Emerald Star (Hetty Feather) Read online

  I think I’d almost sooner he’d scolded me. He went to change out of his sodden work clothes and then sat with Mother while I struggled to set myself and the cottage to rights. I served him up a cheese omelette with the salvaged eggs, plus Mrs Maple’s muffins and yet more cake. It was a scrappy meatless meal for a man who’d been labouring hard in the rain all day, but Jem ate it with relish.

  ‘That was so good, Hetty. I’ve never tasted better,’ he said, licking his lips.

  It was as if we were back in our long-ago squirrel tree and he was pretending to eat one of my mud pies.

  ‘Is the squirrel tree still there?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course it is! We’ve been working nearby copse-cutting to make hoops – but I’d never ever let anyone chop down our squirrel tree,’ he said.

  ‘So Eliza liked to play there too?’ I said, still meanly minding that he’d shared our games with my little foster sister.

  ‘I taught her how to keep house there. She enjoyed the game very much. But she couldn’t seem to make it come real the way you did, Hetty. Sometimes when I was with you, it seemed as if we truly lived in that old tree. You had such a way of picturing it.’

  I smiled at him, thrilled.

  ‘Perhaps – perhaps you can picture things for poor Mother. It must be so wretched for her, stuck up there in that dark room all the time. When she’s a little stronger, I’ll see if I can carry her downstairs so she can sit in her chair during the day. But meanwhile, if you could tell her a story or two, it might make such a difference to her, Hetty,’ Jem said earnestly.

  I started picturing for Mother the next day. I washed the sheets and did some cooking, but in between times I sat with her and pictured for both of us. I could not imagine into the future, because I was still not sure what would happen to me, and poor Mother did not seem to have a future. Her present was severely limited, so I pictured the past, constructing Mother’s days when she was young and tireless, Father was bold and strong, and there were little children tumbling around the cottage. I could not help putting myself to the forefront of these tales, elaborating on the day when Gideon and I arrived in a basket, two foundlings for the price of one, ready to join the family for five years.

  ‘Gideon was the good little baby who seldom cried. I was the bad little babe with red hair who yelled her head off,’ I said.

  Mother tried to smile with her poor lopsided face, and started her chant again, trying to join in.

  I pictured for us day after day. When I ran out of memories, I consulted the fat memoir book I’d started keeping when I was ten. I winced at my babyish tone and blushed when I remembered showing my rambling jottings to Miss Smith, sure they were good enough to be published.

  Jem came home unexpectedly with a basket of butter and cheese from the farmer’s wife, and heard me reading aloud. He begged me to carry on, declaring my childish tale a masterpiece. I knew it was nothing of the sort. Still, the story of my life was unusual, to say the least. My former employer, Mr Buchanan, had poured scorn upon my memoir, and yet he had copied it out himself, scarcely changing my words, clearly trying to pass it off as his own work.

  Perhaps I could rewrite the weaker parts myself and try to get it published, in spite of Miss Smith’s forebodings. I was not sure how much money you made out of publishing books, but I thought Mr Charles Dickens had certainly made a fortune. I was reading David Copperfield with enormous enjoyment, but Mother’s attention wandered when I tried it out on her. She preferred my own story because she could relate to those first few chapters.

  Perhaps I would have enough money to keep house in style. Maybe we could even move to another house and live like the Maples. But meanwhile I had no money at all and no means of earning any.

  Jem gave me money to buy necessities – and when I’d stayed a whole month he gave me two shillings from his savings. ‘I’d like you to go to Gillford today. It’s market day and I want you to buy something special. I’ll ask old Molly to sit with Mother and fix for Peter to take you there on the carrier cart,’ he said.

  ‘What have I to buy?’ I said, fingering the two silver coins.

  ‘You must buy a present for yourself, Hetty!’ said Jem. ‘You’ve been so good and kind and uncomplaining. You deserve a special treat.’

  ‘Oh, Jem!’ I said, and I flung my arms around his neck. ‘You’re the one who’s good and kind and uncomplaining, not me!’

  I knew I wasn’t good, and although I tried very hard to be kind to Mother, there were times when I was so tired that I simply lost patience with her and spoke abruptly. And I was far from uncomplaining. When I saw Janet, I frequently moaned about the sheer hard work and monotony of my daily life.

  I did not feel I deserved a present, but I was excited all the same. I was up very early on market day, in time to make Jem a proper breakfast for once. It was a cold frosty morning so I made a big pot of porridge, and set a rabbit stew to cook slowly all day long, plus an onion soup for Molly and Mother.

  ‘You’re turning into a fine little housewife,’ said Jem, eating his porridge appreciatively. I’d sprinkled sugar on it, with a spoonful of cream.

  ‘No I’m not,’ I said at once, though I felt myself blushing.

  ‘In two or three years’ time you’ll be ready to be a real wife,’ Jem said softly.

  Molly came knocking early, so I could leave the cottage with Jem and walk through the village with him. I tucked my hand in his arm and skipped along beside him in my slipshod boots. Jem had carefully patched the soles for me, but he still shook his head at them.

  ‘I don’t suppose two shillings is enough for a new pair of boots,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘My clumpers are fine, Jem. You’ve mended them beautifully,’ I said.

  ‘I’m going to work so hard, Hetty. Farmer Woodrow’s been very kind, hinting that come the spring he might put me in Father’s place as head hand, even though I’m not yet twenty. That’ll mean more money – and I’ve plans to make a little more for ourselves on top. We’ll rear another pig, and I reckon there’s room for a few chickens if I build a little run for them, and bees too. Soon you’ll be going to market to sell our own eggs and honey, and we’ll have enough profit to buy you a pair of pretty shoes as well as stout boots, and we’ll find you a dressmaker and order a fine frilly dress for you into the bargain.’

  ‘You’re so sweet, Jem, but I can make my own dresses, you’ll see,’ I said.

  There was a little queue of women waiting at the crossroads for the carrier’s cart, all intent on going to market. Jem knew most of them and bade them good day.

  ‘You’ll keep an eye out for my little sister Hetty, won’t you?’ he said earnestly. ‘You’ll make sure she doesn’t get lost and knows where to wait for the cart home?’

  ‘Oh, Jem, don’t treat me like a little girl!’ I said.

  ‘Well, you are my little girl,’ he said sweetly. He’d said it several times already. It had pleased me greatly the first time he said it.

  He kissed me on both cheeks to say goodbye and then hurried off to the farm. I was glad enough of the women’s company at first because I was afraid the carrier might be the awful man from the hill – but he was a kindly, ruddy-cheeked old man who treated us all like ladies, helping us up into his cart as if it were a royal carriage, and apologizing for the squash.

  The women all knew I’d come to keep house and care for Mother, helping my brother cope. They clucked amongst themselves at my sisterly sweetness, which was very agreeable, though the tartest of the womenfolk raised her eyebrows and said, ‘I’m not so sure young Jem thinks of her like a sister. He seems mightily smitten, if you ask me.’

  The others hushed her and clucked some more, while I pretended I hadn’t heard, though my heart was beating hard.

  ‘If that’s the case, then someone’s nose will be put out of joint,’ said another woman, before she was hushed too.

  Someone? Did she mean Jem had a sweetheart? But I’d been living at the cottage for weeks now and he hadn’t