‘But . . . I . . . how could I have known?’ He began to pace, trying to take in what she had told him. However, Lavinia considered she had already spent quite enough time with him and began to walk towards the door.
‘Wait . . .’ He put his hand out to stay her and she paused.
‘What will I tell Mr Wilde?’
Her nostrils flared as she answered passionately, ‘I have just told you that our son is dead – and all you can worry about is your uncle’s money. Why, you are even more of a scoundrel than I thought. Pack your bags and leave immediately. I never want to set eyes on you again! And take your valet, Matthews, with you.’
‘Now you can’t mean that. This is my home and you are my wife.’ He held his hand out to her but she slapped it away.
‘Only when it suits you,’ she ground out. ‘But it stops here! You have gone too far and from this day on you are as dead to me as your daughters and your son. I don’t care if your uncle’s attorney cuts you off without a penny. Were you on fire in the gutter, I swear I wouldn’t piss on you!’
Deeply shocked, he took a step back. Never in all his years with her had he heard Lavinia swear or be coarse, but the woman standing before him was no longer the sweet-natured malleable girl he had married. Grief had hardened her. Like all bullies, he was afraid of those stronger than himself.
‘But what about my allowance?’ She had always been generous to him despite the fact that he had never done a single day’s work in all the years she had known him.
‘I have already instructed my solicitor and the bank to stop it – so you had better pray that Mr Wilde will look on you kindly.’
He saw a measure of satisfaction glittering in her eyes and knew in that moment that she meant every single word she said. This was no idle threat.
‘Look,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I realise I should have let you know where I was. I should have been here – but give me another chance, that’s all I’m asking. You must know how much I care for you and how much I cared for our son,’ he pleaded as he broke out in a cold sweat.
‘Really? I don’t believe you.’
He looked at her with that charming lopsided smile that had once made her legs turn to jelly as he saw his comfortable way of life slipping away from him. Then, stepping forward, he said contritely, ‘You poor, poor darling, what you must have gone through.’
But she made no move towards him and only continued to silently regard him as if he were of no consequence. It seemed to the man then that, along with the death of their son, her love for him had also died.
His temper flared as panic set in. ‘You can’t make me leave this house, you bitch! What is yours is mine. I’m your husband, remember? It’s the law of the land!’
‘Under normal circumstances you would be quite right,’ she conceded. ‘But have you forgotten that my father had the commonsense to make you sign a document before our marriage in which you agreed that my wealth should remain my own? Obviously dear Papa wasn’t as blinkered as I was. But now if you will excuse me I am going to my room. I am grieving for our son even if you are not. I would be grateful if you could be gone by the time I come down.’
Hot fury flowed through him as he ranted, ‘Fine then – I’ll go. But you’ll soon come crawling, begging me to come home!’
A mocking smile hovered on her lips as she paused at the door to stare at him for one last time. ‘Believe me, hell will freeze over before that happens.’ And with that she sailed from the room, closing the door behind her. She had finally done what she now knew she should have done years ago, and she also knew that had her beloved father still been alive, he would have applauded her.
Chapter Forty-Four
January 1886
The New Year was a quiet affair as everyone was still mourning the death of baby Stephen. Sunday was also painfully aware that it was now a whole year since Daisy’s death, so one way and another they were all glad when the celebrations were over and the household was running normally again. Sunday finally felt it was time to approach Mrs Spooner with her future plans. She had delayed her departure long enough. There had been a number of incidents during the last weeks, only minor ones admittedly, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Albert Pinnegar would never stop hounding her whilst he knew where she was. The inevitable could be put off no longer. Each one of those so-called minor incidents was a reminder that Pinnegar was always there, hovering in the background like a big black crow about to attack a helpless worm.
Her chance came on a cold and frosty January morning when she carried the old lady’s mid-morning coffee into her.
Mrs Spooner had been unwell with a nasty cough and cold and was sitting bundled up in blankets before a blazing fire when Sunday entered the room. ‘May I have a word?’ the girl asked.
‘Words cost nowt,’ Mrs Spooner answered before blowing her nose noisily on a large white handkerchief. ‘Sit yourself down, lass, an’ spit it out whatever’s on your mind.’
Sunday perched on the edge of a chair, hardly knowing how to begin. This was proving to be even more difficult than she had thought it would be.
‘The thing is . . .’ She gulped deep in her throat and forced herself to go on. ‘It’s so hard to say this but I’m just going to come out with it. I’m leaving.’
Mrs Spooner’s eyebrows disappeared into the fringe of the wig that was perched somewhat crookedly on her head. ‘What do you mean, you’re leaving?’
‘I’ve been intending to go for some time,’ Sunday said in a low voice. ‘But with little Stephen dying and Christmas coming up . . . Well, I thought it best to wait a while which was probably the wise thing to do because I’ve found myself a new position.’
‘But why? I thought you were happy here.’ The old lady looked so hurt that Sunday was ashamed.
‘Oh, I am happy here,’ she said sincerely, reaching out to take the wrinkled hand in hers. ‘But I also realised some time ago that while I’m here I’m not just putting myself at risk any more but all of you – and I would never forgive myself if any of you got hurt because of me. You know Mr Pinnegar will never leave me alone. All the incidents – the fire, the attack on Nell and the animals – I’m convinced they were caused by him so I’m going to move out of town. Not too far, just far enough away that he won’t be able to find me.’
The old woman opened her mouth to object but then snapped it shut again. She wasn’t overly concerned about herself but she knew that young Sunny was right. Pinnegar would hound her for as long as there was breath in his body and for as long as she stayed within the local area. Things had come to a pretty pass, and everyone was on edge. Something had to change, and it was brave of the girl to step forward.
‘I shall be sorry to lose you, Sunny pet. You brought sunshine into this house,’ Biddy told her mournfully. ‘Will you come and see us sometimes?’
‘Of course I will, although not for a while because of Pinnegar. I’ll leave the address of where I’ll be working, but you must promise faithfully that you won’t give it to anyone, only our very closest friends.’
‘As if I would!’ Mrs Spooner snorted with an indignant toss of her head. ‘But where are you goin’? Are they decent people you’ll be working for?’
Sunday nodded as she crossed her fingers behind her back. Word had it that the farmer and his wife with whom she was going to live were harsh taskmasters – but time would tell and Sunday had never been afraid of hard work. ‘I think so. It’s about four or five miles away, I believe. They have a farm in Mancetter, which isn’t so very far away.’
‘No, it ain’t as the crow flies,’ Mrs Spooner agreed, then leaning forward she asked, ‘Is there nothing I can do to make you change your mind?’ Yet even as the words left her lips she knew that she was wasting her breath. Sunny could be a stubborn little bugger when she set her mind to something, which strangely enough was one of the things the woman had come to love about her.
‘Have you told the others yet?’ she asked.
‘No �
� only Annie so she could line up a replacement for me. I didn’t want to go and leave you in the lurch. She’s already spoken to Mrs Lockett about getting someone from the workhouse to train in my place. I wanted to speak to you about it first before I told the others though. I hope you understand why I’m doing it.’ Sunday welled up but choked back her feelings. ‘I want you to know that I’ve been happier here than at any other time in my life – and I’ll always be grateful to you for the opportunities you’ve given me.’ The release of another girl from the workhouse to replace her would be the only good thing to come out of this sorry mess, Sunday thought dismally. At least that youngster would gain her freedom now.
Mrs Spooner let out a deep sigh. ‘And what about our Jacob? He still looks on you fondly, you know.’
‘I’m fond of him too, but I don’t feel ready to commit to anyone just yet and I think he’s accepted that by now,’ Sunday said honestly.
‘That’s fair enough . . . but I’ll miss you, lass. We all will, if it comes to that. When were you thinkin’ of goin’?’
‘I thought the end of the week.’
‘I see. Then there’s not much more I can say, is there? Just remember – there’s always a home back here for yer if things don’t work out.’
Sunday rose, her eyes overly bright, and quickly left the room with Mabel trotting at her heels. That evening, once the meal was over, she pulled Jacob to one side to have a quiet word with him. She felt it was the only fair thing to do but his aunt had already told him of Sunday’s impending departure so it came as no surprise to him.
‘I never really thought you were interested in me in that way,’ he said, and tried to smile. ‘And I wish you all the very best, I really do. You are a fine young woman, Sunday Small. If ever you do find a chap you want to settle down with, he’ll be a lucky man.’
Sunday gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Thankfully he didn’t seem to be overly upset and she wondered if he already had his sights set on someone else. Jacob had an eye for a pretty girl so he wasn’t going to miss her for long.
Friday came all too quickly and soon Mickey was loading Sunday’s possessions – far more than she had arrived with – into Mrs Spooner’s trap while Treacle stood contentedly munching from a nose bag. Mrs Spooner had insisted that Mickey should take her to her new position, and now they were all assembled at the door to see her off.
‘And please don’t forget, if Tommy should turn up—’
‘I know, give him your address but ask him to keep it to himself,’ Mrs Spooner said patiently. Sunday had never completely lost hope that her friend would come home one day.
Sunday nodded numbly, aware that she was dangerously close to crying. Hastily, she embraced Mrs Spooner then hugged Nell, who wouldn’t let her go and was sobbing into a large white handkerchief as if the end of the world was nigh. And then Sunday scrambled up onto the seat of the trap beside Mickey. He urged Treacle on and Sunday waved at the dear familiar faces as the trap began to move.
‘Goodbye, I’ll come and see you soon,’ she shouted, and as the trap began to climb Bucks Hill she sank back in the seat, aware that there was no going back now.
Mickey was quiet on the journey, and when eventually they pulled onto the track leading to Yew Tree Farm and the farmhouse came into view, he sucked in his breath.
‘It looks a bit run down,’ he commented worriedly.
‘Mrs Barnes, the farmer’s wife, has been ill, which is why they need someone to help out,’ Sunday said. She refrained from mentioning that the Barnes family had set on and sacked three girls in as many months, according to what she had heard. In truth she wasn’t looking forward to working there at all but it was the only option she had at present.
The trap drew into a farmyard that was liberally dotted with weeds and Sunday bit her lip as she glanced at the dirty windows of the farmhouse. What had she got herself into this time?
Mickey swung down out of his seat, as agile as a cat, and helped Sunday alight before lifting her bags from the back, then side-by-side they approached the back door.
Sunday rapped on it and almost instantly someone shouted, ‘Come in!’
They entered the kitchen together to see a woman, heavily wrapped in blankets, seated in a chair at the side of the fire.
‘You must be the lass my Harry has set on,’ she said bluntly, without a word of welcome. And then, scowling at Mickey, she added, ‘An’ what’s that!’
She was staring at the poor lad as if he was something the cat had dragged in and Sunday bristled with indignation.
‘This is my good friend Mickey. He was kind enough to bring me here.’
‘Ah. Well, now he has, he can sling his hook. We don’t like foreigners around here, especially darkies.’
Sunday opened her mouth to object but Mickey placed his hand on her arm and shook his head. Sadly, he was used to facing prejudice.
‘I was just going, missus,’ he said, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Sunday. Then with a nod he headed for the door, telling her, ‘You know where we are should you need us. Goodbye, Sunny.’
When the door had closed behind him, Selah Barnes asked, ‘Why did he call you Sunny? What’s your real name?’
‘My last employer used to call me Sunny, but my name is Sunday.’
‘Huh! What sort of a name is that?’ the woman snorted. ‘While yer here I shall call yer “Girl”.’
‘As you wish,’ Sunday said placidly. She then held out two envelopes to her new employer, saying, ‘These are the references your husband told me I would need. One is from my last employer, Mrs Spooner, and the other is from the Reverend Lockett.’
The woman waved them aside. ‘What use are a few fancy words on a bit o’ paper to me? I speak as I find an’ I’ll judge yer by the amount o’ work yer do. I’ll expect it done properly, mind.’
Sunday glanced around the kitchen. It was absolutely filthy, far worse than the state Whittleford Lodge had been in. It was going to take her days to get this place back into some sort of order if the rest of the rooms were as bad as this. Every available space seemed to be cluttered with old papers, dusty bowls full of forgotten items, and huge cobwebs hung from the stained ceiling. Just as in Whittleford Lodge when she had first arrived there, the flagstones on the floor were so filthy the colour of them was indistinguishable. Her new employer had by now begun coughing into a large piece of huckaback. It was hard to tell how old she was because her illness had obviously aged her, if the lines of pain about her eyes and mouth were anything to go by. Her hair was greying at the temples and scraped back carelessly with a couple of large combs, and her skin had an unhealthy tinge to it. She was also painfully thin and yet her eyes were a sharp piercing green, which led Sunday to believe she was younger than she looked.
‘Well, are yer just goin’ to stand there all day gawpin’ like a simpleton, or are yer goin’ to knuckle down to work?’ the woman said harshly. ‘We ain’t employin’ you to hang about an’ do nowt.’
‘I have no intentions of just hanging about,’ Sunday snapped back. ‘But first I would like to see where I’m going to be sleeping if you don’t mind so that I can put my things away and change into my work clothes.’
The woman waved a finger towards a ladder in the far corner of the room. ‘You’ll have to make do wi’ the room under the eaves. Me an’ me old man an’ me son use the bedrooms down here.’
Sunday nodded and carried her bags over to the ladder. When she’d manoeuvred them up the steps, which was no easy task, she dropped them onto the bare floorboards and looked around in dismay. It was freezing cold up there and, like downstairs, the place was positively insanitary. The roof sloped sharply on either side of her and she knew that she would have to be careful not to bang her head. A straw mattress was thrown on the floor and there was a jug and bowl and a rickety old chest of drawers leaning on its side – but other than that the room was empty. Sunday couldn’t help thinking of her clean and comfortable attic room back at Whittleford Lodge but she resolu
tely began to unbutton her best dress and slipped into one of her work ones before tying an apron across it. Luckily there were some nails hammered into the roof beams so she hung her best dress and her coat on them. The rest of the unpacking would have to wait until later, but she would tell the woman that she needed some time to sweep and wipe down the place before she retired. She would need some clean bedding too, if her new mistress owned any such thing. It was then that she saw what looked suspiciously like rat droppings on the floor and she shuddered. Every instinct she had told her to lift her skirts and race back to Mrs Spooner’s as fast as her legs would take her, but Sunday had never been one to shirk her duties so, squaring her shoulders, she headed for the ladder again.
‘Right, what would you like me to do first? And how should I address you?’ she asked when she was down in the kitchen once more.
‘Get some dinner on, Girl – me man an’ me son will be in soon. An’ while yer here yer can call me missus.’ She gestured towards a door then, telling her, ‘You’ll find meat an’ everythin’ yer need to make a stew in there. Me ’usband says yer can cook?’
Because of Annie’s guidance Sunday was able to answer truthfully, ‘Yes, I can.’ When she opened the pantry door she was pleasantly surprised to find that it was very well stocked with food. Well, at least I’m not going to starve even if I get worked to death, she thought with a grin. There were jars of home-made pickles and jams, a selection of vegetables and fruit that must have been carefully stored, as well as a large ham and a couple of meat joints on a marble slab. She picked out some potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts and a piece of cold roast beef that could be carved into slices for the meal, but when she reached the sink she was confronted by leaning towers of dirty pots and pans. Before she could get started, she’d have to tackle this lot. So she fetched the kettle that was luckily bubbling merrily away on the fire and set to. Once the stew was simmering over the fire, Sunday scrubbed the large table that stood in the centre of the room then turned her attention to the floor. She was sweeping away the dirt and debris when the farmer, accompanied by a surly-faced young man, entered the room, bringing a blast of icy air with them.
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