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.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
I AM THE GIFT, I AM THE POOR
CHAPTER TWO
COCKCROW
CHAPTER THREE
A GIFT TO TREASURE
CHAPTER FOUR
WRATH OF A DEMON
CHAPTER FIVE
REQUIEM
CHAPTER SIX
WILD AND FREE
CHAPTER SEVEN
FIRST LOSS
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE WHITE ROBIN
CHAPTER NINE
CRUSADER OAK
CHAPTER TEN
THE UNEXPECTED GUEST
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IMPRISONED FOR LOVE
CHAPTER TWELVE
ARSON IN THE POORHOUSE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FOWL GOINGS ON
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHOKING ON SOOT
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
STICKING UP FOR MARTHA
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STOKING UP TROUBLE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SLICK’S FINEST LICK
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A FEEBLE WEAPON WITHOUT A THRUST
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A STUFFED RABBIT
CHAPTER TWENTY
POISONED HEART
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SHADOWS FROM THE PAST
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TROUBLED MINDS
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A STAKE THROUGH THE HEART
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE CHURCH CONCERT
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A PLACE TO BELONG
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE FAIR
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RECKLESS RIVALS
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
STUCK UP A CHIMNEY
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SO FAR APART
CHAPTER THIRTY
SOMETHING CAUGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
HALFWAY TO HEAVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TALIA’S GARDEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CUT OF THE AXE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
QUARTER OF A WISH
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A MEMORY REKINDLED
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
PIKING AT THE WINDOW
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE ARSENIC PIT
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A SHORT SPRING
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
SUPERSTITIOUS NONSENSE
CHAPTER FORTY
A CHILL IN THE AIR
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
FLYING BLADES
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
DEVIL’S KNELL
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SIBILANT WHISPERS
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
FIELD OF BOULDERS
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
THE PUMPING MILL
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
TRESPASSER
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
LOST IN THE DARKNESS
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
THE PITS
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
ROTTEN MEAT AND SOGGY CABBAGE
CHAPTER FIFTY
NOT MUCH TO LOOK AT
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
GRIP OF IRON
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
TIME WASTER
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
DREAMER
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
THE HAUNTED WATERWHEEL
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
PILFERING
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
RULE TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
ROTTEN YARD
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
ROWAN
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
THURSTAN’S DISCOVERY
CHAPTER SIXTY
MUTTON STEW
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
VOICES RAISED IN ANGER
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
A FAITH UNWAVERING
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CRUSADE FOR THE POOR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
A TENUOUS THREAD SNAPPED
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
MESSAGE IN A WATER PITCHER
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
THE BODYSNATCHERS
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
NIGHTMARE BEASTS
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
THE ARMY OF REDRESSERS
CHAPTER SEVENTY
THE WRECKERS
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
SPELLBOUND THROUGH THE STORM
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
POLITE SOCIETY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
INFURIATING REMEDIES
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
SHATTERED WINGS
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
A DREARY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
DANCING WITH THE DEAD
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
THE BALL
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
THE DREADFUL AVENGER
CHAPTER EIGHTY
WHEN ALL HOPE IS LOST
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
TRAPPED IN THE TUNNEL
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
BEDEVILLED
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
GILLOW’S WELCOME
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
SPRING OF LIFE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
THE CABINET OF CURIOSITIES
EPPIE
CHAPTER ONE
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 wit
h 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.
The nursery was located on the second floor. There was no way he could climb up. Nor could he break a window to get in. That would be an idiotic thing to do, and an idiot was the very thing he hated being called, especially by his father.
In the darkness, he could just about make out the bridge that swept from one side of the rocky chasm to the other.
On hot summer days he enjoyed sitting up there, cooled by the spray from the waterfall. Sometimes he used it as a handy place from which to dive into the plunge pool.
Though he had searched for the entrance to the secret tunnel when other children were not watching him, he had never discovered it.
He thrust his hand through the thick moss. No luck. Perhaps it was higher? Stealthily, he climbed the rocks. The sky was lightening. ‘Maybe I should give up?’ he thought. ‘I can’t risk being caught in the daylight.’ Abruptly, he lunged forwards, overwhelmed by a sense of nothingness behind a swamp of soggy ivy leaves.
He gasped with relief. Felt excited. He was about to do something which he knew his father would never approve of. It gave him a heady sense of supremacy. This was his way of proving to himself that he was more cunning than his narrow-minded, stuck-in-his-ways father.
Getting a grip on the rock surrounding the hole, he pushed through. Within a few paces it became pitch black. To stop himself from stumbling, he shuffled along. He was glad the sleeves of his jacket reached past his fingertips; groping along, this meant that his skin did not rub against the rough, damp walls.
Without warning, he descended a flight of steps. Putting a foot into emptiness, he staggered. He steadied a moment, calming his nerves.
The flat ground beyond the bottom of the stone steps continued for a short distance until, unexpectedly, his foot struck something hollow. Reaching down, he swept with his hand. It was a flight of steps, sturdily made of thick, wide treads.
Slowly, stealthily, he mounted to the top. A chink of light showed along the edge of wooden panelling. Dropping to his knees, he clasped a cold, metal handle and pulled. It would not budge. He tried drawing it to one side. Without the slightest noise the wainscot shifted. He was not such a fool as to open it fully. Instead, he peered cautiously through a slit the width of his eye.
It was the nursery chamber, as he had hoped. Whilst working in the fields he had seen Talia rocking on a toy pony before the window.
A candelabrum stood upon the mantelpiece. The glimmer from the steadily burning candles cast upon decorative oak furnishings, ceiling beams and floral wall-tapestries.
Checking all was silent, safe, he was about to step into the chamber when he caught the sound of a dispirited sigh.
Claw-like fingernails gripped the arm of a wingchair that stood beside a cradle.
Wakelin shrank back into the darkness, watching warily.
A woman rose to her feet. It was Agnes Clopton, the nursemaid. She was the antithesis of Martha, who had a kind, comforting nature.
By the light of a candle, which she held over the cradle, Agnes looked like some evil scavenging bird about to reach inside a carcass with its hooked beak and pick it clean.
Having reassured herself that the baby slept, she quit the room and soundlessly shut the door.
Now was Wakelin’s chance, but he hesitated. ‘If I’m caught,’ he thought, ‘his lordship will have me hung.’ However, the image of his mother discovering her new-born infant dead tore him up inside. He had to do it, for her, to prove his depth of love for her - he would do anything for his mother, even die for her.
He knew he had to be quick if he was to exchange the body of his dead sister, Eppie, for Lady Constance’s baby. However, it occurred to him that twigs and lichen might have adhered to his clothing. He did not want to leave any clues that would point to an intruder having been in the chamber.
Quietly, he placed Eppie’s body on the top tread, slipped off his shoes and wrung his hands in the fabric of his discarded jacket.
He was proud of his skill in flushing out birds in the woodland so that they would fly into nets. A bagful of the tiny birds made an excellent pie. Such stealth would hold him in good stead now as he slithered into the nursery, his sister in his arms.
For a moment he stood amazed at the size of the room, its grandness and opulence. Toys cluttered a corner, amongst them metal ships, miniature chariots, and rod soldiers carrying shields. Above them soared Talia’s life-size pony, its white coat shimmering, blue eyes glinting.
Silver and green drapery tumbled to the floor in swags at each corner around a four-poster bedstead. Four-year-old Gabriel slept within the bed, his shoulder-length hair golden upon the silk pillow.
Rather than move away from the shadowy corner of the room, Wakelin had the sense to lay his sister upon the rug closest to the wainscot opening. That way, if the boy awoke, he would have a chance to spurt away with Eppie, Gabriel, hopefully, being none the wiser.
Lady Constance’s new-born daug
hter was deep in slumber. Wakelin focused upon her button nose, tiny mouth, and eyelids heavy with sleep.
Reaching into the cradle, he tenderly scooped her into his arms. Her skin felt wonderfully soft and smelt of sweet flesh.
Imagining the pleasure the infant would bring his mother, a lopsided grin split his face.
He thought back to last night:
After his mother had given birth, Wakelin had had a nightmare about the deaths of his younger brother and sister. Josias had died from scarlet fever. Not long after, smallpox had claimed the life of little Hepsie.
His mother had been devastated.
Gillow, for his part, had seemed to take their deaths lightly, reiterating to Martha about how many children in the village died young.
She had put on a brave face, even repeating Gillow’s words to Wakelin, when he had expressed his sorrow about losing his siblings.
Wakelin saw through her, though. He knew how much their deaths had cut her. He also saw how heartless his father was. Gillow had never once helped Martha with the care of the babies even though she had been sick, having nearly died in childbirth.