A Dream of her Own
| A Dream of her Own | |
| Benita Brown | |
| Hachette Littlehampton (2010) | |
| Tags: | Newcastle Saga |
Synopsis
It's a cold winter's night in 1906 but nothing can dampen the high spirits of
Constance Bannerman and her fellow skivvy and best friend, Nella. For tomorrow,
Constance can escape her life of drudgery at Doctor Sowerby's home in Newcastle
by marrying her handsome sweetheart, the prosperous John Edington. But
Constance's last night of servitude is to end in terror. As a final act of
spite, Mrs Sowerby throws her out of the house late that evening where she is
met by the doctor's dissolute son, Gerald. In the front yard, surrounded by
freezing fog, Gerald attacks and rapes her. Distraught and unsure of what to do,
Constance marries John the next day with a heavy heart. She cannot tell John
what has happened, for his is a respectable family, and shame will not allow her
to reveal the truth to Nella. But the worst is yet to come, for John Edington
himself has a shocking secret that will make Constance feel more alone than
ever...
A Dream of her Own
BENITA BROWN
headline
Copyright © 2000 Benita Brown
The right of Benita Brown to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2009
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN : 978 0 7553 7291 1
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette Livre UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
Table of Contents
Benita Brown was born and brought up in Newcastle by her English mother and Indian father. She went to drama school in London where she met her husband who, also from Newcastle, was working for the BBC. Not long after, she returned to her home town where she did some teaching and broadcasting and brought up four children. She is now a full-time writer.
To Norman, with love
Chapter One
Newcastle, November 1906
‘And where do you think you’re going?’
Mrs Mortimer’s substantial figure filled the kitchen doorway, barring the way out. Constance stepped back in alarm. Behind her she heard Nella catch her breath. She could imagine her friend’s expression of dismay.
They hadn’t heard Mrs Mortimer coming. They had been laughing and too happy to care, for once, so they’d forgotten to listen for the officious swish of skirts and the jangling of the huge bunch of keys that marked the cook-housekeeper’s progress along the corridors of the house.
‘Well, I’m waiting for an answer.’
Constance met the woman’s cool stare. ‘I’m going to bed.’
Mrs Mortimer advanced into the room. The door slammed shut behind her, wafting in a draught of cold air from the basement passage. She raised her eyebrows and stared at Constance for a moment before turning her head to look around the kitchen.
In the ensuing silence Constance heard the coals shift and settle in the range and the faint hiss of the gaslamp. She glanced up and saw the whole scene reflected in the upper half of the tall window above the sink. It was like a painting, she thought, such as she’d seen in the Laing Art Gallery.
No, not a painting, a photograph - one of those posed studies of ‘Life Below Stairs’. The cook-housekeeper, in her starched white blouse and apron, staring sternly at the stone sink full of unwashed pans and the wooden bench next to it where the dishes waited to be dried.
Nella, in faded grey cotton, her thin little body seemingly held together by the ties of the overlarge apron, hunched forward over the table, a bar of soap grasped in one hand and a wooden scrubbing brush in the other.
And Constance herself, not much taller than Nella, standing upright, wisps of fair hair escaping from her mobcap to frame her face. John had told her that her features were delicate, that her complexion was like porcelain. If he were here now he would see that the fine bones gave an impression of strength rather than fragility and that her violet eyes could be dark with anger.
Mrs Mortimer turned once more to Constance. ‘You cannot go to bed until you finish your chores.’
‘But I thought that, as tomorrow—’
‘Be quiet! It’s not your place to think!’ The woman gave a tight-lipped smile. Her thick fingers gripped a small brown envelope and she tapped it on the palm of her other hand. ‘These are your wages.’
Constance clenched her fists, controlling the natural impulse to reach out for the packet. She sensed the woman was playing with her.
‘As you are to leave us so early in the morning, Mrs Sowerby asked me to give you the money owing to you tonight. However, as I find you are not to be trusted, I think I had better keep it until you have finished in here.’
‘It was my fault!’ Nella cried out, and Constance spun round to face her. She shook her head urgently but her friend ignored her warning glance and carried on, ‘Mrs Mortimer, I said Constance should gan to bed. I divven’t mind finishing off, meself, in the circumstances ...’ She had started boldly enough but her voice faltered under the woman’s outraged glare.
‘I was not aware that the running of this household had been given over to a mere skivvy.’
‘But—’
Constance groaned softly. What would Nella do if she so enraged the most powerful member of the Sowerbys’ staff that she lost her job? Looking the way she did it would be very difficult for her to find another position.
‘It’s all right, Nella.’ Risking Mrs Mortimer’s wrath Constance hurried towards the table and put her arm round the girl’s crooked shoulders.
‘Be quiet both of you! Nella, I have decided that you should go to bed immediately.’
‘But why? The chores aren’t finished, and you said—’
‘Nella!’ Constance breathed.
Mrs Mortimer ignored both interruptions and carried on.
‘You will have to be up an hour earlier in the morning; the new girl will not be arriving in time to help you lay the fires.’
That’s only just occurred to her, Constance thought. She doesn’t really care whether or not Nella gets enough sleep. She just wants to punish me.
‘Constance,’ the cook-housekeeper continued, ‘I will come back in exactly one hour with your money. You had better be finished by then.’
She turned and left abruptly. Her footsteps rang out along the stone passage towards her sitting room where her supper tray waited beside a cosy fire.
‘Old cow!’ Nella muttered. ‘I hope the cheese in them sandwiches she made herself gives her nightmares!’
Constance squeezed her shoulders. ‘Hush.’ She took the soap and scrubbing brush from Nella’s hands and laid them on the chair next to the enamel pail. ‘Go to bed, like she said.’
‘But I wanted you to hev a proper night’s sleep. It’s your big day tomorrow.’
‘I know and I’m grateful, but I shouldn’t have let you persuade me. I should have realized that Mrs Mortimer would expect you to do the work of two until the new girl is broken in.’
‘Broken in? That’s a funny thing to say. They do that to horses, divven’t they?’
‘Yes, and that’s all we are in this household, beasts of burden. I’m sure people like the Sowerbys don’t think of us as human beings, otherwise why would we be treated this way?’
Nella looked up into her friend’s face. She was small but if Nella’s spine had been straight instead of twisted, she and Constance might have been about the same height.
Constance’s eyes were blazing, and the two spots of colour burning in her cheeks highlighted her naturally fair complexion.
Suddenly, Nella grinned. ‘Ee, Constance, this place’ll be dull without you! What on earth shall I do when I want a good gripe?’
Constance’s expression softened. ‘You’ll make friends with the new girl. In fact, you must, both for her sake and your own.’
‘Must I?’ Without warning, Nella’s eyes filled with tears and, as they spilled over, she tried to brush them from her face with her bony little fingers.
‘Oh, Nella,’ Constance took a clean handkerchief from her apron pocket, ‘Here, let me ...’
She wiped her friend’s face, guiltily acknowledging to herself that Nella’s distress at their parting was greater than her own. Poor Nella would have to remain here while she had a new and happier life to look forward to. ‘Now, keep this hanky and go to bed,’ she said. ‘Leave me to get on with the work. I wouldn’t put it past Mrs Mortimer to dock my wages if I’m not finished when she comes back.’
In fact it was just under an hour later that Constance placed the last of the dinner plates on the dresser and turned to face the empty kitchen. She was bone weary but she could hardly contain her elation. No more pans to scour, no floors to scrub, no carpets to beat, no more getting up in the cold and the dark to light the fires before the family was awake. Tomorrow was her wedding day.
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