A Dream of her Own Read online

  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

  www.headline.co.uk

  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

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  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 mornin
g; 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.

  Outside fog swirled from the shipyards on the River Tyne, up through the grimy terraces of Elswick and Scotswood, and on to settle like a shroud round the grand dwellings of the prosperous citizens who could afford to live in the sweeter air of Rye Hill.

  In the upper windows of Dr Sowerby’s tall town house, curtains were drawn against the chill of the November evening but down through the area railings, light spilled from the half-barred window into the yard at the foot of the worn stone steps.

  Inside the basement room, Constance raised a hand to pull off her mobcap. Her long golden hair tumbled about her shoulders, the bright curls contrasting oddly with the faded uniform dress, the very drabness of which only emphasized her beauty. Unexpectedly she felt the threat of tears pricking her eyes and she pushed the cap into the pocket of her pinafore angrily. But it wasn’t because she was leaving this hateful place that she felt like crying.

  Often, when she was alone, disturbing memories came to haunt her. Just now, as she had looked round the empty room, another kitchen had come to mind: larger than this one, brighter and full of the comforting smells of recent baking. Whenever she had gone down the back stairs to look for the kittens, the cook and the kitchen maids had always welcomed her. They had petted and spoiled her, taken her into the kitchen and given her milk and raisin cake.

  Sometimes Robert would follow her, pretending that his only motive was to keep an eye on the younger child, and he would be fussed over and petted too. But she had been the favourite with the servants ...

  ‘So you’re finished then?’

  Mrs Mortimer observed her from the doorway. She was holding a candle and the light threw shadows upwards. Her eyes had disappeared into circles of blackness, making her podgy features resemble the grotesque mask of a pantomime clown. But she wasn’t smiling.

  Constance remained where she was, forcing the cook to step into the room. Mrs Mortimer glared at her. ‘I’m glad you’re leaving us, Constance, and it’s just as well that you did not ask for a reference, for I would not have been able to recommend you to any respectable household.’

  ‘Why not?’ Against her better judgement, Constance was stung into responding. ‘I’ve always worked hard. I’m sure you’ve never been able to fault me!’

  ‘Not your work, no. It’s your attitude I deplore.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I’ve never complained, never spoken out of turn.’

  ‘Not to my face.’ Suddenly the woman abandoned the air of refinement that she tried so hard to cultivate, and her voice rose harshly. ‘Do you think I’m stupid, girl? Do you think I didn’t realize from the moment you set foot in this house six years ago that, even when you were twelve years old, you thought you were better than the rest of us?’

  ‘That’s not true! I couldn’t help it if ...’

  ‘If what? Go on, finish what you were going to say.’ Mrs Mortimer scowled.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. May I go upstairs, now? I’m tired and I still have to pack my belongings.’

  The woman stared at her for a moment and then tossed the wage packet on to the table between them. ‘Very well.’

  As she reached the doorway she turned to face Constance for the last time. ‘And mind you don’t pack anything that doesn’t belong to you. You haven’t finished paying for the uniform dresses and the pinafores so they will remain Mrs Sowerby’s property.’

  As if I should want them, Constance thought, even though they have kept back payment from my pitiful wages for them. But she refrained from saying anything. In fact she didn’t even move until she heard the cook open the door that led to the back staircase and mount the bare wooden stairs.

  She must be going to bed now, Constance thought, and she let out a long sigh of relief. She loosened the ties of her pinafore and, for a moment, she was at a loss. Should she wash it and hang it on the pulley near the range? It would be dry enough to iron in the morning before she left.

  No! Why should I?

  Angry with herself for even thinking such thoughts, she pulled it over her head and folded it roughly. Then she tossed it on to the kitchen table that she had only shortly before scrubbed with strong soap and soda for the very last time. Let somebody else sort it out. Tomorrow she would no longer be answerable to any of them, she would be at nobody’s beck and call. She would be Mrs John Edington.

  But tonight there was one more thing she had to do. Taking a brass holder from the mantelpiece, she lit a candle and threw the spent match in the dying fire. She picked up the packet containing her hard-earned wages and then she stepped up on to a chair and pulled down the chain that turned off the gaslamp. Then she hurried along the draughty passage to the back stairs.

  On the ground floor, the entrance hall was long and narrow, and the dark colours of the walls and furnishings made it a sombre place, especially with the gaslamps turned down low. But Constance welcomed the shadows. She moved quietly; she had no wish to be discovered here. There was no reason for her to be ‘above stairs’ once her duties were over. Ind
eed, it was forbidden. Mrs Sowerby was convinced that all servants were unprincipled and deceitful, and ready to steal from her, given the slightest opportunity. Even the cutlery that they used in the kitchen was stamped with the words Stolen from Sowerby, Rye Hill’.

  Suddenly a door opened on the first floor and the sound of Dr Sowerby’s voice, raised in anger, spilled down the stairs. Constance froze and shrank back against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. Someone laughed mockingly, and the door closed abruptly. She heard footsteps in the upper passage and she was ready to dart back towards the door at the end of the hallway, but the footsteps echoed away from the direction of the stairhead and another door opened and slammed shut. Then there was silence.