Mothering Sunday

by Rosie Goodwin

  Later that evening when the staff party was in full swing in the kitchen, Lavinia Huntley climbed to the nursery floor and glanced around with a look of longing in her eyes.

  ‘Please, dear Lord Jesus, let this be the last childless Christmas I ever have to bear,’ she prayed as she crossed to the tiny rocking crib. It had a little canopy heavily frilled with lace, and inside it little blankets lay waiting to warm their new occupant. She caressed her bump. This time next year, God willing, she would be spending time in here with her baby. It was all she had ever dreamed of and now once again, and rather unexpectedly, the dream was within her grasp.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The snow began to fall on New Year’s Eve and suddenly everywhere looked as if it had been painted white and was brand new. Not everyone was enamoured of it, however.

  ‘I hope the chickens an’ the pigs are warm enough,’ Tommy fretted, much to Annie’s amusement.

  ‘Well, even if they ain’t, they ain’t comin’ in ’ere,’ she told him with a grin. The lodgers had all returned from their Christmas vacations and tonight they would be having a little party. Annie had been busily baking for two whole days and now the dining-room table held an impressive array of meat pies and pickles, a side of ham and a huge roast leg of pork as well as a variety of fresh-baked rolls, jellies and all kinds of cakes.

  ‘I love parties,’ Sunday sighed happily as she laid out a number of knives and forks.

  ‘Hmm, well, make the most o’ this ’un,’ Annie warned her. ‘It’ll be back to work as normal once we get tomorrow over wi’.’

  Sunday just smiled. Nothing could dampen her spirits today and she was curious to see what Jacob’s latest young lady looked like. He’d been walking out with her for a few weeks now, according to Annie, but none of them had met her as yet. Her father was one of the managers at the brickworks and supposedly quite well off, which had tickled Mrs Spooner no end.

  An hour before the party was about to begin, Sunday slipped upstairs to get ready, only to find Daisy lying on her bed in the dark.

  ‘Come on, Dais,’ she urged. ‘The party will be starting soon. Don’t you want to get changed for it?’

  But Daisy merely shook her head. ‘I reckon I’ll stay up here tonight. I’m not really feelin’ in a mood for celebrating.’ It had struck her that day that they were almost into a brand-new year – a year that would change the whole of her life for ever, for during that year she would be forced to give birth to the bastard she was carrying.

  ‘In that case I’ll stay up here with you. I’ll light the lamp and read to you if you like,’ Sunday offered, but Daisy again shook her head.

  ‘Thanks, but I’d rather be on my own if you don’t mind.’ She knew how much Sunday had been looking forward to this evening and she didn’t want to spoil it for her. Even so, the other girl was persistent.

  ‘How about I bring you up something to eat on a tray. Is there anything in particular you fancy?’

  ‘Nothing at all. I’m not hungry. Now will you please just go and get changed? I’m perfectly comfortable here.’

  Sunday sighed. Daisy could be a stubborn little so-and-so when she set her mind to it.

  ‘All right then, I will,’ she told her with her hands on her hips. ‘But I shall be up to check on you, young lady.’ She sloped off to her room then and as she emerged a short time later she almost bumped into Tommy, who was all dressed in his best. He had treated himself to a smart new shirt and a pair of trousers from the rag stall with some of his wages.

  ‘Isn’t Dais ready yet?’ he asked, glancing appreciatively at Sunday. She really did look a treat, he thought, although he was too shy to tell her so.

  ‘She doesn’t want to go to the party,’ she answered. Her friend seemed to have slipped back into her slough of despond since Christmas Day and it was so frustrating not being able to do anything about it.

  ‘Still,’ she went on then, not wanting to spoil his night too, ‘there’s nothing to say we shouldn’t enjoy ourselves, is there?’ Tucking her arm innocently into his she marched him to the head of the stairs, making his heart pound, and soon they had joined the party downstairs.

  Jacob’s friend, whom he introduced as Miss Rebecca Moreton, turned out to be a very well-dressed pretty brunette with pale green eyes, but Sunday didn’t take to her as she appeared to look down on them all, especially Mrs Spooner.

  ‘Jacob’s aunt is err . . . quite colourful, isn’t she?’ she remarked to Sunday at one stage when Jacob had gone off to get them both a drink of mulled wine.

  Sunday giggled. ‘Yes, she does like her frills and flounces admittedly but she’s got a heart as big as a bucket,’ and she glanced affectionately over at the old woman.

  ‘And what relation to Jacob’s family are you?’ the young woman asked stiffly.

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m not related to them at all,’ Sunday told her. ‘I’m just a maid here.’

  ‘A maid!’ Rebecca stared at her in horror. The maids in her house would never have been allowed to join their betters at occasions such as this. They knew their place, her mother made sure of that.

  ‘Would you excuse me,’ she said stiltedly then and marched off to voice her dismay to Jacob.

  Sunday shrugged and turned her attention back to Mr Greaves who was doing his best to produce a song from Mrs Spooner’s rather out of tune piano.

  Every time Sunday glanced Rebecca’s way after that she saw her hanging possessively onto Jacob’s arm and staring at her as if she had some terrible disease. Jacob had obviously noticed and looked decidedly more uncomfortable as the evening wore on until presently Sunday hissed to Tommy, ‘I think I might go up. I have a bit of a headache coming on.’

  ‘Oh yes, and would the headache be called Rebecca, by any chance?’ he hissed back.

  Sunday flushed. So he had noticed how the girl was glaring at her, had he?

  ‘Actually, I think I may go up as well,’ Tommy said then. ‘I ain’t got no time for people who have airs an’ graces. God alone knows what Jacob sees in her, and him such a friendly chap an’ all. Still, I suppose it’s each to us own. Let’s say our good nights an’ leave ’em all to it, shall we?’

  Soon Sunday was leading the way up the stairs that led to their attic rooms, and as she was going in to check on Daisy, Tommy gently caught her arm and told her, ‘Don’t let that stuck-up little miss upset you, Sunday. You’re worth ten of her and you’re prettier than her an’ all. That’s probably why she didn’t take to you.’

  Sunday grinned. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t that, Tommy, but thank you all the same.’

  Tommy awkwardly swiped a thick lock from his forehead. ‘Well, er . . . g’night then.’

  ‘Good night, Tommy,’ she answered softly as he bustled off to his room and she felt a little warm glow inside. He was still young as yet but he was already kind and hardworking, and one day he was going to make someone a first-rate husband. She was very happy to have him here along with herself and his sister. Tapping on Daisy’s door, she slid inside to see the New Year in with her friend.

  ‘Happy New Year, Dais,’ Sunday yawned the next morning as she woke up and stretched. She had fallen asleep in Daisy’s bed and now she was stiff from lying on the edge of the single mattress. They girls had had to lie back to back otherwise they’d never both have fitted in, with Daisy’s bump.

  ‘Crikey, I reckon I’ll stick to sleeping in me own bed in future,’ Sunday groaned as she slid off the side and tried to stand. Then on a happier note, ‘And now it’s 1885 and we’re not waking up in the workhouse. That’s an improvement on last year for a start, isn’t it?’

  When no reply was forthcoming from the sleeping figure she grabbed her dress from over the back of the chair where she had flung it the night before and, crossing to the door, she gingerly inched it open. It wouldn’t do for Tommy to catch her sneaking along the landing in her petticoat and drawers. Thankfully there was no sign of him so she shot along to get washed and changed ready to start the breakfast, al
though she doubted that anyone would be awake early today after the party last night. Tomorrow would be another matter entirely. Everyone would be going back to work and things would return to normal, which Sunday thought was quite a shame. She’d enjoyed her first Christmas and New Year away from the workhouse.

  As she had anticipated, the house was in silence when she got downstairs. It appeared that even Tommy had had a lie-in and there was only Mabel to greet her but she didn’t mind and set to, to get the kitchen fire lit. Soon the room was warm and cosy and she put the kettle on to boil for the first cup of tea of the day. No doubt Annie would be arriving any minute and she was never any good until she’d drunk at least two cups. She let Mabel out into the yard and was just getting the cups ready when the dog began to yap furiously. Drat, she thought, she’ll wake everybody up at this rate. Hurrying to the door, she threw it open and warned Mabel, ‘Be quiet, will you?’ Then she frowned. Mabel was over by the chicken coops and was barking at something that had been laid on top of one of them.

  The snow was deep although it wasn’t snowing at that present time, so Sunday lifted her skirts and stepped across the yard, shuddering as the snow found its way in over the top of her boots. She had almost reached the coops when she realised what it was lying on top of them and her hand flew to her mouth before she looked about her fearfully. Two more of the chickens had been laid side-by-side with their necks twisted at an unnatural angle. Someone had deliberately fetched them out and cold-bloodedly killed them – and that wasn’t all they’d done, for now as she glanced back at the kitchen door she saw that eggs had been thrown all up it and across the windows.

  Shuddering, she grabbed Mabel’s collar and hauled her back across the yard, closing and locking the door quickly behind her. What vile person could have done such a thing? she asked herself. And a little voice in her head answered, The same one who killed the cockerel. But surely if it had been kids just larking about as everyone had thought when the cockerel was killed, they wouldn’t have chanced their luck twice? They would have been too afraid of getting caught. And what was she going to tell Tommy? Poor lad, he cared deeply for those animals, in fact, Mrs Spooner often teased him that she was sure he’d take them all to bed with him if she’d let him.

  As it happened, just then Tommy breezed into the kitchen, adjusting the braces on his trousers. Seeing her pale, shocked face he asked, ‘What’s up then? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Gesturing to the kitchen door she stumblingly told him what she had just discovered, and grim-faced he yanked his boots on and went off to see for himself without even bothering to put his coat on.

  ‘The murdering swines!’ he ground out when he stamped back in. ‘I’ll tell you now, if I could get me bloody hands round their throats I’d do the same to them.’ He was shaking with rage as Sunday quietly slid a cup of tea along the table in front of him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Tommy. I know what good care you took of them,’ she said, just as Annie closed the front door and came in, shaking the snow from her shawl.

  ‘It’s damn well snowin’ again – just started,’ she informed them, then seeing their grim faces she went on, ‘Well, I were about to wish yer both a Happy New Year but it don’t look as if it’s too happy fer you pair. What’s up, eh?’

  As Sunday hastily told her what had happened, Annie tutted. ‘The lousy buggers. Still, it’ll solve the problem o’ what we’re havin’ fer dinner today. A couple o’ nice fat juicy birds’ll go down nice wi’ that leg o’ lamb I got from the butchers.’ Then, seeing the stricken look on Tommy’s face, she apologised profusely and quickly poured herself a cup of tea.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to stay in the rooms above the stables and see if I can’t catch whoever it is that’s doing this,’ Tommy said over breakfast but Annie shook her head.

  ‘Yer can’t be doin’ that, lad,’ she said practically. ‘Them rooms ain’t been lived in fer many a long year an’ in this weather you’d likely freeze to death. Chances are yer’d fall asleep anyway then it would all have been for nothin’.’

  ‘I dare say you’re right,’ Tommy admitted grudgingly. ‘But it’s beginning to look like someone has got something against us.’

  Daisy, who had come downstairs now, exchanged a troubled look with Sunday and without a word being said they both knew what was in the other’s mind. Mr Pinnegar! Could it be that he was exacting his revenge by trying to frighten them? But then common sense took over and as Sunday pointed out to her friend later that morning, ‘It’s an awful long walk from town just to wring the necks of two chickens. Had he tried to get at one of us I could have understood it.’

  ‘I dare say you’re right,’ Daisy agreed. ‘But I still won’t rule him out. I wouldn’t put anything past that horrible man.’

  More news about the said ‘horrible man’ came to light later in the week when Lady Huntley, together with Mrs Lockett but without baby Phoebe paid them an unexpected visit. ‘We won’t stay for too long,’ she told them the second she had set foot through the door, ‘because it’s just started to snow again and young George had a job to get us here as it was. Some of the roads are virtually impassable and if we get much more, I can see us being snowed in at Treetops Manor.’

  ‘I’ll throw some rugs over the horses and give them a nose bag each,’ Tommy offered.

  ‘Yes, an’ yer can tell the groom to go round to the kitchen fer a hot drink,’ Mrs Spooner added.

  It was as she, Lady Huntley and Mrs Lockett were enjoying a pot of coffee and a few warmed-up mince pies that Lady Huntley shared the latest gossip. ‘I’m told that Albert Pinnegar is up to his tricks again,’ she announced. Then, seeing the look of horror on the women’s faces, she added hastily, ‘Not with young girls. It’s moneylending this time, apparently. One of the workhouse guardians and his wife paid me a visit over the Christmas holidays and said that Pinnegar’s lending out money to those desperate enough to need it then charging them exorbitant interest rates. There really appears to be nothing that man will not stoop to.’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ Mrs Spooner responded. ‘I couldn’t see him being happy pushing a broom about the market for long. But what’ll happen to the poor souls that can’t pay him back?’

  ‘Ah well, rumour has it that he’s got a bunch of thugs who collect his money for him, and Mr Tilsley heard that two men have already had their kneecaps broken.’

  Mrs Spooner remarked crossly, ‘That man is bad through and through. Fancy preying on poor desperate people! Between you and me we’ve had a few incidents here . . .’ She went on to tell the visitors about the cockerel and the chickens, ending, ‘O’ course we’ve no way of proving it.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope you have no more unfortunate incidents,’ Verity said. ‘And there is always the chance that it was just youths.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, but in the meantime my Jacob is keeping an eye on the house and the girls of an evening.’ Mrs Spooner took a long swig of her coffee and the conversation moved on to motherhood and to Daisy and Lady Huntley’s forthcoming babies.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Two weeks into January it finally stopped snowing but the snow was replaced by heavy rains and suddenly everywhere was sodden and dismal. Many low-lying areas of the town were flooded and this, added to the bitterly cold winds, encouraged as many people as were able to, to stay snug indoors.

  Sunday still visited the market each Wednesday but now instead of looking forward to the outings she came to dread them, for each week it appeared that Albert Pinnegar was lying in wait for her, sometimes with a couple of very unsavoury characters in tow. She didn’t mention this to anyone at Whittleford Lodge. Daisy was as jumpy as a kitten since the last incident when the chickens had been killed and Sunday didn’t want to distress her any more than she already was.

  Pinnegar was marching about like the cock of the north again now, in fancy waistcoats and expensive suits, and each time she encountered him, Sunday found herself hating him just a little b
it more than she already did, if that were possible.

  This particular Wednesday proved to be no different and once she had reached the market she had visited no more than half a dozen stalls when he suddenly loomed up in front of her.

  ‘You’re looking chilly, my dear. Perhaps you’d like me to take you to the eating-house for a nice hot meal?’ he suggested. His feelings towards the girl remained in conflict; they alternated between hatred and lust. He longed to possess her. She’s like a fire in my belly that refuses to be extinguished, he thought, no matter how she speaks to me.

  ‘I wouldn’t go anywhere with you if I were dying of starvation,’ she answered boldly, her dislike of him shining in her violet-blue eyes. ‘And now if you will excuse me some of us have work to do.’ She made to step past him but two of his henchmen blocked her path.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’ His voice was wheedling. ‘If you were to come and move in with me in my cottage, you could live like a lady. You’d never have to work or get your hands dirty again, and I would treat you like a princess.’

  ‘Oh, just go away and leave me alone!’ she cried. ‘Haven’t I made myself clear? I detest the very sight of you!’

  The smile slid from his face, and as one of his men smirked, Pinnegar realised that they were beginning to draw attention to themselves.

  ‘And while you’re here I should also warn you to keep away from Mrs Spooner’s,’ she went on, sounding braver than she felt. ‘We know it was you that egged the windows and killed our fowl.’

  He and the two men laughed. ‘And why ever would I do something like that?’ he guffawed. ‘I’m afraid you possess a rather vivid imagination, my dear. Although I do admit to knowing what you’re all doing at any given time . . .’

  The stall-holder had come to stand at Sunday’s side now and asked, ‘Are these fellers botherin’ yer, pet?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, thank you.’ Sunday never took her eyes from Pinnegar’s face. ‘I believe they were just leaving.’