‘How can I help you?’ she asked then. Mrs Conway and her mother were friends and knew each other well, but Sunday had never known the woman to visit before although she was most welcome.

‘Actually, I came because of this, dear.’ The woman began to delve into a voluminous bag and after a few moments she extracted a rather crumpled envelope. ‘This came to the workhouse two days ago; it’s addressed to your husband. I’m sorry I couldn’t get it to you before.’

‘To Tom?’ Sunday took the envelope and turned it over. It was indeed addressed to him, care of the Nuneaton Union Workhouse although the postmark was smudged and quite indistinguishable. But who would be writing to him there? It was many years since he had left. Nevertheless, she thanked the woman for delivering the letter and they went on to talk about the new bathrooms that were being installed at the workhouse. It was all very exciting and as Sunday listened to Mrs Conway’s enthusiasm she couldn’t help wishing that this kindly soul had been the mistress there when she and Tom had been in residence instead of the evil Miss Frost.

Ethel wheeled a trolley in with a selection of Cook’s fresh baked biscuits and a large pot of hot chocolate, and the two women continued to chat amiably until Mrs Conway reluctantly declared, ‘Well, I really should be going, dear.’

‘Oh please, let Ben give you a lift back,’ Sunday said. ‘He’s going into town anyway and it’s hardly out of his way.’

‘In that case thank you kindly, dear.’ Mrs Conway chuckled. ‘I must admit the walk was a little farther than I’d thought and I’m not getting any younger. I dare say I shall pay for all this exercise tomorrow.’

They said their goodbyes, and after propping Tom’s letter on the mantelshelf, Sunday went back to what she had been doing before her guest arrived. It was after lunch when she and Tom were sitting enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet before she remembered it again, and jumping up from her seat she carried it across to him.

‘A letter for me, delivered to the workhouse?’ He was bemused as he stared at the envelope. ‘I wonder who it could be from.’

‘Well, why don’t you open it and find out?’

He slit the envelope and extracted a sheet of paper and as he began to read, Sunday heard him gasp.

‘What is it?’ she asked, concerned. ‘Is it bad news?’

‘I … I don’t know what to make of it,’ he muttered, then holding it out to her he urged, ‘Read it for yourself.’

Sunday took the paper from his shaking fingers and bent her head to the neat writing on the page.

Dear Tom,

I fear this may come as something of a shock to you after all these years, but as my days on this earth are now numbered I felt I had to share with you the terrible secret I have been forced to keep all this time – and I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me.