The Child Lives On

Chapter Two

Abby married a Frenchman, heedless of my warnings. "It will only lead to trouble," I told her. Would she listen? Of course not! "I love him," she said. Bah! Love! Stuff and nonsense! A proper English lady would never marry a man from France. Consorting with the enemy is what it is. "Which side are you on?" I asked. "You do know we're at war, don't you?" She said, "Love has no boundaries," or some other such rubbish. I threw up my hands in disgust. "I give up," I said. "Go ahead. Throw your life away. I'll have no part of it." And that was the last time I ever saw her.

Growing up, Abby and I were inseparable. We dressed the same, talked the same, walked the same and did everything the same. Richard, our older brother, the mischievous little imp that he was, tried to drive a wedge between us whenever possible - taking Abby's side in every dispute - which we had, of course, being children. These disputes, however, were small and insignificant.

It wasn't until we became young maidens that cracks began to form in our relationship. In other words, when young gentlemen took notice of Abby and not me. It wasn't our appearance (we looked very much alike), but Abby was outgoing and flirtations, and I was, and still am, somewhat standoffish and sometimes sullen. However, I still maintain it wasn't jealousy, though she accused me of such, but concern for her wellbeing. When she fell head over heels for André Charbonneau, the cracks became a crevice, and the crevice became a canyon.

Shortly after the marriage, Abby's so-called husband ran off to Quebec - to seek his fortune, I suppose. While he was away, she died giving birth to a daughter. What then? Was I to be saddled with the child? Not on your life. Richard took Abby's side in the dispute. Her offspring was his responsibility.

As time went by, I married an English gentleman, and settled down in Glastonbury. Richard married Adeline and bought a farm in another part of the county - but it might as well have been across the ocean for all I cared. And yet, Adeline would send me a card and letter at the end of every year, telling of her daughter Clara and Abby's daughter Emily. However, she didn't tell me everything. One important detail was constantly left out. What was that little detail? It was this: Emily had failed to grow up.

Not long ago, Clara and Emily showed up on my doorstep unannounced. Their arrival did not sit well with me. In my opinion, it took a lot of nerve, after more than twenty years, to impose upon me in such a way. I demanded an explanation.

"A band of marauders burned down the farm," said Clara.

"Why?" I asked.

"We don't know."

"At first," said Emily, "we thought they were after me."

Occupying the same room, I fought to keep my temper. It was as if she had been left here to taunt me, with her father's bright green eyes and curly auburn hair.

"After you?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because of the rumors."

"What rumors?"

Blushing, she looked down at the floor, then said, in a whisper, "Well… um… you see... some folks say I'm a witch."

"Are you a witch?"

"No, ma'am."

"It wouldn't surprise me if you were," I muttered under my breath.

"But she's not a witch," Clara insisted.

"Then why? Is it just malice?"

"It's because of the herbs."

"Herbs? What do herbs have to do with it?"

"You see, Emily mixes the herbs into tonics, tinctures and remedies. A few, not all, equate that with magic."

"Ridiculous. You might as well say canning and pickling are magic."

"They are, in a way, aren't they?"

"Don't be silly. Those are perfectly natural processes."

"But, to be honest, it wasn't just the herbs."

"Oh?"

"You see, Emily, due to her unusual appearance, as you have already noted, is thought by some to be a magical being."

"A magical being? You mean, like a leprechaun?"

"Or fairy."

"Nonsense! There's a perfectly logical explanation for her deformity."

Inwardly, I cringed, instantly regretting the use of that term. "So what does this have to do with a band of marauders?" I asked, changing the subject.

"We thought it was just a little mob come to burn me at the stake," said Emily, as if that were a common everyday thing.

"But we were wrong," said Clara. "It was a big, big mob which burned down a bunch of farms and villages all over the county."

"Does anyone know why?" I asked.

"No, we don't know why," said a male voice behind me.

I turned to see who had spoken. A handsome young man in a cavalry uniform had just entered the room. "Who are you?" I asked.

Clara hurried over to the man, took him by the arm and brought him to me. "Aunt Celia," she said, "this is Lieutenant Sommersby. He escorted us here, after bravely fighting and capturing the marauders."

"Single handedly?"

"No, no," said the lieutenant. "Several units were involved."

"It's an honor to meet you," I said, offering a hand.

He took my hand and bowed. "The honor is mine, Lady Embry."

"Will you stay for dinner?"

"It would be a pleasure."

An hour or so in the company of this charming lieutenant took the sting out of an otherwise distressing day. When he took his leave, the girls retired to their bedroom, exhausted from a long arduous journey. I was left alone to stew, feeling myself ill-used.

My brother and his wife came the next day. I had been expecting them, of course. Upon their arrival, I retired to the sitting room, allowing for a happy reunion. While the sounds of joy and laughter wafted in through the windows, I waited patiently.

Richard entered the sitting room alone, hat in hand. His hair was streaked with gray, and his skin, leathery. In my opinion, he had aged more than he should have in twenty years. Due to the recent calamity which had befallen him and his family, his head and arms were bandaged, and he was walking with a limp. I offered him a seat and some refreshments. He partook of both.

"Celia," he said, "thank you."

"You were taking a chance," I said.

"You're stubborn, but not heartless."

"One is not stubborn when one is right."

That little chuckle and impish grin always did irk me. With great effort, I kept my temper.

"I must tell you," I continued, "I haven't changed my mind concerning Abby and her ill-fated marriage. Perhaps we should avoid the subject."

"We've been avoiding the subject for twenty years," he said. "Isn't it about time we cleared the air?"

"Have you changed your mind?"

"No."

"Then why talk about it?"

"Okay, have it your way."

An awkward silence followed, as a light breeze wafted through the room and ruffled the curtains. Some indistinct female voices could be heard in the distance. Richard cleared his throat.

"Celia," he said, "I have a request."

"I'm not surprised," I said. "What is your request?"

"Well…" He fidgeted a little, running a finger inside his collar to loosen it. "I thought, perhaps, since the girls were already here, you might look after them until the farm is rebuilt."

"You're asking a lot, Richard."

"I know."

I rose from my seat and walked to the window, torn between sacrificing a little comfort and coming across as a complete ogre.

"Okay," I said, "I'll do it, as long as that little half-breed stays clear of me."

"I'll have a word with her."

"See that you do."

Clara is young and pretty, with a friendly and engaging personality. For a self-proclaimed unsophisticated farm-girl, she took to Glastonbury society like a bee takes to honey. It wasn't long before callers (mostly young gentlemen) were flocking to our door. This situation became problematic. Night and day, no matter where I ventured in the house, I would stumble upon young people scattered about. At the risk of being disliked, I set visiting hours to daylight only. Propriety must be maintained.

In the end, however, it wasn't necessary for me to step in. The situation remedied itself when the list of suitors was cut down to one - Lieutenant Sommersby being the lucky winner. Of course, I had known from the very first day, but it took some time for the news to get around.

Now, about Abby's daughter Emily. As I mentioned before, having opposed the marriage, I shunned the child for many years. So, having her thrust upon me was unsettling, especially in light of her childish appearance. At first, I thought it had something to do with mixing French and English blood. However, it didn't take long to see the flaws in that theory. As much as it pains me to admit, the French and English have been mixing since the time of William the Conqueror, if not before. Setting that theory aside, I set my sights on her general health. Perhaps she wasn't eating correctly, or getting enough sleep. That theory went out the window as well. She's a perfectly healthy child, and I've never known anyone to sleep so soundly.

They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, so I watched closely to see if she was a lazy, shiftless, lying, smooth-talking rogue like the man who stole my sister's heart and left her to die. At meals, I would goad her with cutting remarks, but couldn't get a rise out of her. Her responses were always polite and deferential. Ever industrious, she enjoyed sewing, knitting and other forms of needlework. While she was hard at work, I hid behind doors and watched to see if it was all a show. Instead of the indolence I had been expecting, she worked diligently whether I was there or not. Though she loved needlework, her real passion was gardening. Often, I would stand at the back window and observe. Hour after hour she would work, rain or shine, in her peasant clothing and wide-brimmed hat, never quitting until the dinner bell was rung. Try as I might, and try I did, I couldn't find anything to hold against her.

My garden has become a horticulturists dream since Emily arrived. I will not concede to anything magical, but as in any pursuit, some have the knack, and some don't. What once was a barren wasteland, due to my pathetic attempts, is filled to overflowing with beautiful flowers, vegetables and herbs of every variety.

With curiosity piqued, and a desire to get to the bottom of it, I sought her out. She was in the garden shed, perched on top of a step-stool mixing some herbs in a bowl. "How do you know how to do all of this?" I asked.

"An old lady taught me," was her answer.

"An old lady?"

"Living alone in the woods."

"How mysterious."

"They did say she was eccentric."

"How do retain all of this knowledge? I've never seen you write anything down or read any notes."

"You might say it's magical."

"I might, but I won't. The Dentons have always possessed above-average intelligence."

"Even my mother?"

"Love can transform even the brightest intellect into that of a blithering fool. Your mother had a good head on her shoulders... then she fell in love."

Emily blurted out, "I don't believe my father deserted my mother! He meant to return!"

The intensity with which she spoke took me by surprise. The flash in her eye, the set of her jaw and the little clenched fists showed true loyalty, though she had never known her father and mother.

"Perhaps you're right, my dear," I said.

Her countenance softened. "I am?"

"I was wrong about you, wasn't I?"

She threw her arms around my neck, causing the stool to tip over and fall to the floor with a clatter. Catching her in my arms, I held onto her tightly. "Thank you," she whispered, "for everything." Tears welled up in my eyes. I'm not an affectionate woman (my late husband would attest), but something about this child has touched my heart.

Now that I have gained my nieces, and the joy I was missing for so many years, I'm going to lose them again. Clara and Lieutenant Sommersby are to be wed. The ceremony will take place in three months. With so much to do - dresses, decorations, invitations, meals, et cetera - we'll be lucky to have everything ready in time.

After the wedding, Clara and her husband will be moving to London, taking Emily with them. This separation is unacceptable to me. I will have to purchase a home in London as well.