She rattled the wooden door, to no avail. Scanning the barn, she noticed daylight penetrating through planks at the rear. She went to investigate. There was a hole. *This must be where Wasp escaped.' The rotten timbers crumbled like stale bread as she tore at the green, slimy wood, making the gap larger.

Crawling out, she found herself in a narrow alley. To one side was an open shed, cluttered with ironware. Crates and tins were ranged on a brick-pile base.

From the yard they heard departing inn-goers riding off, Tom wishing them farewell.

*Hurry, Dawkin! Tom's coming back.'

Releasing the latch of the cage, he screamed at the badgers. *Go! Go!'

Sensing their last chance for freedom, the badgers pelted through the hole, down the alley, and past Tom.

*Hey, what's going on?' he yelled in anger, spinning round to watch the badgers careering across the field. *Wilbert Hix!' He dashed down the passage. *It's you two!'

Consumed by loathing for the man's evil ways, Dawkin thrust the writhing cub into Eppie's arms. *I'll sort him.' Snatching any item that he could lay his hands upon, he threw it in Tom's path to thwart his approach: a broken hoe, wooden yoke, baskets, dibbers, and rat traps. Tom leapt easily over these obstacles.

Without taking his eyes off the man's enraged face, Dawkin groped about until his fingers curled around the handle of a metal container. He hurled it. The tin landed with a crash, the top flew off and the gooey liquid spewed across the ground. In his fury, Tom made to grab Dawkin. His left foot slipped in the tar. Stepping forward with his other foot in an attempt to retain his balance, the toe of his boot rammed onto prongs. The rake smashed him in the neck and he fell. His eyes blacker than the viscous black tar in which he lay, he glared at Dawkin. *Wanna know what I'm gonna do to the pair of you?'

*Not particularly,' Dawkin answered smugly, and ran.

Back home, Eppie left Dawkin to settle the cub.

The moment she stepped indoors, dread swept through her. So rarely did she see Martha and Gillow hug that she knew something was amiss.

It was clear from Martha's flushed face that she had been crying. She forced a smile. *You've been gone ages.'

Bursting in, Wakelin grabbed hold of Eppie and shook her by the shoulders so briskly that the bones in her neck wrenched, making little cracking noises. *I'll make you suffer for this.'

*What do you mean by talking to your sister like that?' Gillow demanded.

Having guessed the reason for Wakelin's anger, Dawkin rushed in. *Leave her be, she's done nowt wrong.'

*That's a joke, you and her have only gone and let the badgers loose, and stolen a cub. The both of you is coming with Tom and me. When you see how long it takes to clap badgers into sacks you'll realise the trouble you've caused.'

*We ain't going nowhere with you, ya big bully,' Dawkin cried.

Grabbing the boy by the front of his shirt, Wakelin lifted him off his feet and hung him in mid-air, smirking at his ineffectual punches. *You couldn't hit a fly, ya lice-head.'

*Talk for yersen! I ain't got no crawlies on me.'

*For goodness sake!' Martha cried. *What does it matter about a few badgers? Lottie nearly breathed her last this afternoon and now look, all your mouthing has woken her.'

Wakelin and Dawkin stood in the bedroom doorway, their faces pictures of repent, watching as Martha fussed around the crying baby, trying to comfort her. *I'd put Lottie down to make a start on the evening meal when she threw a deathly fit like Eppie. I beat on her chest and she breathed again. Oh, but it gave me such a scare.'

Eppie frowned. *You never told me I had a fit when I was a bairn.'

*Your mother's in a muddle,' Gillow said, adding, with a grin, *as usual. Apart from the odd sneeze, Eppie's always been in rude health, hasn't she, Martha.'

*Yes, of course,' she answered hurriedly. *I've gone silly-headed with all this worry.' She saw from Eppie's puzzled face that she wanted to ask questions and so sought to distract her. *Finish off the dinner would you, Eppie? Lottie's less fretful in my arms. I don't want to risk her being sick.'

Passing beside Wakelin, Martha's steps faltered. He was staring trance-like at the cradle. A chill, as though the presage of an evil act passed over her heart. Ever since she had learned the truth about the theft of Genevieve she inwardly resolved that if she kept silent about her knowledge the family would be safe. The strong ties of affection between her and Eppie would blossom unscathed. Wakelin would live his life as happily as circumstances allowed. He would never fall into the depths of guilt and torment that had once consumed him. She now realised the hope that her careless words had fallen upon deaf ears was dashed.

At Wakelin's weakest moments, in the days subsequent to one of his seizures, or when drink made him morose, he would reveal to Martha his darkest thoughts. Though Genevieve in no way deserved his wrath or any act of wickedness wreaked upon her innocent being it seemed to Martha only a matter of time before Wakelin, brooding upon inane thoughts of retribution, was driven to harm du Quesne's daughter. This fear was borne out by his agonised words when he confided to her that he had attempted to kill Genevieve after he had smashed the tomb.

Tension was in the air.

No one spoke.

Oblivious to this, Eppie busied herself about the stove.

*Tack's ready!' She ladled lumpy potato mash and thick rashers of just-done bacon onto platters.

Martha laid the slumbering baby in the cot and took her place beside Dawkin.

Doing his best to cheer everyone, Gillow gleefully wrung his hands. *Exactly how I like my meat, swamped in grease.'

Eppie giggled. *Sorry!'

Wiping surplus fat with her thickly-hacked bread, he stared at Wakelin who sat, sullen and withdrawn, on the settle. *Have you got cotton bolls stuck in your ears? Your sister says she's put your tack out. Bestir yourself, lad.'

*I ain't hungry.'

*Not hungry? That'll be the day.' Rumbling with laughter, his father rocked back in his chair. *I know. It's love. I felt the same way when I was wooing your mother.'

Martha poked her meat with a spoon, not eating, being too absorbed in her pensive thoughts about Lottie's illness and Gabriel's loss of a sister. *Rest easy, Gillow. You know he don't like teasing.'

*That's what love's all about isn't it, being teased?' Gillow asked. *When it was known I was to wed you, my friends said some frightful things to me.' With a circumspect look at her gloomy face, he added, *Though I'd best not let on to you what they said.'

He returned his attention to Wakelin. *Jacob was telling everyone in The Duck how his girl's got you under her wing.' Winking at Eppie, he spoke in a loud, exultant voice, *Let on that Molly has a notion of out-doing Mrs P, expecting you to father no less than fourteen bairns. So, you might sit there now, with a face as long as treacle, but it'll do you no good sulking once you're a married man.'

Trying in vain to ignore his father's blithe spirit, Wakelin stared into the fire, gnawing a thumb stump.

*Mind you,' Gillow said, laughing, *you'd best not make a false step with the lassie, else you'll have to wed her a good few years afore you expect to.'

*Why the hell won't you ever leave me be?' Wakelin snapped. *Keep yer trap shut for a change.'

*You mustn't talk to your father like that,' Martha admonished.

Having had all he could take, Wakelin bolted towards the door.

*Surely you don't mean to leave your meal?'

Gillow smirked at Wakelin's lack of response to Martha. Whilst Wakelin continued to throw mindless tantrums, as he interpreted them, he could maintain his ascendancy over his son, as dominant male. He turned his attention to the children. *So, tell me about this cub of yours. Where've you got it stashed?'

*In the cart shed,' Eppie blurted out. Realising the folly of her words, she glanced, horrified, at Wakelin.

He was staring at her, his eyes stony, emotionless.

*No, Wakelin, don't get her!' She sprang towards him. Her outstretched hand struck a jar of dried rosemary on the dresser and sent it crashing to the floor.

Repulsed by his father's exuberant spirit, Wakelin had aimed to rush off to The Fat Duck, but the pungent aroma of the herb arrested his steps, evoking memories of that night. Quietly, he told his mother, *I'm off to Tom's. I won't be back *til late.'

Eppie tugged the rope around his jerkin. *Don't take Wicker back.'

*I couldn't care less about your half-dead badger.'

*You promise not to hurt her?'

He glared at her upturned face from under heavy brows. *I've already said an't I?'

*Tell Tom not to get her, an' all?'

*All right, only leave off hanging on me, ya bugbear.'

*He's changed his tune,' Gillow said. *Bellowing like a bull one moment, a soft-hearted lamb the next.'

Wakelin cast his father a sullen look. Stepping into the garden, he sharply flicked the door behind him.

Gillow took this opportunity to have the final say. *You spang the door like that, you'll fetch it off the hinges. And think on, if their badger goes missing you'll have me to answer to.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

PIKING AT THE WINDOW.

That evening, his face shining from a scrub, Gillow sauntered over to Henry's. *Now then Mrs P,' he said, passing her in the lane, *when I get back from The Duck I don't want to hear you've been up to your card-sharp tricks.'

*I've barely two farthings to rub together, let alone bet with. Besides, Eppie is too much of an expert at cards not to notice if I was cheating.'

Shortly afterwards, Claire let herself into the cottage. Flames leapt from the fire, painting the white walls with a rosy shimmer. *You lot look comfortable.'

Dawkin was making a container for Martha's knickknacks by threading oak apples onto wire.

Claire offered him a log shaped like a sheep's skull. *I thought we could do with the extra warmth.' Seeing Lottie's matted eyelashes, her forehead damp with fever, she held out her arms, *I'll take her. You're so forbearing, Martha, though I reckon you could do with a breathing space.'

*I wish I was able to help with the child,' Betsy said. *Now I'm getting on in life I feel so useless. My ankle pains me constantly.' She placed a seven of hearts upon Eppie's jack. *Parson Lowford tells me you're a good help learning the others their letters at the vestry school.'

Lord du Quesne had finally conceded to the parson's notion of holding a school, sympathising with him that, as the majority of the congregation could not read it was time-consuming having to teach the lines of the psalms so that they could commit them to memory. In the past, even when the villagers had had the words drummed into them, they regularly forgot them.

*On Valentine's Day, when the parson wasn't looking,' Eppie said, *us girls wrote our names on slates, turned them upside down and mixed them around. The boys took it in turns to pick one out to see who would be their betrothed.' Not so gaily, she added, *I got Wilbert.'

Dawkin sniggered at her misfortune.

Eppie shuffled the cards. *Whilst we were at the school, Lord du Quesne came in with the parish overseer. Every Sunday from now on, the overseer told Parson Lowford, each child is to bring in a penny for their burial club. It's so mam won't have to draw on the poor-rates once Dawkin and I are in the earth. Lord du Quesne said the villagers are bloodsuckers living on the backs of the rich.'

*Don't you think the parson's been getting a little too melancholic of recent?' Claire asked. *All that preaching about intemperance this morning will have annoyed a few inn-goers.'

*There won't be many who take the parson at his word,' Martha answered. *He enjoys his drink too much to wage war against the alehouse.'

*It'd do the parson a world of good to take a wife,' Betsy reflected. *All we see in church these days is solemn faces as he trots on for an eternity about thrift, abstinence and hard work. His sermons are so dreary I frequently drop off.'

*I know,' Eppie said. *I heard you snoring this morning.'

*It's no good you laughing, miss. I noticed the odd look the parson gave you after the service. The man seems intent on us looking like death warmed up, telling the females in the congregation we're no longer allowed to wear brightly-coloured frocks or ribbons to church, not that I have for many years.'

*I'm sure God doesn't mind me wearing my yellow Sunday frock to church,' Eppie said. *God made the sun, that's yellow and it makes me happy. God wouldn't want me to be sad.'

*I quite agree.' Betsy fanned her face with her cards. *Ooo, it's beastly hot in here.' She wriggled in her seat. *And I do believe I've piles coming on, unless it's owing to me eating a deal of peas' pudding recently.'

Martha swung the kettle over the fire. *Pot of sweet tea?'

Betsy picked up Dawkin's finished basket. *You're clever with your hands, like Wakelin.' She ran her fingers, rough from regular carding, along the handle of interwoven hazel twigs. *Martha will be delighted with this treasure. Game of pair?'

*Well done,' she cried after Dawkin won the second game of matching the royal heads of England.

Martha soaked bread in sugared milk, wrapped it in a rag, and offered it to Lottie to suckle as a comforter. Wheezing, the baby spat it out.

*This is no good.' To help the child sleep, Martha fetched a tiny cardboard box containing laudanum that Gillow had bought from the innkeeper for a penny.

*Don't overdo the tincture,' Betsy warned. *What about a game of loo? As I haven't got any farthings we'll make do with those nice pebbles you found in the stream, Dawkin. If only the parson could see us, the one remaining hair under his bob-wig would stand on end, especially after his talk about us curbing our playful whims, forsaking skittles and card games.'

A rap at the door made her start.

*Oh dear!' She stared into the inky blackness behind the window. *Here am I chuntering on about how ashamed we should feel amusing ourselves with life's little gaieties. Imagine! Parson Lowford may have been piking in at the window all evening.' Erupting into a fit of giggles at the alarming vision, her parsnip chin with its hairy mole wobbled.

Eppie and Dawkin, finding her hilarity infectious, fell about laughing helplessly.

A further rap.

Eppie dived beneath the table. *Everyone shush! He'll think we've nodded off.' She shouted at the door, *We're all a-bed, Mister Parson!'

Claire grinned at Martha. *Have you ever known folk as daft as these three?'

*It's little wonder Lottie can't snatch much sleep,' Martha said. *Eppie, you'll have to answer it.'

Betsy tried in vain to suppress her chortling. *Hide *em cards in yer cat's-marble basket, Dawkin. We mustn't be caught.'

Eppie half-believed she would find herself looking up at the parson. His face burning with wrath, he would give her a sermon about man's fall from God's grace. So, it took her a moment to mentally adjust to the person upon whom her eyes rested.

Gabriel was elegantly dressed in a sable surtout of quality cut.

Nuzzling up to his hand, Twiss gave him a friendly lick.

*Gabriel!' Martha cried warmly. Her smile fell as she came to greet him. *You don't look at all well. Won't you step in and take a bite of supper with us?'