Eppie (31 page)

‘These countess cakes will put a smile on her ladyship’s
face,’ Kizzie said. ‘Though the marzipan needs a drop more rose-water.’

Eppie and Gabriel heard other voices as they hurried towards
the stillroom; amongst them was Molly’s, bemoaning du Quesne’s bullying antics.
‘It’s a wonder her ladyship’s managing to rest with all this commotion.’ 

‘There you are!’ Hannah cried, as the children ran in. ‘What
a to-do. It’s heathen the way his lordship has treated Mrs Dunham and the baby.’

‘You must’ve had a good hiding place,’ Molly said. ‘Where
was ya, in the duck pond?’

‘We’ll explain later,’ Gabriel answered. ‘Molly, I want you
to get the keys to the scullery and the nursery off Mrs Bellows.’

‘You told me not to go sneaking about, pinching keys, sir.’

‘I go back on what I said.’

‘I don’t know how I’m gonna do it.’

‘Nor do I, but you must hurry. I’ll go and tell Clem to
prepare mother’s carriage. Mrs Dunham shouldn’t have to walk after her ordeal.’

‘I’ve already told him,’ Molly said.

‘You’re a marvel. After you’ve
secured the keys, go and check that mother is all right. She didn’t look well.’

Whilst Bill Hix distracted Fulke in the harness and chaff
room, Lady Constance’s coach was brought into the carriage yard. Eppie
scrambled in, her head buzzing with the strange experiences of the day. A flaming
red sunset suffused the western sky, painting the upholstery of the coach a
vermilion tinge.

Gabriel sprang onto Wayward’s saddle. Glancing round at the
apprehensive faces, he waved Clem on. The coach rocked, its wheels clattering
across the cobbles.

‘Hoy! What ya doing?’ Fulke had caught the sound of the
departing carriage. Pelting up, he grasped the tackle of the lead horse.

Gabriel was incensed. ‘Let us pass!’

‘Good man!’ Du Quesne hurried towards them. ‘Out!’ he
ordered Martha and Eppie, throwing back the door. Irate, he turned on Gabriel. ‘I
suppose you never gave a moment’s thought to the scandal you have caused by
inviting these lowly people into my home?’

Gabriel was incensed. ‘What scandal?’

His father dabbed at scratches on his face. ‘Labourers must
be kept servile, not cossetted. If you carry on like this all the workers’
wives will come to expect such indulgent treatment.’

Farm labourers gathered to watch the row, their faces
showing a mixture of contempt for du Quesne and amazement at what they were
witnessing.

‘Winwood, fetch the muck cart,’ his lordship ordered. ‘If
Mrs Dunham is keen on having wheels, she and her offspring may travel home in
that.’

Groans of disgust went up from household servants huddled in
the brewhouse doorway. Du Quesne glared at them. They darted away, leaving only
Dawkin to survey the commotion.  

‘Have you no heart, sir?’ Gabriel remonstrated. ‘This is inhumane.’

‘I have heard all about your so-called humane acts from Fulke
Clopton. You seem intent on making me into a laughing stock in front of my
estate workers. How dare you scale a chimney to rescue a worthless
climbing-boy?’

‘Why does everyone keep blaming Gabriel?’ Eppie butted in. ‘It
was me what shinnied up the chimney.’

The cart pulled up.  Du Quesne glowered at Martha. ‘In!’

‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, we shall walk.’  

Eppie’s heart swelled with pride at Martha’s dignity. They
stepped towards the track way.

‘It is not
all
the same to me,’ du Quesne retorted. 
‘Regal! Sceptre!’

Growling deep in their throats, the mastiffs roamed around
Eppie and Martha, baring their teeth as though at the loss of a bone. There was
nothing for it. Compelled to climb into the muck cart, they perched upon the
slimy wooden lip.

‘What about my sister?’ Fulke asked. ‘It weren’t right that
Master Gabriel should’ve put her ladyship up to dismissing her.’

Spying Agnes standing in the open doorway of the carriage
shed, her arms crossed in resentment, du Quesne said, ‘Miss Clopton, you may
return to your duties.’

Smug satisfaction written across her face, she picked her
way across the yard.

‘I will not suffer Miss Clopton in my house,’ Gabriel cried.
‘I have lost count of the number of times I have caught her gossiping about
mother’s failing health.’

‘Knowing your lack of mathematical acuity that comes as no
surprise to me,’ his father replied.

Fulke chuckled at Gabriel’s misfortune.

‘As for you,’ du Quesne thundered at Fulke, ‘for allowing
Mrs Dunham to travel in my carriage, I will no longer suffer you in my
service.’

‘It were Master Gabriel as told her to get in!’

‘Knowing that I would be infuriated about peasants
travelling to my home in my carriage, you should have refused my son.’

Light footfalls rang in the brewhouse. ‘Sir!’ Molly erupted
into a coughing fit.  Unable to continue, she gabbled words to the barefoot climbing-boy,
and shoved him.

Dawkin’s filthy shirt had come un-tucked and hung to his
knees over raggedly-patched trousers. At intervals he stopped and glanced back
at Molly, unsure, only to be briskly waved on by her. Unwillingly, the climbing-boy
stared up at the grim-faced lord.

‘Yes, what now?’ du Quesne asked irascibly.

‘Please, guv’nor, the girl sez your missus is deader than a
cold kipper.’

Gabriel’s brow knotted with grief. Leaping from his horse,
he raced into the house.

Whisking Dawkin off his feet, du Quesne tossed him into the
muck cart. ‘That’s where your sort belong, not defiling my house. As for you,
Strawhead, if I catch you associating with my son again I will ensure that you
live to regret it.’

Leading draught horses, a gang of
reluctant men stomped down Further Nigh Field. Before them Robert du Quesne
rode on Ranger.

Eppie wrapped her arms around the trunk of the mulberry. ‘They’re
coming, Mam!’ 

It was October, five months after Lottie’s birth. The
mulberry tree, crooked and bowed to the ground with age, offered Eppie and
Martha a shady seat in the summer where they would card wool and chatter away the
happy hours. Soon, the tree would be no more.

‘Come away,’ Martha coaxed, ‘this will be too hard to bear.’

Hugging each of the trees in turn, the apple, pear, damson
and bullace, Eppie sobbed her heartfelt farewells.

‘Tie ropes around that hedge,’ du Quesne ordered. ‘Have the
horses pull out what they can.’

The elderberry hedge was quickly ripped from its life-giving
earth. The men were through the paddock and into the orchard.  Axes swung. 
Bark chips flew.

Eppie was unable to comprehend
how one man’s anger could result in such destruction.

Shortly after Lottie’s birth, Henry, in his role as bailiff,
informed Gillow that his lordship intended extending Further Nigh Field. ‘Now
du Quesne’s had the yard covered he’s increasing the number of in-wintering
cattle housed. More land is needed to grow winter fodder. If you can’t afford
the extra two shillings a week rent his lordship’s demanding, he has no option
but to reclaim the land. It will be rigged and furrowed for a crop.’

No man’s fool, Gillow saw
through du Quesne’s ploy. After learning from Martha about the insensitive way
the man had treated her and Eppie he realised that destroying his back yard was
an act of retribution against his family. Since cockcrow, he had been busy at
his loom, refusing to set foot outside.

Clods of mud flew behind Wayward’s hooves as Gabriel rode
across the field. ‘I told you not to do this, Father!’

Gabriel’s sharp words brought the efforts of the labourers,
lopping branches, to a standstill.   

‘And I recall that I told you to remain at your studies,’ du
Quesne replied.

‘These
people rely on their plot of land for their livelihood. What you are doing is
deplorable.’

Awaiting
the outcome of this clash between father and son, an air of optimism hung over
the men. 

‘You are a lazy, deceitful boy. Sure not to advance in the
world if you continue with this attitude of brazen defiance. Get out of my
sight.’

Gabriel’s face was rung with misery.

With an ache in her heart, Eppie realised that he lacked the
strength to do verbal battle with his father. 

With her friend gone, all hope was lost.

Dust stung her eyes as iron mallets were wielded upon the
wring-shed, the bottles of liquor and all else inside having been dumped beside
the stream. Soon the cow-byre, Jenny’s loosebox and the pigsty were reduced to
rubble. Shuddering, the mulberry died with a rustle of its branches around the
shattered seat.

Du Quesne surveyed the devastation,
the remaining cart shed and the vegetable plot. ‘There’s an arsenic pit
somewhere. I don’t want that in my field. Load the timber onto the wagon for
the hearths at the manor house. The stone will come in useful for repairing
walls.’

Hector Lowford was in the habit of calling upon cottagers in
expectation of free victuals as emolument for bestowing his words of wisdom. The
following day he dropped in to express his commiserations about the destruction
of the orchard. 

Up early, Dawkin had just returned to the cottage. Using spiked
worms as bait in a wicker basket, he had been blobbing for eels. 

Leaning over the arm of Gillow’s armchair, the parson stared
at the yellow-brown creatures circling in the bucket. ‘They will make fine
eating.’  

About Dawkin was a charm and cheerfulness, always a ready
smile on his lips, so that one could imagine he would burst into laughter at
any moment. He fetched the carving knife. ‘You want to do ‘em in, Ep?’ He beamed
at her repugnance. ‘Thought not.’ Fishing out a slithering eel, he slapped it
on the table and made a decisive slash.  Off shot its head.  

‘Oh!’ she shrieked, seeing the creature’s nerves propel it
as though swimming. ‘It’s still alive!’ She had watched Gillow and Wakelin do
the same thing, but it always filled her with revulsion.

He grinned at her startled expression. ‘Good, in’t it?’ 

They set about skinning, gutting and hacking the meat. Water
splashed and plinked onto the floor. Eppie fetched salt from the box beside the
chimney beam, where it was kept as the least damp place.

Gillow came in to collect nets that were strewn before the
dresser.

‘After I’ve done with these, I’ll go and hang the onions in
the cart shed loft,’ Dawkin offered.

‘Thanks son.’ He made to return to the garden but Twiss, who
was going blind, lumbered into his legs. ‘Outta the way, me old shaggy mat.’

Eppie was bemused by the blithe tone in his voice. ‘You
don’t sound upset after what’s happened to our yard.’

‘Like your mother says, there’s nowt gained by moping.’

‘Wakelin’s hopping mad,’ Dawkin said. ‘He’s off to torch the
manor house tonight.’ 

Gulping black tea, the parson spluttered.

‘With Wakelin it’s all talk,’ Gillow answered.

Martha was penning a duck; pulling out small feathers left
in the skin by trapping them between her thumb and the blade of a knife.

The parson laid down his empty plate. ‘Your gracious hospitality
is much appreciated, Mrs Dunham. Though, if it were offered, I would not say no
to another bite.’

Martha forced the glimmer of a smile. Wiping feathers down
her apron, she fetched the serving plate from her handsome tea service reserved
for the parson’s visits.

‘Mam!’ Eppie cried, seeing her place the plum cake upon the
table. 

It was three days before the special day. With nothing else
to offer, Martha felt compelled to proffer the cake. ‘Don’t be afeared to cut
yourself a good breed, parson.’ Seeing him help himself to an over-generous
slice, she regretted her words. Not wishing to embarrass the parson with any outburst
from Eppie, who was about to protest, she told the children, ‘Sit down the pair
of you, you missed breakfast.’ 

‘But that’s pa’s birthday cake,’ Eppie objected.

‘It’s of no consequence. Anyway, now we’re badly off Gillow
says such niceties must be a bygone. Though, since he’s lost a few bad teeth
from eating sweet things I think it’s more the toothache he’s bothered about.’

Muttering doleful thanks, the children dug into the stale
bread and lard.

‘At least this is better than what they gave us at the
poorhouse,’ Dawkin said chirpily. ‘There were lumps of rye in the black bread so
hard that they fair bust my teeth. The inside of the bread was always runny. I had
to scoop it out with a wooden spoon. And after our garments was washed, the
same cauldron was used to boil horse bones for the soup.’

‘Delicious,’ the parson said. ‘You don’t mind if I help
myself to another slice?’

An untruthful ring in her voice, Martha answered, ‘Why, of
course, I was about to offer you some more.’

In a synchronised movement, the children glanced up from
their platters, their faces a picture of astonishment.

‘If it were offered,’ the parson added, as an afterthought,
‘a glass of your delectable elderberry wine would make the morsel slip down
most pleasurably.’

Crates of wine were stacked between sacks of root vegetables
and piles of Gillow’s gardening tools. Lifting aside an iron potato planter,
Martha lined up the bottles. ‘I must apologise about the mess. Now I’ve lost
the wring-shed it’s hard to find space to store things.’

Undersized marrows rolled across the floor. Blundering indoors,
the pig grabbed one.

‘Get out of it!’ Martha cried in dismay. Her foot caught against
the planter. It slanted down, smashing a bottle. Frightened by the rumpus,
squawking hens flapped around the settle. Twiss’s one good eye fixed on the
parson’s fruitcake. Snatching it from his hand, he bolted outdoors.

Ruffled, Martha passed the parson another slice, and her one
engraved wine glass brimming with succulent fruity liquor. Wretched with
worries she settled back to her task, while Eppie brushed up the shattered
glass.