"Alice Gray," Mouldheels offered, but the sieve did not stir. "Jane Bulcock."
Pained me, it did, to hear her naming her own friends and neighbours like that. Did she trust them so little?
"They're innocent," I told her.
"Meg Pearson," she said.
My lip curled at the thought of Meg, that hussy who had lured my Anne's husband away, sporting with him in the haystack those many years ago. If Meg were the thief, I wouldn't feel the least bit sorry to bring down justice on her. But the sieve hung steady.
"Tom Redfearn," Jack Hewitt said.
The sieve didn't budge, but a sweat spread over my upper lip. Young Tom Redfearn was besotted with Anne's younger daughter, fifteen-year-old Annie. They were not yet betrothed—she was too young and times were too hard—but I'd heard that she'd set her heart on him.
Please don't let it be him.
"Mam," Liza whispered. "Look at the sieve."
My knees knocked to see it tremble. Full expectant, my daughter stared at me. When I did not speak, she took charge.
"Not Tom Redfearn," she said, smooth and business-like. "But someone close to him."
"What about his sweetheart," Jack suggested. "Annie Whittle."
When the sieve remained still, I offered a silent prayer of thanks.
"No, she's only young," said Mouldheels. "More like her mother, that Chattox."
As I struggled not to shudder, the sieve twisted, but did not fall.
Mouldheels frowned. "No. It's the older daughter. Betty."
The sieve writhed between the shears' blades before it tumbled down and struck the slate floor with an awful bang, leaving me so weak that I crumpled to my knees. Outside some thing scratched and scraped at the bolted door. Closing my eyes, I saw the brown dog's great paws. I saw the pain on Anne's face as she had confessed to me how worried she was about Betty, her first born whom she'd named after me. Now my spell had revealed her daughter's crime.
"There you have it," Liza said. "Betty Whittle is your thief."
"Came calling last week, did Betty Whittle." Mouldheel's voice was grim. "Asked if I'd any spinning for her. Didn't trust her within an inch of my spinning wheel, but of charity I offered her a cup of milk."
I fought tears. Why had Mouldheels been so stingy? If she'd welcomed Betty with a generous heart, given her a proper meal and some old bread to take home to her family, it might not have come to this.
"We'll have the Constable on her," said Mouldheels. "And the Magistrate."
"No," I said, lumbering to my feet. Mouldheels had no clue what it was like to be truly poor, as Betty was, had no inkling what it was to gnaw on dandelion root to still hunger pangs.
"What do you mean
no?
" Liza asked, vexed and not hiding it.
Ignoring her, I turned to Mouldheels, taking her hand. "If she's stolen from you, it's not out of wickedness but dire need, I'll swear to that. Let me talk to her. I'll see to it that she returns what she's taken."
"You're a soft one, our Bess." Mouldheels sounded none too pleased.
"If we don't get our gear back within the week, I'm going to the Constable," her husband told me. "You've seven days."
Next morning I set off early and alone, telling Liza it was best if I spoke to Betty in private.
"Why are you sticking out your neck for her?" my daughter asked me. "I know her mam's your old friend, but Betty's a thief, plain as the nose on your face. Let the Constable sort her out."
"And see her strung from the gallows? What a heartless wretch you are. She only did it on account of being hungry."
Such a fate that could have befallen me if Tibb had not shown me my powers.
"Do you think Betty was going to eat Mouldheels's spinning wheel then? Betty's too full of herself, that's her problem. If she wanted for food, all she needed do was ask for it like any meek soul would do."
"You'd have me do nothing—just stand aside and see her condemned?"
How was Liza to understand what I owed to Betty's mother? Though Anne believed the old ways were lost, she was nonetheless the keeper of my most deep-reaching memories, the cherry-lipped girl who had seen me crowned Lammas Queen when I was younger than Liza was now. She was the tough, loyal friend who had stood by me at the pillory. I'd march to Lancaster barefoot before I saw her daughter hanged.
Shutting my ears to Liza's protests, I packed my bundle with oatbread and some plumcake Mistress Alice had given us.
Stark winter morning, it was, the grass glittering with frost. The road, frozen hard beneath my feet, forked off in two directions. Stood upon the place where the three ways met, Tibb awaited me. He rested his golden hands on my shoulders, warming me with his touch, comforting as coddled ale.
"Have a care," he told me, "which path you tread."
"Tell me which way I should go then. Would the track to West Close be any good?" So cheered to see him after my spat with Liza, I was light-of-heart, teasing him.
"You and you alone," he said, "choose the road you walk."
I sobered to hear him so sombre. He was talking about so much more than my journey to Anne's this day.
"Can you speak plain?" I begged him.
"Some paths are steep and stony whilst others seem broad and easy, though they lead to misfortune."
"So I should pick the steep path over the gentle one?" I asked, well maddled by his words.
"Once you asked me if I would be true to you," he said. "Have I not been true?"
"Truer than any."
"But you, Bess, are you true?" He spoke as though my entire fate hung upon the answer I gave him.
Even as my eyes clouded with tears that he should doubt me in this, my answer came stout and sure. "True to my family. True to my loved ones. True to the old ways. True to
you.
"
"True to some," he said with a wistful smile. "But not to others."
For a moment I was too gobsmacked to say a word. Then my skin burned poker-hot. "That was over twenty years ago!" But the memory of my adultery and my husband's fury came back to me. The hell of the pillory, relieved only by Anne, her fellowship, and the jokes she whispered in my ear.
"Betrayal," said Tibb, "was your undoing those many years ago. Beware betraying again, my Bess, or you shall suffer for it threefold."
I fair wondered what he meant. Who was left for me to betray? I'd sooner cut my own throat than double-cross Tibb or my family or friends. I'd no husband or lover left to cheat. Speaking in riddles, Tibb was. Enough to do my head in.
"Don't weep," he said, kissing my brow. "Just remember my words. Now go on your way, my Bess. Anne has need of you."
Be of use, I told myself. With Tibb's blessing, I headed down the track to West Close. I'd show Tibb how faithful I was to Anne and her family. Not one to forget old loyalties, me.
Anne's cottage was tucked between a ditch and a brimming stream with banks of red clay. When I knocked, there was no answer, so I opened the door and stepped inside. Folk poor as Anne possessed neither lock nor key.
Where had she and her daughters gone?
Cloudy light spilled through two small windows covered in oiled rabbitskin and revealed puddles on the beaten-earth floor—rain had come through the patchy thatch. In the firepit weak flames sputtered and sent thin plumes of smoke curling up into the rafters. Right careless, my Anne had been, to leave a fire burning when she'd gone out. I squatted down to bank the fire when a moan made me leap out of my skin. On the murky far end of the cottage, a white arm reached out from behind a tattered curtain.
"Mam?" a voice called.
Betty?
Swallowing, I stepped toward that arm that drew back the curtain. Lying upon a pallet tucked into a recess in the wall lay the vision of my childhood friend: Anne Whittle with her hair like spun gold, the loveliest creature I'd ever seen, only she was pale and ill. And it wasn't my old friend, but fifteen-year-old Annie. I'd only ever seen Annie in her coif, which hid her splendid hair. Gazing at her now, I felt a bittersweet twinge, for her beauty brought back my recollections of the happiness I'd shared with her mother, those days that were so far away that they might have happened in another country.
"Our Annie, what ails you?" I stroked the girl's clammy brow.
"Some ague. I hope I'll soon mend." A sweet thing was Annie. Humble, but not sorry for herself. Even in the weak light her green eyes sparked and flashed. She'd the most perfect skin I'd ever seen. Not a pockmark on her. Little wonder Tom Redfearn was smitten. I hoped that after a year or two he'd find enough steady work so that they could marry. Let her have her bliss before hardship stole her youth away.
"Did Mam send for you?" she asked.
"No, but I wanted to have a word with her and your sister."
"They're off looking for work," Annie said. "Mam promised they'd come home with bread and fuel for the fire."
I reached into my herb pouch for my bundles of feverfew, willow bark, lungwort, and coltsfoot. "Let me brew you some physick."
I found the kettle on a shelf and went outside to fill it with clear water from the fast-flowing stream. Back inside, I hung it on the hob over the poor little fire. They'd no more peat in the house, so I blew on the fire, fed it with stray bits of the straw that lined the floor instead of rushes. I even tried to charm the flames, but still it took an age for the water to boil. Since I could find no cup, I poured the herbal brew into a wooden bowl. Raising Annie by the shoulders, I held the bowl so she could drink.
"When have you last eaten?" I unpacked my bundle and dipped the hard bread into the herbal brew to soften it before giving it to her.
"Yesterday my sister had some drippings and oatcake off the Duckworths."
Had the Duckworths given Betty the bread and drippings, or had she just taken them? What would I have done if I'd a younger sister who lay ill as Annie did?
Too jittery to sit idle, I found a comb made of oxbone and, before I could stop myself, I was gently working through Annie's tangles and snarls. Stepping through the gate of memory, I became a girl myself again, combing Anne Whittle's hair.
"Soon as I'm well again, I'll earn some brass," Annie said, sounding steely and determined. "I'm not afraid of honest work. Betty traded some of her hens for an old spinning wheel. If we took in spinning, we could earn a fair penny. The Asshetons," she said, speaking of her landlord's family, "have plenty of wool."
"A spinning wheel," I said, coming back to the present with an almighty jolt. "Those don't come cheap, our Annie. That would have cost your sister more than a few chickens."
The girl flushed. "What are you saying, Mother Demdike?"
Dropping the comb, I plaited her hair. Though I'd never touched silk, I couldn't imagine it could be any softer than Annie's locks. "Kate Mouldheels's spinning wheel was stolen and she suspects your sister to be the thief. If she doesn't get it back before the week is over, she'll go to the Constable. She says Betty stole some cloth and a pewter plate off her, too."
Took Annie a fair while to find her tongue. I kept my silence, my head bowed down to the floor. To think Betty had been reduced to this. For want of a spinning wheel, she'd thought her family would starve.
"Betty went out today with something tucked beneath her apron," the girl said at last. "She wouldn't show me what it was, but she promised to come home with something to eat."
"It couldn't have been the spinning wheel," I said, thinking aloud. "Too big to hide under an apron."
Had Betty kept her thieving a secret from her mother, or had Anne known but been helpless to stop her?
"A pewter plate's not too big." Annie fell back against the pallet. "Will the Constable come round for her?" Her voice broke. "Mother Demdike, she could hang."
"Hush, child. We won't let it come to that. If you show me where the spinning wheel is, I'll return it to Mouldheels before the Constable hears a word of this."
"Up that ladder there." Annie pointed to a wide shelf high in the smoky rafters. There I found Mouldheels's spinning wheel wrapped in the stolen cloth, its warp greasy with sheep lard to make it fuller and warmer. As Annie had predicted, the plate was nowhere to be found.
Before I left I broke out the plumcake for the girl. Being so soft, it was easier for her to eat. But she didn't finish it—she wanted to save some for her mother and sister. Sitting on the edge of her pallet, I chanted my blessings over her till I saw that stricken look vanish from her face. Annie took my hand and kissed it.
"God go with you, Mother Demdike. I'll thank you till my dying day for not going to the Constable."
"All will be well, love. Look after yourself."
The spinning wheel in my arms, the heavy wool draped over my shoulders, I stepped out the door and trudged six long miles to Colne.
See, Tibb,
I whispered to the wind.
See me now. I am true.
When I finally reached Mouldheels's door, the winter sun had set and I was chilled as the frost-tipped grass.
"Here's your spinning wheel and here's your cloth," I told Mouldheels and her husband. "If your cloth is dirty, I'll come tomorrow and wash it for you so it's good as new. Your plate's long gone, I fear. Now it's between you and God if you'd let a poor woman hang on account of a missing plate."