Free Down Weaver's Lane by Anna Jacobs

but to go to work as she was.
     
    When Tibby saw the state Emmy was in, she exclaimed in shock, ‘Whatever’s happened to you, child?’
    Emmy tried to control herself but couldn’t and burst into tears, sure she was going to be turned away before she even started her lovely new job.
    Tibby could not bear to see the child weeping so despairingly and took her in her arms, drawing her inside the house. Cuddling her close, she murmured meaningless comforting phrases and waited for the storm of tears to pass.
    Emmy soon calmed down. ‘I sh-shouldn’t be doing this, ma’am.’ She tried to pull away. Her mother had told her to call her new mistress ‘ma’am’ and had given her advice about how to behave. Emmy still couldn’t believe that Madge had really had a maid once, because she always did embroider the truth, but perhaps she had been one herself because the advice made sense for once.
    Tibby debated for a moment then lost the battle with propriety. When had she ever been one to stand on her dignity? ‘Ah, child, it’s been a year since I’ve had anyone to cuddle. Don’t push me away.’ She led the girl towards the sofa and made her sit down on it, dirty dress and all. Putting her arm round the thin shoulders, she said gently, ‘Tell me what happened.’
    With some prompting Emmy told the story of her encounter with the two girls who had pelted her with mud and stones.
    ‘Did you know you had relatives in town?’ Tibby asked when the tale came to an end.
    ‘Yes, ma’am, but not who they were. The young man who helped me called one of them Lal Butterfield.’
    Tibby knew that name and was surprised by it. ‘Was she a big, strapping girl with light brown hair a similar colour to yours?’
    ‘Yes, she was.’
    ‘Then her father is Isaac Butterfield, head clerk at Rishmore’s. Did your mother say how you’re related to them?’
    ‘You won’t tell?’
    ‘No, of course not.’
    ‘I think Mr Butterfield is my mother’s brother.’
    Tibby tried to remember what she knew about the Butterfields, but her family had lived ten miles away and she had not known Northby and its inhabitants very well before she and her husband moved to the town, by which time there had been no sign of Isaac Butterfield having a sister. ‘Well, you don’t have much choice about your relatives, I’m afraid. My family didn’t want me to marry my dear James, said he wasn’t good enough for me, but we were happy together right until the day he died.’
    Her voice became husky as she added, ‘The only sadness was when we lost our beloved daughter to a putrid sore throat, and then we were sad together, which helped a little.’ She sat for a moment lost in her own memories, then stood up and pulled the child with her. ‘Come through into the back and we’ll have a nice cup of tea. We’ll have to wash those clothes of yours to get the mud off and you’ve bled all over your bodice.’ She smoothed back the soft hair and clicked her tongue at the bruise already showing blue against Emmy’s forehead and the trickle of dried blood coming from it.
    ‘I’m sorry to cause you such trouble, Mrs Tibby. I’d have gone home for clean clothes, but I’ve been growing lately and -and I haven’t got any others, not really.’ She had asked her mother to buy her some more, but Madge never seemed to have any money left lately. Still, perhaps Emmy could save her own money now.
    ‘Then it’s lucky that I’ve got some old clothes you can use.’ Until now Tibby hadn’t been able to bear the thought of giving her daughter’s clothes away, but somehow she didn’t mind Emmy having them. There were a couple of simple dresses, high-necked and plain, which would suit the child, though the hems would have to be taken up because Charlotte had been tall for her age, taking after her father’s family, not Tibby’s, for the Armisteads were usually quite small in stature.
    It had been a long time since a morning had passed so quickly. Tibby found