Eppie

by Robertson, Janice

  ‘I would rather maintain his friendship than tell him and lose him. Nor could I contemplate marrying him under a falsehood. One day he will inherit Tunnygrave Manor. If I married him and he found out about my past he would be mortified.’

  ‘You know that’s not like Gabriel. Only his father is obsessed about scandal. So, when Gabriel asks you to marry him and you refuse, what will he think? He’ll be devastated. None of this makes sense.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear for him to know what I truly am.’

  ‘What you truly are is a kind-hearted, gentle person. That’s why Gabriel loves you.’

  ‘I understand that but, although I am no longer destitute, I feel shabby, unworthy of him.’

  After a moment’s deliberation, Eppie said wistfully, ‘Folk aren’t always what they appear. That’s probably why we became friends; we can sense the anguish within one another. You have shown your true friendship by being honest with me. I, for my part, will share my story with you. You may tell Mr Grimley, but none other.’

  In her astonishment at hearing Eppie’s words, the raspberry tartlet dropped from Sukey’s gaping mouth.

  ‘This locket belonged to my sister. That’s a little painting of her on the front.’

  ‘She must have felt so hurt, knowing that her father despised her. But how can you bear to see Lord du Quesne at the mill, knowing that he’s your father?’

  ‘I shut him out.’

  ‘Does Gabriel know you are his sister?’

  ‘Cilla!’ Loafer cried. ‘You seen this?’

  ‘You wicked girl, you’re pinching food!’

  ‘No, I ain’t!’

  ‘With meringue stuck all over your chin I hardly think you can deny it. And what about these chew marks on this raspberry tart?’

  A look of fear caught between Eppie and Rowan, each thinking the same thing. Had Sukey overheard them?

  ‘Look at the maggots wriggling on this shelf!’ Priscilla exclaimed. ‘I told you to get rid of them last night.’

  ‘What maggots?’ Sukey asked.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me that you know nothing about them? I saw you knock a handful out of that ham you fetched from the truck store, though I hasten to say that was after I’d served a generous portion to Mr Grimley for his dinner. Thank goodness Miss Rowan took herself straight off to bed without her meal. For nigh on two hours Mr Grimley sat on his pavilion-for-his-stools-of-ease, a-cursing with stomach cramps. Stop sniggering, Loafer. You too, girl. Here, take these to the kitchen. I could swear there was another slice of pie for Mr Grimley’s supper.’

  Back in the mill office, Mr Grimley swept his hand this way and that as if he believed the incriminating copy of the book of misdemeanours would simply materialise. Dizzy, he clambered down the stepladder and dropped into his chair. ‘So, you have won, Thurstan du Quesne. You will take Rowan from me.’

  Acrid-smelling smoke belched from the kitchen into the hallway.

  Coughing, Priscilla emerged, having retrieved the cauldron.

  In Loafer’s voice was a note of hilarity, revealing that he was not taking the disaster seriously. ‘Typical woman, the whole house might burn down and your only concern is to salvage Captain Grimley’s dinner.’

  Placing the stew on a side table, Priscilla shoved Sukey. ‘Skitter, fetch help! There’s a sweep’s cart standing before The Wolf and Child.’

  Moments later, a man in soot-grained clothes, on his head a red woollen cap, galloped up the steps to the house. He was trailed by three climbing-boys. Turnips and Jack bounded around, thrilled by the commotion.

  Eppie felt as though she would faint away with delight and astonishment. She pressed her sleeve to her mouth so that she might breathe more easily through the smoke. ‘Dawkin!’

  He wheeled round. ‘Ep!’ Grinning into her stunned face, he took her in his arms.

  To have him near, to feel the warmth and sturdiness of his body sent a quiver through her.

  Seeing her disfigured ear, a frown puckered his brow. ‘What’s happened to you?’

  ‘Fire!’ Priscilla cried from further along the hallway.

  ‘Oh, that, it was a long while ago, at Dank Cottage,’ Eppie answered, mortified lest he think her ugly. ‘I exploded the jam.’

  ‘You always were a little carefree with your cooking as I recall!’

  She rushed on. ‘I thought you were living in London?’

  ‘Fire!’ Priscilla shrilled.

  ‘I was. After I’d grown too big to climb chimneys I convinced Mr Crowe that it’d be better if I managed things so that he could take life easy. Really, I didn’t want Brodie and the other boys to have to suffer years of bullying, like I’d endured.’

  ‘Where’s Wicker?

  ‘I never saw her again, not after Mr Crowe grabbed me at the ice market.’

  ‘Poor Wicker, I wonder what could have become of her,’

  ‘FIRE!’ screamed Priscilla.

  ‘Take it easy, missus.’ Reluctantly, Dawkin took a step away from Eppie. ‘Brodie!’ he called to a boy of about six years of age, his legs almost as thin as those of a sparrow. ‘We need to slacken the flames.’

  Clutching a stick to dislodge any congealed substance in the chimney pots, Dawkin clambered out of a gable window and carefully made his way up the broken-tiled roof. Eppie and Rowan grabbed every leaky-roof pail in sight. Loafer shot upstairs for more. Working in relay from the river they passed bucket after bucket of sloshing water between them. Tied to a rope, each pail was hauled up by Dawkin, who threw the contents down the chimney. Finally, the flames were quenched, the kitchen awash.

  Thurstan let himself into the house. ‘My, aren’t we having an entertaining afternoon. Fire out?’ He cast Dawkin a resentful look. ‘I see you are still with us, more is the pity. Rowan, surely you have not lowered yourself to charge around with these coarse folk? I will not tolerate such conduct.’

  Disgraced, she picked up Turnips and went upstairs to change her frock and to wash.

  Thurstan flicked water from his crisp white shirt. ‘Grimley really must do something about his waterworks. One ought to be able to recline beside that festering puddle of a pond without having several fish flying out at one.’ Something wriggled inside his damp coat.

  ‘Pirate Fin!’ Eppie cried, spying a blue and white flopping tail.

  She dug her hand into Thurstan’s pocket and clutched the fish, with difficulty. ‘Have you flung the rest back?’

  ‘Why, I ask you, would I want to handle the revolting creatures?’

  Eppie dashed out of the side door, intent on rescuing the fish. ‘Mam and I’ll be at The Leaking Barrel tonight.’

  ‘See you there,’ Dawkin shouted back. ‘I’m lodging at 36 Dog Lane.’

  ‘Gracious!’ Mr Grimley cried, stowing away his walking cane. ‘Whatever has been happening here?’

  Dawkin doffed his cap as he left. ‘I reckon your flues could do with a blow-out more regular like, guv’nor. There was three bucket loads o’ birds’ nests down yer pots.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Grimley replied. Paddling into the kitchen, he surveyed the mess, and then stood stock-still, his eyes widening.

  Priscilla grasped his wooden arm. ‘Sir, are you having another funny turn?’

  ‘That querier. Did he leave his name?’

  ‘Dawkin I heard Miss Eppie call him.’

  ‘Well, well, let us hope, Dawkin, that you have not come too late.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Nothing, Miss Scratchings. Just the ramblings of a confused old man.’

  Sukey sounded the gong.

  Rowan lingered outside the poop deck with her uncle. ‘Are you sure we can’t send Thurstan away? Tell him you’re ailing.’

  ‘I am fine, my dear, though I must confess that I find myself in somewhat of a predicament. I meant no harm to come of it.’

  ‘To come of what?’

  ‘I have kept something from you, not wishing to distress you. Now I feel compelled to admit all. For years I have been, for want of a
better word, swindling Lord du Quesne. I have been using the mill fines money to help workers who are sick, to pay for their medicine and food, and the occasional funeral. Thurstan has found me out. I had Mr Longbotham write up only half the number of fines in the book that Robert du Quesne peruses. Thurstan, it would seem, has appropriated both copies, thus incriminating me. Today, Thurstan threatened me. He is trying to force me to give my word that you will marry him. Do not fear. I am prepared to make the sacrifice. I would rather languish in jail for my transgression than see Thurstan have his way.’

  Eppie and Loafer looked on helplessly.

  ‘Uncle, you must not. It is such a bitter thing to blackmail someone for doing something so praiseworthy. Besides, even if you went to prison, Thurstan would force me to marry him without you here to protect me. I do not think highly of myself. It is right I should wed Thurstan rather than inflict any suffering on you. Why will he not leave me alone when there are so many others, by far my superior, whom he might wed? He must realise that I do not care for him.’

  ‘He purports that he craves you for your beauty, but I believe I can read his mind, see his little scheme, though I do not think he counted on a reunion with the chimney sweep.’

  ‘The sweep? What has that man to do with anything?’

  ‘Come along!’ Carrying the stew pot, Priscilla ushered everyone in. ‘I’ve kept the lid on. Can’t waste good food as my old mother used to say, bless her worsted stockings. Loafer, make yourself useful. Napkins, if you would, and the silver salver.’

  Thurstan sat at the head of the table, clinking coins. ‘Really, Grim,’ he said caustically, seeing Eppie take her place beside Rowan, ‘it is bad enough that I have to contend with a rat catcher in this house. Do we really have to have Dunham’s sister here as well? Next, you will be asking every befouled mill worker to partake of dinner with you.’

  Eppie smiled genially into her cousin’s smarmy, embittered face.

  Thurstan took a sip of wine. ‘Found what you were looking for in the office?’

  Eppie was aware of a pained silence, during which Rowan and Mr Grimley glanced at one another across the table, their eyes filled with apprehension.

  Loafer, by contrast leant against the wine cabinet, grinning smugly.

  ‘I presume not,’ Thurstan said, a victorious note in his voice.

  ‘Go on, girl, dish up,’ Priscilla said, rummaging in a cupboard for a cruet. ‘I must apologise, Mr du Quesne. What with the chimney fire we’re in a bit of a muddle today.’

  Sukey lifted the lid off the cauldron. A peculiar smell wafted out.

  ‘I apologise if it tastes a bit smoky, sir,’ Priscilla said. Looking askance, she prodded the stew with a fork. ‘You’ve put too much garlic in it, Sukey. And it looks raw; it’ll give everyone a bad after-taste for days. You really are such a feather brain.’

  ‘Hey, who you callin’ a feather brain, you bloated scratch pot?’

  ‘Do you always allow your domestics such liberal conduct, Grim?’ Thurstan remonstrated. ‘In my household the servants are hardly ever seen and certainly never heard. Back to the matter in hand, I believe that you have some capital news to impart to Miss Grimley.’ His lips broke into a thin smile. ‘A little matter of your blessing.’

  Mr Grimley clenched the handle of a knife so hard that the end cracked the varnish of the walnut table. Whatever response he gave, he knew that either he would be doomed to fester in jail or Rowan to be chained to Thurstan forever.

  Rowan intervened to save Mr Grimley the distress of voicing his decision. ‘I thank you for your proposal, Mr du Quesne …’ Her nerve gave way and her face paled. Appalled by the repercussions of acceding to Thurstan’s demands, she fidgeted with the stiff tablecloth.

  ‘Yes, go on,’ Thurstan said.

  ‘I …’

  Sukey placed a plate of stew before Rowan.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Mr du Quesne is our guest,’ Priscilla said. ‘You should’ve served him first.’

  ‘And Mr du Quesne deserves the choicest cuts,’ Loafer added.

  Eppie wondered at Loafer’s thoughtfulness.

  ‘All right,’ Sukey retorted, ‘don’t blow yer ears off.’

  ‘Really, Grim,’ Thurstan said, ‘it is bad enough being served inferior fare such as mutton stew without having your underlings clucking around like demented roosters. Why do you not enforce discipline? Are you a man or a slavering fool? And for goodness sake, Rowan, extricate that mangy hound from your lap. Have you not the least sense of propriety? I will not allow such behaviour when we are wed.’

  ‘Turnips has had a terrible time, sir,’ she wheedled. ‘The smoke … ’

  ‘Down!’

  Grudgingly, Rowan placed the dog on the floor.

  ‘Good, you are learning. Now, you were saying?’

  Not wishing to offend Priscilla, Mr Grimley prodded stringy parsnips and nudged them around the bed of greasy stew.

  Sukey approached Thurstan with his serving. Her toes catching on the raised board beneath the rug, she stumbled and hastily plonked the brimming plate before him. A drop of stodgy gravy splattered onto his white shirt.

  Priscilla rushed forward with a napkin and fussed around him. ‘Here, let me dab you. The juices is all down your front.’

  Thurstan’s colour was alarming. ‘Call me sir! And take your hands off me, you strumpet.’

  ‘There’s no cause for name-calling,’ she reprimanded. ‘I’m only trying to help.’

  Thurstan attempted to stab the meat with a fork. ‘By the lords, Grim, from where do you acquire your meat? This is so tough that the sheep must have died a century ago.’ He looked Mr Grimley straight in the eyes. ‘I am not the fool you take me for. I realise that you are serving me this inferior repast so as to deter me from calling. I expected as much. The last time it was humble pie.’

  Distraught at being forsaken, Turnips yapped and bounded about trying to regain the warmth of his mistress’s much-loved lap.

  ‘Keep that dog silent!’ Thurstan demanded. ‘As to the creature’s name, I insist that it is altered when we are married. I will not have you perambulating the thoroughfares, shouting, as I have heard you in the garden, Turnips! Turnips! You sound like some common street hawker.’

  Rowan looked shamefacedly at her untouched meal.

  ‘If none of you will eat your mutton, can I interest you in something else?’ Priscilla asked. She fetched plates from the sideboard, where Loafer had arranged a selection of fruit and cheese.

  Determined not to give in to Mr Grimley’s attempt to dissuade him for visiting, Thurstan ignored the revolting smell of the custard-coloured durian, which Sukey set before him. The smell reminded Eppie of Lottie’s urine-soaked pilchers which, in winter, Martha used to dry on the wooden clothes-horse before the fire, ready to be used again.

  Pushing the durian aside, Thurstan picked up a fork and, helping himself to a cube of white cheese, sat chewing. ‘This is quite a delicacy. Tangy with a slightly soft consistency, rather like Cheshire.’

  ‘I don’t rightly know what variety it is,’ Priscilla said. ‘Loafer you acquired it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Frigate cheese is that,’ the rat catcher answered. ‘To help Captain Grimley along, seeing as how hard up he is, I catch plump lady rats and milk ‘em. It takes a few months to ripen the taste of the cheese, but it’s worth the wait.’

  Thurstan trembled with indignation. ‘You trifle with me, Grim! This is nothing short of treachery!’

  ‘Believe you me,’ Mr Grimley answered anxiously, ‘I knew nothing about the source of the cheese.’

  Thurstan rose from the table. ‘You have not heard the last of this, Grim. Nothing will stop me from getting what I want. Nothing!’ Determined to retain what dignity he could preserve intact, he thrust Priscilla out of his way and hastily departed the poop deck.

  ‘Is it really rat cheese?’ Eppie asked moments after the front door had slammed.

  Loafer’s response was mere
ly to smirk and raise his eyebrows, letting her decide.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  VOICES RAISED IN ANGER

  Dawkin wove his way through the packed parlour of The Leaking Barrel. Seeing him, warmth flooded Eppie’s body. He was tall and handsome, so that every woman gazed upon him with pleasure. Though his clothes were plain he looked more a gentleman than a chimney sweep.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ she asked.

  ‘I couldn’t make it. It’s good to see you, Ma.’

  Martha took his right hand in both of hers. ‘It’s a blessing to have you back with us.’

  Eppie shifted along the trestle bench and Dawkin stepped in beside her.

  ‘How come you’re in Malstowe?’ Martha asked.

  ‘I met Gabriel du Quesne in London when I went to sweep the rooms of the house in which he resides. He told me you lived here.’ He greeted Wakelin, ‘How’s things?’

  Wakelin sat on the opposite side of the table, between Ezra and Jaggery, all with their shirtsleeves rolled above splayed elbows. ‘Never better,’ he replied apathetically.

  Eagerly, Dawkin turned his attention to Eppie. In his voice she detected a strain borne of forced separation. ‘I’ve been heart-broken at us not being together.’

  ‘Me too,’ she replied, a tremor in her voice.

  Jovially, he slapped his thigh. ‘Right, ladies, what’s it to be? Double whiskies all around?’

  ‘This is the only tavern that serves decent cups of tea,’ Martha answered. ‘Another pot would be lovely.’

  Wakelin came to join him at the bar.

  ‘Can I stand you a slug of summat?’ Dawkin asked.

  ‘Gin’ll be good.’

  Leaning against the counter, they enjoyed a moment of friendly banter with Fortune, the barmaid. She and Wakelin were fond of one another. Placing a tankard before him, she playfully ruffled his cow-lick.

  ‘I thought you was my girl?’ Wilbert shouted across the parlour. ‘Why you wasting yer kisses on him?’

  ‘I’ve kisses for all them as buys me trinkets,’ Fortune replied.