“Now you have found your way here, you must come again soon, my dear,” urged Mrs. Hayworth.
“Indeed, you must,” echoed her son.
I put on my shawl, and Rev. Hayworth fetched his coat. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.
“But, sir, you have only just come in, and it is the other side of the village,” I protested, but my heart skipped a beat.
“I am not averse to walking.” He smiled, donning his coat and opening the door for me.
I feared that, without his mother, conversation would be rather awkward, but I was relieved to find this was not the case. Rev. Hayworth was as interesting and interested as Mrs. Hayworth, and our conversation flowed as we walked along the now darkening lanes.
He had done a few years as an apprentice at a joinery firm, having always had a love for carpentry. But after the death of his father, he had become more and more convinced that he should train as a vicar. He resisted this thought for a long time due to his enjoyment of his apprenticeship, but at last he gave in to the Lord’s promptings and applied to do his ministerial training. He studied at Cambridge and had been a curate for a couple of years.
Having been under the authority of various vicars, some good and some awful, he now longed to have his own parish. “Preferably one without a dominating landlord or church warden to obstruct my every plan.”
He found my story from vicarage to servants’ hall astonishing and asked me what my parents would have thought. I had often asked myself that question, but no one had ever asked me. I was slow to reply but answered, “They both had a stubborn, independent streak about them, so after being shocked at how hard my life was as a housemaid, I think they would have approved.”
“But why did you stick at being a housemaid for so long?” he asked.
Again, this was difficult to answer. “I suppose it was to prove to myself I could, and also due to the friendliness of the staff. But most of all, I think that sheer hard work was good for me when I was in such a raw state of bereavement.”
After a long pause, my companion replied, “I think I understand. When my father died, I flung myself into carpentry during the day and studying New Testament Greek in the evenings as an escape.”
“Oh, I am pleased I am not the only one,” I confessed. “I thought that as a Christian and with the firm belief my parents are now in glory, maybe my escapism was somehow wrong and inconsistent.”
I expected some preacherly lecture on not mourning as those without hope, or something equally as relevant and true, but instead Jack (what a lovely, homely name!) just said, “Then I am wrong and inconsistent too, but I don’t think that is how the Lord sees it.”
All too soon we were at Biggenden Manor, and I was unlocking the kitchen door. “Sorry you have to walk all the way back through the village again,” I said.
“It is a price worth paying,” he replied. “I hope you will visit us again soon.”
“Maybe I can come next week,” I suggested.
“Why not later this week? Mother did so enjoy your company.” With a laugh he added, “There are plenty more boxes to unpack!”
Pleased that he wanted me to return sooner rather than later, I asked, “Would Saturday suit?”
“Yes, we would be delighted,” he said, and with that we said good night, and I closed the door.
I had so much to think about. What a lovely family they were! Rev. Hayworth’s questions on our walk showed interest and insight. But what did he mean by “It is a price worth paying”? Was it for his own pleasure, or for his mother’s? However much I liked his mother, I fervently hoped it was for his own!
I did not have the luxury of a private mull-over for long, for Mr. Thorpe bounced into the kitchen.
“I beat you back!”
“Indeed you did, sir,” I said as I removed my shawl.
“And discovered your little secret,” he said slyly.
I blinked in surprise. “I have no ‘little secret.’”
“Then who walked you home tonight?” he asked, following me across the kitchen to the table.
“Someone.”
“Someone, who?”
“My friend’s son.”
“And does the ‘friend’s son’ have a name?”
A small smile escaped. “I believe he does.”
“And may I know his name?”
“I would prefer not, sir.”
“Aha, then you
do
have a little secret!”
I shrugged my shoulders. “But there is nothing interesting to tell.”
“But will it get interesting?”
“How should I know?”
“Do you want it to get interesting?”
“Oh, sir, don’t tease me.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I kept silent.
“And I will watch with interest.”
“Do not get your hopes up.”
“Are you speaking to yourself or me?” he said with a small chuckle.
And with that, much to my relief, he left the room, laughing at his wit and my discomfort, leaving me feeling I had said little but still too much.
CHAPTER 34
I COULD HARDLY WAIT TO
return to the little cottage. Not for a long time had I been made to feel so welcome and accepted. I was surprised how freely and deeply Rev. Hayworth and I had talked, even though we were only newly acquainted. Yet as I walked to their house the following Saturday afternoon, I was full of misgivings. Saturday was a busy day for ministers as they prepared their sermons. My visit might be a rude disruption he would be too polite to object to.
I tentatively knocked on the door and was soon wrapped in Mrs. Hayworth’s warm embrace and ushered in. Her genuine delight at seeing me was reassuring, but I was right about the studying.
“Now we must keep quiet, for Jack is busy in the study,” she warned.
We started once more to empty boxes and fill the cupboards, all the while chatting about the contents and their histories. Mrs. Hayworth was such a busy, lively little lady that the enforced rest was a great trial to her. She would have lifted the heavy packing boxes or balanced on chairs to arrange things, had I not objected and insisted on doing it myself. Before long, the study door opened and out came Rev. Hayworth.
“I hope we didn’t disturb you, dear,” fretted his mother.
“Not at all. I’ve finished,” he replied and then turned to greet me.
As we sat down for a drink, Rev. Hayworth took a journal from the table. “I have got something you may be interested in,” he said, smiling at me, “but let me first explain. When I heard your surname, it seemed to ring a bell, and as you spoke of your father, I remembered reading his obituary, so I had a look for it.”
“Hayworths never throw anything away,” chipped in his mother.
I gasped. “I never knew anyone had written an obituary!”
“And here it is,” he said, handing over the Diocesan Gazette of summer 1858.
I took it eagerly and, with a lump in my throat, began to read the story of my dear father’s life. Some of the facts were new to me, but much was well known. The writer seemed to have known my father well, but the exaggerated praise of his virtues, transforming him from mere man to some angelic figure, rather jarred. By the time I got to the rather misinformed sentence that read, “his only daughter is being cared for by friends,” I was almost certain I knew the writer. Sure enough, it was none other than Uncle Hector.
It is rather unusual to chuckle at one’s father’s obituary, so I had to explain the cause of my mirth to the Hayworths and relayed a few stories of Uncle Hector’s unwanted visits, and soon they were laughing with me. Despite its sugary style, I gratefully pocketed the obituary when it was offered and kept it as a treasured possession.
As previously, the conversation flowed naturally and freely. My new friends seemed to share my ideas of what in life should be taken seriously and what is best laughed at. This, in my reckoning, made them “sensible people.” Too many people in my opinion fail to get the balance right, rendering them either sanctimonious or foolish, but with the Hayworths, I feared neither extreme. Mrs. Hayworth was lively, interested, and wise. As for her son, to my taste he was all a good man should be: God-fearing, intelligent, kind, humorous, and, to crown it all, also very handsome. I was also pleased to notice that, rather than the slender, effeminate hands otherwise good-looking men often have, Rev. Hayworth had muscular ones with broad, blunt fingers. They were the hands of a carpenter rather than a preacher, more suited to a plane than to a pen. Instead of feeling shy and inferior in their sparkling company, the Hayworths made me feel free and vividly energized.
I secretly hoped that Rev. Hayworth would offer to escort me home again and was delighted when he did. As we walked companionably down the lanes, I was acutely aware of his masculinity, and that awareness made me feel wonderfully feminine. It was a delight just to look down and see his broad leather boots in step with my daintier ones.
You are as romantically silly as Molly and Clara put together
, I told myself, whilst trying to formulate a reply to a question he asked about my work. We both slackened our pace as we neared Biggenden, so the last quarter of a mile took twice as long as it should have done. When we did arrive at the kitchen door, we both seemed awkward and untaught in the normal social interaction of saying good-bye.
“I hope you get on well tomorrow,” I said.
“Yes, thank you,” he replied. “I would value your prayers.” Then he hesitated. “Miss Stubbs, do you have a . . . err . . . a follower?”
“No, I don’t,” I answered, feeling suddenly shy.
“That’s good,” he said with a hint of relief in his voice.
“Yes, it is,” I replied with what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
“Good night to you, then.”
“Yes, good night to you, sir.”
I shut the kitchen door and leant against it with my hands pressed to my heart. His last question gave me so much hope. But what a silly reply I made. “Yes, it is.” Could he have concluded from it that I was not interested in men and marriage, preferring a nun-like existence? I spent the evening either smiling or fretting, wholly relieved that I had the house to myself and no one to witness my strange behaviour.
When I went to bed, I prayed long and earnestly, thanking the Lord for the friendship I had with the Hayworths and pleading that I could become Jack’s wife. “Please do not try me with this relationship,” I prayed.
Listening to Rev. Hayworth’s sermon the next morning was a rather strange experience. Most of the time I could concentrate on his excellent preaching, but every now and again, my mind drifted. Last week I had imagined the man in the pulpit to be happily married, but this week I saw him as highly marriage-able, which made it slightly harder to maintain eye contact when he looked in my direction. But then he seemed to avoid looking at my pew this week, giving more attention to the people on the right. I chided myself for lack of spirituality in admiring the minister and tried to focus on the message. A woman who cannot concentrate on a thirty-minute sermon is hardly suitable for a man who has spent several hours prayerfully preparing it!
At the end of the service, I was determined not to have to speak to him in public, but after the benediction, Rev. Hayworth walked to the door to greet all his parishioners, so I had no choice. Just ahead of me was Rev. Brinkhill’s spinster daughter. She was a long-faced, pale individual who was known to be a scholar of ancient Greek and a recluse. When she shook hands with Rev. Hayworth, she gave him her best, toothy smile and with more words than I had ever heard her utter, praised him for his “truly edifying” sermon. She went on to say her parents would be delighted if he came to tea some time. Rev. Hayworth thanked her politely but did not commit himself.
When it was my turn, I simply said, “Thank you for the sermon.”
He squeezed my hand as he shook it and said, “Mother would like to know when you will next visit.”
“She is very kind,” I replied. “Would Tuesday suit?”
“I am sure it would.” He smiled and then turned to greet the next person.
After lunch and before the evening service, I rather belatedly visited the Kemps. I took Rex with me, both to give him exercise and for Mr. Kemp’s pleasure. It was good to see them settled in the family cottage with their grandchildren around them.
Children appeared from nowhere when they heard Rex was visiting, and chaos broke out until their mother ordered them all into the garden with the dog. Through the window we could hear arguments about whose turn it was to hold the dog’s lead.
In the comparative peace, Mrs. Kemp wanted to know all the news from Biggenden and how many times we had blackened the kitchen range.
“We don’t do bad fer visitors,” she told me. “Agnes, bless ’er ’eart wiv all ’er step-children, ’as been along. En we’ve ’ad the new parson. En wot surprised us te most wos a call from Miss Brink’ill.”
“Miss Brinkhill!” I exclaimed, knowing she hardly set foot out of the parsonage.
Mrs. Kemp nodded knowingly. “But te rumour is, she’s got ’er ’eart set on te new parson. Why, she’s a-visiting every sick person in te village, en ’efore she never ’ad ’er ’ead owt a book.”
I absorbed this information glumly. I had a rival—a rival who was at leisure to busy herself with deeds of mercy throughout the parish whenever she wished. And was a Greek scholar to boot!
I went home, fell on my knees, and begged the Lord once again that my hopes would not be dashed.
It was even harder to concentrate in the evening service as (rather symbolically) Miss Brinkhill was sitting between me and Rev. Hayworth, forcing me to see her ramrod-straight back every time I looked up. Unlike the rest of us who need the occasional shuffle to ease our posteriors on the hard pew, she sat stock-still throughout the service; if I were a young lad, the temptation to poke her would have proven irresistible. Such thoughts are not conducive to good sermon hearing, so I benefited little from the exposition.
CHAPTER 35
THE COMING WEEK LOOKED SET
to be another quiet one at Biggenden. The Harringtons had decided that, despite having no unmarried daughters they needed to display, they would like to show their faces in London during the season. Mr. Thorpe had no desire to be involved in this outing, but Sophia begged him to come along, for as an engaged woman, she was no longer free to dance and flirt with whomever she liked. Her one pleasure now would be to proudly parade around on the arm of her fiancé. Needless to say, Mr. Thorpe complied, and I was once again the sole inhabitant of Biggenden.