‘See? Yer nothin’ but a common little thief,’ the woman said triumphantly. ‘An’ you offer to so much as set foot out that door an’ leave us all in the lurch, girl, an’ I’ll have the coppers on yer tail quicker than yer can say Jack Robinson!’
But her words were going straight over Sunday’s head as her mind reeled with shock. Giving a strangled cry, and before anyone could stop her, she turned on her heel and raced back to the ladder again.
Once back in the attic room she sank to her knees as she desperately tried to put her thoughts into some sort of order. She had been left on the workhouse steps wearing an identical shawl to the one Mrs Lockett’s baby wore – and that shawl had been given to Verity by . . . none other than Lady Huntley! Stephen had had an identical one too – but what could it all mean? Unless . . .
Slowly everything began to fall into place like the pieces of a jigsaw. She recalled Lady Huntley telling her that she had ordered all the baby clothes from an exclusive shop in London’s Mayfair before the birth of her beloved first, stillborn daughter. None of the items had been worn, apart from to bury the tiny corpses in, but had been lovingly stored. Sadly, her second daughter had also been stillborn, but . . . her third daughter had been born on Sunday’s own birthday and would have been the same age as her . . . which could only mean . . .
Heart hammering, Sunday pressed her fingers against her pounding forehead. She remembered Zillah telling Mrs Lockett how much Mr Huntley had wanted a son – it was something to do with his inheritance from his late uncle – so could it be . . . could it be that she had been the third-born daughter and because she wasn’t the son he had hoped for, she had been abandoned on the workhouse steps? But no – there were three tiny graves in the orchard at Treetops Manor.
Even so, now she wondered at the colour of her hair and eyes: they were the exact same colour as Lady Huntley’s. Surely it was all too much of a coincidence? Could it be that Lady Huntley was really callous enough to sacrifice her newborn daughter for her husband’s whim? If Sunday was indeed Lavinia’s daughter, then everything about her was a well-calculated lie, for how could she pretend to be grieving for her son when she had abandoned her daughter so callously? Yet even as the thought occurred to her, Sunday rejected it. She had come to know and care for Lady Huntley and could not believe that the gentle woman would do such a wicked thing.
None of it made any sense but Sunday was determined to get to the bottom of it. But how? she asked herself. Perhaps she should just ask the woman outright? She cringed at the thought, for if Mrs Huntley truly had no knowledge that her last daughter had been born alive, what would Sunday’s accusations do to her? And what if she wasn’t her daughter? Perhaps she could voice her suspicions to Mrs Lockett instead . . . Over the years, the kindly woman had become almost like a surrogate mother to her, but was it fair to involve her?
Sunday scrubbed at her eyes with the palms of her hands as her head spun in confusion. Perhaps it was just as well that she wouldn’t be able to go and work for her for a while. She was only too aware that should she try to leave now, Mrs Barnes would have her arrested for theft. No, much as she hated it she would continue to live here – if it could be called living, that was – and to skivvy for the Barnes family. But she would never marry Bill. She would rather throw herself from the top of the quarry than do that!
Suddenly the rosy future she had planned back with her dear friends was gone in the blink of an eye. There would be no chance now of saving a little each month towards her dream, and grabbing the chamber pot from the side of the bed she leaned over it and was heartily sick.
When she went back downstairs sometime later, in her work clothes, the men had left and Mrs Barnes was in her usual position at the side of the fire.
‘We’ll be havin’ no more silly talk about yer leavin’ then,’ she stated and Sunday couldn’t be bothered to argue with her even though she knew the woman had tried to set her up to look like a thief. ‘Good!’ Sehah nodded with satisfaction. ‘If you’d been called up in front o’ the magistrates fer stealin’ you’d likely have been sentenced to a stretch in jail – an’ who’d employ yer once yer came out?’
‘No, I’ll be staying,’ Sunday answered flatly as she tied her apron about her waist.
‘Right, then get crackin’ on the dirty laundry. You’ve wasted enough time as it is this mornin’, an’ when that’s done yer can come back in an’ start on the dinner. The mister slaughtered one o’ the pigs yesterday so we’ll be dinin’ on pork fer weeks.’
Without a word, Sunday headed for the laundry room.
Chapter Forty-Eight
They were almost into March when Sunday decided that it was time to get word to the housekeeper at Treetops Manor that she wouldn’t be taking up the position she had been offered there, after all. How to do it was the problem. She couldn’t bear the thought of going there again, even to see Cissie, not until she felt clearer about her suspicions and what this might mean. And then it came to her – she could get word to them via Mrs Spooner, and there was no time like the present.
Marching into the kitchen, she told Mrs Barnes, ‘I shall be going out this afternoon.’
‘What do yer mean, you’ll be goin’ out indeed,’ the woman challenged with the little strength she had left.
‘Exactly what I said,’ Sunday answered without wavering. ‘I’ve told you I intend to take one afternoon a month off and I’ve decided this month’s will be today. If you don’t like it, you can lump it.’
‘How dare yer talk to me like that, yer little trollop!’ Mrs Barnes wheezed, going red in the face, but ignoring her Sunday climbed the ladder to her room to get ready. When she came down some minutes later the woman was still chuntering indignantly but Sunday needed to get going. She set off towards Clock Hill at a smart pace and without looking back.
On the bridge that spanned the canal she paused to stare down at the narrowboats. How nice it would be to just climb aboard one and sail away to where no one could find me, she thought glumly. Her emotions had undergone a number of changes since the epiphany about the shawl, ranging from hurt to anger. The worst of it was, there was no one she could talk to. She had thought again of visiting Mrs Lockett but then realised that this wouldn’t be fair on her. Verity Lockett was related to Zillah, who was also Lady Huntley’s maid so it would place her in a difficult position. Likewise, she couldn’t confide in Mrs Spooner either, fond of her as she was. Biddy and Lady Huntley were great friends, so until Sunday had decided what she wanted to do about her suspicions she must keep them to herself.
With a sigh she moved on until Whittleford Lodge came into sight. A lump formed in her throat as she thought of how happy she had been there. It had almost been like being a part of a family for the first time in her life and she experienced a fresh surge of resentment towards Albert Pinnegar. Why couldn’t he have just left her alone?
She was halfway down Buck’s Hill when she had the feeling that she was being watched. She whirled about, but could see no one there. You’re starting to imagine things now, she scolded herself and quickened her footsteps, but still the sensation persisted. It was a relief when she finally skirted the house and headed for the kitchen where she saw Nell washing up at the sink. Annie was rolling pastry at the table but at sight of her they both stopped what they were doing and hastened to let her in, bombarding her with questions.
‘Eeh, lass. We’ve really missed yer an’ that’s a fact. Are you all right?’ asked Annie, thinking that Sunday looked rather pale.
‘An’ do yer like workin’ on the farm? Do they have dogs an’ cats?’ from Nell, and all the while Mabel was also jumping up her, adding her greeting to theirs.
Sunday knelt to stroke her and got her face thoroughly licked in the process.
‘Just let me get my breath back and I’ll answer all the questions you like,’ she pleaded as she rose and plopped onto a kitchen chair.
‘Make a fresh pot o’ tea, pet,’ Annie instructed Nell as she took a seat at the
side of her, and Sunday made an effort to look cheerful.
For the next ten minutes the questions came fast and furious. Sunday was careful not to let them know how unhappy she was as she answered them as best she could, but eventually she asked, ‘Is Mrs Spooner in?’
‘Aye, she’s in the drawing room.’ Annie cocked her head towards the door. ‘An’ it’s right glad she’ll be to see you an’ all.’
As Sunday rose, Annie’s face fell. ‘You will be stayin’ fer tea, won’t yer?’ she asked hopefully but Sunday shook her head.
‘I’m afraid not, Annie. I’d love to but I have to get back to the farm. Mrs Barnes has been right poorly this week so I’m needed there.’
‘I see. Well, don’t get leavin’ it too long afore yer come again, pet. As long as you’re safe to do so, that is.’ Annie planted a resounding kiss on her cheek and Nell got all weepy as she headed for the door.
Sunday found her old employer done up to the nines in all her finery as usual when she entered the drawing room and once again she received a rapturous welcome.
‘Come an’ sit by me an’ tell me all you’ve been up to,’ the old lady said, patting the seat at the side of her. ‘Lady Huntley were tellin’ me you’ll be startin’ work fer her at Treetops Manor shortly.’
‘Actually, that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about,’ Sunday said as she sat down and spread her skirts. ‘The thing is, I won’t be going there, after all, and I wondered if you could let her know for me.’
‘Not goin’? Why ever not?’
‘Mrs Barnes is very ill and I don’t feel it would be fair to leave her.’ Sunday crossed her fingers beneath the folds of her skirts, and avoided the woman’s eyes as she lied to her.
‘Well, I have to say I’m surprised.’ As Mrs Spooner looked at her shrewdly, Sunday felt colour rise in her cheeks. She had never been a very good liar. ‘I got the impression yer weren’t too fond of working at that farm and there’d be far better opportunities for you at Treetops Manor. You wouldn’t have to work so hard or do such long hours either. And you’d be nearer your friends. Lady Huntley is goin’ to be very disappointed indeed, and so is Cissie.’
Sunday said awkwardly, ‘It can’t be helped. I can hardly leave Mrs Barnes in the lurch, can I?’
‘Huh! From what I’ve heard you wouldn’t be the first. Word has it they can’t keep staff there ’cos they don’t treat ’em right, but then I suppose the decision is down to you at the end o’ the day. But if you’re quite sure, of course I’ll get word to her for you.’
Thankfully they went on to speak of other things then. Of what the lodgers had been up to and how Jacob was.
‘He’s took a rare shine to the new girl,’ Mrs Spooner told her cautiously, keeping a close eye out for her reaction. ‘She’s in town at the moment pickin’ up some bits an’ pieces for Annie.’
‘I’m happy for him,’ Sunday assured her truthfully. Jacob would make someone a very good husband but she knew that it could never be her. He deserved to have someone who really loved him, not someone who would simply be marrying him for security. ‘And if they do make a go of it she’ll be a very lucky girl.’
Mrs Spooner sighed. She would have liked to welcome Sunday into the family but respected her for being true to her heart. ‘Oh . . . an’ there’s somethin’ else,’ she said, suddenly remembering, and rising slowly she leaned heavily on her stick as she crossed to the mantelpiece and carried an envelope back to Sunday.
‘This letter came for you t’other day. I was going to get it to you.’
‘A letter for me?’ Sunday was amazed and couldn’t for the life of her think who it might be from. But yes, it was her name on the envelope so she thanked Mrs Spooner and slipped it into her pocket to read later. The urge was on her to open her heart and confide her fears, but it wouldn’t have been right.
All too soon it was time to set off back to the farm again and she rose reluctantly. It had been so nice spending time in the only home where she had known happiness. She was a little disappointed that she hadn’t seen Tommy again, but he was probably out at work and as Mrs Spooner hadn’t mentioned him she hadn’t liked to.
‘Let me get Mickey to run you back in the trap,’ Mrs Spooner offered then but Sunday declined. She was terrified of bumping into Albert Pinnegar again but didn’t want to expose Mickey to any more insults from the Barneses.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she promised. ‘And if I hurry I’ll be back before it’s dark.’ She hugged the old woman, whose eyes were suddenly overbright, and after promising that she would return very soon she set off back to the farm. She had almost reached Woodford Lane when she remembered the letter in her pocket so she stopped to open it and then gasped with delight.
It was from Tommy, and as she read it her heart warmed.
Dear Sunday,
I hope I did not make things difficult for you when I called at the farm a while back. I am now working for the carpenter in town as you know and I have rented a tiny two-up two-down house in Shepperton Street. I would love to see you if you have any spare time off from your duties. Perhaps you could come and have tea with me one Sunday? I have written the address below and look forward to hearing from you,
Best wishes
Tom x
Tom! He had signed his name Tom. It made him sound so much more grown up, but then he was nineteen now. With a smile she folded the letter and put it away carefully then continued on her journey. Once again she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she was being followed and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she hurried on. She had almost reached the track that led to the lane when just for a brief second she could have sworn that she saw someone moving in the darkening shadows. Fear made her break into a run. What if it were Albert Pinnegar or one of his henchmen following her? She didn’t pause again until the farmhouse was in sight, at which point she stopped to get her breath back but only for a moment or two. She had been gone for less than three hours, almost a third of that time spent on getting to and fro, but she knew that she would be made to suffer for it when she arrived, and she was soon proved to be right.
‘You took yer time, didn’t yer?’ Mrs Barnes greeted her the second she stepped through the door. ‘The fire’s almost out an’ not so much as a bite prepared fer the men when they come in from their work. You’re bone idle, Girl, that’s what you are.’
‘Then get someone else to take my place.’ Sunday was in no mood for the woman’s complaints whether she was ill or not. ‘Now if you’ll just give me a chance to get changed I’ll come down and make the fire up. Then I’ll start to prepare the evening meal.’ With that she made for the ladder, leaving the farmer’s wife muttering beneath her breath. Sunday was beyond caring now and no longer even attempted to be pleasant. She merely spoke when she was spoken to, or had to and that was enough.
The men came in shortly after to find a cold meal spread out on the table for them. Bill snorted as he eyed the cold pork pie, cheese, ham and pickles.
‘So what’s this then? Ain’t a man entitled to a hot meal when he’s been out workin’ all day?’
‘She’s been off flyin’ her kite,’ his mother told him nastily with a glare at Sunday.
Bill narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you now. An’ who have yer been with?’ he said jealously.
Sunday paused in the act of sawing the loaf. ‘What I do with my spare time is nothing to do with you, or who I do it with,’ she said.
She watched, feeling sick, as he lowered himself onto a chair and began to ram food into his mouth. Even the pigs in the sties outside have more manners than him, she found herself thinking as she went to fetch the jug of ale the men insisted they should have with their evening meal each night. She banged it down on the table, causing some of it to slop over onto the tablecloth, then loosening her apron she slung it across the back of a chair and headed for the ladder that led to her room.
‘An’ just where do yer think yer goin’ now?’ Mrs Barnes demanded. ‘There’s still the was
hin’-up to do, Girl!’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ Sunday retorted and disappeared up to her room.
That night, she tossed and turned as sleep eluded her. The visit to Mrs Spooner’s had brought home to her just how much she had lost – and now her future stretched pointlessly ahead of her. The only good thing to come of knowing who her real mother was – if indeed Lady Huntley was her mother – was the fact that she now knew that she was no bastard, for all the good it would do her. She wished again that she could allow her emotions to find release in tears, but over the years she had strictly schooled herself not to cry. How Miss Frost had loved it when the children she had punished wept! She was thinking of the hateful matron and the equally hateful Mr Pinnegar when she became aware of a noise downstairs: if she wasn’t very much mistaken, she had just heard the ladder to her attic room creak. That could only mean one thing: someone was climbing it and she would have bet her life that that someone was Bill. It was dark as pitch in the attic, the only light shining through the hatch from the dying fire in the kitchen below. Frantically she peered into the gloom looking for something that she might use as a weapon to defend herself, but the only thing she could see were her ugly old work boots that she wore about the farm. Grasping one, she slid out of bed onto the cold floorboards and on her hands and knees she crawled across the room to the opening.
Seconds later, the top of Bill’s head appeared and with every ounce of strength she possessed she brought the boot down on top of it. He let out a yelp of pain, then as his hands loosed from the ladder he crashed back down onto the floor below, landing in an undignified heap.
‘What the bloody ’ell did yer do that for, yer silly bitch!’ he screeched as he sat with his head in his hands.
The door to Selah’s bedroom opened and she limped painfully across to her son, asking, ‘What’s to do ’ere then?’
‘I whacked him when he was trying to climb up to me – that’s what’s to do!’ Sunday shouted down through the hatch.
Mothering Sunday Page 37