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Rebecca Stubbs, The Vicar's Daughter

By Hannah Buckland

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CHAPTER 1
SLEEP EVADED ME. THE BED was cosy, the temperature agreeable and my body tired, yet my whirling thoughts refused to rest. Why, oh why had I decided to leave my native village of Pemfield to work in a faraway manor house? Why had I not listened to the wise advice of my seniors and stayed put? At the crack of dawn I was to leave my dear friends, those who had lovingly supported me after my parents’ untimely deaths, to become a housemaid among strangers. I—who had never set foot even in the grounds of a stately home and had no idea of the daily life of their inhabitants! My ignorance would be plain to see and the housekeeper was sure to detect it within seconds of my arrival. She would send me straight back with a flea in my ear for wasting her time, and all of Pemfield would be talking of my inadequacy and silly ideas. So much had happened in the last seven months of my life. Was I about to add to its drama by my ill-advised decision? My restless mind reviewed again the sad events that had catapulted me into this situation.
September of 1857 had begun like any other: with commotion and chaos, laughter and lice, hordes of EastEnders from London descending on our rural Kent village—Pemfield—for hop-picking. As
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usual my father, the vicar of the parish, wholeheartedly welcomed his temporary parishioners and sought to do them good for both soul and body. His normal, rather staid parish became a hive of activity, gossip, scandal and friction between villagers and Londoners—and Londoners against each other. The East End invaders were treated with great suspicion by the locals, who blamed them for any vegetables missing from their gardens, clothes from their lines, or apples from their orchards. The Londoners thought the locals were an ignorant bunch and could not appreciate the wisdom gained from living near to the soil and being dependent on the weather. Pa went from one hopper hut to another, meeting old friends and new babies. He caught up with the news of another year and— amid friendship and warmth—he would try to recommend Christ to everyone he met. His message was usually received with politeness, thanks to his kindness and office, but most of his words were choked by the cares of this life. Getting pokes filled with hops, cooking meals over smouldering fires, dealing with teething babies and keeping leaking hopper huts dry occupied most of the daylight hours of the busy workers. Any spare time was spent catching up on the latest scandal or with singing around the campfire with a stiff drink, rather than with reflecting on a distant eternity ahead. Ma and I were equally busy in the garden and along the hedgerows picking berries and apples for jam and jelly. This was our favourite time of year, the chilly morning mists breaking into gloriously sunny days ready to be filled with harvesting the abundance of nature. Our cool kitchen floor was littered with baskets of fruit waiting to be chopped, boiled, and sugared. The stove worked overtime, bringing sweet, sticky liquids to gelling point.
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“Before we know it, October will be upon us, and we will be organising the wobbly and precarious display for the Harvest Thanksgiving service,” Ma said as she chopped up some apples. “I don’t think any of Pa’s carrots and potatoes will be suitable for display,” I replied, stirring the bubbling jam. “The few the rabbits and slugs haven’t eaten are so misshapen they are not fit for public inspection—we’ll have to hide them behind someone’s prize marrows.” “Don’t talk to me about hiding veg!” Ma replied with a smile. “There is no easier way of falling out with a parishioner than by placing his prized product behind a cabbage or cottage loaf!” She sighed and shook her head. “Your poor father, he works so hard in that vegetable patch.” “It’s more a labour of love than hard work, isn’t it?” I suggested. “Anyway, he says it is there that his sermons take shape.” “Then, my dear, it might be more fruitful than we think.” The thought of Harvest Thanksgiving must have been on her mind, for Ma started humming “Come Ye Thankful People Come,” and before long we were singing it together, with Ma singing the melody and me harmonising with the alto. The words, “All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin,” gave a warm and cosy feeling of food stored in the loft and in the cellar whilst whirling snow drifted outside. But this year we had no inkling of how close the safe gathering would reach. That evening Pa arrived late for supper, accompanied by a gust of chilly autumnal air. ‘’It smells like a sweet shop in here,” he said as he removed his boots. “Damson jam and elderberry jelly,” I explained.
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“What delayed you this time?” Ma asked after grace had been said and as we tucked into beef stew. “Zaphnath-paaneah!” Pa said without looking up from his plate. We immediately knew what he meant. By not providing adequate housing, Farmer Joseph Smith was the cause of many problems amongst the hop pickers. “So what was it you provided today, which Farmer Smith should have arranged?” I asked. “Buckets,” answered Pa. “Buckets to catch the drips in leaky hopper huts.” “I thought I was missing a few pails from my wash-house!” exclaimed Ma. “And from the state of the row of privies, I doubt if rain-water will be all they are catching,” continued Pa, digging into his dumplings. “Oh, Frank,” ejected Ma as I giggled. “Then I will not be wanting my buckets back, thank you very much!” “My darling, you may have full peace of mind about that. Have we ever had anything returned which we ‘loaned’ to the hoppers?” We continued our supper, after which Pa read a passage of Scripture from the well-worn family Bible and ended the meal with prayer. Then we lingered at the wooden kitchen table, reluctant to get up and start the work of cleaning the dishes, each filled with the lazy contentment that comes from eating good food after a busy day. “An infant of a hop-picker is feverish,” Pa announced, breaking the silence. “Is he teething?” asked Ma. “I have got a lotion for that.” “The mother doesn’t think so.”
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“It could be sunstroke; those hop gardens become a sun-trap come noon, and there is so little shelter for the little ones. I can find some calamine for that.” “Thank you, my dear apothecary, but the child has been well discussed by the London women, and they do not think it is sunstroke. Between them, those women have more wisdom than. . .” He paused for a suitable simile. “All the colleges in Cambridge?” I suggested. “Exactly!” he replied with a laugh. “And a good deal more common sense too. And by the way, my dear,” he said, turning to me, “it is good to have you back to your normal self again.” Indeed it was good to be back to my normal self. The previous week I had written a letter to a young man, ending a four month long courtship—or rather, entanglement. As a young seventeen-year-old, I had been flattered by the attentions of Raymond, a serious and soberminded church warden ten years my senior. During my infatuation and under his influence, I began to think cheerfulness and humour were signs of a shallow mind and sinful heart, and that a melancholy approach to life befitted true Christians. I held myself aloft from Pa’s humorous comments, which I had previously enjoyed, and tried to cultivate an air of thoughtful silence. Raymond thought I had too much “book learning,” so I stopped voicing my opinions. Raymond thought women should look to their husbands for answers and not trouble their pretty little heads reasoning things out for themselves, so I tried to look decorative, pretty, and receptive to his wisdom. The spell was finally broken when I was invited to his parents’ house for Sunday tea and saw the appalling way his careworn and nervous mother was treated by her husband and sons. I suddenly had
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visions of myself becoming such a down-trodden, unpaid servant with a wedding band. Of course, Raymond managed to get the last word, for I received a reply to my letter stating that I was “an unsuitable partner for a man of his standing.” Indeed, I was most unsuitable, for once again I could run and skip, laugh and chat, and enjoy my father’s humour in a way that I had denied myself for far too long. “Oh, Pa, it is good to be back to normal, and thank you for not being sullen like your esteemed church warden.” “My pleasure, my dear,” said Pa, “but why should Christians be sullen? We have so much lavished upon us here by our heavenly Father and a wonderful future in glory to enjoy.” “You are quite right, Pa,” I replied, “and I hope I never forget that!” “Then just be careful who you make sheep’s eyes at next!”
The following evening, Pa came home looking pale and exhausted. “More children are feverish,” he announced as he sank into his chair. “Then do let me come to the camp and help you,” pleaded Ma. Pa shook his head: “No, my dear, I don’t want you running into danger. Not after all you have suffered recently with your rheumatics.” “Then I shall come, Pa,” I said. “No. You two stay away and respond to requests from here. But I would appreciate your prayers. Finally, now there is danger, the hoppers are wanting my prayers and are asking the right sort of questions, so I need much wisdom. And stamina.” It was not until Pa came home with the sad news of two deaths in the camp that we realised the seriousness of the situation and of Pa’s selfless care for the Londoners.
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The following day, through grief, fear and some superstition, many of the hop pickers hastily returned to London, leaving the frantic farmer to rally a local workforce. Even the gypsy families, who came to the village as soon as there was any seasonal work to be done, shut their bewildered children into their wagons, put their squawking poultry into baskets, and left the neighbourhood as quickly as their straining ponies could pull them. Pa’s workload returned to normal, but he was left exhausted and drained. Within days he himself was confined to bed with a raging fever. Dr. Skinner was suspicious of typhus and with a heavy heart warned us that it could be mild or fatal. He recommended to us a trusted nurse from the neighbouring village, but Ma declined, insisting on attending to Pa’s every need herself. She would not leave the bedside, day or night, and with great intuition seemed to know if Pa’s restlessness indicated a need for a cold compress or hot-water bottle, fresh air or a window closed. Her expressions of love to Pa and her dry, gnarled fingers caressing his pale face brought tears to my eyes. Some days Pa was more responsive and communicative than others, and during those times he often wanted us to sing his favourite hymns. Ma and I tried our best to oblige, but when Pa’s once strident voice joined in as a weak croak, it brought such a huge lump to our throats that we could hardly conceal our emotions. He also wanted us to read from the Scriptures, especially from St. John’s Gospel, so we took turns sitting next to him, holding his hand and reading, particularly concentrating on Christ’s High Priestly prayer. Pa knew it by heart, and his lips moved with ours as we went through the chapter. The days when Pa was well gave us hope that he would recover, but this was not to be. In early October, Pa died in his sleep, as easily
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and comfortably as a worn-out child falls asleep on his parent’s lap, and was taken to his eternal reward. We knew with all certainty that he was now with Christ, which is far better—the Lord he had served faithfully and recommended so warmly, but we sorely missed him. The grief affected us in different ways: I busied myself from dawn to dusk with replying to condolence messages and running the much neglected house, whilst Ma was paralysed with grief and seemed to have given up the will to continue. I nursed Ma day and night, desperately pleading with the Lord to spare her to me. I clung to her frail body as if my hold on her would prevent her departing. “Ma,” I said as I stroked her tangled hair, “do you remember the time you got rid of Uncle Hector by serving him over-cooked beef and boiled cabbage for days on end? He was always recommending Ramsgate as a place to convalesce. Maybe I could take you there when you are strong enough. Can you remember the time Bessie and I fell into the stream and you found tadpoles in my bloomers?” Sometimes I was rewarded with a weak smile, but mostly she seemed unreachable. “Ma, the hedgerows are still full of blackberries, and the trees laden with elderberries, so as soon as you are well, we can start making jam and jellies again. Won’t it be lovely to fill our picking baskets with the juicy gleanings and smell the sweet mixture as it bubbles in the pan? You always say it is your favourite smell. Oh, Mama, please stay with me; please don’t leave.” The thought of being left alone without either of my parents gave my prayers the raw urgency of the psalmist. But Ma had neither the strength to fight the illness nor the will to live on earth any longer. Ten days after my father’s death, she joined him, slipping quietly
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away from me and from this life to her heavenly home and to joy unceasing, leaving me alone and comfortless. My grief and desolation were indescribable. The only life I had ever known had been swept away, and I was left to pick up the pieces, but there did not seem to be any pieces left to be picked up. I struggled to comprehend the finality of my parents’ departure and could hardly grasp the fact that I would never see their faces, hear their voices, or embrace them again. I longed to hear Pa’s whistling and see Ma hobbling about the kitchen humming to herself, but they were gone forever, leaving only silence and emptiness. Time and time again the reality of it all hit me afresh, the punch never decreasing in strength or painfulness. Throughout my parents’ illnesses Mrs. Brown, our washerwoman, had been a valuable support, visiting every day and preparing meals. Now she became my mainstay, helping with all practical arrangements, shielding me from visitors and even moving in so that I was not alone. Mercifully, I became ill myself and was forced to spend a few days in bed, mainly sleeping, and thus I was rather detached from the organisation of funeral affairs. Sleep was a welcome escape for me and I prayed that I, like my parents, would wake on a brighter shore, but I always awoke in my own room at the vicarage and the awful the reality of my bereavement would hit me again with fresh pain and clarity. Uncle Hector, my father’s one and only sibling, but with whom he had nothing in common, took over funeral arrangements and stayed in the village for a week to help sort out my parents’ affairs. He informed Mrs. Brown that he wanted to take me back to London
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with him, but I was well enough to realise that this would be an awful prospect. “Please, Mrs. Brown, don’t make me! I don’t want to live in a stuffy town house in the middle of London where I know no one except awful Uncle Hector.” “But what is so awful about ’im, my dear?” asked Mrs. Brown. “He seems a very obliging man to me.” “He never spoke one good word about Pa, always belittling him and his work in the parish and always boasting about his own achievements in local government.” “’E must be a clever man.” “Humph, only in his own opinion! And then I would have to accompany him to Bath, Ramsgate, or Tunbridge Wells for him to drink the waters or inhale the sea air for his much talked about and fussedover chest complaint.” “So you would meet lots of wealthy people.” “But they are not my type!” “And ’e be rich, and you will lack for nothing,” continued Mrs. Brown. “I will lack! I will lack Pemfield, I will lack my old friends, and I will lack you,” I cried. “Oh please, don’t make me go! I won’t be a nuisance here, I promise.” “Then you will stay, my child, and I am right glad you want to,” said Mrs. Brown as she hugged me tight. So Mrs. Brown somehow persuaded Uncle Hector that I would be better off among old friends and in familiar surroundings and he returned alone—probably much relieved—to London. I regained my physical well-being, but my emotions were in turmoil. I felt guilty for letting Pa work himself to death, for not nursing
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Ma more expertly, and for not dying myself. I felt let down by the Lord, Who allowed all this to happen to me and then I felt guilty for feeling such rebellion. I could not understand what God was doing to me, yet I clung to Him as my only hope of recovery. I knew that He never gave Job an explanation for what happened in his life and He was under no obligation to give me one either. I missed my parents and our life together so much that it was a physical ache. I found some comfort in the text “Underneath are the everlasting arms,” as support was promised however low I sank. I desperately wished I had a sibling for comfort with whom I could reminisce about home life and share old stories and jokes. But I was an only child, due to the fact that my parents met comparatively late in life. Ma had been the local school mistress and was secretly seen by the locals as too old-fashioned and religious to ever marry. She had come to the same conclusion herself and had tried to bury the sadness it gave her by being a diligent and kind teacher to all children that came to her small school. She had been well liked and respected by both pupils and parents alike. The elderly vicar of the village retired to live with his daughter in Sussex, and my father became the new incumbent. His evangelical zeal came as a surprise to the villagers who had been used to a vicar who only worked on the Lord’s Day. He began giving a Bible lesson once a week at the school and soon recognised Ma’s virtues. Before long the pair started walking out and then married. The rather reserved school mistress blossomed into a smiley and friendly vicar’s wife, showing a side of her that had been kept under wraps for many years. My father’s monkish establishment
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was transformed to a regulated and loving household. At last he had found a companion to share his dreams and sorrows, and to laugh with him about the various foibles of his parishioners. To my parents, marriage was an unexpected blessing, and the subsequent arrival of a baby was their cup running over. But now the cosy union of this trio was severed and I was left alone. Mrs. Brown kindly listened to my tearful, incoherent recollections of daily life and held me in her arms as I ended up sobbing. She decided it would be best if I went to stay with her in her little cottage and I reluctantly agreed. From there she could carry on her normal daily routine and mother me as best as she could. With tender intuition she gave me time to grieve but also involved me in her chores and socialising as she felt appropriate, so I was not left to sink into the whirling pool of my own thoughts and sorrows. Miss Miller, the school mistress, frequently called around in the evenings to chat about her day, invite me for a walk or invent some other way of distracting me from my grief. Miss Miller and I had not always enjoyed a good relationship: when I first started school Miss Miller seemed to demand a higher standard of behaviour from a vicar’s daughter. I was supposed to be a beacon of virtue and an example to other girls, but instead I behaved just like the rest of them. Thanks to Ma’s teaching, I found the work rather easy, so had plenty of time to draw silly pictures (often of Miss Miller) on my slate and share them with my row of friends. More than once I was caught and had my knuckles severely whacked. But as the work became more demanding I began to appreciate Miss Miller’s knowledge. My best friend Bessie left school at the age of fourteen to help on her family farm, but my parents thought that I should stay in
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schooling longer and learn as much as possible. By this time I was enjoying the challenge of studying and, due to a common interest in geography, had a better relationship with Miss Miller. Each morning I helped her teach the infants and then in the afternoon continued my studies independently. Seeing the little ones progress from total ignorance of their ABCs to reading and writing at a reasonable level was rewarding, but it required such repetition and patience that I vowed never to become a governess or school mistress. This classroom arrangement only lasted a year, for Ma’s rheumatism had progressed at an alarmingly rapid pace, and it was decided that I should stay at home to care for her and the household. This I did willingly, and much to our relief, Ma’s condition stabilised. Miss Miller continued her contact with the family by having tea with us once a week and amusing us with surprisingly witty tales from the classroom. She keep herself aloof from the villagers and lived a very solitary life but enjoyed a warm friendship with my parents and appreciated Pa’s preaching. Whether out of compassion for me or a sense of indebtedness to my parents, Miss Miller made it her job to support me, and she proved a good friend and an excellent shoulder to cry on. I gained great comfort from the many letters of condolence I received. Various villagers and even people I had never met wrote to me, expressing their gratitude for my parents’ kindness and generosity; they paid tribute to my parents’ thoughtfulness and the usefulness of my father’s ministry. Pa had been very quick to see where there was a need and quietly supplied what was lacking: a bag of coal, a bottle of tonic, or in one case, a pair of working boots. As I read of how my parents had touched so many lives with their kind words and
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gifts, I felt privileged and thankful to have been their daughter. I had been greatly blessed in having these two loving people nurture me to adulthood and instill in me some of their values and beliefs. The letters helped me begin to slowly acknowledge that “the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.” Mrs. Brown and I realised that sooner or later a new vicar would be appointed, and the vicarage would need vacating. We set about this task in a business-like manner, enlisting Miss Miller to help. I only allowed myself to keep small mementos and books as I had nowhere to store bigger items. All our furniture was sold at an auction. I could not bring myself to go and watch the familiar, old items being inspected and prodded by strangers who had no idea of their preciousness. The furniture was neither new nor antique and therefore worth very little in monetary terms. Mrs. Brown insisted in going to the auction to make sure “all was above board.” While the auction got underway, Miss Miller took me off to draper’s shop to buy a length of material for a new spring dress. We were soon engrossed in comparing various yards of beautifully printed cloth, enjoying the unique smell of fresh cotton, and were almost able to forget that my family furniture was under the hammer. We finally emerged from the draper’s, each triumphantly hugging a parcel of material, thread, and buttons, ready to begin our new sewing projects. When Mrs. Brown was satisfied that all had been done decently and in order (apparently she had stood, arms folded, near the auctioneer, giving all who dared bid disapproving stares, as if they were trying to get something for nothing), she joined us for a cup of tea and piece of cake at the Tea Rooms. The auction had gone “as well as could be expected” and had generated a small profit, once the auctioneer had claimed his hefty fee. After all my parents’ goods and chattels had been sold and their savings calculated, it was found that I was the heiress to a modest inheritance. I had imagined that the smallness of Pa’s stipend, matched with the largesse of his Christian charity, meant he never had any money to save, so I was pleasantly surprised. Now I had a new dilemma of knowing what to do with the money and my life. I could live off the money for about four years and then find a way of earning my keep, or I could deposit the money and start work as soon as possible

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