Down Weaver's Lane by Anna Jacobs

of, Lal Butterfield?’
    ‘I’ll make you sorry, coming to church with decent people!’ Lal hissed at Emmy then flounced off.
    Mrs Butterfield’s voice floated back to Emmy. ‘Don’t you dare speak to her again! Don’t even look in her direction. What if someone saw you?’
    The voices faded away and with a sigh Emmy turned back to see if Mrs Oswald was still talking.
    ‘Don’t listen to Lal, lass, You’re doing the right thing, coming to church.’
    She spun round to find Jack Staley standing a few feet away, smiling down at her.
    He moved forward, thinking how lonely and unsure of herself she looked. ‘How are you, Emmy? Lal hasn’t been attacking you again, has she?’
    ‘No, just - you know, saying things.’
    ‘Well, a few words won’t kill you. How are things going on with your new mistress?’ As Emmy told him all her news, he watched her eyes sparkling with happiness and thought how jealous Lal must be of her far prettier cousin, however much superiority she pretended.
    ‘Who is your friend, Emmy dear?’
    Emmy flushed with embarrassment for not having seen that Mrs Tibby was ready to leave. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am. This is Jack Staley, the one who rescued me when those girls were throwing stones at me.’
    Tibby Oswald studied him and liked what she saw. ‘It was kind of you to intervene, young man.’
    ‘I can’t abide cruelty,’ he said simply. Then he glanced round and realised the rest of Parson’s class had filed into the little church hall next door. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go to the Reading Class now. Pleased to have met you, Mrs Oswald.’
    As she watched him leave Tibby thought what a good-looking young man he was and yet how gentle his smile was. It wouldn’t do for him to get too friendly with her maid, however, for the girl’s sake.
    Emmy watched Jack go. ‘I didn’t think he’d speak to me in front of everyone.’
    ‘He seems a very nice young fellow. Clean and decent, though he could do with a new jacket. He’s growing out of that one. What did you say his name was?’
    ‘Jack Staley.’
    ‘Now where do I know that name from ... Oh, my! It was a man called Staley who was killed in those dreadful riots in April. You don’t suppose that was his father, do you?’
    ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’
    Tibby abandoned her speculations, looking round with a weary sigh. ‘Well, my dear, shall we make our way home now? I’ve enjoyed the service, but I’m feeling rather tired. I’ve been talking to our new Parson’s wife. I thought I recognised her face. Mrs Bradley is the cousin of a lady I used to know when I was a girl and ...’ Talking gently, she led the way home.
    She didn’t say that Prudence Bradley had tactfully raised the matter of Emmy’s parentage and that Tibby had told her firmly that she was a good girl, not to be blamed for her mother’s behaviour, and was the best maid Tibby had ever had, so cheerful and hard-working.
    She sighed. She had felt a bit out of place among the congregation in the churchyard until Mrs Bradley had come over to speak to her. She had seen some ladies she used to know glancing scornfully at her shabby clothes and making no attempt to renew their acquaintance. Well, the Lord didn’t care whether you were rich or poor, only whether you were a good person or not, and Tibby didn’t intend to stop coming to church now that she had plucked up the courage to start again. It would be something to look forward to, because the choir was indeed a good one and so was the new organ old Mr Rishmore had donated in memory of his wife. As for the sermon, dear Mr Bradley had chosen an interesting topic which would give her something to think about during the following week.
    If only her poor, dear James hadn’t been so trusting with his savings. If only some dreadful person hadn’t robbed him in the street, hitting him over the head so viciously he had died there before anyone found him. And James had had hardly had any money