The Child LIves On

Chapter One

Emily was on tiptoes, peering over the windowsill, watching the mob as it marched up the lane toward the house. Torches cast eerie shadows while the sounds of angry voices grew louder and louder.

I stepped into the bedroom, slipping on my gloves. "Emily, sweetheart, what are you doing?"

"Perhaps I can reason with them," she murmured.

"Reason with them? Don't be silly. You can't reason with a mob."

Clive knocked on the open door. "Are your ready, Miss Clara?" he asked. 'Your Father is getting anxious."

"We're on our way," I said. "Will you grab our bags?"

"Bags?"

"By the door."

With a nod, he picked up two heavy cloth-bags and hurried away.

Daddy was pacing when Emily and I stepped out the back door. An army of men from neighboring farms surrounded him. Each had a weapon. Bessie, our old plow-horse, was hooked up to the wagon. "You don't seem to understand the gravity of the situation," said Daddy, while lifting Emily into the wagon. She settled down into the hay, pulling out her knitting, as if we were sitting in our cozy chairs by the fire.

"But Daddy," I said, "we were moving as fast as we could."

Clive picked me up and set me in the wagon. "I apologize for the impertinence, Miss Clara," he said, 'but we have to get out of here."

Jumping on board, he grabbed the reins and urged Bessie on. The jerk of the wagon caused me to fall backwards. I sat up, picking hay out of my bonnet and hair.

"Love you, Daddy," I called out.

"Stay safe, honey," was his response.

A shout, "Back here!" and more shouting, shots fired, and the sounds of scuffling startled and frightened us. The knitting was forgotten. Rough hands grasped the wagon. Savage faces appeared and disappeared. Grunts, groans and gruff voices filled up our ears. Clive jumped to his feet. "Grab the reins," he shouted, disappearing into the night. Scrambling up front, I took hold of the reins and tapped Bessie's rump with the tip of the whip. It didn't help. She just plodded along in blissful ignorance. Darkness lay ahead. Dancing torch-lights fell further and further behind.

The raucous noise of the melee faded away, leaving only the rhythmic clomp and clang of horse and wagon. Someone climbed on board. I lifted the whip, ready to strike. "It's only me," said Clive. With a sigh of relief, I handed over the reins, rejoining Emily in the back. On a road full of twists and turns, difficult enough in daylight, Clive bravely saw us through in the darkness.

Winwood Inn was old, run down and in need of repair. The interior, however, was clean and tidy. An elderly couple, the Winwoods, welcomed us with friendly smiles. White-haired and stooped, Mr. Winwood shuffled about with a cane. Plump Mrs. Winwood was full of helpful energy. "Would you like some tea while I make up the beds?" she asked.

"Thank you, ma'am," I said. "Tea would be most welcome."

In a comfortable sitting room, Mr. Winwood kept us company, regaling us with stories of his youth, which I'm sure were quite amusing. I, however, was only half-listening. My mind was miles away. I was born in that farmhouse. I had spent my whole life under its roof. Would I ever see it again?

Awakened by a loud persistent banging, I stumbled out of bed, donned a robe, lit a candle on the third try, burning my fingers, and made my way to the bedroom door. A man stood before me, indistinct in the candlelight, wearing some kind of military uniform. "Are you Clara Denton?" he asked

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Daughter of Richard and Adeline Denton?"

"Yes, sir."

He thrust a note into my hand. "Is this your father's handwriting?"

I examined the note, dripping wax on the paper. "Yes, sir. I believe it is."

"We must leave immediately."

"Why?"

"Your home was burned to the ground tonight. The marauders are headed this way."

Panic took hold of me. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. Breath was hard to find. "No!" I gasped. "It can't be! I have to go home. Mama and Daddy need me." I tried to push past him. He blocked my way. "Please move, sir. I have to go home."

"No," he said. "You mustn't return. I am to escort you to Glastonbury."

"Glastonbury?" Stunned, I simply stared at him, perplexed. "Aunt Celia's?"

"Celia Embry was the name given."

"We won't be welcome there."

The Denton siblings, Richard, Celia and Abigail, were close-knit until Abigail ran off to Portsmouth and married André Charbonneau, a Frenchman. Celia never spoke to her sister again. When Emily was born, her aunt refused to acknowledge her existence.

"I'll give you five minutes to dress," said the man. "I've already roused your servant. Make haste."

"Wait, wait!" I said. "What's your name?"

"Lieutenant Gordon Sommersby."

"We'll be right with you, Lieutenant."

Closing the door, I rushed to Emily. Her little legs were dangling over the side of the bed. She was rubbing sleep out of her eyes. "Emily, dear," I said, "hurry and dress."

"I had a bad dream," she murmured.

"What dream?"

"An angry mob was after me."

"That wasn't a dream."

"Oh, I was hoping it was." She hopped off the bed and fumbled with her nightgown. "Was somebody here?"

"A man has come to escort us to Glastonbury."

"Do we know him?"

"No."

"Can we trust him?"

"He had a note from Daddy. I think we can trust him."

We hurried into our traveling clothes, packing up our bags in the process.

"Did you say Glastonbury?" she asked, while tying her bonnet.

"Yes."

"Aunt Celia's?"

"Um hmm."

"She'll turn us away."

"Daddy believes otherwise."

"Can't we just go home?"

"Home no longer exists."

"Huh?"

"The mob burned it to the ground."

Sinking to the floor, she buried her face in her hands. "No!" she cried. "It can't be true!"

"Emily, my dear, we have to hurry."

"Why did this happen?" she sobbed. "I was only trying to help people."

"We don't have time for this."

A plaintive wail escaped her lips, "Why? Why? Why?"

"Don't go to pieces on me, sweetheart." I picked her up and carried her from the room. Her tears dampened the side of my face and neck.

Mrs. Winwood met us at the door of the inn. I placed some coins into her hand. "I'm sorry, ma'am," I said. "We've had a change of plans."

"Do not fret, my dear," she said. "Take care of that precious child."

Just as we were getting under way, the trouble began. A mob, carrying torches and weapons, was running swiftly in our direction. The men of the village, having been forewarned, were waiting with weapons of their own. After hiding Emily and I in the wagon, covering us with hay, and telling us to stay down, Clive and the lieutenant joined in the fray. With a mixture of horror and fascination, I watched a mass of shadowy figures converge and brawl in the torch-light.

"Did those men follow us here?" asked Emily, peeking over the side of the wagon.

I just about jumped out of my skin. "Ah!" I said. "You're back."

"Sorry. I'm worthless in a crisis."

"Have you ever had a crisis before?"

"Um… no."

"Me either."

While we were casually chatting, the brawl was moving toward us. The sounds of metal upon metal and flesh upon flesh grew louder and louder, making me cringe. Other than Clive and the lieutenant, I couldn't tell which side was which.

"I wonder who's winning," said Emily.

"My money's on the lieutenant," I said.

"Which one is he?"

"Across the way. On the horse. See him?"

"With the sword?"

"That's right."

"Clive doesn't need a sword. He just knocks them down with his big fists."

"The lieutenant is doing just fine, thank you."

"I didn't say he wasn't."

"Wait a minute. Is that Mr. Winwood swinging his cane around?"

Emily jumped to her feet. "Oh no! He's going to get hurt. Watch out, Mr. Winwood!"

Just as she was calling out, one of the rioters slugged the old man and sent him sprawling. Before I could stop her, she was out of the wagon. "Wait, Emily!" I cried. "Don't." As I began to give chase, a torch fell nearby, lighting some hay on fire. I picked it up and moved it to a barren spot. While thus occupied, I noticed the torches scattered all over the place. As quickly as I could, I gathered them up and put them in a pile, starting a bonfire in the process. Meanwhile, Emily was weaving her way through the fray to help Mr. Winwood. Before she could reach him, a big burly brute grabbed her and picked her up. Letting out a loud piercing scream, she kicked her little legs and feet. Forgetting the torches, I ran to save her, not knowing just how I was going to do it. Fortunately, Clive was behind the brute, and hit him over the head with a rock. The brute fell to the ground, dropping Emily. I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the way, scolding her for her recklessness. We hid behind some barrels. While there, I heard a sound like thunder - so loud, I had to cover my ears. Curious, I peeked over the tops of the barrels. What I saw thrilled me to no end. The village square was filled with uniformed men on horseback.

The morning sun was peeking over the horizon when the wagon stopped in front of an inn. Clive jumped to the ground and undid Bessie's harness. My hair was damp with dew. Hay was sticking to me. I picked it off, straw by straw. "I feel like something the cat dragged in," I said. "I must look a fright."

"You look fine," said Emily, yawning and stretching.

I glanced at her with a little touch of envy. A quick brush of her auburn curls, and Emily was, as usual, cute and adorable.

Lieutenant Sommersby appeared beside the wagon. "We're stopping to rest the horses," he said. "We'll breakfast at the inn."

In the daylight, the man took my breath away. A misty glow surrounded him. His tall muscular body, chiseled features and magnificent hair were those of a mythical hero. All around me disappeared into the mist. He was all I could see.

I awoke, as if from a dream, though I hadn't been sleeping. The lieutenant was beside me. We were taking a stroll after breaking our fast at the inn. The food, whatever it was, did not agree with me. Turning my head, I belched discreetly, hoping no one would notice.

In a field of dandelions, Emily scampered about, eagerly filling up her bag. Clive was helping her, as he often did at home. "Dandelions have wonderful medicinal properties," she was saying, "Dandelion tea, for example, is good for your liver and skin and..." While she was chattering, the lieutenant was giving her a strange look.

"Emily is an herbalist," I said, by way of explanation.

"What is an herbalist?" asked the lieutenant.

"An herbalist is someone who knows all there is to know about herbs."

"Are we talking about this little child?"

"I was an herbalist," said Emily, "before everything was destroyed.".

"Don't worry, sweetheart," I said. "We'll just start over again."

She stamped her tiny feet. "I don't want to start over!" Her fists were clenched. A pout puckered her little round chubby face.

It was just too cute. Placing a hand over my mouth, I tried to suppress a giggle. "Emily, don't let Dr. Silas take away your usual sunny disposition."

"Why not? He's taken everything else."

"He hasn't taken your life."

"Yet."

"Who is Dr. Silas?" asked the lieutenant.

"The man behind the mob," I said.

"Oh? How so?"

"It's like this, Lieutenant, Emily creates herbal remedies and I sell them in the villages."

"I'm not following."

"Simply stated, the doctor put us out of business."

"That can't possibly be the reason, can it?"

"We think it is."

"He was friendly to our faces," said Emily, "and used others to do his dirty work."

"A hog was killed and threatening messages were written on the side of the barn in blood."

"We received the most unkind letters."

"Livestock was mutilated"

"Crops burned."

"And you're sure it was this doctor you speak of?" asked the Lieutenant.

"Who else could it be?" I asked. "Who else would benefit?"

"I hate to break it to you, after such an intriguing story, but last night's events had little or nothing to do with a dispute between a village doctor and two enterprising farm-girls."

"Care to explain?"

"The marauders left a path of destruction a hundred miles long, looting and burning farms and villages all along the way."

"So they weren't after me?" asked Emily.

"No, child, they were not after you. The doctor would not need a band of marauders to put you out of business. There are simple and legal ways to rid oneself of competition.

While on our journey to Glastonbury (the lieutenant on horseback, Clive, Emily and I in the wagon) we continued this interesting and informative conversation. The lieutenant had some insight into legal affairs, his father being a lawyer in London. Afterwards, I came to this conclusion: One can do amazing things when one has money and connections.

Glastonbury seemed otherworldly to a couple of unsophisticated farm-girls. Emily and I stared about us in open-mouthed wonder. In much the same way, Lieutenant Sommersby was creating a stir among the townsfolk. Heads turned as he passed by on his handsome steed.

In the heart of the city, we located a stone gate and turned in, following the path. The landscaping was beautiful and well tended. A large two story house came into view, framed by oak trees. The wagon wheels crunched the gravel as we pulled up the drive and stopped near the entrance. Clive was sent to the door with a note. A plump middle-aged maid answered his knock. She was wearing a black dress with a while apron, collar and cap. Accepting the note, she closed the door. Clive returned to the wagon. Emily and I waited anxiously for a response.

The door opened. A petite and elegantly dressed lady stepped out onto the stoop. I gasped. It was me, twenty five years in the future, with the same heart-shaped face, blue eyes, light-brown hair and small delicate nose, mouth and chin. It had to be Aunt Celia. Who else could it be?

The lady marched over to the wagon and looked inside. "What are you waiting for," she said. "Come in." Turning on her heel, she marched back into the house.

The men remained outside, tending to the wagon and horses. Emily and I were ushered into a tastefully decorated sitting room. We made ourselves at home on a luxurious settee. The maid brought in tea and sandwiches.

Aunt Celia entered the room and sat on the edge of a chair which matched the settee. We stared at each other, not knowing what to say. Finally, she spoke. "Are you Clara? Or are you Emily?"

"I'm Clara," I said.

"And who is this child?"

"This is Emily."

"Abigail's Emily?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Not possible. If my calculations are correct, Emily is twenty years old."

"Yes, ma'am. Emily is twenty years old."

"Are you saying this child is twenty years old?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you saying this child is Emily?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She rose to her feet, walked to the window, pulled back a curtain and stared outside. "I told her not to marry a Frenchman," she muttered. "Would she listen? Of course not. She was always so headstrong."

And she kept on muttering… and muttering. While she was still muttering, Emily and I finished the tea and sandwiches. Seeing she still hadn't finished muttering, we did some knitting. When she finally muttered everything that needed to be muttered, she rang a bell.

The maid appeared in the doorway. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Anna," said Aunt Celia, "make up a room for our guests."

And that was our welcome to Glastonbury.