Mothering Sunday

by Rosie Goodwin

  He stared at his wife in an obvious ill-humour. ‘Matthews informs me that you were out earlier again,’ he snapped as he headed for the day room.

  She followed him and watched as he went straight to the decanter on a silver tray, poured himself a generous measure of whisky and tossed it back in one go, his hair shining in the sun that was streaming through the window.

  ‘Well – where were you?’ He was already in the process of pouring himself another drink.

  ‘I visited the young girl I found a position for, from the workhouse,’ she answered.

  ‘Huh! Your time would be better spent in the nursery attending to a brood of your own children. Speaking of which, is there any sign yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she told him, sitting down gracefully in a chair next to the fireplace.

  ‘What sort of a woman are you if you can’t even present me with a son?’ he spat, and she visibly winced. Each time he said it, it was like a knife being thrust into her heart.

  ‘Lewis informed me today that he and Felicity have set the date for their wedding,’ he snarled then. ‘It’s going to be two days before Christmas this year, so that gives us a few more months.’

  When she merely stared down at her joined hands he growled and stormed from the room, and once he was gone she sighed with relief, praying that he would be off out again soon and she wouldn’t have to see him again until that evening. Better still, he might stay away all night.

  Zillah, her maid, came into the room then and seeing the look on her mistress’s face she went to her and placed her arm about her shoulders. ‘I just passed him in the hallway,’ she said. ‘Has he upset you again?’

  Lavinia nodded, distressed. ‘Yes. I just had to tell him that there is no baby again this month. What is wrong with me, Zillah? Other women give birth to fine healthy children, so why can’t I?’

  ‘It’s just the way it is, pet. Some women can get with child and give birth as easily as shellin’ peas, for others it’s harder,’ the woman told her practically. ‘But come along now. It’s time you had a little rest, you look tired. How did your morning go?’

  On the way upstairs, Lavinia told her all about her visit to Sunday and the things she’d learned about the way the children in the workhouse were treated. When she told her Cissie’s tale, the kindly maid frowned.

  ‘What do you think I should do about it?’ Lavinia asked. They were in her room by then and Zillah was helping her off with her shoes.

  ‘I can’t rightly say but it’s a sad kettle of fish from what you’ve told me. That poor girl. Would it be worth you visiting the asylum to see if she’s still locked away there?’

  ‘But what reason could I give?’

  Zillah sat next to her mistress on the end of the bed and stared thoughtfully off into space for a moment before suggesting, ‘I suppose you could say you knew a relative of hers and you would like her to come and work for you? I heard the housekeeper saying that our laundry maid, Meggie, would be leaving soon to get married. We’ll be needing another one then and although it’s the lowliest of positions I dare say it’s better than being locked away in an asylum. That’s if the poor lamb is still of sound mind, of course. Many people go in there sane and end up as bad as the rest of the inmates, from what I’ve heard of it. If you went along that route you needn’t make any accusations about the housemaster, unless you have evidence and we know we’ve got her safe.’

  ‘Hmm, you could be right,’ Lavinia answered, swinging her legs up onto the bed. ‘I shall certainly give it some thought. Thank you, Zillah. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘I hope it’ll be some long time afore you have to.’ Zillah laid a warm rug across her mistress then crept from the room leaving her to get some rest.

  When Lavinia went down to dinner that evening Ashley had not returned from his afternoon jaunt so after waiting another half an hour for him she dined alone then went to the drawing room where she played the piano for a time before retiring. Thankfully he did not come home at all that evening but she slept badly, for she had nightmares about the terrible stories that Sunday had told her.

  Zillah found her pale and wan the next morning when she went in to open her curtains. ‘I’ve no need to ask how you slept. You’re as white as a ghost. Come on, up onto your pillows now and eat some of this breakfast I’ve brought you.’

  She laid a tray across Lavinia’s lap but the woman merely picked at the food like a little bird before finally pushing it away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Zillah, but I don’t seem to have much of an appetite this morning,’ she apologised.

  Zillah shook her head. It had taken years to coax her mistress from the lethargic state she had sunk into following the loss of her last baby and she was determined that she wasn’t going to go back there.

  ‘In that case you can get up and get dressed and go and see our Verity,’ she ordered bossily. ‘It’s too nice a day for you to be stuck indoors.’

  Lavinia smiled wryly. And yet it was mid-morning before she made a decision and asked Zillah, ‘Would you ask for the carriage to be brought around, please? I’m going out.’

  Zillah paused; she was just making the room tidy and she beamed. ‘That’s the spirit,’ she said approvingly and hastened away to do as she was asked.

  Twenty minutes later Lavinia went out to the carriage and told the driver, ‘Hatter’s Hall, please, Jenkins.’

  ‘You mean the asylum, ma’am?’ He looked surprised but made no comment as he handed her into the carriage. There was still no sign of Ashley but Lavinia wasn’t overly concerned. He’d taken to staying away for days at a time now, often only coming back when he ran out of money from betting on horses or to force himself on her in the hope of getting her with child. Sometimes she felt guilty for hoping that he might never come home again!

  The carriage rattled along as she stared at the fields through the window. It was another beautiful day but autumn would be upon them before they knew it. Lavinia had no idea whatsoever what she was going to say when she arrived at the asylum, but she decided that she would face that problem when they got there. Very soon, Jenkins drew the horses to a stop outside two enormous iron gates set in a high brick wall. Lavinia felt a pain as she thought of all the poor people who must have entered through them, never to come out again. It was rumoured that at night the sound of the demented souls could be heard wailing and the local people avoided the area like the plague.

  A porter appeared from a small gatehouse at the side of the gates and, lowering the window, Lavinia informed him imperiously, ‘I am here to see the person in charge.’

  ‘Are you expected?’ the man asked and Lavinia shook her head.

  ‘Well, usually visitors are only admitted by appointment,’ he informed her worriedly.

  Lavinia looked steadily back at him before saying, ‘I suggest you open the gates immediately, my good man, or it will be the worse for you when I am admitted.’

  He looked uncertain for a moment longer but seeing she was obviously a high-class lady, he rushed to admit her.

  The carriage rattled down the drive as Lavinia stared at the house ahead from the window. The red-brick walls were heavily covered in trailing ivy and Virginia creeper, but she noted that there were bars on all the windows and it looked dark, forbidding and totally unwelcoming, much like some of the houses that she had read about in Gothic novels.

  Jenkins pulled the horses to a halt at the entrance and after handing her down from the carriage he asked, ‘Would you like me to come in with you, my lady?’

  Putting on a brave face, she replied in a hushed voice. It was so quiet here, as if even the birds were afraid to sing in such a sad place. ‘No, thank you. Just wait here for me.’

  She tugged at a rusty chain that hung at the side of the door. A bell clanged somewhere inside and she heard the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back. When the door creaked open, the waft of stale urine and vomit assailed her, and it was all she could do to stop herself from
retching as she told the little maid who appeared, ‘I have come to see the superintendent. Kindly inform them that Lady Lavinia Huntley is here.’

  ‘Step inside, ma’am.’

  Lavinia found herself in a cavernous foyer with several corridors leading off it. From the centre of the foyer rose a staircase that led up to a galleried landing. There were red and white patterned tiles on the floor and Lavinia was shocked at the sheer size of the place.

  ‘Would you wait here, please?’ The little maid hurried away and as she stood there the faint sounds of crying and wailing echoed down the staircase.

  Lavinia shuddered. This was surely hell on earth!

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Could you come this way?’

  Lavinia started as the maid’s voice interrupted her gloomy thoughts. Then, bracing herself to face whatever lay ahead, she forced herself to follow the girl. She was feeling dizzy and claustrophobic, and worried that she was going to have a fainting attack. She’d had a number of those following the death of her last daughter.

  The walls were all painted a sludgy brown colour which did nothing to lift the gloomy atmosphere of the place and as they set off along the corridor the sounds of crying and intermittent screaming grew louder.

  ‘That’s just some of the inmates having their daily treatments,’ the maid told her, noting the shocked look on Lavinia’s face. To the latter, it sounded more like they were being tortured than treated.

  At last the girl stopped before a door, again painted in the same dull colour. Attached to it was a plaque which read: Augustus Crackett, Superintendent. She tapped then opened it to allow Lavinia to pass into what proved to be a very spacious office.

  A painfully thin gentleman with wispy grey hair and prince-nez spectacles perched on the end of his bulbous nose stared back at her from behind an enormous mahogany desk.

  ‘It is customary to make an appointment when coming here, madam,’ he informed her coldly. ‘What is it I can help you with?’

  ‘I’ve come to enquire about a Miss Cissie . . .’ Lavinia paused here. Now what had Sunday said her surname was? And then it came to her. ‘Burns,’ she finished hastily.

  ‘May I ask why?’ He steepled his fingers and stared at her with a stern expression on his face.

  Again, Lavinia felt temporarily at a loss as to how best to answer but then she lied, ‘I knew a member of her family some time ago and I have come to offer her a position as laundry maid in my household. But first I wish to talk to her.’

  ‘I see.’ The man scowled. ‘Could you tell me when this person was admitted? You must realise that we have many patients here.’

  Once more, Lavinia realised just how ill-prepared she was for this interview. She hadn’t thought to ask Cissie’s exact date of admission either.

  ‘Forgive me.’ She fluttered her eyelashes becomingly at him although it seemed to make no impression whatsoever. ‘I can’t remember the exact date but it was some time ago, perhaps three or four years? She was admitted here from the Union Workhouse and at the time she was in . . . shall we say . . . a delicate condition.’

  He rose and crossed to one of a row of cupboards that stood against the back wall. ‘And you say her name was Burns?’

  Crossing her fingers in her lap, she nodded.

  Mr Crackett delved through a number of files before drawing one out as Lavinia held her breath. So many girls died in childbirth, particularly in this godforsaken place. It could be that poor Cissie hadn’t survived the birth of her child.

  ‘I think this might be the person you are enquiring about. She is in the West wing. And you say you wish to see her?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘This is highly irregular.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully as Lavinia rummaged in her small reticule. She produced a folded five-pound banknote, and as she placed it on the table and fully unfolded it, his eyes lit up greedily.

  ‘However, I suppose just this once . . .’ He swiftly pocketed the money and rang a small bell on his desk, and within seconds the little maid who had admitted Lavinia appeared as if by magic.

  ‘Evans, take Lady Huntley to the West wing,’ he instructed her, ‘and tell the officer there that I gave permission for her to visit Cissie Burns.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The maid bobbed her knee as Lavinia rose hastily to follow her. She was led up the sweeping staircase and found herself thinking how beautiful it must have been once upon a time. A number of locked doors confronted the pair at the top of the stairs. The maid rapped on one, which was opened by a plain-faced woman in a limp grey gown. Her expression was sour. The noise was louder here, people sobbing and whimpering, and Lavinia tried hard not to hear it for fear of bursting into tears herself. The maid explained why they were there and the woman looked askance but ushered Lavinia through the door all the same. Lady Huntley found herself in yet another long corridor with doors leading off on either side and she began to tremble, instinctively knowing that people were locked away behind each one.

  ‘Follow me, dear,’ the woman ordered and set off, the keys in a bunch at her waist clanking together.

  Each door had a small open panel covered in iron bars, and as Lavinia peeped inside her sense of despair increased. The rooms were like prison cells, and the blank-eyed women within stared back at her like lost souls. One woman was wailing and doing her best to tear her eyes out, and one was rocking vigorously to and fro as she chanted something beneath her breath.

  At last the woman stopped in front of a door at the far end of the corridor and selecting a key she told Lavinia, ‘She’s just come back from having her treatment so don’t expect to get any sense out of her. This one can be dangerous so we have to keep her chained.’

  ‘What sort of treatment?’ Lavinia asked, aghast.

  ‘Water treatment. The patients are dipped and held under. It soon quietens them down and stops their nonsense.’ She laughed harshly.

  Lavinia could hardly believe what she was hearing. It sounded utterly barbaric but the door was opening now so she held her tongue.

  ‘I’ll give you five minutes.’ As the woman strode away Lavinia wondered if she had an ounce of compassion in her body. It didn’t appear so!

  She looked towards the girl who was shackled to the walls by chains then and her breath caught in her throat. Cissie had curled herself into a ball and was dripping wet from head to toe and shaking uncontrollably with cold. Lavinia was shaking too, with outrage. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how one human being could treat another like this. This was far, far worse than anything she had ever dreamed of.

  ‘It’s all right, my dear. I haven’t come to hurt you.’ She slowly approached the girl, then, heedless of the filthy floor, she dropped to her knees to be on her level. Her skirts settled like a golden cloud around her as she tried to think what to say. Cissie was painfully thin and her large eyes seemed to be sunken into her face. When Lavinia stretched out a hand to her, the girl shrank away and cried, ‘What do yer want?’ She was clearly terrified.

  ‘I’ve come to help you,’ Lavinia soothed as tears sprang to her eyes.

  The girl shook her head, her eyes deep pools of misery. ‘No one can ’elp me.’

  Lavinia didn’t know what she could say to comfort her until she whispered, ‘Sunday told me about you.’

  ‘Sunday!’ Now there was some life in her eyes again. ‘So she remembered me then?’

  ‘Of course she did and she’s never stopped worrying about you, which is why I’ve come to try and get you out of here. I have a position at my house for you. It’s only in the laundry but it’s yours if you’d like it.’

  The light dulled in the girl’s eyes again. ‘They’d never let me go,’ she said hoarsely. ‘They’ve told me I’ll be in here for always.’ Her voice was without hope but now anger was stirring in Lavinia’s breast. The way this girl was being treated was inhuman. She rose and brushed down her skirt just as the nurse-gaoler reappeared.

  ‘Kindly take me back to the superintendent’
s office.’ Gone was the timid woman who had entered only minutes before and now in her place was someone who was on a mission. Noting the change in her the woman stared at her curiously before gesturing her from the cell and locking the door behind them.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lavinia murmured through the open bars to Cissie and with that she strode purposefully back down the corridor.

  Back in Mr Crackett’s office she towered over him at his desk and refused a seat. ‘Why has Cissie been classed as dangerous?’ she demanded to know.

  ‘Well, err . . . she can get very upset and needs restraining,’ he muttered.

  ‘And what happened to her baby?’

  He coughed as he bent quickly to the files on his desk. ‘It appears that it died at birth.’

  More likely it was sold for a good sum to a childless couple, Lavinia thought. ‘Well, as I informed you, I have a position ready and waiting for Cissie and I’d like to take her out of here with me – this instant!’

  ‘I’m afraid that is quite out of the question,’ he blustered. ‘It has to be a member of the inmate’s family or the person who put them in here, who must sign them out. In this case it was the master of the workhouse, a Mr Pinnegar.’

  ‘And I happen to sit on the board of governors at the workhouse,’ Lavinia told him imperiously with her chin in the air.

  Still he hesitated, so once more Lavinia dipped into her reticule and produced another banknote, which she held up in front of him. ‘I am, of course, prepared to make a generous donation towards the running costs of the asylum,’ she told him silkily, nodding towards the money. ‘And I am also prepared to take full responsibility for the girl. It will be one less patient for you to worry about.’