TRAVELING INDEPENDENTLY WAS FUN, VIOLET decided. Mrs. Hayworth had waved her off at Victoria Station, and someone from the village would be at Tunbridge Station at her arrival, but in between she was alone, anonymous, and free. No one in the carriage knew the first thing about her and probably had no desire to, either. The feeling was one of liberation. Some people in her situation—going from A to B—had just disappeared. They had failed to arrive at B. If she wanted to, she could get off the train at any station, board one going anywhere, and start a new life for herself. She had a bag of clothes and a few shillings. The fantasy excited her, but only for a few heady minutes, until her sensible side shouted down the idea. She would cause such alarm to all the people she loved and trusted—her parents, the Hayworths, and lots of the village folks. Would Joe be upset, or would her disappearance reinforce his opinion that she was too flighty for marriage? Was that his opinion? It probably was after the bad year she had experienced with the opposite sex. He probably thought she wasn’t trustworthy. And she was beginning to think that too. Could she actually trust herself?
As she despondently tried to analyse her own character, she was reminded of Mrs. Hayworth’s advice about finding peace. Violet had never really considered whether the Lord Jesus was trustworthy. As far as she could remember, the Bible didn’t use the word, but if she was asked to sum up Jesus’s character in two words, she might say He is kind and trustworthy. No, loving and trustworthy is better, for one can be kind, in a professional way, but not loving. Violet thought of all the texts with gospel promises she had learned in Sunday school. They are trustworthy. She looked outside at the beautiful Surrey countryside—its Maker is trustworthy. The One who organises the seasons, feeds the wild-life, and created the rolling hills is worthy of my full trust, she thought. But as the train moved on, so did Violet’s thoughts. Back to the vicarage for dusting! Boring old dusting! But at least after four weeks it would seem worthwhile. Normally you can hardly see where you have polished and where you haven’t, but with a good layer of dust, it will be easy. Maybe monthly dusting should be the rule. She imagined the conversation:
“Why Mrs. X, what a lovely layer of dust you have on your sideboard.”
“Yes, Mrs. Z, I’ve been watching its growth with pride and interest.”
“I can never seem to get my layer that deep.”
“Patience, Mrs. Z, it takes patience, open fires—and self-control.”
“Now that is where I go wrong, I can’t stop myself reaching for the duster.”
“Poor you, Mrs. Z, displaying such weakness of character.”
Violet smiled to herself, then looked around anxiously to see if anyone had noticed. A little boy was staring at her, so she quickly crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue before staring out the window with feigned interest.
Of all the people in Capford and of all the workers at Biggenden Farm, why did it have to be Joe who went to Tunbridge Market that day? Violet tried to hide her disappointment as he tossed her bags onto the wagon and gingerly took her place on the bench next to him.
“How was the big smoke then, traveler?” Joe asked as he picked up the reins and set the horse in motion.
“Nice, thank you.”
“Did you see the queen?”
“No, but we saw her Italian garden, which is very beautiful.”
“Good.”
Violet stared straight ahead at the horse’s rump.
“Congratulations on your engagement.”
“My engagement?” Joe looked at her in surprise.
“Mother informed me you are engaged to Molly.”
“Then, for once, your mother is wrong.”
“Oh, sorry, I don’t know how that happened.”
“Neither do I ’cos, actually, Molly and I are no longer courting.”
“Oh, Joe!” exclaimed Violet, turning toward him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, don’t be too sorry. She is a nice girl and all that lot, but we didn’t really suit, and it took us a long time to realise. In the end, it was her decision to stop the relationship—she didn’t like my plans.”
“What plans?”
“I want to immigrate to Canada.”
A feather would have knocked Violet clean off the bench.
“For the gold rush?”
Joe laughed.
“No, I don’t want to dig or sieve for gold. I want to be my own boss, have my own farm in a country that values the labourer and has fertile soil.”
“What an adventure! I envy you, being a man and able to make a bold, independent step like that.”
“Yes, I am excited about it.”
“Don’t you think you could be your own boss here?”
“Just look around you, Vi. Half the country is owned by idiots like Lord Wilson. In Scotland, they have cleared ship-loads of crofters off their land, almost starving them, not allowing their animals to roam freely on the vast estates, just so the rich landlords can rear a few more sheep. Up in the Midlands, hundreds of millers are starving or hunting for work they have no skill in due to mechanisation. Even here, fewer farmhands are needed with the threshing machines and stuff that’s coming in. Village life is under threat as more and more folks are forced to the big cities for work. The new factories in the cities are destroying all cottage industry—no one can compete with them. It is only going to get worse.”
“Wow, Joe, I didn’t know you were a radical.”
“You don’t know me much these days, Vi. I’m not the little lad in knee breeches anymore.”
“I know that.” Violet paused and once again studied the horse. “And I am not the silly girl you think I am either.”
“I’ve never thought you silly!” replied Joe, eyes firmly on the road ahead.
“But I have been foolish, what with the Mr. Christopher situation, then with that awful Reuben.”
“You can’t help being attractive to men.”
Violet didn’t know how to respond to that comment.
“But I should have been a better judge of character.”
“We live and learn, Vi.”
“I hope I’ve learned.”
They jogged along in silence until reaching Capford.
“When are you planning to set sail, Joe?”
“Oh, not for a while. I mean to save all I can first. Buying my passage across won’t be cheap, and then I need cash to get started over there. Anyway, I can’t leave your old pa to do the lambing alone, can I?”
“Oh, good.”
“Why good?”
“Because Capford will be odd without you.”
Joe stopped the cart outside the Brookes’s cottage. He heaved down Violet’s bag and plonked it at her feet. “Then let’s make the most of my time here. How about joining me for a Sunday afternoon walk?”
“When?”
“This Sunday.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Yes.”
“Good-bye then.”
“Good-bye . . . and thank you for collecting me.”
“’Til Sunday.”
“Yep, ’til then.”