The Minister and The Maiden

June 1882

Mrs Andrews barked, “Enter!” Fanny obeyed.

The pungent aroma of woody smoke from the Reverend’s favourite brand of cigars hung in the air. Fanny breathed it in deeply, trying to steady her nerves as she faced his wife across the mahogany desk. She kept her head down, her eyes on the floor. Her heart pounded in her chest. Too scared to meet her employer’s searching stare.

Mrs Andrews stood tall and erect behind the large desk, twisting her husband’s expensive pen between her fingers. She was little more than a silhouette in the semi-dark room. The morning sunlight hadn’t yet crept in through the heavy lace curtains. Even so, Fanny could sense the wrath emanating from the irate woman.

Fanny had been serving breakfast to the children when Lucy, the housemaid, entered the dining room. “I’ll help the children with their breakfast. Mrs Andrews wants to see you in the Reverend’s study right now!” said Lucy. She squeezed Fanny’s hand and raised her eyebrows knowingly. Mrs Andrews didn’t usually invite the servants into the study. This could only mean one thing.

Fanny had slowly climbed the stairs, a mixture of fear and panic rumbling in her stomach. Fanny loved her job. She was grateful for a warm bed to sleep in and the plentiful meals provided by Cook. Her own parents were good people and cared for their children as best they could, but meals at home were often sparse, and the growing family sometimes went to bed hungry.

Mrs Andrews scrutinised Fanny silently for a minute or two. In a voice heavy with disapproval, she said, “Well, are you with child?”

Fanny’s hand shifted protectively to her belly. She stroked the small bulge under her uniform. Lucy had helped her let out the seams of her grey working dress. Fanny wore a white apron, a size too large, over the top. She’d been worried Mrs Andrews would notice her expanding waistline but had hoped it wouldn’t be for a while yet.

“Who is the father? Is he going to marry you?” Mrs Andrews’s voice rose a couple of octaves. Her thin, pinched face turned red. “What am I going to tell your parents? They entrusted you to my care!”

Fanny struggled to control the angry retort bubbling on her lips. What care? They both knew she was nothing more than a lowly servant to Mrs Andrews, who had never shown her any care or affection. The frown lines on the pious woman’s brow deepened. Her rigid faith in her unforgiving god even fostered cruelty to her children when they failed to live up to her exacting standards. She only needed the slightest excuse to order her husband to cane the boys or to do it herself.

Only yesterday Mrs Andrews had insisted on disciplining her small daughter, Alice, for breaking a china teacup. “Please don’t punish her, Mrs Andrews,” Fanny had pleaded. “She’s four years old. It was an accident.”

“You’re too soft, girl. She needs to learn not to be so clumsy. Lock her in the cupboard for the day. She can stay in there and think about how she handles my things.”

Fanny’s hands shook as she locked Alice in the dark closet. Tears poured down her face. She tiptoed away from the child screaming behind the door. Fanny didn’t dare disobey Mrs Andrews’s orders. “I’ll be back later, little one,” she whispered.

Standing now, facing Mrs Andrews in the study, she remembered the first time she’d crossed her. She’d been living with the family for three months. Fanny’s duties included helping the younger children to read and write. Robert had proudly picked up his pen to show his new skill to his mother. He started to write with his left hand. Mrs Andrews’s face turned puce. She shrieked, “You child of Satan. You know it’s a sin to write with your left hand!” She hit the little boy’s left hand hard, three times with a ruler. Fanny had begged, “Mrs Andrews, please stop. He’s only six. It was a mistake.”

The furious woman had turned on Fanny, “The more you beg for mercy for him, the longer his punishment will last.” She hit the child repeatedly. “This is your fault. You know he should use his right hand.” She hit Robert’s sore hand again and again. The boy had sobbed uncontrollably. Fanny had stood glued to the spot, her heart in her mouth. A feeling of dread washed over her. I can’t bear it. Have I really caused this beating?

Later, with trembling hands, Fanny had written a heartrending letter to her parents telling them of the cruelty she’d witnessed and begging them to let her return home. My parents might be poor, thought Fanny, but they would never treat any of us like this.

The following morning Mrs Andrews had confronted Fanny, holding the letter in front of her. “How dare you write such nonsense to your parents! You’ve never seen anything wrong in this house.” She ripped the letter into small pieces and threw them onto the fire. “In future, I demand to see every letter you write. Now go to your room and stay there. Contemplate how you’ve offended this family in the face of God. Don’t come out of your room or I’ll beat the boy in your name.”

Fanny had thrown herself onto her bed, weeping despairingly. She didn’t know what to do. She contemplated running away but was terrified Mrs Andrews would beat the child again. Poor little Robert, she mustn’t punish him anymore. She dried her tears on the bedsheet, forcing herself to make a decision. I can’t run away. I must stay to protect the children. Anyway, I’ve got no money. And no idea how to get home to West Bromwich.

And so it was that whenever an errant child emerged from the Reverend’s study with a sore backside or was released from the closet at the end of the day, it was Fanny who mopped their tears and kissed them goodnight. Their parents viewed the punishment as deserved and showed no remorse for the child’s suffering.

Fanny’s lower lip trembled, wondering what punishment she would receive. Her employer was merciless. Fanny had sensed from the beginning that Mrs Andrews didn’t like her.

“One thing’s for certain,” she fumed, “you can’t stay here. We are a god-fearing family. My husband is an eminent preacher. You are an embarrassment and a disgrace to your own family and to mine.” Glaring at Fanny, she demanded, “Go and gather your belongings and leave immediately!” She threw a handful of coins onto the desk. “These are your wages for the last month.”

Panic rose in Fanny’s chest, making it hard for her to breathe. “But where am I going to go?” she gasped.

“You ought to have thought about that before you behaved in an immoral manner.”

I must speak to the baby’s father. He promised to help me. Surely, she can’t throw me out on the street. I need to protect our baby. Gathering her courage, Fanny clenched her fists, lifted her head, and looked her employer straight in the eye. She kept her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. “Please can I say goodbye to the children before I leave?”

“Certainly not, I don’t want a brazen girl like you, anywhere near my children.”

Tears welled in Fanny’s eyes as she left the study. The children will think I’ve abandoned them. She pondered how they’d fare when their stern, uncompromising mother took on the role of caring for them. She’s had so little to do with them, aside from punishing their childish mistakes, I wonder if she even remembers their names, Fanny thought wretchedly as she climbed the stairs to the room she shared with Lucy.

Her silent tears soaked into her canvas bag as she packed her few possessions. Fanny recalled her excitement when she found out that she had got the position. “I can’t believe it, Mom! Out of all the girls at chapel, the Reverend’s chosen me to work for his family.”

Rhoda, her mother, had been apprehensive, “I’m so proud of you, Fanny, going off to work in Sheffield but it’s such a long way from West Bromwich. I wonder when we’ll see you again?”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be all right. It’s not as if I’m going to work for strangers in the North, is it?” Fanny had replied.

“That’s right, love,” John, her father, had reassured his wife. “We know the Andrews are a good family. They’ll treat Fanny as if she’s one of their own.”

Reverend Andrews was one of the foremost preachers on the West Bromwich Circuit. He was a charismatic and popular character with an attractive personality and a rich, clear, musical voice. After hearing him speak for the first time, her mother Rhoda, had returned home with her face glowing and her eyes shining.

“He’s the most eloquent and powerful speaker I’ve ever heard. He filled the congregation with a spirit of revival. Strong men were begging for conversion!” She gave John a cheeky grin. “He’s also rather good-looking!”

“He’s not as pompous and self-important as he looks, then?” John questioned, smiling mischievously back at Rhoda.

“He’s a dignified man. He’s warm and friendly. His heart is full of tenderness and sympathy for the people of his congregation.”

“He’s rather short,” John teased his wife. “I thought you preferred tall men like me!” Laughing, he drew himself up to his full height. “I bet he’s older than me too!”

“He’s the same age as you,” said Rhoda. “You were both born in 1837.”

“How on earth do you know that?”

“I spoke briefly with his wife, Elizabeth, after chapel.”

“Is she as miserable as she looks?” enquired John.

“She was cordial, although I agree, her appearance is stern.”

“D’you reckon she became a Primitive Methodist to please her husband?”

“No, her father’s also a Primitive Methodist Minister. She’s clearly a devout Christian.”

“Have they got any children?”

“Why are you so interested in them, John?”

“Because you can’t stop talking about the Rev!” retorted John.

“If you must know, they’ve got four children. Their youngest, Alice, is about the same age as our George.”

Over the following years, Reverend Andrews’s popularity increased on the West Bromwich circuit. Rhoda was an enthusiastic member of his flock. She loved the way he always dressed impeccably. She would sit listening to him speak, with a fervent expression on her face, constantly hoping he would notice her in the congregation. Rhoda’s heart fluttered if his eyes caught hers. She would sit a little straighter and concentrate on his words as if he were a deity.

One evening, Rhoda announced she would be going to a prayer meeting after supper. John complained, “It’ll be the third time this month you’ve been to one of his lectures. Are you learning anything new or sitting there admiring him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she huffed. She turned away, busying herself with the evening meal.

Two months later, Rhoda received an invitation to visit the Reverend and Mrs Andrews at their family home. She knocked on the front door. She stood shuffling her feet nervously in her well-worn shoes, wondering why they’d invited her.

“Come in, Mrs Herbert,” said the maid when she opened the door. “Reverend and Mrs Andrews are waiting for you in the study.”

Rhoda glanced around the house. How grand it is compared to mine. A number of doors led off the intricately tiled hallway. Fancy having a room for cooking in and another for eating in, not to mention a sitting room and a study!

“Come in, Rhoda, my dear,” the Reverend said kindly.

“Please sit down, Mrs Herbert.” Mrs Andrews indicated a chair.

“Now, I know you’re probably wondering why we’ve invited you here,” said the Reverend. “We know you are a devout member of our chapel, and you are raising your children in our faith.” He glanced across at his wife. “Elizabeth wishes to employ another domestic servant. She’s an immense help to me. She works as my secretary, dealing with my paperwork. It takes up much of her time.”

Elizabeth gave an imperceptible nod.

“She needs someone to help her with our five children.”

“I’ve seen your children in chapel. What are their names?” asked Rhoda, desperately trying to think what to say. Are they offering me a job?

“Jabez is the oldest, he’s twelve, Mary is eight, Robert is six. Alice is three and the baby, John, is almost one,” replied Mrs Andrews.

“Elizabeth and I were wondering if either of your older daughters are seeking a position?” continued the Reverend.

Surprised, Rhoda paused. “Well, Lizzie, our eldest, is a shy girl. I’m not sure she could live away from home. Would you consider Fanny for the position?” she asked, trying to hide her excitement at the prospect of her daughter working for such respected employers. “Fanny’s a responsible girl. With Lizzie being so timid, it’s always Fanny who helps me with the shopping and running out to do errands.”

“Has Fanny had any childcare experience, apart from her siblings?” asked Mrs Andrews.

“Oh yes! She lives next door to us, with my brother Charles and his wife. Their three children are close in age. Which is hard work for anyone. Susan wasn’t well after the birth of the youngest, so Fanny offered to help her. She was only twelve when she started. She’s nearly fifteen now,” Rhoda continued enthusiastically. “She can read and write and loves making up stories to entertain the children.”

Rhoda paused for breath, “Fanny has always loved the little ones. She helps Susan with them and with the general household chores. Charles and Susan feed and clothe her, but they can’t afford to pay her.”

“From what you’re saying, Rhoda,” the Reverend smiled courteously at her, “Fanny sounds as though she would be an excellent addition to our household. What’s your opinion, Elizabeth?”

Mrs Andrews inclined her head. “I want a god-fearing girl. A Primitive Methodist. We will expect her to uphold the Primitive Methodist standards we demand from our children.”

“I’ll be taking on the Sheffield circuit next year,” said the Reverend. “We’d like Fanny to accompany us when we move.”

“Thank you so much, Reverend Andrews,” exclaimed a pink-faced Rhoda. “As you know, I’ve got three younger children at home, and money is always short.” She glanced down at the toes of her worn shoes, tucking her feet under the hem of her dress. “If Fanny can send a bit of extra money home from her earnings, it’ll help us out a great deal.”

Rhoda could not have imagined then how Fanny’s reputation would be ruined or how short of money they’d eventually be.

Tears blurred Fanny’s vision. How could she make me leave without saying goodbye to the children? For two years she’d bathed them, fed them, washed their clothes, comforted them when they were upset and told them stories when she kissed them goodnight. She loved the children and they loved her. She gulped, her throat sore from trying to control the tears trickling down her cheeks. It had all happened so suddenly. She had no plan. Her belongings were all in her canvas bag. Her savings and the wages Mrs Andrews had owed her, about ten shillings in total, jingled in her pocket.

Although she and Lucy had discussed the pregnancy in the privacy of their bedroom, the reality of her situation was only now sinking in. If I return home will Mom and Dad help and support me, or will they throw me out in disgrace? Or worse still, send me to the workhouse until the baby’s born? She couldn’t bear the thought of her precious child being born in the workhouse. She caressed her belly protectively. “I’ll sort something out, little one,” she said bravely.

As she neared Sheffield Railway Station, she could hear the chugging of an approaching steam engine and the wheels clattering on the track. Great plumes of smoke filled the air. On an impulse she decided to catch the train to Chesterfield.

She and Lucy had once spent a day together in the Derbyshire market town. She hoped it would clear her head and help her plan for the future. Sadness wafted over her. She regretted that she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to Lucy. She’d been a good friend. Lucy was the oldest child from a large family. She’d witnessed the symptoms of her mother’s frequent pregnancies and realised early on that Fanny was expecting.

Fanny had thought tiredness was making her ill. One morning, after she’d eaten scrambled egg on toast, it all came up in a great rush. That evening, when the children were sleeping, Lucy made them both a cup of cocoa. Lucy sighed, building up to ask something.

“How many times have you been sick these past ten days or so?”

“A few.”

“What the heck are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?” Fanny had asked innocently.

Lucy stirred the cocoa around in the bottom of her cup.

“I’m guessing you’ve had no monthly visitor for a while.”

Fanny had shut her eyes, trying to block the thoughts invading her mind.

“It’s no good hiding away from it,” said Lucy. “How far gone do you think you are?”

“I don’t know.”

“There are ways to bring on the bleeding, you know.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve heard some women drink gin and sit in a hot bathtub, or you could throw yourself down the stairs.”

Fanny gasped, horrified at the idea. “I might break my arm, then how could I look after the children? Anyway, if I am expecting, I wouldn’t drink gin. I’d want to keep my baby.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows, “Don’t let your cocoa go cold. You’ll need to keep your strength up, whatever you decide to do. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when Mrs A finds out!”