Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Read online

‘Hey, hey! Not so fast! What about our agreement? Come back here!’ he yelled.

  I ran fast, in spite of my pain – through the gate, full tilt towards the startled woman. ‘Mother!’ I shouted again. Then I whispered to her, ‘Please, please, pretend you’re my mother. I have to get away from that awful man!’

  She stared at me, she glanced at him – and then, wonder of wonders, she clasped me in her arms. ‘My little daughter!’ she said, and she embraced me close, along with an armful of wet shirts and combinations.

  ‘Come back here, you little vixen,’ the man shouted. ‘You owe me!’

  ‘I gave him all the money I had for a lift to the village but now he wants me to kiss him too,’ I gabbled.

  ‘Then he’s a dirty old man,’ said the woman, and she shook her big fist at him. ‘Be off with you, you vile old fool,’ she shouted. ‘Trying to steal kisses from my girl! And you old enough to be her grandfather! Just wait till my menfolk get to hear of this! They’ll poke you with their pitchforks till you look like a human colander. Be off with you!’

  The old man waited a few seconds, his whole face contorted with rage. Then he shouted out a whole stream of rude and abusive words, spat furiously, urged his horse round, and went back down the village lane.

  ‘Well, he’s no gentleman!’ said the washerwoman, laughing. ‘Whatever were you doing, cosying up to a dirty old varmint like that!’

  ‘It was needs must, missus,’ I said. ‘I’d never have got here otherwise. Thank you so very much.’

  ‘So who are you, girl? It seems like you know the village, yet I’d have remembered that red hair of yours if you’d grown up in these parts.’

  ‘I did grow up here, until I was five. I’m John and Peg Cotton’s foster child,’ I said.

  ‘Oh my Lord! Then you’re here for the funeral tomorrow? Such a shame – John was such a good man, and so gentle, even though he was so big. My, it’ll be a hard job fitting that fine figure of a man into a coffin. And poor Peg’s been taken bad too, I hear. It’ll be a house of sorrow right enough. I don’t know how they’ll manage.’

  ‘Well, I am going to do my best to care for everyone,’ I said. ‘Jem wrote and begged me to come.’

  ‘Ah, Jem,’ said the woman. ‘He’s a lovely lad, steady as they come. They’re lucky to have a young man like that in the family.’

  ‘I know,’ I said proudly. ‘Jem and I were always particularly close. Well, I had better go to them now. Thank you so much for rescuing me.’ I twitched my skirt up and stepped round the little pool of spittle, and then hobbled on my way, leaving her to hang up her damp washing.

  I walked back through the village. It already felt familiar to me. Whenever I saw someone in their garden or watching from a window, I gave them a merry wave, though they all seemed startled. I longed for someone to exclaim, Why, it’s Hetty! Dear little Hetty who used to skip about and play in the stream! but I seemed a stranger to everyone.

  11

  I HURRIED ONWARDS, in spite of my sore ankle, desperate to reach the cottage now. I turned down the pathway and made for the little door, half hidden by the tangle of honeysuckle and cluster roses, though none were flowering now. The only flowers in the November garden were Michaelmas daisies, a whole abundant purple bed of them. My floral posy seemed pointless now.

  I could hear a hum of talk inside the cottage. I was suddenly too timid to march straight in. The door did not have a knocker, so I rapped on it with my knuckles. I waited, standing on my good leg. Then the door opened and a stout young woman stood there.

  She stared at me. ‘Yes?’ she said, frowning.

  ‘It’s me, Hetty,’ I said hoarsely.

  To my horror she looked blank.

  ‘You are . . . Rosie?’ I said.

  ‘Yes I am. But I’m afraid it’s not a good time for visiting. My father’s to be buried tomorrow and the family’s gathering.’

  ‘I’m family. Surely you remember me, Rosie? Gideon and I came together when we were babies in a basket.’

  She stared at me. ‘Oh my Lord, you’re one of the foundlings! What are you doing here? Have you run away from the hospital?’

  ‘I left the hospital long ago,’ I said. Though it was only last spring it certainly seemed long ago. ‘I have been living with my own dear father. Did Jem not tell you? Where is Jem?’

  ‘He’s working on the farm,’ said Rosie. ‘He’ll not be home till dark.’

  ‘Dear Jem! He’s always so conscientious. Imagine working at a time like this,’ I said.

  Rosie looked at me strangely, as if she thought it queer I should know anything about Jem.

  ‘Well then, Hetty, you’d better come in,’ she said. ‘It’s a good job you’re so small. We can scarcely squeeze anyone else into the cottage.’

  I followed her inside and saw that she was not exaggerating. A big circle of women were squashed together in the living room, sitting on an assortment of chairs and small bales of hay, all sewing, while little children played all about them, and twin baby boys toddled back and forth, grabbing at the shining needles.

  ‘Stop that, you two! Naughty! You’ll hurt yourselves,’ said their mother, swiping at them. They dodged her, squealing with merry laughter. ‘I’ll give you a good caning before you’re much older, you bad boys!’ she said.

  ‘Eliza!’

  She turned and peered at me. When we were all little, Eliza had fancied herself a teacher. She’d made Jem and Gideon and Saul and Martha and me chant The Good Child’s ABC, and if we stumbled, she’d caned us with a twig and sent us to stand in the corner.

  ‘I’m Hetty,’ I said, limping over to her. ‘Don’t you remember me either, Eliza?’

  I was devastated. I had felt such a part of this family. How could Rosie have totally forgotten me – not even remember my name? But Eliza was nodding now.

  ‘Ah, Hetty, you were the little naughty one!’ she said. ‘Always stamping your foot and screaming. Well, welcome home, dear, though it’s a sad time for all of us.’

  I looked around all the women in the sewing circle. There were several who were elderly, holding their sewing close up to their eyes, their fingers swollen at the knuckles, but none looked at all like Mother.

  ‘Where’s poor Mother?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh dear. She’s upstairs in her bed. Bess is tending her. She’s . . . she’s not well, Hetty,’ said Eliza.

  A little ripple of sympathy went through all the women. They clucked and shook their heads and murmured.

  ‘I will go to her,’ I said. I limped over to the steep staircase.

  Eliza watched me, looking puzzled. ‘You’re the one with the bad leg – yet I thought that was one of the boys,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, that was Saul,’ I said. ‘He had a bad leg from birth and limped all the time.’

  ‘Oh, poor lamb,’ said Eliza vaguely.

  She didn’t remember Saul either. Oh Lord, this was so terrible. We had all looked on this cottage as our true home and on these people as our family. Yet to these two Cotton sisters we were dim memories at best, pitiable little foundlings, interchangeable with each other.

  Well, Jem remembered me vividly enough, didn’t he? And my foster mother would surely remember me too. She had lavished such loving care on all of us. She had taken particular care with me. I was never her favourite (that was strange, shy Gideon, who always needed special protection), but she did her best to give me lots of cuddles – and lots of correction too. I had been paddled hard throughout my little girlhood, but I dare say I deserved it.

  ‘Mother!’ I called as I scrabbled up the shaky stairs.

  The curtains were drawn as a mark of respect so her room was very dark and smelled mustily of dried lavender and rose petals. There was the large bed I remembered, with someone lying in it, and a figure on a chair by their side. But there seemed to be another bed too – thin and long. I stumbled nearer, and then gasped when I realized it was an open coffin.

  I stared fearfully inside. There was just the flickering light o