Mothering Sunday

by Rosie Goodwin

  ‘Well, when you put it like that I suppose it would be all right.’ He reached out for the money but Lavinia held onto it. Rifling through a drawer in his desk, Augustus Crackett took out a legal-looking paper. ‘This is the release form,’ he told her solemnly. ‘Whilst you fill it in I shall go and send the maid to fetch Burns.’

  Lavinia filled the form in quickly then sat impatiently waiting until the superintendent appeared again with the young maid close behind him. Clad now in a dry smock, Cissie was leaning heavily on her arm and looked as if she was about to collapse at any moment. She was blinking in the light and there was a glazed expression on her waxen face as if she hardly dared to allow herself to believe what was happening.

  ‘Ah, here you are.’ Lavinia smiled at her encouragingly. She then pushed the release form towards the superintendent, with the banknote peeping out beneath it. ‘I think you will find this is all in order, and now if there’s nothing else you require me to do I shall wish you good day, sir.’

  ‘Of course, my lady.’ He clicked his fingers at the maid, ordering, ‘Help this young lady out to the carriage immediately, Evans!’ It was clear that Cissie was in no state to get there without help.

  Lavinia left the room without bestowing so much as a backward glance on the man. What an obnoxious creature he was! Even animals were kept in better conditions than those she had witnessed today. The things she had seen and heard in this dreadful place would stay with her for ever and she could hardly wait to get away.

  Taking Cissie’s other arm, with the help of the maid she managed to get her down the steps and to the coach as Cissie’s legs buckled beneath her. Jenkins looked mildly surprised to see the girl with his mistress. The young lass was in a rare old state but without a word he lifted her and gently placed her in the carriage. And then at last the carriage was rolling away down the drive and once the gateman had let them out, Lavinia breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  Cissie looked dazed and disorientated, and in the bright light of day Lavinia was horrified to note that her hair was matted to her head. The smell that was issuing from her was rancid too and Lavinia wondered how long it was since she had been allowed access to soap. She reached out to take the girl’s hand but at the sudden movement Cissie flinched away from her. As she did so the sleeve of the shapeless shift dress she was wearing slid up her arm, revealing a multitude of bruises ranging from older yellow ones to more recent vivid purple ones.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Tears were sliding down Lavinia’s cheeks. ‘Please don’t be afraid of me. I’m going to get you well again and then you’ll be safe working at my house for as long as you wish to.’

  Cissie stared back at her for a moment from wide, frightened eyes but then her eyelids started to droop and before Lavinia could say another word her head had lolled to the side and she was fast asleep.

  ‘I believe she has been drugged,’ Lavinia muttered. A number of the inmates had been asleep, she recalled. They too had probably been sedated to keep them quiet. But never mind, once they got Cissie home and she’d been handed into Mrs Roundtree’s tender care she’d be as right as rain again in no time. The housekeeper was a kindly woman and Lavinia had no doubt at all that she, and her darling Zillah, would gladly take Cissie under her wing.

  They arrived back home and Mrs Roundtree was led outside to meet the still slumbering Cissie. The girl was slumped on the seat in the carriage and as Lavinia hastily whispered what had happened to her the housekeeper’s mouth set in a grim line as she flicked a tear away.

  ‘Carry her into the kitchen for me would you, George?’ she asked Jenkins, taking control of the situation. ‘This little lady needs a good bath and a clean nightgown. I’ll get some decent food into her then and put her to bed till I deem she’s well enough to get up again.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Roundtree,’ Lavinia said gratefully as the groom lifted Cissie down from the carriage, and the woman beamed.

  ‘You just leave it with me, ma’am. Zillah and I will have her better in no time. Well, her body at least. The Good Lord only knows how long it will take for her mind to heal.’ She clicked her tongue disapprovingly and ushered Jenkins towards the back entrance, warning, ‘Be gentle with her now.’

  Suddenly Lavinia felt exhausted. It had been a very trying morning but thankfully she could share it all with Zillah. She had achieved what she had set out to do and now it was down to Cissie and time – the great healer. She pictured Sunday’s face when she gave her the news. The girl would be ecstatic.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next weekend rolled around in no time and once again Sunday found herself looking forward to going to church with Mrs Spooner and visiting Daisy and Tommy in the workhouse.

  ‘Time seems to fly by,’ Annie remarked as she put her coat on ready to go home on Saturday evening. She had given Sunday a lesson in baking that afternoon and the results of their efforts were now cooling on racks on the table. There were two fresh loaves for breakfast the next morning and a number of scones. Old Mr Greaves was very partial to a scone or two lathered with butter and jam and so was Miss Bailey.

  Sunday was very pleased with her attempt and couldn’t stop smiling. She had followed Annie’s instructions to the letter and everything had turned out far better than when she’d been taught in the workhouse. Not that she felt anywhere near ready to attempt it on her own yet, and even when she did, she doubted she would ever be as good a cook as Annie was.

  Annie, who had smartened herself up considerably since the welcome arrival of Sunday at Whittleford Lodge, had just put her hat on when there was a knock on the front door.

  ‘Now who would that be at this time on a Saturday evenin’? It’s an odd time to call, an’ just as I were about to leave an’ all.’

  ‘You get off, Annie,’ Sunday urged. ‘I’ll go and answer the door. It’s probably someone to see the missus.’

  ‘All right, lass. If yer sure.’ Annie lifted her bag and disappeared out of the back door as Sunday hurried along the hallway.

  She found Lady Huntley standing on the step. ‘Good evening,’ Sunday said, a little surprised. ‘Was it Mrs Spooner you were wanting to see, ma’am?’

  Lady Huntley beamed excitedly at her. ‘No, actually, it was you I wanted a word with, Sunday dear. May I come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Sunday was all of a dither. ‘Perhaps we should go through to the kitchen?’ She didn’t feel it would be right to show her into one of Mrs Spooner’s best rooms, but thankfully the lady herself appeared in the doorway of the dining room just then.

  ‘How nice to see you, Lady Huntley,’ she welcomed her guest. This evening, Biddy Spooner was at her most flamboyant. The gown she had squeezed into had so many frills and was so heavily adorned with lace that Lady Huntley didn’t quite know which part of it to look at first. The jewels on the old woman’s fingers were sparkling and every time she moved, the many gold bangles on her arms jangled. Her face, as always, was heavily made up.

  Lady Huntley smiled at her politely, saying, ‘I hope you’ll excuse me calling at such an unusual hour. I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you at such a time normally but there was something I wished to tell Sunday. I would have called earlier in the week but my husband has been entertaining friends and—’

  ‘Oh, my dear, you are most welcome here any time. But did you wish to see Sunny in private? There is nothing amiss, I hope?’ She was consumed with curiosity and so was pleased when Lady Huntley shook her head and explained the situation.

  ‘No, there is nothing amiss, I assure you. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. At least, I hope Sunday will think so. And I’d be delighted to share my news with you too.’

  Intrigued, Mrs Spooner took her elbow. ‘In that case, let’s go into the day room. My lodgers are in the drawing room at present and we’ll have some privacy in there.’

  She led the way along the corridor and once they were all in the room Sunday and Mrs Spooner looked at the woman expectantly.

  ‘The thing is, fo
llowing our talk when you told me about poor Cissie,’ Lady Huntley began, addressing Sunday, ‘I took it upon myself to visit Hatter’s Hall.’ She then went on to tell them all that had transpired and when the story was told, Sunday’s face lit up brighter than a ray of sunshine.

  ‘You mean Cissie is really out of that dreadful place?’ She hardly dared believe what she had just heard. ‘Oh, thank you, Lady Huntley. Thank you so, so much!’

  ‘She certainly is out of there, and even as we speak my dear housekeeper, Mrs Roundtree, is fussing over her like a mother hen. She’s really taken to her.’

  ‘And how is Cissie?’

  Lady Huntley’s face became sombre then. ‘Well, physically she is on the mend. We are making sure she gets lots of rest and good food, but . . .’ She gave a little shake of her head. ‘I fear being in that place for so long has left a lasting impression on her – and I’m not surprised after what I saw whilst I was there.’ She shuddered. ‘Up to now she hasn’t uttered so much as a single word since leaving Hatter’s Hall, which is why I was hoping, dear Mrs Spooner’ – she looked at Biddy – ‘you might allow Sunday to visit her? Seeing a familiar face might bring her back from the dark place to which she seems to have retreated.’

  ‘Of course she can,’ Mrs Spooner said immediately. ‘What about this evening?’

  ‘But I haven’t washed the supper pots up yet,’ Sunday pointed out. She longed to see Cissie but didn’t want to neglect her duties.

  ‘Pah! What’s a few dirty pots?’ Mrs Spooner wiggled a heavily ringed hand in the air. ‘They can wait till morning. You can go right now if Lady Huntley has no objections, although I’d like you to be seen safely home after the visit. It stays light till late, but nevertheless . . .’

  ‘I would make sure she was escorted right to the door,’ Lady Huntley assured her. ‘So what do you think, my dear? Would you like to come with me now to see your friend?’

  ‘Oh yes, please!’ Sunday was so excited she could barely contain herself and without even thinking about it she suddenly flung her arms about Lavinia’s neck and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

  Lavinia Huntley flushed with pleasure. Mrs Spooner watched the two of them together and once again it struck her how alike they looked. Their hair was almost the identical colour and they both had a heart-shaped face. They were both blue-eyed as well, although Sunday’s eyes were a much deeper colour, more of a violet blue than a sky blue. What a pretty picture they make, the old lady found herself thinking.

  ‘Oh . . . sorry,’ Sunday said self-consciously then as her cheeks turned a rosy pink. ‘I didn’t mean to be so familiar.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, I liked it,’ Lady Huntley told her with a warm smile and Mrs Spooner thought how cruel life could be. Here was a woman who would have loved a daughter, and a young girl who would have loved to have a mother.

  ‘Well, go an’ make yourself presentable then, Sunny, if you’re goin’ out,’ Mrs Spooner ordered her bossily. ‘Run a comb through yer hair an’ take your apron off quick smart else it’ll be dark before you even get there.’

  Only too happy to oblige, Sunday skipped away to do as she was told as the two women looked fondly on.

  ‘She’s such a lovely girl, isn’t she?’ Lady Huntley said and Mrs Spooner nodded in agreement.

  ‘She is that, though she can be a young madam too. But then I suppose she had to learn how to stick up for herself, being brought up in the workhouse. Do you know, I’ve never seen her shed a tear?’

  They wandered into the hallway then and Sunday soon reappeared with her eyes glowing and her hair freshly brushed. She had changed into one of the dresses that Lady Huntley had given her and the women thought how pretty she looked.

  ‘What time do you want her home?’ Lavinia asked.

  Mrs Spooner shrugged. ‘Whenever you like, so long as you see her back safely.’

  She stood on the steps in all her finery waving as the carriage rolled away, then went back to the drawing room to enjoy a game of cards with Mr Greaves.

  By the time the carriage arrived at Treetops Manor, Sunday was squirming with anticipation. Her mouth fell open at the first glimpse of Lady Huntley’s home. She could never imagine living in such a place in a thousand years. After the confines of the workhouse she had thought Mrs Spooner’s residence was wonderful, but this was like something out of one of the pages of the books she had looked at with Mrs Lockett. Tall chimneys stretched into the sky with the smoke curling lazily from them and the many long windows reflected the early-evening light. Soft lamps in the rooms beyond gave the place a welcoming appearance. Virginia creeper and ivy grew in wild profusion up the facade. Sunday was sure she had never seen such a beautiful building. But then the carriage was drawing to a halt and she forgot all about the house and suddenly remembered why she had come here – and all she could think of was seeing Cissie now. She had to keep pinching herself to make sure that this was really happening, although her excitement was laced with apprehension. After all poor Cissie had been through, would she have changed?

  As if she had picked up on her thoughts Lady Huntley said, ‘I ought to warn you that Cissie is . . .’ She paused to choose her words carefully. ‘Perhaps not quite as you’ll remember her,’ she warned gently. ‘She’s been locked away for a long while but I have every hope that within time she’ll make a full recovery. I’m sure that seeing you again will help.’

  She led Sunday inside and the girl gaped at the luxurious interior. It was every bit as impressive as the outside of the house. A portly round-faced woman hurried to meet them and smiled at Sunday kindly.

  ‘Hello, my dear,’ she greeted Sunday. ‘My name is Mrs Roundtree and I’m the housekeeper here. You must be Cissie’s little friend? I’m sure she’ll be very pleased to see you. I’ve put her in the room next to mine where I can keep my eye on her and she’s doing quite well, considering.’

  She nodded politely at Lady Huntley, who left them then, and led Sunday away down a long corridor. ‘My rooms are along here,’ she told her. ‘And this one here is Cissie’s room for now. When she’s well and able to start work, she’ll go up into the servants’ quarters.’

  She opened a door and ushered Sunday into a small room. In the window, which overlooked the front of the house, was a chair. Someone was sitting in it gazing quietly out across the lawns with her back to them, and after glancing at the housekeeper, who gave her an encouraging nod, Sunday approached it, saying tentatively, ‘Cissie?’

  The person sat very still for what seemed like a very long time, showing no signs of having heard her, but then she turned slightly towards her and Sunday found herself staring into two dead eyes that were sunk deep into the girl’s head.

  ‘Oh, Cissie. It really is you! I never thought I’d see you again.’

  Dropping to her knees, she took the girl’s hands in her own and smiled from ear to ear although she felt like crying. Goodness only knew what the poor soul must have endured in Hatter’s Hall to bring her to this state. Cissie had never been the most robust of girls, for few thrived in the workhouse on the meagre rations they were served. But now she seemed to have shrunk to half her original size and every bone that was visible was prominent as if her skin had been stretched across them.

  ‘Cissie . . . it’s me, Sunday.’ She held her breath as her friend continued to stare blankly back at her but then suddenly Cissie’s lip trembled and recognition dawned in her eyes.

  ‘Su-Sunday.’ Her voice was hoarse as if she had not used it properly for some long time. ‘They took my baby away!’

  And then, with no warning, the tears came and she fell into Sunday’s waiting arms and began to sob.

  Mrs Roundtree nodded her approval. ‘That’s it, lass. You have a good cry and get it all out now. Tears are healing!’

  Sunday held her tightly for a long time until the sobs finally turned to dull hiccuping whimpers and then, gently wiping the damp hair from her brow, she smiled at her dear friend as she told her, ‘It’s all right. I
t’s all over now, Cissie, I promise.’

  With a large lump in her throat, the housekeeper crept away to give the two girls some time alone to talk in private.

  ‘Was it awful?’ Sunday asked eventually as Cissie lay like a limp rag in her arms.

  Cissie nodded miserably as she swiped her nose along her sleeve – some things never changed, it seemed.

  ‘Do you know what was the strangest thing?’ she said brokenly. ‘Once they locked me away I hated the baby I was carrying and I knew that I was going to hate it because it was forced on me. Yet when he was born and I held him I had feelings run through me that I’ve never felt before. He was a part of me and suddenly it didn’t matter who his father was. I loved him. I’d never had anyone of my very own to love before, you see.’ Her eyes were so bleak when she looked at Sunday that the girl’s heart ached for her.

  ‘I only got to hold him for a couple of minutes and then they took him away and I never saw him again. I don’t even know where he is or who he’s with. I know they will never love him as I would have though.’

  ‘One day when you meet someone special there will be other babies to love,’ Sunday promised but Cissie shook her head.

  ‘No. I’ll never let another man touch me for as long as I live.’ She trembled as she recalled the feel of Mr Pinnegar’s hands on her bare skin.

  ‘You will, you’ll see. It will be completely different if it’s someone you respect and love.’

  They fell silent then as Sunday held her close, and after a while Sunday asked, ‘Would you like to hear what’s been happening to me since you left? I no longer live in the workhouse. A lovely lady called Mrs Spooner has employed me to work in her home at Whittleford and I love it there.’

  For the first time, Cissie noticed the neat dress Sunday was wearing and a spark of interest flared in her eyes so Sunday hurried on to tell her all that had happened in the years they had been forced to be apart.