HAVING WAVED THEM OFF AT Tunbridge Station, Jack and Mr. Brookes were soon out of sight. Rebecca sank into her seat and prayed for a safe journey. It had been kind of Mr. Brookes to take them to Tunbridge with his horse and trap, and it had been kind of Jack to accompany her to the train. In her hand she grasped the instructions he had written.
Alight at Redhill.
Train to Victoria Station. Ask porter which platform.
Front of Station, Cab to 27 Milton Square, South Kensington.
She knew all the details but would have felt lost had she mislaid the note. What a relief it was to have Violet with her! Violet had never set foot outside Kent, but she had a good deal of common sense, was intrepid, and above all was good company.
The windows were steamed up, making it hard to see out, but Violet sat opposite her, nose to pane, staring through a section of glass she had wiped clean. Three gentlemen entered their carriage at the next station. After heaving their bags into the overhead racks, they settled down, unfolded their newspapers, and began reading. Two of the men seemed to be business acquaintances and continued a sporadic conversation through or over their papers.
“Mrs. Hayworth, I have been thinking,” Violet said abruptly, turning her attention from the outside to her mistress. “I believe that as I am accompanying you on a visit, I should be promoted from housemaid to lady’s maid.”
Rebecca glanced at their fellow travelers. The carriage fell silent and, as one, the men buried their heads in their newspapers, but Rebecca knew she had their undivided attention.
“And would this promotion you propose include a pay raise?”
“I think that would be appropriate.”
Rebecca felt acutely aware of the three pairs of ears behind the headlines. Not a page turned. She leaned forward and lowered her voice in the hopes that the rattling of the carriage and the noise of the engine would drown her answer.
“You do indeed have many skills appropriate to the role. Technically you are employed by my husband and not by me, but as your wages come out of the household budget for which I am responsible, I will agree to your proposal.”
“So, I am now a lady’s maid.”
“You are indeed, and I am now a lady who has a maid.”
Rebecca imagined reproachfully raised eyebrows from behind the newspapers. Did their wives conduct their domestic arrangements in such an unorthodox manner? Not a newspaper twitched. How very English! Violet silently rewiped the window and once more turned her attention to the passing scenery, while Rebecca marveled at her maid’s artfulness. Violet is many things, but you can never accuse her of being dull.
The change of train at Redhill Junction went remarkably smoothly, thanks to a kindly porter. Quite a portly porter, Rebecca noticed. He would probably have been helpful anyway, but Violet galvanised him into action by asking him to deal with “her lady’s trunks.” She and Violet could have easily managed them alone, but the chubby man hurried off to find a sack truck, loaded their luggage onto it, and whisked them away to the correct platform, leaving the women to scamper along behind and deliberate, in whispers, the etiquette of tipping. Rebecca was not the sort of lady to watch a man perspire on her behalf and not offer a little for the services rendered, so the good man received his due. With a wide smile and a doff of his cap, he ushered them into the ladies’ waiting room; when the London train eventually arrived, he reappeared to ensure they and their luggage were safely stowed before bidding them good-bye. He wouldn’t have treated the queen herself any better, thought Rebecca as she thanked God for kind people.
Her thoughts went ahead of the train to Uncle Hector. How would he be? He must have been gravely ill at the time the letter was written, for it was penned by his housekeeper, not himself. It was hard to imagine him anything but hale and hearty, although for a long time he had occasionally mentioned a chest complaint. She hoped that he still could communicate and that she could understand him. She had heard of people having strokes and finding it difficult to articulate, even swallow. The family would struggle to make sense of the slurred speech, and the poor patient would become frustrated and withdrawn. How awful it would be for Uncle Hector to suffer like that. Fluency had been such an important part of who he was, as a relative, government adviser, and teacher. How would she feel toward him? She prayed that, even if he was confused and dribbling, she would feel a surge of love toward her one and only uncle, and not instinctive repulsion. She felt guilt even thinking that, let alone having to pray about it. Surely good Christian women should feel only tenderness and compassion for the sick.
At Victoria Station, although there was no porter available to take their luggage, all went smoothly and, once they had jostled their way to the exit, there was no shortage of cabs waiting for their custom. Rebecca hoped she could choose which carriage she took, for she wanted one driven by an older man in the hopes that he might be steadier and less erratic. But after nearly causing a fight by approaching a mature man farther down the road, she realised that she was obliged to take the first in the queue and hope for the best. Violet stared around her.
“It mus’ be market day, surely.”
“I think it is always this crowded.”
“I don’t know what they’re all doing, but they ain’t ’alf busy.”
“It makes Capford seem slow.”
“It makes Tunbridge seem empty!”
“Do you think you’ll like London life?”
“If we survive this cab journey, I might get used to it.”
The welcome Rebecca received at 27 Albert Way was second to none. When all the staff lined up to greet her, she feared the worst. Maybe she had arrived too late. Her mind was put to rest by the housekeeper’s greeting.
“My dear,” she said, sounding like her master, “we are so pleased to see you. Mr. Stubbs has been asking for you ever since he took ill.”
“So he can talk?”
“Oh yes, my dear. Mind you, it’s a bit slurred.”
“May I go and see him?”
“Of course, but will you not take some refreshment first?”
“A cup of tea when I am with him would be most welcome. I am sure my maid, Violet, would also appreciate something.”
After they had been relieved of their outer garments, Rebecca and Violet parted company. Rebecca ascended to Uncle Hector’s chamber, and Violet descended to the kitchen for tea.
Uncle Hector greeted Rebecca with a wide, lopsided smile. His right hand was weak, so he grasped her hand with his left as she leaned over the bed to kiss him.
“Ith tho good to thee you.”
“I’m pleased to be here, Uncle,” replied Rebecca, drawing up a chair to perch on. “How are you?”
“Noth thoo bad.”
Still holding her hand in a vice-like grip, Uncle Hector described how he had experienced a sudden pounding headache, then collapsed when attempting to rise from the dining room table. His physician had examined him later that day and explained that he had been afflicted with a stroke. Not a bad one, but not one of the mildest kind either. He had prescribed rest for body and mind, and blood-letting.
By now the teapot had arrived and, with her free hand, Rebecca poured the tea. Uncle Hector looked exhausted from so much talking, and once he finally released her hand to take the cup, it shook violently. Rebecca hastily relieved him of the cup and put it to his lips. Tea dribbled down his chin from the drooping corner of his mouth. With tears of frustration Uncle Hector called himself a baby.
“There, there, Uncle, you’re nothing of the sort.” Wiping his chin with her handkerchief, Rebecca blamed the cup and her own inexperience. She rang the bell and asked for a more suitable receptacle to be found. The maid returned with a ceramic cup with a spout. It was very suitable, but Rebecca was hesitant to show her uncle for fear of offending him. “Uncle,” she said at last, “they have found this for you. It isn’t the most elegant china you possess, but it may just help you for a few days.”
Uncle Hector gave a resigned shrug and let Rebecca use it. The tea behaved itself this time, and Uncle Hector quickly drained the cup. Realising that he probably had not drunk much since his collapse, Rebecca refilled his beaker again and again until the tea pot and milk jug were dry. Once he had finished the last drop, Uncle Hector leaned back into his pillow and, mouth sagging, fell asleep.
Rebecca drank her now cold tea and studied him. Sunk into his pillow with his drooping face, Uncle Hector looked pale, old, and vulnerable. The surge of love Rebecca had wanted to feel did not materialise, but looking at him now, she felt a huge wave of mixed emotions—compassion, responsibility, duty, and tenderness—threatening to overwhelm her. She followed Uncle Hector’s example and closed her eyes, but not to sleep. She was asking for God to help her.