Eppie yawned.
Gillow stirred ashes. ‘Bed, my little maid. Go and find your ma.’
‘I’ve been glad of your friendliness,’ Sam told Gillow.
‘Same ‘ere,’ he answered, abashed. ‘Reckon I’ll take a stroll. Get the smoke out o’ me chest.’
Moths flitted toward the lantern light as Sam opened the door. ‘Is it all right if I step in?’
‘I’ve put Wakelin’s sack back in the loft for you, with an extra blanket, should you feel the cold.’ Martha’s hand shook slightly as she handed him the candle sconce. ‘First thing tomorrow I’ll fix you some tack.’
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble. I’ve the cream to take from the milk.’
The oil lantern was set upon the windowsill. Martha turned down the wick. ‘I only wish you didn’t have to go back.’
Sam stepped close behind her. They gazed into one another’s mournful eyes, reflected in the shining blackness of the pane.
Martha trembled at the warmth of his breath on her hair.
‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘Though, hopefully, it won’t be forever.’
He trod to the loft, a caged animal, shackles clanking.
Gillow’s rumbling snores greeted the early day.
Martha removed the metal couvre-feu and tossed a handful of moss and wood chippings onto the warm embers. She puffed the bellows until a cheerful blaze flared. Soon a mouth-watering smell drifted from the pan.
Sam tried, unsuccessfully, to tread quietly down the ladder.
Pouring steaming tea into a mug, Martha whispered, ‘I’ve fried you some bacon rashers, sausages and a couple of eggs.’
‘This is as much a banquet as last night,’ Sam said appreciatively, breaking off chunks of bread and mopping runny yolks.
All too soon it was time for him to take his leave.
Cushioning lilac clouds, lined with silver, concealed the early sun. Martha and Sam stood beneath the porch, neither wishing to move away from the other. Martha let herself believe in the romantic notion of a loving life spent with this gentle man, once he was let out of jail, of course.
With a slash of silvery yellow, like a shining sword, the sun rose from its nest of verdant green hills. Blackbirds ricocheted from the blast like burnt sparks. Rapidly, the clouds changed to grey, the colour of a dirty dishrag, bringing Martha back to reality.
A ghastly feeling of loss caught at Eppie’s heart. Diving out of bed, she ran to Sam and wrapped her arms around his legs. ‘Don’t go back. Run away!’
He stooped so that his face was level with hers and light-heartedly rapped her nose with his finger. ‘Boyle trusts me. I wouldn’t want to get him into trouble. Besides, if I were caught I’d hang.’
‘Wait, don’t forget.’ From a shelf Martha fetched the pipe and tobacco that Gillow had put aside for Sam the previous evening.
Accepting the gifts, his hand touched hers. In that instance, Eppie sensed something important pass between them for, their faces anxious, they no longer smiled.
Turning swiftly, Sam was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FOWL GOINGS ON
Whilst Martha went to sort a few tasks in the garden, Eppie dived back into bed for a little more rest. Above her head, sparrows scratched in the thatch and hopped along tunnels to their nests. The birds were as much part of the cottage as the stones and mortar. She was glad that Gillow, who also enjoyed their cheerful antics, turned a blind eye to Lord du Quesne’s demand that, because the sparrows scavenged in his wheat fields, the cottagers should kill them in their nests. She had watched others lay ladders against their eaves and, climbing with a soft tread, catch the birds by surprise and dash their heads against the ladders. To her mind, it was senseless cruelty.
Dragging on his clothes, Gillow sang a maddened, hurried ditty. It came to an abrupt halt. ‘Not again, Eppie!’ When she mended the hole in his shirt, she had accidentally stitched the front and back together. ‘How am I supposed to put this on?’
His shirt covering his head he dropped to his knees and crawled towards her bed, a grey snail hiding in its shell.
Despite her guilty nervousness, Eppie giggled.
‘At least you do giant stitches; it’ll be easy for your mother to unstitch. Outside is she?’ Fumbling with the shirt, intent on finding a way for his head to poke out, he stepped into the garden. ‘Martha! Come and fix my belly-timber.’
Eppie was disturbed by the anger in his voice.
Sam, also perturbed, turned fleetingly towards Martha. Before she became aware of his concerned look, he resumed his work.
She traipsed indoors, milk from her bucket slapping onto the earth-pressed floor.
Eppie noticed her sad, tired eyes. Gillow saw only the stains of pulped apples splattered upon her apron. ‘You ought to rise before dawn every day; that way you’d get more chores done.’
She ignored the bitter tone in his voice. ‘How many eggs would you like?’
‘My usual, of course, five, and a dozen rashers. I need setting up for a hard day. I’m riding over to Mulberry Farm this afternoon. George and I are taking out his rowing boat for a spot of fishing on Lynmere.’
Munching, his head was bowed so low that his nose was almost buried in the eggs.
‘Sheep and badgers have babies, but they don’t go to jail for not getting married,’ Eppie reflected.
Gillow eyed her gravely. ‘Things are different with people. Lambs soon fend for themselves.’
The carrier drew up.
Wiping his hands down his trousers, Gillow peered over the pot of red geraniums set upon the windowsill. ‘Reuben Shaw’s here, if you’re sending that stuff.’
The cheapjack’s bell rang.
‘Harvey Elmer, an’ all!’ Eppie cried.
Hurriedly, Martha untied the plucked ducks from the rafters and fetched the money jar. ‘Go and ask Harvey for four pence worth of lantern oil, Eppie.’
In the cheapjack’s cart were stacked boxes of assorted goods. Dropping the ducks into a pothole, Eppie rummaged through the wares.
Betsy thrust a coin at the cheapjack. ‘Two foot o’ string.’
Clunking his jaw, Harvey wielded his scissors. ‘Here ya go. Just don’t go hanging yerself with it.’
From the distance came the blast of guns. ‘They’re rabbit shooting in Sickle Field,’ Jacob said. Though bald, tufts of hair stuck out behind his ears. ‘When the wheat’s cut the coneys is easy targets. It’ll be rabbit pie every night for the next few weeks. I’ll get our Edmund to bring you a couple o’ good un’s, Mrs Psalter. Six penny worth o’ snuff and a candle, Harvey.’
Reuben loaded baskets of food to be taken to market. Eppie tossed in the dusty ducks. ‘Mam wants ‘em took to Alicia Strutt’s dressmakers.’
He sucked on his pipe. ‘Will do.’
Ranger’s hooves clattered, cold and hard, as Robert du Quesne rode over Miller’s Bridge. A ray of sun cut through gathering clouds, glinting on the shiny buttons of his waistcoat. He scowled at the prisoners toiling before Samuel’s cottage. ‘I’ve a herd of longhorn oxen coming through today, around mid-day.’ He pointed agitatedly at stones, buckets and tools littered about. ‘I want this clutter out of the way before then. Can’t you work any faster?’
Jaggery leant on the wagon. ‘You release us from our fetters, we’ll go quicker.’
‘I have no sympathy for the plight of the criminal class,’ du Quesne retorted.
Eppie dawdled, hoping Sam would notice her. He didn’t glance up.
In the cottage, she found Martha lying on the bed. ‘Sorry Eppie, I’ve a rotten head cramp.’
‘Any tasks want sorting?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘There’s ‘em pig’s pettitoes been salting in the bucket for four days. You can put them on for your pa. They’ll need a couple of hours. I’ve set the water on. After you’ve fetched a scoop of corn and fed the hens, the hutch could do with a sweep. There’s the pigsty to shovel. I’ll co
me and help out in a bit.’
Eppie drew back the doorway sacking so that the bright sunlight would not hurt Martha’s eyes. Nipping into the garden, she plucked a sprig of mint. Plonking it upon the table, she was about to slice it when a meadow butterfly fluttered indoors. She watched as it flittered about and became trapped on the inside of the windowpane. Cupping her hands over it, she smiled at the feel of it tickling her skin. Released, it trembled delicately over the heads of the prisoners. They were talking loudly to one another. Only Sam worked in silence.
Having tossed several mugs of dried peas into the pot alongside the meat and steaming water, Eppie chucked more logs onto the fire.
She skipped into the garden to play in the stream. Gillow was tinkering with rhubarb.
Shortly afterwards, remembering the stew, Eppie ran in and heaped further firewood beneath the pot. Climbing to the loft, she stretched one of Gillow’s woven blankets over sacks of finished broad cloth to make a den.
Gillow strode in, muttering angrily to himself. He had not uttered a word to her since breakfast. Now and again, she sneaked a look at his bent, treadmill attitude as he worked the loom, using the picker with more force than seemed necessary to knock the flying shuttle to and fro. Adjusting an irregularity in the thread he became aware of the stillness in the cottage. He glanced up to where Eppie played with her doll. ‘Is your ma in the wring-shed?’
‘She’s in sleep.’
‘Asleep? Here am I slaving at this wretched loom, not to mention killing myself in the garden, just to keep a roof over our heads, and there’s your mother sleeping.’ He rubbed his aching back. ‘Stick out my tack whilst I go to the privy.’
Eppie sprang to her feet. ‘Trotters!’
Meat and peas stuck in a lump at the bottom of the cauldron. Frantic, she threw a cup of water onto the mixture. A hiss of steam shot up, the contents sizzled.
Martha emerged, pinning her hair into a bun. ‘Eppie, you should’ve waked me.’
‘Are you better?’
‘Not much.’ She stared askance at the contents of the cauldron. ‘That doesn’t look appetising. Fetch a pot of blackberry jam. You and I best have bread n’ sugar.’
Eppie laid the knives and spoons and stodged a plateful of stew before Gillow.
‘You didn’t do the yarn,’ he grumbled at Martha. ‘You know I don’t like going short.’
She scraped the cauldron, ignoring him.
A knife held in his fist like a candle in a sconce, he muttered nastily, ‘Don’t think I don’t know.’ He caught Martha’s startled, backwards glance. ‘This morning I was looking through the gap at the door curtain after Eppie ran out. I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.’
‘Believed what? Seen what? I wish you wouldn’t go on at me so. What with you and all that clattering an’ hammering on the lane, my head’s splitting in two.’
Gillow noticed the reserve in her glance and the restraint upon her mouth. ‘You slept right through it this morning, no trouble. What’s ludicrous is how you think any man could find you attractive? You never see your sister wearing the same frock day-in and day-out with dozens of mismatched patches sewn on. She takes pride in her appearance.’
‘Claire has money. I have to make ends meet.’
‘So you’re implying it’s my fault are you? Don’t make excuses. Not only are you slovenly, you are a deceiver. I would have to be a pin-head not to know what’s been going on between you and Sam.’
‘And what, precisely, do you mean by that?’
‘Every time I looked your way last night you were gazing at him like a soft-eyed doe.’
‘By, you’re rare and ugly this morning. I was only concerned for Sam’s well-being.’
Aware of Eppie’s troubled eyes fixed upon him, he spoke with a note of finality. ‘I shall say no more in front of my daughter. I will speak to you later.’
‘She’s my daughter an’ all, remember.’
‘Then you had better start acting like a mother, instead of some cheap woman of the streets.’
‘How dare you speak …? ’
Gillow thumped the table with his fist. ‘Hold your tongue, woman. I will speak to you in any manner that I deem fit.’
After a moment’s reflection, Martha spoke quietly. ‘You’re not usually like this.’
‘You don’t usually make eyes at strange men, at least not to my knowledge.’
‘I wasn’t making eyes.’
‘What does making eyes mean?’ Eppie asked, intrigued.
Gillow let out a long breath, seeking to control his rage. ‘I like Sam, but there’s only so much that a man can take.’
Hunched over the table, Eppie and Martha sucked tasteless bread.
‘You might not have noticed, but I have feelings too,’ Gillow said. Chewing the meat, his thick lips curved down like a dour fish. He spat out a mouthful. ‘Whatever is this you’ve served me? It tastes foul, like mouldy offal mixed with sour milk.’
Eppie whimpered. ‘I didn’t mean to burn it, Pa!’
‘It’s foul! How dare you feed me such hash, Martha? I might as well be in jail with your good friend Scattergood. This is no better than he’d get.’ Angrily, he scooped up the wooden bowl and slammed it onto the wall. Lumps of meat ricocheted off the loom. Globules of gravy dripped from the fowling gun hanging above the fire beam.
Martha was aghast to see her freshly-washed clothes speckled with greasy, brown spots. ‘That was a stupid thing to do.’
‘Rare and ugly isn’t enough for you,’ he fumed. ‘Now you’re calling me stupid.’ He thrust his fists into his jacket sleeves. ‘I’m off to George’s. Don’t expect me back. Ever!’
Sidling in, Twiss wolfed the unexpected treat of strewn meat. His tail between his legs, he bounded outdoors, retching.
Eppie and Martha sat in silence, neither daring to move. In relief, they listened to Jenny trot off, at an unusually rapid pace for a hock-kneed horse.
Eppie gazed at the whitewashed stone spattered with oily stains. ‘Uh, oh.’
Martha put her nose to a lump of meat which had stuck on the fire-crane. ‘Pooh! No wonder Twiss was sick.’
‘When I went to sweep the coop, Connie fluttered and knocked the pettitoes into a pile of chicken droppings. The trotters were hard to fish out; they kept slipping back into the slime and grit.’
‘My head is cracking with all this laughter. Do you reckon, Eppie Dunham, that if I left you to muck out the loosebox, I could get some more rest? Your father will be in a fowl mood when he gets home. I’ll need all my strength to deal with him.’
‘What about the mess?’
‘I’ll scrub it later. By then it’ll have stuck like a blackberry flap, but who cares? Your pa obviously doesn’t.’
Chucking the fox-cushion upon the step, Eppie settled to enjoy the warmth of the sun. Mucking out could wait. How she loved this cottage - the woodbine cascading over the hazel-lattice porch, and the wallflowers, hollyhocks, sweet peas and columbine thriving beneath the window.
She watched a bumble bee hovering around the ventilation hole of the potato storage clamp that Gillow had made from straw and ash. Twiss leapt, trying to catch the insect in his mouth. ‘Bumbees have a nasty sting, you silly mop head.’ Tipsy rubbed against her knees. ‘Would you like some leftover cream from mam’s yellow jug?’
Fetching a rose-patterned saucer from the crockery set reserved for visits from the parson, she poured out the cream.
Martha kept the cake tin on the highest shelf in the larder, supposedly out of Eppie’s grasp. Climbing the lowest shelves, she fetched it down and reached for the shortbread. Familiar with the clunking lid and Eppie’s mediocre table manners, Tipsy sprang between her feet and licked the brown sugar topping that had sprinkled onto the floor. Stowing slices of shortbread in her pinafore pockets, Eppie scurried out.
‘Jarman, did you know about this?’ du Quesne cried, as he and Squire Obadiah Bulwar rode over Miller’s Bridge. ‘I left you in charge.’
‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the bewildered bailiff.
‘Are you blind, a blockhead, or both? Haven’t you noticed that wagon obstructing the packhorse bridge?’
‘Wagon, sir?’
‘Like the one with the wheel missing?’ Du Quesne emphasised each word lingeringly as though Henry was dull-witted.
Too nervous to speak to du Quesne, Boyle told Henry, ‘That wagon’s had a lot of rough treatment. We was hurrying, like his lordship sez, so we shovelled on extra stones. It proved too much.’
‘Stop blabbering, man,’ du Quesne growled. ‘The arrival of the cattle is imminent. Is that nag by the medieval granary yours?’
‘We let Kindly graze when the wagon’s at a standstill,’ Boyle answered. ‘He gets brangy if he’s left in his traces for too long.’
‘You, boy, hitch that horse,’ du Quesne shouted to Dick. ‘Henry, you’re useless. Ride back to the manor and make sure Cordwainer’s cleared the yard in readiness.’ He pointed to Sam and Jaggery, the prisoners nearest to him. ‘Shift that wagon!’
Du Quesne and Bulwar slipped into easy conversation.
Standing at Ranger’s forelocks, Eppie craned her neck to listen.
‘I imagine the turnpike road will prove invaluable to your nephew,’ Bulwar said.
‘Thurstan intends setting up an express carriage service with twenty-five pairs of post-horses. Flying coaches he’s going to call them. His main concern is that he’s likely to face stiff competition from Hurry Eades, the landlord of The Black Sheep. Diversification is the key. That is what I instil in my nephew. Spread your capital widely. Develop other ventures, other businesses, and you cannot go wrong.’
‘To my mind, aristocracy and commerce should not intermix. Farming has always been my way and always will be.’
‘With this war against France the price of corn is fluctuating wildly. A bad harvest will set you back.’
‘More like you’ll get into difficulties,’ Bulwar answered.
‘I can handle my money.’ Du Quesne became aware of Eppie eyeing him up and down, from his white powdered wig to his silk stockings and royal blue garters. ‘Might I enquire as to what you are staring at, Strawhead?’
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