The walk from the church to the manor now seemed far too short, and we sometimes lingered along the way, but I was always very conscious of needing to be back in time to fulfil my evening duties.
Our “accidental” meetings in the library on Tuesdays also became a regular occurrence and one that filled me with great pleasure. Master Edward often had an amusing cartoon from
Punch
or an interesting article ready to show me. One Tuesday, Emma decided that she needed to help me in the library, and I could hardly conceal my disappointment. Was I flattering myself, or did Master Edward look disappointed too? Whatever his feelings, he soon left the library.
Now thoughts of Master Edward filled my waking moments, and his name entered into my every prayer. Had our stations in life not fixed such a gulf between us, I was sure I would have fallen in love with him. It seemed to me that the summer was progressing with undignified haste, and I dreaded the day that Master Edward would return to Oxford to start a new university term. Any interruption to our Tuesday meeting in the library was frustrating, as was the knowledge that Mrs. Milton or Emma could inadvertently stop them at will. Master Edward and I soon found that we shared the same interest in watching people and spotting their oddities; his impressions of his cousins left us weak with laughter. But we could also have good conversations about spiritual matters or concerns and seemed to be in agreement on most matters of a theological nature. During August, by agreement, we both read the same book by a Puritan writer and spent some time each Tuesday afternoon or Sunday evening discussing the content. He teased me about my being the widest-read housemaid in the country, and I retorted that I could limit my conversation to mixtures for various polish recipes if he preferred.
This friendship of laughter and discussion meant a great deal to me, but I still did not know whether he valued it as highly as I did. He was the only one I could confide in so freely, but I did not know if I was just one of a number to him. These questions went around and around my mind as I worked. In normal circumstances, I would have confided in Emma and asked her opinion, but as Master Edward was one of the family that employed me, I felt my familiarity with him may be deemed inappropriate and presumptuous. I also knew that if I tried to explain about our friendship, she might belittle or sully it.
The inevitable final Sunday evening walk came all too quickly, and we ambled as slowly as possible along the pathway, knowing that the next morning, before dawn, Master Edward was to leave for Oxford. I tried to sound cheerful and interested in his studies, but my heart was heavy, and I had a lump in my throat. I was pleased that the gathering dusk hid some of the emotion written on my face. As we said farewell, Master Edward grasped both my hands and said he would remember me and pray for me. He went on to say that he was grateful we had met each other, as I was the easiest person to talk to he had ever known. I wished him every blessing for the new term, and we parted company. As soon as I possibly could, I rushed to my bed and cried into my pillow. My heart was full of sadness at his departure and the warmth of his kind words. I had never felt so close to him or so far away.
CHAPTER 7
I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING
with swollen eyes and a dull headache. I had never felt so reluctant about going to work; brushing and dusting all day with no prospect of an unexpected sighting of Master Edward seemed tedious and futile. I dragged myself through my duties with my overactive mind mulling over last night’s parting. I wished I had a reliable friend who could interpret men for me. Even having a brother might have helped. Was Master Edward’s warm farewell merely brotherly? If it was, was it appropriate for a man to be brotherly to someone who is not his sister? As I scrubbed the stairs, my thoughts on the matter changed with every step I cleaned, and I left the task no more decided on the subject than when I began.
My other hope was that Master Edward might write to me. Half of me dismissed this idea as ludicrous. How many Oxford scholars write to housemaids? But how many Oxford scholars leave housemaids in such a friendly manner? I hoped against hope, but the days passed and no communication came for me—just as I had expected, but I was sorely disappointed. I realised Master Edward met and socialised with many interesting people, and a housemaid who may have seemed vaguely interesting in the surrounding intellectual wilderness of his aunt’s home would soon pale into insignificance compared with the brilliant minds of Oxford. Yet, I argued with myself, had we met in another situation, for example in Pemfield, we would have not been so very different in estate. This drew my thoughts on to think about one’s class and position in life. Was it based on our parents’ lot in life, or money, family name, education, or purely one’s present circumstances? Was it right or biblical to question one’s place in society, or should we always “be content with such things as ye have”?
As I got more accustomed to my work, it seemed laughable that at one time I didn’t know a banister broom from a staircase broom, or the recipe for furniture paste. I was less exhausted at the end of the day, and although the job occupied me physically, my mind was free to wander and ponder. I watched the daily lives of Miss Davenport and Miss Annabelle, and I began to wonder who really led the most restricted life: the servants or the served? Their lives were dictated by tradition and family expectations from birth. Unless they married “well,” they would be social failures and nobodies. To marry well often meant suspending one’s own dreams of Mr. Right and marrying a man of wealth whose family reflected the values and interests of your own, no matter how ugly, old, obnoxious, or incompatible he might be.
It had been decided that Miss Davenport should have her coming out at the next London season. The family would arrive in London during May for the opening of the exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts and would spend two months in the capital, socialising in a far larger and “more suitable” circle than their country life at Barton Manor allowed. Mrs. Davenport had been complaining for years, or so I was told, that there was such a limited selection of notable families in their part of Sussex to invite to dinner, and the locals were more likely to talk about turnips and cabbages than Turner and Constable. Now, at last, they were going to immerse themselves in a society worthy of them.
Although it was only October, the young ladies were already full of dreams of concerts, balls, dinners, visits, exhibitions, and strolls in parks. They would meet other lively girls—so unlike their parents’ normal visitors—and be introduced to handsome and admiring men. Society would be amazed that two of its most sparkling treasures had remained hidden in the provinces for so long.
Their excitement was infectious, causing Eliza and Jane to talk about nothing else as they helped to plan wardrobes, try out new hairstyles, and mix up new beauty treatments. The weekly
Home Notes
magazine was studied with great enthusiasm, especially the “Fashions from Paris” page, where the latest patterns were discussed and recommended. Paper patterns were now also available to reproduce Paris fashions accurately—even in remote, rural Barton.
It made us smile that more material was used for the elaborate sleeves than for the narrow waists. But secretly we all longed to try them on and look glamorous for once. The fashionable dresses were clearly not made for women who had to do anything more than look decorative. Suddenly, the normal frocks of the two girls seemed most outdated and provincial, so they were discarded, much to the delight of the lady’s maids who acquired them. Eliza and Jane were to accompany the ladies to the great metropolis, and as neither had been there before, they were looking forward to their own adventures. Emma, Sarah, and I were willing volunteers for any new hairstyle that needed to be practised, but Mrs. Milton made it clear that no such elaborate style should be worn by us “above stairs,” as it was not befitting of our rank. Laughter rang from our rooms as styles were attempted and aborted.
We housemaids had more mundane matters to attend to—all the light muslin curtains had to be taken down and replaced by heavy velvet ones for the winter. The weight of yards of velvet made our arms ache as we stood on wobbly ladders. The only people who hated this change of curtains more were the poor laundry girls who had to carefully wash and store them.
The colder weather also hailed the return of the open fires and hauling coal and logs from room to room, with all the extra cleaning involved. The daily chore of blacking the grates was back, along with the vexation of fires that failed to light or smoke that blew into the room. I liked to consider myself an expert at efficient fire lighting, but a cold chimney and an unfavourable wind could cause hours of extra work. Indeed, my precious half day off was sometimes eaten into as I became late in doing the prescribed duties, due to a difficult fire. Sometimes I secretly resorted to the forbidden trick of soaking paper with turpentine to get a reluctant fire going, but Mrs. Milton considered this wasteful and dangerous.
The excitement of the proposed London visit and the daily grind of work did little to erase thoughts of Master Edward from my mind. I was sometimes annoyed with him and felt that he had trifled with my feelings, but then I would blame myself for exaggerating a normal friendship into a romance in my fanciful imagination. I could not talk to Emma about Master Edward, but we could discuss men in general. She had strong views on their behaviour and said that their brain was wired differently from a women’s and that we would never be quite able to understand them. The type of women men like as friends are rarely the type that they eventually marry, she propounded, and all logic and sense seems to desert them as they choose their life-partner. I wondered aloud if Christian men were the same, but Emma retorted that the best of men are men at best.
Some winter evenings, Sarah would visit our bedroom and would curl up at the bottom of my bed; then she, Emma, and I would talk about our dreams for the future. The flickering candlelight would produce a cosy and intimate atmosphere, and we would open our hearts to each other.
“Of course, what I want is an ’andsome man,” Emma said with a sigh.
“Don’t we all?” I replied, laughing.
“A young vicar would suit our Rebecca well, wouldn’t ’e?” suggested Emma.
“I could do a lot worse,” I reasoned.
“Well, we all know what Sarah wants, don’t we?” teased Emma, winking.
The colour rose in Sarah’s cheeks. “What do you know?”
“Everyone knows,” we teased her.
She sat up. “Knows what?”
“About your little soft spot for the under-gard’ner,” Emma said, watching Sarah’s reaction intensely.
“Oh, you mustn’t!” Sarah pressed her palms to her reddened face.
“Don’t be alarmed. We’ve known for a long time, and we honestly wish you well and hope you get him,” I said, feeling for her distress and knowing that I had a bigger secret to hide.
“But what if we don’t get married?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“I’d be a real lady’s maid,” replied Emma. “Not a lady like one of ours ’ere, but a real one—a proper titled one who travels abroad and takes me with ’er. I would see all the sights, then meet me an ’andsome, rich man and abandon the ’elpless lady for wedded bliss!”
We hugged our knees under the covers and laughed at this idea.
“And what about you, Sarah?” I asked.
“I would become a nursery nurse for a good family,” she said, looking into the far distance.
Emma and I exchanged a knowing look – a person who cannot be trusted to dust a precious ornament without dropping it was highly unlikely to be trusted with holding an upper-class heir.
Emma turned to me. “What if ya parson don’t turn up?”
“Then he’ll have to mourn his loss!” I answered and immediately ducked to avoid a flying pillow.
“You, not ’im,” Emma said with a chuckle.
“Oh, me?” I replied in mock surprise. “Well, I would become a housekeeper in a big establishment. I would buy turpentine by the gallon for lighting fires and provide hand salve for the housemaids, who would, of course, love me and realise their good fortune in working for me.”
“And ya’d give them good quality candles,” added Emma.
“And allow them followers,” Sarah chipped in, showing where her mind was.
“And more half days,” I suggested.
“All very nice I am sure, girls, but look at ya candle, Sarah. Unless ya ’op it quick, ya won’t get ta ya room before it dies out!” declared Emma, thus ending our enjoyable conversation and ensuring we got to sleep before midnight.
I was keenly aware of the wide difference in circumstances between Emma and Sarah, and myself. Their wages were sent, almost intact, back to their families, who relied heavily on their contributions, whereas I was able to use my money (after buying hairpins) as I wished. I tried not to flaunt my comparative wealth and was always pleased when I could buy them a small luxury or when they could enjoy my candlelight.
Sarah’s home was only about two miles from the manor, and she sometimes went there on her half days off. When she came back full of stories of her mother’s baking, father’s news, and younger siblings’ latest achievements, Emma always looked anxiously at me, as if afraid it would rub salt into my wound of being without family. I loved her for her awareness and sensitivity. She had received very little schooling, but she was an excellent observer and learned much through watching others. As the middle child in a large family, she had learned to fight her corner and get herself heard.
My friends at Pemfield were in no wise forgotten, and I often wrote to Miss Miller and Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown was not good at “words on paper,” but Miss Miller kept me up to date regularly with the village news. I was always delighted to see a letter waiting for me in the servants’ hall to inform me of recent births, deaths, or romances in the village. I was also told about which vegetables had done well in the schoolhouse garden this year, how many bushels of apples were stored in the loft for winter, and even how many piglets Mr. Hicks’ sow had reared.