Authors: Janice Robertson
Eppie
EPPIE
I AM THE GIFT, I
AM THE POOR
BY
JANICE ROBERTSON
Text copyright ©
2012 Janice Robertson
Cover photograph
© 2012 Janice Robertson
All Rights
Reserved
JANICE ROBERTSON
graduated from the University of Cambridge and has written for national country
homes magazines. She lives in a cottage in rural Shropshire, England, which she
shares with Whizzy, the West Highland terrier, Muffin - the miniature silver-dapple
dachshund, who once won a prize for the oddest dog, and Merry, the disabled
dachshund, who spends his days dashing about in wheels.
DEDICATION
In memory of Pippin,
the rescued, long-haired dachshund, who kept my lap warm whilst I was writing
this story. She now slumbers beneath the holly tree at the bottom of my garden
- and in my heart.
A FEEBLE WEAPON WITHOUT A THRUST
EPPIE
I AM THE GIFT, I
AM THE POOR
TUNNYGRAVE
MANOR, 1799
Wakelin hated his father with a passion.
He remembered a night, a few months ago, when he had had a fierce argument with
him. Gillow had accused him of stealing from the money jar. Wakelin was
outraged. Well, yes, he had taken the coins, but so what? Although only nine-years-old,
he got a thrill out of watching champion bare-knuckle prize-fighters pulverise
their opponents in the ring. A fight had been organised in a field just outside
Litcombe, the nearest town. Wakelin was determined not to miss out on the fun.
He had needed the cash to place bets.
He
had often thought that Martha, his mother, must have been infatuated with his
father when they wed, but guessed that her ardour had waned over the years. That
was not surprising as Gillow often treated Martha like a mop in a bucket of
dirty water - indispensable only for practical reasons. Was his mother aware of
the shallowness of her husband’s affections? Maybe, but she had a tendency to
be blinkered. Or perhaps she thought herself lucky to be married to the village
weaver. At least Gillow earned a little more from his work compared to the farm
labourers employed by Lord Robert du Quesne, the local landowner.
The
argument about the disappearance of the coins had riled Wakelin. Although it
had been dusk and pouring with rain, he had furiously stomped into the woods.
Reaching
the waterfall, known locally as Shivering Falls, he had spotted Robert du Quesne
crouching beside the pool, his hands in the icy waters. He had listened to his lordship’s
curses and wondered at his curious actions. Only when the man marched off,
muttering angrily, did Wakelin approach to see what he had been up to. Two kittens
struggled in the water. Du Quesne must have been trying to drown them.
The
kittens, Ophelia and Prince Ferdinand, belonged to Talia and Gabriel, du
Quesne’s children. Once, whilst he was supposed to have been scaring birds off
corn in a field, Wakelin had watched the children playing with their pets on
the lawn.
Grabbing
a stick, he prodded the nearest kitten and steered it towards the edge of the
pool. He was about to rescue the other creature when a woman startled him.
Dressed in a shabby gown, her skull ravaged with torn hair, she ran past, shrieking
‘Ghosties! Ghosties!’
She
was Zelda du Quesne, Robert’s crazed sister-in-law. A few years ago, she and
her son, Thurstan, had come to live at Tunnygrave Manor after Charles, Robert’s
brother, had committed suicide. Thurstan was an arrogant youth who revelled in
making life miserable for almost everyone, in particular, for Wakelin.
Zelda raced on, heading towards the cottages in the village
of Little Lubbock.
Imagining Thurstan’s embarrassment if any of the cottagers
spotted her, Wakelin sniggered.
A movement to one side of the natural stone bridge at the
top of the waterfall caught his eye. An arm pushed through dripping leaves. Not
knowing quite what was going on, and not wanting to be caught and accused of
being up to mischief again, he thrust the trembling kitten beneath his shirt
and dropped out of sight. Talia du Quesne emerged from what appeared to be a
secret tunnel that led beneath Tunnygrave Manor.
Arms thrown wide in an attempt to keep her balance, she
stepped cautiously across the bridge.
He watched her clamber down the boulders.
Anxiously staring around, she spied the other kitten. It was
being borne rapidly away by the brimming stream.
‘Miss!’ Wakelin shouted, watching Talia race along the bank
in pursuit of her pet.
‘Miss! He desperately wanted to attract her attention so
that he might give her the other kitten.
That was the evening Talia had drowned.
Wakelin had taken the rescued kitten to Samuel Cobbett.
Samuel was Wakelin’s grandfather, and du Quesne’s shepherd. The old man had
cared for the creature and, the following morning, returned it to the manor house.
Lady Constance du Quesne told
Samuel that, despite the objection she expected from her husband, she was
determined that Gabriel should be allowed to keep Prince Ferdinand. That was
what Talia would have wanted.
If Talia had known about a secret way
out
of the manor, there was obviously a secret way
into
the house. Even
Wakelin could work that one out. It was worth a try.
Now
he was running.
Running
because he was afraid, running because he had to get there quickly. He had to
gain access to the manor house before dawn broke.