Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter by Hannah Buckland Page B

myself, or did Master Edward look disappointed too? Whatever his feelings, he soon left the library.
    Now thoughts of Master Edward filled my waking moments, and his name entered into my every prayer. Had our stations in life not fixed such a gulf between us, I was sure I would have fallen in love with him. It seemed to me that the summer was progressing with undignified haste, and I dreaded the day that Master Edward would return to Oxford to start a new university term. Any interruption to our Tuesday meeting in the library was frustrating, as was the knowledge that Mrs. Milton or Emma could inadvertently stop them at will. Master Edward and I soon found that we shared the same interest in watching people and spotting their oddities; his impressions of his cousins left us weak with laughter. But we could also have good conversations about spiritual matters or concerns and seemed to be in agreement on most matters of a theological nature. During August, by agreement, we both read the same book by a Puritan writer and spent some time each Tuesday afternoon or Sunday evening discussing the content. He teased me about my being the widest-read housemaid in the country, and I retorted that I could limit my conversation to mixtures for various polish recipes if he preferred.
    This friendship of laughter and discussion meant a great deal to me, but I still did not know whether he valued it as highly as I did. He was the only one I could confide in so freely, but I did not know if I was just one of a number to him. These questions went around and around my mind as I worked. In normal circumstances, I would have confided in Emma and asked her opinion, but as Master Edward was one of the family that employed me, I felt my familiarity with him may be deemed inappropriate and presumptuous. I also knew that if I tried to explain about our friendship, she might belittle or sully it.
    The inevitable final Sunday evening walk came all too quickly, and we ambled as slowly as possible along the pathway, knowing that the next morning, before dawn, Master Edward was to leave for Oxford. I tried to sound cheerful and interested in his studies, but my heart was heavy, and I had a lump in my throat. I was pleased that the gathering dusk hid some of the emotion written on my face. As we said farewell, Master Edward grasped both my hands and said he would remember me and pray for me. He went on to say that he was grateful we had met each other, as I was the easiest person to talk to he had ever known. I wished him every blessing for the new term, and we parted company. As soon as I possibly could, I rushed to my bed and cried into my pillow. My heart was full of sadness at his departure and the warmth of his kind words. I had never felt so close to him or so far away.

CHAPTER 7
    I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING with swollen eyes and a dull headache. I had never felt so reluctant about going to work; brushing and dusting all day with no prospect of an unexpected sighting of Master Edward seemed tedious and futile. I dragged myself through my duties with my overactive mind mulling over last night’s parting. I wished I had a reliable friend who could interpret men for me. Even having a brother might have helped. Was Master Edward’s warm farewell merely brotherly? If it was, was it appropriate for a man to be brotherly to someone who is not his sister? As I scrubbed the stairs, my thoughts on the matter changed with every step I cleaned, and I left the task no more decided on the subject than when I began.
    My other hope was that Master Edward might write to me. Half of me dismissed this idea as ludicrous. How many Oxford scholars write to housemaids? But how many Oxford scholars leave housemaids in such a friendly manner? I hoped against hope, but the days passed and no communication came for me—just as I had expected, but I was sorely disappointed. I realised Master Edward met and socialised with many interesting people, and a housemaid who may have