Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter by Hannah Buckland Read Free Book Online Page A

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    Homesickness often wafted over me on Sundays. There was no one to discuss the service with, no sense of the day being special and holy or a day for God-given relaxation. My mind often went to the companionable evenings snuggled up with a religious book by a roaring fire eating toasted tea cakes, or the first Sundays of every month, when after the evening service, all were invited to our house for hymn singing and supper. Many people came, young and old. Miss Miller played the piano in our parlour and anyone could choose a hymn. We usually had soprano, alto, tenor, and bass singers present and the harmonised singing was beautiful; so beautiful that old Mrs. Grey always nodded off, until the clatter of tea cups woke her and her appetite. I am sure a musician would have found many a fault with our amateur rendition of the hymns, but I had never heard such lovely, heart-warming singing, and I longed to hear it again. After about eight hymns, or when our throats were too dry, Ma and I would make the tea and bring in the scones and cakes. The older people tended to stay in the parlour, but the younger ones often drifted into the kitchen and we would sit around the large table chatting and laughing. Sometimes the parlour crowd was noisier than the kitchen group, but it was often the other way around. The parlour people had more of a sense of what were suitable “Sunday subjects” than the youngsters, so became less exuberant. But all that now seemed a million miles away and a different life altogether.
    Mrs. Milton was kind enough to allow me time off to attend the Sunday evening service most weeks. I knew this would give extra work to Emma and Sarah, so I tried to do more chores other evenings. The congregation in the evening was very small, and soon I began to recognise people and be recognised. In the morning I was there as a housemaid of the Davenports, but in the evening I was there as Rebecca Stubbs. Before long I was invited to various older parishioners’ homes for cups of tea on my half day. These little social events were enjoyable, reminding me of the village life I had left behind in Kent. I felt valued once more for the person I was rather than for the tasks I could perform. The work at the manor was absorbing, taking up so much of my time, energy, and thoughts that it was refreshing to remember that there was a life beyond its ornate walls.
    I particularly enjoyed the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Crookshank, the local butcher and his wife. They were a middle-aged couple, and their children had all left home. Mrs. Crookshank would sit and listen to my stories of life at the manor and tell me her family news. Their little home was always calm and inviting, and I felt that here was a place where I could relax and be myself; indeed, during my first few months at the manor, when I was tired all the time, I sometimes had a nap in an armchair by the stove as Mrs. Crookshank prepared the evening meal. Other times I would help her in their small kitchen garden, enjoying the fresh air and genial company. I spent the afternoon of my eighteenth birthday with the Crookshanks, having been given a half day off, but I felt so disinclined to celebrate the day and so loath to lumber anyone with the responsibility of making it special for me, that I did not inform them of the day’s significance. On the way home I popped to the baker and bought myself an iced bun. This was a mistake, for as I sat on the grass verge to eat it, I remembered Ma baking me birthday cakes and letting me lick out the bowl. My eyes filled with tears and the bun turned to sawdust in my mouth.
    My role of housemaid seemed repetitive and mundane, but I soon realised that further down the servant ladder was a far less enviable role—that of the scullery maid, Nancy. She worked from dawn to dusk in the hot, steamy scullery, enduring the wrath of the kitchen maids and the explosive nature of the cook. All the glass and silverware was cleaned and cared for by