*If it were offered,' the parson added, as an afterthought, *a glass of your delectable elderberry wine would make the morsel slip down most pleasurably.'

Crates of wine were stacked between sacks of root vegetables and piles of Gillow's gardening tools. Lifting aside an iron potato planter, Martha lined up the bottles. *I must apologise about the mess. Now I've lost the wring-shed it's hard to find space to store things.'

Undersized marrows rolled across the floor. Blundering indoors, the pig grabbed one.

*Get out of it!' Martha cried in dismay. Her foot caught against the planter. It slanted down, smashing a bottle. Frightened by the rumpus, squawking hens flapped around the settle. Twiss's one good eye fixed on the parson's fruitcake. Snatching it from his hand, he bolted outdoors.

Ruffled, Martha passed the parson another slice, and her one engraved wine glass brimming with succulent fruity liquor. Wretched with worries she settled back to her task, while Eppie brushed up the shattered glass.

*I sold six cabbages at the market to buy a few chunks of coal, and that's soon gone,' Martha said. *Jonas told Gillow that some canal men sold him a wagonload of cheap fuel. He's fetching some tonight. I hope it's not sea coal. I don't fancy being smoked out of my home again.'

Eppie tipped chopped onions and mushrooms into the flour and eel mix. To replenish their dwindling fuel supply, she and Dawkin regularly gathered dried cow dung from the fields.

Du Quesne had dismissed Henry. Francis Maygott, a long-standing friend of his lordship, had been taken on as estate manager.

*Mr Maygott was angry when he caught Dawkin and me stuffing cow cassons in a sack. He says it robs the fields. He told us to scrape Primrose's patties from the lane-side and dry them by our fire.'

*Eppie, you ought to know,' Martha whispered, not wishing to disturb the parson who was dozing, *since we've lost the byre, Gillow said we ought to get rid of the cow. Wakelin took her to Litcombe first thing.'

*I could've grazed Primrose on the stubble fields!'

*Where would she shelter come the snow? Tell me that. There's scarce enough room for a horse and a donkey in the cart shed. Gramps is extending his sty for our pigs, though his yard's too small for another cow. Gillow reckoned we ought to sell Dusty. I told him she's useful taking you to the market. I thought we'd get a nanny goat. There's grass enough in the lane to feed her for half a year. Jacob has offered to kid her with his billy. Besides, Primrose was coming to the end of her milking days. At least we won't starve, we've plenty of ...'

*... bacon, *taties an' cheap cuts of mutton,' Eppie finished her words, having heard them so many times of recent.

Woken by the sorrowful droning, the parson stared bleary-eyed at steam rising from the bubbling pot. *There are parish hand-outs.'

Realising he had caught some of their words, Martha said in a flustered tone, *Gillow says he would rather work all day and all night, until he's as thin as the threads he weaves, rather than accept charity. We're not paupers, he says, and never will be if we all pull our weight.'

Swaying towards Martha, the parson poured himself another glass of wine and settled at the table. To one side of his head a calico bag of cheese curds hung from the rafters. *I have spoken to Master Gabriel and so I am acquainted with the circumstances by which you came to his home.' He thrust up his wig, making it sit skew-whiff upon his bald patch. *I believe it to be most unchristian of his lordship to treat you in such a callous, hic, pardon me, manner. Nor do I concur with his lordship's action in destroying your plot.' He leant so close to her that his nose rubbed against her ear lobe.

Martha drew back in revulsion.

*If you didn't like Lord du Quesne chopping our orchard, why didn't you stop him?' Eppie asked shrilly.

*Really, Eppie, you mustn't ask the parson such questions,' Martha said.

The parson squinted at Eppie, as though suffering a pain in the head. *I take no offence. Alas, how I wish I could have acted to, hic, aid your father. I am, in a spiritual sense, the shepherd of the flock, but in political affairs the natural lawmaker is Robert du Quesne. Neither I nor anyone else have the right to go against his orders.'

*It's just such a worry, wondering how we'll manage,' Martha said.

*You will regret having two extra mouths to feed,' the parson drawled. *I imagine that now the boy's arm has healed, his master will be pleased to have him back.'

Dawkin was feeding twigs from a raven's nest to the fire. He and Eppie exchanged anxious glances, though he grinned shyly when Martha answered, *Gillow and I would never consider it. The lad had a raw time at the poorhouse and Mr Crowe was cruel to him. Besides, Gillow's forever saying how useful he finds Dawkin about the place.'

*I quite understand. Your husband must feel quite, hic, disappointed with Wakelin. And you are correct when you talk about the hardships in the poorhouse. Upon my perambulation around the wards I gain the impression that none of the inhabitants, from the very young to the elderly and incapacitated, are especially healthy. Many perish within its confines. Even the late matron succumbed to, hic, rattlings in the throat, something of the quinsy, I believe.

*The poorhouse committee, of which my good self, Lord Robert du Quesne, Mr Thurstan du Quesne, and a Mr Jeremiah Grimley, are amongst the guardians, were pleased to welcome the replacement matron. She is the sister of the recently-appointed master, Grinling Clopton. You yourself are acquainted with her, the former personal aid to the late Lady Constance du Quesne, a Miss Agnes Clopton.' Eppie and Martha glanced at one another, taken aback by this news. *With some of the monies which Thurstan raised from the recent sale of The Rogues' Inn to Hurry Eades he contributed to the building of an extra wing at the poorhouse.'

Clinging to Eppie's pigtail with her plump fists, the baby gurgled happily.

*You were no doubt saddened that your last child was a girl,' the parson said, nodding exaggeratedly at Lottie. *At least a boy can be driven from home to earn his living.'

*What's wrong with being a girl?' Eppie asked. *I do my toil. I watch the pot and fetch water. I crawl under hedges for faggots. I tend Lottie whilst mam's working.'

Realising he had overstayed his welcome and concerned his head was fuzzy with over-indulgence, the parson, afraid to utter further remarks he might regret, made to leave. At the threshold he took Martha by the elbow, rather than risk touching her hands with their residue of grease. *Keep strong, my child. Weak in a crisis, you are weak indeed. Walk in God's strength with faith, so shall thy work be, hic, done.' Turning, he blundered into Wakelin.

Martha emitted a cry of woe at the sight of the goat nibbling the fine leather gloves the parson held in his hand.

Wakelin trailed the unsteadily rocking parson down the garden path. *It ain't the Good Lord as does our work; it's us as have to sweat n' suffer.'

The parson scowled from behind the safety of the hedge. *It would do you good, young hic, to heed the, hic, word of God. Then, per-hic, you would be a finer spirited person.'

*I listen to my own words of wisdom. What you preach is a load o' *ogwash.'

Gillow glared in consternation at his son. *When you speak to Mr Lowford kindly keep a civil tongue in your head and for goodness sake stop dropping your haches.'

*The parson will *ave ta tek me as *e finds me,' he answered curtly. Purposefully adding, to aggravate his father, *I ham as I ham.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

QUARTER OF A WISH.

Hector Lowford's shrill words rang out as cold as the church walls. *Intemperance, animosity and profanity are the vermin that gnaw the core of our community.'

Eppie shut her mind off from his gloomy sermon. Shivering in the dampness of the morning, she enviously eyed the shimmer of heat rising from the stove set within the du Quesne box pew.

Rain fell steadily from the saturated skirt of darkened clouds, clattering on the stone-tiled roof.

Martha, aware that Eppie was not paying attention, nudged her.

The parson ranting on in his dry, monotonous voice, Wakelin's attention also wavered. Surreptitiously he clasped Molly's hand.

Eppie glanced at Gillow, keen to discern his reaction to the lovers. Making pretence of ignoring his son's every move he was staring pokerfaced at the parson.

Aware that one or two of the elderly members of the congregation were snoring, the parson attempted to enliven the sermon. *The wicked shall not be saved!'

His resounding words were drowned by Lottie's startled shriek. Irritable with her head cold, she struggled in Martha's arms. As in sympathetic unison several of the congregation, all suffering autumnal ills, sniffed and wheezed, loudest amongst them Molly's hacking cough.

The parson realised it was futile to continue his discourse against such a background of din and cried optimistically, *Let us recite the words of Psalm 14.'

Reaching the words, *... they will be filled with terror,' Molly exploded into such a coughing fit that she fell back onto the bench, all looking anxiously upon her.

The parson deemed it prudent to wind up early. Eppie was delighted.

Compelled by social grace, the poor members of the congregation remained standing whilst they waited for the lord and his son to leave.

Gabriel looked ill.

Eppie, distressed by his indisposition, reached out comfortingly as he passed and gently brushed his fingers. Seeing him glance at her, her heart raced with pleasure.

Robert du Quesne was determined to curb any familiarity between Gabriel and this girl, who seemed to wield such an unnerving power over his son. He chanced to catch sight of this exchange of affection.

Blushing with discomfiture, sensing du Quesne's eyes burning into her like red-hot pokers, she fiddled with the tail of the mouse carved onto the end of the pew.

All was cosy in the cottage. The fire crackled, giving off a ripe, sickly scent of dried donkey dung.

Nowadays, Wakelin spent most Sundays over at the Leiffs.

Eppie fetched the remains of Gillow's birthday cake and ceremoniously placed it on the table before him, amongst the cold pork and cheese. *We've only a little plum cake spare after the parson helped himself, so you only have quarter of a wish.'

Gillow chuckled at his misfortune. *I wish for quarter of a kiss from your sweet lips!'

*You'll have to catch me first!'

Adorned in his fair-day ruff, Twiss was swift on their heels as they raced around the table, Eppie squealing with laughter.

The dog's tail caught in Lottie's pilchers ranged before the hearth and tore down the lot.

*Calm down you nuisances,' Martha cried, aghast, *you'll wake the baby.'

Eppie turned and leapt into Gillow's arm, lavishing kisses on him.

*No more,' he pleaded. *I'll be washed to death!'

Diving to the table, she bit into the cake, the sticky sweetness of it melting on her tongue. *We'd better save Wakelin a crumb.'

*Oh, yes,' Martha said, *or there'd be big trouble.'

After a few melodies on his accordion, Eppie and Dawkin singing along to the jolly tunes, Gillow retired to his armchair. He heaved a sigh.

*Feeling your age, old man?' Martha asked cheekily.

Eppie plopped a sugar lump into his tea and passed him his pipe. Though a virtuous man, like most of the men in the village he abhorred the thought of having to give up on his little luxuries, chiefly his tobacco and ale, of a Sunday. That is, unless the parson was spotted approaching, when his bible would be taken up and all would fall silent.

*It's seeing young love that makes me feel old,' he answered. *I reckon it won't be long before Wakelin and Molly are wed.' He rubbed a pinch of gunpowder onto his gums to lessen his toothache. *Though it beats me what the girl sees in him; he's hardly eyeable, and he's cursed into the bargain.'

Martha, finding it hard to be idle, was darning Wakelin's work shirt. It helped to take her mind off the recent death of Fay Hix during childbirth.

*With Molly taming the lad's rebellious spirit, at least he's started to act in a sensible manner,' Gillow said. *She's got him to attend church. And if she bakes fruitcake as well as you, she'll make him a fine wife.'

*What do you think Henry will do now?' Martha asked. *After his years of steadfast service, Claire says it's the meanness of his lordship that she finds hardest to bear.'

*His lordship will come to regret it. It's them like Henry who've been labourers and risen to positions of responsibility, who really understand how to get the value of a man's wage out of him. The men have always felt comfortable speaking to Henry.'

Looking over at Dawkin, he asked, *If you don't intend being a farm labourer, my lad, you'll have to think about learning a trade. Have you thought about weaving?'

*Fine by me.'

*I only wish Wakelin was as even-tempered as you!' He waved his bandaged wrist, which ached from hours spent working on the loom. *Mind you, it's tough these days. My wages have dropped by a third and I have to work twice as hard.'

Eppie sat on the stool at his feet, knitting a shawl for herself in the same green wool as Martha's. *The way you're going about that,' Gillow said, *it'll end up identical to your mother's, there are so many holes in it.'

*It's lucky for you it's your birthday or I'd have punched you on the nose for that,' Martha said.

*I reckon Lord du Quesne ought to pay the labourers more,' Eppie suggested. *That way they'd be able to afford clothes that don't forever need patching. If a thousand labourers bought a thousand smocks, the cloth makers would be happier because they'd sell more.'

*You could be right. Well, I'm off to The Fat Duck to get my birthday drinks in.'

Though the parson had demanded that Jonas did not open his tavern on a Sunday, few of the inn-goers acceded to his demand, enjoying their drink too much. Instead, the men took it in turns to stand guard on the lane, ready to alert the publican and the drinkers if the parson or du Quesne were passing by.

*Coming to collect some more faggots for the fire?' Dawkin asked Eppie.

The baby was making fretful mewing sounds.

*Lottie's only got a cold, hasn't she?' Eppie asked Martha anxiously.

*Even a head cold has a way of turning bad, especially in this damp cottage.'

On her way out, Eppie stared at the dismal sight of the roof. Care of the cottages was low on du Quesne's list of priorities. He would only allow the cottages to be re-thatched by the tenants once the roofs were sopping and thick with weeds.

Dawkin scrambled onto the lowest branch of a gnarled maple, its roots twisting down the steep riverbank. He peered through the autumnal canopy. *They must be roast chestnuts at the manor; every one of their chimneys is smoking. Want to see a pixie twirl?' Whooping, he toppled backwards and landed with a thud beside her in the cushioning leaves. *That scared ya!'

*Didn't.' She felt ashamed of her display of fright. *Anyhow, you can only twizzle once before reaching the ground; I can twizzle three times.' Before he could dare her, she snatched the catapult from his hand. Whirling her arm like the sail of a corn mill in a gale, she let loose. To her dismay the stone fell short of the crow nest they had chosen as the target.

*Remarkable,' he said, resisting a grin.

*Let's see you do better,' she goaded.

It was all she could do not to giggle at his deadly serious face as, eyes narrowed, he sized up the distance to the nest. Dexterously, he wielded the weapon. The stone hit dead centre with a resounding thwack. Twigs spiralled down through the canopy.

*Ouch, that hurt,' he said, having jerked a muscle. *I'm surprised my arm gives me trouble after all these months.'

*How come you're so good at slingshot?'

*Practice. At the poorhouse I made a sling out of rags. There was this walled yard where lads took their exercise. I used to aim at the spikes along the top. Once, I saw Mr Crowe on the roof. He'd tied a rope around the neck of a live goose. He kept dropping the bird down the matron's chimney and dragging it back up to dislodge the soot. It seemed a mean thing to do, so I ran off to see if I could rescue it.

*I reached up the chimney and gave the rope a tug. When Mrs Grieve stormed into the room to find out why there was all this honking, the goose flew straight into her face. She told Mr Crowe he'd be doing the parish a favour if he took me off her hands.

*I was in the soot cellar when this gentleman came to the house. I knew his voice. He visited folk at the poorhouse and often brought me a morsel of cheese. Later, in the dormitory, I'd share it with Dick Pebbleton and his brother, Jake.

*I couldn't believe my luck when I heard the gentleman ask Mr Crowe if he'd sell me. He said he wanted to offer me a better life. Mr Crowe told him that if there was anything he hated more than a meddlesome do-gooder, it was a lad with a smile on his face, and saw him off. Hey, what are they doing?'