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Chapter 5, Part 3 ~ A Time to Plant, and a Time to Pluck Up That Which is Planted

Posted on Monday, 7 February 2000, at 7 : 23 p.m.

Author's note: It is the farthest thing from my intent to mock or offend with my portrayal of any character, but, to avoid 'spoiling' any of you here, please read the rest of my remarks at the end of the posting.

For those of you who have wondered about Jenny...

A quiet ensued, during which Beth was filled with many a thought and desire, and many an unspoken question for her companion. This meeting had stirred feelings in Beth she would have been hard put to explain. Yet, what to ask, and how, without betraying her true identity, without arousing suspicions, even, of a previous acquaintance? She longed, above all, suddenly, unexpectedly, to talk of and hear about her mother, from just such a one as Miss Ross. Col Brandon had spoken often, and very fondly, of the elder Eliza, but had been so obviously prejudiced in some areas, while blind and reticent in others. Beth knew really so very little of Eliza Brandon. What manner of person had she been? What had been her likes and dislikes? Of her talents in music, in singing and playing, Beth was almost sick to death of hearing, but what of other things? What had been her thoughts? What had been her hopes and dreams? What had she hoped and dreamt for her daughter? Whom had she loved? Who was Beth's own father? On that subject, Beth had had her own suspicions, but would certainly never dare to open such a discussion. But, these subjects might very well have been the topics of conversation in Mrs Brandon's last days on earth. What more likely, than that Miss Ross had learned many a thing about her patient, and about the colonel, perchance, as well. Beth had often wanted the opinions and views of a third person about her mother. Such a person was now at hand, yet that very person could not be approached on this subject. Beth felt all the weight of her self-imposed secrecy, and the awkwardness of her situation, wished it to be otherwise, and yet was compelled and constrained to keep her silence.

The silence continued between them, and while Miss Ross enjoyed the feel of the sun on her face, the fresh smells of fast-growing flowers and grasses, and the sounds of mid-morning, Beth discarded many a remark or query as soon as ever they came to her lips. Jenny and Miss Rose, moving quite rapidly, had soon outpaced them, leaving them now quite alone on the lane. The silence was then broken, not by Beth and her jumble of thoughts and wishes, but by her companion.

"Miss Beth," she began, "please do not think me impertinent or prying, but I would speak to you while I have this opportunity. Mrs Taylor has told me of your circumstances - only thinking of your health, my dear, for she is by no means a gossip - and I hope you will feel able to come to me any time you may wish to, or have a need to. Any questions you may have, any fears, if you are feeling unwell or uncomfortable in any way, please do ask."

Beth, who had flushed at the beginning of this speech, was now touched. That Miss Ross, and possibly Miss Rose, too, had known of her weakness, and yet had met and spoken with her so kindly, came as a complete surprise, and was a great comfort. Though these two women surely looked as respectable and proper as any two women could - indeed, Miss Rose appeared quite stern at times - Beth had apparently misjudged them when she thought they would be anything less than gracious to her. Perhaps there truly are people who hate the sin but love the sinner, thought Beth, thinking of Mrs Taylor, too, then wondering that this bit of teaching, long scorned as an impractical, irrelevant, pious platitude, would now come to mind. Beth was relieved on yet another score: knowing well, by her own experience, Miss Ross' qualifications as a nurse, she was grateful to have still another person here who would help her bear the trials sure to come.

"Thank you, Miss Ross," she replied, "I promise I shall. It is... very comforting to know you are sti--, that you will be here. Thank you," she repeated, a little flustered at having almost given herself away, though the nurse gave no sign of having noticed anything amiss in Beth's words.

The two continued, with Beth deep in thought, but soon coming to a decision, determined to speak on one subject, at least, which she deemed quite safe to be canvassed. Mindful of the two persons gone on ahead of them, curious about both, but deciding that only one could be inquired of without undue impertinence, she asked, "Miss Ross, will you - can you - tell me about Jenny, why... how... she is, as she is? She is older than I am, I know, and yet she is like a child. How can that be? Was she born thus? Will she always be so?" Her questions, each tumbling out so rapidly one after the other, were all innocence and naiveté, her life not having brought her into contact before with anyone who was less than healthy or whole in mind or body. Miss Ross understood the curiosity, and perhaps the small bit of anxiety? of a young person such as Beth, especially as she herself prepared to bring a new life into the world. Only now, perhaps, had it occurred to her that not every child might be as whole and healthy as all around her heretofore had been. She therefore prepared to answer not only the direct and spoken, but also some of the implied questions posed by the girl.

"As it is no secret, and as Mrs Taylor would, I know, be more than willing to have you know, I will tell you what I know of Jenny. I have known her... let's see, now... yes, it must be almost twenty years. Yes," she repeated, calculating in her mind, "for she came here at about six years of age, and we will mark her twenty-sixth birthday not one month from now. Well now, Jenny was born - most likely, for we are not sure - in London. But, to set the scene," she added, with a smile, "for I should not make it a proper story, though a true one, otherwise, I should begin with the happenings here in Auldbridge. Twenty years ago, Mr Taylor died, leaving Mrs Taylor a widow after only six months of marriage. It was a tragic time for many in the village. Lord Auldbury lost his wife and only children, and many others died or were affected as well; Rose lost her eyesight then. The Taylors had no children, and Joanna - Mrs Taylor - felt it keenly. They had so looked forward to having a family of their own; but, it was not to be."

"At just about that time, Betsey Carter, as she then was, married Mr Stough, and moved to London. Not long after, they found a small girl sleeping on their doorstep one morning, very dirty, with nothing but a ragged coat and a ragged doll with her. Upon waking her, they noticed she was not quite what they would have expected from a child they took to be at least four years old, thin and small though she was. Inquiries in the neighborhood revealed that she had been seen here and there for several months, but always alone. She had been given scraps of food by kindly folk, but no one had claimed her. Betsey consulted a doctor about the girl, who spoke barely a word, but often said 'Jenny,' which all then assumed to be her name. The doctor determined her to be about six years of age, and what is called 'simple.' Finding no evidence of an injury or disease, she was most likely born so - it does happen from time to time. It appeared that she had been abandoned, that she was alone in the world."

"How terrible! But how could someone leave such a child alone, Miss Ross?" cried Beth, now deeply engrossed and much affected by this tale, horrified at the thought of such a young child, so helpless, being left in so large a town, at the mercy of any who passed her, with no shelter, no protection, no provision for the future, and with not enough wits to fend for herself.

"We do not know the circumstances, Miss Beth. I certainly agree; it was a terrible thing to do, to have happen. We can only speculate as to the reasons. Perhaps her parents died or became ill; perhaps her mother was left alone, and feeling herself overwhelmed with such a child, left her. Perhaps she had no acknowledged father, her mother being unmarried. Perhaps both parents," here Miss Ross' voice hardened uncharacteristically, "realizing, or perhaps just then learning, that Jenny would never be a normal child, would never grow to have a home and family of her own, would be a responsibility and burden to them for all their lives, decided to leave her, hoping she would be taken in by someone, or perhaps," her voice and face became equally grim, "hoping she would die."

"How could anyone wish such a thing? How could anyone with a heart, do so?" asked a shaken Beth, almost in a whisper, her face drained of all colour, confronted for the first time by the possibility of such callous behavior by rational, civilized people. She was deeply shocked at this unadorned statement of any parent, of any human being, consciously, purposely, leaving another to die, and that other, a helpless, defenseless child. Her own mother, though ill and destitute, in desperate straits, had not allowed her daughter to be separated from her.

"I, too, cannot understand it, my dear, but it does happen, more often than you can imagine, and in many parts of the world - some, even, where it is an accepted part of the culture. 'The heart is desperately corrupt and deceitful above all things; who can understand it?' indeed." Miss Ross spoke quietly, almost wonderingly. "But," continuing her narrative in a more cheerful tone, "Jenny had been found. The Stoughs were soon expecting their first child, and did not feel able to cope with Jenny as well, although Betsey was willing to try. When Mrs Taylor heard of this, through Mr Carter, and Mr Johnson, her brother, she begged to have Jenny herself, to raise her here, as her own daughter. And, it has proved a wonderful thing!" A brilliant smile now lit her face, banishing all grimness and sadness. "Jenny loves Joanna very much, and is herself much loved in the village. She loves everyone, even mere acquaintances, so completely, and has such loyalty and unprejudiced friendship for those she knows and trusts, which is remarkable considering her experiences, and how she may have been treated as a small child."

"Jenny has also been able to learn much more than we expected - very slowly - but we have seen changes over the years. When she came, she had the abilities of a two or three year old child, at best; now they are more those of a six or seven year old. Then, she still soiled herself; she ate with her fingers; she could not dress herself, and was quite awkward with the use of her hands for anything. Now, she can take care of all personal things for herself, wash and dress herself, comb her hair. You have seen already, I am sure, how well she helps in the house, and how careful and gentle she is with her own dolls. She makes mistakes still, now and then, but so do we all! She does simple mending; she likes to draw, and can even form letters and numbers, though she does not well understand what they mean, and she has a remarkable memory! She still remembers Betsey as her first friend, though they've not met above twice since Jenny came here. At first Joanna kept Jenny always with her, even taking her to the post office each day, tending to her and teaching her whenever she had a free moment. Jenny was, for many months, very fearful to be out of Joanna's sight at all, but, over the years, she has come to trust and learn from others as well. She and Rose, as you can surely see, and have surely heard," was added with an amused grin, "have developed a very special attachment and friendship. Lord Auldbury, too, has always been attentive and kind to her, perhaps in memory of his own daughter, who would have been just Jenny's age. Joanna, wisely perhaps, leaves her entirely alone with only a few persons, though, and then only for brief periods of time. She does not wish to frighten Jenny, nor to impose a burden on others. She has made many sacrifices for Jenny, most of which Jenny will never see, nor understand, nor be able to appreciate and acknowledge. For Joanna, however, Jenny's love and complete and unwavering trust is enough. To see such a frail and unwanted flower, transplanted, nurtured and cared for - to see it slowly, ever so slowly, develop and blossom in its own way - has been a most precious thing, indeed!"

Beth was silent some minutes, thinking over this sad, yet happy tale, then asked suddenly, "You spoke of her birthday; if you do not know when she was born, how can you mark her birthday?"

Miss Ross smiled, and replied, "Joanna decided that the day Jenny came to Auldbury should be her birthday - when she was adopted into a new life."

"What a nice idea!" exclaimed Beth, examining it and finding it a pleasing notion. After a few moments, another, less happy thought struck her.

"But, if Jenny will never be able to leave home, what will happen to her when... if... Mrs Taylor is ill, or... or when she dies?" asked Beth, her own mother's early death in her mind, and foreseeing another abandonment in Jenny's future. "Where will she go? What will happen to her? Surely she could not live alone!"

"No, that can never be, but it is of no concern. Betsey would be willing to take Jenny in, now that they are so well settled, but Joanna would rather not see Jenny in town, where there are those who would ridicule or take advantage of her, where she would not know or recognize anyone, or anything, and where the air is not so healthy. One of her nephews here in the country, Lucas Johnson's son, has offered and promised to take her into his household whenever it becomes necessary, which, please God, will not be for a very long time, yet. He and his wife, and now several children, live at Deepwell Farm, as tenants of Lord Auldbury, and have known Jenny from their own childhood, and she them. She will be well taken care of and loved for as long as she lives, by this generation as well as the next, who also love their Aunt Jenny, though already understanding that she is not quite like other Aunts."

"How wonderful!" cried Beth, "and how generous of them!" She thought of the story she had been told, the touching history exemplifying both the best and the worst of human love and generosity and sacrifice. This child, unwanted and despised because of its imperfections, had been sought and adopted from afar by a complete stranger. She had been brought into a home where, though making only little progress, and ever far from perfect, she had the assurance that she would never again be abandoned, and would be loved all her life. This tale cheered Beth, and raised Mrs Taylor, already high in her estimation, even higher. How much Mrs Taylor had given up in taking Jenny in: any amount of privacy or time of leisure, any second chance at marriage most likely, for it would have been a most unusual man, indeed, who would have taken on a daughter like Jenny, for the rest of his own natural life.

Beth thought, as well, of how dearly she herself had been loved by her uncle, how willing he had been to care for her when she had been left an orphan. Would someone do as much for her child, should the need arise? Would her uncle continue to love her, if he knew she had done so much to shame him? How much easier to love an innocent like Jenny, than someone who had willfully ruined his own life! What would her own child be like? Would it be normal and healthy, or something less? What would she do? Where would she go, where live? All these ideas and questions now churned in her mind, each taking precedence for a short while only to give place to the next, equally disquieting, thought.

Miss Ross, seeing her young companion distressed, and attributing it simply to the normal concerns of a young woman soon to bear her first child, upon hearing such a tale, decided to begin another topic to distract, and help, this young woman. She hoped to plant some ideas in this young mind, healthy and whole as it was, which would take root, and be of benefit to Miss Beth herself, as well as to those around her.

Author's Note, cont'd: Jenny is, what was called when I was growing up, mentally retarded, and has what is now recognized as Down's Syndrome. Her character, and those around her in Auldbridge who love and care for her, are dedicated in honor of, and in some cases, in memory of, the real 'Jenny' in my life, her friends and family, who have taught me so very much, and from whom I have yet much to learn!

Chapter 5, Part 4 ~ A Time to Plant, and a Time to Pluck Up That Which is Planted

Posted on Thursday, 10 February 2000, at 5 : 42 a.m.

Though Beth was disturbed for a time, after hearing of Jenny's history, and by all the thoughts it had raised regarding her own situation and future, it was not in her nature to be given to long periods of introspection and contemplation, or worry. Serious and distressing thoughts remained only briefly in Beth's heart and mind, and were easily dispelled by other distractions and diversions, as she was more than willing to believe that all things would arrange themselves in due time.

The days passed pleasantly, for the most part, during the first several weeks after Beth's arrival in the village. The fresh air, healthy fare and plentiful exercise, as well as the simple passage of time, were proving beneficial, and had united in reviving Beth completely from her previous discomfort.

She had fallen into a pleasant routine with the Taylors; to both Mrs. Taylor and Jenny she had become 'Beth,' as she was uncomfortable with the more proper address of 'Miss,' in such a small family circle. To Jenny she had become as a sister, and, as such, a person with whom all good things were to be shared. Beth was relieved to find that, though younger than Jenny, she was not expected to be her playmate, or to be always in her company. Miss Ross had eased her mind on that score, assuring Beth that Mrs. Taylor, though saddened sometimes at seeing children grow up with, and then past, Jenny, in abilities and interests, understood that this was inevitable, and did not expect or demand former playmates of hers to remain as such. Mrs. Taylor had welcomed Beth into her home as an adult, whether or not Beth felt she was deserving of such an attention and courtesy, and so she continued to be treated.

With Hannah she had formed a warm friendship, and they worked together each morning, Hannah giving her hints as to the easiest and best ways to do many unfamiliar household tasks, which made their time together fly by most agreeably. Beth in her turn regaled Hannah with tales of her earlier schooling, and the pranks and mischief sometimes indulged in by the schoolgirls, leaving Hannah wide-eyed in disbelief at the antics possible when time hung heavily on the hands and minds of lively young girls. More recent history was left untold, however, and Hannah did not ask what she felt would not be welcome. Beth had also met Mr. Burns, Hannah's father, who, though now old and in poor health, was a source of great pride to Hannah. He had worked as chief carpenter to the present Lord Auldbury, and to his father before him, and was still spoken of as the best of craftsmen in all he had done. Hannah, the youngest of nine children, was now the only one remaining at home, and was much loved and doted on by her father. Beth smiled, and ached a little in her heart, to see such a relationship between father and daughter, conscious of never having had quite such an easy time with her uncle, though being much loved by him, and realizing that her own child, whether a son or a daughter, would most likely have nothing of the kind.

On the several Sundays, Beth had begged to stay home from the worship service which the Taylors attended regularly, pleading fatigue, although it was in truth disinterest and disinclination, and also some trepidation at being in the eyes of so many people at once, in such a setting. She had spent those mornings quietly, taking walks through the meadows behind the village, near the river. Passing behind the church, she had been surprised to hear singing, exuberant and heartfelt, if not of the most excellent standard. She had never before heard much music - let alone of such a joyous and uninhibited nature - from worshippers before, her previous experience being limited to a staid parish where exhortations to duty and moral outward behavior had been presented as being of the greatest importance in one's life, the reasons behind such behavior being incidental, of lesser importance.

On other days, at Miss Ross' suggestion, Beth had begun to help Mrs. Taylor in several ways, as much to keep herself busy as to help her feel she was earning her keep to some small extent, and to show her gratitude. Mrs. Taylor, occupied as she was with so many things already, had less time to work in her garden than she might have liked. For a time, at least, this was an activity recommended to Beth, and she fell to it with vigour, if not with much skill. Weeding, as a duty, was soon forbidden her - on the pretext of its being too strenuous - after a morning during which she had handily thrown out promising young carrots, while leaving pretty, frilly-leaved weeds to grow.

On this fine mid-week day, sitting back on her heels and looking with satisfaction at the neat rows of plants now nodding their blossoms and leaves with the help of the breeze, she was about to plant the last of Mrs. Taylor's cuttings, and was pleased and proud to see the work of her hands growing and flourishing before her eyes. She anticipated, even now, the harvest to come, the good things that would fill their table and grace their rooms later in the summer and fall. Beth had never given much thought to where the food she ate came from, how the posies she had often worn were grown, or of the work that went into their production and preparation. Tiring work she owned it to be, but well worth the effort, for the satisfaction and beauty it yielded. Such work she would have once disdained as being beneath her station as a lady; she now welcomed it, to occupy her time, and to pay her debts. If it worked any other change in her, she herself was as yet unaware of it.

As she worked, Beth found herself humming several of the songs she had heard on her Sunday morning walks. Her voice was pleasant and true, though little trained, and she was unaware how far the sweet tones were being carried by the breeze, to greet a nearing wanderer. As she leaned forward to place yet another seedling into the ground, she was much startled to hear a deeper voice adding a harmony to her tune. She lost her balance and would have fallen, but for the strong hand which gently caught and steadied her. She looked up with a start to see a stranger: a tall man, of muscular build, with light brown hair waving about his tanned face, no hat being in evidence to curb its unruly tendencies. His deep grey eyes looked to be as startled as hers, and were fixed on her, as if taking in the minutest details of her appearance, but, more than that, even looking into her mind, as if to know her without having spoken a word. He looked to be about thirty years of age. Several months ago, Beth would have been all lively curiosity to examine this man's appearance and to engage him in flirtatious speech, but the intervening time had given her cause for learning some small degree of caution and reserve. Even so, Beth thought enough to find this man handsome, though she was quite sure that her bosom friend, Cecily, would not be of the same opinion. Though equally romantic and sentimental in their sensibilities, their tastes in gentlemen's forms and features had never been the same.

This gentleman, at length finishing his scrutiny of her, and enduring her curious but less penetrating look with equanimity, smiled and drew back his hand, saying, "I'm very sorry to have frightened you, miss. I thought you were Mrs. Taylor - I heard you humming some of her favorite melodies, and meant to tease her a little with my poor second - or I would have called out to warn you. I also thought that I recognized her favorite gardening hat. I had not thought to see it on any other head. Please forgive me!" His smile was warm and engaging, his manner easy, yet respectful.

With an answering smile, Beth accepted the hand offered, as he assisted her to her feet. She removed her gloves and brushed them off on her apron, before looking up at him again, and replying, "You did come rather quietly, sir, but it is no matter. If you are looking for Mrs. Taylor, I believe she may yet be in the parlour, though she is soon to return to the village."

"Thank you, miss." Making no movement to go, however, and looking at Beth again, he added, "I believe you must be Mrs. Taylor's guest, are you not? Allow me to introduce myself properly: Michael Grahame, at your service, mademoiselle!" Sweeping his right arm in front of him, he made her a gallant bow, and grinned, betraying a dramatic style which made him all the more interesting in Beth's eyes.

"I am Beth Will--, Willison," she returned, with a curtsey, not quite the equal of his bow in ceremony, but endowed with as much grace as she could summon.

"If you are returning to the house, may I join you, and help you with your basket? I regret I cannot carry it alone, but I can certainly take one side."

At his remark, Beth looked at him again, and, with shock, now noticed that his left sleeve, which was tucked into a pocket, hung, limp and empty, from his shoulder. He has only one arm! she thought, and stood, momentarily motionless. She flushed as she realized her rudeness, and quickly bent to hide her confusion, while grasping both handles of her basket. "There is no need, sir; it is not heavy at all, especially now all the plants have been emptied," she said, swinging the basket easily to her side and starting on the path to the cottage.

They walked side-by-side, with no conversation between them at first. The silence was awkward on Beth's part. She felt badly for having betrayed such surprise and shock at his full appearance, and was at a complete loss as to what subject might be safely, and without artifice, brought up at this time. Her one coherent thought was that Cecily would doubtless not find this man well-looking, or attractive at all! She had always expressed a horror of anyone deformed or maimed in any way.

For his part, Mr. Grahame was by now accustomed to every possible reaction to his person, by all manner of people. He had become resigned to the fact that many looked on him with revulsion or pity - or so he thought. In truth, his engaging smile, his amiable manner, and unexpectedly graceful way of movement made most forget his disfigurement soon after meeting him. He now began conversing, as was his wont, by drawing out his companion.

"I hear you are come from London not long ago, Miss Willison. I hope you are enjoying your time here. We think our village one of the best parts of England, so, of course, we expect you to think the same," he began, with a captivating grin.

"Please, sir, call me Miss Beth, as everyone else does. Miss Willison puts me in mind of an old spinster lady who sits and sips tea all day." This request rolled off Beth's tongue as well-rehearsed as it in actuality was. Beth had already once or twice been caught in inattention when addressed as Miss Willison, and had therefore determined to request a manner of address from all her new acquaintances to which she would more readily be able to answer. At his nodded consent, she continued, "Yes, I have come from town, but find Auldbridge a good deal more pleasant. It's so wonderfully peaceful here, and clean and fresh, and Mrs. Taylor has been so very kind. I can say this with no feelings of compulsion, sir, I assure you, nor of having said less than the truth," she added, with a saucy grin to answer his. She had, apparently, conveniently forgotten her disdain at a similar peacefulness at her home in Dorsetshire, frequently expressed over the previous several years, to anyone who would listen, as the epitome of boredom, and her longing, equally frequently expressed, to be in London, where diversions and amusements of every sort were to be anticipated and enjoyed. But, such feelings were slowly giving way to others, supplanted in a heart being gradually softened by her circumstances and surroundings.

"So, you are not a one for town? Have you lived there long? Do you have family there, or elsewhere nearby, perhaps?"

"N-no, not long," stammered Beth, her grin fading, as the questions were becoming quickly uncomfortable for her. To her immense relief, they were just arrived at the door of the cottage, and Beth smiled nervously as she entered the door, opened and held for her by her new acquaintance. "Please excuse me, sir, I must put these things away and wash, before I do anything else." Hurrying away, even forgetting to offer to call Mrs. Taylor for him, she did not see Mr. Grahame's eyes gazing after her in deep thought, nor the look on his face as he continued into the house, on his way to find Mrs. Taylor.

Later that day, after a quiet supper, Mrs. Taylor and Beth were enjoying their time together in the parlour, as they had fallen into the habit of doing nearly every day, Mrs. Taylor knitting or busying herself with mending, and Beth occupied with the paper she had begged of her hostess not long after her arrival in Auldbridge. The older woman asked abruptly, "And how do you find our vicar, my dear?"

Startled out of her thoughts, which had been fixed on her handsome new acquaintance of the day - who he might be, of what sort of occupation, what the story behind his person might be, whether he might be married - Beth replied, "Who? Oh, I am afraid I have not yet met him, ma'am."

Smiling, the older woman returned, "Oh, but you did, just this afternoon. You did meet Mr. Grahame, did you not?"

"That was the vicar?" cried Beth, in astonishment. "But... but he is so young, and... and well-looking. And he smiles and teases and sings!" she added, almost accusingly. "And he wears no hat!"

"And what did you expect? Someone old, dressed all in black, and sombre as a hanging judge, with no conversation but to quote from dusty tomes of pious wisdom?"

As this was almost exactly what Beth had expected of all men associated with the church, she searched hurriedly for some more rational and reasonable manner of explanation for her objections. "Well... I suppose I have never met a clergyman before who seemed so... so... human and good-natured, as if he actually liked common people, as if he had faults and dreams just like the rest of us!"

"But clergymen are human, my dear; they are usually common people themselves, and do have faults and dreams, bad times and good times - even if some do not wish to acknowledge them - just as everyone else does. They are no different than you or I."

"But..." The girl stopped, realizing she had had a firm idea planted and fixed in her mind, which, it now seemed, must be uprooted, to allow something else, something far more intricate, and perhaps... more pleasant, in its place.

Silence reigned for a time, while Mrs. Taylor concentrated on her stitches, sometimes mouthing numbers to herself, and while Beth mused about what she had seen and thought and heard. Then, suddenly remembering the magnificent vicarage garden, which she had so often admired in passing, she asked, in obvious perplexity, "How on earth does he manage in his garden? How can he possibly do so much with only one arm? It is so beautiful, and must require a great deal of care!"

Mrs. Taylor smiled, as she replied, "It does that, but the care is due to a great many people, almost everyone in the parish, in fact. Mr. Grahame, from his first days among us, has shown so much genuine care and concern for all here - each one of his 'flock' - not only on Sundays, but in his manner and deeds at all times - in circumstances difficult as well as joyous - that, one by one, families began to show their appreciation in return, through labouring at that which he can not. Everyone has decided this to be a most equitable exchange. Where he is in need, and weak, others can help, and where they are in need, and weak, there he is able to exercise the gifts which he has been given, in words of healing and hope, as well as, sometimes, of admonishment and correction," she added, smiling privately, as if recalling some amusing scene in particular.

Reflecting on this unusual arrangement, and the affection it displayed, Beth was quiet for a time. Then she spoke again, her curiosity further aroused, "Was he born with only one arm? He seems so much at ease, and moves so well. Is he married, or does he live quite alone? How can he dress himself, or... or do anything at all for himself?"

Inwardly amused at the interest the girl was showing in their vicar, Mrs. Taylor continued to answer her questions patiently, and with good humour. "He was not born so, although he did lose his arm some time ago - about twelve years ago now - so he has had time to become accustomed to his loss, and to adapt his life and habits. He is not married. Several of the boys in the village have each taken their turn, since Mr. Grahame came here, serving and helping him in the vicarage. It has served as good training for them, as well as being useful to him. There is also a woman who serves as cook, who lives nearby, and does other tasks for him as well, though you might be surprised at how much he has taught himself to do."

Beth's next query came more hesitantly. "How... how did he lose his arm? Did it have something to do with his becoming a clergyman?" As Mrs. Taylor looked up from her work at this question, and was seemingly in thought as to how she might best answer it, Beth settled more comfortably into her chair, expecting some interesting tale, sure that her companion would know all about it. Perhaps there was some romance involved; perhaps Mr. Grahame - such a handsome man - had fought a duel over a beautiful lady, and as a result of losing the duel, and his arm, and being disappointed in love as well, had turned to the church in sorrow or despair. Perhaps... While her mind jumped from one possibility to another, each more fanciful than the last, her hopes for such an interesting history were soon dashed.

Mrs. Taylor, resuming her knitting once again, and, looking down at the work in her hands, answered. "Well, as to that - it is not my story to tell. If you wish to know, you must ask him yourself, sometime," she suggested, looking up once more with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Oh, I could never do that!" cried Beth, much disappointed with this response, and aghast at the thought of asking a clergyman, of all people, such a question.

"Whyever not?" asked Mrs. Taylor, with an impish grin belying her years, on her face. "He does not mind in the least talking about it. As a matter of fact, he credits it with changing his life in many ways for the better, perhaps even saving it."

Astonished that someone could find good in anything so horrible as losing an arm, and most likely in some terrible manner, Beth's curiosity grew, and her determination to learn this history began to outweigh her embarrassment and scruples at the topic, or the object. She decided to ask, as Mrs. Taylor suggested, when the appropriate opportunity presented itself. Truth be told, the thought of becoming better acquainted with this particular gentleman, whether such an acquaintance included his history or not, was an appealing one! Attending Sunday services might also be a more rewarding exercise than she might have otherwise thought, and Beth was now determined to mend her ways in that regard as soon as possible. If nothing else, his figure and voice would be well worth looking at and listening to, whatever he happened to speak of! Perhaps she might then also see whether he paid any woman any particular attentions. Perhaps Hannah might do for him. Beth's fancies began to weave a romance for these two amiable young persons. With his having only one arm, and her lameness - which did not seem to be at all improving, Beth had noticed - it would be quite a suitable match. Hannah, with her cheerful and humble manner of service, would be ideally fitted for a parson's wife, even though being so very plain. Yes... a very suitable match, indeed!

Chapter 5, Part 5 ~ A Time to Plant, and a Time to Pluck Up That Which is Planted

Posted on Saturday, 12 February 2000, at 1 : 56 p.m.

The seed of an idea had been sown; it would not lie quietly dormant, but was persistent in making its presence felt, and insistent in demanding the attentions of water and sustenance; in its urgency to sprout and grow, it gave Lord Auldbury no rest.

Though having several conveyances of various sorts at his disposal - to say nothing of the saddle horses excellently trained and kept at the ready by Stephen - the Earl of Auldbury, still blessed with good health, often preferred walking as his chosen mode of travel, at least for the relatively short distances around his own estate and neighborhood. And so it was on this afternoon, though grey and dreary as to atmosphere, yet still dry - the darkly threatening clouds overhead holding fast their cargo for the present - that he set off toward the village to seek a possible site for this tenacious seed to be grounded and established. As he walked, he rejoiced yet again in his homecoming, and took great pleasure in examining the grounds and buildings he passed, noting the growth of trees and shrubs, the planting of new fields, and all alterations, however small, that had occurred during his most recent absence. He greeted tenants and other villagers with courtesy as they met, they bowing low in deference to his position, he marveling at the growth of children - some having grown almost past recognition, and past his own respectable height! - being saddened at the sight of infirmities come upon some other of his neighbors, and always with a kind or cheerful word to all, young or old, rich or poor. An onlooker would have been hard-pressed to name him a gentleman of great means by his manner.

As he entered the village and neared its center, he found himself suddenly accosted by a bustle of skirts and a large flopping, overly-trimmed hat, enveloping a short, plump woman, some years younger than he, who greeted him most effusively, curtseying impossibly low, then struggling to rise again, and asking after his welfare most solicitously. He answered in kind, though with more restraint, then, having long experience with Mrs. Gilbert, waited patiently for the questions and requests to come, as they inevitably and invariably did.

"My lord, how good, how very good it is to have you returned to us again," she began, with a gushing and fawning manner he found difficult to bear with equanimity. "We had almost despaired of you coming home again, what with your adventures, and the dangers you encountered! Do tell, my lord, however did you manage to escape the clutches of those gypsies? It must have been a most distressing incident to you! We have heard all about it, and marveled that you survived!"

Struggling not to show his amusement, nor his annoyance, at this, one of the more benign of the usual, exaggerated tales surrounding his travels, the Earl coughed, covering his mouth with his hand while arranging his face in a more suitable expression, then replied, "Well, it was in fact not so very distressing an experience, Mrs. Gilbert. We were quite well treated, and managed to leave in a timely manner, none the worse for wear." He smiled inwardly as he thought of the magnificent handcrafts they had in actuality left with - at a very reasonable and just price - those, and the rumours of a very fine violin being in possession of one of the gypsy families, having been the impetus for the Earl's seeking them out in the first place. He had long been searching for a particular instrument, celebrated for its exceptional clarity of tone, and had received word of it being to be found with one particular family. The rumour had, unhappily, turned out to be just that, but the music provided the gypsies' guests on the instruments which had been there, had proved well worth the effort of making the acquaintance, a privilege hard-won, and not granted to many outside the tight-knit communities of these wandering peoples. "We saw some beautiful examples of craft- and artwork, as well--"

While endeavoring to skirt the issue gracefully, he had unwittingly provided his listener with just the opening she sought, to begin on another subject near and dear to her heart, interrupting him with, "Oh - you saw artwork, my lord? Surely it could not compare with what our young Ralph is capable of, if only he had the opportunity for training, of course, my lord. Have you time, perhaps, to view what he has done most recently?" she asked, all eager expectation and hopefulness. "We would take it so kindly, my lord, understanding, of course, the many demands on your lordship's time already. I'm quite, quite sure, however, that you would find it most interesting and rewarding, my lord."

Lord Auldbury found himself, as usual, struggling with opposing feelings of pity and distaste, with pity winning out for this woman, who set all her hopes on this one son, now eighteen years of age, the only child remaining out of six who had been born. She fancied him very artistically gifted; at each visit of the Earl, he had heard of a different skill at which the lad purportedly excelled, the efforts at which he had always been importuned to view. Each time, he had acquiesced graciously, only to find, on close scrutiny, that the work fell far short of anything which would at all compare with others truly gifted in those areas. Average, at best, examples of painting, woodcarving, and sculpture had all been viewed in turn. What had it been four years ago? Pottery? Lord Auldbury brought his hand up once more to hide the mirth he could barely suppress at the memories of young Ralph's turn at the potter's wheel. He had not been able to decide where the more intriguing shapes, colors and textures of clay had rested, whether in the misshapen items so proudly exhibited by Mrs. Gilbert on a table, or whether in the lad's still-bespattered hair, or on his still-bespeckled hands. What a sight! What has he been doing now, I wonder? He suspected it would, once again, be a waste of time, but, he would, once again, oblige her; perhaps, this time, there would be some truth to the assertions. Truth or no, it was past time for the young man to be settling down in some trade or other, whether his father's, or something else, be it artistic or prosaic. The Earl made a note to himself to speak with Josiah and Lucas, should the boy be in need of, and suited to, a position which could be found at the Hall or on its grounds. He now answered this devoted, and most probably deluded, mother's pleas, by agreeing to come, the very next day, to see what works Ralph had executed recently, to please Mrs. Gilbert, and to determine to what use the boy might best be put, to satisfy the better aim of settling this young man in a work to which he was fitted, and where the chances for success and satisfaction would be substantially increased.

Lord Auldbury extricated himself with difficulty from further conversation with Mrs. Gilbert - she persisting in following his every attempt at a parting bow with an equally courteous curtsey, all the while embarking on new topics of conversation, or renewed questions about his journeys, all requiring some sort of response from the Earl in order not to be utterly rude. He bowed politely at every available pause, and, turning farther aside after each bow, finally ignored the last curtsey, justifying it with the thoughts of the further curtseys and courtesies to be endured when his promise to visit her son would be realized on the morrow.

He continued on his way, seeking to view properties he had had information of which were to let, or for sale. He was searching for something very particular, not too large, not too small, not too close to the village, neither too far away, not too fine, yet not too shabby - in short, something which might very well not exist! But, he was determined to find a home for this nagging little seed which would give him no respite.

As he passed though the village, he noted one face which was not familiar to him, that of a young woman. This was one face which defied his attempts to place it within a family belonging to Auldbridge or its environs, and he was surprised and a little chagrined that any child should have changed so very much out of all recognition over the past several years, but it was obviously so. He greeted her courteously, nonetheless, as he had done all others this day, and continued his walk.

Beth looked back on the older gentleman who had just made her a polite bow, and wondered who he might be. Pleasantly though not richly dressed, he carried himself with an air of authority and ease. Perhaps this was Mrs. Taylor's brother, Mr. Johnson, whom she had not yet met, she mused, and fancied she saw a passing familiarity in his countenance. Although not close enough to hear what had passed between the gentleman and Mrs. Gilbert, she wondered at the man's forbearance with her, as she had obviously detained him from his business, and most likely on some silly pretext or other!

The evening had proved an unexpected one for Beth, quite a revelation, in fact, as well as an agreeable diversion. As she made preparation to retire, she found herself reviewing the events of the day, and continuing to benefit from the evening's pleasant surprise, thinking she would hardly be able to sleep after such an occasion.

Not long after supper, before Jenny had retired, a knock had been heard. Assuming it to be Miss Ross, or perhaps Hannah, who sometimes returned in the evening with something from her father, or for something to be taken him, Beth had willingly run to answer it, only to be taken aback upon finding an older gentleman upon the doorstep, the same one whom she had met earlier while walking about the village. Upon his entering, and asking for Mrs. Taylor, she had not had time to show him far, when Mrs. Taylor herself had appeared and curtseyed low, greeting the gentleman easily as 'my lord.' She had then introduced him to Beth as Lord Auldbury, Beth all at once becoming timid and awkward at this, her first meeting with an Earl. He had made some joking remark about understanding why he had not been able to place her with any family known to him upon seeing her earlier in the day, and of being pleased to meet her. He had addressed several other remarks to her, which had further discomposed and tongue-tied Beth. She was astonished to find such attentions, with such affability and condescension, directed at her, and was completely unsure of what and how much was to be said by one such as herself to one such as his lordship.

They, with Jenny, who had likewise been greeted cheerfully and familiarly by the Earl, had all retired to the parlour and partaken of tea. Mrs. Taylor and the Earl had discussed some small matters regarding the post, surprising Beth anew, that such a great man would involve and interest himself in matters of relative unimportance, but what had followed had astonished Beth all the more. She had not noticed the bundle brought by his lordship, which he had then opened to reveal an old violin. He had also brought out some sheets of music, offering a number of them to Mrs. Taylor. Turning with a sheepish grin to Beth, he had begged her pardon for importuning her to listen, but he had just received some music which he had been impatiently awaiting for some weeks now, and which he could not wait another day to hear performed. The older woman had moved readily to her instrument, a square pianoforte, and, opening it, had played a gay tune to warm and loosen her fingers. Beth had listened with interest. She had heard of Mrs. Taylor's talent in playing, but had not yet had the opportunity of hearing her. Seating herself quietly in a corner, she had prepared to listen to whatever would follow.

After tuning his own instrument to the pianoforte with a few skillful turns of the pegs, Lord Auldbury and Mrs. Taylor had begun to play. Beth had listened in awe, and growing pleasure. She had not known what to expect - perhaps some pieces to show off the skills of the performers, perhaps no skill at all on his lordship's part, with only indulgence by Mrs. Taylor of the whims of a very wealthy acquaintance and patron. What she had heard had entranced her and carried her off to a place where only the music existed, where the melodies had woven a spell and told a tale, from which she had been loath to return. The two performers had played for quite some time, with great feeling and true proficiency. They had begun with the new pieces brought by Lord Auldbury, all recently composed - according to his lordship's conversation with Mrs. Taylor - by a great musician who was now growing deaf. How sad! But, only imagine, had thought Beth, writing music one cannot hear! How could such be possible? It had proved to be quite possible, and quite beautiful, nonetheless. They had moved on to some music which had seemed familiar to Beth, and yet unfamiliar. As she closed her eyes, the better to concentrate on the tunes themselves, she recalled where she had heard them before. Col Brandon had several times taken her to hear operas performed in London. Performances of music by the renowned Herr Mozart had been an especial favorite with him; melodies had apparently been taken from these masterpieces, and been adapted for the violin to portray the various voices, and the pianoforte, the orchestra. So skillfully had this been done that Beth could almost see the stories unfolding again in her mind's eye. From the grand to the humble, there had followed simple folk tunes, which had sounded no less beautiful, no less heartfelt, than the sonatas and arias preceding them.

Noticing the time at last, Mrs. Taylor, with Lord Auldbury adding his voice, had begged Beth's pardon for neglecting her so long. Beth had assured them that she had felt no neglect, only the keenest enjoyment, and had thanked them, but had then excused herself to retire, realizing that Jenny had apparently disappeared some time before, unnoticed by the others. Lord Auldbury and Mrs. Taylor had continued to play together, albeit very softly then, for some time longer.

Before readying herself for bed, Beth gazed out her window, at the moon shining full in the sky, and the clouds drifting before and around it, sometimes reflecting its glow, sometimes covering it completely. She heard Mrs. Taylor playing alone now, a haunting piece, which swelled and dimmed while telling a fairy-like tale. As she lay down, the melody drifted through the cottage, quieting her spirit, and lulling her to sleep. Her last waking thought was of this music: It is like a fantasy of moonlight itself...

Chapter 5, Part 6 ~ A Time to Plant, and a Time to Pluck Up That Which is Planted

Posted on Wednesday, 16 February 2000, at 11 : 48 a.m.

"I think you'll be pleased with this, Guv'nor." Tim's voice carried an unmistakable tone of pride; on his face was the self-satisfied smirk of the cat that has found a particularly promising mouse hole, after days of stalking, of the dog that has detected the quarry's scent, after hours of searching.

"Well, let's have it, then, Tim, or do you wish for me to guess what it is that has you so smug?" John's voice held a touch of peevishness to it, his own researches having been disappointing in their results, and he felt vaguely miffed that Tim should have had success, where he had had little as yet but failure.

"It seems there's a pattern to the timin' of the art showin's, if you take my meanin', sir, though there is one exception that I can't fit in for love nor money."

"Start with the pattern, Tim, then we'll trouble ourselves to see how the other one fits. It may not. Even 'artists' can have their quirks, or make mistakes." John slumped a little as he sat to hear the tale Tim had brought and was so eager to tell.

A little surprised at the terseness of John's tone, but paying it little mind, Tim sat as well, and began. "Well, I started at some places down by the river an' docks, where I've got friends and such, with whom I could talk, casual like, without excitin' suspicion. This here forgery's raisin' some eyebrows all 'round, as bold as it seems to be. First off, I just asked what you suggested: how much, when, anythin' unusual. Second or third place I went - I can't remember which, exactly - I heard tell that someone seemed to recall there bein' talk of a winnin' at gamblin' right about that time. Then I heard it again. So then I started askin' - still casual, mind - everywhere, 'bout someone talkin' of winnin' round those times. Sure enough, someone, somehow, always remembered somethin' of the sort."

"What, more precisely, did everyone remember, Tim?"

"Well, it so happens, that these fine pictures always show up just after there's a big gamblin' night at a certain club. Blokes show up all flush and happy, boastin' of their luck at the tables, and willin' to share their good fortune with their friends, by buyin' drinks all around."

"What is the name of the club, Tim?"

"That I haven't heard yet, sir, but the days all fall into a reg'lar pattern; an' I wager we could make plans to be near on the next few dates of these games. Course, we can't be sure who's goin' to win, or where they'll spend their winnin's, but with maybe a little help," here Tim closed one eye in a wink, "I think we can come up with somethin' more exact right soon now, Guv'nor."

John raised one brow as he regarded the complacent and confident expression on his companion's face. "You must have some very good associates - and help - already, at all these places, Tim, to have gotten such valuable and consistent information. Are you sure it is reliable?"

"Oh, with such things they're very reliable, sir. The Times has got nothin' on them when it comes to gatherin' and rememberin' news!" said Tim, with a crooked grin and a roguish twinkle in his eyes. "I've got some friends and acquaintances, like I said - ones I'd trust, mind - and then, the barmaids and other ladies down there are amazin' friendly, and most obligin', if you treat 'em right. Surprisin' what all can be done and had, if you just go about it the right way, Guv'nor!"

"Hmm, I suppose you may be right," answered John, with a grin of his own, and a lightening of his mood, finding it difficult to retain his ill-humour in the face of such irrepressible spirits. "Good work, Tim," he added, in acknowledgement of the success of his confederate's methods, whatever they may have entailed. Though put out that he had not himself come up with anything to equal this stroke of good fortune, he was generous enough to admit that Tim had done well - better, in all likelihood, than he, in the same places, would have done. "And the exception you mentioned, the instance that doesn't seem to fit the pattern?"

"Yes, well, that's a bit of a puzzle, it is, Guv'nor. I caught up with that one by sheer coincidence, an' now don't quite know what to make of it. It was late one evenin', and I'd gone to a pub for my own dinner, a nice little place near here, as a matter o' fact. Well, I'd not been there ten minutes, when in comes this gent, a big brawny one - looks like a butcher or brawler or somethin'. He sets down and takes to drinkin' like there's no tomorrow - an' he's a one who gets chatty and convivial, and fair outspoken, after imbibin' a few. Seems he's a bloke what owns a coachin' Inn, a real stinkhole of a place - I've heard tell of it. Well, without me sayin' a word, some other fellows start in 'bout the forgery, and this one, he joins right in an' starts grumblin' 'bout the artwork some young girl tried to give 'im, some months back, now. Says she walked in all bold as brass and wantin' a coach ticket, and handed over several beautiful pieces o' this here work. Well, he - on his guard since the first rumours had started, and bein' a suspicious and mean old cuss anyway - he looks real careful and sees right off that her notes aren't what they should be. Now, he doesn't want to see any woman in real trouble - enough women's been hanged, says he - so out of the pure goodness of his heart, he just lays into her with threats and all manner o' terrible tales to frighten her. It must've worked right well! Never saw her again, he said; good riddance, he said." Tim sat back and composed his features after having aped the expressions and mannerisms of this man. "What do you make of it, Guv'nor? It's nothing like the others, no connection at all that I can see - no one else said anythin' 'bout any woman or girl with engravin's - that is, if the old boy was right, and the money this here girl tried to give him was really forged. Could all be a mistake, I s'pose."

Throughout this recital, John's mind had been working feverishly, from the time 'some young girl,' 'Inn' and 'coach ticket' had been mentioned. The description of the man, and the type and timing of the encounter, fit as well. Could it be? Could it possibly be, that, after such disappointment and frustration, he might be receiving intelligence as to the whereabouts of Eliza Williams, at a time, and through such a coincidence, when he had all but given up the search? A seed of hope stirred within his breast.

Almost stuttering in his excitement, afraid lest he be disappointed in the answer, he leaned forward as he asked urgently, "What was the name of the man's Inn, Tim? Do you know that?"

"Course I do! The Swan with Two Necks, Lad's Lane. It's a coachin' Inn not too far from here, actually. Not a place I'd go to, Guv'nor, or recommend, to enjoy pleasures of any sort, I tell you!" Tim's reply was accompanied by a look which spoke his surprise at John's reaction to this tale, which he himself had thought little of except as a possible stumbling block to what seemed a neat and clear path to the forgers' den.

The reply, though the one hoped for, now set John another task. This clue, although confirming that his previous searches had not led him falsely - for here seemed to be independent confirmation of his Gracechurch Street encounter - still left him no better off. He swallowed his excitement in this realization. The Innkeeper, apparently as surly as ever, would not be any more likely to part with information now than he had been several months ago. Perhaps, though, with more knowledge of this man and of his habits...

"Do you know this Inn, Tim?"

"Naw, never been in it, Guv'nor. Like I said, it's got no good reputation for much of anythin', so what's the point in visitin'?"

"Nevertheless, Tim, I'd like to know more about the Inn, and about its charming and gentlemanly owner, as well. Do you think you can get me some more information in the next few days?"

"I s'pose so, Guv'nor, if it's so important. Why this one, though? Won't likely lead anywhere that's of any good to us, now. The pattern at the other places looks so much better, that is, if it's the artwork you're tryin' to trace." Tim's eyes sharpened, as he tried to understand John's keen interest in this encounter, so much more so than in the others, which were more promising in their information.

"Tim, do you remember I mentioned a girl I was trying to find earlier this year? I had just returned from Bath - about the time you told of the first rumours of the forgery," John added, as if to jog Tim's memory. At Tim's nod and cocked brow, he continued, "Well, the last place she was thought to have been in London was at that Inn, trying to buy a coach ticket. When I visited, the gentleman parted with much less information than he did at your pub the other night. He told me exactly nothing."

Tim's eyes grew round as they lit with comprehension, "You don't say, Guv'nor! And you think this may help, now, after all this time? You think this girl is the one he was talkin' 'bout? But how're you goin' to find out more? An' what was she doin' with such fancy notes, anyway?"

"I can't say for sure, Tim, but I do know I have to try and see if this will lead me to her. If she somehow has anything to do with one of the forgers, or even only with a gambler, it may help us there, as well; though, may Heaven help her, in that case! Find out all you can about the Inn, and its wonderful host: what his weaknesses are, if anyone else is ever at the Inn who would be easier to deal with. He's refused to speak with me once already. I don't think I should try again, at least, not without something to help... persuade him to be more helpful. If there's someone else there, I think I'd rather try my luck with them first."

Not three days later saw John at the Swan with Two Necks again, but this time with hope of a different reception, and a different outcome to his inquiries, than at his first visit - a small hope that had cautiously sprouted, however, to test its surroundings before committing itself to anything further. From Tim's information had come the surprising news that the proprietor of the Inn was married. Who on earth could accept and stomach him as a mate? wondered John, almost in disbelief that such a man could inspire any emotion remotely related to the tender ones John associated with marriage, or even some lesser relationship. Along with this astonishing fact, however, came the one of most use to Mr. Blevins: the proprietor left the Inn every Monday evening, without fail, for several hours, leaving his wife alone to see to any guests.

He entered to find the Inn little changed: still the same empty, unprepossessing premises, with the same dust and dirt lying thicker, if anything, upon every article in the rooms, now becoming a sticky grime in the summer heat. As he cautiously made his way toward the back of the public rooms, a small woman emerged from a doorway to greet him. She was a cheery-looking woman, neatly and cleanly dressed, though how she managed to remain so in such surroundings was a great mystery to John.

"Good evening, sir. How may I serve you?" she asked, in an unexpectedly pleasant and cultivated voice, devoid of any strong dialect that would mark her as being from one of the poorer, less desirable parts of London, as he had certainly expected. Her manner was courteous, and her face, open.

"Good evening, ma'am," returned John politely. "I am hoping you might be of assistance to me. I am looking for information regarding a young lady, who, I am told, may have been here in February of this year, asking to buy a coach ticket to Liverpool."

The face grew a shade less open, but courtesy remained in her voice, as she asked in turn, "May I ask what your business might be, sir?"

"My name is John Blevins, and I have been--"

Here John was interrupted by a voice now glacial, and a face closed off and forbidding. "I am afraid I have nothing I can tell you, sir. I bid you good day." The woman turned to disappear again.

John made to follow her, but was stopped in his tracks as she whirled around, eyes blazing in anger, and, with a manner remarkably similar to that of her husband, said, in a quiet, but no less menacing voice, "I ask you to leave, sir, there is nothing here for you. I will not ask a second time. If you persist, I will be forced to call for assistance, with some very unpleasant results for you - that I can promise!"

John stepped back in dismay and surprise, disappointment and bewilderment filling him at this wholly unexpected - and to his mind, wholly unwarranted - reaction to his innocent statement. He opened his mouth for another attempt, but one look at the fury standing before him sufficed to make him think the better of it. Whether or not there was something here to be learned of Eliza Williams, he was obviously not the person who would be able to find it out. He gave the woman, now standing with a tenacious ferocity about her, small fists clenched at her sides, a final uneasy glance before turning and quitting the premises, having failed in his quest for information the second time in this place. The seedling of hope John had hesitantly cherished, so lately revived, lay lifeless now, having been trampled and withered in short order.

"You mean to say he actually came to you to ask about her?"

"Yes! I could not believe it myself! The impudence, the insufferable cheek of such a man, after what he had done to her, after all the trouble he has caused! He left her, not only alone and in enough difficulty, but with 'provision' of the sort to see her hanged if she hadn't happened to come to us, if I hadn't been able to talk with her and send her to you."

"Well, I shouldn't think you'll have any more visits, or any trouble, from him. I know you, Emily - you probably frightened him out of his wits if you looked at him half as ferociously as you used to do the village boys, when they teased me. None of them ever dared try a second time, and I doubt very much that this man will be any more daring!"

The two women enjoying their tea, sitting in a small, neat room overlooking the river - with clean but faded curtains framing the view - giggled as if they were still the small schoolgirls who had had to face their share of bullies, and who had gained invaluable experience then, and in the years since, in taking care of themselves, and any unfortunates around them, in many an unpleasant area and situation.

The woman called Emily spoke again, when they had calmed from their amusing memories. "I must say, I almost burst out laughing at the look of shock on his face; he must seldom be refused anything by a woman, no matter what the circumstance. Well, he will learn - and it can not be too soon, in my opinion - that his charm and good looks alone will not always result in his desires being satisfied!" She set her teacup down none too gently, and looked curiously at her companion. "Shall you tell her of his visit?"

"No," the other said, decisively. "She's much better off without him, even with the child on the way. She's settled in quite nicely now, I hear. No reason or need to have her all upset again. If her 'John' wants to find her, it won't be through me!"

Continued In Next Section