The Child Lives On
Chapter Nineteen
The year was nineteen hundred twenty one. Just as autumn was setting in, and the leaves were beginning to change, we threw a dinner party in our home. The weather was pleasant, so the caterers set up tables on the patio. Emily's garden was at the height of its magnificence, rendering additional ornamentation unnecessary - other than candles and elegant table settings. Guests included friends, clients and investors. Ginger ale, tea and coffee were served in lieu of cocktails, which had been outlawed the year before. An elderly, rather heavy-set woman with dark hair and dark eyes approached me as we were mingling before dinner. She introduced herself as Blanche Cumberland.
"It's lovely to see Emily again," she said.
"You know her?" I asked.
"Oh yes. My late-husband brought her over from France."
"Oh?"
"HIs mother was a resident at Sunnydale at the time."
"The madhouse?"
"She was only mildly afflicted, I assure you. Did you know there were two separate sections?"
"I'm really not familiar…"
"It matters not. She was brought over from France to be her companion."
"Why?"
"She thought she was Marie Antionette."
"Who thought she was Marie Antionette?"
"My mother-in-law."
"There are worse things, I suppose. What does this have to do with Emily?"
"Emily is French."
"That much I know."
"And she was such a wonderful little companion too. My mother-in-law adored her."
"Not hard to believe."
"It isn't, is it? She's just so bright and charming."
"When was this?"
"Oh, I'd say around '95 or '96."
I just about choked on an hors d'oeuvre.
This conversation dogged me all night long, even affecting my dreams. The next morning, as Emily and her governess (Margie) were on their way to breakfast, I stopped them and asked them to join me in the study. Margie and I seated ourselves in comfortable leather chairs. At my request, Emily stood next to me. "Show me your hands, please," I said. She held them out to me. I examined them closely. "Soft and warm, without spot or blemish," I murmured, "and so tiny. A child's hands to be sure." Reaching out, I gently touched a chubby cheek. My hands looked unsightly next to her fresh and flawless skin. "How?" I asked. "How have you escaped the ravages of time?"
"Now that you know," she said, "do you want me to leave?"
"And leave me in a world full of gloom and despair?"
"Gloom and despair?"
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I did."
"You did?"
"Mr. B.," said Margie, "may I interject?"
"Certainly," I said.
"She told us, but we passed it off as an overactive imagination."
Stories of English farm life, London society, the French countryside, ocean voyages, and madhouses, came rushing back into my mind. Was all that true? "How long have you known?"
"Frankly, I'm not at all sure just what I know, but last night I had a little chat with a certain Blanche Cumberland."
"As did I."
"As you know, Emily's lack of development has been a concern."
"Of course, we've discussed it often."
"Thus the numerous visits to Dr. Frankenstein," murmured Emily.
"Dr. Frankenstein?" I asked.
"She's joking," said Margie. "His name is Franken."
"Ah."
"Are we assuming Blanche Cumberland's story is true?"
"But Emily…" I began.
"Perhaps we should interview another witness?"
"Do you know of one?"
"It just so happens, I have a name and address."
"Where did you get it?"
"From Blanche Cumberland, of course."
"Who…?" asked Emily.
"Lucy O'Callaghan."
"A Lucy I know, but the surname is unfamiliar to me."
"How far?" I asked.
"Not far at all," said Margie.
"Then what are we waiting for?"
"Do we not have to work?" asked Emily.
"We'll take the morning off."
"We can do that?"
"Of course. I'm the boss."
A few hours later, after breakfast, I parked my Pierce-Arrow in the driveway of a small house in a less affluent part of town. A slender woman, in her late-thirties or early forties, with bright red hair, opened the door when we knocked. When she saw Emily, she shrieked and fell to her knees, embracing Emily and kissing her. Tears flowed freely down her freckled cheeks. "Emily, my little sweetheart," she cried, "I didn't think I would ever see you again." This tender reunion touched my heart. Her love for Emily was genuine.
"Mademoiselle Lucy," said Emily, "did you marry?"
"I sure did," said Lucy, drying her eyes with her apron. "Can you believe it?"
"Why should I not?"
"We won't go into that." Quickly rising, she grabbed Emily's hand, and asked, "Aren't you going to introduce me?"
"Oui," said Emily, gesturing toward us with her free hand. "Monsieur Ogden Brockmeyer, my guardian, and Mademoiselle Margery Steadman, my governess. Madame Lucy O'Callaghan."
"Doesn't that sound grand," said Lucy, with a smile. "Come in, come in, I'll brew up some tea, or perhaps you would prefer coffee."
"Coffee," said Margie and I together, as we followed her inside.
"I will help you," said Emily.
"I think Erin wants to play," said Lucy.
"Erin?"
A shy little girl, with a mop of bright red hair, holding a dolly in her arms, was peeking around a corner.
"Your daughter?" asked Emily.
"Can't you tell?" asked Lucy, with a laugh.
Emily and Erin ran off to play while Margie and I made ourselves comfortable in the living room. Lucy went to the kitchen. When she returned with the coffee, I began the conversation. "Last night we heard the most remarkable story," I said.
"Did you?" asked Lucy, pouring coffee into our cups.
"From Blanche Cumberland," added Margie.
"Ah."
"Lucy," I said, "may I call you Lucy?"
"Please do," she said, taking a seat.
"When did you first meet Emily?"
"About twenty-five years ago. I was a maid at Sunnydale at the time. She swept in and stole our hearts."
"She has a way of doing that."
"Indeed," said Margie.
"Ten years ago," I said, "I found her in the orphanage."
"In the orphanage?" said Lucy. "I thought she was living with the Cumberlands."
"After Blanche's husband was murdered…"
"Murdered?"
"Yes, murdered. After he was murdered, Blanche was, how shall I say this? Cleaning house. And since Emily is not related to her in any way, she looked to find a position which included room and board. An affluent couple with a small child were happy to take Emily in as a tutor. Apparently, it didn't work out. I asked Emily, but she refuses to talk about it."
"And you found her in the orphanage and brought her to your home. How noble."
"Not exactly. It was her knitting that brought us together."
"Ah yes, her knitting. I still have my scarf and sweater, and wear them every winter."
"Some of our most popular items. Emily can't knit them fast enough."
"You can't rush genius."
"And I won't let her work more than six hours a day."
"Admirable. Such kind consideration is rare in the world of business."
"Emily is not your only knitter," said Margie.
"True, true," I said, "but Emily has made a name for herself. My customers will pay top dollar for a genuine Charbonneau sweater."
"I'd better have mine insured," said Lucy.
It was witty quip, in my opinion, so I obliged her with a chuckle. Margie followed suit.
"Has she planted a garden?" asked Lucy.
"Has she ever," I said.
"A garden to rival the Garden of Eden," said Margie.
"While at Sunnydale, she planted one every year," said Lucy. "It was always the most amazing thing. She's got the magic touch, to be sure. I would give anything for just a little bit of that magic. My garden is pathetically embarrassing."
"Perhaps Emily will share some of her magic with you," said Margie.
"What is this about magic?" asked Emily. She and Erin had just reentered the room.
"We were talking about your garden," I said.
"There is no magic. It is simply hard work and attention to detail."
"So said Mozart to the struggling pianist," said Lucy.
"Hardly applicable."
"Not from where I'm sitting."
"My accomplishments are diminished when attributed to magic."
It was like I was hearing her for the first time. "My word!" I exclaimed. "Such a vocabulary!"
"Mr. B.," said Margie, "you've been listening to her for the last ten years."
"But my eyes…"
"Your eyes see child, no bigger than little Erin."
"And my ears hear the words of an educated adult."
"With the voice of a child…"
"It's incongruous."
"Incongruous, indeed," said Emily. "You are most certainly exaggerating."
"Mommy," said Erin, "what are they talking about?"
"They're talking about Emily," said Lucy.
"What are they saying?"
"Emily is a genius."
Emily rolled her eyes, in a cute way.
"What's a genius?" asked Erin.
"Someone smarter than everyone else."
It seems Emily had had enough. She quickly changed the subject.
"Erin," she said, "would you like to come to my house and play with mon chien?"
"With what?" asked Erin.
"Pardon. My dog Jacques."
"You have a dog?"
"I do. He is getting older now, but I am sure he would want to play with you."
The little girl turned her bright blue eyes on her mother and asked, eagerly, "Can I?"
"Certainly," said Lucy. "I would like to come too."
"You can ride with us," I said. "There's plenty of room."
In times past, I was the picture of pragmatism. Fairy-tales and fantasy stories were just that, stories. Now, due to one enchanting little girl, I've had a change of heart. There just might be something to those stories after all.