Sunday stared at her as an idea began to form in her mind. Annie might just have given her the answer to all her prayers but she would have to do some careful thinking before she put the idea to the mistress.
‘Annie, you’re an angel in disguise!’ she declared, planting a smacking kiss on the woman’s wrinkled cheek.
‘Gerroff, yer daft ha’porth,’ Annie objected, but she blushed with pleasure. She was a good girl, was young Sunny, and her coming here was the best thing that had happened for some long time as far as she was concerned. Now the burden of housework had been lifted from her shoulders, she felt ten years younger and had even started to take more care of herself.
‘Can I just ask you something very cheeky before you go?’ Sunday asked then. ‘Do you happen to know how much Mrs Spooner charges her lodgers each week?’
‘Four an’ sixpence if they have all their meals in,’ Annie replied, thinking it rather a strange question. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, I was just curious.’
‘Right, well, my bed’s callin’ me. G’night, Sunny, love. See yer in the mornin’, God willin’.’
As Annie bustled away, Sunday began to do some quick calculations. Of course, she hadn’t been at Whittleford Lodge nearly long enough as yet to make the suggestion that was growing in her head, but just maybe in a few months’ time . . .
Chapter Seventeen
It was mid-morning the next day as Sunday was polishing the banister rails that someone rapped loudly on the front door.
‘Get that would yer, lass?’ Annie bawled from the kitchen and placing the tin of beeswax polish down, Sunday hurried to the door. To her consternation she found Mr Pinnegar standing on the step.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in then?’ he asked as he leered at her and Sunday held the door wide so that he could pass. As he did so he rubbed up against her and she shuddered.
At that moment, Mrs Spooner’s voice reached them from the drawing room where she was enjoying a tray of tea. ‘Is that somebody fer me?’
Mabel came bounding out of the door then and at sight of the visitor her hackles suddenly rose and she began to growl deep in her throat.
‘Is it err . . . vicious?’ Mr Pinnegar asked nervously as he removed his hat.
‘Not usually – and the missus is in there if you’d care to go through,’ Sunday told him shortly.
Feeling that he had no other option he tiptoed past the dog, giving it as wide a berth as he could, then disappeared into the drawing room, quickly closing the door behind him.
Sunday patted Mabel’s silky head, crooning, ‘Good girl, seems like you’re a good judge of character,’ before going back to the job in hand.
She kept her eye on the door, wondering what the housemaster had come for and praying that he hadn’t come to persuade Mrs Spooner to let him take her back with him. Becoming accustomed to the outside world was taking some getting used to but she didn’t want to go back, not ever.
At last the drawing-room door opened and he appeared in the hallway again with Mrs Spooner close on his heels. She was dressed colourfully as usual and the French perfume that she favoured was almost overpowering.
‘So we’ll leave it at that then, shall we?’ Sunday heard her ask. ‘If I’m not satisfied wi’ young Sunny’s work I’ll let you know. There’s no need fer you to come here. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time.’
‘But as I explained, dear lady, we do like to know that our young people are well and happy in their new positions,’ he purred. Biddy Spooner stared at him suspiciously, wondering why he should be taking such an interest in the girl.
‘I’ll soon let you know if she ain’t,’ she said smartly. ‘An’ now I’ll wish you a good day, sir. Sunny, show the gentleman out.’
Only too happy to oblige, Sunday tripped down the stairs and held the door open for him. He paused as if there was something else he would have liked to say, but he was very aware of Mrs Spooner watching his every move so instead he placed his hat back on, bowed slightly and left with a face as dark as a thundercloud.
‘I don’t like that man,’ Mrs Spooner declared when he had gone. ‘There’s somethin’ about him that gives me the willies, so it does.’ Still muttering to herself she retreated back to the drawing room leaving Sunday to get on with her work.
Their next visitor later that week was Lady Huntley, looking charming in a very pretty gown fashioned from pale pink satin and the flounces trimmed with navy-blue ribbons.
As it happened Sunday was passing the front door on her way upstairs to tackle yet another of the bedrooms when she knocked, so Sunday answered it with a welcoming smile just as Mrs Spooner was coming out of the drawing room with Mabel at her heels.
Lady Huntley had stepped into the hallway and was standing next to Sunday.
‘Well, good mor . . .’ Mrs Spooner’s voice trailed away for a second as she stared at the two of them but then quickly composing herself she rushed on, ‘It’s nice to see you, Lady Huntley. Sunny, could you fetch us a tray of tea please, lass?’
‘Of course.’ Sunday darted away obligingly as Mrs Spooner led her guest back into the drawing room. The sun was streaming through the window and Lavinia looked around in amazement. The furniture was gleaming and the wholesome smell of beeswax polish greeted her.
Mrs Spooner chuckled as she saw the woman’s reaction. ‘It looks a bit better now, don’t it?’ she said in her usual forthright way.
Not wishing to offend her, Lady Huntley chose her words carefully. ‘It certainly looks very welcoming,’ she said tactfully.
‘Sunny has worked really hard since the second she arrived,’ Mrs Spooner informed her. ‘She’s got the whole o’ the downstairs lookin’ neat as a new pin an’ she’s workin’ on the upstairs now, bless ’er. She might be only a little scrap of a thing but she can’t ’alf work. An’ she’s pleasant to ’ave about the place an’ all. The lodgers ’ave all taken to her.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Lady Huntley smiled. It seemed that everything was going well and she couldn’t have been more pleased. She had taken to Sunday at first sight and was thrilled that the poor girl was finally away from the dreadful Nuneaton Union Workhouse. Now Lavinia was working tirelessly to improve the lives of the rest of the people there – although of course she was all too aware that the changes she was suggesting were not going to happen overnight. Unfortunately, the other guardians were male, older and set in their ways, not even prepared to listen to her suggestions half of the time, but she was determined to go on trying. Only the day before, she had placed another boy from the workhouse in a position on a farm and the boy had been ecstatic about it as he had always longed to work outdoors. Verity Lockett was also keen to see long-overdue changes made now, and so Lavinia Huntley was sure that with their combined efforts, they would succeed in the end.
‘Actually, I was hoping to have a word with Sunday – if you have no objections. It’s why I came – as well as to see how she is settling in, of course,’ she added hastily.
Mrs Spooner shrugged. ‘That’s fine by me. She’ll be back in with the tea in a minute.’ She thought Lady Huntley looked pale but was too polite to comment.
It wasn’t long before Sunday bustled back in with a laden tea tray.
‘Annie sent you some arrowroot biscuits made from Mrs Beeton’s recipe to go with your tea,’ she told the women cheerfully, then after placing the tray down she immediately turned to leave the room.
‘Hold on! Is yer tail on fire, lass?’ Mrs Spooner halted her. ‘Lady Huntley ’ere wanted a word with you.’
When Sunday paused and looked anxious the woman instantly said, ‘It’s all right, you haven’t done anything wrong.’ She patted the seat at the side of her. ‘Come and sit down here by me for a moment.’
Sunday looked at Mrs Spooner for permission and when the woman nodded she quietly did as she was told, perching nervously on the very edge of the seat.
‘I’m going to be honest with you, my d
ear, and tell you that I’ve been rather disturbed by some of the things I’ve seen at the workhouse,’ Lavinia began. ‘For a start, the guardians contribute a princely sum of money to ensure that everyone there is fed well. Admittedly, whenever I have visited that appears to be the case but I wondered . . . could you confirm that you were always that well-fed?’
Sunday took a deep breath as she deliberated what she should say. Lady Huntley had produced a small notebook from the depths of her bag and was clearly going to make notes of anything that she said, but then deciding that she had nothing to lose now that she no longer resided there, Sunday chose to tell the true story. Perhaps her honesty now would improve things for the people who still were enduring conditions there.
‘The meals were awful for most of the time.’ She pulled a face as she remembered them. ‘Dry grey bread and thick greasy porridge for breakfast and most times soup with bits of vegetables floating around in it for dinner. Even when there was meat in it, which was usually twice a week, three times if we were lucky, it was so gristly that you couldn’t chew it.’
‘Hmm, I thought so. And I’ve heard rumours of a punishment room. Could you tell me more about that?’
‘It’s down in the cellars and all that’s in there is a bucket for your necessities.’ Sunday blushed. ‘There’s not even a bed or a blanket. Once they close the door it’s pitch black and you can’t see your hand in front of you. The mice, rats and spiders run over you if you fall asleep and it’s very cold and damp.’
Trying to hide her dismay, and scribbling furiously in her notepad, Lady Huntley simply nodded although she was appalled at what she was hearing. ‘And how long would someone be left in there?’
‘The longest I was down there for was three days,’ Sunday said in a low voice, shuddering. ‘I think I’d have been down there longer if Mrs Lockett hadn’t come looking for me. I was so weak when she fetched me out that I had to go into the sickbay overnight. I’d had nothing to eat or drink in all that time, you see? Once, two little girls were locked down there and we never saw them again. When someone asked Miss Frost where they had gone she told them the children had died of influenza. They’re buried in the little graveyard at the back of the workhouse but I can’t remember anyone saying they’d had a proper funeral.’
Even Mrs Spooner was frowning now, hardly able to believe what she was hearing.
‘And was any other form of punishment enforced?’
Sunday nodded. ‘Oh yes – the cane. Miss Frost never goes anywhere without it. It is a split cane, so whenever she used it we could barely stand straight for a day or two. I think you’ll find a lot of the orphans in there bear the scars from that – myself included.’ As she spoke, she inched the skirt of her dress up and exposed some shiny white scars across the tops of her legs and her thighs.
Lady Huntley screwed her eyes up for a moment at the thought of such cruelty and then she asked her final question. ‘And was Mr Pinnegar a kind master?’
She saw a flash of panic in Sunday’s eyes just for a moment but then Sunday thought of Cissie and it all came pouring out of her like a torrent.
‘No! He’s a horrible man! A devil! I had a friend called Cissie and Mr Pinnegar started to take an interest in her, inviting her to work in his office and whatnot. Cissie hated him but she was too afraid to refuse and then suddenly she got ill. She started to be sick each morning and finally she told me that she thought she might be having a baby and that it was his. He’d forced her to . . . you know?’ Sunday stopped to take a long breath before going on. ‘When Miss Frost found out about it, she told Cissie that she was going to send her away to somewhere nice where she and the baby would be looked after. But on the day she was leaving, the carriage from Hatter’s Hall asylum turned up and Cissie got hysterical. She knew then that they were going to lock her away with the lunatics. She put up a really brave fight but they took her anyway, and I’ve never heard from her since.’ A sob ripped out of her then.
‘That’s a very serious accusation to make,’ Lady Huntley said quietly. ‘Do you think Cissie was telling the truth, Sunday?’
‘Yes, I do!’ Sunday’s chin came up and her eyes sparked. ‘They told everyone that it was one of the men from the workhouse who’d interfered with her – but that would have been impossible. The only time we ever saw them was on Sunday when we went to church or when we were having our daily airing in the yard, and then we were separated by a high wire fence. Mr Pinnegar likes the girls as they get a little older. He . . . he even tried . . . you know . . . to do things to me.’ Sunday lowered her head in shame as she recalled the feel of his filthy hands on her most private parts.
‘I see.’ Lady Huntley looked visibly shocked.
‘Look, if you don’t believe me, go to Hatter’s Hall and ask to see Cissie Burns,’ Sunday pleaded. ‘She’s bound to still be there because she had no one to fetch her out, and in cases like that the people who go in there stay in there for the rest of their lives.’
‘Well, thank you for being honest with me,’ Lady Huntley said then, snapping her notebook shut and returning it to her bag. ‘Just leave it with me, Sunday. I vow to do all I can to make it better for everyone there in the workhouse in the future.’
‘But what about Cissie?’
Lady Huntley shrugged despondently. ‘I shall have to give that some thought,’ she answered truthfully. ‘If Cissie has been there for a while . . . Well, the chances are she won’t be the same any more – and even if she was and I made accusations, it would be her word against Mr Pinnegar’s. Who do you think everyone would believe? Even so, I promise you I will pursue it when I’ve decided the best way to proceed.’
Sunday’s shoulders sagged as she realised the truth of what the woman was saying. Mr Pinnegar would definitely deny any involvement and Miss Frost would back him to the death. It was hopeless.
‘Please . . . trust me,’ the woman said then, laying her hand gently on Sunday’s arm. ‘If there is anything that can possibly be done to get her out of there then I’ll do it – but I can make you no promises, I’m afraid.’
Sunday left the room then to continue with her chores but for the rest of the day thoughts of Cissie would not be banished and everyone noticed that her usual cheery smile was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Eighteen
The day got progressively worse for Lavinia Huntley, for when she got home she found that once again she had started her monthly course. She was usually as regular as clockwork and this month was no exception.
It was three months now since Ashley had taken to coming to her bed again, and every month he asked, ‘Is there any sign of a child yet?’ And each month she was forced to confess that there was not. Now this month would be no different.
She sighed as she straightened her hair in her dressing-table mirror. He would be home soon and she supposed it was best to get it over and done with. She had not enjoyed resuming a sexual relationship with her husband – but then she was no longer the starry-eyed young girl who had once been swept off her feet by his charm and wit all those years ago. He was still a handsome man, admittedly, but only on the outside – as she had learned to her cost. Inside he was narcissistic and weak with no thought for anyone but himself.
Ashley Huntley had never done a single day’s work in his life. He spent his time in leisurely pursuits – drinking at his club, studying horse-racing form, gambling and attending shoots. Lavinia knew all too well that she had merely been a means to an end for her husband. He had known that she could keep him in the manner he craved until his wealthy late uncle made him his heir – as soon as she presented him with a healthy son, that was. All she had managed to present him with up until now, however, was three tiny stillborn daughters, for whom she still continued to grieve every single day. Following the birth – and death – of the last one she had sunk into a profound, unending melancholy, but now once again she had something to focus on, and Lavinia felt as if she was wakening after a long, deep sleep.
Her thoughts
moved back to the talk she had had with Sunday earlier in the day. The girl’s revelations had been horrifying, particularly the story about poor Cissie, yet Lavinia believed every single word she had said. It was what she was to do about it now that was concerning her. She knew it would be no use discussing Sunday’s disclosures with the rest of the guardians. They were all older, staider gentlemen who thought the sun rose and set with the housemaster and the matron. Should she bring this to their attention, Mr Pinnegar would strenuously deny the allegation and she had no doubt that Miss Frost would defend him to her last breath. Before she did anything at all, Lavinia realised that she would have to give the situation her serious consideration. Perhaps she could talk it over with Verity? Yes, she decided, that was what she would do before making any decisions.
Her thoughts drifted back to her own position. Ashley’s sudden need to father a son again had been brought about due to his younger brother Lewis having recently announced his engagement to a very respectable young lady. Ashley was all too aware that, should his brother produce a son now before he did, the inheritance would pass to him and he thought it was grossly unfair. The way he saw it, he was the oldest living relative of his uncle and therefore the inheritance should automatically come to him. Lavinia shuddered as she glanced at the bed. She didn’t know if she could go through the birth process again, for her fear of producing another dead child and the heartache that would entail far outweighed the chance of having a child.
The sound of hooves thundering towards the house disturbed her thoughts, and she crossed to the window to see Ashley on his stallion flying up the drive like the wind. The groom will not be too happy about that, she thought. The animal was foaming at the bit and the groom regularly complained to her about the master’s treatment of the poor horse. Ashley cared for no one but himself, neither man nor beast, and took no notice of criticism. She had just got downstairs when the maid opened the door and Ashley strode in, having flung the horse’s reins to the waiting groom.
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