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.