She put the tray down on the dressing table and poured the hot chocolate that Mrs Feilden liked from the little jug with the handle. Mrs Feilden was still in her robe with her hair falling around her shoulders. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept well.

‘What is it, Hannah?’ she asked. ‘You look upset about something.’

‘It’s Jane. She’s in the kitchen. Eddie’s died.’

Mrs Feilden took a sip of chocolate and then replaced the china cup on its flowered saucer. ‘I was afraid that would happen,’ she said. ‘He was a fine young man. Please tell Jane that she has my condolences.’

‘I will. Do you want me to help you dress?’

‘Not just yet. I’ll ring for you when I’m ready.’

Hannah hesitated at the top of the stairs. She was reluctant to go down and face Jane and her grief. It made her feel so sad, but helpless too. She wished that there was something she could do to make things right, but she knew that there wasn’t and she had no idea what she was supposed to say to her. It seemed so cruel, when Jane had been so happy only weeks before. Even on the day Hannah had gone with the food basket, Jane had seemed happy.

She went down and Jane was still sitting there, although Cook was getting on with preparing the dinner.

‘Mrs Feilden says she’s sorry.’ Jane nodded slightly. ‘What will tha do now?’ Hannah asked her.

‘I don’t know. I can’t afford the rent on th’ house on my own. I suppose I could take in lodgers, but who’d want to live in a house where someone’s just died of the cholera?’

‘What will tha do about the funeral?’ asked Cook.

‘They’ve already taken him,’ said Jane. ‘They took him straight away. Said that he needed to be buried quickly to stop it spreading. I think Mr Whittaker said the prayers. I’m not sure.’

Cook took away the cold tea and poured a fresh cup, adding three or four spoonfuls of sugar. ‘Drink that,’ she said as if everything could be made better with a brew.

Jennet stood at the graveside as the earth was piled on top of Annie’s little body. Molly and Harry had no money for a coffin and she’d been put in her grave wrapped in a pitch sheet. Molly was sobbing and Harry had his arm around her shoulders, not knowing how to comfort her and deal with his own grief as well. Jennet held Bessie closer to her and prayed that nothing bad would happen to her own daughters, although she had begun to wonder if God was even listening.

Mr Whittaker offered a few words of comfort but had to hurry away. There was another burial awaiting, and other graves were being dug. The whole town smelled of the burning pitch and limewash that was being used to combat the spread of the disease, and when Jennet arrived home, she saw that Molly’s house had been cleaned and the cobbles on the street were white with the lime that trickled down towards the Blakewater.