‘Why, God in heaven …
It’s a baby
.’ Bessie could hardly believe her eyes.
Solemn-faced, Molly nodded. ‘So, the poor love weren’t delirious after all.’ Looking at Bessie with fear shining in her eyes, she whispered, ‘But why is it so quiet?’
Dropping to her knees beside her, Bessie began to unwind the clothes that the baby was wrapped in. The outer layer consisted of a black skirt, worn but neatly wrapped around a tiny pair of bloodstained scissors darned and obviously of a fine quality. Next was a white blouse, with tiny mother-of-pearl button slightly frayed at the cuffs, and lastly a shawl of pure blue silk, the like of which neither woman had ever seen. However, it wasn’t the shawl that held their attention but the tiny child wrapped inside it. It was a little girl and she was beautiful. A mop of tiny auburn curls framed a perfect heart-shaped face with long dark eyelashes that curled on to pale dimpled cheeks. But she was so still and silent that Molly gazed at Bessie in terror.
‘Is … is she dead?’
Pulling herself together with a great effort, Bessie took control of the situation. ‘Right – get me some warm water,’ she ordered briskly, and without a murmur Molly scuttled away to do as she was bid. She felt sick inside, for the sight of that little innocent had reawakened memories that she had thought were long gone.
In her mind’s eyes she saw again three tiny graves all lying side by side in the churchyard – the graves of her own three stillborn babies – and the heartbreak of losing them one after the other all those years ago swept through her afresh. She and Wilf had lived in Atherstone, a neighbouring town, back then. Molly had not met and wed him until she was in her thirties, and they had dreamed of having a large family. But each pregnancy had resulted in a stillbirth, and even now never a day went by when she did not mourn her lost girls. Still, her consolation had been her beloved husband. It was he who had found the cottage she was living in now shortly after the birth of their third daughter, and they had moved here and lived happily ever since until his premature death.
‘Please, God, don’t let this little one go the same way as my babies,’ Molly prayed silently as she stared down at the tiny form, and she went on praying as Bessie began to rub and coax life into the tiny infant. Once the water was ready, Bessie washed the little body inch by inch, forever rubbing and moving the little limbs to bring her back to life. But her efforts appeared to be all in vain, for the child remained motionless.
Molly’s heart ached as she looked on helplessly. ‘It’s no good, Bessie.’ Her voice was loaded with sadness as she reached out to still her neighbour’s arm. Slowly, Bessie sat back on her heels to wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.
They gazed on the infant in silence for some moments, each lost in their own thoughts, until Bessie suddenly gasped and reached out to clutch Molly’s arm.
‘I’m sure I saw her fingers move just then … Yes, yes, I did. Look, she’s alive!’
Without waiting for encouragement, Bessie immediately renewed her efforts, rubbing and moving the little limbs methodically. Suddenly the baby’s eyes flew open and a thin wail pierced the air. Both women whooped with delight and by the time Molly had bent to lift the child into her arms, her lusty cries were echoing from the rafters.
‘By God, Bessie, it’s a miracle. Nothin’ short of a miracle.’ Molly laughed through her tears as Bessie looked on, beaming in agreement.
‘Aye, it is that, but I reckon the next thing we need to do is feed the little mite. By, them cries are enough to waken the dead.’
Hastily she stood and dropped into the comfortable old rocking chair that stood at the side of the fire. Then, after fumbling with the buttons on her blouse, she pushed aside her warm woollen undershirt and bared her swollen breast.
‘Here, give her to me,’ she ordered, and within seconds the baby’s cries stopped as if by magic as she fastened on to Bessie’s nipple. As she sucked greedily, Bessie and Molly grinned at each other.
Bessie’s own two-month-old baby, Beatrice, was tucked up in her crib fast asleep in Bessie’s cottage, her little stomach full of her mother’s milk. But it was obvious from the hungry slurping of this child that there was more than enough in Bessie’s generous breasts to satisfy her too. After what seemed an age she gave a big hiccup of contentment and her lashes fluttered down on to her cheeks as she fell fast asleep in Bessie’s arms.
‘That’s done the trick,’ Bessie grinned. ‘Now I’d best get round home and sort out some of our Beatrice’s clothes fer her to use till yer decide what you’re going to do wi’ her.’ As she spoke, she laid the baby in the corner of the old settee against a cushion.
‘Right, Molly, now you sort out a nice deep drawer fer her to sleep in. Line it wi’ a shawl or sommat nice an’ soft, an’ I’ll be back in a minute.’ And then she was gone, leaving Molly to do as she was told. After that she planned to soak the baby’s wrappings in a bucket and then wash them through the next day, so they were as good as new. For they, too, belonged to the babe, since they had come from her mother.
Almost an hour later the two women sat tired but contented, in front of the fire, each gazing down on the baby as she slept soundly in one of Molly’s deep dresser drawers.
‘She’s got the face of a little angel,’ Bessie commented.
Molly nodded. ‘Just as her mother had.’
They sat in companionable silence for some minutes until Bessie asked, ‘Is there anythin’ else in the bag, Molly?’
Drawing it on to her lap, Molly delved into its depths.
‘I don’t think so,’ she mumbled, but then her fingers closed around something tucked deep in a corner. ‘Hold on, there is somethin’ in here.’
As she withdrew a small black velvet box, Bessie leaned forward to stare at it with interest. ‘What’s in it?’ she asked curiously.
Molly shrugged. ‘We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’ So saying, she fumbled with a tiny clasp. As the lid sprang back, both women’s mouths gaped with amazement at its contents. Nestling on a bed of silk was a beautiful golden locket attached to an ornate gold chain. A large emerald was set into its centre that sparkled and reflected the light of the fire.
‘Well, stone the crows. It must be worth a king’s ransom.’ Bessie had never in her life seen anything like it. ‘Look inside it,’ she urged impatiently, and as Molly carefully opened it, two tiny portraits were revealed. On one side was a picture of a fair-haired young man with a kindly face, and on the other was a portrait of a strikingly attractive girl whom Molly instantly recognised as the young woman in the church doorway.
‘That’s
her
,’ she exclaimed. ‘The girl who was in trouble. I told yer she was beautiful, didn’t I?’
‘I won’t argue with that,’ Bessie agreed. ‘Problem is, it don’t tell us
who
she is, does it?’
Molly sighed as she shook her head.
‘One thing’s for sure, if you sold it you’d be set up for years,’ Bessie commented.
Molly bristled at the very idea. ‘This belongs to the little ’un, it’s not mine to sell. It may be all she’ll ever have of her mother.’ Again they lapsed into silence until after some minutes Bessie dared to ask the question that was on both their minds.
‘What yer goin’ to do wi’ her, Molly? Are yer goin’ to keep her?’
Molly shrugged. ‘Everything’s happened so fast, I ain’t had time to think, but happen we’ll hear what’s become of her mother.’
‘That may well be, but what if we don’t? Will yer keep her then?’
‘How can I?’ Molly’s voice was sad. ‘I’m no spring chicken, Bessie. What would happen to her while I was at work? An’ I
do
have to work, yer know. There’s no one to keep
me
.’
‘Well, there’s an easy way round that, woman. I could have her in the day for yer. Or there’s another option: that loom upstairs is standing idle. Yer could always work from home again if yer decided that yer did want to keep her.’
Molly pondered on her words. The only other alternative for the poor little mite that she could think of was the workhouse, and the very thought of leaving her there made her shudder.
‘In the meantime yer should think of giving her a name. We’ve got to call her somethin’, haven’t we?’ Bessie went on.
Again Molly thought of her own three stillborn daughters and the names she had once so lovingly chosen for them.
‘We’ll call her Amy Elizabeth Hannah,’ she said softly.
Bessie grinned. ‘By, that sounds posh,’ she giggled. ‘All o’ my brood have but one name each.’
‘But where would we tell everyone she came from?’ mused Molly as her thoughts raced on ahead, and again both women lapsed into silence.
‘I know,’ said Bessie eventually. ‘We could say she was yer daughter’s child. That she lived away an’ died giving birth. That she were a young widow, and you’ve taken your granddaughter in.’
Molly thought about it. ‘I suppose that does sound believable,’ she admitted, ‘’cos by the time Wilf an’ I got this cottage we were of an age that we could have had a daughter that had moved away to live. But that’s only to be considered if we can’t find her mother.’
Bessie nodded. ‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘I’d help yer all I could and it would be our secret, just yours and mine. No one else need ever know any different.’
Molly balked at the thought of the lies she would have to tell. But then the other option, the workhouse, was just too terrible to even contemplate. It was a dark forbidding place that the people of the town avoided whenever possible, and it was a well-known fact that many of the infants who were placed in there never came out again.
This had turned out to be a strange Christmas Eve and no mistake, both women thought as they sipped at their tea and sat admiring Amy Elizabeth Hannah who was sleeping peacefully in her makeshift crib.
1835
As Bessie entered Molly’s bright little cottage on a blistering hot day in 1835, she was as usual struck by the difference between her neighbour’s home and her own. Molly’s place was as spick and span as a new pin. Everything seemed to gleam – the copper pans suspended above the fireplace, the plates on the wooden dresser; even the stone floor with the brightly coloured peg rugs scattered here and there looked spotless.
Bessie sighed as she thought of her own cottage. She had yet another baby to care for now and her tiny home was bursting at the seams. Jeannie, her new baby, made her brood up to five children. There was Toby, the eldest at thirteen, followed by Mary, Beatrice, Henry and now little Jeannie, and there would have been seven of them, had she not lost two children the previous year to measles. Her husband, Jim, was a good man, a hard worker who tipped his wages up as regularly as clockwork every Friday. But even so, it was a continuous battle just to keep the wolf from the door. Even with Toby’s wages it was still hard to cope with the demands of her ever-growing family.
Toby had recently joined his father at the Griff Hollows pit. Her firstborn was the apple of Bessie’s eye and she had adored him since the moment he drew breath. She always laughingly told anyone who would listen that she had named him after the Toby jugs that were so popular at the time, because of his scrunched-up little face when he was born. He was a good lad, and although she was grateful for the extra money he earned, it hurt her to see him doing such a menial job, for her Toby was bright, with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. Every day before beginning his shift at the pit he would study, and he never tired of telling his mother that one day he intended to be a teacher. Bessie did not doubt him: she felt her son was destined for better things and encouraged him in his ambition as much as she possibly could.
Bessie guessed that this was what had formed the bond between him and Amy, for already at just five years old she could say the alphabet and write her name, along with other words that even Bessie couldn’t write. Toby would spend hours of an evening round at Molly’s teaching Amy her letters and numbers, and Bessie had long since been forced to admit that Toby was closer to her than to any of his own sisters or brother Henry. He obviously doted on the little girl and she in turn doted on him. It had been like this ever since Molly took Amy in, and Bessie could see no sign of it changing now. In fact, she didn’t mind it, for she was also extremely fond of her. Amy and her Beatrice had lain side by side in the same crib and fed from the same breasts, and Bessie loved the child almost as much as her own brood.
The sound of the children’s laughter reached her now as they skipped past the cottage door. Amy and Beatrice were almost inseparable although they were as different as chalk from cheese. Beatrice was the taller of the two, with straight mousy hair and solemn grey eyes. She was a quiet little girl, content to follow Amy about whilst Amy, although more petite, had the more outgoing personality. She had huge dark brown eyes that could appear almost black if she were upset, and her hair, which defied any ribbon to hold it for long, cascaded down her back in thick auburn curls.
But it wasn’t just the child’s beauty and her dimpled smile that set her apart from Beatrice and the other children in the neighbourhood; it was the way that Molly dressed her. You would never see Amy in the dull browns and greys that were usual for the children thereabouts. Instead, Molly would sit for hours stitching her little dresses of all the colours of the rainbow from remnants of material that she had bought from the market. Sadly, Molly had never discovered what had happened to Amy’s mother and sometimes Bessie suspected that Molly had forgotten that Amy wasn’t really hers. In many ways Amy was spoiled, but even so she had such a bright and kindly little spirit that no one could fail to love her.
Molly absolutely adored her. Since taking Amy in, her life had completely changed. The child was her reason to live, and never a day went by when she didn’t thank God for her. Molly also had a big soft spot for Toby, and since he had taken on the role of Amy’s protector she loved him even more. Whenever she had a few pennies to spare she would buy him a book and he would read it from cover to cover again and again. He would sit at night and read stories to Amy as Molly sat in her rocking chair quietly sewing, and the old lady would smile at the expressions of wonder that flitted across the child’s face as the stories unfolded. In truth, Molly could not confess to being much of a scholar herself, but that made her all the more determined that Amy should be educated. She was as proud of Amy as Bessie was of Toby, and this over the last years had strengthened the bond between them.