Eppie (2 page)

The
nursery was located on the second floor. There was no way he could climb up.
Nor could he break a window to get in. That would be an idiotic thing to do,
and an idiot was the very thing he hated being called, especially by his
father.

In
the darkness, he could just about make out the bridge that swept from one side
of the rocky chasm to the other.

On
hot summer days he enjoyed sitting up there, cooled by the spray from the
waterfall. Sometimes he used it as a handy place from which to dive into the
plunge pool.

Though
he had searched for the entrance to the secret tunnel when other children were
not watching him, he had never discovered it.

He
thrust his hand through the thick moss. No luck. Perhaps it was higher? Stealthily,
he climbed the rocks. The sky was lightening. ‘Maybe I should give up?’ he
thought. ‘I can’t risk being caught in the daylight.’ Abruptly, he lunged
forwards, overwhelmed by a sense of nothingness behind a swamp of soggy ivy
leaves.

He
gasped with relief. Felt excited. He was about to do something which he knew
his father would never approve of. It gave him a heady sense of supremacy. This
was his way of proving to himself that he was more cunning than his narrow-minded,
stuck-in-his-ways father.

Getting
a grip on the rock surrounding the hole, he pushed through. Within a few paces
it became pitch black. To stop himself from stumbling, he shuffled along. He
was glad the sleeves of his jacket reached past his fingertips; groping along, this
meant that his skin did not rub against the rough, damp walls.

Without warning, he descended a flight of steps. Putting a
foot into emptiness, he staggered. He steadied a moment, calming his nerves.

The flat ground beyond the bottom of the stone steps
continued for a short distance until, unexpectedly, his foot struck something hollow.
Reaching down, he swept with his hand. It was a flight of steps, sturdily made
of thick, wide treads.

Slowly, stealthily, he mounted to the top. A chink of light
showed along the edge of wooden panelling. Dropping to his knees, he clasped a
cold, metal handle and pulled. It would not budge. He tried drawing it to one
side. Without the slightest noise the wainscot shifted. He was not such a fool
as to open it fully. Instead, he peered cautiously through a slit the width of
his eye.

It
was
the nursery chamber, as he had hoped. Whilst
working in the fields he had seen Talia rocking on a toy pony before the
window.

A candelabrum stood upon the mantelpiece. The glimmer from
the steadily burning candles cast upon decorative oak furnishings, ceiling
beams and floral wall-tapestries.

Checking all was silent,
safe, he was about to step into the chamber when he caught the sound of a
dispirited sigh.

Claw-like fingernails gripped
the arm of a wingchair that stood beside a cradle.

Wakelin shrank back into the
darkness, watching warily.

A woman rose to her feet. It
was Agnes Clopton, the nursemaid. She was the antithesis of Martha, who had a kind,
comforting nature.

By the light of a candle, which
she held over the cradle, Agnes looked like some evil scavenging bird about to
reach inside a carcass with its hooked beak and pick it clean.

Having reassured herself
that the baby slept, she quit the room and soundlessly shut the door.

Now was Wakelin’s chance,
but he hesitated. ‘If I’m caught,’ he thought, ‘his lordship will have me hung.’
However, the image of his mother discovering her new-born infant dead tore him
up inside. He had to do it, for her, to prove his depth of love for her - he
would do anything for his mother, even die for her.

He knew he had to be quick if he was to exchange the body of
his dead sister, Eppie, for Lady Constance’s baby. However, it occurred to him
that twigs and lichen might have adhered to his clothing. He did not want to
leave any clues that would point to an intruder having been in the chamber.

Quietly, he placed Eppie’s body on the top tread, slipped
off his shoes and wrung his hands in the fabric of his discarded jacket.

He was proud of his skill in flushing out birds in the
woodland so that they would fly into nets. A bagful of the tiny birds made an
excellent pie. Such stealth would hold him in good stead now as he slithered into
the nursery, his sister in his arms.

For a moment he stood amazed at the size of the room, its
grandness and opulence. Toys cluttered a corner, amongst them metal ships,
miniature chariots, and rod soldiers carrying shields. Above them soared
Talia’s life-size pony, its white coat shimmering, blue eyes glinting.

Silver and green drapery tumbled to the floor in swags at
each corner around a four-poster bedstead. Four-year-old Gabriel slept within the
bed, his shoulder-length hair golden upon the silk pillow.

Rather than move away from the shadowy corner of the room, Wakelin
had the sense to lay his sister upon the rug closest to the wainscot opening.
That way, if the boy awoke, he would have a chance to spurt away with Eppie, Gabriel,
hopefully, being none the wiser.

Lady Constance’s new-born daughter was deep in slumber.
Wakelin focused upon her button nose, tiny mouth, and eyelids heavy with sleep.

Reaching into the cradle, he tenderly scooped her into his
arms. Her skin felt wonderfully soft and smelt of sweet flesh.

Imagining the pleasure the infant would bring his mother, a
lopsided grin split his face. 

He thought back to last night:

After his mother had given birth, Wakelin had had a
nightmare about the deaths of his younger brother and sister. Josias had died
from scarlet fever. Not long after, smallpox had claimed the life of little Hepsie.

His mother had been devastated.

Gillow, for his part, had seemed to take their deaths lightly,
reiterating to Martha about how many children in the village died young.

She had put on a brave face, even repeating Gillow’s words
to Wakelin, when he had expressed his sorrow about losing his siblings.

Wakelin saw through her, though. He knew how much their
deaths had cut her. He also saw how heartless his father was. Gillow had never
once helped Martha with the care of the babies even though she had been sick,
having nearly died in childbirth.

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.