‘Inside that grave is nothin’ more than a pillow wrapped in a shawl,’ Zillah said in ringing tones.
Lady Huntley gasped. ‘So . . . So . . . what happened to my baby then, if she wasn’t born dead?’
Zillah closed her eyes for a second before going on. ‘After the midwife had left that night I took the baby and hid her in my room, then I wrapped a pillow in a shawl and took it out to the grave that Matthews had dug ready. He believed that I was burying the child but she was safe in my room all the time. Much later, when I was sure that no one was about I carried her all the way to the workhouse, left her on the steps there and rang the bell. Then I hid until someone came and I knew that the little scrap was safe. I didn’t know what else I could do!’ she said desperately. ‘If you cast your mind back, you’ll recall that our Verity had recently started work there so I knew I would hear how the child was faring through her, although I didn’t dare tell Verity who the child was, of course.’
‘B-but she would be nearly sixteen now. Is she still alive?’ Lavinia asked tremulously as hope flared in her eyes.
‘She is that – and you know her well. Sunday Small is your flesh-and-blood daughter, God bless her.’
‘Sunday!’ Lavinia gulped for air as she tried to take it in. She had a daughter, a beautiful daughter, and all this time she hadn’t known! And yet now that she came to think about it, hadn’t she always felt a special bond with the girl? They had the same colour hair, the same colour eyes. Why, oh why hadn’t she sensed who she was!
‘I didn’t dare tell you while Ashley was alive, for God knows what he might have done,’ Zillah went on. ‘But it’s weighed heavy on my conscience, and now I reckon it’s time you knew. C-can you ever forgive me, pet?’
‘It’s not you who needs forgiveness,’ Lavinia said immediately. ‘You simply did the best you could in difficult circumstances, and you saved my daughter’s life. All this is Ashley’s fault. May his black soul burn in hell for what he forced you to do. Now what I need to do is tell Sunday who she really is and pray that she will forgive me! Oh, I have a daughter.’ Tears poured down her cheeks, and Verity and Zillah each took one of her hands in theirs and held her for a long moment. And then she cried, ‘Come along . . . we must go and find her immediately and explain what’s happened.’
Zillah’s breath hissed out on a sigh of relief and she suddenly felt lighter than she had for years. The secret was a burden she had kept and carried for all of Sunday’s lifetime. Without even stopping to collect a coat Lavinia raced out to the waiting carriage with the two women following closely. Mrs Spooner had told her that Sunday was working in the baker’s shop in town now. She was sure to be there at this time. But not for much longer if Lavinia had anything to do with it. She intended to bring the girl home to Treetops Manor where she belonged, and where she would take her rightful place as daughter of the house.
The journey into town seemed to take for ever but at last they pulled up in front of the baker’s shop. Gathering her skirts into one hand, Lavinia jumped down from the carriage without even waiting for George to help her and ran inside.
The baker’s wife was standing at the counter and she gawped at the woman in surprise. It wasn’t often she had the gentry venture into the shop, it was usually their maids.
‘I wish to speak to Miss Small,’ Lavinia said, staring expectantly across the woman’s shoulder.
The woman scowled. ‘I’m afraid she ain’t turned in fer work today, me lady.’ She looked none too pleased about the fact.
‘Oh . . . I see.’ Lavinia Huntley looked somewhat deflated before asking, ‘Have you any idea where she might be?’
‘Well, I dare say she’ll be round at her lodgin’s in Edward Street or at her young man’s. He comes to meet her some nights. Tom, I think he’s called, an’ I reckon he lives in Shepperton Street. Oh, an’ if you see her, tell her to get round here straight away if she wants to keep her job.’
Her only reply was the slamming of the door and in a huff she began to arrange the loaves on the counter.
Next, Lady Huntley tried both the lodging house and Tom’s address with no success, although Tom was at home. He’d been so worried about Sunday that he’d taken a day off work to look for her after spending a sleepless night waiting in case she turned up as she had before.
‘And you say you didn’t see her last night either and she didn’t return to her lodgings?’
Tom shook his head and then voiced the thing he feared: ‘You don’t think old Pinnegar got his hands on her, do you?’
Lady Huntley visibly paled at the thought. They were standing outside Tom’s cottage when a man who was passing stopped to say, ‘I don’t want to poke me nose in where it ain’t wanted but I couldn’t help but overhear what yer said. If it’s Albert Pinnegar yer on about he ain’t gonna get his hands on anyone. I just bought the local newspaper an’ he’s made the local headlines – look!’
Removing a newspaper from under his arm he unfolded it, sniffed importantly and read, ‘“Former workhouse master Mr Albert Pinnegar was found dead in his cottage last night with a knife in his heart.” It’s here in black an’ white, look.’
Quickly snatching the newspaper from him, Tom read the rest of the piece.
‘He’s right,’ he muttered to Lady Huntley. ‘It says the police already have the man who they believe did it in their custody. He was one of Pinnegar’s rent collectors. Apparently Pinnegar had tried to cheat him out of his wages so they got into a ruckus and the chap pulled a knife on him. Someone heard them arguing as he passed Pinnegar’s cottage and saw the chap through the window.’
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I say,’ Zillah snorted. ‘But if he hasn’t got her, where can she be? It just isn’t like Sunday to disappear off without a word to anyone.’
‘I think it’s time we reported her missing to the constables,’ Lady Huntley said then and her heart was aching. For this to happen now, just when she had discovered that the girl was her daughter was heart-breaking, and the thought that she might lose her before she had even had the chance to claim her was almost more than she could endure. She felt sick with worry as she wondered where the poor girl might be.
Their next stop was the local police station in the town where a solemn-faced constable listened to what they had to say.
‘We thought it might have been Albert Pinnegar who had taken her,’ Tom told him. ‘But we just found out that he was murdered last night.’
The policeman nodded. ‘So he was. We have the chap who we think did it in custody an’ a right shifty character he is an’ all. He’s denying everything, of course. But can you think of anyone else who might have a grudge against her?’
‘Well, she recently refused an offer of marriage from the son of the Barnes family from Yew Tree Farm in Mancetter, but I don’t reckon Bill Barnes would be daft enough to do something like this.’
‘Hmm, well, it might be worth getting one of my constables to pay them a visit,’ the officer remarked, making a hasty note on his pad.
Tom stared thoughtfully into space then suddenly he groaned as he gasped, ‘There is one other person who always had it in for her . . .’
Sunday had no way of knowing how long she had sat, alone, thirsty, in pain and fear. The minutes and the hours seemed to drag by and her body ached from being tied in the same position for so long. The smell of damp and decay was overpowering and she thought she must be in a cellar somewhere. Biting down panic, she was beginning to think that no one was ever going to come. Suddenly a light appeared at the top of a steep wooden staircase and someone holding a flickering candle appeared. The girl blinked as her eyes tried to adjust to the light, but it wasn’t until her jailer was standing right in front of her that she realised who it was.
‘You thought you’d got away with it, stealing my man from me, didn’t you?’
Sunday stared up into the eyes of Miss Frost, but this was not the prim and proper matron that she remembered. The creature before her was
unkempt, and the smell that issued from her person and her clothes was making Sunday choke behind the gag. Her eyes had a maniacal gleam in them and the girl was terrified. Her old enemy had gone completely mad – she must be!
As the woman began to dance around the chair, Sunday strained her neck to try and keep her in sight.
‘I’ve been watching you ever since you left the workhouse. Always trying to tempt my Albert away from me, weren’t you, you little hussy? And you lost me my job. A punishment room is where you belong – where you’ve always belonged. And this is one I have made ready for you.’ It was then that Sunday saw the knife gleaming in her hand in the candlelight and she began desperately to struggle against her ties again. She didn’t want to die here in this cold, dark cellar. She’d never see Tom again. She blinked with shock as the truth hit her like an avalanche: that she loved him! That was why she enjoyed being in his company, why butterflies fluttered to life every time she saw him. And now she might never get the chance to tell him.
As she leaned forward, the woman’s foul-smelling breath hit her full in the face and Sunday retched. Then Miss Frost gently drew the knife down the girl’s cheek, cackling with pleasure as she saw a trickle of blood appear.
‘I’m going to teach you a very painful lesson,’ she taunted her victim. ‘But not like when Albert died last night. His end was too swift when I plunged the knife into his heart. I couldn’t bring myself to torture him even after he’d broken my heart and spurned me. But he had to die! Daisy’s death took longer though. You should have seen the fight she put up when I pushed her and that brat she was carrying into the canal! And the animals at Mrs Spooner’s . . .’
Sunday’s head was reeling. Anger ripped through her as she imagined how terrified poor Daisy must have been in the moments leading up to her death. But it was too late to help Daisy; it was Sunday’s turn now and it was clear that Miss Frost was going to show her no mercy.
Suddenly, the woman kicked out and the chair she was tied to toppled onto its side, knocking the breath from Sunday’s body. Only a miracle could save her now; she was going to die and she prayed that her end would be swift.
The woman began to dance dementedly around the chair again, kicking out and sending ripples of pain surging through Sunday’s defenceless body.
‘Go on then . . . cry!’ the woman screamed, reaching out and slicing the gag from Sunday’s mouth. ‘I want to see you cry! You never would, would you? Even though it meant that I punished you twice as hard as anyone else in the workhouse. But you will cry now, my lady, before I’m done with you. There’s no one to protect you now!’
Suddenly there was a noise from above and then the clattering of footsteps on the stairs. Miss Frost stared up in shock and began to back away from her. And then two police constables seized the knife and handcuffed her while Tom dropped to his knees before Sunday and began to fumble with the ties that bound her.
‘Oh, my poor love!’ He was openly sobbing as he wrestled with the ropes. ‘If anything had happened to you . . .’ Then suddenly she was free and he was holding her to his chest as waves of dizziness washed through her. Just for a moment another face appeared over his shoulder. Lady Huntley’s.
‘Get her away from me!’ she screamed, suddenly finding her voice, and then she fainted in Tom Branning’s sheltering arms.
Chapter Fifty-Two
As her eyes blinked open she winced with pain. Every inch of her ached and she was tired. So tired that she just wanted to go back to sleep and never have to wake up again.
‘Sunday? Come on, sweetheart, open your eyes.’
She groaned but when she did as she was told she found Tom leaning over her and instantly started to feel a little better.
‘Here, take a sip of this.’ He held a cup of water to her cracked lips and nothing had ever tasted as good as she gulped at it. ‘That’s it, now lie back and rest.’
Her hand rose to feel the pad on her cheek and he smiled at her reassuringly. ‘It’s all right. Miss Frost cut you but the doctor’s stitched it up so neatly he promises it will barely be noticeable when it’s properly healed.’
‘And . . . Miss Frost?’ Her voice came out as a croak.
‘Safely locked away in Hatter’s Hall where she’ll never be able to hurt anyone again,’ he promised her.
‘Eeh, yer gave us a right scare back there,’ another voice said, and glancing over Tom’s shoulder, Sunday saw Mrs Spooner. In fact, she realised now that that was where she was, back in her old room at Whittleford Lodge. But there was another anxious face peering at her too, and as she realised who it was she began to get agitated.
‘Please, make her go away!’ she begged, pointing a wavering finger.
Deeply distressed, Lady Huntley began to back towards the door. ‘If you’ll just let me explain . . .’
But Sunday, exhausted as she was, was having none of it. ‘I know exactly who you are – my so-called mother. I worked it out a week ago and I never want to set eyes on you again – ever!’
With a sob Lavinia fled from the room as Tom bent over Sunday, trying to calm her but she was tired again now. So tired that she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes open and, within seconds, she was fast asleep again.
The next time she awoke, the room was in darkness save for an oil lamp that stood on a small table at the side of the bed.
‘Feeling more like yourself, are you, lass?’
Sunday turned towards the voice to find Zillah sitting there.
‘Yes, I think so,’ she muttered as Zillah gently lifted her head and gave her a sip of water.
‘Good, because I have something here for you. I’ve made Tom go for a little rest. He’s barely left your side since you were brought here.’
She held an envelope out to her but Sunday was too weak to take it and asked, ‘What is it?’
‘It’s from Lady Huntley . . . now don’t go getting yourself all worked up,’ she chided as Sunday’s head swung from side to side. ‘It’s your inheritance,’ she went on. ‘You’ve clearly guessed that my lady is your mother and you’ve made it more than clear that you want to have nothing to do with her, but she wants to do right by you, you see? This is a letter telling you that as soon as she can possibly get the papers drawn up, Treetops Manor and a sizeable amount of money will be yours to start your foundling school with your young man. She remembers you told her once that this was your dream, to be able to give orphaned and abandoned children a happy childhood so this is your chance to do just that. She will be moving away and I will be going with her.’
‘I don’t want anything off her,’ Sunday said churlishly. ‘She abandoned me as if I was nothing! I’ve managed quite all right without her help up to now and I don’t want her conscience money.’
‘Ah, but it isn’t quite like that,’ Zillah told her patiently. ‘So now I’m going to tell you what really happened on the night you were born – and you can believe me or believe me not.’
When she had finished her tale, Sunday lay as still as a statue staring up at the ceiling. Everyone knew how devoted Zillah was to her mistress, so was she telling the truth or just trying to show Lavinia Huntley in a better light? It was all very confusing! And yet she had never known Zillah to lie before.
‘I’m going to go away and let you think on what I’ve told you now,’ Zillah whispered. ‘Meanwhile, the police are here and they’d like to speak to you. Are you up to it, lass?’
When Sunday nodded weakly, Zillah crept from the room, quiet as a mouse.
Sunday made her statement and told the police all she could remember, and shortly after they had left Tom came back into the room. Taking her hand, he gently kissed each of her fingers in turn. ‘Feeling a bit better, pet?’
She nodded, sending shards of pain shooting through every inch of her body. ‘Yes – but how did you know where to find me? If you hadn’t come when you did . . . Tom, you saved my life!’
‘Ssh now . . . we don’t need to think about that. It didn’t take much figuring out when
I discovered that old Pinnegar was dead. I thought of Miss Frost straight away, and then one of the policemen said he’d noticed she’d been sleeping rough in some derelict pit cottages on the way to Bedworth. And that’s where we found you. The rest you know.’
‘It was Miss Frost who killed Daisy . . . and Mr Pinnegar,’ she told him then and his eyes filled with tears.
‘Aye, I heard the police talking out there.’ He cocked his head towards the door. ‘Apparently they already knew that it wasn’t the bloke they’d arrested that killed Pinnegar because someone had informed them they’d seen Miss Frost running from his cottage with a knife in her hand. They’ve already let the chap go. But of course I didn’t realise it was her that had killed my sister.’ He lapsed into silence for a few moments. ‘Still, I suppose we’ll have to try and put that behind us now and remember Daisy as she was . . . before.’
Staring at her solemnly, Tom cleared his throat then said awkwardly, ‘That time when I asked you to marry me, Sunday . . . I meant it, you know.’
‘So ask me again.’
He blinked in surprise, then dropping to one knee at the side of the bed he said softly, ‘Sunday Small, I love you more than life itself so will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’
‘I’d love to,’ she answered, and then he was kissing her and there was no one else in the whole wide world but the two of them.
Two days later Sunday was well enough to come downstairs and sit on the chair in the drawing room to be fussed over by all and sundry. ‘I could quite get used to this,’ she told Mrs Spooner teasingly and the old woman laughed.
But then becoming sober, Biddy asked, ‘Have you thought any more about what Zillah told you about Lady Huntley?’ Since that night no one had dared mention the subject but now Mrs Spooner felt that it was time to tackle it. She’d never been one for brushing things under the carpet.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Sunday muttered, turning her head away from the woman.
Mothering Sunday Page 40