Daughters of Rebecca Read Free Page B

and I was glad to have her off my hands.’
    â€˜I don’t believe that for one minute,’ Llinos said. She pulled at the tips of her gloves and handed them to the maid who hovered, waiting to take her coat.
    â€˜Shanni, how nice to see you again. Are you well?’ She studied the girl, who was sombre in a long black skirt covered with a pristine apron. ‘You’re certainly looking very grand.’
    She felt in that moment that she shared a common bond with the girl: they had both been orphaned, had struggled to survive. Llinos remembered the old days when her father had gone to the war against Napoleon. Her mother had been feckless, unable to control her own life, letalone keep a business afloat. After her mother died, Llinos had tackled the future with courage – courage that seemed to have deserted her now.
    She watched as Shanni left the room. She was so pretty with her red hair, tied back in a knot now and covered with a cap as befitted a servant girl.
    â€˜How is she settling?’
    â€˜Shanni, you mean? She’s done very well in the few weeks she’s been here. Now, let me tell you all about London.’
    Eynon was bent on talking about his trip and Llinos smiled indulgently. It would be good for her to listen: the trivia of court life would be a distraction from her own, often uncomfortable, thoughts.
    Shanni Price returned to the kitchen and sat down near the window. She had taken to occupying this particular chair when she had some time off from work. From it she could look down at the sea rolling away below her, and think of things more important than being lady’s maid to the precocious Jayne when she was at home and maid-of-all-work when she was not.
    â€˜Don’t sit there dreaming, girl!’ Mrs Pollard was the housekeeper and wielded her power over the other servants with great enthusiasm. She glanced at the cook. ‘Any tea going spare, Mrs Davies?’
    â€˜I’ll warm the pot,’ Mrs Davies said obligingly. It paid to keep in with Mrs Pollard.
    â€˜It’s my day off,’ Shanni said. ‘I shouldn’t be working at all, though I don’t suppose Mr Morton-Edwards even notices I’m here.’
    â€˜Why on earth should he notice a jumped-up little serving wench?’ Mrs Pollard’s tongue could be acid on occasions. She turned her attention to the cook. ‘I just do not understand the young people of today, Mrs Davies, do you?’
    The woman uttered something unintelligible and Shanni hid a smile. Mrs Davies was quite old, of course, almost thirty-five, and a widow, but even so she was far younger than the housekeeper, who would not see fifty again.
    â€˜Going to meetings, talking about violence.’ Mrs Pollard was on her soap-box. ‘Decent women should know their place. Didn’t we have enough trouble in ’thirty-four when the Poor Law came in? A riot there was in Brecon, and the Swansea Yeomanry sent to sort it out. Brought back dead, some of them.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to, these days.’
    Shanni remained silent. What did the old woman know of injustice? She had spent her life waiting on rich folk. She had not known the shame of poverty or of being alone in the world. Shanni was not so fortunate: she had been born in a hovel, had learned to hate the way society treated the poor in general and women in particular.
    â€˜Well, what have you to say for yourself, Shanni Price?’ She sniffed. ‘Who would call a girl Shanni, I ask you? A fancy enough name for a child from the slums, wouldn’t you say?’
    Shanni remained silent. What use was there in talking? Action was needed: action against the rich, action against the men who wielded power. She had heard only yesterday about poor Sally Jones. The girl was only twelve years old and aprostitute. She had been dragged to the sessions not because of her trade but because she dared to take