Eppie

by Robertson, Janice

  Men laboured in the fields, laughing and singing, all working with a good will in the knowledge that Gabriel had returned. Their light-heartedness communicating itself to her, Genevieve hummed as Goddess trotted along.

  Blue damselflies dipped and dived over the chattering waters beneath Miller’s Bridge. It was not only the delights of nature for which Genevieve had eyes. Dank Cottage, crouching beside the streamside, was so much a part of the landscape that it appeared almost to spring from the garden, a garden bursting with cabbages, their leaves shrivelled in the quivering heat.

  Dismounting, she rested her hand upon the picket gate. The lock was still broken, and the gate swung open as though inviting her in. It was tempting to walk up the path and rap on the door. She knew she would not; seeing another family dwelling in her old home would be too hard to bear.

  Jacob waved potato leaves at her. ‘Tis empty. It has been for weeks, ever since the weaver and his family left for Malstowe.’

  Still, she could not summon the courage to enter the cottage. She felt caught between two worlds. Knew she must tread another path. She led Goddess across the lane.

  ‘I’ve lost Sarah. Our Edmund and Kizzie live with me now. After you and your ma, beg pardon, your ladyship, I mean Mrs Dunham, was gone, a proper turnpike lodge was built in front of The Fat Duck. I weren’t sorry to give up me job as gatekeeper; folk never gave a thought to the nuisance it caused me with their outcomelings. You off for a jaunt?’

  ‘It is such a sunny day. I hate to stay indoors.’

  Children, huddled before rickety palings, clutched their mothers’ skirts in shyness as she rode past their cottages. Though she wished the women a fine morning, knowing most of them, many were too bemused by her changed circumstances to utter a reply. This only served to fuel her sense of estrangement. Needing to be alone, to find herself, she spirited her steed to ride fast, past the tavern and on to the wild lands, as Martha called them.

  Ancient woodlands cloaked the landscape beyond the sheep-beaten paths and hillocky ground which bordered the river.

  Fording a stream, Goddess kicked up sparkling waters. On and on Genevieve rode, wearing away the day, until she came to the brink of a cliff. Opened up before her was an enchanted prospect of woods, hills and water, a scene so superb with its verdure of hollows and lofty rocks that her heart leapt into her throat with pleasure.

  Though the first few weeks drifted by happily for the servants and the labourers, Gabriel and Genevieve, distracted by the absence of their loved ones, found it hard to move into their new roles as lord and lady of the manor. It was as though they were only half alive, their bodies here but not their heads, which felt as though they had burst with torment about what had become of Rowan and Dawkin.

  For the present, the only contentment they found in life was when they reverted to their childhood ways. They were never happier than when roaming in the woodland, fishing, or trekking on horseback to remote areas where they could hide themselves, eking out what contentment they could, together.

  Mrs Bellows had taken it upon herself to become their substitute mother. She was like a mother goose, they the wayward goslings. After pecking at their breakfast, they would scoot off to the woods when her back was turned.

  Even though her worries were no less than her brother’s, seeing Gabriel finding it so hard to cope with his distress about Rowan, Genevieve’s thoughts were occupied with how to help him through this difficult time. Always, she tried to be cheerful for his sake, though she was plagued with anguish wondering what had befallen Dawkin.

  They knew they could not exist in this state of limbo for much longer. They were living on borrowed time, shirking their manorial responsibilities.

  It was not as though Gabriel had not tried. More than once Genevieve found him buried in the library, grappling with weighty tomes, such as Five Hundreth Points of Good Husbandry, or The New Horfe-Hoing Husbandry, or with his nose stuck in a heap of business ledgers.

  ‘In some ways it’s as hard having money and responsibilities as it was when I was in London, worried where the money was coming from to pay my rent,’ he said. ‘Learning how to run the home farm, trading, and handling father’s affairs is so daunting.’

  In a way he was the instigator of some of his own worries for he had not been slow in eradicating Maygott, the menace of the labourers, thus leaving him without an estate manager.

  Shortly after the Dunhams had left for Malstowe, Bill had been made muck-man, a job he reviled.

  On the first morning after he and Genevieve returned home, Gabriel had ridden into the fields to greet the labourers.

  Maygott rode towards Bill. ‘Hix! You have been deliberately dumping dung in the ditches again.’

  Drawing apart, the labourers exposed their master who stood amidst them.

  Exuding confidence, Gabriel stepped forward. ‘From now on, I intend to run the farm. These workers will answer to me alone.’

  ‘What are you saying, sir? You cannot dismiss me!’

  ‘Then I must find you some other living. How does the idea of pulping mangel-wurzels for toothless old cows appeal?’

  Gabriel had eased the lives of villagers in other ways. They needed somewhere to run their livestock and grow hay to feed their beasts over winter, so he had provided the cottagers with shared fields for their own use.

  Individual families benefited from his kindness. Whilst tolling the bell at a funeral, a lightning bolt had killed Blinkinsopp, the sexton. At the time of the tragedy, two villagers standing nearby had been paralysed from the waist down, and forced to live off the meagre offerings of the poor-rate, until Gabriel stepped in.

  Hearing from Samuel how Sovereign, one of Robert du Quesne’s deerhounds had lost a leg in a mantrap, he even ordered Amis, much to the gamekeeper’s annoyance, to remove the poachers’ traps from the woodland. Precautions were also being taken to ensure that badgers on the estate were safe from baiting.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  POLITE SOCIETY

  Sheep dipping was in full swing when Genevieve and Gabriel arrived at Horseshoe Field.

  Secured in wattle pens, dozens of sheep awaited their fate.

  Clutching a pole, Edmund guided the next fretful victim into the stream.

  Tom, his face almost hidden by a moustache and plaited beard, seized the sheep. He plunged it, legs upwards, whilst another man gave its fleece a thorough scrubbing. ‘When d’ya reckon Wake will be coming home, Eppie?’

  She hesitated before answering. Though she had no reason to believe something untoward had befallen Wakelin, a mountain of unease pressed upon her thoughts. Months had passed since she had last seen him. ‘Soon, very soon, I’m sure.’ Constantly she pondered what had become of Wakelin. Surely he would have heard that she had returned home? Even knowing his life may be in danger from Thurstan he might think to visit, secretly.

  Gabriel was keen to get involved with the sheep dipping. He handed Genevieve his hat and coat, and threw off his boots. ‘This is something I have always longed to do,’ he said, wading into the brimming stream.

  From her limited experience, Genevieve realised that silk pumps were wholly inadequate footwear for traversing pasture. Though she wore a fashionable high-waist frock with short puffed sleeves, a sunbonnet and silk shawl, she did not inconvenience herself with the long gloves and, as now, preferred sturdy footwear.

  Genevieve stood with the wives and children of labourers, marvelling at the kicking strength of the tormented sheep, laughing with Gabriel as a struggling beast gave him an unexpected dunking. The unfortunate sheep raced to join its fellows, grazing on the grass, its fleece barely scrubbed.

  A carriage drew up at the lane-side, upon its roof an assortment of boxes.

  Recognising the travellers, a middle-aged woman and her daughters, both handsome and of marriageable age, Gabriel surged out. ‘Lady Wexcombe, it is many years since our paths crossed.’

  About Lady Sophia Wexcombe’s voice was a distinctive French lilt. ‘My daugh
ters and I have been turned out of our home, this very day no less.’

  Gabriel wrung water from his shirt sleeves. ‘How so?’

  ‘You may know that my husband recently passed away. Shortly after his death it came to my knowledge that wicked men had attacked Saint Peter’s church, where he lay, and carried away the dead that slept within and without. I consider it most remiss of my husband to lose his body. He did not consider the grief it would cause my daughters and I.’

  Genevieve was shaken by the memory of the bodysnatchers and recalled the awful bump when Lord Wexcombe was flung into Thurstan’s carriage.

  ‘Since I have no son, our family home, Helsell Hall, has been settled to Lord Lupton, my late husband’s cousin. The odious gentleman has no filial scruples.’ She gazed at Genevieve as though surveying a moth exhibited in a lepidopterist’s collection. ‘And who might be this creature beside you?’

  ‘Give me leave to present my sister.’

  ‘I had no knowledge of you having another sister.’

  ‘She has only recently been re-joined to my household. Genevieve, might I introduce Lady Wexcombe and her daughters, Hortence and Permelia.’

  Dark-haired, the sisters shared their mother’s insipid complexion.

  Genevieve remembered seeing the Wexcombes in the animal tent at the fair. Curtseying, she felt unnerved by the sisters who cast circumspect glances at her rough shoes. ‘How do you do, ma’am’s.’

  ‘How quaint!’ Hortence said, tittering.

  ‘Do you journey far?’ Gabriel asked.

  ‘Until my lawyer, Huber-Percy, finds us more suitable accommodation we have rented a modest house in Cotterburgh. We are on our way there now. The place is disagreeably small for our desires. My late husband was a firm friend of your father’s. If Robert were alive he would have had no compunction in welcoming us to his home whilst we sought lodgings of superior worth.’

  ‘Until you find a residence more suitable to your taste,’ Gabriel offered, sharing Genevieve’s sorrow about the defiling of Lord Wexcombe’s body, ‘I will be delighted to receive you and your charming daughters into my home. There are ample rooms.’

  Lady Wexcombe appeared genuinely surprised by the generous proposal. ‘That is most mannerly of you, sir. My daughters and I find your proposition entirely agreeable.’

  ‘If your driver will follow my curricle. Genevieve, are you coming?’

  ‘I’ll saunter back. I’ve things to think on.’

  From behind as she traipsed along the lane, came the thud of hooves. Glancing back, she saw a party of ten or more mounted soldiers advancing, Colonel Catesby to the fore. Hoping not to draw attention to herself she lingered at a field entrance and gazed upon a charm of goldfinches feasting on purple knapweed.

  Catesby swung out of his saddle and approached. Drawing off his hat, he swept it in an extravagant bow that threatened to tip him over. The movement startled the goldfinches and they flitted away ‘Your ladyship, it is unwise to be from home without a protector.’

  ‘I shall do as I please.’ Deeming it best to finish her walk as quickly as possible, she set off again.

  ‘Ride on,’ Catesby told his men. Leading his horse, he paced beside her. ‘I warn you only for your safety, your ladyship. Although it is likely that your cousin has fled abroad there is always the chance that he remains at liberty in this country.’

  She turned into the lane that led to the yard of Tunnygrave Manor. ‘I am not afraid.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ he said, cooled by her frostiness. ‘I would suggest, however, that you do not go from home unattended.’

  The soldiers waited on horseback before the coach-house.

  ‘My men and I may be in this area for some time, sir,’ Catesby informed Gabriel. ‘We are on the trail of rebellious labourers who are murdering landowners and setting fire to their hayricks.’

  ‘If your men need somewhere to erect their tents, feel free to make use of the parcel of land behind The Fat Duck.’

  ‘Your offer is much appreciated, sir. Whilst we are in the vicinity, Mr Jeremiah Grimley requested that we scour the countryside in the hunt for Miss Scattergood.’

  ‘If you have no objection, I will ride with you, and some of my men, also.’

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said Genevieve.

  ‘We must ride hard and search in treacherous places,’ Catesby answered. ‘It is not seemly for a lady to accompany us.’

  From Gabriel’s pained expression she saw his sorrow at her being ordered to remain behind.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gabriel suggested, ‘you might like to amuse Lady Wexcombe and her daughters whilst I am gone?’

  That was the last thing she felt like doing.

  After reading for hours, lounging on a chaise-longue in the long gallery, she sauntered to the servants’ quarters. ‘Is Gabriel home yet?’

  ‘The master’s been back a while,’ Hannah replied. Busy slicing smoked ham, she seemed pleased that they had guests. ‘He’s invited Colonel Catesby and the parson to dinner.’

  In the stillroom, Lottie was binding breadcrumbs with honey, liquorice and spices to make gingerbread. ‘Gabriel looked right depressed. He said they’d had no whiff of Miss Rowan’s whereabouts.’

  Mrs Bellows bustled in, the keys on her girdle clinking. She was astonished to see Genevieve helping Attie, the stillroom maid, pressing out the cakes ready for drying. ‘Far be it from me to advise your ladyship,’ she said in a voice icy sharp, ‘but I do not consider below stairs a fit place for the lady of the house to be seen.’

  ‘I thought I’d do a bit. It keeps my mind off things.’

  ‘Well, you can think again.’

  Betsy had secreted herself in a commodious armchair in the dining room. Warmed by the crackling fire, she had drifted into a deep slumber and was snoring, rather loudly. Martha sat in a padded chair opposite. Her loving smile, as Genevieve slipped in, was just the tonic she needed to cheer her. Kneeling with her head on Martha’s lap, she immediately felt soothed and loved.

  Martha stroked Genevieve’s hair. ‘Don’t fret. It’s to be expected that it’ll take time to get used to new ways.’

  The servants were about to set salads and side dishes upon the rosewood table. The damask tablecloth was as stiff as a board, swamped with flowers and sparkling with silverware.

  Mr Solomon, the butler, entered. ‘If you please, your ladyship, the master says to inform you that he is in the salon and would you make your way there. We will be serving in here shortly.’

  Martha laid down her sewing. ‘I’ll come and give a hand in the kitchen.’

  Gabriel, Catesby and the parson stood beside the piano listening in admiration as Hortence played Handel’s Arrival of the Queen of Sheba. Gabriel looked every inch the gentleman in a fine tailcoat and buckskin breeches, his collar rising to the sides of his mouth.

  Hortence wore a dress of white embroidered muslin. Though she fleetingly turned her head as Genevieve entered, she completed the tune.

  On the windowsill was a blue-painted wicker cage. In it perched Hortence’s captive linnet. Stepping towards the bird, Genevieve gazed at its crown of scarlet, chestnut flushed feathers and forked tail. With brave, bright eyes, the bird cocked its head and returned her inquisitive look.

  ‘I don’t know why I keep the ridiculous thing,’ Hortence said imperiously. ‘She won’t sing.’

  ‘It’s a male,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘I shall starve her of seeds. That will make her sing.’

  ‘You need to give him a varied diet: moths, caterpillars and other insects.’

  ‘Me? Spoil my hands with such disgusting items? What is that strange object hanging around your neck?’

  ‘Just something from the woods.’ Though Genevieve might now wear her mother’s cornelians and her amber cross, which Gabriel had hidden from their father shortly after Lady Constance died, she chose not to. Instead, she lovingly toyed with the necklace which she had made out of the remaining oak apples from Dawkin’s basket.


  Lady Wexcombe cast Genevieve a critical look as though assailed by a nasty smell. She had been peering at a wall-tapestry illustrating aristocrats revelling in the spectacle of hounds savaging a doe. The lady wore upon her short, curled hair, a black turban of figured gauze, and around her neck a bandeau of jet, as was expected of stylish ladies in mourning.

  Eppie dipped a little in deference to the lady.

  ‘Catesby has acquainted my daughters and I with the facts of your upbringing. One cannot imagine for one moment that such a comely gentleman as Gabriel du Quesne would wish upon himself a pauper relation. For pauper you are. A name gives you nothing. You have not been genteelly raised. One can only be grateful that dear Constance is no longer with us. She would have been mortified to own you.’

  At these words a deep emotion stirred within Genevieve for the loss of her mother. As swiftly as the torment stabbed at her heart it dissipated, sensing her mother’s otherworldly presence in the room, the caressing waves of her affection washing over her, calming her mind and body.

  ‘I must admit to finding you a quiz,’ Lady Wexcombe said, ‘for surely that is not the same dress in which I saw you attired in the field?’

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’

  ‘Amongst the gentry, etiquette decrees a convention that different clothing is to be worn at different times of the day.”

  ‘I don’t hold with daffing-n’-doning. It creates too much washing for the servants.’

  ‘That is what servants are paid for. Furthermore, I must counsel you that polite society does not approve of people sulking in their rooms.’

  ‘I wasn’t sulking. I was reading.’

  Hortence gazed upon Genevieve with the utmost contempt. ‘You should think yourself extremely fortunate that my sister and I arrived when we did, otherwise you would have been utterly lost without a woman’s guidance into the finer nuances of life.’

  Compared to her sister’s prickly character evident in her sharp, darting eyes, Permelia seemed of a gentler disposition. Artificial sprigs of flowers were scattered amongst bows in her hair, ringlets descending to the tip of her ears. ‘You have much to learn, if my sister and I are not to think you unrefined and terribly passé.’ There was something feline about Permelia’s character; she had a habit of extending and retracting her fingers like a cat sharpening its claws. ‘If you are to respectfully enter society, my sister and I shall have to employ the services of our mantua-maker. We will have her create for you pink crepe over white satin. Transparent worn over opaque is the height of fashion.’