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

the footmen, but all the dirtiest, greasiest pots and pans were scrubbed and rescrubbed day by day by poor Nancy. She was also responsible for keeping the various ranges burning and so had to start her day early to ensure the fire was well established and the kettle boiling before the cook entered her domain. The kitchen maids delegated most of the scrubbing of vegetables and plucking of fowls to the hapless girl, ensuring that she didn’t stop from morning to night. I soon learned that Nancy was from the workhouse and did not know her exact age but was told by the workhouse superintendent that she was about fourteen.
    Nancy knew nothing about her family. Her whole life had been dominated by hard labour and an indoctrination of her worthlessness. She could not read or write and had no ambition beyond keeping out of trouble. The workload at Barton Manor was no worse than what she had been used to all her life since she could walk, and the living conditions, especially the meals, were far superior, so she was content in her own pathetic way. She worked with neither enthusiasm nor resentment, but plodded through her tasks like a pony plodding in a treadmill. She had learned to expect harsh words and never kindness. Her loveless life had made her incapable of feeling—or at least showing—any emotion.
    My parents had spent much of their time helping people in need and had instilled this principle in me, so I was naturally moved by Nancy’s plight and desperately wanted to help her. The whole pecking order of the staff made it almost impossible to show concern and offer help, as it would be seen as neglecting my own chores and position. Even the staff’s attitude indicated their belief that Nancy should be grateful for the opportunity to work in such a great house, as if her low start to life was of her own making.
    One night after a particularly elaborate dinner party that had created a huge burden of extra work on all the staff, I was finally free to climb the stairs to bed at one o’clock in the morning, but just then I saw Nancy alone in the scullery with piles of pots to scrub. I knew she had risen at five o’clock that morning to light the stoves, and I felt for her. I fought my overwhelming tiredness, rolled up my sleeves, and started washing up alongside her. Her incredulous look either expressed gratitude or the belief that I was deranged. We quickly finished off the washing up and headed wearily for bed.
    Mrs. Milton seemed all-knowing at times, and this was one of them; the next day I was called into her room and told in no uncertain terms not to interfere with other people’s work, as it would leave me less able to perform my own tasks and would undermine the structure of the household. The vicarage at Pemfield seemed so far away from Barton Manor, not only in miles, but also in attitudes, principles, and priorities. Without the plumb-line of the Bible to guide me, I would have been reeling in confusion. Even with the teaching of Scripture in mind, I felt confused and at a lost to know how I was to act out my Christian faith in a house full of manmade rules, where I was paid to work and not to think.

CHAPTER 6
    ONE OF THE FEW PERKS of the job was the freedom to borrow books from the family’s large library. The library was my favourite place to work. It was on the first floor, and its windows overlooked the extensive gardens. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, but on either side were dark wooden bookshelves. The opposite wall had three large windows with dark red velvet curtains. The other two walls were covered in bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The floor was of highly polished wood, with a large red rug in the middle; there were various little tables with chairs for reading and two comfortable chairs by the fire. The bookshelves were full of beautifully bound books, most of them old, but a few were from recent years.
    Mr. Davenport’s grandfather had been a keen reader and had set up the library, which