Eppie (35 page)

Shortly afterwards, Claire let herself into the cottage.
Flames leapt from the fire, painting the white walls with a rosy shimmer. ‘You
lot look comfortable.’

Dawkin was making a container for Martha’s knickknacks by
threading oak apples onto wire.

Claire offered him a log shaped like a sheep’s skull. ‘I
thought we could do with the extra warmth.’ Seeing Lottie’s matted eyelashes,
her forehead damp with fever, she held out her arms, ‘I’ll take her. You’re so
forbearing, Martha, though I reckon you could do with a breathing space.’   

‘I wish I was able to help with the child,’ Betsy said. ‘Now
I’m getting on in life I feel so useless. My ankle pains me constantly.’ She
placed a seven of hearts upon Eppie’s jack. ‘Parson Lowford tells me you’re a
good help learning the others their letters at the vestry school.’

Lord du Quesne had finally conceded to the parson’s notion
of holding a school, sympathising with him that, as the majority of the
congregation could not read it was time-consuming having to teach the lines of
the psalms so that they could commit them to memory. In the past, even when the
villagers had had the words drummed into them, they regularly forgot them.

‘On Valentine’s Day, when the parson wasn’t looking,’ Eppie
said, ‘us girls wrote our names on slates, turned them upside down and mixed them
around. The boys took it in turns to pick one out to see who would be their
betrothed.’  Not so gaily, she added, ‘I got Wilbert.’ 

Dawkin sniggered at her misfortune.

Eppie shuffled the cards. ‘Whilst we were at the school, Lord
du Quesne came in with the parish overseer. Every Sunday from now on, the
overseer told Parson Lowford, each child is to bring in a penny for their
burial club. It’s so mam won’t have to draw on the poor-rates once Dawkin and I
are in the earth. Lord du Quesne said the villagers are bloodsuckers living on
the backs of the rich.’

‘Don’t you think the parson’s been getting a little too melancholic
of recent?’ Claire asked. ‘All that preaching about intemperance this morning
will have annoyed a few inn-goers.’

‘There won’t be many who take the parson at his word,’
Martha answered. ‘He enjoys his drink too much to wage war against the
alehouse.’

‘It’d do the parson a world of good to take a wife,’ Betsy
reflected. ‘All we see in church these days is solemn faces as he trots on for
an eternity about thrift, abstinence and hard work. His sermons are so dreary I
frequently drop off.’

‘I know,’ Eppie said. ‘I heard you snoring this morning.’

‘It’s no good you laughing, miss. I noticed the odd look the
parson gave you after the service. The man seems intent on us looking like
death warmed up, telling the females in the congregation we’re no longer
allowed to wear brightly-coloured frocks or ribbons to church, not that I have
for many years.’

‘I’m sure God doesn’t mind me wearing my yellow Sunday frock
to church,’ Eppie said. ‘God made the sun, that’s yellow and it makes me happy.
God wouldn’t want me to be sad.’

‘I quite agree.’ Betsy fanned her face with her cards. ‘Ooo,
it’s beastly hot in here.’ She wriggled in her seat. ‘And I do believe I’ve
piles coming on, unless it’s owing to me eating a deal of peas’ pudding
recently.’

Martha swung the kettle over the fire. ‘Pot of sweet tea?’ 

Betsy picked up Dawkin’s finished basket. ‘You’re clever with
your hands, like Wakelin.’ She ran her fingers, rough from regular carding,
along the handle of interwoven hazel twigs. ‘Martha will be delighted with this
treasure. Game of pair?’ 

‘Well done,’ she cried after Dawkin won the second game of
matching the royal heads of England. 

Martha soaked bread in sugared milk, wrapped it in a rag,
and offered it to Lottie to suckle as a comforter. Wheezing, the baby spat it
out.

‘This is no good.’ To help the child sleep, Martha fetched a
tiny cardboard box containing laudanum that Gillow had bought from the
innkeeper for a penny.

‘Don’t overdo the tincture,’ Betsy warned. ‘What about a
game of loo? As I haven’t got any farthings we’ll make do with those nice
pebbles you found in the stream, Dawkin. If only the parson could see us, the
one remaining hair under his bob-wig would stand on end, especially after his talk
about us curbing our playful whims, forsaking skittles and card games.’

A rap at the door made her start.

‘Oh dear!’ She stared into the inky blackness behind the
window. ‘Here am I chuntering on about how ashamed we should feel amusing
ourselves with life’s little gaieties. Imagine! Parson Lowford may have been
piking in at the window all evening.’  Erupting into a fit of giggles at the
alarming vision, her parsnip chin with its hairy mole wobbled.

Eppie and Dawkin, finding her hilarity infectious, fell
about laughing helplessly.

A further rap. 

Eppie dived beneath the table. ‘Everyone shush! He’ll think
we’ve nodded off.’  She shouted at the door, ‘We’re all a-bed, Mister Parson!’

Claire grinned at Martha. ‘Have you ever known folk as daft
as these three?’

‘It’s little wonder Lottie can’t snatch much sleep,’ Martha
said. ‘Eppie, you’ll have to answer it.’

Betsy tried in vain to suppress her chortling. ‘Hide ‘em
cards in yer cat’s-marble basket, Dawkin. We mustn’t be caught.’

Eppie half-believed she would find herself looking up at the
parson. His face burning with wrath, he would give her a sermon about man’s
fall from God’s grace. So, it took her a moment to mentally adjust to the
person upon whom her eyes rested.

Gabriel was elegantly dressed in a sable surtout of quality
cut.

Nuzzling up to his hand, Twiss gave him a friendly lick.

‘Gabriel!’ Martha cried warmly. Her smile fell as she came
to greet him. ‘You don’t look at all well.  Won’t you step in and take a bite
of supper with us?’

He glanced into the cottage. An oil lamp stood upon the
table. Its glow picked out Betsy’s relieved-looking face. ‘That’s kind of you,
Mrs Dunham. Thank you, but no. Eppie, may I speak with you?’

Grabbing her shawl, she followed him to the garden gate. The
wind had picked up and whistled in the darkness. ‘Won’t your father be angry if
he finds out you’re here?’

‘He’s staying in Malstowe. Thurstan owns a coaching inn called
The Wolf and Child in the town, and provides father with lodgings when business
affairs take him there.’

‘Come and see the badger cub. Dawkin and I rescued it from
baiting. We’ve called it Wicker. Dawkin’s made her a straw bed. I told Twiss
not to go near her because he might scare her. He kept looking at me, pleading,
with his eyebrows twitching like pa’s. Now Wicker thinks Twiss is her pa and
they’re nestling together.’

‘I would like to stop, but I have much packing to do.’

‘They’ll tax our teeth next!’ Claire sang out as she and
Betsy tarried beneath the porch.

‘That’s all right, I’ve only got a few left,’ Betsy said,
chuckling.

The women kissed Eppie on the cheek, wished Gabriel a
goodnight, and stepped homeward.

‘Are you off somewhere?’ Eppie asked Gabriel.

‘I am going to stay at the home of mother’s old friend,
Doctor Morton, in Bath.’  Unbuckling Wayward’s saddlebags, he drew out some brown
paper packages. ‘These are to make up for me not seeing you recently. I’ve felt
guilty about that. There’s a pair of kid gloves for Mrs Dunham. They belonged
to mother. I thought Dawkin might like this.’      

Eppie tore impetuously at the wrapping. ‘This is the jacket
you wore when we first met at Shivering Falls.’    

‘I’ve out-grown it.’

Gabriel fetched out the flute. ‘I thought you’d be missing
the practice.’

Her eyes shone with delight. ‘For me! Are you sure?’

Footsteps approached. Whistling.

‘Pa!  Gabriel’s going away.  He’s brought us some presents.’

‘I hope you don’t disapprove, sir?’ Gabriel said,
embarrassed. ‘They’re nothing special.’

‘Why’d I mind, Master Gabriel? It’s mighty kind of you. I
wish you a safe journey.’ He passed indoors.

‘How are you managing?’ Eppie asked. ‘Without your mam, I
mean?’

‘I miss her dreadfully. Father has always considered me to
be a worthless wretch. What started off as my frustration, knowing that he
demands so much of me, has taken a bitter turn. I now find myself assailed by terror
attacks. They are so debilitating that I have scarce set foot outside the house
since mother’s death. Doctor Morton is a family friend. He has asked me to stay
with him and his son for a few months, to recuperate.’

Made anxious by his troubled face, she stepped close to him
and put her hand upon his elbow. Gently, he rubbed his chin against the top of
her head. He was trembling and she could sense the tears that he was trying
hard to hold back. 

In a merry mood, Gillow could be heard in the cottage,
playing his accordion.

Reeking of gin, Wakelin stumbled towards them. ‘Oy, war ya
think yer doing?’  Spinning Gabriel round, he made a fist and pulled back his
arm, ready to strike him. ‘Tek yer lily-white paws off me sister.’ Tottering backwards,
he fell.

Gabriel went to his aid. 

‘I don’t need no help from no stupid du Quesne.’ He slapped
the boy’s hand away. ‘I can hold me drink.’ Rising, he rammed Gabriel against
his horse’s flank. Startled, the beast side-stepped. 

‘Keep the hell away from ‘er, you hear?’ Wakelin warned. ‘Or
else.’ 

‘All right, all right! I hear!’ Gabriel backed off. He swung
into the saddle. Riding away, he cast a sorrowful glance back at Eppie.

Miserable, she listened to the tramp, tramp of Wayward’s
hooves until all that could be heard was Wakelin’s swearing and cursing. Vomiting,
he slumped over the hedge, twigs cracking under his weight.

‘What’s them?’ Dawkin asked eagerly as Eppie hastened
indoors and laid the parcels on the table. Rapidly, she hid the flute and books
beneath the dresser, where Wakelin would be unlikely to find them. ‘They’re
from Gabriel.’

Wakelin lurched in, wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand. He pulled a sour face, watching his father gleefully untying his gift of
tobacco.

Eppie passed Dawkin the scarlet jacket. ‘This is for you; it
grew too small for Gabriel.’ 

Palms pressed against the chimney beam, Wakelin straddled
his legs before the feeble warmth of the dying flames. Glaring around, he
watched his mother try on the exquisite gloves, his torpid mind awash with
suspicion.

Dawkin dragged the jacket over his grey, threadbare shirt. ‘I
reckon I’d look a clod going around in this. It’s too fine for the likes of
me.’

Martha stroked the lush material. ‘You’re only just over
your cough. It’d keep you snug through winter.’ 

Incensed by his mother’s enthusiasm, Wakelin imitated her
voice, raising it several pitches. ‘Dawkin, huggle up warm! What a dandy ya
look!’ In a growling voice, he added, ‘More like a scarecrow dressed up as a
prince.’ 

‘That’ll do,’ Gillow said.    

‘How can you lower yourself to take cast-offs, Ma?’

‘How can you be so narrow-minded?’ she reproached. ‘They are
gifts.’

He glared at her with loathing eyes. ‘What d’ya reckon du
Quesne’s gonna think when he sees Dawkin prancing around in his son’s clothes? He’ll
have him hung for theft, for starters.’

‘He’s got a point there,’ Dawkin said. ‘Gabriel probably
never gave it a thought.’

‘You wanna know why?’ Wakelin asked. ‘’Cos ‘e ain’t gorra
straight thought in ‘im. His aunt’s lunacy runs in his veins.’

Eppie stamped her foot in anger. ‘It is evil to speak of
Gabriel like that. Besides, Aunt Zelda wasn’t a blood relation.’

Wakelin was consumed with the notion that Gabriel would never
be familiar with the Dunham’s unless Martha had prattled on to him that Wakelin
had stolen Genevieve. ‘Giving us hand-outs is Gabriel’s way of wiping his hands
clean of us,’ he thought. ‘After all, why’d Gabriel want a pest like Eppie for
a sister?’ But, in disclosing the truth, his mother was playing with fire and
more than their fingers might get hurt. Snatching up the pewter candlestick, he
lurched towards her. ‘Yuv gone an’ blabbed, ain’t ya?’

‘Wakelin!’ Gillow cried. ‘Put that down.’

Fearful for Martha’s safety, Eppie grabbed a potato and
lobbed it.

Unbalanced as the potato smote him on the temple, the hefty
candlestick slipped from his grasp. ‘Fiend!’ Fists clenched, he made towards
her, the veins on his sweating forehead standing proud and pulsating.

She shrank back in fear.

Gillow made to stand. ‘That will do, I say!  Back off,
Wakelin.’

With a strength magnified by the adrenaline roaring around
his veins, he gripped his father by the shoulders and thrust him back into the
chair, punching his weight downwards. ‘As for you, you din’t lift a finger when
du Quesne tore up our yard. You preach on to Eppie and me about turning the
other cheek. Ya can’t fool me. You’re scared to stand up to du Quesne. And now
you let his lad swan around here, treating us like beggars. You ain’t gorra
ounce of pride in ya.’  He turned his back on his father. 

Gillow flew to his feet. ‘Master Gabriel acted out of kind-heartedness.
That’s something you don’t know a thing about. You might as well
be
Robert du Quesne for all your malice and spite.’

Bending his wrath upon his father, Wakelin lashed out and
sent him reeling. ‘You ain’t as tough as you think.’ He gloated at the sight of
his father lying sprawled on the pitching stones. ‘That’ll learn you for
likening me to that scum. For years I’ve put up with you being in control. Every
day you rant on about what a useless wretch I am. I’ve had me fill. I’ll show
you how tough I am.’ Reaching above the chimney beam, he unlashed the maple
wood fowling piece and, from a drawer in the dresser, grabbed the leather pouch
containing buckshot.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Martha cried. ‘Put that
gun back, someone might get hurt.’