The Child Lives On

Chapter Eleven

Cold sea-air slapped my face, turning it red and raw. A light drizzle dampened my hat and coat. The coach, traveling as fast as two horses could pull it, was rocking side-to-side on a rough, muddy road, attempting to throw me off. Holding on for dear life, on top next to the driver, I listened to his steady chatter, not understanding a word he said. Inside, the coach was full to the brim, and much too cramped for a man with legs as long as mine. Having just turned sixty, I was risking life and health on this journey. What brought me out of my nice warm home and set me on such an adventure? Elixirs, my friend. Heavenly elixirs, with such health-giving benefits, I couldn't possibly live without them. In other words, I was risking my health for the sake of my health.

Monsieur Marteau's apothecary, located in a little town near Calais, France, was the only shop I knew which carried these heavenly elixirs. Twice a year, for many years, a case had been delivered to my home. When the usual shipment didn't arrive as scheduled, I went into a panic, and dashed off a letter of inquiry. Receiving no response, other than, "No longer available", I set sail for France, determined to find some answers. Yes, it was that important.

Monsieur Marteau's shop was located in the same place, and Monsieur Marteau was still in his shop, but the elixirs were, as he had said in his letter, no longer available. "Alas," he said, "Madame Sommersby has died."

"Such terrible news," I said. "And what about her daughter?"

"Daughter? What daughter?"

"She had two daughters."

"I know of no daughter."

"Was no one ever with her?"

"No."

"No?"

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Now that I think about it, she did bring a little girl with her now and then, but I do not know her name."

"A little girl?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe her?"

"I am afraid not. All little girls…"

"I must find this girl."

"Why?"

"She might know where I might find Emily."

"Emily? Who is Emily?"

"Madame Sommersby's daughter."

"Ah."

"Emily would be a young woman by now."

"I see."

"Let me think…" I tapped my chin and considered. "She would be pretty, I'm sure, with auburn hair, green eyes, dimples..."

"No, Monsieur, never, though I wish I had."

"This is quite vexing. Is there nothing else you can tell me?"

"That is all I know, Monsieur. Perhaps Sergeant Renault can help you."

"Sergeant Renault?"

"You will find him at the police station."

Sergeant Renault was indeed at the police station, and helpful. "I remember very well," he said. "I put the child on a coach to Barfleur."

"Was there anyone with her?" I asked. "A young woman perhaps?"

"No, no, she was alone."

"And this child was living with Madame Sommersby?"

"Yes."

"Who was she? Do you know?"

"Her granddaughter."

"Granddaughter?"

"Yes."

"Was anyone with them in the cottage?"

"No, no, it was just the two of them."

"This is most confusing. How long ago did the child leave town?"

"A year or so, perhaps."

"Why Barfleur?"

"She has an aunt living there."

"And there was no one else with her?"

"You have already asked that question."

"Do you know her name? The child, I mean."

"Certainly. Her name is Emily Charbonneau."

"Emily Charbonneau?" By this time I was thoroughly confused. Did Emily marry a man named Charbonneau and name her daughter Emily? Did Ruth name her daughter Emily and, for some reason, send her back here? No, no, that wouldn't be right. Ruth's name is Willoughby. It would have to be Emily's daughter, wouldn't it? My mind was spinning like a top.

Having this one clue, I was determined to follow it up. Barfleur was the obvious place to go, though I wasn't sure what I would find when I got there. And that, my friend, is how wound up on that wild ride in inclimate weather next to a chatty driver I didn't understand.

A fortnight on top of a coach would try even the youngest and stoutest of men. By the time we reached Barfleur, I was too exhausted to think of anything but finding a meal and a bed. Taking advantage of a conveniently located inn, I did just that.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, I chatted with the innkeeper - a jolly fat man with a long curly mustache, which he twiddled incessantly. "How may I help you, Monsieur," he said, trying to speak English.

"I am looking for an apothecary," I said.

"Do you have the headache?"

"Um… no."

"We have the asperin here at the inn."

"No, thank you. I am looking for something else."

"Perhaps you desire the guide."

"The guide? I mean, a guide?"

"My son would be happy to lead you to your destination."

"Your son?"

"He knows Barfleur like the back of his hand."

"Thank you. That would be most helpful."

He turned and yelled for his son. A young dark-haired sulky-looking lad appeared by his side. They spoke French, in a dialect I had a hard time following. To make a long story short, the boy, somewhat reluctantly, agreed to be my guide. In my mind, I questioned how a boy so young could know Barfleur like the back of his hand, but kept it to myself, not wishing to make a scene. After leaving the inn, he led me to an apothecary a block away, which I could very easily have found myself. In the street outside the shop, he looked up at me, rather defiantly, and held out his hand. When I gave him a coin, he ran off, and that was the last I saw of him.

The apothecary, a small, bald man in a white coat, was friendly and helpful. In his shop, he carried a stock of elixirs, but they were not the kind I was looking for.

"Is there another apothecary in town?" I asked.

"Yes, Monsieur," he said, "on the other side of town, near the sea."

"Is there cab service in Barfleur?"

"Certainly. My brother just happens…"

"Thank you. How do I find him?"

He stepped out the back door and shouted. Someone shouted back. Again, I understood only bits and pieces. The apothecary returned to the counter. "He will meet you out in the front of the store." The cab, if you can call it that, was more like a farm-wagon, but better than walking, though just as slow. The horse was old and tired, and had seen better days. Children ran alongside, laughing. Apparently, strangers in farm-wagons are entertaining. At around noon, after a scenic tour through town, we reach the apothecary. I paid the man for his troubles and sent him on his way. When it came time to return to the inn, I would find a faster, more comfortable conveyance.

This apothecary, another small, bald man in a white coat (a family business, perhaps?), carried a stock of elixirs as well, but again, not the kind I was looking for. I had reached a dead end, and needed time to think. First things first, however, I was famished, and there just happened to be a café located next door. At the one remaining table (the place was quite crowded), I enjoyed some freshly caught fish, freshly picked vegetables, and a glass of wine. While enjoying the meal, I considered my options. Nothing came to me. My mind was blank. Frustration was setting in. Would I go home empty handed? Would I have to give up my glorious elixirs? Did I endure this long journey for nothing?

As I was getting up to leave, I heard the word 'tonics' and pricked up my ears. An old lady was speaking with the man behind the counter. I moved closer to hear what they were saying.

"Emily's tonics have me feeling twenty years younger," said the old lady.

"I have heard similar reports from others," said the man.

"And her vegetables, well, I have never seen or tasted anything like them."

"Indeed, she has the magic touch."

A chill ran up and down my spine. Could this be the Emily I was looking for?

After the old lady departed, I approached the man at the counter and asked for a tonic. When I tasted it, I knew it was the right one. "Sir," I said, "I would like to meet the person responsible for this heavenly elixir."

"Eh?" he said.

In my excitement I had reverted to English. I repeated myself in French.

"Ah," he said, with a smile. "You would like to meet Emily. Wait a few minutes, and she will be here."

Ordering another glass of wine, I sat down to wait. Time dragged. I ordered another glass. Would she ever come? I approached the man again. "I assure you," he said, "she will be here soon." At last, she came in. When I saw her, I glanced suspiciously at my glass of wine, thinking it might have affected my brain. What I was seeing just wasn't possible. Here, in front of me, was the same little girl I had known in London so many years before.

The man behind the counter spoke to her and pointed to me. She turned and looked in my direction. A smile of recognition came over her little face, bringing out the familiar dimples. Skipping over to me, she said, "Monsieur Johnson, it is good to see you again. What brings you to Barfleur?"

"My dear," I said, "do you think we might speak English? My French is only so-so…"

"Of course."

"Are you the same girl I knew in London?"

"Yes."

"So you are. I thought I might have had too much wine. Your name is Emily Charbonneau?"

"Yes, Monsieur, that is my name."

"I thought it was Sommersby."

"No, no, that was a… How you say? A trick?"

"A trick?"

"No, no, a disguise."

"I think you mean alias."

"Yes, yes, that is the word. Would you like to see my garden?"

"I would love to see your garden."

Leaving the café, we strolled casually through her beautiful garden and talked of old times. In the course of events, I offered my condolences for the loss of her mother. "Monsieur Johnson," she said, "Clara was not my mother. She was my cousin."

"But she told everyone she was your mother."

"No, no, she never told anyone. Everyone assumed."

"But she didn't contradict."

"It was easier than explaining..."

"Yes, yes, I can see how it would be."

"Monsieur Johnson, you have not told me, why are you in Barfleur?"

"My dear, I ran out of elixirs."

A hand went to her mouth. She gasped, "How careless of me! I will pack up a case for you right away."

In the middle of the garden stood a cottage. Inside, the kitchen had been transformed into a workshop, with jars stacked on shelves all along three walls, and several tables situated in the middle. The table legs were cut in half. Seeing them, I chuckled. Once upon a time, that had been my idea.

"If this is your workshop," I said, "where do you cook?"

"Monsieur Davignon and I eat in the café."

"Monsieur Davignon?"

"The owner of the café."

"You mean the stocky man with curly black hair?"

"That is him. This is his cottage. He is my guardian."

"Do you really need a guardian?"

"Indeed I do."

"It would seem to me, you are of age."

"Yes, but there are other considerations."

"How so?"

"To society at large, a person of my stature is helpless and in need of a guardian. I do not complain because it suits me to have a guardian. However, I have never been a freeloader. I would like to make that clear."

"Of course not, my dear. You industry is well known, to me at least."

While we were conversing, she filled a wooden crate with jars, and packed it all around with hay.

"Monsieur Johnson," she said, "I would ask a favor."

"Anything, my dear."

"Do not tell Monsieur Davignon about me. It would be better for him to find out on his own."

"Why?"

"If I told him the truth, he would not believe me."

"That makes sense, I think. How old were you when I knew you in London?"

"I would rather not say."

"But you were not a child."

"No, I was not."

"That explains a lot."

"Most people do not observe too closely. Little girls are easily overlooked and dismissed."

"Even if they did observe, most, as with your guardian, would not believe what they observed."

"Do you believe what you have observed?"

"Let me put it this way: If someone had told me, I would not have believed it; but now that I see it… well…"

"Seeing is believing?"

"It does help."

"Monsieur Johnson, will you be staying long in Barfleur?"

"A day or two, I think."

"Will you come to see me again?"

"I would be happy to."

A smile lit up her pretty face. "Monsieur Johnson, seeing you takes me back to some wonderful days, to Clara and Ruth and Victor…" Again, a hand went to her mouth, and she gasped, "Oh! I am so sorry!"

This amused me greatly. She still remembered my infatuation with Ruth a lifetime before. "You needn't be sorry, my dear. I have only pleasant thoughts for the happy couple."

"You are such a kind man."

"Have you heard from Ruth and Victor lately?"

"No, I have not."

"Do they know her mother died?"

"I assume a solicitor has contacted them."

"Where are they?"

"Toronto."

"You haven't seen or talked to them?"

"No. They might have sent a letter to the cottage, but I have not been back there in some time."

"I'll check for you."

"You will?"

"When I return, I'll let you know."

"You plan to return?"

"Certainly. This is a lovely spot for a vacation, don't you think?"

"Oh, it is, it is, and you will always be welcomed with a smile."

After nailing the lid shut on the crate, she wheeled a small wagon over to the table. "Allow me," I said, lifting the crate and placing it in the wagon. "How much do I owe you?"

"Settle with Monsieur Davignon, if you do not mind," she said. "I will have him give you a discount."

"But you have worked so hard making this," I said. "I wouldn't want to deprive you of your rightful..."

"Will you be coming back for more?"

"Of course."

"And you are buying bulk."

"Funny you should know that term."

"Clara taught me about business. I remember a few things."

"You must miss her."

"I do, terribly." Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Forgive me, my dear. I didn't intend to make you cry."

She turned from me, and wept. "Monsieur Johnson, I cry because I am ashamed. When Clara died, I panicked and fled, abandoning her to strangers."

Attempting to conciliate, I murmured, "Was it your first time alone?"

"Yes."

"It's hard to be alone, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is hard, but that does not make it right."

"I'm sure Clara would understand."

"Perhaps, but I have to live with myself."

"My dear, dry those tears. In life, we make mistakes. We learn from them and move on. It's all we can do."

She turned around and looked up at me, her bright green eyes glistened. "That is what I tell myself, Monsieur. It is very good advice. The trouble is, I do not always take good advice."

Removing a handkerchief from my pocket, I gently wiped the tears from her face. "Join the club, my dear. Join the club."

I spent a week in Barfleur, dining often with Emily and Monsieur Davignon - who insisted I call him Jacques. When the week was up, I was sorry to leave, but duty was calling, and I had to return to London. I sailed from Barfleur to England on a ship. Needless to say, it was faster and more comfortable than my journey by coach. Yes, I know I made a promise to Emily. I would keep that promise sometime in the future. However, returning with my cargo intact was foremost in my mind. So you see, sometimes a risk pays off. When I walked through the door of my home, I was a happy man.