‘Yes, Ma,’ Harriet responded.
‘Widow Elphick alright after we be gone?’
Harriet bit her lower lip, unsure of how to tell her mother of her parting exchange with the old woman, and that she no longer wanted to work for her. ‘She ain’t nice to me, Ma. Why do we be a-helping her so?’
Her mother stopped stirring and looked at her. ‘Because we been friends since we were girls and we be sticking together. Don’t be letting it bother you. She ain’t had it good of late, what with the accident and now…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Now what, Ma?’
Her mother seemed to regret her words. ‘She be wanting to move away.’
Harriet was dismayed. ‘But what about Christopher? Will he be a-going, too?’
Her mother shrugged and returned to her baking. ‘I don’t be a-knowing that, Hattie. He be growing into a man now and be earning his own keep. I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t stay on and take lodgings someplace.’ Eliza set the bowl down and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Hattie, can you be stuffing the beds while I be cooking the dinner? You can be a-taking Widow Elphick’s and Christopher’s round.’
‘Yes, Ma,’ she answered, spotting two hessian sacks of straw in the corner of the kitchen. Carrying them under each arm, she went upstairs and began to stuff the straw paillasse that she shared with Keziah and Ann. The first night after stuffing was always the most uncomfortable. It was a general consensus among the three girls that almost every part of their bodies was prodded, poked or scratched at some point during the night following stuffing.
The stench of boiled pork began to pervade through the floorboards and Harriet, pushing the final handfuls of straw into her parents’ paillasse, felt the growls of hunger pangs in her stomach. She closed the shutters on the suffusing dusk and loitered in the darkness of her bedroom, anticipating the call from her mother. If she never saw Widow Elphick again for as long as she walked the earth she would be happy. Christopher, on the other hand, was a different matter; Harriet wanted another opportunity to make amends and set straight his current misguided vexation with her. The idea of him leaving the Priory Ground had left a cold niggling sensation at the back of her mind.
When the call from her mother came, she walked downstairs and arrived in the kitchen, poised with a smile painted her face. She had decided to not cause a fuss and to take the dinners to Widow Elphick and Christopher willingly. A girl would shrink away and refuse to go, she told herself. A woman, however, would judiciously bite her tongue and bide her time. Widow Elphick would get what was coming to her one day.
On a wooden tray were two tin plates containing boiled pork and bread. ‘Do these be going to Widow Elphick’s, Ma?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘Yes. Now be a-hurrying before they gets cold.’
Harriet pulled on her shawl and made her way out into the night. The snow had ceased falling several hours hence and a thin moon reflected up from the ground, glistening like thousands of tiny discarded diamonds. It was the first time that she had been out at night since the attack and a sudden wave of fear struck her, as she struggled to trudge through the deep snow, which heaved and sucked on her feet like sinking sand. What if he’s here? she panicked. Skulking in the shadows, waiting for his revenge. She thought she saw movement down the alley that ran opposite Widow Elphick’s house. Something dark set against the stark white. She strained her eyes but could see nothing. She shivered suddenly, chastising herself for her weak, unwarranted fretting. She stood still and checked all around her then continued slogging through the thick snow.
Finally, she came to the house. Rather unusually, the street door was slightly ajar. Harriet carefully placed down the tray, knocked lightly then pushed it open. She knew immediately that Christopher was not home: the room was in darkness and the fire was out.
‘Hello? Widow Elphick?’ she called, in as polite a voice as she could muster. She resented being there, more so now that she knew that Christopher wasn’t home. ‘It be Harriet—I be a-bringing your food.’
The faintest fragments of moonlight guided her up the stairs where she found Widow Elphick’s bedroom door shut.
‘Widow Elphick,’ she called softly, steeling herself for the inevitable barrage of verbal abuse that she was about to face. She decided she would simply walk in, place the tray down and leave without saying a single word. Widow Elphick is only an evil old witch if I let her be, she told herself.
Harriet placed her ear to the door and listened. Just creeping above the silence of the house was a soft purring, as if there were a sleeping kitten tucked behind the door. Harriet was unsure of what to do. If she knocked and woke the hoary woman, she would be in for the most scathing diatribe, but if she crept in and left the tray for her to find when she woke, then the tirade would follow later, via her parents for leaving the food to go cold. Harriet decided to wake the sleeping beast. She knocked and listened. The purring grew louder and Harriet pushed open the door.
A waning sullen fire augmented the shadows with shades of ochre and scarlet and so it took Harriet longer than it might otherwise have done to spot the streams of crimson flowing down from the open black slice across Widow Elphick’s jowly neck.
Harriet gasped when the recognition of the soft purring and the sight of the bubbling blood came together in hideous clarity.
Widow Elphick’s eyes shot open and she tried to speak to her but all that emerged from her purple lips was a
