by G M Mckay
There was no answer. I was about to leave when the fire crackled loudly again and a chunk of ash and paper shot onto the empty hearth and rolled across the short stretch to where the stone met the hardwood floor. We had many fireplaces at home and I knew how quickly an escaped ember could burn holes in the carpet or wood floors so I didn’t hesitate to move toward it and grab the little metal dustpan that hung beside the hearth.
I shifted the burning debris onto the shovel and was about to throw it back into the flames when something about the smoldering paper caught my eye. It wasn’t newspaper like you’d use to start a fire, this paper was thick and I could still see remnants of elegant, scrolled writing on one of the larger pieces. Sound. Horses. Everything. There were more words but the paper was too badly burned for me to make out what they said.
It’s none of your business, I told myself firmly. Stop snooping. I dumped the whole pile back into the fireplace and stood up, brushing my hands together briskly.
I left the room, shutting the door tightly behind me and made my way quickly down the hallway, not brave enough to try any of the other doors.
When I reached the front entryway where the stained-glass window stood, I refused to look at it, marching resolutely past and down the opposite hallway where the faint tantalizing smell of food was coming from.
Finally, my nose led me to a wide-open door on the left. I peered into a spotlessly clean kitchen that was almost an exact replica of our kitchen back at Greystone. There was the same long wooden table and cheery yellow walls. Only the appliances were stainless steel instead of our white ones at home.
There was a clatter somewhere inside, and I stepped through the doorway tentatively, not sure of my welcome.
A plump figure bustled out of the walk-in pantry, carrying a tray loaded with baking supplies.
“Oh,” I said, putting a hand over my mouth. Because the woman was an identical replica of our cook Betty back home, right down to the non-nonsense expression and the silvery hair pulled back into a loose bun.
The woman jerked in surprise when saw me, set the tray down hard on the wooden table and put a hand over her heart. “My word, you frightened me. Well, you must be one of those relatives who travelled all the way out here from the big city. Aimee told me about you.”
I was too surprised by her appearance to tell her that we only lived a day away and Maplegrove wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis. Although I supposed it wasn’t nearly so isolated as her part of the world; we had cell service, for instance. I sat down in the chair she pulled out for me and smiled at her shyly, not able to believe that I wasn’t talking to Betty.
“You look famished,” she said, her expression transforming from stern to warm and grandmotherly all at once. She moved over to the stove and used an oven mitt to lift the lid off a big cast-iron pot. “I have some chili about ready to go if you wanted to try some.”
“Oh yes, please,” I said, sniffing the rich, spicy aroma appreciatively.
“And I have a loaf of crusty bread leftover from yesterday. You’ll have a nice, big piece of that on the side. Will you eat here or in the breakfast room?”
“Here, please,” I said eagerly and sat there as she set out my cutlery and napkin, and then placed my food down in front of me with a flourish.
I took a bite and closed my eyes in bliss. She was even more talented than Betty, if it were possible.
I didn’t say a word the whole time I was eating, but after I’d finished and she’d whisked my plate and bowl away, I risked saying out loud what I’d been thinking the whole time.
“I’m Jillian,” I said, smiling shyly up at her, “and you must be Betty’s sister Belinda. I remember her talking about you, but I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, beaming down at me. “You’re little Jilly, then. I’ve heard all about you, too. Betty is quite fond of you, my dear; she always includes a note about what you’re up to in her letters. We only see each other once or twice a year so we make sure to keep in touch through the mail. There are actually four of us working for your family, you know. Our other sister Edwina works at the Willowdale estate, and of course, our brother Jacob works here, too.”
“Oh,” I said in astonishment. “Jacob is Betty’s brother?”
“He certainly is, and mine, too. We’ve all been with your family since we were quite young ourselves. Our grandparents worked for your great-grandfather when he was in France, and I suppose we sort of inherited our positions once our own parents retired.”
“Hmm,” I said, not sure how I felt about this information. There was something amazing and sort of, well, reassuring about whole generations of trustworthy people toiling away selflessly for our family. But there was something disturbing about it, too. Betty was a brilliant cook and, by the little I’d tasted, her sister was probably just as good if not better; maybe they could have been world-class chefs with their own restaurants or cooking shows on television or something. Surely there was more to aspire to than working for us.
I glanced upward and noticed that the glass pantry door had a picture etched into it. It was a familiar looking silhouette of a lady on a rearing horse. The theme was honestly getting a bit tiring.
“Belinda, what’s with all the statues and paintings of the lady on the horse everywhere? Jacob said there was a legend that went with them.”
“Oh, yes, but it’s not just a legend; it’s fact. The lady was a real person and I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her yet, with her being a relative and all.”
“What?” I asked in astonishment. “She was related to us?”
“Oh yes, way back. She’s your Great Aunt Ruth’s ancestor so she must be yours as well. She and her family were the original owners of Dark Lady Farm, although it had a different name at the time, of course. She was born here and this, sadly enough, is where she met her tragic demise.”
“That’s awful.”
“Well, yes and no; she died for love and sometimes that makes things all right. I was just about to make an apple pie, but I could tell you the story while I work. Would you like that?”
“Oh yes, please.” I always loved a good story. And pie.
Belinda bustled around, setting ingredients out on the big table to get the crust made first.
“Can I peel and cut these for you?” I asked tentatively, pointing at the big bowl of freshly-washed apples. Betty sometimes let me help her in the kitchen when Mother was safely off the property.
“Well, you certainly don’t have to. But I make a policy of never saying no to free labour.”
She set the apples in front of me, along with a paring knife and bowls for the peels and cut apples. When I was settled, she began her story.
“The Lady’s real name was Evangeline, just like the Acadian heroine in the poem by Longfellow. You know the one?”
I nodded thoughtfully, I’d spend many nights reading alone in our library back home and I had a special spot in my heart for poetry.
“Well, this Evangeline was the only daughter of a very wealthy but hard-hearted merchant named Lord Ascot who had no trace of goodness in his heart. Lady Ascot, Evangeline’s mother, was a sweet lady who quickly withered, fell ill, and died under the tyranny of her husband, leaving her only daughter behind. Evangeline was known throughout the area for her kindness toward both people and animals. She had a tender heart and couldn’t pass a person in need without giving them a kind word or some money; a trait which enraged her miserly father.
“Evangeline used to roam the countryside on her horse, a huge red bad-tempered beast that only she was able to handle and a massive black dog. She tirelessly brought fresh baked goods and donations to local orphanages and churches; going anywhere she was needed. She never needed a chaperone; everyone who knew her loved her, and both horse and dog would have guarded her with their lives.
“When she was just seventeen years old, Evangeline stopped in at the church and found a young man being cared for there, injured and feverish
from his wounds. He had been a fur trapper for her father’s company, but when he’d caught his leg in trap and had just barely managed to creep into town, her father had refused to help him and had thrown him out onto the street. The church took him in but they were overburdened with a local influenza outbreak and could not pay for the doctor or care for him as much as he needed. The young man, Phillipe, was near to dying from his untreated wounds.
“Evangeline was outraged at her father’s treatment of the young man and rode for the doctor as fast as she could. She paid for the visit and the medicines out of her own pocket and stayed by the young man’s bedside as long as she dared. Every day she came to take care of him. Gradually, under her tender care, he recovered and the two young people found that they shared many things in common. Evangeline brought books to read to him and he’d sit very quietly, enraptured by her stories. When she tired, he would tell her tales of his life as a trapper and how much he missed his cabin in the woods.
“Evangeline loved to hear him tell of his cabin, she could picture every last detail of it. How the maple trees crowded round it, and how snug and cheerful it looked at night, lit up against the backdrop of snow.
“At home in her cold, palatial house, Evangeline would close her eyes and imagine that they lived in that cozy cabin, just the two of them, far away where her father could never yell at her again. It was impossible, she knew; Phillipe was too poor and her father would never allow her to marry a lowly trapper, but still she held her dream close to her heart.
“Phillipe, of course, felt the same but he knew he could never ask for her hand.
“The months passed, slowly he healed and soon, his time there would be over and he would have to go back to the woods.
“One evening, the week before he was to return, he was surprised to hear the sound of galloping hooves riding up to the little cottage he’d been staying in behind the church. It was nearly dark and he’d said goodbye to Evangeline hours ago, so he was shocked when she came flying up the path on foot and leapt into his arms, sobbing as if her heart would break.
“Phillipe had never allowed himself to touch Evangeline in anything else but brotherly formality, but he couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around her and gathering her shaking body protectively to his chest.
“Are you hurt,” he asked, “has anyone hurt you?”
“He could barely understand her tearful response but he finally heard the word “engaged” and his heart sank. He drew her carefully to a little bench and took off his thick travelling cloak to wrap around her shivering shoulders. She was dressed in a fancy, emerald evening dress, her tousled hair had been damaged by her wild ride but he could see that it had been held in place with diamond clips, any one of which could pay his salary for a year.
“He has auctioned me off to one of his greedy old friends just as if I were a horse in the market.” Evangeline sobbed. “I will have to marry that horrible man and go live in his horrible house and be his wife. I would rather die than marry him.”
“Hush, hush.” Phillipe pressed her tightly to his chest and ran his fingers through her tousled hair.
“There had to be some way out of this awful predicament. “Evangeline, it’s late, you have to get home now or people will talk. Everything will look brighter in the morning. We’ll figure it out together.”
“Reluctantly, Evangeline rose to her feet.
“What they didn’t know was that the alarm had already been raised at home; at that moment, Lord Ascot, fueled into wild frenzy by alcohol, had formed his guests into a search party and was right then bearing down upon the little church cottage.
“A house servant had already tearfully confessed that Evangeline had been seen by the church with Phillipe many times and now her outraged father was out for blood. Just then, there was a thunder of hooves and shouting voices coming from the woods. “There’s a light by the church!” someone cried, “It must be her.”
“No!” Evangeline recognized her father’s grey horse and she tore from Phillipe suddenly and ran toward her waiting horse. “I won’t go back with them.”
“Evangeline, wait, be reasonable,” Phillipe begged, hobbling after her. But he was too late. She’d already leapt on her horse and wheeled it around.
“Hurry,” she’d cried urgently. “We can still get away. We can hide in your cabin away from everyone. They won’t find me there. We can have the life we always dreamed of.”
“We can’t run away,” Phillipe said, “we have to be practical. If we can just sit down and talk …”
“Talk,” she spat. “Phillipe, you don’t understand. They’re going to kill you. Run away from here and go to your cabin in the woods; live a good life for me. Be happy.”
“And with that, she clapped her heels to her horse’s sides and sped off into the darkness, the black dog following her like a shadow.
“She stopped to look back from the top of the nearby hill just in time to see the party of hunters swerve away from the church and charge up the hillside after her. Content that she’d given Phillipe time to get away, she galloped hard in the opposite direction, urging her horse on hard.
“There was a sound of gunshots and a yelp of pain and she turned around just in time to see her great, beautiful dog felled to the ground in cold blood.
“With a wail of rage, she plunged into the forest. It was a dark night and she was too distraught to heed where she was going and rode blindly toward the cliffs that lined the township. Her horse faltered at the edge of the precipice but, not realizing the danger, she drove him on and the two of them leapt over the edge into the darkness below. The spot where she perished is right at the back of this property, but the cliff itself runs all the way close to town and ends in what the locals call Dark Lady Falls. That’s what the farm’s named after.
“The entire village went into mourning when Evangeline died. Her father declined rapidly, aging almost overnight. Shunned by the villagers, his business floundered and finally died. He was forced to flee the country to escape creditors and he was never heard from again. The estate lay empty for over ten years before a cousin came to take it over.
“The locals are very attached to the legend. They say that her ghost wanders the woods between here and the village, still looking for her lost love. They say she sometimes appears to help those who have lost their way … or heap revenge on those who seek to harm others.”
“That’s so sad,” I said, shivering despite the warmth of the kitchen.
“Well, yes and no. At least she had a taste of love and she followed her heart. That’s something that many people never allow themselves to do. Even some folks here right under this very roof, I could mention.”
“But, wait, what happened to Phillippe?”
“Nobody knows. He was never seen again so it was supposed that he went back to his cabin in the woods somewhere and lived out his life.”
“Oh, honestly, Belinda,” Aimee said briskly, sweeping into the kitchen with a tray full of dirty dishes. “Are you talking about that silly legend again? People in this town are obsessed with it. I don’t even think there was a real Evangeline at all. It’s all a made-up story designed to bring in the tourists.”
Belinda’s brow furrowed and she sent a dark look in Aimee’s direction. “That legend is as true as you and me standing here. Many folk even swear that they’ve seen her ghost wandering the hills, calling for her long-lost—”
“Fools and drunkards,” Aimee interrupted, sending an exasperated look in my direction, as if she expected for me to side with her.
“I think I’ve dreamt of her twice now,” I said slowly. “Both times it felt so real that I wasn’t sure whether or not I was dreaming.”
There was silence while both of them stared at me.
Belinda shook her head and smiled. “Well, of course you’d dream of her while you’re staying at Dark Lady Farm, especially with her being a relative and all. The whole place is crawling with paintings, sculptures, and other assorted ar
twork of her. I bet we’ve all dreamed of her at one point or another. Haven’t we, Aimee?”
Aimee stared at me thoughtfully ... “No, I can’t say that I have,” she said slowly. “But there are others who dream of her quite regularly. They say that dreams of the Dark Lady are prophetic; they show the dreamer how the future will unfold.”
She stared at me steadily until I looked away with a shiver, remembering how things had been in my dream.
“Well, now, we have that settled. Have you had a tour of the house, dear? We used to give proper guided visits to tourists at least twice a year. I really do miss that. I know this house top to bottom.”
“I don’t think she needs a tour now,” Aimee said in exasperation. “She doesn’t care about the history of this drafty old house. Xan and Estelle had lunch in the garden, but I heard them say that they’d be headed to the stables next. I’m sure you’d much prefer to be outside in the fresh air with them.”
“Oh no, I’d love to see the house,” I said eagerly, smiling at Belinda. “I’m fascinated by history, actually. Plus, it would help if I knew my way around. I nearly got lost this morning.”
“Excellent. I’ll leave the dishes until we get back then. Come along.”
I followed closely after Belinda as she marched from the kitchen, through the foyer, and back down the hall to where my room was situated. Aimee trailed a few feet behind, a sulky look on her face.
“We’ll start right at the beginning for you, so you don’t get lost again. You’ve probably already guessed that this is the guest wing. Ruth has kept it much the same as it was back in her own great, great grandfather’s day. You know your room, of course, and each of these is done in similar theme, though in a different colour. Here, we’ll poke our heads in a few of them just to give you an idea but they’re very much—”
She set her hand on a doorknob a few doors down from my own room and then broke off with a sharp cry as Morris fled out and shot down the hallway out of sight, his tail puffed up and his green eyes wide with indignation.
