and Hessie.”

  Much to her surprise, Rebecca had thumped the dining room table and set the crockery clattering. But she wasn’t done. “I am fed up with being cooped up here. I do need to get out!”

  Rebecca felt guilty, embarrassed, but desperate. She was angry with Jack. Why are men so stupid and don’t see things until you spell it out in ugly words? She looked at Jack through her tears.

  “I see,” said Jack.

  “And what?” retorted Rebecca. “Are you going to let me come along, or am I going to stay here until I go mad and need admission to Mr. Gascoigne’s recommended asylum?”

  “I didn’t realise things were so difficult for you.”

  “Well, they are!”

  “I thought they were getting easier now that you have the chariot chair.”

  “Bath chair,” corrected Rebecca pedantically. “It only lengthens my chain.”

  Jack put his hand sympathetically over Rebecca’s, but she pulled hers away. She didn’t want useless “there, there”-ing. She wanted him to do something.

  “Come along tonight then,” said Jack.

  “Thank you, darling.” Rebecca smiled through her tears and grabbed his retreating hand.

  Walking out the front door with Jack to catch a horse-drawn omnibus felt like a guilty escape. Hessie was all for it, but Rebecca felt awful when she kissed her uncle goodnight. Her victory felt hollow. She wasn’t sure if Jack wanted her company and wondered if she had let everyone down.

  Squeezing themselves into the overcrowded omnibus, Jack and Rebecca were parted. There was a strange medley of people in the carriage, and grand buildings outside were interesting, but despite all this, Rebecca kept finding herself watching Jack. He looked so distant, stern, and cold. A chilliness radiating from one’s husband can cast a gloomy cloud over any adventure, however diverting.

  There was no direct omnibus route from opulent South Kensington to dingy Whitechapel, so Jack and Rebecca changed carriages several times. Each omnibus they entered seemed to contain a scruffier and smellier clientele. Rebecca was wearing her oldest summer frock, but she still felt ridiculously over-dressed. It was a relief to alight from the swaying carriage and trot next to Jack through the dirty side-streets and hidden back alleys.

  On reaching the warehouse soup kitchen, Jack and Rebecca received a warm, hearty welcome. Jack acted as if they were the most harmonious of couples, and Rebecca tried to follow suit. Many of Rebecca’s misgivings melted away as she donned her apron and helped chop up sack loads of vegetables. The friendly kitchen team welcomed any help, especially if offered by Jack’s wife. Time and time again Rebecca heard how much they appreciated his input and ministry. Rebecca felt proud of him, but she wanted to prove her own worth too. She felt a bit nervous when the big doors opened and the heaving mass of hungry humanity flooded into the warehouse. Safely behind the trestle table, Rebecca concentrated on serving the hot soup, ladle by ladle, into the proffered receptacles—jam jars, bowls, chipped cups, and jugs—the bigger, the better. After the staid existence of life at 27 Milton Square, the chaos and commotion of the warehouse was almost overwhelming, so Rebecca focused on her given task and tried to ignore the bigger scene until later.

  Once the soup had been served and the noise levels were somewhat reduced, Rebecca saw Jack and Mr. Smith climbing onto a large table to start the worship. Seeing them, jackets discarded, in their rolled-up shirtsleeves and braces, Rebecca thought they
looked more like boxers entering the ring than preachers. Indeed, Mr. Smith’s general bearing and crooked nose made him look like a rugged champion boxer. Jack would not have stood a chance! Mr. Smith read a portion from the Bible and prayed, then Jack took over. Rebecca could not catch every word, but she was struck by his commanding presence and engaging manner. Within a few minutes, he had covered the essentials of the gospel and urged each hearer to flee to Christ. Without sounding condescending, he had spoken simply and clearly. Without sounding condemning, he had described how deeply fallen mankind is and set forth God’s remedy for sin and guilt in Christ Jesus.

  Rebecca would have been pleased to hide at the sinks with the washing up, but a bunch of toothless old ladies approached her, wanting to meet the “parson’s missus.” Soon she was in among the crowd, chatting to this one and that, holding a baby or helping a toddler with their soup cup. With a beaming face, Jack called her over to meet several of his acquaintances.

  The sun was sinking, and there was a chill in the air when the Hayworths finally extracted themselves from the now-stuffy warehouse and headed for home. Too late to catch an omnibus, they walked through the slums toward a more respectable district where hansom cabs ventured. Jack held Rebecca’s hand tightly as they weaved their way through a maze of dark alleys.

  After the scenes she had witnessed, it seemed an extravagant luxury to sink into the padded seat of a hansom cab. Rebecca wondered how many poor, aching bodies would lie on the hard ground or thin straw mattresses that night. She imagined the discomfort, smells, noises, and vermin in a typical bunkhouse—and shuddered.

  Her musings were interrupted by Jack putting his arm around her shoulder. “So, what do you think of my equivalent to a gentlemen’s club?” he said with a smile.

  “I found it very interesting.”