The unsurpassable strength of Mabel Tavington came, not from her gallant father or her virtuous mother, but from the six-month period at the beginning of her life that she spent all alone. William, of course, provided for his daughter. He kept her fed, clean and safe from harm; all the things that a father should do. But there was a darkness within him that caused him to resent the baby girl in his arms. He was present, but not present. He loved her, but he didn't and intuitive little Mabel was aware of his animosity. She could feel his neglect, despite his attempts to hide it from the rest of the world and himself.
During the day, he would tend to Mabel's needs as best he could. At night, he would search his dreams for Marigold, but to no avail. William hadn't dreamt of her since several days after her death, when she showed him the moment in his past that she had given her life to alter.
The burning of her favorite brand of incense was customary, until it gave Mabel a terrible cough and had to be discarded. The smell of floral soaps and oils, the bright shades of yellow that she favored in her décor, the scratch of the needle against her favorite records, the touch of dryer-fresh towels against his skin and the taste of wildflower honey and hazelnut- these were the things that William depended on. Sensory memory brought her back to him, but never in full form.
He surrendered countless tears to the night and would often escape into the quiet wardrobe where the sweet lavender-rose fragrance that lived on his wife's hair and skin still lingered.
"Why did you leave me here alone?" He would ask the scalloped hems and laces of her dresses as they caught his tears. "We were supposed to be a family," he'd whisper each time her wedding dress appeared in his periphery. In the early morning, when the sun was still as soft as the furthest ring of light from the flame on a burning candle's wick, he would beg her to haunt him. If only for a moment, in the hour that they had once reserved for making sweet love.
He could still recall the perfect crescendos and decrescendos of her rhythm, the love that she put into every kiss and touch that she gifted his lips and his naked, vulnerable form. Even now, he could see the glistening droplets of sweat that hung from her flesh like a million priceless jewels. Men have needs, but William never once considered laying with another woman. He sacrificed bodily pleasure and allowed remembrance to be enough. The only lustful task that he undertook was several innocent attempts to sketch Marigold's anatomy from memory. Most of his drawings were from moments that he recalled when she was spread across the bed in sleep with her small, pale breasts aglow in the moonlight. But the drawings, the moon and even the rising sun were cold. It was her warmth that he missed the most.
He kept other drawings, too, that were less intimate. Although William knew that he would never forget her, the sketches ensured him that Marigold's face wouldn't fade over time. Sketches of her in motion, in laughter and in song were drawn in an attempt to purge his mind of the last time that he'd seen her, whiter than the whitest dove; the face of an angel, destined to come to dust in the darkness of a lonely grave.
All other reminders, he found in Mabel as her shapeless newborn features grew more decisive and refined. She was a beautiful little baby and her beauty would only grow along with her fearlessness and compassion. There were few factors that differentiated Mabel's face from her mother's; even Jake, when he was finally strong enough to see his niece, made it known that she looked exactly as his little sister did when she was that age. Except for those eyes. They were what made her a Tavington.
Had they been green as a meadow like the eyes of his late wife, it is possible that Mabel wouldn't have been able to speak to her father the way that she did that day. She was only six months old at the time and typically communicated through rises and falls in the volume of her incoherent sounds. But as William stood in the cold of a February evening to mourn the loss of young Marigold, and to scorn the early spring grasses that were beginning to appear on the soil that he had buried her in, something magical happened.
In one glance, he saw the settling dirt and the tiny child whose birth had sent his beloved to her grave. Mabel's eyes were bluer than blue against the somber backdrop, like a photograph of Neptune glowing in the darkness of space. They watched one another as he wept. When she was sure that he could see her, Mabel lifted her hand towards his face. She continued to stretch, to invite her father's touch until he obliged. William had never glimpsed anything quite so stunning as the concern- nay, empathy in the infant's expression.
Although her eyes and his were one and the same, he found in them all the innocence and comfort that Marigold had offered him, even in her final moment of life. But also, and perhaps more importantly, William saw how similar her eyes were to his own- before the war robbed them of their tenderness and hope. That is, of course until they happened upon angelic Annabelle as she caught fireflies in her apple tree. But they seemed to remain cold, even in love. Mabel's eyes were pained, more pained than any child's should be, but they would never be cold or cruel, regardless of the bitter world that she was born into. He lowered his hand for his daughter to hold- not suck, not bite, but hold. His tears of sadness became something else entirely. The little girl whose life he had cursed when she was out of sight, was consoling him. For the first time in what seemed like forever, love entered and warmed the heart of William Tavington.
Mabel developed a special talent for sensing her father's sadness and as she grew to learn the workings of the world, she began to understand what they had lost- his wife, her mother. William's relationship with the farmhouse was similar, he loathed it for the loss that he had suffered within its walls, but celebrated it for the life that began there. Items that reminded him of Marigold gradually moved out of their boxes and into their home. On Mabel's sixth birthday, he gifted her with a trinket of her mother's that he had found while storing away her engagement ring and wedding band. He could only remember one instance that Marigold had worn the necklace; while selling honey products with Freddie at the county fair. But it was a start.
"It's a bumblebee!" Mabel exclaimed, removing the necklace from William's rough hand. "Just like me!"
When she was done admiring the faceless silver bee, she asked her father to aid her in putting it on. "Now, this belonged to your mother, Bumblebee. So, I want you to take good care of it. That includes tucking it into your collar when you ride Buttercup, is that clear?" He pushed her golden-brown ponytail over her shoulder and shut the clasp.
"Yes, Fa." She turned, grinning from ear to ear. "Do I look like Ma now?" This was a common question with Mabel. The pictures that she'd seen of her mother were all by way of Giselle. Those images told her that Marigold was beautiful and fair. But the heavy cluster of freckles across Mabel's nose, the darkness in her skin from the hours she spent in the elements and the brown hue that tainted her blondeness made her feel separate from Marigold. She longed to know more, how they were alike. So, she hunted tirelessly for answers, but also treaded softly with her father. Although she was young, she honored his privacy and didn't look into his sketchbooks, the wardrobe or the boxes in the basement. Not once.
"Exactly," he tapped the tip of her nose. "You look exactly like Ma."
Mabel closed her hand around the tiny bee, before skipping away to the stables, "Then I will keep it forever!"
William's relationship with Waterford was less formidable. Similar to the grasses that were beginning to grow above Marigold, life moved on and covered her footprints, to his despair. Spending time in the downtown district and visiting the places that they used to go was a necessary evil. In the long run, it kept the memory of his wife alive. Giselle and Jake married. They kept in touch with William for Mabel's sake. Seeing the bereaved husband of her best friend unearthed many feelings in Giselle and their greetings were friendly, but brief and to-the-point.
William had sparked controversy with the couple when he walked out on Giselle's emotional solo performance of "Some Things are Meant to Be" from Little Women at the closing of Marigold's memorial service. He didn't tell her at the time and would never be able to articulate it entirely, but the lyrics about losing a sister and knowledge of the womens' kinship combined with the fact that he was to stand adjacent to Giselle as they carried his wife's casket from the building, had caused him to weep with as much ferocity as he had when Giselle stood beside him in the morgue. A soldier, former or not, mustn't be seen in public in such a broken state. It was for that reason that he tactlessly excused himself from the service and waited outside until he was needed.
Marigold's students graduated and entered the workforce without sparing their well-meaning detention teacher a second thought. Save for one. There was a small memorial that Tommy Martin had assembled beside the bulletin board at Coffee n' San-tea. It contained several of her poems, "Ode to an Almond Croissant" was favorited by locals and out-of-towners alike. The selection was silly and sweet and 100% Marigold. It even included a picture that Tommy had taken of her on the chairs outside, balancing a macchiato on her head while wearing a pair of white polka dotted cat eye sunglasses.
Despite the passage of those six long years, Tommy still couldn't seem to let Marigold go. At twenty-one, he bought the schoolhouse with his college savings along with his profits from bussing tables at the café following his high school graduation. His ambitions for the building weren't quite as vivid as Marigold's had been, but he had some ideas in mind for the space, nevertheless. It took a couple of days for him to find the strength to look inside once the keys were in his possession.
One evening, around the time that William gave Mabel her bumblebee, Tommy finally opened the door to the schoolhouse. Cobwebs were hung across the ceiling like tattered curtains in an abandoned theatre. The desks that Marigold had once polished until they sparkled were layered with dust. He recalled the last time that he was there and was immediately haunted by the feeling of her warm, soft lips against his own. It didn't take long for Tommy to find the little pouch of soldiers that Marigold had abandoned and the sweetness of this moment was immediately tarnished. When great love is rejected, it can often compel us to act irrationally and that is exactly what Tommy did. And the consequences of his action would change many lives and set fate in motion once more...
William and Mabel were in town that night. Once she entered grade school, her father freed Mabel from the confines of homeschooling. This meant frequent visits to Waterford Elementary were in order. On this particular evening, Mabel was performing in a series of skits that she and her classmates had written. Ever the equestrian, she tailor-made her roles to coexist with the formal dressage gear that she only ever took off to wash. The skit about a dressage rider who doubled as an astronaut was especially entertaining.
"You're my horsey now!" She imposed a piggyback ride on their way through the parking lot. "Do you think the flowers are alright, Fa?"
"Let's check on them. Would you like to walk to go see Ma or drive? It's such a lovely evening, I'm in favor of walking…"
"Only if you're my horsey the whole way there!"
William fought the urge to grumble. Despite her small frame, his daughter was growing like a weed and gaining weight as her muscles grew from working on the farm. But he also knew that after several blocks, the spirited little girl would feel obligated strike out on her own. "Very well, M'lady! Just don't mistake my hair for reins this time…"
She ended up forgetting this request shortly after they passed the schoolhouse and with a small moan that sounded along the lines of, "I need a haircut," William retired from "being her horsey" and asked her to walk the rest of the way. Like Marigold, Mabel was easily distracted and the appearance of fireflies in the trees surrounding the cemetery stole her interest away. Her father called her back when she disappeared behind the trees in front of the gate.
"Fa!" She leaped out in front of him, "They're everywhere! May I have the jar now, please?"
William pulled the bouquet of wildflowers from the mason jar that he had retrieved from the Subaru in the school parking lot. Droplets of water spilled from their stems and onto the sidewalk as he handed their vessel to Mabel. "Yes, you may, Bumblebee. But you must find a plant that looks thirsty and give its roots the remaining water."
As Mabel seized the jar, a content smile revealed the endearing notch between her front teeth. "Are you forgetting something, Fa?"
"Show me the plant that you watered and if the soil is damp in the right place, you will earn the lid."
With that, Mabel began her quest through the maze of headstones and tombs. William kept a close watch on her, even after arriving at Marigold's humble grave.
"I'm teaching her about watering plants. And about water conservation, like I know you would have done," William told the stone that bore his Marigold's name. "She's come a long way from ripping plants from the earth, roots and all and bringing them to you, remember?" He placed the wildflowers on the ground and knelt. "And let us not forget the time she brought you a sunflower on a stock that was half her height!" His voice was joyful at first, but quickly weakened. "Oh, how lovely it would have been to build memories with you instead of with this cold block of stone." After a pause, he extracted a piece of semi-cheerful news to share. "The Applebys left us everything. The money that Earl left for Freddy is going towards the bee farm. It's doubled since the last time you saw it!" When William was sure that Mabel was otherwise engaged, he allowed the tears that had been brewing like a storm behind his eyes to tumble onto the grass that continued to grow, unapologetically, over her. "Oh, my Marigold! My beautiful little flower. Why ever did you have to wither away?" He stifled a sob as best he could. "I miss you so."
"Fa! What are these flowers called?" Little Mabel wailed from across the lawn. William hardly had to look, she did this all the time. Every time the curbside plant was in bloom, in fact.
"Marigolds," William responded tucking his long hair behind his ear, "they're called marigolds." He smiled, despite his sadness, and watched Mabel pour the remnants of water from the jar at the base of the marigold plant. "She asks about you all the time. Sometimes it's hard to hear. But I accept it because it makes me feel like you are here with us." His voice failed him yet again. "You are, aren't you? Sometimes, I feel you close by. But those feelings are fleeting. Unlike you. Yours was a loyal and constant presence. Just like our little girl. She follows me so closely, somedays I feel as though my shadow grows jealous! She loves me more than I deserve, Marigold…"
"They're called marigolds, just like Ma!" Mabel dashed towards her father and snatched the silver lid from his outstretched hand. "That's why they're my favorite flowers!" She spun around several times and started to pursue a fleet of fireflies as they moved past her on the breeze. "I also like buttercups, because Buttercup is my horse! Have you told Ma about Buttercup!?"
"Repeatedly," William stood upright. He saw that Mabel was having trouble reaching the fireflies that had flown above her head for fear of being caught. He chased her around for several seconds before hoisting her up on his back, straight into the fireflies' safe haven. "Did you catch any, Bumblebee?"
"Yes!" Mabel passed the jar to her father. "Seven!"
"Splendid," William whispered, repeating Annabelle's words exactly as he sealed them in. "Seven fireflies... let's go show Ma." He battled his tears yet again as he watched Mabel position the jar of fireflies against the headstone, illuminating its text:
Marigold Victoria Tavington
June 20th, 1990- August 1st, 2018
Beloved Wife and Mother. Devoted Sister.
Joyful Always.
"Now remember, we'll have to let them go before we leave. Ma lives in a very special place, you see. She has all the fireflies that she needs to keep her company at night."
They stayed there for a while, updating Marigold about their recent possession of the farm, Mabel's birthday and the ribbons that she and Buttercup had won in a recent dressage show. When it was time to leave, Mabel handed William the jar and he recited, from memory, the poem that Annabelle had composed for him in the schoolyard:
Come, listen to my story
Of how seven tiny stars
Abandoned heaven's glory
To live inside a jar.
Which to them was a palace
Made entirely of glass.
Free from a world of malice,
Until it came to pass
That the ceiling 'bove the seven
Made way for their ascent,
To drift back up to heaven
So… homeward the stars went.
As the seven fireflies went their separate ways above them, a new visitor arrived on the summer breeze. William was the first to see it and told his daughter to remain quiet and still as the tiny, iridescent hummingbird landed on her shoulder. She was lighter than a penny, lighter than a ladybug. Mabel didn't startle, instead, she turned calmly and greeted their sprite-like guest. Before long, the hummingbird was airborne again, but she lingered. She bounced from William to Mabel, almost conversationally. Then, she drifted off to the right a ways and returned.
"I think she's trying to tell us something…" Mabel pondered, rising to her feet. "I think she wants us to follow her…" The hummingbird's flight pattern, predictable as a yo-yo on a string, continued until they took heed. As they continued down the street, waves of smoke began to fill the air. When the burning schoolhouse came into sight after a few blocks, their guide disappeared into the gray sky, like a ghost might.
"My son!" The distraught voice of Benny Martin pulled William in like a magnet. "My son is still in there!"
"Tommy," William covered his mouth as Benny nodded. He located a window that had yet to be consumed by flames and knew what he had to do. "Watch my daughter for me. Watch her close! She likes to wander."
Mabel could be heard behind him, crying for her father to return, but he didn't look back.
Tommy had collapsed on the dusty floor. His hand clung to the pouch that he had returned to Marigold- that she had left behind in the schoolhouse for her husband's sake. William pulled the unconscious young man up and started for the window that he had busted open, but a moan, terrible and low sounded from above and the burning pieces of building started to fall all around them. He covered Tommy with his body, taking every blow in his stead.
The thick pieces of wood struck William with force. They snapped his strong back like a twig as they crashed into him with as much violence and remorselessness as the opposing frontline in battle. He fought for his breath, but the smoke and the shock of his newly born paralysis stole the air away before it reached his lungs. Flames swarmed in like vultures, to scorch their flesh and finish them off, but he didn't stop protecting Tommy once. Even after the fire washed over him like a wave, dissolving most of his clothes and obliterating every inch of his naked flesh; he didn't cease to protect the boy who had started the fire while grieving for the woman they both had loved and lost.
"It will end in fire," William silently recollected. Everything blackened as the fire claimed his eyes, blueness and all, "just as the reflection of Thomas Martin had foretold in the glass…"
Had the fire crew not arrived in time, the weight and temperature of the smoldering debris would have killed them both.
Tommy was tended to first. This might have seemed cruel, but one look at his mangled body informed them that William was gone. Seeing his unconscious son being tossed onto a stretcher caused Benny's strength to lessen just enough for Mabel to break free. She raced to where her father had been cast aside in the grass.
His handsome face was unrecognizable from the burns, but she was unafraid. "Fa!" she cried. "Why won't anybody help him, too?!"
His eyes were vacant reflectors of the clouds in the evening sky. But only for a moment longer. As Mabel placed her hand over his heart, to search for a beat, William drew in a heavy breath of air. The bright blue of his eyes had become pale and opaque. Blindly, they sought his rescuer. "Mabel?" Instead of responding, she cried for help again and again until William was given the attention that he required in order to survive.
William Tavington would never be the same again after that evening. Crippled and blind, he was celebrated by Waterford for saving the life of Tommy Martin, but also isolated. For three long years, he held on for Mabel to make up for the time that he hadn't been there for her. For three long years, he suffered in silence. Not once did Mabel cower at his burns or resent him in any way. She continued to love her father as though nothing had ever changed. Giselle intervened during William's final year. She and Jake tried to ease Mabel back into the life that an ordinary nine-year-old should lead. When she returned from school, however, dressage was secondary to spending time with her beloved father.
She was in Waterford on the day that he died. As was Jake and Giselle. Mabel's last morning with her father was nothing out of the ordinary at all. She brought him tea and helped him drink while discussing her plans for the day. Then, she left to catch the bus just like she always did. He didn't expect that this was the end, either. Had he any idea, he would have spoken up. But as William sat, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun, a shadow moved across the blank screen of light that his eyes were limited to. He was no longer alone in the room. The gentle billowing of the sheer curtains filled his ears, followed by a wave of fragrance that he would recognize anywhere and lastly, he felt a hand on the back of his head. A hand that he wouldn't have felt had he not been on the precipice of death.
"You're tired and weary, my love," Marigold said, gently, "let me help you find rest." As she lowered him onto the bed, William reached, not stopping until his hand found the warm curvature of her cheek.
"I am no longer the man that you fell in love with. I am ugly now. Wretched… and unworthy of the love of an angel." He could hear Marigold's laughter and his face tried to smile, but the dead nerves and tight skin that the fire had left him with couldn't allow such an expression.
"I see that vanity is still an issue with you," she stroked the remnants of his dark hair. "Would it discourage you to hear that I have never seen you look so beautiful as you do now?"
"You sound like Mabel. She calls me handsome every day. At first, I thought it was a cruel joke. But like her mother, she is incapable of cruelty." His hand moved across Marigold's face, along her jaw and across her lips. "I must leave her?"
"Yes. You must."
An expression of sadness, subtle as a whisper, found its way to William's milky eyes and the rough terrain of his inanimate face. "But I love her."
As she watched the tips of his eyelashes grow damp and heard his voice crack, Marigold was instantly pained. "I've watched you both from afar. You and I will be able to do the same for her."
"You left my dreams for a while. For years, I struggled to understand why. It wasn't until recently that I realized… you were making me stronger for her. By leaving me to carry on alone-"
"You weren't alone. Do you remember the hummingbird at my grave? That was the last part, William. Your name has not only been cleared, now it is celebrated. When the time finally comes for Mabel to learn who you were, she will learn of the William Tavington who surrendered at Cowpens and assisted in the recovery of many soldiers. American and British alike. Not because Annabelle told him to, but because she reminded him of his goodness at its most pivotal moment. She will learn that the same William Tavington traveled across the centuries to save the reincarnate of a young boy who he shot in the back like a coward. She will learn…"
"That I, a man from another time, was her father."
"Yes. And it is up to you and I to guide her to that knowledge. Through books that spark her interest in the library, through conversations that she initiates with her godparents… and through the dreams that you and I will send her when we feel that she is strong enough to have them. She will dream of you, William. When she is ready. But for now…" the sound of his lungs rattling as he struggled to draw breath pained Marigold even more, "if you are ready, I can take your pain away. You and I will be together once more. To see, to hold… to watch over our daughter in the unseen world. With your permission..."
He began to cry again. Softly, each sob fought its way past his lips. "Take me with you. Let me see your face again."
As Marigold touched his tears, her fingers felt to William like a warm breeze traveling across his skin. For the past nine years, they had longed for this. "My beautiful William." She caressed the gashes and burns that had stolen away his sweet visage like a thief in the night. "May I kiss you?"
"Please," he closed his eyes.
Marigold hesitated, the rise and fall in his chest was mesmerizing, beautiful. She pressed her hand to his chest and felt beneath it the heart that used to soothe her into sleep, that she had sacrificed her life for, and that she had left utterly broken with her own untimely end. There would be no revoking it, this tender kiss of death. His breaths had grown to tiny gasps of pain and Marigold knew that it would not be cruel to steal them away. She touched his lips, thin and jagged with her own, and when she moved back into her space, the remnants of his breath escaped his body in a final, content sigh.
As William's sight returned, he found that he was no longer in his room, but in the highest row of round, wooden theatre. The feeling of Marigold's dainty hand in his invited him to turn. There she was, just as radiant joyful as she had been in life, leaning over the rail as she watched an intricate performance on the stage below.
"This is what it looks like, my love." Her smile returned as their eyes met. He, too, was the William that she remembered. Statuesque and fair of face with waves of hair that flowed over his shoulders in every direction like dark rain. "This is what eternity looks like. And down below…"
William glanced at the tapestry that was being manipulated by two players on either side of the stage. Fragments of images danced across it, nearly all of them were of young Mabel. "All the world is a stage," he drew her in and pressed her forehead to his, just like he used to when she was his to hold, "I understand now."
"We can come and go as we please. All you need to do, is touch an image in the mosaic of pictures below- and the tapestry will take you there. You can move around, unseen, like a ghost. And when you are weary and in need of rest, then you and I can steal away to the heavens above the stage and lie amongst the stars for a while." As she spoke, Marigold broke momentarily from William and pointed to a living painting of clouds and celestial bodies above the performing space. "The choice is yours."
"To sit here by your side and watch the world go by," he drew closer, initiating a sequence of tender kisses, "to see our beautiful little girl as she grows into a woman… is all that I wish for now that eternity is our own."
Marigold stroked his hair and eased his eagerness into a single, deep kiss to the mouth. The electricity that began with each caress of her lips, causing his heart to overflow with joy, was the same as it had been in life. As their embrace tightened, William realized that this was because the love that they were given so briefly during their time on earth had been a glimpse of heaven.
And so, they remained in that place for a long while before finding rest in one another's arms beneath a blanket of starlight and clouds. "I will meet you in my dreams," they vowed before their souls passed into repose. And it was so. After all, William and Marigold would always find one another.
Not an hour later, Mabel found her father. Still and silent in his bed. He generated not a single motion as his daughter stirred. She moved closer and placed her hand on his cold face, if only to confirm it to herself. William Tavington was gone. Until Giselle arrived, Mabel remained by his side, with her arm around his chest.
"He fell asleep," the uncommonly strong nine-year-old informed Giselle with dry eyes, "he fell asleep and didn't wake up." Giselle dropped her tote in the doorway with every intention of holding her goddaughter and never letting go. "My first memory was seeing him in pain. I watched him suffer my whole life," Mabel continued without so much as a tear, "this is the most at peace that I have ever seen him."
As gently as she could, Giselle pulled Mabel away from William's quiet form and into the warmth of her arms. "You were the light of his life, Little One. He loved you so much. Don't think for a moment that being your father was a hardship for him in any way."
Slowly, very slowly, Mabel started to feel that she didn't have to be strong for her father anymore. The tighter that Giselle held her, the more their bond intensified. Her warmth overshadowed the cold, lifelessness of William. Her beating heart and gentle breath allowed her to recover from the stillness she'd felt as she longed for the reciprocation of his embrace. Mabel's heart, pure and loving, leapt into Giselle's. It was adoption on the most spiritual level. From that moment on, Giselle was her mother.
"I loved him, too" Mabel admitted in a broken tone, "I loved him so much. More than anything in all the world." As Giselle carried Mabel from the house to await the medics on the porch, the little girl allowed herself to cry for the first time since infancy.
William was laid to rest beside Marigold soon after. On an Indian Summer evening that was reminiscent in climate of the morning that he and Annabelle first met. Everyone that Marigold had introduced him to was there, even the fireflies that lived in the surrounding woods passed through on a whispering breeze to bid their farewells. The sight her goddaughter standing loyally at his grave made Giselle's heart shatter like glass, but she took her to visit him each day. Even after she returned to her old resilience, Mabel never missed an opportunity to sit beside him and read.
When the time was right, Giselle told Mabel all that she knew about William. Not only did Mabel believe every word, but she took the incentive to learn everything about the unlikely hero that she could. Gradually, she returned to her old resilience. The memory of her father was both painful and sweet, but she carried it like a burning torch along with the pride of her surname. She fought in favor of keeping the farmhouse and the land. When she was finally old enough, it became her own. Anyone passing from Waterford to Charleston would see it- a glorious terrain of rolling hills with more wildflowers than there are stars in the sky. What made this piece of land so unique, however was that it was owned by a Tavington and it almost never came to pass, but love had made it so.
Fin.