As the cold wind and pelting rain lashed against the lattice windows, it felt snug and cosy to draw the heavy curtains, light the lamps, stoke the fire, and settle down to an evening in the study. Edward would often sit in his armchair, put his stockinged feet on the back of his sleeping hound and read the newspaper or discuss the day’s events. I would draw a lamp close to sew the seam of a curtain or work on whatever project I had in hand. The lamps and log fire cast a warm glow on the homely scene, excluding the wider room and the rest of the world from its embrace. The crackling and hissing of the burning logs and the dog’s gentle snoring contrasted sharply with the wild weather outside.
Mrs. Kemp rarely baked cakes, so I often took it upon myself to make something to supplement our cups of tea. The results were always warmly received by Edward. We enjoyed toasting crumpets on long forks and spreading them with honey, allowing it to run into all the holes before eating them as warm as possible. Rex was rather partial to my crumpets too.
If Edward disliked evening invitations, I hated them even more. Instead of sitting in the study, I would either retire early or sit in my housekeeper’s parlour, working on the household accounts (never my favourite chore), reading, or writing letters. My room was much smaller than the study and had a good fireplace, so it actually was warmer, but the lack of companionship made this of little comfort.
Rex often sought me out on these evenings, and I appreciated his presence. On rare occasions we would have a pleasant surprise, which began with Rex rising from his dreams and cocking his ears as he heard his master return early. Edward would then join us in my parlour, dispelling all despondency or tiredness and I would put the kettle on my small range for more tea.
Once or twice I went out for an evening, but it was a fairly rare occurrence, mainly due to the fact that I had neither the time nor the inclination to make many new friends. Mrs. Brooke, Agnes’s mother, was a warm-hearted individual, and I sometimes had afternoon tea at her cottage on my half day off. The churchwarden’s wife invited me to the charity knitting evenings in aid of the London Society for Promoting Christianity Amongst the Jews. The industrious ladies of the church would knit or crochet blankets and clothes throughout the winter months and then have a stall at the May Fair, when the same women would buy each other’s products and give the proceeds to the mission, which worked among Jews in the East End of London and ran a hospital in Jerusalem. Many hours were spent knitting and fussing over arrangement and prices for the fair, and I secretly thought that more money could be raised simply by having a yearly collection in the village for the mission.
My already meagre enthusiasm for the knitting evenings was further damped when the churchwarden’s wife expressed loud and disapproving surprise at how little progress I had made with my knitting since we last met. All conversation seemed to stop, all eyes fastened on my rather halfhearted attempts, and I distinctly heard, from the far corner, a plump lady mutter, “No wonder she ain’t got a man.”
My one consolation was to go home and argue with Edward that knitting evenings were even more ridiculous than his friends keeping pheasants to shoot. This led to a hot debate on the subject and finally having to agree to disagree.
But life isn’t all evenings. During the days, I kept busy and occupied. I encouraged the Kemps to take every Thursday off, and after some initial reluctance, they agreed and soon fell into a routine of visiting their married daughter in the village for the day and returning in time for the evening meal.
On their day off I assumed the role of chief cook and thoroughly enjoyed it. I made some subtle changes to the menu, hoping to influence Mrs. Kemp’s repertoire, but to no avail. Instead of boiled potatoes, I did roast. Instead of white sauce, I made cheese. I never included cabbage in the meal. I preferred to make lighter desserts like mousse and trifle rather than jam roly-poly and suet pudding.
Every Thursday the Kemps returned to the kitchen at five o’clock and sat down to eat the meal I had prepared. The food went down in the same speedy, silent manner that all meals were consumed, and I never could discern their opinion, only that it was never imitated.
Once the house was in order, I developed an enjoyable habit of going for a walk after lunch. For the first few weeks, these walks were merely for exercise and entertainment, but it was not long before Edward thought it would be useful if I did some of his charitable visits to ailing or elderly tenants. He was regularly informed by an estate worker of some need or problem and would visit with a basket of provisions. Any female in need he began to pass over to me as “my department,” excusing himself by saying it was “awkward, and anyway, you have the knack for knowing what to say.”
I often wondered if he begrudged me my afternoons of freedom, but whatever his motivation, after initially feeling awkward at acting as Miss Bountiful at someone else’s expense, I soon began to enjoy my visits and build up valuable friendships with many cottagers. I would go with a basket of groceries and receive a warm welcome, a seat, and cup of tea by the fire, and became a confidant of family stories and woes.
One of the saddest situations was that of an elderly widow of a woodcutter by the name of Mrs. Bridges. I had been informed that she was ill and in pain, but for several visits I could not make out what was wrong with her. After I had been to see her regularly with provisions for a few weeks, I noticed a strange, unpleasant smell and a fixed stain of discharge on her bust. With some tactful prompting she admitted to having a large, oozing tumour on her breast, which she had concealed for as long as possible, but which was causing her severe pain. She insisted that no doctor should be called, as she wanted no male “prodding me about,” but I organised a regular supply of clean dressings and Laudanum to be ordered to ease her discomfort.
We both knew her end was near, but she was ready for the great change, having fixed her hope on Christ many years ago and proved His faithfulness. She had lived a difficult and tough life, but had no complaints. Instead, she was full of thankfulness to the Lord for all the good she had received and much more she could look forward to in glory. She enjoyed me reading the Bible to her and I enjoyed her wise observations, always leaving her small cottage feeling richer for the experience.
One cold February afternoon, as she prepared vegetables for her supper and I worked my way through her darning pile, she told me about her children. Her first three babies had all died soon after birth, but eventually she was blessed with a healthy little baby girl called Elizabeth, who was “bonny and bright” and who grew up to be beautiful in looks and character. She was her father’s pride and joy. A few years later a darling son, Simon, was born. He was also a great delight to them. He had thick, curly brown hair and trusting brown eyes; when he smiled dimples appeared in his cheeks, and a spark twinkled in his eyes.
The two small children filled their small cottage with happiness and joy as they played around the house and later explored the woodlands together. They were not without sibling squabbles, but on the whole played well together, making up fine adventures and exploring the village. Mrs. Bridges often took the two children into the woods to have lunch with their father and she glowed with pleasure as she recalled the happy times they had, sitting on logs, making tea in a can over the woodsmen’s fire, the children chatting happily as they told their father of the day’s activities.
At this point Mrs. Bridges heaved herself out of the chair and shuffled away to a wooden chest under her bed. With love and tears in her eyes, she carefully lifted out some beautiful little dresses she had made for Elizabeth and a pair of well-worn little boots Simon had taken his first steps in. As she sat and continued her story, Mrs. Bridges’ rheumatic fingers gently caressed the items.
All too soon it was time for the children to attend school. Elizabeth settled in well, was popular with the pupils, and found learning easy, but Simon struggled. He struggled to differentiate between a b and a d, a p and a q, and he found it almost impossible to write with his right hand. He wanted to use his left hand, but the schoolmaster caned his
hand and tied it behind his back. The young lad, who used to be happy and confident, soon became fearful and suspicious, hating school and anything new. The schoolmaster became frustrated at Simon’s lack of attainment and would often make him wear the dunce hat and stand in the corner for hours, subjecting him to humiliation and mockery. Mr. and Mrs. Bridges watched helplessly as their son developed nervous twitches and became increasingly sad and solitary. Mr. Bridges once confronted the teacher, only to be told that he had no knowledge of modern teaching methods and should not interfere but should be grateful for the free schooling his unworthy son was receiving. As Mr. Bridges’ boss and landowner had selected the schoolmaster and paid his salary, there was little that could be done.
The school years dragged on, and at last Simon was free from the tyranny of the schoolmaster, but not from his fears and nervous habits. The twinkle had disappeared from his eyes, never to return. Not only did he fear other humans, but he also feared the voices in his head that frequently told him of his uselessness. Sometimes these voices would exasperate him so much he would scream out in desperation, and Mrs. Bridges would have to soothe his head in her lap and stroke his hair whilst praying aloud for her agitated son. Simon had committed his soul to Christ but was frequently tormented with doubts and misgivings. Mr. Bridges arranged for Simon to work with him in the woods, but sometimes the sound of the falling trees or the crackling of the fire was too much for him, and he was soon dismissed as an unreliable worker.
By this time Elizabeth was happily married to an ambitious solicitor’s clerk and had moved away to Canterbury when he received promotion.
One fateful day Simon heard a neighbour suggesting that “the lunatic should be shut away in Barming Heath Asylum.” Fearful of being imprisoned in a “mad house,” Simon disappeared. After he failed to return home that night, Mr. and Mrs. Bridges rose early the next day to search for Simon, looking in all his favourite haunts in the woodland. But a fellow woodsman found him first, hanging from a tree, dead.
I looked into Mrs. Bridges’ eyes and saw fresh grief and anguish as she related the tragic story of her son. Her fingers busily traced the stitching on the leather boots. I put down my sewing and put my arms around her and she sobbed into my breast.
When she had sufficiently composed herself, she went on to explain how shunned the family was for her son’s death. Even the vicar visited only once—to express his view that their son was now in hell as a punishment for taking his own life and that the family should not grieve so much as it showed lack of submission to God’s judgments. Of course, he added, Simon could not be buried in the consecrated ground of the church yard.
Elizabeth’s husband wrote, explaining that as an up-and-coming clerk with prospects, he felt unable to continue associating with a family so shamed, and from hence forth he and his good wife would have no further dealings with them. Mr. and Mrs. Bridges found themselves forsaken by all and lived with the burden of constant grief for a dead son and estranged daughter. Their one consolation was the love and power of Christ, even to those tormented in their minds, and the fact that He is the same forever. But even this consolation could not be shared with others, as all around them, people were indoctrinated with the dogma of the church that those who commit suicide were outside the scope of Christ’s love and salvation.
I trudged home at twilight, distressed and musing on the tragic story I had heard, feeling intense love and pain for dear Mrs. Bridges. As I stepped into the kitchen, I was immediately confronted with a message that Mr. Thorpe had needed my help for at least an hour and was “put out” at hearing of my truancy. I hastened to the study only to find him pouring over a shooting catalogue, unable to decide what kind of riding boots to order.
“Ah, you’ve arrived at last! I desperately need your help.”
“How can I assist, sir?”
He passed me the catalogue. “Which of these riding boots should I go for?”
“Well, it is hardly my area of expertise, sir.”
“But it would be nice if you showed an interest.”
I tried to apply my mind to riding boots and with a rather absent air helped him choose a pair.
“Good, I’ll order them first thing tomorrow,” said Edward. “Anyway, what makes you so tardy tonight?”
“I was assisting Mrs. Bridges with her chores.”
“You are becoming too involved with the villagers. Remember you are paid to run my household and not to help every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the village.”
I bit my lip hard to prevent an unguarded reply and after giving a most servile “and will that be all, sir?” I exited the room. That evening he drank his tea and ate his extra thin slice of cake alone; I feigned tiredness and retired early.
CHAPTER 16
THAT NIGHT I TOSSED AND turned in bed, unable to forget Mrs. Bridges’ heart-rending story and her enduring pain of being estranged from the only living member of her family and of the church’s reaction to Simon taking his own life. I was also troubled by Edward’s reaction and it began to dawn on me that he had feet of clay. This then led to the realisation that if I perceived him to have feet of clay, he was obviously an idol to me—and I was an idolater. But, I reasoned to myself, I am not worshipping him or praying to him; yes, I admitted, he does fill much of my waking thoughts, but as I am in his employment and he is a friend, surely this is permitted. Thus I accused and excused myself into the small hours when sleep finally overtook me.
The next morning I was again summoned to Edward’s study. He invited me to sit down as he had an important matter to discuss. My mind raced as I wondered whatever the matter would be that demanded such a formal and urgent meeting.
“Over the past few months, I have been subjected to the hospitality of many families in the vicinity, and I feel socially indebted to them,” Edward explained.
I waited for him to elaborate.
“As you clearly have a reduced workload, it is high time I reciprocated the kindness of these families and start inviting them here for evening meals.”
“I see.”
“Obviously you will need more staff, so I would like you to advertise for whomever you feel you require.”
“I will attempt that, sir.” He cleared his throat and studied his hands. “And I would prefer it if you cooked the meals rather than Mrs. Kemp producing bland, heavy stodge for my genteel guests. I will leave it in your capable hands to arrange this tactfully and discreetly.”
I mentally raised my eyebrows at this last request but agreed to carry out his orders.
My immediate response to the need of more staff was to consider Nancy, the poor scullery maid from Barton Manor. What an opportunity it would provide for her to better herself! But to my shame and eternal regret, I rejected this charitable idea because she would need to live-in. I preferred to employ local girls so that our evening arrangements would not be discovered or discussed. I silenced my conscience by arguing that it would not be right to rob Mrs. Milton of a dutiful member of staff.
Finding suitable staff was easier than anticipated: I simply asked Agnes if she knew of any young, industrious girls in the neighbourhood, and she soon came up with some suggestions. There was a great lack of employment for young women in the area, and many of them followed their mothers by taking up seasonal agricultural work, which was poorly paid, unpredictable in availability, and back-breaking.
Mrs. Kemp and I interviewed four girls and selected the two who seemed the most willing and quick of mind: Molly and Clara. Agnes had the task of instructing them in all cleaning matters, and I provided instruction on waiting at the table—after consulting a few books on the subject.
Mrs. Kemp was pleased with extra help in the kitchen, but this was slightly overshadowed by the fact that she now had two more mouths to feed. We agreed that they should learn all-around tasks and not become either a housemaid or kitchen maid so that we would have greater flexibility.
As we were busy training the new maids, Edward was becoming more and more abso
rbed in his new hobby of shooting game. At social functions the conversations of the males predominantly centred on the latest shoot, the quality of their guns, and the amount of game bagged. Each, praising up his fellow marksmen, felt secretly assured that none was as accurate a shot as himself.
While at first Edward privately scorned the fashion, as he was invited to more and more shoots, he found it necessary to purchase a good gun. Before long he became known for his shooting prowess. He soon could regale the events of an afternoon’s shoot, shot by shot, as well as any man.
I was amused to learn all the reasons (or rather, excuses) for a poor performance, including rough terrain, unhelpful beaters, wrong wind direction, and even uncooperative birds.
Edward began hosting shoots on his own land, and the need to invite these gentlemen and their wives for a meal became pressing. Once the new maids were reasonably competent in their new roles, I let Edward know that we were ready to attempt entertaining, and he promptly sent out invitations. I dreaded speaking to Mrs. Kemp about the cooking arrangements, but that too was easier than I had feared. Mrs. Kemp reacted with such alarm at the thought of entertaining the gentry that I immediately had to reassure her I would be willing to do the task, if she would be so good as to guide me. She readily agreed, offering to cook for the servants on the days that the master entertained. I did not feel it necessary to inform Edward of how easily Mrs. Kemp had been persuaded to relinquish her role, and he seemed in awe of my diplomatic skills and extremely grateful.
My triumph felt hollow as I sat in my room, pouring over The Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy, trying to produce a menu that was both easy and impressive. The art of cookery seemed far removed from plain and easy to me! I finally settled on leek soup, followed by filet de bœuf en croûte, with roast potatoes, vegetables, and thickened gravy laced with port. The dessert needed to be light, so I chose apple trifle.
Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 11
