Just as I started to worry that Molly and Clara might get lazy from lack of tasks to do, a heavy parcel from Miss Sophia arrived containing yards of beautiful velvet to be made up into curtains. We were afraid to cut the lovely material, measuring and re-measuring the windows many times before we were confident enough to make the first snip; then our work hours became dominated by the sewing of endless seams. As we sat bent over our work, our tiny stitches making barely noticeable progress along the seams, the sunshine and the birdsong outside seemed to mock our captivity.
On Tuesday, as soon as the midday meal things had been cleared away and the girls were back to work on the curtains, I took my work pinny off and went upstairs to get changed. Much to my annoyance, the kitchen doorbell rang just as I was ascending the stairs.
Which trader will delay my half day this time?
I wondered as I, rather irritated, unlatched the door. To my delight it was no trader, but Rev. Hayworth himself.
“Good afternoon, Miss Stubbs,” he said. “Today is so beautiful that I could not resist the pleasure of walking to meet you.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” I replied. “That is very kind of you. Were you visiting parishioners in this neck of the woods?”
“No, alas, I have no such laudable excuse; just the desire to leave my stuffy study and walk with you.”
“Then I am greatly honoured.” I smiled, noting the twinkle in his eye. “May I detain you for a few minutes while I run upstairs and change out of my work clothes?”
“If you wish, but what you’re wearing looks fine to me.”
So Rev. Hayworth took a seat in the kitchen, and I rushed upstairs to change. Such was my haste that I misbuttoned the back of my dress, did not realise until I had reached the penultimate button, then had to undo them all and start afresh.
This is why ladies employ maids,
I thought,
to ensure they do not go into important company in a state of disarray
.
I need not have rushed, for re-entering the kitchen, I found my guest browsing through a recipe book.
“You are quick, for a woman,” he teased, slamming the book shut.
“And you have an interesting taste in reading, for a man,” I replied in the same vein; then laughing, we left the house together.
With our morning’s work behind us and the sun on our backs, we were both in a light-hearted and playful mood as we rambled through the lanes. My companion was for trying out a new route, which by accident or design added a few miles to a normally straightforward journey. But neither of us cared, for our conversation was far more wandering, covering all subjects from Bible commentaries to bicarbonate, pulpits to pantries. Our dialogue went smoothly and satisfactorily from serious to playful, from teasing to earnest, then back again without any need of explanation or fear of misunderstanding. With the happy realisation that my opinions, hopes, and fears were truly sought out and valued, and without the fear of the mocking sarcasm I had often experienced with Mr. Thorpe, my heart flourished. The more I learned of Rev. Hayworth, the more my respect and esteem for him grew. The more it grew, the greater was my dread that someone or something could tear this newfound source of joy away, leaving me deeply wounded and desolate.
It was mid-afternoon before we arrived at the Hayworths’ cottage. Mrs. Hayworth had clearly expected us long ago, for the kettle had almost boiled itself dry. As we sat down with a cup of tea, Rev. Hayworth explained our new route to his mother.
“Was this an elaborate way of avoiding Miss Brinkhill?” she asked with a laugh.
“No, indeed, but that is not a bad idea,” replied her son.
Mrs. Hayworth turned to me to explain. “Poor Jack spends half his life at the moment trying to avoid encountering Miss Brinkhill.”
Rev. Hayworth nodded. “Yes, she seems to be in every cottage I visit and every lane I tread. The sick of the village fake their own recovery just to avoid her grim visitations; and if I have the misfortune of meeting her (which happens far too often), I can be sure to receive a long, depressing catalogue of reasons why there is little hope, either for body or soul, for the poor parishioner she has just inflicted a visit upon, despite her best rebukes and warnings.”
“Jack’s main work has become attempting to give hope to those downcast through the condemning verdict of Miss Brinkhill,” added Mrs. Hayworth.
“Miss Brinkhill obviously does not like her father’s parishioners, and they do not like her, so I do not understand why she puts both herself and them through these gloomy encounters,” Rev. Hayworth said, shaking his head.
“No, I do not know either,” I said, secretly knowing that I understood her motives better than either of my companions. Unknown to them also was the relief that the conversation had given me; now that I knew Rev. Hayworth was not enraptured by Miss Brinkhill’s strange overtures, I felt sorry for her—well almost.
The unexpected visit from the church warden brought our congenial afternoon to an abrupt end. He was a man to be taken seriously, one who had a high view of his own importance. A visit from him would not be a mere fireside chat, but always warranted the secrecy of the study—away from women’s ears. I saw my hopes of an escort home dashed, and not wanting to walk home in the dark, I soon rose to leave. As I was shutting the door, Rev. Hayworth managed to extract himself from his study and see me off.
“This man’s ill-timed visit has robbed me of the pleasure of walking you home,” he said.
“Yes, it is unfortunate timing,” I agreed.
“But may we lessen the pain by agreeing to meet up very soon?” he suggested. “How about Friday?”
“Yes, that will do nicely. I look forward to it,” I replied. “And meanwhile, we must be as selfless and dutiful as Miss Brinkhill.”
“Don’t you dare emulate her,” he teased.
“Or you, her father,” I replied and departed with a smile playing on my lips.
CHAPTER 36
I ALMOST DANCED MY WAY
home that evening, hugging my conviction that the budding friendship between Rev. Hayworth and I would flower into something beautiful. No true gentleman, let alone a minister, would give a woman such warm encouragements without a genuine desire to woo her. Of course, when I went through the middle of the village, I walked like any sensible person, but the absurd grin stuck to my face was harder to rectify.
Every now and again, a song of silent praise rang from my heart to the Lord who does all things well. Each tree and flower I passed seemed to display the Lord’s care and agree with me in praising His goodness. I sailed into the kitchen, glad that the girls had gone home and, having the house to myself, I just pottered about, dreaming, smiling, and singing.
The next two curtain-dominated days dragged past. The sunny weather gave way to heavy rain and high winds.
The weather was not the only unwelcome arrival. On Friday morning, Mr. Thorpe unexpectedly appeared. This was most unfortunate as the two maids were due to have their half day that afternoon, and I was hoping to disappear to the Hayworths’. I saw the latter plan disappear before my mind’s eye, for Mr. Thorpe would require an evening meal. I remembered Rev. Hayworth and my parting words, which were spoken in jest but now seemed prophetic, and with an air of dutiful resignation went to find Mr. Thorpe to discuss meal arrangements. Much to my relief, he did not require an evening meal.
“I have stuffed myself on eggs and bacon at breakfast time. In fact, I have had so much rich food over the last few days, I would be happy with bread and water for the next week!”
“I trust you had an agreeable time in London, sir?” I asked, having sorted out the meal situation.
“Yes. I pleased everyone—the Harringtons in going to London, and myself in leaving.”
“So was it not enjoyable?”
“Oh, in a way it was. The most satisfactory thing was seeing all the young ladies dolled up in their finest outfits and realising that I am marrying the best of the lot.”
“That is very good, sir,” I agreed.
“But what is this I am hearing about you?” he asked with a raised brow.
Hiding my alarm, I turned to gaze elsewhere. “About me, sir?”
“Yes. Clara says you are courting the curate.”
“Then Clara needs her ears boxed,” I said, blushing.
“Then you can deny it?”
Instead of giving a sensible reply, I just managed a few
errs
and
umms
. Mr. Thorpe chuckled at my discomfort. I tried to change the subject, but it was rather too obviously linked to the last.
“Before I knew of your plans, sir, I gave both Clara and Molly their half day today.”
“That will be no problem,” Mr. Thorpe assured me.
“But I too was hoping to have a few hours off, but I can cancel it if necessary.”
“No indeed, please go ahead. But what are you doing?”
“Walking Rex,” I replied.
“And walking the curate?” he asked knowingly.
“Well . . . yes, sir.”
“Actually, I fancy a walk myself,” said Mr. Thorpe teasingly. I imagined the three of us walking rather uncomfortably together. “So I’ll take Rex with me and leave the curate with you.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” I answered, relieved.
“But I want to be properly introduced to this chap before long,” he said pompously. “I have a paternal interest in the well-being of my dependents.”
I hurried off to get changed and was only just ready when Rev. Hayworth arrived at the kitchen door. As if to illustrate our mood, the clouds broke and the sun shone as we tried yet another route to the cottage. Our long, laughter-filled ramble was rudely interrupted by a heavy shower, so with open umbrellas, we ran, battling our way through the wind and rain.
“I don’t know if the weather is for or against us,” said Rev. Hayworth with a smile as we shook our umbrellas and removed our dripping coat and shawl.
It did not matter to me about the weather, for the wind and rain beating on the windows only made the cottage seem cosier and more inviting. We sat drinking hot tea as our outerwear steamed themselves dry next to the stove. As I looked across at the bedraggled Rev. Hayworth, his wet hair unruly and extra curly, a huge surge of love for him took the breath out my lungs. How I longed to run my fingers through those curls and ruffle his hair!
I was brought back to reality by Mrs. Hayworth tutting about the price of sugar and expecting a coherent response from me. She was busy making a final batch of elderflower cordial and soon had me involved in sieving the liquid through muslin. Her son disappeared to his study.
Another heavy shower at four o’clock prompted an invitation for me to stay and have soup, bread, and toasted tea cakes before I left. Rev. Hayworth’s enthusiastic seconding of the idea removed any resistance I might have had, and I gratefully accepted. While I munched my way through a fruity tea cake that dripped with melted butter, I thought of Miss Sophia in London—dining in ornate houses, mixing with the elite, sampling the finest cuisine—and I would not have swapped places with her for all the tea in China.
When we had finished our simple meal, Rev. Hayworth reached for the large, well-thumbed family Bible and read a short passage from Hebrews. He concluded with prayer, thanking the Lord for our food and for safekeeping during the day, and committing the evening and night into His hands.
After I had helped wash up the crockery, it was time to go. Mrs. Hayworth kissed me good-bye, and her son helped me into my now-dry shawl, saying, “Tonight no church warden will stand in my way of walking you home.”
Although it was June, the gloomy clouds brought on an early dusk. We picked our muddy way around puddles and pot-holes. Water meandered along the lanes, washing along gravel, leaves, and debris. We crisscrossed our way through the streams, pausing every now and again to re-channel the flow and break up the leafy dams with our boots. This was just the sort of activity that Bessie and I delighted to engage in as we sauntered along on our way home from school.
As we walked through the village, I tried to describe Pemfield to Rev. Hayworth, but so busy was I with reminiscing, that I did not see a rabbit hole by the verge of the road. My right foot landed in it, but the rest of me continued, causing me to end up flat on my face on the muddy grass. A shearing pain gripped my right ankle.
Rev. Hayworth’s face was all concern as he helped me sit up and offered me his handkerchief for my mud-spattered face. I tried to laugh the incident off, but when I tried to get up, the pain in my ankle was so intense I nearly fainted. My ankle was rapidly swelling.
After persuading me it was the wisest thing to do, Rev. Hayworth carefully untied my boot and eased it off my ballooning foot. He then knelt in the mud and let me lean against him while I tried to recover. The thought of his knees getting gradually wetter and colder spurred me into action, and after a while with his support, I managed a standing position. With my arm over his shoulder and his arm around my waist, we made halting and painful progress toward Biggenden.
Just when we thought things could get no worse, the heavens opened and it poured with rain.
“Well, there is nothing else for it,” muttered Rev. Hayworth, and with that he picked me up and carried me.
The pain, mud, self-consciousness, and rain combined could not completely eclipse the enjoyable sensation of feeling his strong arms around me. Fortunately for Rev. Hayworth, he did not have far to go, and soon he staggered into the kitchen and, with an air of relief and triumph, deposited me in an armchair near the stove.
I did not know whether to laugh or cry as I tried to express my thanks, but Rev. Hayworth was hardly listening, for he was busy arranging a foot stool, removing my shawl, and finding a cold compress for my ankle. As he was stocking the smouldering fire, the door opened and Mr. Thorpe entered waving a poker from the nearest fireplace.
“I thought I heard intruders,” he said, before walking over and introducing himself to the curate.
The two men shook hands, one wearing his soft indoor shoes and looking clean and neat in his tweed jacket, and the other caked in mud and wearing a dripping overcoat.