The Child Lives On

Chapter Twelve

Weeds were taking possession of the yard, overrunning the stone path which led to the door. The exterior of the small stone cottage was weathered and worn, and the eaves, doorways and windows were covered with webs. Using the key which had been given to me by Grandmother's solicitor, I pushed open the door. The hinges squeaked. Leonard, my college chum and traveling companion, entered first. Inside, the cottage was as neat as a pin, though a layer of dust had settled on the furniture and the floor. "It doesn't look like anyone's been here for a while," I said, stating the obvious.

"I think you're right," said Leonard.

"Where has Emily gone? Mother said..."

"I expect she's in an orphanage."

"An orphanage?"

"They're not going to let a child live all alone, even one who..."

"She's not a child."

"But your mother said…"

"Did you really believe that fairytale?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"But it's so far-fetched."

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of…"

"You and your Shakespeare."

"Anyway, she's not here. We'll have to look elsewhere."

As a reward for graduating at the top of my class, Father sent me on a trip to Europe, to broaden my horizons, as it were, before settling down to a career in business. Our first stop was to be London, so Mother asked me to speak with her mother's solicitor while there. The solicitor, in turn, asked me to stop by the cottage. Since crossing the channel was already on the itinerary, it wasn't too far out of the way.

The voyage across Lake Ontario, up the St. Lawrence and across the Atlantic, began with calm seas and sunny skies, lulling us into a false sense of security. Then all hell broke loose - including, but not limited to: intense fog, rough seas and storms, which I thought would be the end of me, and a bout of seasickness, which again, I thought would be the end of me. When we finally set foot on dry land, I swayed like a drunk for many days after.

London was everything I dreamed it would be. Its architecture, history and interesting highways and byways thrilled me to no end. Charles Willoughby, a cousin of some sort, charming and affable, and like Leonard and myself, just out of college, was our host and guide. A dashing man-about-town, he was of the right class, knew the right people and had entry into all the right places. The nightlife, shows, parties and elegant, sophisticated young ladies nearly swept me off my feet. However, I had a career to attend to when I returned to Canada, and since my father was footing the bill for this excursion, it was necessary to show a modicum of good sense.

Leonard cried out triumphantly, "Aha!"

"What have you found?" I asked.

He was in a bedroom, holding up a very small frock. "Proof!"

I rolled my eyes. "It only proves that someone here was very small."

"Why don't you believe your mother?"

"Let's just say, Mother has a habit of spinning tall-tales. You should hear some of her bedtime stories."

"I wish I could. My mother has absolutely no imagination at all."

In a dresser drawer, I found a few modest undergarments. Some small frocks were still hanging in the wardrobe. A tiny bed, neatly made, sat up against one wall. Aside from a few knitted items, the room was sparsely decorated. All in all, it seemed much too austere for a child.

While we were having a look around, someone knocked on the front door.

"Who could that be?" I asked.

"There's only one way to find out," said Leonard.

He was an older man (sixty or so, I'm guessing), very tall, with a long face, thinning hair, and sad, droopy eyes. "Excuse me," he began, "I noticed the carriage outside and…" Stopping mid-sentence, a smile spread across his face. "You must be a Willoughby. I'd recognize those handsome features anywhere."

"You have the advantage of me, sir," I said.

"I beg your pardon. The name is Ben Johnson, a long-time friend of the Sommersbys."

"A friend of the Sommersbys? Why didn't you say so? Come in, come in, and have a seat."

Four sturdy wooden chairs had been set out in the main room. Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, Leonard wiped off three, raising a cloud of dust in the process. With the task complete, we seated ourselves.

"I'm afraid I can't offer you anything," I said.

"Think nothing of it," said Ben. "Which Willoughby child are you, by the way?"

"Geoffrey, the youngest of three. This is my friend Leonard Matheson."

"Happy to make your acquaintance."

We shook hands all around.

"Mr. Johnson," I said, "what brings you here."

"A promise," he said.

"What sort of promise?"

"I promise to Emily."

Leonard and I started. "You know where she is?!"

"Certainly. She's in Barfleur."

"But why? Why Barfleur?"

"She fled fearing the orphanage, and wound up in an orphanage. Ironic, isn't it?"

"Is she still in the orphanage?"

"No, no, she has found a home."

"Is she really a child?" asked Leonard.

"In appearance only, though she can play the part when needed."

A knock came on the door. When I got up to answer it, I found a police officer standing on the stoop. He was tall and lanky. His face was long and thin, and his nose and chin were disproportionately large. Now, my grasp of the French language is sketchy at best, so what follows might not be 100% correct. However, you should get the general idea.

"Excuse me," said the officer, "I received a report of unusual activity…"

Nosy neighbors, I was thinking.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant," said Ben, following close behind me.

Recognizing Ben, the officer spoke to him directly. "Monsieur, you have returned. Did you find success?"

"I did," said Ben, "and she is thriving."

"It is good to know."

"Sergeant," I said, "would you like to come in?"

"Thank you, I would."

Leonard wiped off the other chair, resulting in more flying dust and a series of coughs and sneezes. When the dust settled, the four of us seated ourselves.

"This is Geoffrey Willoughby," said Ben, gesturing with his hand, "and his friend, Leonard Matheson. Geoffrey is Madame Sommersby's grandson. He has come, I am assuming, to see to her estate."

"That is correct," I said, "though I do not know where to start."

"I believe we should start with Emily," said Leonard. "I am anxious to meet her."

"Will you journey to Barfleur?" asked Ben.

"It seems we must," I said.

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Certainly."

"Go by ship, if you can. It's a fortnight journey by coach, and quite cramped and tedious."

"I concur," said the sergeant. "A ship would be a much better option."

"And yet, knowing this," said Ben, "you put Emily on a coach."

"I had my reasons."

"Such as?"

"Monsieur Johnson, I have known many a sailor in my time. Though good fellows, mostly, I could not, in good conscience, trust them with her alone. The coach-driver is known to me, and I trust him. Besides, some fine ladies were traveling along with her."

"But why the rush? Emily was in a panic, I know, she told me, but there was no reason for you to be."

"She has an aunt in Barfleur. Is that not true?"

"Sergeant, how long have you known Emily?"

"All of my life."

"If she had an aunt, would that aunt be alive?"

"Possibly."

"You have known Emily all of your life?" asked Leonard

"Yes," answered the sergeant. "When I was a child, we were the best of friends."

"Do you have any theories regarding…"

"I do, but I keep them to myself."

"What is the talk among the townsfolk?" I asked.

"It depends on who you ask."

"What is the general consensus?"

"You are bound and determined to get it out of me."

"I'm only looking for a general idea. If I am to meet her…"

"Since you insist, I will give you the general consensus. It is this: Emily is a magical being, perhaps a fairy or a pixie."

"Preposterous!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, it is."

Though their advice was sound, Leonard and I had been on our way to Paris. After locking up the cottage, we continued on our journey by coach. Paris, at the time, was going through some major renovations. Buildings were torn down, and the streets were widened, in an attempt to clean up some of the more downtrodden areas. Of course, we only heard about these things second hand. Our little inn was located in a clean and well maintained section of town. The reason we traveled to Paris was the art, music,and opera, and we were not disappointed. After a captivating week, we journeyed to the lovely seaside town of Barfleur.

If you like boats and ships and all things nautical, as I do (when not seasick), you will like Barfleur. Upon our arrival, Leonard and I wandered a bit, taking in the sights, and chatting with folks here and there, as we proceeded to the café where we were to find Emily. A rumble of voices met us as we stepped inside. The place was full and lively. Waiting behind several groups, we perused a large menu which had been posted on the wall. Everything looked tasty. It was hard to decide what to order. When our turn came, a stocky fellow with curly black hair, and a bushy black mustache, led us to a table. He was cheerful, friendly and welcoming. An expressionless waiter, with a rather blasé attitude, took our order. Despite his seeming lack of motivation, the meal came posthaste, and was excellent. While we were enjoying the meal, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a little white bonnet, barely higher than the tables, bobbing and weaving its way through the crowd. When it reached the clearing directly in front of us, a little girl in a plain black dress and white apron appeared and disappeared. Rising from my seat, I followed, catching her up, and tapping her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle," I said, "might you be Emily Charbonneau?"

"Oui, Monsieur," she said, pirouetting gracefully. I found myself staring into the face of a child, smooth and fresh, without blemish or wrinkle, and still possessing what is commonly known as 'baby-fat' in her cheeks and under her tiny chin. Recognition showed in her pretty green eyes. Her jaw dropped in surprise. "Victor? What are you doing here? Is Ruthie with you?"

That settled it. There was no longer any room for doubt. If she mistook me for my father, she must have known him in his youth, for he had grown quite stout.

"I'm Geoffrey," I said. "My father and brother are the Victors."

A sweet smile brought out some cute dimples. "Geoffrey, of course. I remember your letters, and the lovely little paintings."

"Lovely little paintings, eh?" said Leonard, appearing behind me.

Not wishing to talk about certain childish paintings, I asked Emily to join us at our table. She consented willingly. Along the way, she spoke with the man with the curly black hair. He left and returned with a little seat crafted out of wood, placed it onto a chair, and gently lifted Emily into it.

"Jacques," said Emily to the man, "this is Geoffrey Willoughby and…"

"Leonard," said Leonard.

"And Leonard."

"A pleasure," said Jacques.

"Geoffrey is a cousin from…"

"Toronto," I said. "In Canada."

"So far from home," said Jacques.

"On holiday."

"Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you."

With other things to see to, he hurried off.

Leonard nudged me and said, smiling smugly, "What do you say now?"

"I say I'm astonished," I said.

"How are your parents?" asked Emily.

"Fine, fine."

"And Victor and Abigail?"

"Fine as well. Abby was just married. Did you know?"

"No, no, I have not received any news for some time."

"Yes, of course, we found some unopened letters in the cottage."

"I am sorry. I felt I must leave at the time."

"Don't worry," said Leonard. "We found you, and that's all that matters."

"How did you find me?"

I told her of our meeting with Ben Johnson and the sergeant. "Which brings us to the reason for our quest," I said. "What should we do with the cottage and all of the things inside?"

"Did the solicitor not see to that?" she asked.

"It was still the same as you left it."

"Except for the cobwebs," said Leonard.

"And the dust," I added.

"Let me think," said Emily. "I would hate for you to go out of your way."

"We don't mind."

"Have you spoken with the solicitor?"

"We did. He sent us to the cottage."

"I see. As far as I am concerned, you may keep what you like, and donate the rest to the orphanage, or some charity."

"When we return to London, I will let him know."

"Was there nothing you wanted?"

"Nothing for me, but I did pack up a few things for Mother."

"Good. Is there anything else?"

"Yes. There is one more thing."

"Yes?"

"Mother wanted me to ask you: Will you come back with us to Canada?"

Without hesitation, she answered, "No, no, I cannot. It is tempting, of course, but I will not leave Jacques."

"Why? Is he your husband?"

She narrowed her eyes at me. Her little face reddened just a touch. "Is that a joke?"

"Um…"

"I will have you know, Jacques' character is above reproach."

"I didn't mean…"

"He went out of his way to help me, without asking for anything in return."

"You really did it this time," said Leonard.

"But you're old enough to marry," I said, "aren't you?"

"You may have noticed," she said, "people tend to judge according to appearances."

"All the world's a stage," quoted Leonard, "and all the men and women merely players…"

Emily quoted the next line. "They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts."

Continuing on, they alternated lines until the recitation was complete. Leonard was on cloud nine, having discovered another devotee.

"You know Shakespeare?" I asked.

"Of course," she said. "I have attended many performances."

"Performances?" asked Leonard. "In London?"

"Yes."

"We saw King Lear at Covent Garden."

"Was it not thrilling?"

Leonard sighed, "Words cannot express…"

Jacques pulled up a chair, surprising us. His jovial manner had disappeared. Grave concern showed on his face. "My dear," he asked, earnestly, "your family has found you?"

"Geoffrey is a third cousin," was her answer.

"A cousin is a cousin, more family than..."

"No, no, no, Jacques, you are my family."

"But I have no claim…"

"After all you have done for me?"

"What I have done is nothing compared to what you have done for me."

"Now you are being silly; but I love you for it." Emily turned and looked at me. "Do you see why I cannot leave him?"

"I do see," I said. "I will not press you any further, I promise."

"Ruthie will understand. She is a dear, dear lady."

"Yes, she is."

No one, I mean, no one ever called my mother Ruthie. My mind was completely boggled.

"Is there a theater in this city?" asked Leonard.

"Yes," said Emily, "but you will not find Shakespeare."

"No matter."

"There is a performance this weekend," said Jacques. "I read about it in the newspaper. Perhaps you will come with us, and be our honored guests."

"Will you be in town long?" asked Emily.

"Our schedule is open," was my answer.

Throwing the itinerary out the window, Leonard and I remained in Barfleur for a fortnight, thoroughly enchanted by our new found friends, and the lovely seaside town.