Almost, Martha could believe what Wakelin had told her, that she had been part of the conspiracy to steal her from her parents. Fingers pressed against her throat, she felt the rhythm of her pulsating veins and imagined a noose tightening around her neck's soft clamminess.

Dreading uttering her first words to the girl, she wrung her hands in agony. Genevieve was bound to notice her acting differently towards her.

Filling her mind with the cares of the day, she fought to cut out thoughts of the du Quesne girl. Having milked the cow, she trudged along the mossy path to the cottage. With no inclination to raise her frock above her ankles, her hem swirled into muddy puddles.

*Hello, Mam. I'm feeling a bit better.'

Face averted from the girl, Martha set to cleaning the floor. Gillow had finally got around to laying pitching stones, gathered from the stream, after Martha complained, almost incessantly, about the moles that excavated heaps of soil onto the earth floor. The wide chinks left between the stones were apt to fill with hardened dirt.

Eppie gazed at the back of Martha's head, her damp bun bobbing as she threw her weight into scrubbing, intent on wiping away each lump of fat, every speck of blood and grime. *Did anyone catch you?'

*Hmm?'

*Did anyone see you with Wakelin?'

Martha's voice sounded thin, tight. *No.'

Eppie crawled out from the coverlet and examined the empty basket set beside the hearth. *What did ya take him?'

No answer.

*Mam?'

Martha's face felt hard, constricted with masked emotion. *Mmm?'

*To eat?'

*This n' that.'

*But what?'

Martha sat back on her heels. *I can't remember. What does it matter?'

Eppie was startled by her sharp reply. *It don't. I was wondering if he liked it, that's all. His belly must've been rumbling, like mine.'

Martha threw herself back into her work.

*Is he all right?'

Martha emitted a breath of exasperation. *Who?'

*Wakelin, of course! Mam, why are you being all silly?'

Wringing the rag into a tight sausage, Martha slapped it into the pail. Water slopped over the sides. *Do you want some tack?'

*I don't know.' For some reason that she could not understand, Eppie felt nervous of Martha. Shivering, she crawled back into her bed.

*Make up your mind,' Martha said sharply.

*If you want, though I ... '

Martha broke twigs with force, as though wringing the neck of one of her geese. Dry moss caught light. Soon the fire blazed.

Ladling poached eggs upon a chunk of bread, Martha said frostily, *It's on the table.'

*If it ain't no bother, would you mind if I have it here?' Eppie asked meekly.

*Why should I care where you have it?' Martha averted her eyes from the child's steady, puzzled gaze as she handed her the food. *Eat it up quick, else it'll go cold.' Hurrying outside, she sloshed filthy floor water over Gillow's cabbages.

Miserable, Eppie stared at the runny egg whites. She knew she ought to tell Martha that they were not properly cooked, but was afraid to.

Anger was Martha's way of shutting out appalling thoughts and images. Striding to the wring-shed, she flung the pail at the back wall and slammed the door. Closed off, away from the world, her body shook from broken sleep. She wished she could die rather than endure a day of anguish with the du Quesne girl. It was no good. She had to go on. Make pretence that everything was as usual. She needed time to think what was best to be done with the child.

Rushing into the parlour, she snatched up the sack of carded wool. Fast and furious the spinning wheel whirled.

Swallowing the last of the eggs, Eppie gripped her heaving stomach. In an alarmed voice, she cried, *I'm going to be ...!' Sick splattered upon the scrubbed floor.

Martha pressed her thumb against her temple in an effort to reduce the painful rush of blood throbbing through her head. *You are so naughty!'

Eppie stared frightened-eyed at Martha's severe face. *I'm sorry, I couldn't keep it in.'

Martha's solid composure crumpled. Throwing her hands against her face, she sobbed. *You don't love me anymore!'

Diving out of bed, Eppie hugged Martha. *I do, Mammy! I do, I do!'

*I am a wicked, cruel person.'

Eppie giggled at this extraordinary declaration. *Don't be daft; you're the best mammy in the world! Did Wakelin shout at ya? Is that why you're upset?'

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.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

A STAKE THROUGH THE HEART.

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.'