The rat catcher was seated at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of brandy. Eppie recalled seeing the man the day they arrived in Malstowe. Since then, glancing out of a mill window, she frequently saw him trudging to Bridge House. She marvelled at his dun-coloured ears, enormous as saucers, which made him so alike to a rat.

Turnips climbed into a wicker basket and curled up beside Jack, Loafer's terrier.

An open fire blazed, a flavoursome vapour rising from a small joint of game enclosed in a cradle spit.

Making griddled corn cakes, Priscilla dipped into a jug of flour. *Who've we got here?'

*Eppie, she's a friend of Gabriel's - and mine.'

*Wonders never cease.' Priscilla said, glancing at Eppie's threadbare frock. *Your uncle should be back from the jail soon. He said he wasn't stopping long, seeing as how the sickness is raging. Something to eat and drink, girls?'

Sipping a cold glass of cordial, Eppie wandered off, intrigued by the dipping, bulging house.

In the parlour was a collection of once-fine furniture, now shabby. Over the years the floorboards had expanded and shrunk with the ingress of water, making them uneven to walk upon. As Eppie trod towards the window they creaked like the top of a packing case being forced off with an iron bar.

Several of the diamond panes in the bowed casement were cracked and let in fresh air. Looking down, she watched riders cross the bridge, their horses trotting as regular as pendulums.

*Uncle says the house is his shipwreck,' Rowan said, coming to sit beside Eppie on the window-seat. *He calls this parlour the poop deck.'

Priscilla stared at people cooling off in the river. *Would you take a look at those wild fellows? I don't know how they have the nerve.'

Eppie grinned, watching Wakelin and Fur taking turns to dive from rocks into the deepest reaches of the river.

Priscilla dragged up her apron to reveal a rubber float tied around her midriff. *I can't swim a stroke so I wear this monstrosity day and night in case I fall in. Mr Grimley's forever teasing me about it, although on stormy nights, when my bed is rocking and the floor is rolling every-which-way, I lay awake, terrified for my life.'

Loafer topped up his tumbler of brandy from a walnut drinks cabinet. Settling on a chair, he stuck his feet upon the top of a shiny walnut table. *It's a wonder Captain Grimley doesn't have you all sucking lemons and sleeping in hammocks.'

Over his head hung garlands of dried-up holly, interwoven with dusty ribbons, flaking flower heads and pomander oranges.

*Don't stand on that rug!' Rowan warned as Eppie stepped towards the garlands to take a closer look. *You might fall into the river.'

Kneeling down, Eppie peeled back a corner of the rug and shifted aside a board which had been placed over the hole. Deep pockets of water, surrounded by boulders, raged beneath the house. The drop gave her a curdling sensation in her stomach.

A pungent, alcoholic breeze gusted up from the cellar, directly below. Rows of wine and spirit bottles were ranged on shelves around the walls. She recognised the rat-chewed timbers through which Fur had scrambled, and the boulders upon which she and the others had rested.

*The garlands are left over from a Christmas past,' Priscilla said as Eppie replaced the board and let the rug fall flat. *Mr and Mrs Grimley were entertaining a dozen of the most elderly people from the poorhouse to dinner when Mrs Grimley choked to death on a goose bone. Mr Grimley misses Hester sorely. A woman senses that sort of thing. Mrs Grimley used to organise the upkeep of the house. Nowadays there's precious little money to repair the place, not since Lord du Quesne took over the mill. Mr Grimley refuses to take the garlands down. If you ask me, he has a notion that, if he does, Hester's spirit will leave the house.'

*So Mrs Grimley is a ghost?' Eppie asked, surprised.

*Bless us, there are no such things!' Priscilla exclaimed.

Standing before the fireplace, Talia playfully put her thumb to her nose and wriggled her fingers at Priscilla.

*How are you getting on at Number 61?' asked Mr Grimley. None of them had heard the front door bang or the clatter as he stowed away his walking cane.

*Slice of ham pie, Mr Grimley?' Priscilla asked.

Eppie and Rowan sat together on the tapestry couch, whilst Mr Grimley settled himself on one of the mismatched fireside chairs. He chuckled at the sight of Turnips, lying upside down on the window-seat, paddling with his short back legs as though running in a turnspit wheel. *Turnips loves the sun.'

Eppie smiled, listening to the dog's ecstatic rumbling sounds as Talia tickled his tummy. Sipping tea from a china cup, she said, *This tastes nice. Mam used to fetch our leaves off Mr Loomp. We don't no more because we got fed up of fishing out bits of stuff like iron-filings. The water from the well rising next to the graveyard at Saint Peter's church has got a peculiar taste so, even though we have to pay for it, and we're worn out, we take it in turns to rise early and queue with our buckets and jars at the standpipe in the market square. Sometimes the queue stretches back to the river.'

*Overcrowding,' Mr Grimley said. *That's part of the problem, both for folk living in the town and for those unfortunates languishing in jail.'

*What's it like in jail?' Eppie asked.

*Deplorable. Sick and well sleeping together. Someone ought to do something about the filth. Ankle deep in places. The prisoners I visit always seem delighted to see me. A drop of brandy fortifies the blood, the only treatment they can expect. No doubt the quack would disagree. Young Kep hangs tomorrow, Rowan. Sorry business. He stole half-a-crown to help feed his family. Thurstan du Quesne collects forty pounds for every notorious thief or highwayman he hangs. Scandalous. Funny thing, when you think about it. Money. Or rather the lack of it, for most people. There must be a better way of organizing things. I have always had the notion of building a community mill where workers would benefit from their labours. I had everything planned for the cotton mill. All I needed to do was accumulate sufficient funds. So I gambled and went into banking with Mr Basset, a brewer. I lost everything.' His mind buzzing with ideas, he absent-mindedly tinkered with the silver tea strainer. *If only I had my way ... '

*What?' Eppie asked, mystified.

*Hmm?'

*What if you had your way?'

*Yes, tell us, Uncle,' Rowan urged.

*Pay the mill workers decent wages, that's what I'd do.' He slapped his wooden hand upon his knee, reveling in their enthusiasm. *I would cut working hours. Construct comfortable houses, clean and dry. Give them gardens and allotments. Build almshouses for the infirm.'

*If only, Mr Grimley,' Eppie said enthusiastically. *Tell us more.'

*More?'

*How'd it be? Would you build a school for the children?'

*There's a thought. Why, yes. And I would refuse to employ children younger than ten.'

*No more truck store?' Eppie asked.

*Absolutely. I would open a store for the benefit of the workers. Buy at wholesale prices and sell at retail prices. The profit, after allowing for the cost of running the shop, would be shared amongst the members, the very workers who shop at the store, in proportion to the amount of purchases each of them makes. Everyone will benefit. Capital will grow.'

*There'd be a decent cup of tea for my mam every day?'

*Without question. And, to cap it all there'd be no more Lord du Quesne. The man's profit mongering is evil. He attempts to put himself higher than God in the way that he controls his workers, whether they toil in the mills or plough the earth.' He drifted into a mood of despondency. *However, reality, my girls, into that we are irrevocably sunk. Ideals are fine, but we live in a world where we must, daily, tackle the problems facing us. Up at the woollen mill, workers are going down like flies from a sickness that surpasses all conception. Warts breaking out all over their bodies. No one has the slightest conception of the cause.'

*D'ya reckon it might have o't to do with the beetles?' Eppie asked.

*Beetles? What beetles?'

*Crawling in the sheep fleeces. After Grump's sheep died in wheelbarrows, Gabriel twiddled with them. He liked learning about their skeletons and pudding bits. Once, when he showed me the horses' skulls in the threshing barn, he said there might be a connection between the beetles and the sickness that woollen workers suffer.'

Eppie dragged herself through the following week's work and was listlessly leaving the mill on the Saturday evening when Mr Grimley hailed her.

*That matter, about the beetles. Fleeces burnt. Seems to have done the trick.'

Treading towards the chapel, she gazed thoughtfully at the moon glowing mysteriously through sweeping ebony branches. *If some small action could help lessen the burden of the poor, what more might be done?'

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE.

THURSTAN'S DISCOVERY Six years crawled by.

Eppie, Martha, Lottie and Fur no longer lived in Rotten Yard. They had moved to the second floor of a house that overlooked the corn merchants, though they shared the room with another mill family.

With a recently purchased steam-driven engine powering the spinning machines there were now work shifts, day and night. Investing heavily in other enterprises, du Quesne had also introduced shearing frames and power looms to speed the textile production.

Eppie, Martha and Lottie stepped warily into the yard, startled to see red-coated soldiers pointing muskets into the crowd. Crumpton was shouting at jostling workers. The air smelt stagnant with smoke.

A pained expression upon his face, Thurstan was listening to du Quesne's ramblings, outlining the repercussions of his latest technological ventures. *It is in my veins, being a shrewd judge of when to step ahead and when to pull back. I have always sought to expand, to keep ahead of my competitors. Compare me to Bulwar. He has stuck to farming. What good has it done him? Diversification. That's what you need. Get in where the money's being made. You're late, Grimley. What's the matter, man?'

Mr Grimley puffed as into a holed paper bag. *Been up half the night. Pains in the nether regions.'

A notice was pinned to the office door. Knowing that Eppie could read, since she presided over the Sunday school at chapel, the workers pressed around her. Children clung to her skirts as she read the poster to baffled onlookers. *Following the recent installation of steam-driven machinery in these mills the employment of unskilled men and all boys over the age of eleven is no longer required. This is, therefore, a notice of termination of their employment.'

*Oi'm being sacked!' Fur cried, bewildered.

*My, what an astute observer,' Thurstan scoffed. *Indeed, I cannot imagine why my uncle would choose to dismiss a man of such stupefying intelligence. Miss Grimley, I am gratified to see that you have returned safe and well. I hope that during your stay in London you contemplated my proposal?'

A worker shouted at du Quesne, *Have you given a thought to what it'll mean putting us out of our jobs? How's we gonna manage, what with the cost of bread an' *taties going through the sky?'

Mr Grimley, aware of Thurstan forcing his unwanted affections upon Rowan, came to stand protectively beside her.

A disgruntled look on his face, Thurstan shoved his way back to the soldiers, eager to deal with any skirmish.

*Uncle, did you know about the workers losing their jobs?' Rowan asked.

*Not in the least.'

The truck store manager sidled up to read the notification of dismissal.

*It ought to be you who's being sacked,' Mr Grimley grumbled, *especially after my maid made the grave mistake of acquiring that joint of gammon off you.'

*What I sell is quality merchandise.'

*That's what you call it, is it?' Mr Grimley took Rowan by the hand. *I will escort you home, my dear. Events may turn nasty.'

Loomp's eyes narrowed. *In that, Mr Bigwig, you are not mistaken.'

*No man can stem the tide of progress,' du Quesne said. *Increasingly, efficient machinery is transforming the nature of work into mere supervision, work that can be carried out by any child or feeble woman.'

Wilbert Hix pushed past Eppie. *Feeble woman, I like that. Seen any toads recently?'

Several weeks ago, Wilbert had come to work alongside Redgy Dipper as engine-hand, his job demanding no great skill, chiefly to oil the gear and ensure each screw and bolt performed glowingly.

Ignoring him, Eppie stared bemusedly at Thurstan who, amidst the grumbling and shouting, was trying to catch what Loomp was telling him. Having overheard the threat that the truck store manager had made against Mr Grimley she guessed trouble was brewing.

Skirting the enraged workers, Thurstan and Loomp entered the office.

Eppie sneaked to the window and witnessed Longbotham being forced up the stepladder, whereupon he fetched down the secreted copy of the book of misdemeanours. Thurstan pinned the clerk against the wall. It was clear from his fierce facial gestures that he was uttering threatening words to Longbotham.

*Innovative machinery decreases the cost of production,' du Quesne enthused. *I am able to supply larger quantities of finished products at lower prices. You will all be able to buy goods more cheaply.'

Eppie was not convinced. *It will take years for these results, for the drop in prices to follow.'

Du Quesne's ears were deaf to her reasoning. *Reduced prices will cause such an increase in consumption that those of you who are jobless today will quickly find full employment in newly-founded factories.'

*What factories?' Eppie asked. *They haven't even been built.' She peered through the office window.

Seated in du Quesne's revolving chair, Thurstan was glancing from one book to the next, engrossed in comparing the entries.

*Will us women get higher wages to make up for the loss of our men's money?' asked Isabella, one of the women who worked alongside Martha.

*I intend for there to be a cut in the women's wages to that of the rate paid to the children,' du Quesne answered. *The impudence of you women here today has ensured this. If any of you are not content with the situation let me assure you that there are hundreds of unemployed women and children ready and willing to take your places.'

At these final words, the workers knew they were defeated.

CHAPTER SIXTY.

MUTTON STEW.

Plucking the head of an ox-eye daisy, Rowan nervously tugged out its petals. *It must be over an hour since Thurstan accosted my uncle in the study.'

It was Sunday afternoon. She and Eppie were weeding the flowerbeds.

Eppie felt miserable because Fur had left on a ship bound for Canada. He had seen little prospect of work in England. Few trusted the Irish and many ended up doing menial tasks, such as carting muck.

Rowan was in an equally unhappy mood, tired of Thurstan pestering her because she had not given him a reply to his offer of marriage. Now he was trying another tactic, wheedling for her uncle's permission. *Goodness knows why he's so infatuated with me. Every time I see him, he complains about my lack of grace and insists that, once we are wed, I take instruction in etiquette and elocution.'

*See reason, Grim,' Thurstan said irritably. *You have to admit that this is no fit place to bring up a handsome woman like Rowan.' He ripped a dangling lump of plaster from the wall. *The house is riddled with wood beetles, and falling down around your ears. Everywhere I tread there are buckets catching drips.'

*You're one they missed.'

*What was that?'

*Nothing. Anyway, what does it matter where Rowan lives, when what I give her is infinitely more important.'

*And pray, what might that be?'

*Love.'