The next morning it was all hands on deck to clear up all traces of the previous day’s events and return the servants’ hall to its normal austere tidiness. That afternoon, as I was busy sweeping the floor, Mrs. Milton came in with the post and handed me a letter. I recognised the handwriting immediately—it was from Master Edward!
I slipped the envelope into my pocket and longed for an opportunity to read its content. My thoughts were in a whirl, my heart was pounding, and I knew I could be fit for nothing until I knew what was contained in the letter. As soon as I had finished sweeping I hurried to the broom cupboard, sat on an upturned bucket, and opened the envelope. My hands shook as I read the words. Edward wrote about his unexpected good fortune and how he had immediately given up his post to take on his new estate and responsibilities, and then he continued, “The weight of my new situation presses heavily on my shoulders and I need much wisdom from the Lord to be a good landlord and employer. I also feel the need of a wise and sensible friend by my side, one I can trust, who holds values similar to my own, and therefore ask if you would consider becoming my . . .”
I felt faint and shook as I hastily turned the page.
“. . . housekeeper.”
Housekeeper! My heart sank. Housekeeper. How foolish and romantic I had been to imagine he wanted me as his wife. I read on, realising that he wanted me to help him run his home, manage the redecorating required, and organise a team of servants. While I should have been flattered by the proposal, I was feeling disappointed as a result of my dreamy, unrealistic, and mistaken imagination.
I folded the letter and sat with my head in my hands, trying to grasp the implications of the message. But this indolence would not do, and I steeled myself to get up and get going with the next task, which was to polish the huge floorboards of the servants’ hall, before my short absence was noticed and questioned. With no Emma or Sarah to work with, I had to complete this large chore all alone, but this perfectly suited my present state of mind.
I was very annoyed with myself for being so disappointed at receiving a proposal so much less than a marriage one. The suggestion clearly showed that he would never see beyond my servant status. This, I told myself severely, was something I had to take on board and never forget. I was not in some romantic “lived happily ever after” novel, but in the gritty, real world of social class and prejudice. I had thought that Edward was above this narrow mindset, or that I could charm him out of it, but I had only been deceiving myself. On the other hand, I told myself, if I was more sensible and realistic, the offer of a role as his housekeeper was very flattering. He clearly thought I was capable of running his house for him and that he could trust me to make good decisions. To see him every day and to help him would be delightful—but only if I stayed sensible and remembered my place, I added.
My romantic and my realistic selves argued and chewed over the proposition as I slowly polished and prayed my way across the room. By the time I had reached the door, the floor was gleaming and I had decided to accept the position and keep any romantic fancies in close check.
Breaking the news to Mrs. Milton was difficult, but after her initial moans and groans at losing yet another of her team, she became surprisingly supportive and was full of tips about various aspects of housekeeping.
“Organisation is the key,” she instructed. “And make it your business to know everyone’s business. Get to know the butcher, the baker, and all your suppliers. If you are loyal to them, they will be loyal to you and give you decent discounts.”
I nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed.
“And keep good accounts. Enter every expenditure and keep all receipts.”
She showed me her book of accounts. Every now and again, Lady Davenport would request to see the accounts, and Mrs. Milton prided herself in the fact that she could account for every penny entrusted to her. The inspection was on the whole ceremonial and rather cursory, due to Lady Davenport’s poor mathematical skills and lack of understanding of basic economy.
”But that,” said Mrs. Milton, “is no reason to keep shoddy records. A housekeeper,” she added, “should be beyond reproach.”
I nodded again, now feeling totally overwhelmed.
“And you will need new uniforms. Now let me find my tape-measure and get you measured up. Then we can order some nice material. I know just the right supplier.”
I was excited by the thought of wearing a housekeeper’s uniform of neat, patterned blouse and long black skirt. It seemed much more becoming and authoritative than the dresses and aprons I was accustomed to, and they allowed more scope for personal taste and style. I would also wear my hair in a less severe style, maybe letting a ringlet slip out . . . but I checked myself! Of course, I would no longer be addressed as Stubbs but as Mrs. Stubbs (for all housekeepers were known as Mrs.). This concept had struck me as a very strange, and it would make me sound like a plump, middle-aged matron.
It took me a few attempts before I was satisfied with the acceptance letter I wrote to Edward.
CHAPTER 12
IN LONDON, THINGS WERE GOING decidedly well for Miss Davenport. The young man of good pedigree had become a regular caller at the Davenport’s London residence, and he frequently escorted her to Hyde Park for strolls or rides. The respective families had dined together on a number of occasions and seemed satisfied with the unfolding of events.
Emma sent long and lively letters to me, sharing her delight in exploring London during her free time. She enjoyed the challenge of public transport and had ventured into more places and museums than had the Davenports themselves. Through the servant grapevine, Emma had discovered that a duchess was looking for a replacement lady’s maid for her daughter. Emma had observed the daughter whilst escorting her ladies and was impressed by her vivacious and witty character. When Emma also learned that the family often travelled to Europe, she lost no time in applying for the post. Emma was to have an interview with the duchess the following week and was busy practising her most cultivated articulation and manners. I wished I could be there to witness her endeavours and act out the interview with her in her attic bedroom. All business in London needed to be wound up by 12th August, when all families of influence would disperse to their Scottish estates to begin the grouse shooting season, so both Miss Davenport and Emma were under some pressure to reach their intended goals.
Mrs. Milton lost no time in recruiting two new housemaids. They were both keen and willing to learn but had very little experience of working in a big house. As they had looked with bemusement at the various brushes, potions and polishes, started work and retired, shattered and homesick at the end of a long working day, I was reminded of my early days at Barton Manor and did my best to make them feel welcome. Mrs. Milton and I had only a few weeks to lick them into shape before I left and the family returned. I taught them all the tricks I had learned for making work easier and recommended high doses of hand salve.
A great deal of my scarce spare time was taken up with making farewell visits. As I contemplated my departure from Benton, it dawned on me how much I would miss the good preaching of the Reverend Penfold. Pa always said that hearers are quick to complain and slow to congratulate, and taking this to heart, I wanted to visit the vicarage. I was given a warm and courteous welcome, which, as an example of not showing partiality according to rank, would have pleased the Apostle James. I was invited to join Rev. Penfold and his wife for their afternoon cup of tea and scones. Rev. Penfold was pleased and touched by my expression of appreciation, and the conversation flowed easily as we discussed life in a vicarage, their grown-up children, and my plans. I had visited the vicarage with the fear that it would take up too much valuable time, but left two hours later wishing I had visited more often.
I spent a pleasant evening with Mr. and Mrs. Crookshanks in their familiar, homely kitchen, enjoying some of Mr. Crookshanks’ delicious sausages. I would also miss this godly, wise couple and their hospitality.
Another afternoon I walked across the est
ate to visit Sarah in her new little tied cottage. Sarah looked as pleased as a queen as she busied herself in her tiny kitchen, making tea for us both. She proudly showed me around her domain, and I had to peek up her chimney to see the large joint of bacon received from her father-in-law. Sarah spoke excitedly of the thrill of doing domestic chores and shopping for one’s own home, of planning and organising one’s own time, and of her plans to keep hens and sell eggs, all the time fiddling unconsciously with her new, shiny wedding ring, which gave an air of maturity to her hand.
She was interested to hear about my new position, but as she herself enjoyed the freedom of being newly released from domestic service, she seemed to pity all those who were still under that yoke, whatever their job title may be. I shared the letter I had received from Emma with Sarah, and we chatted about the exciting news. Of course, Emma had landed on her feet and charmed her way into getting the lady’s maid position, and because her new employers were planning to travel to the continent in the near future and were determined to have Emma with them, they had arranged an immediate discharge from the Davenports’ service and for her few possessions to be collected from Barton Manor. Sarah and I smiled over the hastily written letter describing such dramatic events and concluded that “it could only happen to Emma.”
I felt the greatest sadness at the thought of leaving Mrs. Milton. Her demanding job would continue as ever, with very little support from staff or family. Throughout my time at Barton Manor, I had never felt close to her, but she had always shown fairness and kindness as far as her superior rank would allow. I knew we could have been good friends had we met in a different situation. I couldn’t decide whether she was content with her isolated position or whether she secretly craved companionship. She was upright and good, always respecting Christian values but never embracing the salvation offered in the gospel. She seemed to keep everyone at arm’s length, including the Saviour.
I longed for her to come to know Christ’s love and to belong to His family. I wished I had been a better witness to her. I thought hard and long about an appropriate leaving gift to give to her and finally ordered a book of Expository Thoughts on the Gospel of Mark by J.C. Ryle. It felt like a coward’s way of evangelism, but I prayed that it would be a blessing to her. I hastily finished embroidering a bookmark (originally intended for Miss Miller) and placed it in the book to add a more personal touch.
On my final day at Barton Manor, I visited the library for one last time to return a book and sign my name in the borrowers’ book. I smiled as I saw the long, uninterrupted list of Rebecca Stubbs signatures and spent a few moments perusing the pages to see what I had borrowed. My romantic self got the better of me as my fingers traced the signature of Edward Thorpe. As I gazed around the beautiful, panelled room, I remembered all the secret meetings we had enjoyed together. These conversations had been most satisfying and agreeable times of true mutual understanding, something I had rarely found at Barton Manor—moments I had felt truly understood and valued as a person rather than as a useful cleaning machine. All my other friendships made among the inhabitants of Barton Manor lacked a spiritual dimension, and without that, they seemed hollow and temporary.
As I took off my housemaid uniform for the last time, I was surprised at the pang of sadness I felt that this part of my life was over. How the next chapter would unfold, I had no idea.
CHAPTER 13
THE NEW MASTER OF BIGGENDEN Manor and estate had kindly arranged for a private carriage to convey the new housekeeper to his residence; thus, I departed Barton Manor in style. At first I enjoyed the luxury of my solitude, but the anticipation of actually seeing Mr. Thorpe again (I kept reminding myself to address him as such, rather than with the somewhat juvenile title of Master Edward) soon created butterflies in my stomach. This was exacerbated by a feeling of nausea due to the motion of the carriage along the roads. The driver seemed to be an excitable type who was either urging the horse to gallop or halt suddenly, causing me to be flung hither and thither.
I discovered that the only way to cope with this was to adopt the unconventional position of sitting on the floor and pushing my feet hard against the opposite seat, thus anchoring myself against some of the extremes of motion. I had to keep my eyes tightly shut, which was a great pity, as normally I enjoyed watching the activities of daily life of villages I passed through. I had left Barton Manor in my smart new clothes and was travelling for the first time in a privately owned cab, but now I was feeling wretched, green, and unsightly. The Lord had effectively cut me down to size, and as my stomach churned and my head reeled, I prayed for help and support to survive the journey and meeting with Mr. Thorpe.
At first the journey took the same route as to Pemfield, but after Tunbridge Wells, instead of travelling north toward the Greensand Ridge, we turned eastward along the Medway Valley. That area was all new to me. I had no idea how near or far we were from Biggenden Estate. This was vexing, as I wanted to smarten up my appearance before arrival. A very bumpy peer into my small looking glass reassured me that my outward appearance was not as dishevelled as my inward feelings were; a multitude of hairpins and a hat had more control over my hair than I had over my emotions. My palms were so clammy with anticipatory nervousness that I decided to keep my gloves on until any handshaking was over.
My first impression of Biggenden Manor was that it looked like a small monastery. A thick hedge surrounded a garden of overgrown shrubs with not a flower in sight. The house was Jacobean in style, built of Wealden sandstone, with gabled façades. Mullioned arched windows gave it a somewhat ecclesiastical appearance. I had never seen such a masculine looking house and felt disappointed by its severe, unwelcoming appearance.
Much to my joy and relief, the manor’s new master gave me an altogether different welcome, rushing up to the vehicle before it had barely stopped to release me from the carriage and set me down on solid ground.
I had never before seen Edward as animated and excited as when he opened the front door and showed me into his kingdom. He was no longer the misfit family member at Barton Manor but the proud owner of his own house and estate.
My eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness of the entrance hall, but as soon as they had, I inspected the interior with great interest. The hallway was spacious but not expansive, and everything to behold was of timber. The wide staircase that ascended up three walls of the room was uncarpeted oak, and the hall floor was bare oak boards except for one Turkish-style mat in the centre. The walls were covered with elaborately carved oak panelling.
Edward started to explain what the carvings represented, but instead of concentrating on the panelling, my eyes wandered and I studied him. He looked so well, happy, and handsome; I felt a wave of joy at being in his presence again. His eyes met mine and before he moved on to show me more of the house, he gave my arm a squeeze and said, “It’s so lovely to have you here.” That was enough to crown my day.
Had a female greeted me from my coach, no doubt I would have been given an opportunity to retire, straighten my clothing, and tidy my hair. A polite question about my journey would have been asked, and a refreshing cup of tea offered. Such pleasantries were ignored by Edward, and I was not offered any refreshment until the whole house had been explored from top to bottom.
The manor was modest in size, having only six bedrooms and two attic rooms, one of which was mine. The downstairs consisted of the hallway at the centre with a dining room, sitting room, study, and library coming off the hall. Beyond and behind the dining room was a comfortable small room that was to be my sitting room. It faced westward, catching the afternoon and evening sunshine. Large sash windows overlooked the back garden and meadows beyond. The room was well furnished with a chest of drawers, bookshelves, a desk, a pair of armchairs, and my own stove; I was delighted. Next to my room were the kitchen, pantry, and scullery. The back door of the kitchen opened onto a backyard where hens were scratching the ground. A house of this size did not have a servants’ hall, so the kitchen w
as used for eating as well as preparing food.
It was in the kitchen that I was introduced to the other members of staff—all two of them! Mr. and Mrs. Kemp had been Sir Richard Tenson’s faithful servants during his latter years, providing him with all the nursing care he required. The two were well past their prime and seemed worn out by the constant attention their former employer, who had been bed-bound for almost a year, had needed. Mr. Kemp was slim, slightly stooped, and almost completely deaf. Mrs. Kemp was square in size and her walking was severely limited due to arthritic knees. This faithful couple had kept the manor running, with the occasional help from Agnes Brookes, the shepherd’s daughter.
When I heard the story of the Kemps’ loyal devotion to Sir Richard Tenson, I feared that they might resent Edward’s—and more especially, my—presence. But the opposite was true: the honest couple seemed pleased that someone was coming to take control of the house they loved but could not manage. The long months of Sir Richard Tenson’s decline and the increased infirmity of the couple had brought about some unconventional arrangements in the house. Mr. and Mrs. Kemp more or less lived in the kitchen, and their two old armchairs stood companionably at each side of the kitchen range. In the evening the quaint couple could be found sitting in silence together, Mr. Kemp dozing quietly with his feet on the fender and Mrs. Kemp knitting, counting stitches under her breath. They struggled to manage the stairs to the attic bedrooms after a tiring day and had turned a storeroom near the kitchen into a makeshift bedroom. Every evening at nine o’clock, they had a cup of milky tea, filled their hot-water bottle, and shuffled off to bed.
Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 9
