Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Read online

  I felt myself flushing.

  ‘Don’t take offence, Hetty. It’s just we couldn’t help hearing you talking on and on to Mother upstairs,’ said Eliza. ‘You scarcely seemed to draw breath.’

  ‘I was telling her stories,’ I said. ‘I just felt it must be terribly sad and lonely for her stuck up there in the dark, not being able to move. What must it be like for her, with Father in his coffin right beside her?’

  ‘Don’t start that talk in front of the children!’ said Eliza. ‘Consider their feelings!’

  Her twin boys were busy playing duck ponds with their broth, floating pieces of bread on the greasy waves, making them go Quack-quack-quack, far too absorbed to pay attention to me.

  Some of the other women were nodding along with Eliza though, glancing anxiously at their children. They were so protective of their little ones – and yet no one seemed to think it odd that Martha and Saul and Gideon and little Eliza and I had been sent off to London when we were only five to be imprisoned in that dread hospital. No one had considered our feelings. I struggled to keep my temper.

  A sweet-faced young woman with a long golden plait reached across the table and patted my hand sympathetically. ‘I’m sure your mother loved your tales, Hetty,’ she said earnestly. ‘I remember Jem telling us all about your stories long ago!’

  ‘Jem talked about me?’ I said, swallowing hard.

  ‘Oh, he was so proud of his little foster sister. He told us how you pictured until he felt he could actually see your castles and wild beasts and fairy lands,’ she said, her face glowing. She was dressed like a girl but there was a womanly air about her. I struggled to remember her.

  ‘Were you at school with our Jem?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I was. He was so kind to me too, always helping me with my lessons. I’m Janet.’

  A little child in petticoats tripped as it ran past, and she caught it up and cuddled it close before it could draw breath to cry.

  ‘And is that your baby?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh no! I’m not married,’ said Janet, and her pale cheeks flushed pink.

  ‘Not yet,’ said one of the other women meaningfully.

  ‘Come now,’ said Rosie, starting to gather up the empty soup bowls. ‘We’ve still so much stitching to do. Hetty, perhaps you could clean the pots for us, while we get on with our sewing?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that – but I’d like to sew too. I’m very good at it,’ I said. ‘I make all my own dresses and can follow any fashion.’

  Some of the girls tittered.

  ‘There’s no need to boast,’ said Rosie.

  I hadn’t meant to boast. I was just trying to make her proud of me and show her I could be useful. I could never seem to say the right thing in company. I hadn’t known how to get along with Katherine and Mina and all the fisher-girls, and now I seemed just as inept with my own folk here.

  Mrs Briskett and Sarah always said I didn’t know my place. I didn’t seem to have a place, even here, where I’d been brought up.

  I attended to all the pots and bowls willingly enough, though it seemed unfair that I should have to act like a servant to everyone else. Eliza then suggested I might take my turn amusing the children. It was easy enough to wriggle out of this task.

  ‘Oh no, Eliza, I might be tempted to tell them a story,’ I said. ‘You had better mind your little boys, while I take your place and sew.’

  That settled her hash. I squeezed myself into the unwieldy sewing circle. It was good I had such a little behind because there was only a tiny three-legged stool to sit on. It made me much smaller than all the others, but I struggled not to feel at a disadvantage.

  I could see we were sewing mourning for the whole family, but there was clearly not enough time or money for head-to-toe black dresses and suits. There was a black jacket to be stitched for Jem, now seemingly the head of the family, and chief mourner. Rosie was stitching one sleeve, Janet the other, while two girls fashioned a side each, and a stout woman called Norah hemmed the back. It was as if Jem himself were lying there in pieces, being lovingly handled by all these women.

  I wanted to stitch Jem’s jacket too, even if it was simply to sew on a few buttons, but there were too many workers already. I was told I could sew wide black bands onto the Sunday best jackets of the rest of the family, or fashion black velvet bows for the children.

  ‘What about Mother’s clothes?’ I asked. ‘Who is stitching them?’

  The women shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘I very much doubt Mother will be able to come to Father’s funeral. She can’t even rise from her bed yet,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Yes, I can see that, but surely we will carry her there, or take her in a cart?’ I said.

  ‘We don’t want her to have another shock,’ said Rosie. ‘She’s better off at home.’

  ‘Is that what Jem thinks?’ I said.

  ‘Well, he’s inclined to think we should get her there at all costs, but I think it’s ridiculous – and it’s Bess and Eliza and me that will have to manage her,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I’m here to manage her too,’ I said. ‘And I think we should do as Jem wishes. Shall I fashion a jacket for her? Oh, do please let me – I know I can do it.’

  ‘There’s not enough time to start from scratch, Hetty, don’t be silly.’

  ‘Then can I trim Mother’s bonnet? She will need to wear it tomorrow, and she will want to show her respect and wear black,’ I said.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, she’s not your mother,’ Eliza snapped as she tried to separate her twins. They had each seized a spare needle and were having a miniature fencing match.

  I felt as if I’d been pricked all over by those very needles.

  ‘I think it’s a very good idea to cover your mother’s bonnet in mourning black,’ said Janet gently. ‘It will be ready for her if she is able to attend tomorrow.’

  Eliza and Rosie raised their eyebrows at each other and sighed, but they fetched me the old bonnet all the same. I cradled it as tenderly as if it were Mother’s head. She had clearly not had a new bonnet for many years. The straw was limp and the material faded and threadbare. I pressed my lips together and reached for a length of black crape and a needle and thread. I was going to fashion Mother a mourning bonnet to be proud of.

  I worked on it all afternoon. I was not content with covering it in crape. I took the black silk mourning-band material and completely lined it, so it would be smooth against Mother’s head. I took the black velvet and made soft new ribbons from it. It was now finely finished, but still very plain and sombre.

  I took another length of black velvet ribbon, cut it into little strips, then fashioned it into a rose. I held it against the bonnet. It looked extremely effective, but a little lonely. I fashioned another and then a third, to be a little black velvet bunch on one side.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Hetty, what are you doing?’ Eliza snatched the bonnet and held it up. ‘Mother’s a sick old woman, not a fancy young girl. She doesn’t need all this frippery. You’re making a guy of her!’

  ‘I am not! I just wanted to make her bonnet less plain. I think I’ve done it splendidly. I’m sure Mother will think so too,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘But Hetty, it’s for a funeral. She can’t wear velvet roses to her own husband’s funeral,’ said Rosie.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Don’t you think it looks grand, like a whole new bonnet?’ I said, my voice trembling.

  ‘Well, it’s all a little pointless anyway, as it’s very unlikely that Mother will be able to go,’ said Rosie.

  I bent my head over the bonnet, cradling it on my lap. I didn’t want them to see the childish tears in my eyes. I’d tried so hard and I’d been so sure they’d be impressed by my millinery skills.

  ‘I think you made a simply beautiful job of the bonnet,’ said a soft voice.

  It was my new friend Janet. She stroked the silk of the lining and ran her finger gently round the whorl of a velvet rose. ‘It’s just like a bonnet you’d buy in an ex