Twice the coach driver and a youngish man who had joined their party at Washington had to dig the wheels free, and all the time one of the passengers, a middle-aged lady who reminded Sophy of her aunt, lamented the fact that she had not made the journey by train. Everyone else silently lamented that she hadn’t done so too.
They arrived in Bishopwearmouth in an early winter twilight, and the coach driver wasn’t the only one who breathed a sigh of relief that they’d reached their destination. He was anxious to get the tired horses settled in their stables at the back of the Maritime Alms Houses between Crowtree Road and Maritime Place and hurry home to the hot meal his wife would have waiting. Sophy knew she’d have to walk the rest of the way, crossing the Wearmouth Bridge into Monkwearmouth and turning west into Southwick. Normally she would have enjoyed the freedom of being out by herself, but with the atrocious weather and having to carry her heavy valise, it wasn’t such an adventure. When Patience had still been at school with her, her uncle had taken and fetched them every time, but as soon as she had been on her own this convenience had stopped and she had been dispatched to and from the vicarage by courtesy of public transport. Again, she hadn’t minded this, since anything was preferable to spending time in her uncle’s company, but tonight it would have been nice to have made the journey in comfort, door to door.
Once she had said goodbye to her fellow travellers, however, she squared her shoulders, picked up her valise and began to trudge through the snow which now reached the top of the neat, above-the-ankle button boots which all Miss Bainbridge’s young ladies had to wear. She had left Crowtree Road and turned into High Street West and then Bridge Street, and was approaching the bridge, when a voice calling her name caused her to turn and blink through the snowflakes.
‘Sophy, I thought it was you.’ Matthew came panting up behind her, his face beaming. ‘Here, let me take that,’ he added, whisking her valise out of her hand before hugging her. ‘You’ve picked a good day to come home.’
‘Matthew, what are you doing here?’ She was so glad to see him; the walk to the vicarage had appeared a huge battle just moments ago. Now it was fun.
‘We’ve all been sent home early because of the snow.’ He tucked her arm through his. ‘Frightful, isn’t it? Everyone’s saying it’s going to be a bad winter, but then they always say that and it mostly is.’ He grinned at her. The snow had settled on his hat and overcoat, but he looked every inch the young gentleman, and she was suddenly aware he wasn’t Matthew the schoolboy any longer but a grown man earning his living. She couldn’t have been more proud of him if he was her brother.
‘Come on,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You can tell me all you’ve been doing and I’ll fill you in on the latest at home. Did you know John is courting and it’s serious? Her name is Flora Irvin and she’s a miner’s daughter.’ His voice hardened. ‘Mother’s throwing a blue fit but John’s determined she’s the one, and Flora’s a lovely girl.’
A miner’s daughter. Sophy could imagine how that had gone down with her aunt. She was forever parading the daughters of her friends in front of the boys, listing their pedigrees as though the girls were cows at the cattle-market. Superior cows though. ‘How long has John been seeing her?’
‘Ages, apparently, but he had more sense than to let on. One of Mother’s friends saw them at the Palace a few weeks ago though, and the game was up. I’d told him it was only a matter of time.’
‘You knew then?’
‘He told me in the summer when I left law college. I’ve been his alibi a few times.’
He grinned at her again and although Sophy smiled back, part of her was saddened. John and Matthew, probably David too, didn’t like their mother. She’d known it for some time. Worse, they didn’t love her either. She would have given the world for her own mother to have been alive, but then, her mother wouldn’t have been like Mary Hutton. How could anyone love her aunt? But her uncle must have done at one time or else he wouldn’t have married her.
‘Flora’s got a sister,’ Matthew added, deadpan.
‘Matthew?’ Sophy stopped dead, staring at him.
‘Verity’s her name and she’s seventeen years old and just . . . perfect. I haven’t mentioned her at home yet, though. I thought I’d let the heat over John die down a bit first.’ Matthew started walking again, drawing her along with him. ‘What do you think?’