Eppie (22 page)

Martha did not know for how long she could keep up the
pretence. ‘I’m not myself.  I feel wretched.’

‘I’ll do the chores,’ Eppie offered. ‘You go off for a nice
sleep.’

‘You’re such a caring child.  I don’t deserve you.’

‘Course ya do,’ Eppie enthused glowingly. ‘I love ya.’

‘I love you,’ Martha sobbed, hugging Eppie tight. ‘I truly
love you.’

‘What’s that racket?’ Gillow demanded. ‘I was hoping to have
a good rest. Martha, come and chuck out my slops. They’re overflowing.’

‘Surely you could go to the earth privy?’ Martha asked, fed
up with him. ‘Just once?’

‘And die of cold in this howry weather? Perhaps you have
failed to notice, but that woodpecker has been hacking the thatched roof off the
privy again. There’s nowt worse than having a drenching when I’m trying to
concentrate. When I’m better I’ll take the fowling gun to that blasted bird.
And another thing, my bed needs sorting; the sheets are drenched in sweat.’

‘I bet they are,’ Eppie whispered to Martha. ‘Pa gets a bit
over-heated at times, doesn’t he?’

They grinned; sometimes they
rather enjoyed his forlorn grumbles.

Whilst Gillow’s fever grew and Martha rested in the loft,
Eppie busied herself in the stable, piling straw bedding to keep out the draughts.

Stood on a stool, she brushed the mane of the chestnut
horse, whispering to Jenny, so that Primrose, in the adjacent stone byre, could
not overhear. ‘King Henry the Eighth munched a whole cow a day! He got so big that
he had to be craned onto his horse. That’ll be Mister Lord in a few years’ time!’

That evening, Eppie entertained Martha and Twiss by making
hand-shadows of dogs, wolves, rabbits and people on the wall. She made a fist.
‘What d’ya think to this grisly man? His teeth is all knocked out.’

Martha was stitching Wakelin’s already heavily-patched
shirt. Greyness circled her red-rimmed eyes. Gloomily, she answered, ‘Aye,
that’s funny.’

‘I’ll try summat to eat,’ Gillow called from his sickbed.

Round-shouldered, like an elderly woman laden with years of
carrying heavy loads, Martha trudged to the food cupboard.

Concern was in Eppie’s voice. ‘Has your head cramp went?’

‘Not quite.’ She plonked a bowl of leftover pudding rice on
the table. ‘I kept getting woken by all ‘em wheels rolling past. Jacob seems
unable to take a toll without shouting about it.’

‘What ya making for pa?’

‘Summat that’ll ease his discomfort.’

‘Shall we play a game whilst we wait for it to heat?’

‘If ya like,’ Martha answered unenthusiastically.

 Eppie added her domino to the lengthening pile. ‘Parson
Lowford says that playing dominoes is ungodly.’

‘Oy, where’s my drink?  I might be dying in here and nobody
would care.’

‘I reckon pa’s that grisly old man I made on the wall.’

Martha smiled weakly. ‘I think you might be right.’ 

She was straining the boiled water into a jug when Gillow
shuffled out, clutching his stomach, his face ashen grey. ‘What’s this?’

‘Rice water with dried blackcurrants,’ Martha answered.

‘You might as well serve me ditch water swimming with bull-head
tadpoles,’ he said, unimpressed.

‘I was going to add a tumbler of brandy to help it slip
down.’

His eyes lit up. ‘Oh, right.  That’s more like it.’

Slumping into his chair, he blew on the posset. ‘Why didn’t
you come when I shouted you this afternoon?’

Martha took up her sewing. ‘I must’ve been asleep.’

‘Asleep? Again? Are you intent on us all ending up in the poorhouse?
Simply because I’m sick doesn’t mean you can get sloppy. And you needn’t give
me that huffy lower-lip.’ Gently, he added, ‘I suppose it’s the bairn. I
remember you were a broody old hen when you were expecting Eppie.’

Martha glared at him. ‘I am not broody.’

‘Here am I at death’s door, and all you want to do is argue
back.’

‘I am not arguing.’

A sullen look swept his face. ‘I don’t know why I bother
getting up if this is the only way you can talk to me. I’m off back to my bed,
to die in peace.’

Martha left the cottage before dawn.

All was silent in the graveyard as she gazed upon the hewn
names of her babies.

Around her, gravestones dipped like galleons jostling in a
stormy sea. She knew her name would never be amongst them. The bodies of those
who committed suicide were interred at the crossroads with a stake driven through
their hearts to ensure that the restless souls of the departed would never
haunt God-fearing mortals.

With a determined step she struck out for the Lyn hills. All
the while marching, arms swinging, she was lost in a nightmare world. She did
not notice Jermyn pass, nor hear his greeting, ‘T’is a blowzy morning, Mrs Dunham.’
Grieving for Eppie, for Genevieve and the life Wakelin had denied the child,
she wept, inwardly.

The echoing cry of a lone heron sounded harsh in this
desolate place. With a steady beat of its wings it crossed the marshes and flew
low over George Williamson’s rowing boat,
The Little Owl
, left tied at
the inland end of the jetty. Following in the wake of the bird, Martha made her
way down the rough cart track.

Caught within the undulating landscape, a warbler’s churring
song was magnified.

After the recent rain the strangled watercourse of peat bog
was sodden and choked with knife-like clusters of marsh grasses. The stench of
decay and the blackness of reeds mirrored Martha’s sense of desolation, for it
was here that she would end her life.

The jetty timbers slippery with slime, she trod gingerly to
the furthest end. Long and thoughtfully she gazed at the downy mist, a ghostly
breath veiling the waters. She did not desire death; there was so much to live
for.

Sobs welled tight in her throat and were given liberty.
Never before had she felt so alone. She knew she lacked courage. Was appalled
at what she was about to do. But there was no sense in delaying. She would
treat her death as a chore.

She made her way back along the jetty and clambered into the
Williamson’s boat. Rocking on wind-blown waves,
The Little Owl
was rapidly
swept away by the gusting wind.

She gripped the edge of the boat and peered into the choppy depths,
glimpsing her face pinched with dread and weariness.

Without warning, the boat swayed, almost pitching her into the
heaving waters. She shrieked in alarm.

Though the sun’s feeble warmth fell upon her shoulders, it was
blotted out as a shadow fell upon her.

Genevieve du Quesne stood in the stern, the wind tugging her
nightdress about her legs, her locks whipping her troubled face.

‘Eppie, you nearly tipped me in!’ The irony of her words was
lost on her. ‘How did you get here?’ 

The hinged leather lid of the crate at the stern, where the
Williamson’s usually kept supplies and provisions for fishing trips, was open. The
child had stowed away.

‘I was worried about you because you’re poorly. I didn’t
know if you’d be mad about me following you, so I kept back a bit. You never
turned around. When I heard you crying on the jetty I felt naughty because I
knew you’d rather be alone, so I hid in the snap box. I couldn’t breathe with
the lid down, so I had to pop up.’

Martha could hardly believe that she was sitting beside
Eppie. Her presence warmed her heart. ‘I thought you were fast asleep when I
left. Goodness, you’ve nowt on your feet.’ 

‘Did you see that enormous puffball? It looked like a sheep
lying down. There were some little ones, like eggs. They’ll be nice toasted over
the fire. We could collect them on the way home.’

It was all Martha could do to bring herself to gaze into the
child’s gentle eyes. ‘Would you be sad if I never came home?’

‘Don’t be daft, you were coming back. Why did you want to
come all this way just for a ride in Ella’s boat?’ 

‘Eppie, tell me the truth. You think me worthless and plain
compared to fine ladies like Mrs Bulwar and Lady Wexcombe?’  

‘You do ask daft questions sometimes, Mam. I love you. You’re
funny and kind, and as lovely as those little white and blue speedwell flowers
I put on Grandma Euphemia’s grave.’ 

‘Very apt, I used that plant to line Gillow’s smelly boots
so that his broken blisters didn’t become infected.’

The sun shimmered through shredded patches of cloud. Eppie
lifted her face to its golden rays. ‘I like playing mutineers. We ought to do
this more often.’

‘Ahoy there!’  

Eppie span round and shielded her eyes. A man stood on the
shore.

‘It’s George,’ Martha said, stung with guilt. ‘He’ll think
we’re a couple of ragamuffins making off with his boat.’ 

‘There are oars you know!’ George yelled.

‘Sorry!’ Martha shrilled. ‘We didn’t mean to take it.’

‘He’ll never believe that!’ Eppie said, chuckling.

‘No problem. Leave her tied to the jetty, shall I?’

‘Wait on,’ Martha shouted, ‘I’ll row us back! Here, Eppie,
wrap my cloak about you; for sure George will think us barmy if he sees you wearing
nowt but your nightdress.’

‘What’s he talking about, Mam? Why’s he got Dusty tied to
his cart?’

Martha breathed heavily with the effort of rowing against
the wind. ‘George mentioned it after church last Sunday. He said he can’t
afford to feed all his beasts through the winter. I’m fed up with Gillow
twittering on about his aching back. I thought a donkey would take the hard
work out of the garden. He’s forever saying that if the plot were used more
efficiently we could earn extra money from selling our vegetables. If you take
care of her, she’s yours.’

George gave them a hand
out. ‘Chilly day for a sail.’

Cooing over the donkey, Eppie
stroked its black coat and gazed lovingly into its wistful eyes.

‘It’s all right for the
likes of du Quesne,’ George grumbled to Martha, as though in the midst of a
conversation. ‘He’s got enough cash to buy in wagonloads of protein-rich
oilcakes from the Americas. No need to cull his animals come the snow. His
cattle will parade their tonnage right through winter. They’ll not go short of
fresh meat up at the manor house. Don’t think me sentimental, I know I could
get a shilling or two for Dusty at the market, but I’d rather know she’s gone
to a friendly home. Seems you’ve had a fair trot, ladies. Like me to give you a
run home?’

‘Hurry up!’ Eppie cried gaily to
Jenny.

She and Martha were on
their way to the church concert.

‘Let her take her time. You wouldn’t be tearing along if you
had hock-knees.’

‘I like her funny legs.’

‘Sit still, can’t you?  You’ll wear a hole in the seat.’

During a break in the rainstorm they had made a dash for it.
Though only early afternoon, the sky had darkened until it felt as though night
were closing in. 

‘It’s a shame pa and Betsy are too unwell to come.’

‘This damp weather creeps into Betsy’s bones. I asked
Wakelin to chop those logs Gillow bought her from Litcombe. He never did.’

‘I hope Dusty will be all right without Jenny.’

‘Claire reckons we could earn a little from hiring your
donkey to folk who want their plots furrowed. She’s booked Henry in as your
first customer.’

‘Dusty will be a nice surprise for pa.’

‘You said that about your stuffed rabbit and look what
trouble he got us into.’ 

‘If Wakelin comes in late, his bacon hotpot will be as tough
as a leathery bat. I wonder why he went off so angry.’

‘I wonder too.’ Quietly, Martha added, ‘I only wish I knew what’s
in his mind.’ 

Apricot-hued candlelight shone through the arched windows of
the church, bright and inviting. Villagers packed the path to the door.

Leaping from the cart, Eppie dashed towards the throng.

Having secured Jenny, Martha ambled after Eppie. ‘Can’t we
go in?’ she asked her sister. ‘Not that it’s much warmer in there.’

‘Parson Lowford says he’s under strict orders from Lord du
Quesne to keep the villagers waiting until he and his guests arrive,’ Claire
answered. ‘His lordship calls it etiquette.’

‘I call it downright idiotic,’ Jonas grumbled. ‘If I’d known
we’d be stuck out in this raw mist I’d have brought a barrel of brandy to shut
out the bitterness.’

Samuel blew on his cupped hands. ‘I hope we don’t have snow
this winter, One-Quart.’

‘I hope we do, Grumps. I love to see the frost-candles
dripping off the eaves. It was funny last Christmas. Pa stood beneath a heap of
snow that had puffed on top of our porch. When he stamped his boots, the snow
tumbled down his neck. Listen!  They’re rehearsing.’

‘Henry has been perfecting his serpent horn for weeks, though
he still sounds like Oss calling the cows in for milking,’ Claire said,
laughing.

‘I once had a donkey called Cross-Eyes,’ said Jonas. ‘He
acquired a taste for ale.’ The sagging jowls around his mouth shook as he chuckled
at the memory. ‘No matter where he was in the field, he’d race across at the
clank of a jug. One day, the yeomanry were sat around on benches, taking bets
as to whether that donkey could sup a pint without taking his lips off the
tankard. That was the last I saw of the old fellow. He must’ve trotted off
after the soldiers’ wagons.’

‘Donkeys are useful creatures,’ Ebernezer said. ‘Lord du
Quesne once asked me if I had a donkey’s hoof hanging around. Tied to a bloated
ankle it’s an excellent cure for gout. Oh, here they are.’   

Relieved muttering consumed the villagers.

A carriage stopped before the lychgate. A footman stepped
down and opened the door for the gentry.