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