Sixty! She sighed as she thought back over her life. It hadn’t started so well – she had been left on the steps of the Union Workhouse as a newborn – but things had improved when she had finally been reunited with her birth mother. And then there was Tom, the love of her life. She still adored him as much as she had the day she had married him, if not more. As if thoughts of him had conjured him from thin air, he suddenly stuck his head round the door and gave her a cheeky wink.

‘All right, sweetheart? Hope you’re not working too hard?’

Sunday laughed as she waved him away. ‘Oh, be off with you and let me get this done.’

He grinned and blew her a kiss, and once he was gone, she tried to concentrate on the job in hand again. It was hard to believe she was this old, but then she supposed age caught up with everyone in the end and Tom had always assured her she didn’t look it. Glancing towards the mirror, she stroked her fair hair as if to convince herself that he was speaking the truth. It was streaked with grey at the temples now, but her eyes were still a clear, bright blue, and apart from a few lines around them and her mouth, her face was still attractive. Livvy took after her in looks, with her fair colouring, whereas Tom’s son, Ben, was dark, and as he had matured had become the double of his father. And then there was their adored Kathy, who at nearly twelve was the double of her mother, Kitty. Sunday and Tom had brought Kitty up from a baby and had loved her as their own, until she left them at sixteen to join her birth mother in London. Once there, Kitty had become the darling of the music halls – but her pretty face and vulnerable nature had made her a target for an unscrupulous man. When she had finally returned to Treetops, she was heartbroken and hiding a secret. She tragically died giving birth to an illegitimate daughter, and it had come as no surprise to anyone when Sunday and Tom had adopted her baby too.

Smiling, Sunday turned her attention back to the invitations – but she had barely started to write again when the door burst open and Cissie Jenkins, her long-term friend, burst unceremoniously into the room, all of aflutter.

‘You’d best come straight away, pet,’ Cissie gasped, holding her hand to the stitch in her side. ‘My George says Tom has had a fall in the paddock. I’ve sent Ben off for Dr Lewis.’

Whereas time had been kind to Sunday, Cissie looked her age and had grown portly with the years. Their friendship had started when they were both children incarcerated in the Union Workhouse, and had withstood the test of time until now they were more like sisters than friends, and Sunday loved her unconditionally.