Home. What a wonderful word. Sunday swallowed before saying, ‘You know I wouldn’t risk that. If I came home, he might start another fire, and this time not everyone might get out. It’s just too dangerous.’
Biddy harrumphed again as Sunday asked, ‘How did you find me?’
‘Our new maid Mary-Jane recognised you yesterday when she walked by the shop ’cos she remembered you from the workhouse. You didn’t think you’d be able to keep your whereabouts quiet workin’ in a place like this an’ servin’ folks all day, did you?’
‘I suppose not.’ Sunday lowered her head, feeling suddenly ashamed. She should have let Mrs Spooner know where she was at least. ‘I thought being here in the town with lots of folk about, I’d be safe.’
‘Well, if I can’t get you to come home with me you could at least promise that you’ll keep in touch and pay us all a visit from time to time. Come on, Sunny, what are yer playin’ at? Lady Huntley is upset that she hasn’t seen you either. Why couldn’t you have gone to work there as arranged?’
The mention of Lavinia made hot colour flood into Sunday’s cheeks but she managed to answer calmly, ‘I suppose I didn’t want to go there after all, when it came down to it, but I will come and see you. How about this Sunday afternoon? I might even go to church this Sunday morning now that I’m living back in the town.’
‘Make sure you do,’ Mrs Spooner said gruffly, then without so much as a by your leave she stamped off, leaving Sunday feeling buoyed by the old lady’s love. Thoughts of Lady Huntley followed – and again she got the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of being so callously abandoned by her all those years ago. Her thoughts then moved on to Tom and her heart did a little flip. She loved the way he fussed over her and the thoughtful little things he did. The time they spent together was precious and she was so glad that he’d come back into her life. Perhaps they could walk to church together on Sunday? In a slightly happier frame of mind she began to scrub the counter down.
It was shortly after that when Edgar Lockett came in and handed Sunday an envelope.
‘Your wages from the Barnes family,’ he told her. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get them to you before. It’s been so busy this week, I don’t seem to have enough hours in the day.’
She thanked him and dropped the envelope into her pocket then watched as he shuffled about from foot to foot, his eyes downcast, before saying, ‘I ought to tell you that Mrs Barnes has passed away. Last night it was. According to the doctor it was her heart.’
Sunday was sorry to hear this although she couldn’t be a hypocrite and pretend to be upset. The woman had never bestowed so much as one kind word on her in all the time she had lived at the farm, despite everything she had done for her. And perhaps a heart attack was a merciful release from her lung disease.
‘How are the menfolk coping?’ she asked.
Edgar sighed. ‘As well as can be expected in the circumstances. She’s going to be buried at Mancetter church.’
‘Well, thank you for letting me know.’ She hoped that Edgar didn’t blame her. Selah could have died at any time. ‘And thank you for getting my wages.’
He smiled before turning and striding away and Sunday thought yet again what a kind and gentle man he was.
It was later that day that a maid at Treetops Manor answered the door to a tall, sober-looking gentleman in a smart suit who handed her his top hat, cane and gloves, and asked to see Lady Huntley.
‘I don’t know who he is,’ she told Zillah when she hurried towards the drawing room to find her. ‘I forgot to ask – I’m sorry. But I’ve put him in the library.’
‘Right you are, pet.’ Zillah approached Lady Huntley, who was sitting in the windowseat reading, to tell her of her visitor.
‘Come with me, would you, Zillah?’ she asked. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’
‘Of course.’ And side by side the women made their way to the library wondering who the unexpected caller might possibly be.
The second they entered the room, the man stood up and bowed, his face solemn. ‘Lady Lavinia Huntley, I presume?’
When she nodded, he coughed to clear his throat before beginning, ‘Perhaps you would like to be seated, my lady? I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’
As Lavinia groped nervously for the nearest chair, assisted by Zillah, he produced a card from his waistcoat pocket and she quickly read it. Mr Victor Peregrew, Solicitor.
‘I work for the firm that has been handling your husband’s affairs since he inherited his fortune from his late uncle,’ the man went on.
Lady Huntley raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t quite understand, sir. What could that possibly have to do with me?’
Again he looked uncomfortable before going on, ‘Unfortunately, there has been a tragic accident and it is my regrettable duty to have to inform you that your husband, Sir Ashley Huntley, was killed two days ago.’
The room pitched as her hand rose to her mouth but then, taking a deep breath, she asked, ‘What sort of an accident? And are you quite sure that it was Ashley?’
The man said heavily, ‘There is no doubt about it, I’m afraid. He was out shooting with a party in Ledbury and someone’s gun went off . . . by accident.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It appears that your husband had been having a little liaison with the wife of the man whose gun went off, so the police are, of course, investigating. I am sorry to distress you with that detail, my lady. But whatever the outcome there is no doubt whatsoever that the deceased was Sir Ashley Huntley. I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. Please accept my sincere condolences, my lady.’
Lavinia was so deeply shocked that she could only nod as she tried to take in what he had told her.
He shifted towards the door then, saying, ‘I shall leave you now to absorb what I have told you, but with your permission I will return at a suitable time to discuss your situation as you are, of course, your husband’s next of kin and will therefore inherit all he had. Good day to you, ladies.’ He took another bow and then quietly left the room.
Lavinia hardly noticed, for in her mind’s eye she was seeing Ashley as he had been when she first met him, young and handsome, so loving and attentive. On the day they were wed they had moved to Treetops Manor with her head full of dreams of the children they would have. The house would ring with laughter and they would live happily ever after . . . but all that had soon changed and her disillusionment began. And now . . . he was gone. She supposed that she should be weeping but found that she couldn’t. Her eyes remained dry. The all-consuming love she had once felt for him had died with her dreams many years ago, the last vestiges swept away with the death of their tiny son, and now she found that she couldn’t be a hypocrite and play the part of a grieving widow.
‘He’s gone, Zillah,’ she said flatly and stared about the room. It was full of beautiful furniture and yet like her life it was empty and always would be now.
Zillah, meanwhile, was wrestling with turbulent thoughts. Ashley was gone. Could she now share the terrible secret that had haunted her day and night for all those years? But first she must decide the best way to tell her mistress – and then pray that Lavinia would forgive her.
Due to a fault with the ovens the baker’s was late closing that night and Sunday was concerned that Tom would be worried about her. She had a spare key to his cottage now and whoever got in first after work would start to prepare the evening meal. She grinned; it would undoubtedly be him tonight so they would probably be having something simple again. She took a loaf with her and an apple pie that was going begging. They ate together each evening and it was fast becoming the highlight of her day.
It was raining as she set off from the shop and she pulled her shawl across her head. There was no sign of Pinnegar or his men so she decided to take the shortcut to Tom’s home, past the River Anker and across the Pingles Fields. Most evenings, the area was full of children and families but this evening it was almost deserted due to the weather. Regretting her impulse t
o take this route, she hurried on and soon was approaching the passage that ran beneath the railway lines. It was a dismal place and the walls were always running with damp but tonight it seemed even darker in there and she quickened her footsteps, keen to get to the daylight at the other end of it. She silently scolded herself for ever coming this way, but it was too late to turn back now. She was almost halfway through when she became aware of footsteps behind her; in fact, someone was almost directly upon her. She couldn’t make out their face in the darkness but from the size of them she judged the person to be a man. A shudder of terror passed through her.
She made to step aside, trying to dodge away from her pursuer, but then she saw lights flashing in front of her eyes as something heavy smashed down on the back of her head. The pain was excruciating. As she staggered, crying out, the darkness swallowed her up.
When she came to, she groaned – or at least she tried to but there was something in her mouth, some sort of gag. She opened her eyes but could see nothing and for a moment she panicked, thinking she had gone blind before realising that she was tied to a chair and was in total darkness. She tried to spit the gag out for it tasted disgusting, but it was tied tightly and all she could do was make gurgling noises in the back of her throat. Who could have done this to her and where was she? Why had they left her alone? And then as her senses came back to her she realised it must have been her old enemy, Albert Pinnegar. Her hands were bound so tightly at the back of the chair that her fingers were tingling and her legs were tied too. She wriggled and squirmed, hoping to loosen the bonds, but all she seemed to do was tighten them. There was a dull pain throbbing away at the back of her eyes and she wanted to sleep but she was too afraid to do so now.
I’ll plead with him when he shows his face – if he takes away the gag, she told herself. And yet she couldn’t convince herself that it would do any good. Terror began to set in. What if he never came back? What if no one ever came? She would die here all alone in the darkness. It was a daunting thought and she renewed her efforts to free herself, making the chair she was tied to swing dangerously to and fro. But it was no good, she was only making things worse and tears of frustration filled her eyes. She began to shiver with a mixture of cold and fear as she tried to think where she might be, but though she strained for any sounds there was only silence save for a dripping noise coming from somewhere. Her headache was getting worse and now she felt sick, which made her panic again. If she were to vomit with the gag in she would likely choke, so she tried to breathe through her nose and calm herself. For now there was nothing else she could do. She was entirely at the mercy of her captor, God help her! And there was still so much she had wanted to do with her life. Why, only that day she had decided that it was time to confront Lady Huntley with her suspicions, for try as she might she couldn’t find it in her to dislike the woman and felt that Lavinia deserved a chance to explain, just as Tom had pointed out. Tom. The thought of him brought the tears stinging to the back of her eyes again. He would no doubt be going mad with worry about her, just as he had when Daisy had disappeared – and there was not a single thing she could do about it.
After checking the range yet again, Tom strode to the doorway and peered down the road for at least the twentieth time in as many minutes. Even allowing for her working late, Sunday should have been home ages ago and now he was getting seriously worried. It wasn’t like her to just not turn up without getting word to him and their meal was almost ruined. Perhaps she didn’t feel so well and decided to go straight home to her lodgings, he thought as he stood chewing on his lip. There was only one way to find out so, lifting the dish out of the oven and putting a plate over it to keep it warm, he slipped his coat on and set off in the rain. It took only a matter of minutes to reach Sunday’s lodging house where a stony-faced landlady coldly informed him that no, Miss Small had not yet arrived home and that she did not at all approve of her young ladies having gentlemen callers. Suitably chastised, Tom stood on the pavement outside with his hands in his coat pockets wondering what he should do next as the cold rain dripped down the back of his neck. The baker’s, that was it. The man wouldn’t be too happy about having his evening disturbed but at least he might be able to tell him if Sunday had mentioned that she was going somewhere. Tom got a similar reception at the baker’s to the one he’d had from the landlady and now he was extremely anxious. With a sigh he set off for home but then he brightened. It could be that she was already there waiting for him. He arrived back to an empty house.
The next morning, bright and early, Zillah informed Lavinia Huntley that she had to make an urgent visit to her niece, Verity. Lavinia was mildly surprised. It wasn’t like Zillah to go haring off anywhere but she gladly gave her permission and ordered the carriage to be brought round to the front of the house for her. The maid was a little too old to be making the long trek into town on foot now. Normally Lavinia would have gone with her but the sight of baby Michael was still too painful and made her think of Stephen. Zillah had seemed distracted and on edge ever since the news of Ashley’s death had reached them, which was faintly surprising. She had never made a secret of the fact that she couldn’t abide the man, so Lavinia couldn’t understand why his demise should affect her so badly. However, she had other things to occupy her mind that morning. The undertaker would be calling to see her to arrange her late husband’s funeral. She felt obliged to give Ashley a good send-off. They were still married, after all, and it was the last thing she would ever have to do for him.
When Zillah arrived at the vicarage she found Verity doing a simple puzzle with Phoebe on the hearthrug in the cosy parlour and the baby fast asleep in his crib.
Verity was delighted to see her but recognised at once that her aunt was in a very agitated state.
‘Come and sit down and tell me what’s wrong,’ she urged as she yanked the bell-pull at the side of the fireplace. She would get her maid to make her aunt a hot toddy; that might help to restore her. Once the drink had been ordered, Zillah sat silently wringing her hands until the tray had been brought in, then, taking a sip of the steaming mixture of lemon, rum and hot water, she slowly and painfully began to tell her niece of Ashley Huntley’s death and the terrible secret she had been forced to keep for so many years.
By the time she had done, Verity’s face had paled and she was almost reeling with shock but there was no recrimination in her voice when she asked, ‘So what are you going to do now?’ Her voice was little more than a squeak. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what her aunt must have been through.
‘I’m going to tell her everything,’ Zillah responded. ‘And I want you to come back with me and be there while I do it. I realise it’s a lot to ask of you.’
Verity sadly shook her head. ‘I’m afraid this revelation, coming on top of Ashley’s demise and the loss of Stephen may be too much for her to bear.’
Zillah drank down her toddy in one gulp then stood up, nervously twisting her fingers together. ‘I know, but it can’t be put off any longer. I’m no spring chicken and I can’t contemplate going to meet my maker with this on my conscience. What my dear lady decides to do when she knows will be up to her then.’
Verity rose slowly and shook out her skirts, telling her aunt, ‘I’ll get ready immediately. Mrs Young will watch the children for me for a while. And if it’s any consolation, I believe you are doing the right thing. It is time for poor Lavinia to learn what really happened on the night her last daughter was born.’
Chapter Fifty-One
The undertaker had only just left when Zillah and Verity arrived back at Treetops Manor. When the maid had let them in and taken them to the library, Lavinia stood up and smiled a welcome, assuming that Mrs Lockett had come to offer her condolences.
‘Hello, Verity, how nice to see you. I suppose Zillah has told you what’s happened?’
‘Yes, she has,’ Verity answered. ‘And I’m so terribly sorry, dear Lavinia. Edgar and I will help you in any way we can. However, that isn’t the rea
son why I’m here. Perhaps you’d better sit down, for Zillah has something very important to tell you.’
This was the second time in two days she’d been told she might need to sit down, Lavinia thought apprehensively. What could have happened now? Once she had done as she was asked, the two women came to sit opposite her and Zillah bowed her head, summoning her courage and wondering where she should start.
‘What I’m about to tell you will come as something of a shock . . .’ she said, and paused to moisten her lips. ‘And I just pray to God that when you know of it, you will be able to forgive me.’
Lavinia frowned. ‘Good heavens! Go on.’
‘Well, it happened the night your last daughter was born. Ashley wanted a son, as you know. Girls were no good to him. You had a terrible birth with that one if you remember, and by the time she was delivered you were unconscious. In fact, I feared we were going to lose you for a time . . . Anyway, Ashley came storming in and was furious when he discovered you’d given birth to another girl. He . . . he told me that I was to smother her with a pillow and have her body buried next to the other two.’
Lavinia’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘You’re telling me she was born alive?’
Zillah nodded miserably. ‘Aye, she was, but he threatened me, said if I didn’t do as he wished he’d have you locked away in Hatter’s Hall and I’d be put in the workhouse. He would pay a doctor to class you as insane if I didn’t obey his instructions.’
‘What are you saying, Zillah? That you killed my baby!’ Lavinia felt as if she were about to faint and Verity rushed to sit beside her.
When Zillah mutely shook her head, Lavinia frowned, confused. ‘But you must have done. I went to visit her little grave as soon as I was able to. Oh, my poor dear baby girl.’
Mothering Sunday Page 39