Mrs. Brown and I realised that sooner or later a new vicar would be appointed, and the vicarage would need vacating. We set about this task in a business-like manner, enlisting Miss Miller to help. I allowed myself to keep only small mementos and books as I had nowhere to store bigger items. All our furniture was sold at an auction. I could not bring myself to go and watch the familiar, old items being inspected and prodded by strangers who had no idea of their preciousness. The furniture was neither new nor antique and therefore worth very little in monetary terms. Mrs. Brown insisted in going to the auction to make sure “all was above board.”
While the auction got underway, Miss Miller took me off to draper’s shop to buy a length of material for a new spring dress. We were soon engrossed in comparing various yards of beautifully-printed cloth, enjoying the unique smell of fresh cotton, and were almost able to forget that my family furniture was under the hammer. We finally emerged from the draper’s, each triumphantly hugging a parcel of material, thread, and buttons, ready to begin our new sewing projects. When Mrs. Brown was satisfied that all had been done decently and in order (apparently she had stood, arms folded, near the auctioneer, giving all who dared bid disapproving stares, as if they were trying to get something for nothing), she joined us for a cup of tea and piece of cake at the Tea Rooms. The auction had gone “as well as could be expected” and had generated a small profit, once the auctioneer had claimed his hefty fee.
After all my parents’ goods and chattels had been sold and their savings calculated, it was found that I was the heiress to a modest inheritance. I had imagined that the smallness of Pa’s stipend, matched with the largesse of his Christian charity, meant he never had any money to save, so I was pleasantly surprised. Now I had a new dilemma of knowing what to do with the money and my life. I could live off the money for about four years and then find a way of earning my keep, or I could deposit the money and start work as soon as possible.
CHAPTER 2
DURING THE FIRST FEW MONTHS
following my bereavement, the quiet life with Mrs. Brown suited me very well, but after that I began to feel restless and ready to stretch my wings. I wanted to leave Pemfield, meet new people and, most of all, earn my own living. I was anxious not to become a burden to Mrs. Brown or an object of pity to those I met with. I broached the subject with Mrs. Brown one evening.
“Mrs. Brown, I think it is time I got a job.”
“Why, my dear? You are busy enough ’ere with me.”
“I mean one where I could earn a living.”
“Then ask in the village, but there ain’t much for a girl around ’ere.”
“I mean a job away from Pemfield.”
“Now, why would you want to leave dear old Pemfield, my child?”
“To stretch my wings a bit and be independent.”
“And what do you have in mind?” she asked cautiously.
“Someone offering board and lodging,” I replied. I could tell Mrs. Brown was hurt and puzzled.
“Maybe domestic service,” I continued.
“You would make a good cook,” she ventured.
“But kitchens in big houses are normally below ground level. I would feel like a holed-up rabbit.”
“With your nice up-bringing, you would make a good lady’s maid.”
“But I would have to agree with all the lady’s views and keep mine to myself!”
“Well then, what about an ’ousemaid? Your ma certainly made sure you know how to clean. I remember all those times you rushed through your chores, and your ma caught you just as you were escaping through the door to play with Bessie. She called you ‘Slap dash’ and made you do them all over again properly!”
We laughed together at this, and that is how it was decided that I should look for a housemaid’s position. I wanted the Lord to guide me to the right household and prayed that He would open up a suitable door for me.
I bought
The Morning Post
and intently studied the “Situations Available” pages. I wrote to various housekeepers in reply to adverts, but my inexperience seemed to go against me, and I received many polite refusals. At seventeen years of age, I was probably considered too old and unmalleable to be a suitable servant. Mrs. Brown could not hide her satisfaction as refusal followed refusal, maintaining that domestic service was beneath a vicar’s daughter; but I, knowing that my parents never looked down on hard work and being ignorant of what the job might entail, continued to hope. Then one day a new advert appeared, one for a housemaid for a large household at Barton Manor, East Sussex. The place name rang a bell with me as Pa had known the vicar there, many years ago, and esteemed him highly for his evangelical preaching. This seemed ideal, and as I wrote to the housekeeper, I prayed that this would prove to be the right post for me.
About a fortnight later I received the reply, and to my delight and Mrs. Brown’s dismay, the housekeeper of Barton Manor requested my presence for an interview in a week’s time. I should be prepared to stay on after the interview, if deemed suitable, in order to start work immediately. My excitement at the imminence of my new adventure was only matched by Mrs. Brown’s disappointment. I felt sorry that I was clearly going against her wishes, but knew I needed to start ploughing my own furrow in life.
I wanted to give Mrs. Brown a sum of money as a thank-you gift for all her love, support, and hospitality to me over the past half a year, but of course she would not hear of it. After some thought, I visited the butcher and the baker, put in a small weekly order for her, and paid ahead for a year. The first delivery would arrive after I had left the village. I hoped this would help to stretch her limited income and lessen her burden.
I had only a week to pack my belongings, finish making my new spring dress, and say good-bye to my dear friends, including Bessie. We had not seen much of each other for a few months due to her all-consuming romance with the blacksmith’s son, Rob. She had made many errands to the blacksmith for her father, but on one occasion whilst waiting for Rob to repair her pruning hook, she got too close. As Rob stoked the fire, a hot coal shot toward her and landed on her skirt. Rob saw the situation and flung a bucketful of icy water over the skirt, causing a shocked, shivering, and soaking Bessie. Her forlorn state seemed to touch his heart, so he handed over his work to another man and took her home to dry by the fire and have a reviving cup of tea. During that informal tea break in the blacksmith’s kitchen, it was decided between them that they should meet up more often. Thus a new romantic attachment was formed. She was now excitedly preparing for marriage but was at a loss regarding how to communicate with me over my parents’ deaths. Our friendship seemed to be slipping away as our paths divided.
As the week quickly sped by, my excitement turned to nervousness, and I began to have cold feet. I wondered why I had ever thought of leaving the only friends I had ever known and my village, full of happy memories. I visited the church and sat silently weeping in our old family pew, almost hearing and seeing Pa in the pulpit.
Oh my dear pa, he had been so helpful to me and so wise in dealing with my spiritual struggles. For a few years I had been a little Pharisee, thinking I (being a decent and respectable citizen) was good enough for God, but Pa’s sermon on the text
“I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance”
hit me powerfully. I gradually realised I was despising God’s one and only way of salvation—the gift of His eternal Son the Lord Jesus. As Pa read John 3:16,
“For God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life”
and then later verse 18,
“He that believeth on him is not condemned; but he that believeth not is condemned already because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten son of God,”
I realised that the greatest sin in all the world is not murder or committing some other gory crime, but not to believe and trust in Jesus Christ as the one and only Saviour of sinners. I pleaded with God to forgive my sins of unbelief and self-righteousness and asked Jesus to come into my heart.
Then one Easter, when I was fourteen years old, during the Good Friday service on the crucifixion, I was struck by how loving Jesus Christ was, to die a death He did not deserve and take our punishment for sin. I knew that my sins added to the heavy load He was bearing and my heart was filled with love and gratitude to Him. Now I knew He was my Saviour; that He had taken my punishment for me and that I no longer had to face condemnation and hell. I had done nothing—He had done everything.
I knew He was strong and trustworthy enough to look after my soul for ever, and without a great thunder bolt from heaven or amazing religious experience, I just relaxed my weary soul onto Christ. My relief at having my inward struggle resolved was clear to my parents, and they were overjoyed.
I was keen to be confirmed and to declare my faith in Christ; when the day, a few months later, finally arrived, I hoped for a real sense of the Holy Spirit in my soul, confirming the step and filling me with joy and peace, but I felt absolutely nothing. I went through the motions, but inside I was as unfeeling as the pew I sat on. I thought more about my new gown and shoes than my God and Saviour. I was very disappointed and worried that I had been mistaken, but when I confided in Pa he assured me it was not unusual, and that we have to learn to trust God’s unchanging Word more than our changing emotions. Oh how much I missed my dear parents’ wisdom and prayers. I wondered how I could carry on without their wise, practical advice and their cheerful Christian example.
Then I visited our old garden (the forlorn vicarage now being locked and empty). So many happy hours had been spent there weeding the flower beds with Ma or harvesting the knobbly potatoes with Pa. I dug up Ma’s favourite rose bush and transferred it to her and Pa’s grave. The old cherry tree was just beginning to bloom, so I took some flowers to press and dry, and to keep forever in our old family Bible.
During that busy week, I walked around my favourite fields and paths. Pemfield village was situated on the Greensand Ridge, a gentle escarpment overlooking the beautiful Medway Valley, and my favourite paths were the ones offering an extensive view of the woods and fields below. I drank in the familiar sights and smells: the stream through the village that Bessie and I had dammed up so many times, the trees we had fallen out of, the bracken covered slopes we had made dens in, and the paths we had cartwheeled along. I gazed at oast houses, bare hop gardens, orchards, and meadows of Romney sheep and their skipping lambs. The scenes I had taken for granted all my life now seemed so beautiful and precious. I did not know when I would see them again, and I wanted to have a clear picture of them in my mind’s eye as I travelled out of Kent for the first time. The thought that I would not be around to see spring turn into summer nearly brought fresh tears to my eyes, but I reminded myself that the seasons change even in remote East Sussex.
I must have slept for a few hours during the restless night before my departure, for I was startled by Mrs. Brown’s wake-up call. My nervous excitement created the energy that a good night’s sleep normally supplies and I, up with the lark, put on my new dress and finished packing my trunk. Mrs. Brown wanted me to eat a big, sustaining breakfast, but as I could hardly face a mouthful, she parcelled up some bread and cheese for the journey. Mr. Hicks, the local haulier, was going to town for market that morning, and it had been arranged that I would go with him and from there, get the stagecoach. He arrived all too soon, and I bade Miss Miller good-bye and then hugged and kissed Mrs. Brown. With wet eyes and a heavy heart, I climbed up beside Mr. Hicks. His mare began plodding along, carrying me away from my dear friends. I looked back at the ladies and waved and watched until we turned the corner and I could see them no more.
CHAPTER 3
MR. HICKS WAS OBLIVIOUS TO
the momentousness of the occasion and talked incessantly about his sow that was soon to farrow. As he warmed to his subject, I heard about the various pigs he had reared: which ones produced the best bacon, which one was an escapist, and so many other facts that I wished all his pigs were already sausages. I was only half listening, but my vague responses seemed to act as an encouragement for him to wax lyrical on his theme, and he was soon extolling the virtues of pig manure. When we finally got to the place where we parted company, he suddenly gained favour in my eyes for he was the last familiar face I might see for a long time. I bade him farewell with rather more reluctance than anticipated, half wishing I could travel back with him to our village and learn more about pig rearing.
I had never travelled by stagecoach before, so the novelty of the ride soon perked up my youthful spirits, and the whole trip once again seemed like an adventure. I wanted to sit outside in the fresh air but thought it might leave me looking too dishevelled for my forthcoming interview, so I sat inside and gazed out the window at new and interesting scenery. The rolling hills of Kent disappeared, and we rode through Ashdown Forest, then out the other side onto moorland. At last we came to Barton, where I alighted.
The village seemed much larger than mine, and I had no idea which way to go to reach Barton Manor, so I asked a woman who was getting in her washing. She pointed me in the right direction, and I soon came to the imposing gates of the estate. The drive seemed never ending and my trunk increasingly heavy.
At last I saw the manor and gasped at the size and grandeur of the house. It was built to impress—but my first thought was of the vast amount of dusting such a house would need—and the number of windows to clean! I hid behind a bush, rearranged my hair and bonnet, dusted off my shoes with the hem of my dress, and sent up a prayer for help before taking the path around to the back of the house where the servants’ entrance was sure to be positioned.
I found the door and before my nerves failed me, I wiped my clammy hands on my dress and pulled the bell chain. I waited what seemed a long time and was just deliberating on whether to pull the chain again when a housemaid flung open the door. I was immediately impressed by her smart, neat uniform, and she seemed to be noticing my scruffiness as she slowly looked me up and down. I suddenly wished I had brought a small looking glass with me and had tidied myself more thoroughly.