Break of Dawn Page 2

  Jeremiah had remained still and silent throughout this discourse as befitted someone of his standing. He was not about to enter into a debate with Mrs Woodrow on the nature of her son-in-law’s untimely death; he had learned to his cost in the past that the irascible old woman had an answer for everything. His face impassive, he merely stared at her, wanting nothing more than to be gone from the two rooms the family of ten called home which smelled strongly of death and bleach. But his duty had brought him to the house to discuss the funeral the day after tomorrow, and he had never shirked his duty in his life.

  He was grateful that most of his parishioners came from the better part of Southwick but there were a few, like this family, living in Low Southwick on the doorstep of the shipbuilding yards and marine engineering and glass bottle-works who worshipped at his church rather than attending a chapel or a smaller church in the district. Jeremiah looked on such folk as his cross to bear and prided himself that he did it with fortitude.

  The tenement building in Victoria Street was all stairs and passages, and in this street and others like it, the front and back doors were always open, being thoroughfares for the numerous residents. It wasn’t unusual for each room of the two-up, two-down terraces to house entire families, but the Skeltons were fortunate inasmuch as they rented the downstairs of this particular house, comprising of the kitchen and front room, the latter used as the family’s communal bedroom.

  Turning his pale-blue eyes on the bereaved widow, Jeremiah reminded her of something else she had to be thankful for as he ignored the old woman by the range. ‘It’s a blessing Adam and Luke are in employment, Mrs Skelton,’ he said stiffly, referring to the woman’s eldest sons who worked alongside their father in Pickersgill’s shipyard, or had done until their father was careless enough to get himself killed. ‘It must be a great comfort to know you are sure of two wages coming in each week.’

  There was another ‘Hmph!’ from the corner by the range. ‘Aye, an’ young Luke already havin’ lost a finger an’ him only sixteen.’

  ‘Mam.’

  This time her daughter’s voice held a note that caused her mother to narrow her eyes and suck in her thin lips, but she said no more in the few minutes Jeremiah remained in the house.

  When he emerged into Victoria Street, the afternoon light was fading fast and the earlier rain had turned to sleet, but Jeremiah stood breathing in several lungfuls of the bitterly cold air before he began to walk briskly northwards. The stench of death had got up his nostrils, he thought irritably. It would quite spoil his appetite for dinner.

  His thick black greatcoat and hat and muffler kept out the chill, and by the time he had walked along Stoney Lane and turned on to the green, he was sweating slightly. The usual tribe of snotty-nosed and barefoot ragamuffins hadn’t been playing outside the houses from whence he had come today, much to his relief. The worsening weather had sent them indoors. And now, as he made his way through the streets of High Southwick towards the vicarage, he relaxed a little. There might be some rough types hereabouts, especially among the Irish contingent in Carley, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the scum in Low Southwick.

  He gave a self-righteous sniff, tucking his muffler more securely in his coat although it was perfectly all right as it was.

  That dreadful old hag back there, daring to address him without a shred of respect for his position! Even the Carley O’Rileys, bad as they were, held him in the esteem due to him. It was a great pity the two Skelton boys were of an age to be in employment, since the workhouse would have soon brought their crone of a grandmother to heel and taught her to respect her betters.

  He passed a group of ruddy-faced men leaving their shift at the Cornhill Glassworks, and as one man they doffed their caps to him. Their deference went some way in soothing his ruffled feathers, but he was still smarting a little as he opened the wrought-iron gates which led on to the drive of the vicarage.

  He regretted not taking the pony and trap now, but the last time he had used it to visit one of his parishioners in Low Southwick Bess had been as skittish as a foal on the way home, something obviously having upset her. Sprites of Satan, some of those children were. But it gave emphasis to his standing, the horse and trap. He must remember that in the future when dealing with such as Mrs Woodrow.

  In the last few minutes, the sleet had turned into fat flakes of snow which were beginning to settle as the temperature dropped, but Jeremiah’s mind was on something more serious than the weather as he reached his front door. The reverence given to a man of the cloth such as he, was surely a courtesy of the utmost importance and he could not, he would not allow the common rabble to display such impertinence. For their own sakes. Where would society find itself, if dishonour and insolence were allowed free rein? The Woodrow woman’s indictments against the shipyard owners – several of whom he counted among his personal friends – could not be tolerated. It was his clear Christian duty to have a quiet word in the necessary ears. It stood to reason, if the father had been stirring up anarchy within his own home, the sons must be tainted with the same brush. The old grandmother couldn’t have come to such conclusions on her own, she was merely a woman, after all. She must have heard talk. Rebellious talk.

  Jeremiah breathed in deeply, exhaling slowly as he turned to look back over the pebbled drive and neatly manicured lawns and flowerbeds either side of it. The vicarage was a substantial building of three storeys and set in half-an-acre of ground. It was situated a few hundred yards from the main village, the church rising up behind it like a sentinel keeping watch over the grids of streets running down to the River Wear. He had been born in the master bedroom thirty-eight years ago, and apart from his time at ecclesiastical college he had never lived anywhere else. Just weeks after he had left college, his father had contracted cholera from one of his parishioners in Low Southwick, and within days he had died, his mother passing away of the same disease within the week. Jeremiah had remained in good health, something he had felt was God’s provision, especially when the bishop of the diocese, a family friend, had made it plain he wished him to continue in his father’s place.

  Taking off his hat, Jeremiah banged it against his leg before turning and opening the front door. Immediately a strong smell of beeswax and lavender oil met his nostrils, and as he stepped into the tiled hall he exhaled again, this time with a feeling of satisfaction. His home was one of order and discipline – he would not tolerate anything else – and with his wife being of like mind, their existence together was harmonious. When the bishop had made it clear he expected Jeremiah to find a wife post-haste in view of his changed circumstances, introducing his niece at a dinner party shortly afterwards, Jeremiah had taken the hint and within twelve months he and Mary were wed. It didn’t matter to him that Mary was plain and severe in outlook – probably the reason she’d had no suitors at the age of twenty-five – she was domesticated and of good breeding and perfectly suited to her role as a vicar’s wife.

  Such was his passionless nature he could have continued quite happily through life without a mate, but he had performed his husbandly obligations every so often and in due course Mary had given birth to their son, John, five years after they were married – a respectable interval, they had both felt. Matthew had followed two years later, and the twins, David and Patience, four years after that. By unspoken mutual agreement they had decided that their procreation function in the sight of God was adequately discharged, and both had felt relief that that side of marriage – obligatory but slightly distasteful – was over.

  He was taking his coat off when Bridget, their little maid, came through the door at the end of the hall which opened into a corridor leading to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. His father had employed a cook and a maid, and Jeremiah had grown up in a very comfortable household along with his sister Esther, but his initial salary as a young vicar had not been such to afford servants. When he had married Mary, the bishop had seen to it that his niece could continue to live in the manner to which
she was accustomed, and so Bridget, her mother Kitty who was cook and father Patrick who took care of the grounds and any odd jobs, had joined them. That had been twelve years ago and Jeremiah didn’t pay the little family a penny more than when he had first taken them on. He considered that they were adequately fed and clothed and had a roof over their heads; their wage was something he secretly resented.

  Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed as he registered the start the little maid gave when she saw him, and as she scurried to his side he could see something was amiss.

  ‘Oh, sir, we didn’t know you were back,’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘The mistress asked me to keep an eye open for you, but then she wanted some more hot water for the pot and—’

  ‘What is it?’ He had no patience with Bridget’s gabbling; the girl was a constant irritation to him, but thankfully it was Mary who mostly dealt with the servants.

  ‘It’s her, sir. The – the lady who’s in with the mistress. She says . . .’ Here Bridget’s speech seemed to fail her and she gaped at him for a moment, before continuing, ‘She says she’s your sister, come to visit, sir.’

  Jeremiah’s sharp ears didn’t miss the infinitesimal pause. He stared into the earnest rosy-cheeked face, his mind racing. Esther? Esther had come home? But it had been fifteen years and no word. Not that he, or his parents before they had passed away, had wanted one, not after the note she had left saying she intended to go on the stage. They had told no one of that, of course. His father had let it be known that his daughter had gone abroad for her health, and after a suitable time had intimated that she had decided to live permanently in warmer climes.

  Becoming aware that Bridget was waiting for him to speak, he pulled himself together. ‘I see.’ He glanced at the silver hot-water jug which had been part of the fine tea set the bishop had bought the happy couple as a wedding gift. ‘Take that into your mistress and tell her I’ll be along shortly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Bridget seemed glad her duty was done, whirling round and scampering across the polished tiles to the drawing room even before he had finished speaking.

  The drawing room and morning room were on the ground floor of the vicarage. The first floor was taken up with the dining room, Jeremiah’s study and the children’s schoolroom. The top floor consisted of six bedrooms, with a less grand and space-consuming staircase than that which connected the ground and first floor.

  Jeremiah had visited more lavish premises when calling on clergy friends, but also many less spacious, and overall he was pleased at the accident of birth which had destined him to live in the vicarage after his parents had died. When they had been alive the morning room had been the dining room, and his mother’s sewing room had occupied the present dining room on the first floor. On entering the house, Mary had immediately declared that an informal sitting room on the ground floor was essential. His position dictated a morning room where Jeremiah could see parishioners in private, or she could receive women friends who called for morning refreshments. He hadn’t argued. And so their meals had to come up one flight of stairs and be kept hot, which involved placing serving dishes in scalding water and perfect timing when a dinner party was in progress. But that was Kitty and Bridget’s problem. Servants were readily available, and could usually be replaced without difficulty if they failed to meet the required standards.

  Jeremiah eased his starched clerical collar and smoothed the strands of sparse ginger hair either side of his head before looking towards the drawing-room door. He felt no excitement at the prospect of his sister’s return, merely anxiety. Esther had been a wayward child, given to flights of fancy and extreme precociousness, and as she had grown, so had her brashness. She had run rings round their mother, and her boldness with his friends had caused him much embarrassment. She had possessed none of the modest virtues appropriate for the daughter of a well-to-do vicar, and had stated quite emphatically that she had no intention of becoming the decorative wife of a boring provincial husband but would follow her own star. He had put much of her prattle down to her youth, but when she had skedaddled at the tender age of fifteen it hadn’t come as much of a surprise to him, although their parents had been mortified.

  His brows drew together. And now the black sheep of the family was sitting in the drawing room with his wife, who knew nothing of the true circumstances surrounding Esther. He had been too ashamed to tell Mary the truth. The door to the drawing room opened and Bridget re-emerged, the girl’s expression changing to one of wariness as she saw him still standing there. He beckoned her over with a crooked finger and when she was standing in front of him, said tersely, ‘The children? Where are they?’

  ‘Me da’s lookin’ after ’em in the schoolroom for the present, sir. The mistress said for me to go and take over once I’d served tea.’

  ‘And have you served tea?’

  ‘Aye. I mean yes, sir. I have.’

  ‘Then go and do what your mistress told you.’

  Jeremiah waited until Bridget had disappeared upstairs before walking across the hall. He opened the drawing-room door with a flourish and stepped inside.

  Chapter 2

  Esther had scarcely been able to believe it when after knocking on the door of the vicarage and demanding to see Mrs Hutton, a stranger had come into the morning room where the maid had shown her. She had stared at the thin, colourless woman in front of her and the woman had stared back, before taking a deep breath and saying, ‘You wish to see me?’ her tone making it quite clear she did not expect the meeting to last long.

  The woman’s barely concealed distaste had the effect of straightening Esther’s backbone and lifting her chin, but behind her cool facade her mind was racing. Where was her mother? Had her father married again? He must have. But to this frump? And if her father had taken a second wife, that must mean her mother had died.

  The woman hadn’t asked her to sit down and Esther’s swollen feet were aching and her back breaking, but she gave no sign of her physical discomfort when she answered the usurper in an equally cold tone, ‘I was expecting to see my mother. I am Esther. Perhaps my father has spoken of me?’

  ‘Your father?’ For a moment the steely poise faltered but imm ediately the woman collected herself, gesturing at one of the small armchairs in the room as she said, ‘Please be seated. Am I to understand you are Jeremiah’s sister?’

  Esther continued to stand straight and still as she inclined her head. Jeremiah. Of course. This pikestaff of a woman must be Jeremiah’s wife. ‘Where are my mother and father?’ she asked quietly but fearing the answer.

  Mary was at a loss for perhaps the first time in her life. When Bridget had knocked on the door of the schoolroom where she was listening to John and Matthew’s tutor, Mr Maxwell, take the boys through the alphabet after she had settled the twins for their afternoon nap, and told her they had a visitor, she had excused herself forthwith and followed the maid on to the landing. There she had been slightly nonplussed when Bridget had practically barred her way, whispering, ‘Ma’am, it’s a – a lady – an’ she’s expectin’ a bairn. I thought you ought to know.’

  Something in the way the maid had spoken had caused her to lower her own voice. ‘A lady from hereabouts?’

  ‘I don’t think so, ma’am. At least I’ve never seen her afore an’ she’s dressed . . .’ Here Bridget seemed to be searching for the right words. ‘She’s not dressed like folk round here, ma’am. And she wouldn’t say her name. Just repeated all haughty-like for me to fetch you.’

  ‘All right, Bridget.’ Mary had thought quickly. ‘I will see this lady but come immediately I ring for you.’

  And now it appeared that their visitor was none other than Jeremiah’s sister who, she understood, was living somewhere on the continent having made an impetuous marriage to a Frenchman without asking her parents’ permission and thus incurring their wrath. When Mary had ventured a suggestion, shortly before they had wed, that Jeremiah might like to extend an olive branch to his sister now his parents had gone, and invite
her and her husband to the wedding, he had not welcomed the idea, and the subject was never discussed again.

  Making a swift decision, Mary forced a smile. ‘Shall we go through to the drawing room where it’s more comfortable?’ she said graciously. ‘And I’m sure it’s time for afternoon tea. We can talk in front of the fire.’

  She only noticed the large carpet bag when Esther bent to pick it up, and said immediately, ‘Leave that. Bridget will see to it shortly.’

  All that had been over two hours ago. Now, as Mary glanced at her husband as he entered the drawing room, her hazel eyes were chips of flecked ice and her lips a thin line across her face. She was angry, more angry than she had ever been in the whole of her life.

  Jeremiah had lied to her. Not only that, this sister of his was an actress in the music halls in the city of London. Everyone knew what that meant. Actresses were scarlet women soliciting from the stage rather than the streets, and the music halls were beds of iniquity. She had known there was no husband once Esther had begun to divulge her story, and it had only taken a few searching questions to persuade Jeremiah’s sister to admit it. And this – this woman was her children’s aunt, related to them by blood. The whole situation was quite intolerable.

  After one look at his wife, Jeremiah didn’t glance her way again as he walked across the room, his eyes on the sister he hadn’t seen for fifteen years. In truth, he wouldn’t have recognised her if he had passed her in the street. The Esther who had run away that far-off day with the money from his mother’s cash-box and several pieces of jewellery which had been passed down to his mother from her mother, bore no resemblance to the plump, brightly dressed woman sitting on the sofa next to Mary. If he had had to describe the girl Esther he would have said she was pert and saucy, but with a fresh innocence that reflected a sheltered upbringing. The woman in front of him, her gown cut to show the curve of her breasts and her golden hair carefully styled in elaborate waves and curls, was neither innocent nor fresh. Her worldliness was apparent in every inch of her, but especially in the expression of her violet-blue eyes.