Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter by Hannah Buckland

reflected his wide and varied interests. All books were meticulously set out in subject groups, the obscurer the subject, the higher the bookshelf. Servants could avail themselves of any of the books, but we had to sign them out using a register and, of course, all books had to be kept in pristine condition. If a member of the family wanted a book that was being read by a servant, they could identify who had the book from the register and immediately ask for it to be returned. This had been the system in the household for two generations and no one could fault it—mainly because no one used the library now.
    Every Tuesday, one of my afternoon tasks was to clean the library, while Emma cleaned the silver and Sarah the billiard room. I carefully dusted the long, wooden shelves of the library, and as I did so, I got to know the books on them. During any rare, quiet intervals of the day, I would rush to the library, borrow a book, and take it to my room for perusal at my leisure. I became rather embarrassed at the long list of “Rebecca Stubbs” in the register, but not embarrassed enough to stop borrowing. I read books on natural history, the kings and queens of England, and many of the (rather heavy going) Puritan writers. Each book took me a long time to read, as I managed to read only a few paragraphs every night before sleep overtook me. As our supply of candles was strictly rationed, I bought my own, and while Emma was applying her nightly face cream and putting rags in her hair, I would curl up in bed and read. Emma warned this was bad for my sight and would give me wrinkles around my eyes, but she did not complain about the extra candlelight.
    One June evening, as I walked into the room to return a book, I realised one of the family was in the library. I hastened toward the door, but a voice I had not heard before said, “Stop.” Looking around, I saw a blond young man coming toward me with a grin.
    “Aha, I have caught the bookworm red-handed, coming to devour yet another tome,” he said.
    “No, sir, I have come to return one,” I replied.
    “Then I’d better not continue my bookworm metaphor, as to regurgitate a book sounds rather crude, doesn’t it?”
    I nodded and smiled, and then he went on. “So you must be the Rebecca Stubbs who has an uninterrupted line of signatures in the register book.”
    I said “Yes, sir” as he walked up to take the book out of my hand.
    “ Expository Thoughts on the Gospel of Matthew by J. C. Ryle? Why, that is one of my books!” the young man exclaimed.
    “Oh, I apologise,” I said quickly.
    “No need for that. On the contrary, I am delighted the books I left here have, much to my surprise, been read.”
    “And heartily enjoyed, sir,” I replied with more freedom than before. “I am much indebted to you.”
    Once again, he waved my comment away. “Not in the least. I am delighted that you have read and enjoyed them, just as I did.”
    The incident gave me something new to think about, and I went to bed lighter-hearted, knowing there was another person under the roof who was interested in the writings of a Church of England vicar. The next Sunday evening in church, I noticed that the young man, whom I had learned was Master Edward, not only sat in the congregation but was treated as an expected attendant of this service. He was welcomed back with warmth and affection rather than deference and awe.
    By now I had been able to do a quick study of his features and noticed that he was of average build, had blond hair, blue eyes, and a ready smile. He had youthful looks but could look much more mature when deep in thought. That night I questioned Emma a little about Master Edward. She had heard that his parents had been “religious” and his bereavement had made him “very serious.”
    The next Tuesday when I arrived at the library to clean, Master Edward was sitting there reading. I apologised for disturbing him and was about to withdraw, but he beckoned me in.
    “I