Eppie (27 page)

‘You had an alarming cramp
in your hand earlier,’ Agnes objected. ‘You would be well advised to rest.’

‘Do not question my orders!
Garden!’

Eppie followed Molly down a long corridor, off which ran
servants rooms, including a stillroom and scullery.

Stepping into the kitchen, she was overwhelmed by its
immensity. It looked as if it had been built for a giant. The windows appeared
the height of the Town Hall in Litcombe. Several pies, which seemed the size of
the circle seat around the mulberry tree, were laid upon a table that had
drawers as big as coffins. Upon numerous shelves were rows of copper pans. Spoons
longer than Eppie’s arms hung from a rack.

She gazed sorrowfully at a turnspit dog, padding slowly in a
wheel set within the inglenook fireplace. In a basket close by slept another
dog, which she imagined would take over when the other one became too tired to
walk any more. 

‘Turnips ain’t turning the meat proper,’ Molly said. ‘I
wonder where Hannah’s got. I’d better warn her.’

Approaching the Elizabethan staircase, they heard a babble
of high-pitched female voices coming from the first floor, each person speaking
over the other in a confused and troubled fashion.

Cloths laid upon the staircase were specked with coal dust. They
leapt up the stairs and raced along the corridor.

‘What’s going on?’ Molly
asked as she and Eppie entered Robert du Quesne’s study.

A huddle of boys, clutching soot-scrapers, stood before the
hearth.     

‘A climbing-boy’s stuck up the chimney,’ answered Kizzie, the
fair-faced, bright-eyed stillroom maid. ‘Up there’s a maze of tunnels. It seems
the lad tried to get away from the smoke by climbing along the ducts.’

Hannah folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘Normally, we
have Jack Clavelle, a master chimney sweep. His lordship insists on a professional
service. This querier,’ she spoke disparagingly of a man who stood with his
head up the chimney, listening to the plaintive cries of the child, ‘isn’t a
proper master. He roams around town ringing a bell or calling on houses in the
countryside. He happened to come a-knocking after that jackdaw fell down her
ladyship’s chimney. Seeing as his lordship isn’t here to complain, I saw no
reason not to ask the man in.  Now I regret it.’

‘There’s scraps of pot littered about the hearth,’ the
chimney sweep said.

At the memory of that voice, a shudder of remembrance of the
spoon-hanging boy swept through Eppie.

Gilbert Crowe ground his heel into shattered pot in the
hearth. ‘The gases from the coal have destroyed the lime mortar around yer
chimney. The pot must’ve fallen away when the lad took hold of it.’

Leather-bound books were meticulously arranged like wheel
spokes upon a round mahogany table. A bell jar containing a great-horned owl
stood in the centre of the table. A dormouse dangled from its beak.

Pegged onto a wall behind the table was the skin and snarling
head of a brown bear.

Lured by the bizarre
spectacle of the animals, Eppie wandered around the room. She recognised the beaver,
pelican, tarantula and moonfish from the sketches in Gabriel’s books. The
crocodile looked awkward, walking upright on its back legs.

Many creatures she had
never seen. A huge white and grey bird with a hooked beak was labelled
Mollymawk
.
Beside an assorted collection of snakes, frogs which floated in jars, parrots, and
other exotic birds, was a grey-green spotted pike longer than the parlour
table. It had to be the fish that Wakelin caught in Lynmere. Martha had spoken
of it often. In its lower jaw it had large, sharp teeth, whilst in its upper
jaw were hundreds of smaller teeth that pointed backwards to stop its prey
escaping.

‘Awful, aren’t they,’ Kizzie
said. ‘Some were shot by his lordship on his hunting expeditions. Most of them he
gets from sea explorers. A leather upholsterer stuffs them with rags and
cotton.’

‘What’s this?’ Eppie asked,
spying a strange metal helmet.

‘A scold’s bridle. I reckon
his lordship keeps it as a warning to her ladyship not to go spreading wicked
clack about him. It don’t discourage her, though.’

‘Is there some trouble here?’
Gabriel asked, looking in.

Eppie drew her eyes away
from a sea-fish, its beak prolonged into a sword-like weapon.  

Molly apologised to
Gabriel, ‘When I lit the fire in your mother’s chamber, I had no idea that a
climbing-boy was up her ladyship’s flue. Duncan made things worse by throwing
on extra scuttles of coal.’

Whilst staying with Mr Grimley, Gabriel had heard from Priscilla,
the housekeeper, that they could only afford to keep on one maid. Seeing as Molly
hailed from Little Lubbock, Mr Grimley had recommended her to Mrs Bellows.

Mrs Bellows stomped along the passage. ‘Master Gabriel has
only been here a short while and already his room is in frightful disarray. Oh,
sorry, sir, I didn’t realise you were in here.’

‘Mr Crowe,’ the boy cried. ‘Help! I think me arm’s broke!’

Crowe gripped the white marble mantelpiece with his coal-blackened
hands and roared up the chimney, ‘Throw yersen down this minute, else I’ll break
all
the bones in your body.’

A climbing-boy, who shouldered a soot sack, offered, ‘I’ll
see if I can fetch ‘im down.’

‘He ain’t worth the risk,’ Crowe answered. ‘I can see a scythe
rammed up the chimney.’

‘Put there by past generations as an offering to protect the
house from witchcraft,’ Mrs Bellows said.

‘You don’t mean to leave the boy up there?’ Eppie asked as
Crowe made to quit the study, soot drifting to the floor from his turk’s head
brush. 

Gabriel knew Eppie was right. ‘We can’t abandon him. I’ve a
fear of heights, though I suppose I could try and climb up.’

‘I do not think that is a sensible idea, Master Gabriel,’
Mrs Bellows interjected.

‘Do what ya like,’ Crowe growled. ‘The lads and me ain’t
hanging about. After all this trouble I don’t care to bump into his lordship. He’s
a tyrant, from what I’ve heard in town.’

‘Come, Megan,’ Hannah said, ushering the kitchen maid out of
the study. ‘His lordship’s venison will be done to a cinder if we don’t look
sharp.’

Mrs Bellows followed them. ‘Back to your chores the rest of
you girls.’

Eppie peered up the chimney, her head a little to one side,
straining to hear. It was so dark that she could see nothing. ‘He’s gone very
quiet. I hope he’s all right. I’ll see if I can get up.’

‘You?’ Gabriel looked staggered, but also guiltily relieved.

‘A bit more muck on me won’t make much difference. Though I
hope I don’t fall and flay myself on that scythe.’

Levering herself up with her knees and elbows she ascended slowly
and painfully. The higher she climbed the more the haze of smoke caused her to
wheeze. At one point it was such a squeeze that she became stuck and was terrified
she would be up there forever. Reaching into a void, she gripped the boy’s
ankle. The smoke in the ducts was thickening, making her splutter helplessly.
She shook the child, terrified that it was too late, that he was already dead. ‘Wake
up. If you don’t get out of here, you’ll die.’

Groggily, the boy came to.

‘We’ve no time to waste.’

‘But my arm hurts.’

‘This is your only chance. Lean on me. Shuffle down as best
you can, using your bottom and feet.’

Tumbling into the hearth, Eppie cushioned the boy’s fall.

Leaden steps were heard approaching, accompanied by the
sound of a man making a gagging noise in his throat. Mr Crowe!

Feigning innocence, Eppie, Gabriel and Molly stood in a row
before the desk, beneath which the climbing-boy crouched.

Smuts of soot puffed from Eppie’s loose hair into her eyes,
impairing her vision. ‘I tried.’ She squinted at Crowe’s filthy face. ‘I got
halfway. The smoke was so thick that I couldn’t breathe. The lad’s dead for
sure.’

‘He weren’t no use to me with broken bones, no how. Let her
ladyship finish roasting him. Granted he’s scrawny, but she’ll get some
crackling off him.’

Sat in the copper tub before the
range, Eppie clenched her lips, concentrating on keeping out trickles of soapy
water as Molly poured jug after jug over her. Finally, after much painful
rubbing with a flannel, the ordeal was over.

Molly held out a cloth. ‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you at
first, you was that lost with muck. It’ll be nice when you an’ me’s sisters.’

‘How d’ya mean?’

‘Ain’t ‘e told ya? Typical! One day me and your brother are
gonna be wed.’

‘You’re in
love
with Wakelin?’

‘He
ain’t that bad!’ She passed Eppie a scullery maid’s dress. ‘Here, stick this
on, petal. It’s awful big on you. I’ll go and find you summat nicer to wear.
Stay here.’

Bored
waiting, Eppie went exploring. She imagined musicians playing on the balcony in
the Great Hall. Creeping upstairs, she chanced upon the family’s private quarters.
The dining hall table, which Gabriel had told her was cut from a single oak
tree from Copper Piece Wood, ran the length of the room. Set beside it were dozens
of bobbin-turned chairs. Strange furry heads, trophies that Robert du Quesne had
procured during his hunts in foreign places, decorated the walls.

Despite
the warmth of the day, a fire crackled and glowed in the library in readiness
for the return of the master. A brown and white cat snoozed upon the flayed
hide of a tiger. Eppie had heard so much about the cat and always longed to
meet him. ‘Here, pussy!’ Prince Ferdinand rose and strode majestically towards
her, sniffing to familiarise himself with her soapy scent. Stroking him, she
delighted in the touch of his silky fur.

Molly thundered along the corridor, opening door after door.
Barging in, she cried, ‘So this is where you’ve got! Barrel ain’t he? He has a
passion for cream. Lucy, the dairymaid, overindulges him.’    

Hand-in-hand they dashed along the wide hallway with its
profusion of oak beams and half-panelling, turning corner after corner, until
Eppie felt quite dizzy.

Glancing over her shoulder to check that no one was watching,
Molly inserted a key into a low oak door.

The windows of the Swan Chamber stretched in a pleasant bay,
the walls painted in an agreeable shade of violet. A rocking-cradle stood
before the window, its drapes sun-yellowed.

‘We mustn’t come in here,’ Eppie cried, aghast. ‘This is
where Genevieve died.’ Despite her reservations, the toys tempted her. Dropping
to her knees, she picked up wooden animals from the deck of a Noah’s ark. Each
was the size of her palm. ‘Wakelin would love to see these.’

 Molly rifled through a shiny walnut clothespress which
smelt of orrisroot to protect the clothes from moths. It was a beautiful piece
of furniture with lion-like legs, shell-shaped handles and curved ornamentation
on the top. ‘There are some lovely things in here; satins, velvets, an’ poplins.’

Holding a metal horse in each hand, Eppie made them gallop
across the floorboards, drawing a dolls’ carriage. From the other side of the
room came a scraping noise. A life-size white pony rocked gently on its bows as
though ridden by an invisible rider. Leaping to her feet, she approached it.
She rubbed the pony’s neck and gazed into its pale blue eyes. ‘It’s got a
proper mane and tail. Its pasterns and hock joints feel real. What d’ya reckon this
strange lump is beneath his jaw?’

‘How should I know?’ Having pulled out one of Talia’s
frocks, Molly held it against Eppie’s back. ‘A bit big and it needs pressing,
but it’ll do.’ She tossed the pink dress onto the four-poster bed and went to
rummage in an embossed oak coffer beside the door. ‘It seems a crime for this
stuff not to get worn.’

Climbing three wooden steps, Eppie clambered onto the high
rosewood bedstead with its elegant spiral twist posts. ‘This is lovely and
squashy.’ She lifted up the second step, revealing a night commode. ‘Hey, my pa
would love this. He’s always moaning about having to go out to the earth privy
when he’s sick.’

Molly slammed the coffer lid. ‘These pumps will do ya. 
Ain’t ya stuck that frock on yet?’

Eppie fingered the deliciously soft silk with its
embroidered silver thread roses. ‘Pa says such finery ain’t for working girls.’

‘Well, yer pa ain’t here to see ya wearing it, is he? Come
down so I can help ya dress.’

Molly finished by piling Eppie’s hair in a top-knot and
securing it with hairpins. ‘Have a squint at yourself.’

Though a mirror hung above the stone mantelpiece, it was far
too high to see her reflection.

Molly dragged the rocking pony forwards. ‘You’ll be able to get
a better look from up here.’ 

Placing her foot in the stirrup, Eppie threw herself onto
the saddle and peered into the glass. Her grin changed to an open-mouthed look
of alarm. ‘The pony blinked!’

‘Course it did!’ Molly busily rooted in another drawer. ‘Look
at this muff!’

Wondering whether she had
actually imagined it, Eppie gazed steadily at the reflection of the pony’s head.
The surface of the mirror rippled. As though a spell had been cast upon her,
she had the oddest sensation that she was looking upon herself standing beside
the river, reeds flowing gracefully beneath the crystal clear waters. Swans
drifted close to the opposite embankment, dipping their heads beneath the
water. The strangest thing was that she saw herself as a woman, wearing a caramel-brown
frock with puffed upper sleeves, similar to one that Betsy had recently made for
her. Betsy jokily referred to the frocks as Eppie’s country weeds because they
did not show the grime picked up when Eppie was racing around the woodlands. As
quickly as it materialized, the haunting image vanished, leaving her staring at
her stunned face.