Eppie

by Robertson, Janice

  ‘Don’t ya never leave off spouting gibberish?’

  ‘I was reflecting that dead men do not bite.’

  Jaggery tore a leg off the roast meat, bones cracking. Grease dribbling down the sides of his mouth he limped towards what, in the shadows and half-lights, looked like a bundle of rags. ‘Here, tek it. Granted it ain’t as good as beef pie an’ a slug o’ rum sauce, but it’ll have ta do.’

  Rowan raised herself to a sitting position.

  Startled at setting eyes upon her, Gabriel made to cry out her name. It was all Wakelin could do to hold him back. He writhed beneath his hold, until he finally calmed. With nods to show they understood one another, Wakelin took his hand from Gabriel’s mouth.

  First they had to think of a plan of attack. Without guns this seemed impossible.

  Rowan’s hair, usually tidily pinned at the back of her head, was concealed beneath a kerchief, once white, now little more than a filthy cloth. Over the months she had grown pale, languid and remote, her despairing, dead-looking eyes staring from a face smeared and grimed where she had wiped away tears.

  There was such quietude about her gentle, withdrawn manner. She seemed to be listening for sounds very distantly heard. Listening, Genevieve realised, for them. All those past months spent waiting and hoping against hope that she would be rescued. Her heart seemed to burst within her when she thought about what atrocities Rowan had witnessed. Like Gabriel, it was all she could do not to rush to embrace her friend.

  Hunch-shouldered, his expression one of revulsion, Jaggery spat gristle over Rowan’s lowered head. ‘To hell with yer snivellin’ solemnity.’

  ‘Leave her!’ Thurstan cried harshly.

  Grasping a pair of pliers, Jaggery gripped a rabbit that had been nailed through the head to timbers set into the stone wall, and wrenched off its skin. ‘Lord knows what you see in the demented woman. She’s as sullen as you. What’s more, ya can’t squeeze a word outta her.’

  ‘She is a mute,’ Thurstan answered solemnly.

  Anguish was in Gabriel’s voice. ‘What can he mean?’

  Thurstan and Jaggery were so busy hating one another that they were not aware of the intruders, but Wakelin did not want to push their luck. ‘Shut it!’

  ‘More like you’re the dumb one,’ Jaggery retorted, bitterly mocking. ‘You’re bedevilled by her.’ Savagely, he flung down the flayed rabbit. ‘I’m sick o’ scavenging on coney and crow meat. I need a proper meal.’ Reaching down, he tugged Rowan to her feet.

  Thurstan’s knuckles were taut around the hilt of his knife. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘You might’ve stopped yer ears against the outside world, but I ain’t. Gabriel du Quesne will pay handsome for her return. I’ll leave her body in the woods, grab the ransom, and run.’

  Thurstan leapt to his feet in a fiendish fury. ‘She stays with me!’

  In a desperate bid for liberty, Rowan fought against Jaggery’s hold. Wrenching her wrist free, she made a half-hearted effort to escape from him, knowing that he would soon catch up with her. Staggering around the rocks, her eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Gabriel?’

  In a trice Jaggery was upon her. Spotting them, he was about to holler a warning when Thurstan’s knife skimmed through the air and drove straight into his back. The expression of flaring hatred in his eyes instantly paled into a glazed look of horror and disbelief.

  Genevieve and the others backed off as he lurched towards them, his hands outstretched as though aiming to grasp any unfortunate person who happened to be nearest to him. Crumpling to his knees, he fell hard on the stone, face down.

  A stone skimmed through the air and struck Dawkin on the cheek.

  Before Wakelin and Dawkin could give chase, Thurstan had escaped through one of the tunnels at the back of the cavern, his maniacal laughter echoing through the labyrinth. ‘That’s for the snowball, climbing-boy!’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  GILLOW’S WELCOME

  It was late afternoon when the shower ceased. Genevieve fetched a wicker basket and went to gather berries from the hedgerow. A sunbeam broke through the ragged clouds, its warmth spilling upon the valley.

  She had not purposefully strolled towards Miller’s Bridge, but now she lingered. Gazing wistfully upon her old home it was as though she could see into the future, to a time when the cottage would return to nature. Spinning through the air a stray ash seed would settle in the parlour and gracefully flourish. The branching canopy would burst through the wind-blasted thatch where sparrows happily built their nests. Ivy spreading its stranglehold, the walls, carefully laid by Gillow’s great-grandfather, would collapse. In one, maybe two hundred years a passer-by might chance upon a clump of cottage garden flowers dancing in the breeze, the only marker that someone had once dwelt upon this plot of land.

  She mourned the home she had lost, the way of life she had known and cherished throughout her childhood. No matter how luxurious her present circumstances, no other place could be the same.

  In her restlessness she was struck by a tantalising thought. It was madness to throw away her resplendent life at the manor. But, like the ash seed, once her idea took a hold, she could not give it up. She gave herself fully to the desire that she need never be without her beloved honeysuckle cottage with its homely air of sinking comfortably into the ground. She treasured it so dearly.

  She could be free. Free like Hortence’s linnet, which she had released from captivity after the Wexcombes had left the bird behind in their dash from the manor. She had been elated to see it flitting between conifers, its twittering song expressing its happiness in regaining its liberty.

  The time was ripe for Eppie to come home.

  With the delight of a traveller returning, she stepped into the neglected cottage.

  Swags of cobwebs trembled upon the dusty loom. Fantasy or no, she caught the thud-thud of the weaving pick and glimpsed Gillow turn to smile at her.

  In wistful silence, she wandered about the parlour. Except for the scratching of mice in the larder it was as though the cottage slumbered.

  Hessian still curtained the bedchamber from draughts. A flaking moth and a dead spider lay upon the damp straw mattress on the wainscot bedstead. Saints Matthew and Mark still gazed serenely upon the rocking cradle and child’s commode.

  Beside the ladder leading to Wakelin’s loft, a metal cauldron hung from the fire-crane. No other pots, no griddle, kettle or frying pan remained. The dresser, settle, kitchen table and chairs stood as though in a heavy trance, waiting for the cottage to breathe again. To Eppie all these things brought joy, as though she were reuniting with old acquaintances.

  She picked up a wooden spoon that had been discarded on the oak plank table. It brought to mind autumns past when the parlour was full of steamy fragrance as she and Martha battled with preserves, the sharp aroma of quince jelly rising from a bubbling pot. Testing the jam to see if it had set, Martha would drip a little of the mixture into a saucer of water, whereupon, having prodded the sweet stickiness into congealed waves, Eppie merrily sucked her finger and declared her verdict. She pictured herself as a child, hopping onto the stool before the dresser, proudly arranging honey crocks with their bladder covers.

  That the cottage smelt damp, the windowsill crumbled at her touch, and the shattered pane remained unfixed all these years, none of these things mattered. All she knew was that this cottage wanted her and she wanted this cottage.

  She fetched down the tinderbox from the shelf above the fire beam. The wall above still bore the stains where Gillow had slammed the fowl stew. Using kindling to start a fire with the twigs and logs in the hearth, she methodically worked the moss and striker.

  It was snug in the cottage with the blaze roaring up the chimney. Lost in her thoughts, she sat upon the fox-hide cushion before the warmth, unaware of the passage of time.

  A concern which constantly plagued her was the demise of the Crusader Oak. Over the last few weeks the ancient tree had taken on a nightma
re form, its twisted, buckled trunk rapidly attacked by a fungal disease. Several branches had torn away. One or two dangled like shattered arms, so tenuously attached that it looked as though they would blow away in a gentle breeze. Other branches, bark-flayed and holed by worms, jutted upwards, their tips jagged. The tree should be cut down, Gabriel and Eppie both knew it, but they had agreed this would not happen unless the disease showed signs of spreading to other trees.

  Evening fell with the strange swiftness of autumn dusk. Wind moaned through the hedge, and blew parched leaves beneath the door.

  Unbeknown to her, Dawkin crept indoors. Busy settling matters with his lawyer, he had been away for several days, residing at Garn Hall. Seating himself in Gillow’s chair, he plucked at stuffing which leaked from an armrest ravaged by mice. Very deeply, very still, he watched Eppie, her cheek on her hand, her forehead bright from the glowing flames.

  ‘Seems you were right about Colonel Catesby.’

  She jumped, startled to hear his voice.

  ‘Straight after we discovered Thurstan in the caves, Catesby requested a transfer. He’s joined troops led by Governor General Hastings in India. Much gone on whilst I’ve been away?’

  ‘Gabriel has made Wakelin his bailiff.’

  Made serious by the past, Dawkin had aged and hardened somewhat, yet he was always ready enough to beam with genuine cheerfulness. ‘His bailiff! Let’s hope he manages to lay off the gin. If not, he may spend his days sleeping under hedges, like he did as a boy, when he was supposed to be scaring birds from the corn fields. At least I’ll no longer have to work for a wage. It ain’t every pauper gets left a hall as big as the whole of Little Lubbock. On one occasion I found myself lost and was late for supper. The servants had to come and find me. How d’ya reckon I’ll suit the life?’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of chimneys to sweep.’

  ‘Thankfully, that’s a chore I’m now able to leave to the unfortunates of the world. I am content to take my place in society as one of the gentry. Squire Dawkin Scattergood. It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?’

  There was a warmth, a closeness that soothed her being here, alone with the man she loved. She did not want it broken. Now she knew that he would leave her.

  Her dreams shattered at his words. Stricken and confused, she returned her gaze to the fire, afraid of disclosing her feelings.

  ‘This cottage is of the past, and I am glad to leave the past behind,’ he went on grandly. ‘I will clap my hands at my servants. Shout for sirloin and sweetmeats. Ply you with silks, satins and sapphires.’

  She laughed a little to chase away the sense of loss that stirred her wretchedly.

  ‘The first thing I shall do is hold a welcome ball for myself.’ He whistled through his teeth like any stable lad. ‘Now who shall I invite first? Ah, yes, the Wexcombes!’

  A delight that was almost pain caught her strongly and tears sprang into her eyes. He was teasing!

  Seeing her expression of relief he flung back his head and roared with laughter. ‘As if I would! I’ve found a buyer for Garn Hall. I’m giving most of the money to my grand-uncle for his community mill. He’s making Ezra the overseer, so the children need fear no beatings. The coal from the estate will remain in my possession; it’ll reduce the cost of running the steam machinery.

  ‘And what about you?’ he asked, with the confidence of one accepting a blissful inevitability. ‘Shall you take pleasure in your solitude or will you be wanting someone to tend your sprouts, regular like?’

  ‘How did you guess that I’ve decided to live out my days here, in the cottage?’

  ‘I might not have learnt to be a great reader of books, but I can read your thoughts.’

  In that moment they considered the depths of their love for one another. Their devotion had stood the time of separation and, because of this, it had grown stronger.

  Tenderly, he laid his fingers upon the nape of her neck and they kissed, long and gently.

  Samuel coughed uncomfortably. ‘Don’t go thinking I’m in the fashion o’ listening in at doors. Seeing the smoke rising from your chimney I guessed you was come home, One-Quart. This little mite’s from a long line o’ Fidgets. He’s yorn if ya want him.’

  Pressing the puppy to her heart, Eppie planted a kiss on its bony grey head. ‘He’s lovely, Grumps!’ She grinned, enchanted by the pounding of its stubby tail. ‘I’ll call him Twiss.’

  The shepherd’s eyes twinkled. ‘Just don’t ya go training him on pie crusts, mind. Your ma’d never approve.’

  Eppie laughed for joy. It was the high laugh of nervous excitement at the thought of the wonderful years to come.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  SPRING OF LIFE

  That Christmas, rejoicing in the double wedding at Little Lubbock church, relations, friends, villagers and manor servants raised their arms, forming an arch, through which Gabriel and Rowan, followed by Eppie and Dawkin, dashed to their open carriages.

  In this fleeting moment, Eppie knew that, when she was an elderly lady, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, she would reminisce about this special day and the people who were part of her life: Martha and Sam, Wakelin, Betsy, Mr Grimley, Priscilla and Loafer, Ella and Dick, Mrs Bellows and Hannah, Edmund and Kizzie, Bill, Reuben and Ezra, Jonas and Tom, and many more besides, all laughing and crying out good tidings. To bring good luck to the newly-weds, local chimney sweeps and their climbing-boys had also attended the wedding.

  Most wonderful of all, beneath the lychgate, which had been specially decorated with white ribbons for the occasion, stood Talia, an angelic smile upon her lips. Her ghostly body shimmered as though laced with frost.

  Parson Lowford was the only one who rather marred the day, scowling as Dusty, who Eppie had chosen to be one of her bridesmaids, left the church, tiny bells jangling upon her tail. Around his neck, Twiss wore the ruff that Wakelin had once bought at the fair. Eppie had been astonished to discover it, forgotten and somewhat dog-chewed, beneath the dresser.

  Heady on good food, good wine and good company, everyone retired to the Great Hall, where the country jig set them shouting and changing partners, skipping and weaving in hand-linked chains. To add to the excitement, shrieking maids scurried around the dancers, eagerly pursued by Tom, demanding kisses as Christmas forfeits.

  All too soon the day raced towards its end. The villagers, flushed and gay, left for their cottages. Friends from the cotton mill and other guests retired to rooms prepared for their visit.

  Eppie and Dawkin began their life together, living off the land.

  Amongst the first tasks Wakelin ordered the labourers to do last year was to reclaim the lost vegetable plot behind Dank Cottage. The fencing was torn down and the orchard replanted. Dusty, and Blinker, the horse, settled into the stable at the side of the cottage.

  Grain sprouted in the fields. Pussy willow catkins danced silver along the sparkling stream. In the sheltered glades lemony-hued primroses burst open amid lush, cushioning leaves.

  Although Betsy had died a few weeks after the wedding, Eppie knew her friend would have been delighted to know that Martha and Sam had come to live at Pear Tree Cottage. After all the months of grief and wretchedness at the loss of Martha, Eppie was content knowing that, from now on, nothing would stop them from being there for one another.

  Hoeing in her vegetable plot, Eppie listened to a rosy-hued chaffinch singing out its heart as it happily raised its chicks. She, too, was content, for this autumn she and Dawkin would welcome their own new life into the world.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  THE CABINET OF CURIOSITIES

  Sauntering up the garden path, Wakelin heard Eppie chattering to Dawkin about the free dispensary she had opened for the poor in Malstowe.

  ‘Squire Hartt had the audacity to call it an act of charity. I told him that, to me, charity and love are as one. I can pity because I have felt the hurt of the poor.’

  A lopsided grin split his face; things could have worked out
so differently. He pushed back the door which, on this sunny morning, was slightly ajar.

  Eppie was sealing spiced bullock’s heart into pots under a thick layer of lard. She cast him a welcoming smile.

  Twiss sat with his shaggy head resting on Dawkin’s lap.

  There was more space in the parlour now that the loom had been dismantled.

  Wakelin stepped into the bedchamber and gazed upon the two-week-old baby in the cradle. ‘How’s my little Martha?’ He dipped into his pocket and fetched out a dusty, twisted sweet. ‘Wanna suck on a barley sugar?’

  Lining the pots on a shelf in the larder, Eppie laughed. ‘Your Uncle Wakelin has some funny ideas, doesn’t he?’

  Since the baby’s birth, Wakelin called in several times a day. Eppie was insistent that he refer to Martha as his niece, which made him tremendously proud.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked.

  He lived across the lane in Claire’s cottage and, though he ate well these days he never said no to a hand-out of free food. ‘Yur, and I’ll have a blackjack o’ ale, if it’s going.’

  Fetching down the cheese, which she kept on a rack on the roof rafters out of reach of mice, she placed it on the table, alongside the remains of a loaf.

  Dawkin was drawing a picture, dipping his quill into brown ink. The image showed a chimney sweep stood before a hearth, a massive brush in his hand.

  ‘Waz that?’ Wakelin asked with his mouth full. ‘A thatched roof on a stick?’

  Dawkin grinned. ‘I’m trying to think up something for a sweeping machine, something with rods and a brush on top. It’s so boys won’t have to climb chimneys no more.’

  ‘A brush that big is sure to get stuck. A lad will have to climb up to fetch it down, so what’s the point? You’re as daft as Eppie. Only she would have the idea of taking soap and fresh clothes around to master sweeps so that their climbing-boys might go to church of a Sundee.’ Belching, he helped himself to another hunk of cheese.