Time After Time by Wendy Godding

her, calling her name. Calling her a different name.
    Drawing a ragged breath, Penelope swallowed the hard lump and hugged the basket closer, her chest tight and every muscle alert and ready to react. To what though? There was nothing to be scared of. It was just an overactive imagination and a cool forest breeze. There was no one following, no one hiding in the shadows of the forest or the thick, bordering shrubbery.
    Turning, she hurried down the path, focusing her attention on the soft thud her boots made on the dry earth and ignoring the sense that someone followed closely, too closely, behind. Images of the rider tearing down the hill towards her, towering over her, filled her thoughts, and she quickened her pace. The blood pounding in her ears sounded too much like the thundering hoof beats of a horse.
    Mrs Smith’s cottage sat at the bottom of a laneway on the outskirts of the village. It was small and run-down, the thatched roof badly in need of repair before winter arrived. Coming into view of the house, Penelope was greeted by several dirty children running up and surrounding her, their grotty faces grinning delightedly. The sight of them immediately lightened her mood.
    ‘Miss Penelope! Miss Penelope! What have you brought us?’
    ‘Have you got apples? Have you got cakes?’
    ‘Ssh, Joseph, what has mam told you about asking? Where are your manners?’ scolded the oldest of the small group, who was only about eight herself.
    Penelope laughed, handing each of the children an apple. ‘There you go, children! Now, where is your mother?’
    ‘She’s inside with the new babe,’ one of the little boys informed her, chomping into an apple.
    Penelope made her way into the small cottage to greet Mrs Smith.
    Eliza Smith had once been an attractive lady with wide, deep brown eyes and a cascade of dark curls. But time, ten children and a drunken husband had taken its toll, and her face was now tired and worn, her eyes etched with weariness. Her mouth, once pert and pink, was now drawn in a thin line of disappointment, and her glossy curls were streaked with grey.
    ‘Ah, Miss Penelope,’ she said in a wan voice, ‘how nice to see you. Your father said you might visit.’
    Penelope took the tiny babe from Eliza’s arms and gently cooed to him. Her father had insisted the babe be baptised and came especially to see to it, concerned for the fate of the child’s soul. Eliza had seen no harm in performing the trite, irrelevant ceremony if it would keep the Pastor happy. ‘How are you, Mrs Smith?’
    ‘Tired, very tired,’ she sat down in a chair by the weak fire, ‘but you’re good to visit us.’
    ‘How is Mr Smith?’ Penelope glanced around the small, dusty cottage but saw no sign of him.
    ‘He’s fine, Miss.’
    ‘Is he out then?’
    ‘Yes’m.’ But she didn’t meet Penelope’s eyes.
    ‘Have the children been going to school?’ Penelope asked, changing the subject.
    ‘When I can get ’em there. But they don’t really heed me.’
    ‘Perhaps I can talk to them.’
    ‘Well, I need Mary here to help,’ Eliza said, ‘and Clara’s twelve, so she can probably stay too.’
    ‘Perhaps Jane could work at Broadhurst Manor?’ Penelope suggested.
    Eliza brightened. ‘Oh, that would be grand.’
    Penelope placed the sleeping babe in a fruit crate that doubled as a cradle, and started unpacking the basket. ‘Well, let me speak to Miss Broadhurst first, then we’ll see.’ But she knew Georgina would help. Broadhurst Manor probably didn’t need any extra staff, but Georgina would take on Jane to help Mrs Smith. Georgina might not visit with a basket of food, but she’d do what she could indirectly.
    Penelope spent the afternoon tidying the cottage as best she could, sweeping the floor, insisting Mrs Smith relax with a cup of tea. The poor woman looked as if she hadn’t slept in a year. Then Penelope dragged in an old tub from outdoors and filled it with steaming hot water. From her pocket she pulled