The children tucked into the treats, their appetites sharpened by the romp in the fresh air, and it was then that two people emerged from the trees. Sunday didn’t take too much notice of them, since it just looked like a mother and her small daughter, but as they drew closer she realised with a start that it was Maggie with her nanny.
Kitty spotted her friend at the same moment and before anyone could stop her she had scampered across to them to say hello.
‘Tom, look – it’s Maggie,’ Sunday hissed.
Kitty had reached them by then and Sunday could see her chatting animatedly.
‘So it is.’ Tom rose from the blanket and brushed the crumbs from his trousers before strolling casually across to join them, with Sunday in hot pursuit.
‘Good afternoon, Maggie. Good afternoon, er …’
‘It’s Blake. Miss Blake,’ the poker-faced woman informed him. ‘I am Margaret’s nanny.’
‘How do you do.’ Tom held his hand out and the woman had no choice but to shake it without appearing to be very rude.
‘I’m very well, thank you,’ she replied stiffly, and Sunday and Tom then turned their attention to Maggie, who was standing quite still at the side of her.
‘So how are you, pet?’ Tom asked with a warm smile.
‘She’s very well,’ the woman answered for her as Maggie kept her eyes downcast.
‘Well, if you’d like to come over there to the blanket, there are some biscuits left and some of Mrs Rose’s special lemonade. You always liked that, didn’t you?’
‘Thank you, but Margaret will be having her evening meal when we get back and she is not permitted to eat between meals.’
Again, the woman spoke for her and Tom began to wonder if Maggie had lost her tongue. Now he could see what Sunday had meant the last time she had bumped into her in town. Maggie had indeed lost quite a lot of weight; in fact, she looked rather thin now although he noted she glanced longingly towards the picnic basket. Maggie had always loved her food.
‘It’s time we were heading for home now,’ the nanny stated and without a word Maggie nodded.
Tom was shocked. At one time, Maggie would have screamed blue murder if asked to do anything she didn’t want to do. But now she stood like a little shadow of her former self. Like Sunday, he thought it was almost as if she’d had the spirit knocked out of her. She was immaculately dressed though and spotlessly clean. Too clean, Tom found himself thinking. She looked like a little doll. For the first time, he wondered if he and Sunday had done right, allowing her to go and live with Mr and Mrs Dawes, but he wouldn’t admit that to his wife. She was worried enough about the little girl as it was.
‘Now say goodbye, Margaret,’ Miss Blake instructed sharply.
‘Goodbye,’ Maggie said woodenly to no one in particular and then the woman took her hand and they strode away without a backward glance.
‘I didn’t like that lady. She’s mean!’ Kitty declared, jamming her thumb into her mouth, and although they couldn’t say it, both Tom and Sunday were inclined to agree with her. It had taken all Sunday’s willpower not to snatch the little girl up into her arms and run for home with her, but of course, common sense had prevailed. She had entrusted Maggie to the Daweses’ care and now she had to stand by her decision, although she still missed the little girl dreadfully and fretted about her every single day.
With a heavy sigh, Sunday herded the children together and they set off for home themselves then in a much more subdued mood than the one in which they had started out.
Chapter Eight
December 1908
‘I can’t understand it,’ Sunday confided to Cissie as they sat together in the kitchen enjoying a mid-afternoon cup of tea. ‘This is the first year that we’ve received no money for Kitty’s care and she was twelve almost a week ago now. What do you think it might mean? Don’t misunderstand me, Tom and I don’t want the money for ourselves. In fact, we’ve been saving it for her for a number of years now, and she has quite a little nest egg stashed away as it happens.’
Cissie shrugged. She too thought it was strange. The money had usually been left as regular as clockwork. ‘Perhaps they’re just late paying it?’ she suggested as she took a gulp of her tea and wiggled her swollen feet out of her shoes. She had been on her feet since early that morning and was glad of a breather.
‘That’s what Tom said, but I have a feeling there’s more to it than that.’
‘Oh, here we go,’ Cissie teased her. ‘Lookin’ for problems where there are none again.’
‘I am not,’ Sunday said defensively. ‘I just can’t help thinking it’s a sign of something, that’s all.’
Beyond the kitchen door they could hear the sounds of the piano in the day room. A music teacher came in twice a week now to teach those who were interested in learning to play. In the drawing room, Kitty was having her singing lesson from Miss Lark, an aptly named private tutor, and the sound of her sweet voice echoed down the hallway.
There had been many changes in Treetops Manor during the last eight years. Mrs Tabitha Rose, their beloved cook, had retired some time ago to go and live with her daughter in Manchester. Mrs Cotton, a widow from the town, a round merry soul who Tom often teased and who could make a complete meal out of next to nothing, had taken her place. Shy young Em’ly had also left, to be married, and now Ethel, another young lass from the parish of Coton, who had come highly recommended by Mrs Lockett, had taken on her role. She was a plain, dumpy girl, but what she lacked in looks she more than made up for in personality and she was already a great favourite with the children. Edwina and Marianne, two of the first foundlings that Sunday and Tom had ever cared for, had also left, Marianne to be a governess to a solicitor’s children in Kenilworth and Edwina to an apprenticeship with a seamstress in the town. Ben, however, had remained and was now a fine strapping lad of nineteen who had proved himself to be invaluable to Tom and George. He would tackle any job big or small that needed doing and so more than earned the wage he was now paid each month.
Cissie and George still lived in Primrose Cottage, where they were very happy. In truth, apart from sleeping there they spent very little time in it, as they all ate with the family at Treetops, but Cissie loved it with a passion. She, like Sunday, had grown up in the Nuneaton Union Workhouse, with all its privations, and she adored the cottage. It was her little palace and it gleamed inside and out and from top to bottom. Sunday and Tom had officially given it and the small plot of land it stood on to Cissie and George, and for the first time in her life Cissie now had somewhere to call her own. The roof was thickly thatched to withstand rain, snow and sunshine, and each room boasted a small leaded window. Lavinia had given them some fine pieces of furniture that had been stored in the attic. Some might have said that the intricately carved pieces made of solid mahogany and rosewood were too grand for a humble cottage, but Cissie loved them and had polished them with beeswax until you could see your face in them. All in all, Primrose Cottage was Cissie’s haven. Her oldest son, Jim, had recently become a merchant seaman and had sailed off to see the world, leaving his mother to cry copious tears. Rebecca, her middle child, had joined the staff at Treetops. There never seemed to be enough hands to do everything that needed doing as well as look after the children, so her help was invaluable. Johnny, Cissie and George’s youngest, who was now eleven years old, joined in lessons with the other children at the Home.
There had still been no sign of Sunday’s longed-for baby despite her praying each month that this might change. Lavinia often told her that if she didn’t worry about it so much and relaxed that it just might happen, but after twenty years of marriage, it seemed unlikely. Sunday had, however, found a certain solace in the last two foundlings that they had taken in – Sophie and Michael. They were both now two years old and doted on by the older children and the staff alike. And then she still had Kitty and Ben, of course, so she was happy enough, although from time to time she still thought of Maggie with a sense of loss.
; Lavinia seemed to be very happy too, of late, and Sunday wondered whether it might have something to do with a certain Mr Dewhurst, a widower who had recently joined the board of guardians at the workhouse. She had said as much to Tom one day after breakfast when her mother had gone off for a meeting looking very fetching indeed in a new outfit and hat in the very latest style and with a twinkle in her eye.
‘You’re nothing but a little matchmaker,’ he had teased her and Sunday had not bothered to deny it. The way she saw it, her mother deserved to be happy and if the handsome widower was the one who could make her so, then she certainly would raise no objections.
Finishing her last mouthful of toast and home-made blackberry jam, Sunday stood up and looked towards the window. ‘It’s gone very quiet and grey,’ she remarked, staring up at the sky.
‘It has that.’ Cissie drained her cup and reluctantly got up from the table, forcing her feet back into her shoes. ‘George reckons we’ll have snow afore much longer so the children will be wanting the sleds out then. Despite meself I allus think there’s something quite magical about a white Christmas.’
‘You old romantic you,’ Sunday chuckled, then leaving Cissie to her chores she went through the green baize door into the corridor just as Miss Lark emerged from the room where she had been giving Kitty her singing lesson.
‘Ah, Mrs Branning,’ she twittered and Sunday had to make a conscious effort not to laugh. Everything about the tiny little woman reminded her of a little bird, like her name. ‘Kitty is doing extraordinarily well. I was only saying to Mrs Lockett the other day I think she’s ready to join the church choir now – if you have no objections. She really does have the voice of an angel.’
She blinked her faded blue eyes, and as her hand rose to pat her grey hair, which was coiled in a plait around the crown of her head, Sunday was once again reminded of a little bird about to take flight. One of these days she was sure that Miss Lark would sprout wings.
‘I have no objections at all,’ she replied, managing to keep a straight face. ‘I shall speak to Verity about it at the earliest opportunity.’
Just then, Kitty came tearing out of the room only to skid to a halt when she saw Sunday and Miss Lark talking.
‘Sorry!’ She gave a smile that would have melted ice and Sunday bit her lip. The girl was so pretty that sometimes it frightened her. Whenever they went into town or out and about, people commented on her hair, or her perfect skin, or her eyes. Sunday had loved it when Kitty was little, but now that the girl was growing, she worried about what sort of attention she might attract from men. Still, she told herself, that wouldn’t be for a while yet and feeling happier, she then went off to fetch Miss Lark her fee as the teacher prepared to leave. On opening the front door for the little lady, she spied a familiar brown envelope, propped against the pillar where they had found the baby Kitty all those years ago.
Christmas that year was a joyous occasion and so was the party that Sunday and Tom held at Treetops on New Year’s Eve. Sunday’s only regret was that Mr and Mrs Dawes had declined their invitation, saying that they had already made previous arrangements, which meant that yet again Sunday would not get to spend time with Maggie. She saw very little of her apart from the few occasions when she had gone to the church in Mancetter that the Daweses attended, just to get a glimpse of the girl. On those occasions, Maggie had greeted her stiltedly, without warmth, and now Sunday was resigned to the fact that the girl was gone from her for good. Her loss still affected her in her quieter moments and she still worried about the child, but she had finally accepted that there was nothing to be done about it.
On New Year’s Eve, the older children were allowed to stay up late after the younger ones had been tucked safely into bed, and when Kitty came downstairs in the new velvet plum-coloured dress she had had for Christmas, she looked truly stunning. Her long dark hair had been brushed till it shone and hung down her back like a silken cloak, while her skin glowed and her beautiful dark eyes sparkled with excitement.
‘Will we be allowed to have a little wine?’ she asked cheekily as Sunday and Tom prepared to greet the first of their guests.
‘No, you most certainly will not, young lady,’ Sunday retorted, then weakening a little when she saw the disappointment on the girl’s face, she whispered, ‘Well … perhaps just a little sip when we see the New Year in, if you stay awake that long.’
‘Oh, I shall!’ Kitty flashed a smile at her then scampered away in a most unladylike manner to root Ben out to show him her new finery.
In the drawing room, which had been cleared of furniture, a band Tom had hired for the evening was tuning up, and in the day room a buffet fit for a king was laid out on tables that seemed to almost groan beneath their weight of food.
The guests began to arrive, Mr Dewhurst amongst them, and Sunday nudged Tom meaningfully as her mother started to blush like a schoolgirl as the kindly gentleman made a beeline for her, gave a stiff little bow and kissed her hand.
‘I don’t think I’ve seen my mother look that happy since Zillah died,’ she whispered. Tom heartily agreed with her. ‘I think we ought to invite him to dinner once we get tonight over with,’ she said.
‘Then when dinner is done we can make our excuses and disappear and give them a little time alone,’ he whispered back.
Sunday giggled, thinking what an excellent idea that was, but then more guests were arriving and she turned her attention to them. Soon the house was heaving with people and the air was fragrant with the women’s perfumes. They flitted about like gaily-coloured butterflies in gowns all the colours of the rainbow, and their jewels flashed in the light from the chandeliers. The men strutted around like penguins in their dicky bows, smart black dinner suits and fancy waistcoats, and within no time at all everyone was clearly having a wonderful time. The band was playing, the dance floor was full of couples and Kitty, who was standing in a corner with Ben, remarked wonderingly, ‘Don’t the ladies look beautiful, Ben?’
He stared at her strangely for a moment before replying, ‘Aye, they do – but none of ’em is as pretty as you, Kitty.’
Astounded, she stared back up at him, with her mouth gaping open. She had worshipped Ben for as far back as she could remember – and now here he was paying her a compliment. She blushed and fluttered her eyelashes. Even at her tender age, Kitty was beginning to realise that she could twist the opposite sex around her little finger with just a smile. But then Sunday was bearing down on them with a glass of lemonade in her hand for Kitty. She had decided against allowing the girl to try a sip of wine. At nineteen, Ben was now permitted to drink beer. He didn’t much care for the fancy short drinks.
‘Are you both having a good time?’ she asked, and both heads nodded vigorously. ‘Good – well, you keep your eye on her for me, Ben, while I go and find my husband.’
She melted away into the guests and it was then that Kitty asked, ‘Shall we have a dance?’
Ben almost choked on his drink. ‘What – to this? It’s a waltz an’ I wouldn’t have a clue how to do it.’ He looked petrified at the very thought of it.
‘We only have to watch what everyone else is doing.’ Kitty was used to getting her own way and after putting her drink down on a small table she grabbed Ben’s hand and dragged him onto the dance floor.
In actual fact, he soon discovered that it wasn’t quite as difficult as it looked. He just had to sort of shuffle about and Kitty went with him. They made an amusing couple, he so tall and the child barely up to his shoulder, and people smiled as they glided past. Kitty’s hair was loose about her shoulders and it gleamed in the light. Her new dress set off her dark beauty to perfection.
The pair were breathless and giggling by the time the waltz finished and Kitty knew she would never forget this night for as long as she lived. It was her very first taste of a real grown-ups’ party but she prayed it would be the first of many. It was nice to see all the admiring glances she was attracting from men and women alike and it made her feel happy. Ev
en so, by the time eleven o’clock approached she was drooping somewhat, and much to Ben’s amusement, she gave a very unladylike yawn.
‘Tired are yer, little ’un?’ he asked indulgently and Kitty blinked. He was talking to her as if she was a little girl again now.
‘Not at all,’ she retorted with a toss of her head. ‘That just sort of slipped out.’ She then flounced away to the kitchen to cool off a little. It had got very stuffy with so many bodies floating about.
Shortly before midnight everyone gathered in the hallway and listened quietly as the old grandfather clock chimed twelve times and welcomed in the New Year of 1909. Then suddenly everyone was kissing each other and Kitty found herself being grabbed by all and sundry. Her cheeks were quite wet by the time everyone had done and she was happy to slink off to bed unnoticed. She was so tired that she merely slung her lovely new dress across the bottom of the bed and slid between the cold cotton sheets in her petticoats. She didn’t even bother to brush her hair, she was far too tired – but, eeh … it had been a grand night. And she fell asleep with a broad smile on her face!
Chapter Nine
It took the staff of Treetops two whole days to put the house back to rights following the party, and on the third day everyone was tired. The snow had held off so far but it was bitterly cold, the wind was almost gale force, and each night a thick hoar frost coated the grass and the surrounding trees.
Sunday, who felt that she was coming down with a cold, decided that she would have an easy day by the fire as the rest of the staff were entertaining the children. She had only just settled into the fireside chair, however, when there was a tap on the door. She had been just about to start Daniel Deronda by George Eliot, a local novelist. It was one of the books Tom had bought her for Christmas and she’d been looking forward to reading it.
‘Come in,’ she called.
Bessie, the general maid, almost tumbled into the room, clearly very distressed. ‘Oh, missus, you’d best come straight away,’ she babbled. ‘It’s the master – he’s had a bad fall in the stableyard.’
The Little Angel Page 7
