Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Read online

  Someone played the harmonium and I started to cry, because I’d heard the same doleful tune at Mama’s funeral. There was always a sadness about me now because I missed her so much, but the solemn music made the sadness spread until I wanted to cast myself down on the stone floor and sob despairingly. However, I knew what Eliza would say if I did, and so I remained upright and decorous, though I couldn’t stop the tears splashing down my face.

  Mother leaned against me and stabbed awkwardly at my knee with her hand. She seemed to be trying to comfort me, in spite of her own grief and affliction. I was so moved that I hugged her hard, without caring a jot whether I was making a spectacle of myself or not.

  Jem flashed a ghostly smile, but he too was struggling to stay composed. He had been so strong and manly before, but now, in church, with Father in his coffin in front and Mother keening beside us, Jem seemed to be losing all his mature authority. His shoulders slumped and his chin started shaking. He closed his eyes as if desperate to keep them in place inside his lids. He was holding a piece of paper covered in his own clear round handwriting. He looked at it again and again, his hands shaking.

  We had to sing the first hymn, ‘Praise My Soul the King of Heaven’. We had sung it regularly at the hospital chapel, so I was word perfect and didn’t need a hymn book. I did not have a very fine voice. It was a little shrill – but I sang loudly even so because Mother could not sing herself and Jem was so troubled that not a sound came out, though he was mouthing the words.

  Then the parson read from the Bible and we said a prayer. We seemed to be rattling through the service without mishap. But then the parson paused and looked directly at Jem in the front pew. ‘Now we will have the eulogy,’ he said.

  Jem clutched his piece of paper convulsively and got to his feet. He was very pale and shaking more than ever. He looked at Father’s coffin, he looked at Mother in the pew. He had to screw up his face to prevent himself from sobbing aloud.

  ‘Oh, Jem,’ I said, and as he brushed past I clasped his clammy hand and squeezed it hard.

  Jem barely seemed aware of my touch. He groped his way to the front and stood squarely in front of the congregation, legs braced to stop them trembling. He held his piece of paper out in front of him and tried to speak, though his head was jerking hard in an effort to control his sobs.

  We all waited, our hearts beating fast. Even Mother sat still as a statue, her eyes fixed on Jem.

  He still said nothing, though we could see he was trying desperately – but he didn’t dare risk it. If he started talking about Father, he’d lose all self-control and start weeping like a baby in front of everyone. I might not have seen Jem for nine long years, but I knew him through and through. I’d seen him struggling not to cry as a child. I’d seen his shame when he lost the battle.

  I looked around desperately, but everyone was stuck to their seats, not a soul coming to his rescue. Then I would!

  I stood up, leaned Mother against Eliza, and shot out of the pew to stand beside Jem.

  ‘Sit down,’ I said to him imploringly, but he seemed unable to move. Then I coughed and stood as tall as I could manage, my hands clasped behind my back.

  ‘My name is Hetty Feather,’ I said, for it was pointless trying to be Sapphire Battersea or Emerald Star in this village where I’d spent my little girlhood. ‘Perhaps you remember me. I am so pleased and proud to be part of the Cotton family, though they are not my blood relatives. Dear Mother brought up many of us foundling babes.’

  There was a little intake of breath from the congregation. People still said the very word ‘foundling’ in hushed tones, with a raise of the eyebrows, as if it were synonymous with ‘child of sin’. Well, even if I was exactly that, I would show them that I could do my Christian duty and give Father a eulogy to be proud of.

  ‘I have my own dear mama, but very sadly she has passed away. I have my own dear father too and have recently got to know him well. But I’ve been doubly fortunate to have two sets of parents. Though Peg and John Cotton were only my foster parents, they brought me up with the abundant love and care they gave to their own children.

  ‘As you know, Father worked hard upon the farm. His strength and stamina were legendary and he toiled willingly all day long, a giant among men. When he came home at the end of each long day, you would expect him to call for his supper and then demand a little well-deserved peace – but no, he spent his evenings happy to chat and play with us children. He’d sit me on his knee and play “This is the way the ladies ride”, and then he’d trot me up and down. When he got to the exciting “gallopy-gallopy-gallopy” part I’d shriek with excitement, feeling as if he and I were truly galloping across the countryside together. When I’d been a bad girl – and I’m sure the family will vouch for the fact that this was frequently – Father would take me to one side and be a little stern with me, so that I’d hang my head in shame, but he never struck any of us, though I’m sure I certainly deserved it.

  ‘When I was tired each night I would curl up on Father’s lap and he would tell me a story. He would gather us all around his knee and tell us tales of the lark he’d heard singing that morning, the baby foal out in the fields, the first pink blossoms on the cherry trees.

  ‘Father’s body is there in the coffin in front of us, but I like to think he is already in Heaven, singing along with the lark, petting that foal and walking under the flowering cherry trees.’

  I stopped speaking and looked at the listening congregation a little anxiously. I expected them to be frowning and shaking their heads at my impromptu speech, but to my immense surprise and gratification they were all staring at me, rapt, with tears in their eyes. Even Eliza was dabbing away with a handkerchief, overcome. I looked at Jem. Thank goodness he was now totally composed. He put his arm round me, squeezed my shoulder tightly, and then led me back to the front pew.

  No one clapped because this was a funeral in a church and of course it wouldn’t be seemly – but I could see that if we were in any other venue they’d be cheering me to the rafters.

  13

  THE FUNERAL FEAST back in the cottage was an absolute triumph. It seems dreadful to describe it thus. Of course we were all very sad. Father was much mourned and Mother totally pitied. Most of the mourners were in tears when Father was taken out into the graveyard and buried in the newly dug grave. All his true kin children threw specially ordered hothouse roses – from the gardener up at the manor – onto the coffin as a mark of respect.

  There was no rose left over for me, so I scattered a handful of Michaelmas daisies instead. Yes, that was a time of great weeping – but within an hour we had all had a glass or two of cowslip wine and felt considerably cheered. It was the first time I’d ever tried wine. I didn’t care for the taste at all. It was much too syrupy, with a dark flavour that made me shudder – but I liked the effect it had. The tight clench in my chest eased and I felt as good and welcome as anyone under that thatched roof – more so, in fact, because folk gathered round me in little clusters and praised my eulogy, saying how much it had moved them.

  ‘You said it all so perfectly, Hetty. It was truly poetic,’ said dear kind Janet. ‘And you spoke out so clearly too, in front of everyone. I could never have done such a thing. Jem was clearly grateful to you, when he was so choked with emotion he couldn’t get the words out.’

  Jem was recovered enough to speak up for himself now. ‘You said such splendid things, Hetty, simple yet so true, picturing it all so beautifully. I am glad now I couldn’t read out my own words. They weren’t a patch on yours, even though I had days to write down all my thoughts. You’re a little star.’

  ‘Oh, Jem, remember! Madame Adeline called me that the day the circus came,’ I said.

  ‘Because I’d bought you a gingerbread and stuck the star to your forehead,’ said Jem.

  ‘Oh, you do remember!’

  ‘I remember everything about you, Hetty. You’re my own dear sister,’ he said, so warmly.

  Jem’s real sisters were