Not that the stone house they now resided in was dirty, but the windows were dulled from salt borne on the sea air, and a film of pale grey dust had settled on the furniture. It was one of the finer houses in Portland, built for one of the quarry owners, and sold to David’s uncle, Richard Lind, when the quarry had changed hands. Pride in having her own home to care for had filled Tilda with the urge to see the place gleam, and she wanted to stamp her own mark on it. She would sew some new curtains and cushion covers, she thought happily. And she’d sit by her own fireside on winter evenings and make a patchwork quilt for Grace’s bed, as she had once sat and sewn with Anna Rushmore and Joanna all those years ago. ‘Grace, you can dust the furniture and windowsill in your own little room. I’ll help you make the bed when you’ve finished.’ Tilda had given Grace the room Joanna had slept in when she’d worked as a housemaid for David’s late uncle.
