I removed myself rather shakily from the room. As I retreated to my parlour, I pondered over the event. Some things were now obvious. Mrs. Harrington did not like me, Mr. Thorpe would be of little use to help, and Miss Sophia might prove to be the best of them all. But, I reflected, I could not count on this as her mother saw her as but a naive child and would not let her run her own household until she was sure it would be run in ruthless Harrington fashion.
The idea that maybe it was time to leave Biggenden began to grow in my mind, but what was I to do instead? And where would I go?
Of course, when I arrived at my parlour, I did not have the luxury of solitude; Bertha was there doing what I had rather grimly begun to think of as her never-ending fiddling about. For once, I had the courage to ask her to leave. I knew this would cause her a problem as she entered the kitchen only when absolutely necessary and then with an air of condescension. But right at that moment, I did not care for her petty sensibilities. She looked surprised, but after a big show of organising what she needed, she vacated the room. I slumped into my chair with my head in my hands, trying to take in how this new, heavy-handed management would affect the staff who, for all their minor failings, I considered my friends—something else Mrs. Harrington would not approve of.
At first, I felt slightly triumphant at managing to give coherent answers to the formidable lady, but then I happened to catch a glance of myself in the looking glass. There, on my left cheek, was a large streak of soot. I shuddered to think that I had been wearing this throughout the interview, and suddenly I saw how highlighted my servitude and lowly position. It reminded me that I could not dream of halting or even just slowing the fast flowing tide of change the Harringtons wanted to make, even though it would greatly affect the lives of all the staff and myself. Servants were two-a-penny and entirely dispensable: we either changed with the Harringtons or would be shown the door.
CHAPTER 21
AFTER I HAD GATHERED MY
thoughts, I asked Agnes if she could step inside my parlour. She was busy getting lunch ready and had only had a few minutes to spare, but it was long enough to give her a summary of Mrs. Harrington’s thoughts. Agnes looked so downcast at the news that I felt sorry I had burdened her by confiding in her. She, like the other maids, had only ever been employed at Biggenden, and the thought of change scared her. Agnes’ cooking skills had flourished over the last year: whereas I would be happy to call her an excellent cook, she felt uneasy even calling herself a cook, preferring to think of herself as a kitchen maid. The thought of her skills and produce being scrutinised by the fastidious and fashionable Harringtons made her feel so uneasy that she looked as if she would immediately “throw in the towel” and confine herself to her former duties. I fervently reassured her that not a word had been said against any meal by anyone in the room, but that did little to hearten her.
Agnes returned to the kitchen looking miserable. Oh, how I wished that I had not breathed a word to her! I needed to protect my staff, not lean on them for support. I briefly smiled to myself at the silly pun of not leaning on my staff, but then I tried to focus my mind on the business of the day.
The visit of the Harringtons continued as the party engaged themselves in indoor and outdoor pursuits, invited neighbours around, and visited local notable families. We servants worked hard and long hours. We pieced together little tidbits of conversation we heard about the future of Biggenden. It was not ours to know the full plans and often probably got the wrong end of the stick, but as far as we could understand, the library was to become a billiard room, an extra wing might be added for a master bedchamber suite, and Miss Sophia was keen to have a conservatory. Rex was deemed unfit for indoor living and was banished to a kennel in the back yard. Men servants were to be employed as footmen because having maids answering the door and serving at the table was deemed too provincial. The attic above the new wing would house the men. I waited with bated breath for Mrs. Harrington to visit the kitchens and discover the Kemps’ sleeping quarters, almost relishing her anticipated horror, but it seemed that she was not interested in our quarters as long as the food was up to standard. The only “below stairs” alteration she insisted on was the building of a laundry room so that washing would not have to be taken into the village.
I was curious to know Mr. Thorpe’s opinion on the radical changes but was not to have the privilege of being privy to them. Once or twice he came to my parlour door with some request or other and looked as if he wanted to tarry and talk, but on finding Bertha there, he did not stay. His general demeanour was that of a man madly in love and willing to allow anything in order to get his prize. He was keen to get married as quickly as possible, but Sophia wanted a summer wedding, and her mother insisted that the building work should be completed first, believing that the dust and inconvenience of workmen was incompatible with an appropriate start to married life. Mr. Thorpe playfully chided his betrothed for making him suffer such a long wait; she relished hearing these loving arguments and answered sweetly but remained adamant.
What, you may ask, was Mr. Harrington doing while his wife was inflicting sweeping changes on the household? I had rather underestimated the man, thinking he was interested only in field sports and cigars, but soon my esteem for him rose. After a few days at Biggenden, he departed home, citing “other engagements.” I later learned from Bertha that he was on a committee of benevolent gentlemen who had organised the building of a cottage hospital for the poor in their locality. Mr. Harrington had gone home in order to be present for the interviewing of candidates for a resident physician. I was glad to hear of his benevolence and hoped this trait would soon blossom in his daughter also.
Bertha’s irritatingly frequent presence in my parlour and inability to work silently proved interesting at times. Once I had become used to her exaggerated devotion to the Harringtons, I learned to pick out relevant nuggets of truth. It transpired that the Harringtons’ residence, Kenwood, was not as grand or large as I had visualised. Apparently, it was slightly smaller than Barton Manor and certainly had less acreage. They did not own a property in London, but rented the same house every year for the London season. I was slightly relieved to hear all this, as Mrs. Harrington gave the distinct impression that although Mr. Thorpe was a nice chap, he was slightly below their status and, although she was graciously overlooking the fact, she could never quite forget it and would be pleased if no one else did either.
The Harrington ladies stayed for ten long days, and then they departed to prepare Kenwood for the Christmas festivities. Mr. Thorpe tarried a few more days at Biggenden and caught up with estate management. He consulted his estate steward about the various proposed changes to the house, and between them they contracted planners who had links to reputable builders. Mr. Thorpe invited me to join him for evening drinks as in fore time, and I obliged, but without the romantic hope of gaining his interest, the evenings had lost their allure for me.
He was enthusiastic about the improvements that would be made to Biggenden and the prospect of settling down into contented married bliss. Previously he had in private been critical of and sarcastic about people similar to his future mother-in-law, but now he appeared to be much more accepting. Only once did he even hint at her over-dominating character by saying, “At least the forceful mother-in-law won’t be living here.” I replied, “How can you be so sure? Mothers often end up living with their youngest daughters,” and watched with relish as he considered this awful possibility for the first time.
I had strictly instructed myself not to venture any opinion on the forthcoming changes or on the family he was to marry into during our evenings together. This resolution was hardly necessary, because, as usual (and now, with hindsight, it was so obvious), Mr. Thorpe did most of the talking and did not bother to ask about me, my welfare, or my personal opinions. His apparent presumption that I would be a permanent housekeeper at Biggenden irritated me. I could almost see with his mind’s eye an image of a grey and wrinkly Mrs. Stubbs, the dear and faithful servant of the family, welcoming his grandchildren with freshly baked biscuits. All very comfortable and reassuring—for him. This assumption, more than anything else, galvanised my intentions to leave Biggenden, and to leave before Mrs. Thorpe and the inevitable Bertha arrived.
Yes, to leave was certainly my intention—but was it the right thing to do? I needed the Lord’s guidance so much. It seemed as if He was slowly shutting the door for me at Biggenden. Or was the opposite true? Was I to stay there to help the staff through the changes ahead? Was I to sacrifice my own wants, swallow my pride, abandon any ambition, and just keep plodding on?
When I thought about our great Example, the Saviour and His self-denying life, any self-pity and self-will seemed wrong and unchristian. The Lord knew that all I hoped for in life was to have my own loving husband and family, but so far He had seen fit to deny me this blessing. Was He instructing me to wait, or was it a definite refusal? With an eternity of happiness ahead of me in the life to come, why was I so concerned about the few years or decades I had toiling here below? But heaven and eternity seemed so far away, so distant and intangible, while the cares and needs of daily life pressed with great reality.
Once again Satan used my spiritual struggles to suggest that God did not care. In my experience, whenever my faith lost its anchor hold on Christ, my soul was swept around like a little boat on a rough sea, battered from side to side and uncertain of the route or destination.
To make matters worse, Rev. Brinkhill seemed to think his congregation needed some spiritual sifting and preached sermon after sermon on false professors, presumption, and those “with head-knowledge” only. His texts were “Many are called but few are chosen,” “Strait is the gate and narrow is the way,” “I never knew you,” and some of the verses in Jude about deceivers. These solemn and sobering verses pricked my wounded soul to the core, and I began to despair. I felt that my repentance had been too shallow, my understanding of sin too vague, my faith too weak, and my unbelief unpardonable. The vicar described a Christian conversion as such an emotional and dramatic change, a desperate sinner at his wits’ end due to the burden of his sins, led to Christ and receiving forgiveness and immediate, immeasurable comfort, joy and peace—but I had not had such a deep experience and feared I had deceived myself.
Yet, in my dejection, I still clung to the Lord Jesus and like Peter said, “to whom else can we go?” I pleaded that, if I had never been right in my religious experience, I would be now. I started again coming to Christ with the huge burden of my doubts and fears and pleaded with Him to take me in as He promises to. I begged that He would remember His promise, “And He that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.” This was my prayer for a number of weeks, but it seemed as if heaven’s door was shut against me, and my prayers returned unheard and un-regarded. All I could grasp onto for comfort was the fact that God never lies and that His promises are most sure. I remembered Pa’s advice, “Trust our unchanging God, not your changeable feelings.” I longed to have someone to talk to and remembered with sad longing the friendly conversations I had enjoyed with Mr. Thorpe at Barton Manor after evening services. How times had changed!
These spiritual agonizings did not fill my every waking hour; indeed, they only swept over me at bedtime or when I had more time to reflect, which would often be on Sunday. Even this caused me concern—surely a really convicted sinner would feel bad all the time! Yet most of the time I was busy with the mundane cares of running a household, and earthly care dominated my thoughts. I would determine within myself to wrestle with the Lord until He gave me relief, yet would fall asleep before I had hardly begun praying.
During this dark time, there was one source of relief the Lord kindly provided for me. I subscribed to the weekly sermons of Mr. Charles Haddon Spurgeon, a popular Baptist minister in London, whose presentation of the gospel was very similar to Rev. Ryle’s, that is, warmly, urgently, and freely recommending Christ to all. He seemed to be able to stoop down to where I was and encourage me to see what a loving and willing Saviour Christ is. These sermons gave some peace and relief, but my general mood was that of despondency.
Indeed, on looking back on that winter, it was altogether fairly gloomy. The untimely death on 14th December of Prince Albert, our queen’s beloved husband and consort, cast a mournful shadow over the whole nation. The weather was mild but rainy, so my walks with Rex were wet and muddy.
Mr. Thorpe was home for only a handful of nights to view the progress of the building work, preferring to spend his time at Kenwood or in the round of social engagements (he previously would have shunned) with the Harringtons. Making big structural changes to a property and even building extensions during the winter months is not advisable, but such was Mr. Thorpe’s eagerness to get the work completed that he asked the workers to push ahead with the plans. Therefore, we were subjected to constant banging, crashing, raised voices, and in-trodden mud. We shut all windows, shutters, and curtains, but still the dust managed to permeate into the house.
The silver lining to this disruptive cloud was that the house was unfit for entertaining, so we had no guests to deal with. Molly and Clara found it no hardship to keep the workmen’s tin mugs full of strong, sweet tea and would often tarry to banter far longer than necessary. Once again, I was finding it hard to keep them occupied because we could not do any thorough cleaning for as long as the disruption from the building work continued.
But then our workload increased in an unexpected way. The sister of Agnes’s brother-in-law died tragically of a haemorrhage after a long and complicated delivery, leaving her husband with a new baby son and three other children under six years of age. Agnes’s sister, Mary, lived close by, and although she had a large brood of her own, she helped the grieving widower as much as she could. This practical help even extended to giving suck to the young baby, as she had an un-weaned child of her own. George, the new widower, found it hard to accept his new son, who he couldn’t help but see as the cause of his beloved wife’s death, so Mary tactfully suggested she take the baby into her house to make it easier for everyone.