Lighting his candle, he had crept down the loft steps and gone to check on Eppie. It was as he dreaded. The baby’s cheek felt cold. Though the skin on her neck puckered slightly at his touch, he sensed it stiffening. His heart beat leadenly. A scream of despair reverberated within his head. He cast a despairing glance at his mother, then at his father - snoring in that all-too-familiar, irritating manner.
Wakelin was desperate to spare his mother the pain of losing another child.
The news that Lady Constance had given birth to a daughter the same evening as his mother was common knowledge amongst the cottagers, many of whom had first heard the gossip at The Fat Duck, the villagers’ homely, ramshackle tavern.
Taking Eppie, he had placed her on the parlour table and furtively returned to his parents’ bedchamber. First, he padded out the cradle with a straw-filled fox-hide cushion. He filled the baby’s nightcap with a turnip and shifted it sideways, to make it look like the baby had turned her head away from her sleeping parents. Finally, he draped the coverlet over the foxy baby.
Although he often grumbled about being swamped by his cast-down clothes, for once he had been glad of his father’s over-large jacket. He had acquired the habit of securing it around his middle with a length of rope, and the generous folds above the makeshift belt had made the ideal pouch to conceal Eppie’s body as he crept past the cottages and their sleeping occupants.
Careful not to make a sound, he laid Genevieve upon the rug beside Eppie’s body so that he could cope with removing the manor baby’s nightgown and lace cap.
Fortunately, Genevieve’s pilchers were dry. ‘It would’ve wrecked my chances of stealing her if I’d had to wade through a pile of reeking dung,’ he thought.
Startled by the intrusion, the baby creased her nose and puckered her lips to cry.
Panicking, he plunged his hand into his pocket and drew out a rag which he used for carrying chunks of bacon and cheese for his lunch and, of course, for wiping his nose. He stuffed it into her mouth to keep her quiet. By her steadily reddening cheeks and wide, frantic-looking eyes, he figured she was not impressed.
Stooping over Eppie, he gazed lovingly upon her.
From the room below he caught the scrape of metal. Nervously, he plastered down the cowlick on the top of his fair hair, and listened, intently.
It was a chambermaid clearing ash from yesterday’s fires.
He shook himself from his stupor. There was no sense in lingering.
Gently, he placed Eppie, now adorned in Genevieve’s gown and nightcap, into her padded coffin.
‘Surely,’ he thought, trying to convince himself, ‘no one will guess any difference?’
Genevieve in his arms, he was about to turn when he noticed a locket lying within the cradle. With his free hand, he fetched it out. On the front was an exquisite miniature painting of Talia, around her slender neck a silver choker, a garland of red petals adorning her hair.
Before her death, the only reason he looked forward to attending church was to gawk at Talia. Once, Gillow had spotted his son’s dozy look as he gazed, besotted, upon her angelic face, and admonished him for his ungodly conduct.
‘What about his ungodly ways?’ Wakelin had thought indignantly of his father. Despite the parson’s strident sermons about the evils of hard drinking, Gillow and other village men regularly sneaked off to the tavern after the church service.
He took one last, mournful glance at Eppie. In his mind he wished her farewell. The child would never know the pangs of love he felt for her. Losing his sister this way, dying shortly after birth, gave him a horrible feeling, as though his throat had turned to wood.
From the hallway came the light tread of someone approaching the nursery. Abruptly his willingness to die for his mother lost its appeal.
Frantic to flee, Wakelin became flustered. The locket slipped through his fingers. He watched in anguish as it flipped across the shiny elm floorboards. The clatter seemed, to him, as loud as thunder. Enfolding the fallen portrait, the delicate gold chain tinkled about Talia’s image.
Lost in his dreams, Gabriel turned onto his side, murmuring.
In the same instance that Agnes entered, Wakelin closed the wainscot behind him.
‘Time to arise, young master,’ Agnes said.
Harshly drawn to wakefulness, Gabriel whimpered, ‘I want my mother!’
Agnes ignored the child’s plea. ‘Let me help you dress.’
Wakelin laid the baby upon the top of the staircase, his hand cushioning her head. Enveloped in darkness, he fumbled for his shoes and jacket.
‘Last night I went to listen at her door,’ Gabriel said. ‘I heard her crying!’
‘You wicked boy! I forbade you to leave the nursery.’
‘I was scared and felt lonely. May I go to her?’
‘I am under strict instructions from your father not to let you see your mother.’
‘Why not? I don’t understand.’
‘Your mother is failing.’
‘What does that mean?’ he asked, sobbing.
‘Exactly what I say, you foolish child. Your mother is dying. Her physician has declared that she will not last the day.’
Wakelin was overcome with horror at the news, and sorrow for the boy. He could not begin to imagine how awful life would be without his own mother.
‘At least let me see my new sister!’ Gabriel wailed.
In fear, Wakelin’s heart missed a beat. He stilled his movements, terrified of making any sound which would reveal his being there.
‘Wait!’ Agnes replied harshly. ‘Let me tie your waist sash.’
It would only be moments before the baby was found dead.
Tongue flickering, Wakelin carefully edged his way down.
Having a picture in his mind of the twists and turns, and the location of the hewn steps, his return was slightly easier.
From the nursery came the uproar he had expected. Gabriel’s shriek of despair sent a shiver of dread through his body.
He squirmed with guilt. ‘Ought I to have done this terrible deed?’ He knew that it had been a mean, selfish act on his part. But, he reasoned, Genevieve’s mother was dying. The baby’s father was a hard, introspective individual who was easily angered. In many ways he was like Wakelin’s own father, who found it impossible to back down in a quarrel and admit he was wrong.
Still, depriving a brother of his sister was a heinous act. He should not have done it.
Now he was in a quandary. ‘Is it possible to return the child?’ he thought. ‘To right the wrong I’ve done?’ Mixed up, willing himself to keep his nerve, he turned. A shoulder in contact with the rock to steady himself, he began to grope his way back through the darkness.
He would hide behind the wainscot and consider his next move. Perhaps if Gabriel and Agnes left the nursery, even for a few minutes, he could return the child to the cradle and take Eppie. ‘But,’ he wondered, ‘will I have time to dress Genevieve and wrap her in linen, like she was before? This is madness. I’m more likely to get caught now.’
Behind him, he was aware of the rhythmical throb of water tumbling into the chasm of Shivering Falls. Only now, unnervingly, with each step that he took, it grew louder. Beneath his feet the hacked rocks vibrated.
Gaping round in fear, he saw a wave, like a white cliff, crashing towards him, rolling and pounding, sending up frills of spray.
Cringing, he howled in alarm, the sound of his voice lost within the raging, foaming waters funnelling around the walls.
Almost immediately the waters stilled to create a perfect circle about him. He felt, amazingly, bone-dry, overcome by a wonderful sensation of tranquillity. Not a sound was to be heard, not even Gabriel’s cries.
Bright rays, like the sun shining through the rose-shaped windows in the village church, cast upon a pale, willowy child. Spilling over her lace mantle, her waist-length flaxen locks were tangled with white ribbons and winter’s ravaged river reeds. Daisy chains looped around the puffed sleeves of her g
own. Ruched muslin cascaded from her wrists to the floor of the tunnel like shoals of silvery fish. The hem of her gown was invisible, giving her the appearance of floating as she drifted towards him, her white skirts rippling like wind blowing gently across a lake.
He knew he ought to feel scared. Indeed, he was afraid of the strangeness of what she had become, but not of her. Not of Talia. He loved her so dearly.
What struck him most, revelling in her loveliness, was the heartbreak of her life. A life spent with a vile father who had treated her with disdain simply because she had been born a mute. He was stung by the tragedy of her early death. He would hate to die after only twelve years of life. If she had lived, she would have grown to be a beautiful woman with countless admirers.
For a moment her gaze fell upon the child in his arms. As if she had come to a decision, she cast him a warm smile and beckoned him forward.
He realised she wanted him to take Genevieve away from the manor! What he was doing was right. It gave him a strong sense of sureness, more so because it was the baby’s sister encouraging him.
In a daze, he pushed through the tunnel opening.
Moments later, he reached the pool and gazed up. To a casual passer-by the ghost would seem imperceptible, like the early morning sun which shone feebly, cutting through rising vapours that coiled around the trees. To Wakelin’s discerning eye, however, her figure stood bold upon the bridge.
‘You won’t regret this, Talia!’ he cried joyfully. ‘My ma will love her!’
She gazed at him keenly and then, turning, melted into the waterfall. The sight sent a shiver of wonder through him.
Protectively shielding the baby, he plunged through the undergrowth. He felt ecstatic, filled with delight at the thought of seeing his mother’s radiant face when she rose from her bed and lovingly took the infant into her arms.
As he ran, though, the dread returned, and he shot terrified glances over his shoulder, imagining the thudding footsteps of a pursuer.
When the physician examined the baby he might realise that it was not Genevieve. His lordship was no fool. Eppie was the only new-born infant in the village and Wakelin being a ninnyhammer, as his lordship had called him, after he had been discovered sleeping beside a hedge when he was meant to have been ditching, du Quesne would realise that he had stolen into the manor and exchanged the babies.
Eyes blazing with determination he pressed on, faster, oblivious to whipping branches, heedless of savage wild-rose briars which lashed his face and drew blood.
Though his breath came in great gulps his throat felt dry with the fear which threatened to overwhelm him.
‘How can I get home without being spotted?’ he thought despairingly.
To give him time to think he raced towards the dilapidated granary, a blurred reflection of itself in the rising mist. A rat, startled by his sudden approach, scuttled away from behind a staddle stone.
Crouching with his shoulder pressed against the timbers, he peered cautiously around the corner of the building and stared at the cottages which straddled the lane.
Dew soaked through his tattered shoes, chilling his ankles, and he shuddered.
From paddocks and backyards at the woodland edge arose the odour of manure mingled with ripe pig. Already folk were stirring. Women knocked fires in parlours. Chickens clucked.
‘Morning Bill!’
Though it was only his grandfather hailing Bill Hix, his neighbour, Wakelin stiffened in dread.
‘I hear your Martha was put to bed last night.’
‘Aye,’ Samuel answered, pride in his voice. ‘Uppan a little maid.’
Twigs snapped like brittle bones.
Casting a startled glance back, Wakelin glimpsed a shadowy figure swoop for cover behind a tree.
Eddying faintness seized him. ‘Has someone seen me running away from the manor?’ he thought in horror. ‘Who could it be?’
Welling up from his stomach surged the overpowering queasiness of the familiar falling-sickness from which he occasionally suffered.
‘Nah, God,’ he screamed in silent supplication, wiping away the sweat of alarm that dripped into his eyes. ‘I’ve gorra get back afore ma wakes!’
An iron-like ring gripped his head, torturing.
Wailing in pain, he fell.
CHAPTER TWO
COCKCROW
Darkness lingered. Snuggled close to Gillow, Martha allowed herself a moment of relaxation. Though her body ached after the long hours of labour last night, her spirits sang, knowing that she had given birth to a healthy child. Eppie was far quieter than Hepsie, who had cried so loudly for hours following her birth that she had kept the family from their slumbers. The following day, Gillow had grumbled, almost without cessation, about his weariness. ‘What about my tiredness,’ she had thought, tackling her everyday chores.
Often the family would work for a couple of hours before breakfast but, after last night’s ordeal, she and Gillow were too tired to rise early. Drawing aside the drapes of the wainscot bed she stepped out and went to peep at her new-born infant, longing to pull Eppie into a warm embrace. On second thoughts, she hung back. She would get on with the chores and see to the child later, once Gillow and Wakelin had come to the table.
She took her red and blue striped dress from the wooden box at the end of the bed. Slipping it over her chemise, she dressed quickly, and whipped her conker-hue hair into a bun, like a sagging robin’s pincushion. The other box contained the family’s best Sunday clothes and their warm winter clothing.
Sacking partitioned the bedchamber from the living quarters. Dominating the parlour was Gillow’s loom. Her spinning wheel was set before the one-pane window.
Lighting a handful of hay and faggots, she worked the bellows until the open fire blazed, and set about preparing breakfast.
Beneath the chimney-hood, a cauldron was suspended by a chain from a fire-crane, alongside the black kettle, with its tilter. Close by was a bake stone and a baking pot on a griddle. The villagers of Little Lubbock had a communal bread oven. Some cottages, like Gillow’s, also had a small oven to the side of the fire for baking.
Although an attractive woman, Martha was not the least vain. If anything, she was slovenly in appearance. Yawning widely, she stirred oatmeal in the three-legged skillet. Around its rim was an inscription. She had never learnt to read, but Gillow said it read Ye Wages of Sin is Death; an apt maxim that succinctly summed up his philosophy on life. She did not wholly admire his piety and had a hunch that, in the struggle between Christianity and the native paganism that was so strong in the village, the latter reined victorious in his mind. Of course, he would never admit to this, nor would she goad him into acknowledging his superstitious beliefs.
From the oak dresser, where jugs hung above trenchers, china plates, a butter working bowl and meat dishes, she fetched spoons out the rack. Ladling the gruel into wooden bowls, she shouted her usual morning greeting: ‘Gillow! Wakelin! ‘e that dun get up by five, ne’er do thrive.’
She stepped into the bedchamber.
Gillow, thick with sleep, was dragging on his clothes. Seeing his wife’s stricken expression as she stooped over the cradle, tussling with the baby’s blankets, he stilled in this pursuit. ‘Martha? What’s amiss?’
She clasped her hands against her cheeks. ‘The bairn’s went!’
‘Gone? Don’t talk foolishly.’ Fetching out the turnip and fox-hide cushion, a stony look sprang into his eyes. ‘Where’s that idiot lad?’
In a trice he had ascended the steep ladder behind the beam of the open fire and leapt in the wool-loft where their son slept. Angrily, he clambered down. ‘As I guessed.’
Stooping beneath the low threshold he stepped into the garden, breathing in the bracing country air through his bulbous nose. The sun peered above rolling hills. Dew glistened upon regimental rows of cabbages that marched down to the picket gate.
Dank Cottage nestled in a hollow beside a fast-flowing stream. It was the last homestead of a higgledy-pi
ggledy cluster of stone cottages that lined the lane. Most had tattered thatches mended with nets. Tied to Bill’s thatch was a field gate to protect the roof from gales.
‘Wakelin! Are you out there?’ Gillow shouted.
Overcome by spasms of after-birth pain, Martha sank, despairingly, onto a comb-back chair beside the table.
Snatching up his black felt hat with its two blue magpie feathers, Gillow marched to Miller’s Bridge, beside the cottage. The stream bank was festooned with coppiced willows, their spindly branches in full leaf.
Clutching her shawl about her shoulders, Martha struggled to his side, ignoring her soreness. ‘You’re not thinking he’s drowned her are you?’
The thought played on his mind, though he shook his head reassuringly. Turning his back on her, he marched off. ‘You go back to the cottage.’
Picking her way around potholes, she paced after him towards the packhorse bridge at the furthest end of the lane. Above the roaring river, buzzards soared effortlessly in a cloudless sky, shrieking, seeking prey.
Her husband headed into the shadowy glades of Copper Piece Wood. ‘He’s forever in here, shooting.’
‘Shooting? You’re not thinking … ?’
A boy wailed.
‘That must be him!’ Martha hastened to the granary.
Wakelin writhed on the dusty earth, a tiny foot sticking out beneath his body. ‘It’s Eppie! He’s on top of her!’
Dropping to his knees, Gillow made to grasp his son by the arm. Jerking violently, Wakelin smacked him in the face with the back of his hand.
‘Do something!’ Martha cried, seeing her husband draw back and rub his smarting cheek.
‘I am doing something!’ Hauling Wakelin over, he reached down for the baby.
Betsy Psalter, Martha’s elderly friend and neighbour, hobbled up. Her garden bursting with healing herbs, Betsy was a respected wise woman, always on hand at times of illness or when women in the village needed help with the trauma of childbearing. A widow-woman, her own children had long-since gone to their graves. She frowned at Wakelin’s rapid muscle spasms. ‘Laws-a-massy-me, why ever is the lad sossing about?’
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