Sometime later, leaving a slightly calmer Cissie behind, Sunday descended the stairs to find Lady Huntley waiting for her in the enormous hallway. Seeing the sad expression on the girl’s face she gently took her hands. ‘I did try to warn you that she is still quite altered by all that’s happened to her, didn’t I? But never fear, she will get the best of care here, I assure you.’
Sunday managed a weak, grateful smile as the woman turned to lift some books she had ready on a hall table.
‘I thought you might enjoy these,’ she said. ‘When you’ve read them, simply return them and you’re welcome to borrow some more from the library.’
Sunday glanced through the books eagerly. The first one was Heidi by Johanna Spyri, the second was Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Her whole face lit up with pleasure as she clutched them and she could hardly wait to start reading them.
‘Right, I think I had better get Jenkins to take you home now,’ Lady Huntley said then. ‘Mrs Spooner will be thinking you’ve got lost. But do feel free to come and visit Cissie whenever you are able to. I’m sure seeing you will help to speed her recovery.’
‘I will – and thank you for everything you have done, Lady Huntley.’ One last smile then Sunday tripped down the steps and soon the carriage was bowling back to Whittleford again. It had been quite a day, one way or another, she thought. To see Cissie, freed from Hatter’s Hall, was like a kind of miracle; and behind it all was Lavinia Huntley, an angel of mercy if ever there was one.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sunday was in a more subdued mood when the carriage arrived back at Whittleford Lodge. Although she was thrilled that Cissie was finally free, her poor friend had been through so much . . . Sunday wondered if she would ever completely get over it.
Mrs Spooner was waiting for her. ‘How was she, lass?’ she asked immediately.
As Sunday told her some of the things Cissie had confided to her the old woman’s eyes smarted with tears and she wagged her head from side to side in shocked disbelief. ‘To think that those poor people get treated like that. And as for that housemaster . . . why, he should be run out of town. I hope Lady Huntley is going to address what he’s done with the board of governors?’
Sunday shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what she intends to do,’ she said tiredly. ‘The problem is, it would be his word against Cissie’s – and as she pointed out, who would believe her? They’d think she was just out to cause trouble – although from rumours I’ve heard, Cissie wasn’t the first. He even tried it on with me, though he didn’t go so far as to . . .’ Her voice trailed away as she blushed furiously and Mrs Spooner bristled.
‘He should be stopped. The man is a menace to young girls!’ And with that she stomped away, leaning heavily on her silver-topped stick. She had almost crossed the hall when she paused to look back over her shoulder and say, ‘And by the way, Sunny, when your friend is recovered enough, she can come here to visit you. I was only saying to Mr Greaves earlier on that it would do you the power of good to spend some time with people your own age.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Spooner.’ Her employer’s kindness made a lump come into her throat.
Sunday had had every intention of washing up the supper pots when she got back but now she decided that they could wait until the morning, as Mrs Spooner had said. She felt completely drained emotionally and was now worrying about who Mr Pinnegar might target next. Mrs Spooner was quite right: he needed stopping – but how?
The next morning, she attended church with Mrs Spooner and after the service, as they were saying goodbye to the vicar, Mrs Lockett allowed Sunday to hold Phoebe for a moment. She was such a contented baby and nestled in Sunday’s arms, staring up at her from her lovely blue eyes.
Sunday commented on the beautiful shawl she was wrapped in and Mrs Lockett told her proudly, ‘It was a gift, among many other baby things, from Lady Huntley. It’s quite exquisite, isn’t it, and I dread to think what it must have cost. It’s so fine I suppose I should save it for her christening day really, but then I don’t want it to lie in a drawer and not be used.’
‘Quite right,’ Mrs Spooner agreed, adjusting the enormous red and yellow silk flowered hat that she was wearing. It was so wide that Sunday had feared she’d never get through the church door in it, and so richly adorned that she knew it must be very heavy. But then that was Biddy Spooner – the more colourful the better, as far as she was concerned.
Mrs Spooner’s nephew had accompanied them to church that morning and as he stood patiently waiting for them he noticed Sunday blinking at his aunt’s hat.
‘It’s monstrous, isn’t it?’ He chuckled as his eyes followed hers and Sunday grinned as she reluctantly handed baby Phoebe back to her adoring mother. She and Jacob were getting on very well and because he was the nearest person in age to her in the house they always managed to find something to talk about.
‘I was wondering, if next week, you might like to stay and have lunch with us after the morning service, my dear?’ Mrs Lockett said then. ‘It would be much easier for you to get to the workhouse from the vicarage to see Daisy and Tommy, and it would save you having to go home and come all the way back again. But only if Mrs Spooner doesn’t mind, of course.’
Sunday was delighted at the request but glanced anxiously at Mrs Spooner. She didn’t want to take advantage of her good nature. She needn’t have worried, however, for the woman thought it was an excellent idea and gave her permission straight away.
‘But what about the dinner pots?’ Sunday fretted.
Mrs Spooner laughed. ‘They’ll be waiting for you when you finally get home, never you fear. I’m not goin’ to do ’em meself.’
Sunday looked back at Mrs Lockett. ‘Then in that case I’d love to come. Thank you very much.’ And so it was decided and something for her to look forward to.
She set off to visit her friends that afternoon in a cheerful frame of mind, but the moment she went through the door she felt as if a great weight had been placed on her shoulders again. The workhouse would always have that effect on her.
But she told herself that things were looking up. She was happy in her new position and Cissie was out of the asylum. She would be fourteen years old in just three short weeks now and soon after Christmas, Daisy would be too – so hopefully she would be out of the workhouse as well then. And then there was Jacob, of course . . . she felt bashful just thinking of him.
She settled herself at a table and before long her friends joined her. Tommy seemed to have shot up, she observed as he entered the room. He wasn’t quite sixteen yet but already he was much taller than herself and Daisy. He was rapidly changing from a young boy into a young man and seemed to be all gangly arms and legs. His voice had changed too, recently – it was much deeper now. The minute they were seated, Sunday burst out with her news about Cissie and they were both thrilled for her, although she noted that Daisy didn’t seem her usual chirpy self.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, and Daisy gave her a sad sort of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
‘Oh yes, I’m fine. Just got a bit of a headache, that’s all.’
Sunday could well believe it as she stared at the dark circles beneath her friend’s eyes.
‘She’s been down in the dumps for a while now,’ Tommy informed told Sunday with an anxious glance at his sister. ‘But she won’t tell me what’s wrong.’
‘There’s nothing wrong,’ Daisy said irritably, and seeing that she was becoming upset he quickly shut up, giving Sunday a meaningful look. They then went on to talk of other things until the bell sounded to herald the end of visiting time. Sunday took her leave, promising that she would be there at the same time the following week.
A few days later, Mrs Spooner gave Sunday permission to go and visit Cissie again. She had seen Lady Huntley earlier in the day, and Lavinia had encouraged it, saying that Sunday seemed to do the girl more good than any of the remedies and tonics that Mrs Roundtree was pouring into her.
With a
ll her chores done, Sunday set off for Treetops Manor but had barely reached the brickworks when she bumped into Jacob, who had just finished work.
He smiled at her in greeting. ‘And where are you off to, looking so chirpy?’
She told him where she was going and he said immediately, ‘Then in that case I shall come up there and walk you home. It’s almost seven o’clock already so it will be at least nine by the time you leave. The nights are beginning to draw in a little now and it wouldn’t do for you to be walking home in the dark alone.’
Sunday flushed becomingly. Jacob was such a nice young man, and handsome too.
‘I shall be quite all right,’ she assured him but he wouldn’t be put off so they agreed that he would be waiting for her at the end of the drive leading to Treetops Manor at nine o’clock sharp.
Sunday was delighted to find Cissie in a much happier frame of mind and looking a great deal better. Zillah had washed and combed out her matted hair and dressed it in a simple but agreeable style, with pins and tortoiseshell combs.
‘I’ve told Mrs Roundtree that I’m well enough to start work but she says I’m to rest for at least another week.’ The girl was still painfully thin but at least there was a little colour in her cheeks. The haunted look was still there, lurking in the back of her eyes, but she seemed to be much more her old self – although the kindly housekeeper had confided to Sunday that she still had dreadful nightmares.
‘I can never thank you enough for telling Lady Huntley about me and getting me out of that awful place,’ Cissie said to Sunday just before she left, giving her an affectionate hug. ‘I think I would have ended up as mad as some of the poor souls in there if I’d had to stay much longer. I’d lost all hope, you see, after they took away my baby son.’
‘You have to try and put it all behind you now and get on with the rest of your life,’ Sunday told her with a wisdom way beyond her years, and Cissie nodded. She knew that Sunday was right but doubted that she would ever be able to forget those traumatic years in Hatter’s Hall.
As promised, Jacob was waiting for Sunday at the end of the drive; her heart did a little flutter at the sight of him. The walk home seemed to be over in a flash as they chatted easily about anything and everything. Sunday had taken to reading the newspapers that Miss Bailey left lying about when she had read them, and now she could converse on many different topics, including politics. Jacob enjoyed being with Sunday; it was nice to have someone young about the house. He had taken on the role of a protective older brother – after all, he was almost nineteen years old and viewed her as still just a very young girl – but he liked her company all the same.
When they got back, Sunday went to make sure that all was tidy in the kitchen before retiring to her room to alter another of the gowns that Lady Huntley had passed on to her; this time it was for Cissie. She hoped that it would help to cheer her friend up.
The following weeks raced by and in no time they were into September. Sunday’s birthday came and went without any kind of celebration. This was nothing new. She had never celebrated it in the workhouse and she didn’t mention it now.
She had settled in very happily at Mrs Spooner’s. The kindly lady had increased her wages to half a crown a week, a small fortune to Sunday, who was saving every penny she could. All she had spent up to now was a shilling on a pair of second-hand boots from the rag stall in the market and another shilling on a warm woollen shawl now that the days were getting colder. Although the items were used, these were the first clothes she had ever bought for herself and she was thrilled with them. The boots had had very little wear and were the finest she had ever owned, and the shawl, which was in a pretty shade of blue that matched her eyes, was her pride and joy and made her feel very grand when she wore it. The only dark cloud on her horizon was Daisy, for every time she visited the workhouse, she sensed that all was not well with her. The girl had lost weight and seemed nervy and on edge, but would not tell Sunday what the matter was, insisting that all was well. Sunday suspected that Miss Frost might have turned her bullying attentions onto Daisy and longed for the day when her friend could get away from the Union Workhouse for good.
Cissie, on the other hand, was thriving under Mrs Roundtree’s tender loving care. She was now working in the laundry at Treetops Manor and had joined the other staff in the servants’ quarters upstairs; after the harsh regime she had endured at the workhouse, she found her duties easy. Zillah and the housekeeper were keeping a close eye on her and ensuring that she didn’t overdo things and that she ate well, and Cissie was settling in nicely. However, she was still prone to burst into floods of tears whenever she remembered the baby that had been snatched away from her at birth and the years of privations, ‘treatments’ and cruel confinement that had followed.
Little Phoebe, Mrs Lockett’s baby, was thriving too and now Sunday looked forward to the church services each week so that she could spend a little time with her. Verity and the Reverend were looking rather tired as Phoebe was teething now and causing them sleepless nights but even so, anyone could see how devoted they were to the little girl.
Sunday, her name-day, was the girl’s favourite day of the week now. She would wear the blue dress that Lady Huntley had given to her and her lovely blue shawl, and feel like the bee’s knees.
One particular Sunday, she came down ready to travel to the church with Mrs Spooner and found the old woman waiting for her in the hall.
‘Here,’ Biddy said self-consciously, thrusting something into Sunday’s hand. ‘The tallyman called yesterday and when I saw this I thought it might be just the right colour to go with your shawl.’
Sunday looked down to find a length of blue ribbon and she beamed with pleasure. It was the first she had ever owned and was so lovely that she almost didn’t want to wear it, although her hair, which she wore loose, had grown to shoulder-length again now. It would soon be time to put it up in a more womanly way.
‘You shouldn’t go spending your money on me,’ she protested, unable to tear her eyes away from the beautiful gift. No one, apart from Mrs Spooner, had ever bought her anything that was unworn and brand new before – apart from Albert Pinnegar, that was, and she didn’t want to think of him now. And then, not wishing to appear ungrateful she rushed on, ‘But thank you so much. I shall put it on right now and only wear it when we go to church.’
She then leaned over and kissed Mrs Spooner soundly on the cheek, making the old woman flush beneath her layers of paint and powder. For the first time in her life Sunday was truly happy – and she hoped it would last for ever.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sunday’s happy mood lapsed a little when she visited Daisy and Tommy that afternoon. Daisy seemed even more tense than the week before and her eyes kept flicking nervously towards the door. For the whole time Sunday was there, Daisy sat plucking at the skirts of her drab dress and seemed totally preoccupied, barely contributing to the conversation. She did manage a smile and a peck on the cheek when Sunday left, but on her way home Sunday frowned thoughtfully. Daisy’s strange behaviour bothered her, and it was then she decided that it was time to put the proposition that had been steadily growing in her mind for some time to Mrs Spooner.
The perfect opportunity came after the light tea that Annie had prepared for them all.
‘Mrs Spooner, could I have a word, please?’ As always, Sunday was polite. The lodgers had all adjourned to the drawing room and Biddy was the only one left in the dining room.
She sat looking up at Sunday, who was hovering around, then told her bluntly, ‘Sit down, can’t you, Sunny? It’s hurtin’ me neck looking up at you.’
Sunday say opposite her and licked her lips which were suddenly dry. ‘The thing is, I have an idea to put to you,’ she began cautiously.
‘Oh yes, an’ what would that be?’ Mrs Spooner tried to guess what was coming.
‘Well . . .’ Sunday paused, wondering as she absent-mindedly stroked Mabel if she might be being a little too forward. But then an
image of Daisy’s unhappy face flashed in front of her eyes and she plunged on. It was a case of nothing ventured, nothing gained. ‘As you know, I’ve taken over a lot of Annie’s work now and in the not too distant future I’m hoping to take over all the cooking as well so that Annie can properly retire.’
‘Yes, you’ve done well, I’ll grant you that. But what’s this leading up to?’ Her employer narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
‘It’s quite a large house for one person to keep – not that I’m complaining,’ Sunday hastened to assure her. ‘I just wondered if you might consider taking on another maid.’ When Mrs Spooner frowned she rushed on: ‘It wouldn’t cost you a penny – well, only what you paid me when I first came here. But the thing is, if I had a little help we could let out the other bedrooms that are standing empty so you’d actually be considerably in pocket with their rents coming in.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Mrs Spooner tapped her chin thoughtfully. She could see the sense in what the girl was saying. And then she said casually, ‘And did you by any chance happen to have anyone in particular in mind to help you?’
‘I did, as it happens,’ Sunday confessed. ‘My friend Daisy Branning from the workhouse. She’s just a few months younger than me and a very hard worker. She could share my room if you liked. She has a brother too. His name is Tommy and I wondered if you might like to employ him as well. The vegetable garden and the orchard are sadly overgrown, as you know, and he could bring them back to life. He loves gardening and it would save a lot of money if we could grow our own fruit and vegetables. It would save lots of time on trips to the market too. And he’s very handy at other things as well: he could paint the outside of the house for you for a start-off. You did say you were going to employ someone to do it.’
‘There is that, I dare say,’ Mrs Spooner said. ‘But what would he do during the winter months when there’s no gardening to be done?’
Mothering Sunday Page 17