name.
‘It looked so beautiful, the crest of the hill black against the red glow . . . how could I?’ She sobbed into her hands. ‘How could I have thought it beautiful when it was my own home that was burning?’
‘You were not to know, wench.’ Polly Butler spoke soothingly as she brewed a third pot of tea. Tea and sympathy, that was all anybody could offer at a time like this. Emma had come flying over the heath, hair and skirts spread on the wind, her screams like those of the damned; it had only been the quick action of Sam Davis that stopped her racing into the flames. Now he stood guard at the door lest she try to run back. But there was nothing to run back to except a smouldering ruin.
‘Come on, try to drink a drop of tea.’ Polly placed a cup before Emma. ‘It’ll help you feel better.’
Nothing could do that. Emma closed her fingers over her face, wanting to hide herself away, to hide from the awful reality, to shut out the scene that seemed to be painted on her eyes. She would never feel better, never forget the events of this night.
Getting up from the stool Polly Butler had drawn to the fire, Jerusha drew back the cloth cover she had placed over her basket. Taking out a small dark blue glass bottle she sprinkled a few drops of clear liquid into the cup, a faint shake of her head warding off the other woman’s enquiry.
‘Drink this down, Emma.’
Jerusha’s tone was firmer than that of Polly, she was used to handling the sorrow of those who had lost loved ones; only her own sorrow, that of parting with Jacob, only that did she find hard to deal with. But deal she must until her time came.
With the obedience of a small child Emma took the cup. ‘How could it have happened?’ She looked into Jerusha’s face. ‘What could have caused it?’
Jerusha could answer each of those questions but now was not the time. That moment would come, Jerusha felt such pity for the girl, but when it did it must be in a moment of comfort. To speak the truth now would only add to the burden of sorrow that was crushing the girl’s heart. For now that terrible truth must remain locked inside Jerusha’s own, she would tell no one what the silence had revealed to her.
Taking the cup as Emma finished her drink, Polly glanced at Jerusha. ‘The wench best stay with us, my lads can bed down in the scullery . . .’
‘But I can’t take your sons’ room!’ Emma was almost on her feet as she spoke.
‘Well, you can’t go back to . . .’ Polly checked herself, a faint blush rising fast to her cheeks. ‘You can’t go back to Jerusha’s place again tonight, it be overfar for her to walk.’
Catching Polly’s eye Jerusha nodded, approving the quickness of the woman’s recovery.
‘And you certainly ain’t going to sleep under no hedge. It be best you both bed down here in this house. Unless, of course, you would rather go to another in Doe Bank? Every door be open to you.’
Jerusha placed her empty cup on the table, nodding as Polly held up the teapot offering a second cup. ‘That we be aware of and both of us be grateful. Thank you for your kindness, Polly Butler, we will bide the night beneath this roof.’
‘But your sons . . .’ Emma felt suddenly weary, her protest fading as tiredness swept over her.
‘My lads will take no harm from bedding in the scullery or here on the hearth afore the fire. ‘Tain’t nothing they haven’t done many a night gone. Now you just sit you there a minute longer while I puts clean sheets on the bed and then we’ll have you tucked up.’
Taking her cup, Jerusha sipped the tea, eyes following Polly as she drew two spotless white sheets from one of the long drawers set beneath a tall cupboard built into an alcove alongside the black-leaded fireplace. Still folded as the day they were bought, she knew they had never yet seen use for these were the burying sheets. Kept by every family, even if the buying of them meant going without food; they were the
‘It looked so beautiful, the crest of the hill black against the red glow . . . how could I?’ She sobbed into her hands. ‘How could I have thought it beautiful when it was my own home that was burning?’
‘You were not to know, wench.’ Polly Butler spoke soothingly as she brewed a third pot of tea. Tea and sympathy, that was all anybody could offer at a time like this. Emma had come flying over the heath, hair and skirts spread on the wind, her screams like those of the damned; it had only been the quick action of Sam Davis that stopped her racing into the flames. Now he stood guard at the door lest she try to run back. But there was nothing to run back to except a smouldering ruin.
‘Come on, try to drink a drop of tea.’ Polly placed a cup before Emma. ‘It’ll help you feel better.’
Nothing could do that. Emma closed her fingers over her face, wanting to hide herself away, to hide from the awful reality, to shut out the scene that seemed to be painted on her eyes. She would never feel better, never forget the events of this night.
Getting up from the stool Polly Butler had drawn to the fire, Jerusha drew back the cloth cover she had placed over her basket. Taking out a small dark blue glass bottle she sprinkled a few drops of clear liquid into the cup, a faint shake of her head warding off the other woman’s enquiry.
‘Drink this down, Emma.’
Jerusha’s tone was firmer than that of Polly, she was used to handling the sorrow of those who had lost loved ones; only her own sorrow, that of parting with Jacob, only that did she find hard to deal with. But deal she must until her time came.
With the obedience of a small child Emma took the cup. ‘How could it have happened?’ She looked into Jerusha’s face. ‘What could have caused it?’
Jerusha could answer each of those questions but now was not the time. That moment would come, Jerusha felt such pity for the girl, but when it did it must be in a moment of comfort. To speak the truth now would only add to the burden of sorrow that was crushing the girl’s heart. For now that terrible truth must remain locked inside Jerusha’s own, she would tell no one what the silence had revealed to her.
Taking the cup as Emma finished her drink, Polly glanced at Jerusha. ‘The wench best stay with us, my lads can bed down in the scullery . . .’
‘But I can’t take your sons’ room!’ Emma was almost on her feet as she spoke.
‘Well, you can’t go back to . . .’ Polly checked herself, a faint blush rising fast to her cheeks. ‘You can’t go back to Jerusha’s place again tonight, it be overfar for her to walk.’
Catching Polly’s eye Jerusha nodded, approving the quickness of the woman’s recovery.
‘And you certainly ain’t going to sleep under no hedge. It be best you both bed down here in this house. Unless, of course, you would rather go to another in Doe Bank? Every door be open to you.’
Jerusha placed her empty cup on the table, nodding as Polly held up the teapot offering a second cup. ‘That we be aware of and both of us be grateful. Thank you for your kindness, Polly Butler, we will bide the night beneath this roof.’
‘But your sons . . .’ Emma felt suddenly weary, her protest fading as tiredness swept over her.
‘My lads will take no harm from bedding in the scullery or here on the hearth afore the fire. ‘Tain’t nothing they haven’t done many a night gone. Now you just sit you there a minute longer while I puts clean sheets on the bed and then we’ll have you tucked up.’
Taking her cup, Jerusha sipped the tea, eyes following Polly as she drew two spotless white sheets from one of the long drawers set beneath a tall cupboard built into an alcove alongside the black-leaded fireplace. Still folded as the day they were bought, she knew they had never yet seen use for these were the burying sheets. Kept by every family, even if the buying of them meant going without food; they were the
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