Eppie (78 page)

‘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.

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.

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.

Dawkin trailed him out. ‘I think I’ll go for a sneak around
Jacob’s garden. I’d like to know what competition I’m up against.’

Like Gillow before him, Dawkin was having a bet with Jacob about
who could grow the largest vegetable. This season it was the marrow. Tonight, they
were taking them to The Fat Duck, the winner rejoicing in a free tankard of ale
from the loser.

Wakelin cast a critical eye over a row of Brussels sprouts.
‘You’ve gorra spot o’ mould there. Ya need a bit more air atwixt ‘em.’

‘Watch it, Wakelin, you’re starting to sound like pa in your
old age,’ Eppie teased.

By his grumpy expression, she guessed he was not amused by
the comparison.

‘I’m me own man. Always ‘ave been, and always will be.’

Twiss at his heels, Dawkin wandered across the lane,
whistling.

There was a contented air about the morning. Children played
beside Miller’s Bridge, pitching coloured pebbles into a hole in the earth to
see who could get the most in to win. Amongst the youngsters were Edmund and
Kizzie’s sons, Lucas and William. The boys’ sloping shoulders made them look
like miniature versions of their father.

Men wandered to and from fields. The labourers’ pace of life
had definitely slackened since Wakelin had been made bailiff. The men were not
grumbling and nor was Gabriel, and they managed to get their work done just the
same. 

Eppie joined a group of women who were conversing about the devastating
potato harvest in Ireland, and the resulting famine. Stood before the Leiff’s
cottage, she caught snippets of the conversation between Dawkin and Jacob about
the merits of using whale oil as an insecticide on their plots.

A handbell rang. It was Nathaniel Green, the tinsmith, come
to collect pots for repair.

Behind him trundled another cart, in the back a foot-pedalled
grinding contraption for sharpening tools. The driver, slouched over the reins,
wore a battered castor hat, a grey blanket draped over his shoulders.

There was nothing Eppie needed repairing at the moment; Dawkin
happily tackled most maintenance tasks around the cottage. That had included
fixing the gate.

Jacob stood his hoe against the woodshed. ‘I’ve been wantin’
to show you this ram’s head snuff box what our Edmund fetched me back from
Litcombe yesterday. It’s gorra fine set o’ curly horns.’

Twiss padded indoors after Dawkin, tempted by the savoury
aroma of roasting bacon.

Eppie did not want to linger too long in case Martha had
woken.

Having found custom at one of the cottages, the sharpener
had abandoned his cart beneath a hawthorn, just beyond Miller’s Bridge. Blackbirds
were relishing in the bounty of the tree, its branches dragged down by the rich,
ripe berries.

Returning to the parlour, Eppie stepped into the larder to
collect things to make apple chutney. Martha was quiet. She must still be
sleeping.

Only when Eppie turned round, did she see a man standing in
the bedchamber, his back to her. ‘Who are you?’ she cried in alarm.

Slowly the man turned to face her. In his arms he held
Martha.

She rushed forward, the onions scattering around her feet. ‘Give
her to me!’

He took a step backwards. Wrapped around his head,
completely covering his face, except for his eyes and mouth, were dirty
bandages. The bindings muffled his threatening voice somewhat. ‘I would not be
too hasty.’ To make his point, he tilted Martha away from his body, indicating that
he could easily drop her upon the stone floor.

In hopeless desperation, Eppie glanced through the open
doorway.

‘Nor would it be a good notion to shout for help, not if you
care for the safety of your child.’

‘Who are you?’ She looked at him long and hard.

Beneath his old-fashioned coat, he wore a bibbed leather apron.
Tattered one-piece leather shoes poked out from leggings of mattress ticking. Around
his throat he wore a checked neckerchief. Clearly, he lived rough for he smelt
vile, of sweat, straw and leather.

‘In Malstowe, where I roam the streets, I am known as
Begbroke, the knife-grinder.’

The bindings around his face were, therefore, presumably to
protect his skin from the whirling, hissing stream of sparks which flew from
the knives he sharpened.

It was only when he uttered his next words that her heart
missed a beat.

‘You, however, Cousin Genevieve, know me by quite a
different name.’

‘Oh my!’ She cupped her hand over her mouth in fear.

Stepping into the parlour, his eyes fixed upon her, he
passed before the green-stained grandfather clock and kicked the door shut. ‘It
has always been my belief that the social classes should remain separate. It
does me wonders, therefore, to see you have the sense not to cross that boundary,
choosing to reside in this pigsty with that repugnant climbing-boy of yours.
Nevertheless, I am exceedingly angry with you, Cousin Genevieve. If it were not
for your meddling ways, Tunnygrave Manor would have been mine. Instead, you
have left me worse than a pauper. Do you feel gratified knowing what grievance
you have caused me? Do you ever give a thought to my wife, Alicia, and our
child, for whom I am unable to provide sufficiently?’

Ice cold, a chill passed through Eppie’s bones. ‘Alicia is
dead. You killed her. You hid her body beneath a hearthstone in The Rogues’
Inn. You blamed Hurry Eades for the deed and had him hung.’

‘Eades had no right to prosper in life. The son of a farm
labourer, he dragged himself up until he thought himself my better.’ He glanced
through the window. ‘Where is that chucklehead, Dick? Why hasn’t he saddled my
horse?’