Darling Sarah,
Hide this when you get it. I couldn’t bear anyone to read it except you, my Gypsy girl. I can only speak in this way to you and to no one else. I don’t open my heart easily.
It is three weeks since I left Wyldcliffe with my family, and every day has been filled with thoughts of the time we spent together. It was far too short, but the memories will always be precious. I remember our rides on the moors and evening sun on your hair. I wanted so much to hold you in my arms, and to ask you to run away with me, but I knew that would be impossible. Fate has declared that we must be apart. Instead I only have your memory for consolation, but I will return one day, so that we can be together again. Then you will have a thousand kisses from me, my angel. . . .
Yours for all eternity, Cal
I never got that letter. It existed only as a fantasy in my head. Even if Cal had written to me, he wouldn’t have used such words. They were the clichés I had read a hundred times in library books, and had nothing to do with the rough-haired, fiercely independent boy that I had met. Cal had been terse and guarded and unexpected, but I had sensed his warm nature underneath his caution of strangers and his hard way of life. And he had liked me, I was sure of that. On the night of Mrs. Hartle’s death on the moors, when we were all standing about in shock, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world for me to lean against Cal for comfort, and to feel his arm round my shoulders. Afterward we had often ridden out together, and he had given me small tokens and gifts—a flower, a feather, a carved whistle—but he had never kissed me. My body was aching with secret desires, and I knew it wasn’t really about Josh.
As I watched Josh walk away from the stables, happy in the knowledge that he would see Evie in the morning, I forced myself to acknowledge that my feelings for Josh had been nothing but a crush that would fade as easily as it had blossomed. Officially, of course, I had already completely forgiven Evie for being the one to attract Josh instead of me. What was it I had said? My heart isn’t broken, only bruised.
It wasn’t just my heart that had been bruised, though; it had been my pride. If Cal had stayed, maybe things would have been different, but he was gone and he hadn’t written and I felt abandoned. My pride had turned sour, like milk standing in the sun.
I gave Starlight a last, lonely hug and wandered out of the stable yard and into the walled kitchen garden nearby. Hardly any students went there, apart from the few of us who were keen on growing flowers and fruit on our own little patches of ground. This place had given me such pleasure once, but it seemed dead and overgrown now. There was no one there, and I sat disconsolately on a low stone bench, alone with my uncomfortable thoughts.
Oh, I had always been so honest and frank, but I hadn’t been truly honest with Evie, or even with myself. Now I had to admit to my shame that although I loved her like a sister, I also secretly resented her. What do they call it? Sibling rivalry?
I loved Evie for her beauty and grace and courage, for her talents and the mysterious depths of her personality. She seemed to me to be like some kind of mermaid princess, with her sea-gray eyes and her slim figure and her long red hair. Sebastian had loved her almost to madness, and now, as easily and naturally as breathing, Josh was ready to love her too. And what was I in comparison? Apple-cheeked Sarah, everybody’s friend and nobody’s soul mate, my fingers grubby from digging herbs and plants in my garden, or from grooming horses and playing with the stable cat. There was nothing mysterious about me. Nothing to attract that look of love that I had dreamed about so many times.
There is a temptation to tear this part out of my story and present myself in a better light, but I won’t. The Mystic Way is a path of healing, and telling the truth about one’s malady is the first step to being cured.
Sitting on that stone bench in the empty, chilly garden, my self-pity threatened to overwhelm me. But the promises I had made to myself dragged me back to the present like a heavy chain.
I stood up and pushed Josh’s envelope into my pocket. It was no use brooding over pathetic dreams of love and romance, I told myself, when my sisters were in danger. Miss Scratton had said there would be something we could do to protect ourselves. At least I could find out what that was and do it, whatever it was, whatever it cost. It would be a way for me to hide my ugly feelings and be useful to the others, to prove that I loved them and to earn their love in return. . . .
I would be good.
I would be strong.
I would be Sarah.
I found Evie in the music room, where she was sorting out scores for choir practice—one of the jobs she had to do as a scholarship student.
“Hey,” I said. “Have you got a minute?”
“I’m kind of busy,” she mumbled, not looking up from the sheets of music spread out on the top of the grand piano.
“I saw Josh. He asked me to give you something.”
Now I had her attention. “Josh? What did he say? Is he still waiting for me?” Her cheeks flushed slightly, and there was eagerness in her voice.
“No, he had to go home. But he wanted me to give you this.”
I handed over the little package, and she opened the note quickly. I was going to walk away and leave her there to enjoy her love letter, but she gave a low gasp.
“Sarah, wait, it’s something about Agnes. Oh my God!”
“What? What is it?”
“Josh has found a connection between his family and Agnes . . . listen . . .”
She smoothed the note out and started to read aloud in a hurried whisper.
“‘Dear Evie’. . . um . . . then it says, ‘I’ve found something out about Agnes. I can’t wait to hear what you think of it. You remember I showed you the photo my family has of Martha—Agnes’s old nurse? She lived at Uppercliffe Farm and secretly looked after Agnes and her daughter, Effie (your great-great-grandmother, of course), when they came back from London. I told you my mother’s family was related to Martha’s. They lived at Uppercliffe before the farm was abandoned after the First World War. The three brothers in the family were all killed, and there was no one to carry on. Anyway, I asked Mom to dig out any more photos she had of the old days, and she gave me a whole bunch of mementos that had come from the farm, old photos and letters, all sorts. Mom isn’t really interested in the past—much too practical, and she’d never really bothered to take much notice of this stuff, but I think it’s amazing. And it might be important—for us. I must see you tomorrow—’”
Evie broke off. She looked scared, but I was burning with curiosity. “So what is it?” I said. “What has he found?”
She slowly undid the bundle of papers. There were more sepia-tinted photographs printed on stiff card, of long-dead people connected to both Martha and Josh. The photos showed strong, upright farmers and their stoutly handsome wives, dressed in their awkward Sunday best and staring rigidly ahead into the camera. But one photo was of a young girl of about eight years old, with fine features, silky curls, and haunting eyes.
“Look, Sarah, this has to be Effie!” Martha’s family had adopted her as one of their own after Agnes died, so Agnes’s parents, Lord and Lady Templeton of Wyldcliffe Abbey, never knew anything about her. Evie gazed in fascination at the faded image of her great-great grandmother.
“There are some other things,” I said. “What are they?”
Tucked under the photographs was a fine sheet of paper, almost as thin as tissue. Evie unfolded it and said, “It’s Agnes’s handwriting . . . it’s a letter.”
She sat down at one of the desks in the music room, and I could see that she was trembling.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” I asked.
“Yes . . . no . . . I . . . oh, Sarah,” she whispered. “It brings it all back! This brings Agnes so close . . . and Sebastian . . . I don’t know if I can take it.”
“But Josh thinks it’s something you’d want to know. If it had been something bad, he would have warned you, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, I guess you’re right. I’m sorry, I’m being stupid.” She raised her beautiful gray eyes pleadingly. “Will you read it, Sarah?”
She passed the fragile piece of paper to me, and I began to read the letter aloud.
“‘London, ninth November 1884. My dear Martha, How good of you to write to me here in my humble lodgings! It was kind of you indeed to send me your heartfelt consolations after my poor Francis’s death. He was a tender and faithful husband, despite his poor health and ill fortune. My grief for him is tempered by the knowledge that he is released from his earthly sufferings, and I am comforted by the “sure and certain hope” that we shall be reunited in the next life. And he has left me with the most precious gift, my bairn as you call her, dearest darling little Effie. She is such a bonny baby, and I long for you to see her and pet her as you once petted me. Your letters are like treasures that I pore over again and again, my faithful friend. You are my only link with my old life at Wyldcliffe. I long to get away from this smoky, foggy city, and I dream of returning to my dear valley’s clear air and familiar scenes. If only my parents at the Abbey could see my baby and welcome her too.
“‘There is something I need to speak of, Martha—’
“Are you okay, Evie?” I asked, breaking off from the letter. She was gripping her hands together as though dreading what might come next.
“Yes—carry on—we have to know—”
“‘There is something I need to speak of, Martha. When, almost two years ago at the start of this strange journey, I healed the blindness caused by the cataract in your eyes, you did not know then that it was the sacred fire of the Mystic Way that gave me the power to help you. Now you know all my secrets, and although you were first afraid that such dealings were ungodly, you understand now that all I could do was sanctioned by nature and the Great Creator. After long study, I know more of these mysteries and their workings. I must tell you about something that I did not know when I cured your failing sight.
“‘In reaching out to heal you, a spark of the sacred fire passed from me to you. It will do you no harm, but will warm and radiate the people around you—passed in its turn by your love to your dear family, those living now and those to come. It is a great mystery, but I repeat—it will do them no harm. The spark may lie hidden for generations, then blaze out like the sun, linking that person back to me and my path of healing. Fire is the divine force that sears to cleanse and cure, that touches all our passions and drives our loves. I hope that you will not be afraid but welcome this news as a gift. Your family may not be rich in coins, but touched by the secret flame, they will always be rich in love. I see your descendants striding tall and courageous over the moors, tending the land and their flocks, golden-haired like the ripe corn, as true and strong as the oak trees that grow on the grounds of my old home! May they be blessed.
“‘I hesitate to ask, but is there any news of my dear friend at Fairfax Hall? I pray for him every day, as I do for you.’
“‘In hopes that I will see you again soon, I am your ever-grateful friend, Agnes Templeton Howard.’”
I folded the letter up and gave it back to Evie.
“It’s Josh, isn’t it?” I said. “He’s the one touched by the fire. A spark of healing.”
“Do you really think so?” Her voice was barely audible, and she didn’t look at me. “I want so much to be healed. I feel that I’ll never be the same again.”
“But what you said before about hope—not being afraid to live, embracing the good and bad—”
“It’s easy to say,” she replied with the ghost of an unsteady smile. “Not quite so easy to do.”
I thought I heard a noise in the corridor. I turned quickly to see who it was and noticed a shadow in the doorway. Someone was there, hovering by the door.
“Who’s there?” I called. I heard a cough, and then a slight figure entered the room. It was the music master, Mr. Brooke. He was a nervous, pale young man with a hesitant manner and a permanent cold. He was one of the few male teachers who had been allowed at Wyldcliffe and was obviously not considered a threat—it was impossible to imagine any student ever having a crush on him.
“Have you finished sorting out those copies, Miss Johnson?” he asked in his high, reedy voice. “You should have done it by now. The bell will be ringing soon for supper.”
“Sorry, Mr. Brooke,” Evie murmured as she quickly gathered the music together, hiding the letter and photos under one of the scores. “You go to supper, Sarah, I’ll be okay.” She turned her back and bent over her work. Mr. Brooke frowned at me, and I had no option but to leave her to get on with her chores.
The letter confirmed what I had really already known—that Josh was fated to bring Evie back from the barren places she had wandered in, back into the warmth and the light.
But who would ever heal me?