Jane-Emily Read online

  Jane-Emily AND Witches’ Children

  PATRICIA CLAPP

  CONTENTS

  Jane-Emily

  Witches’ Children

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Jane-Emily

  This book is dedicated

  to the memories of those people

  for whom it comes too late,

  Elizabeth and Howard,

  and Ethel and Grandmère

  ONE

  There are times when the midsummer sun strikes cold, and when the leaping flames of a hearthfire give no heat. Times when the chill within us comes not from fears we know, but from fears unknown—and forever unknowable.

  But on that sunny June afternoon when Jane and I first arrived at her grandmother’s house in Lynn, my greatest fear was that I should be overcome by loneliness and boredom before the summer was done. The year was 1912, I was just eighteen, and the thought of leaving Martin Driscoll and being cooped up for the shining vacation months with elderly and quite awe-inspiring Mrs. Canfield, with the almost equally elderly, if more friendly, maid, Katie, and with my niece, nine-year-old Jane Canfield, was less than appealing.

  Jane had been orphaned the year before when her mother, my elder sister Charlotte, and her father, Mrs. Canfield’s son John, were killed. They had been driving their quiet old horse hitched to the buggy, for even though many people have automobiles now, Charlotte still liked the gentle pace of horse travel better than the dust and noise of motor cars. No one has ever been able to understand what the horse shied at, what frightened him so that he must have reared and turned, tipping the buggy and throwing Charlotte so hard against a great tree trunk that she died instantly. John, grasping the reins and striving to control the animal, was dragged quite horribly for some distance. No one saw it happen, and John never regained consciousness, so the cause of the accident has always been a mystery.

  My mother and father, Martha and Charles Amory, took Jane, and gave her warmth and love and security, but Jane was still unnaturally withdrawn. She was bright and well-mannered and sweet, but she rarely laughed and I never saw her really play. She read, or sketched—she was quite gifted with her pencil—or just sat dreaming into space. I was very fond of Jane, and I tried to interest her in other things, such as the dolls Charlotte and I used to play with, or my bicycle, or any of the other oddments that remained around the house, but nothing roused more than a polite interest.

  When Lydia Canfield wrote Mother, suggesting that Jane spend the summer with her, it was felt the change might do her good—take her out of herself a bit. I backed the idea enthusiastically until I learned that Mrs. Canfield seemed reluctant to assume the care of the child, even with Katie’s help, and had suggested that I accompany her.

  “But why me?” I wailed to Mother. “Jane’s not a baby. She can look out for herself.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she can,” Mother agreed. “But Lydia Canfield isn’t used to young children and I certainly don’t want her to spend the summer fretting. You could do a great many things for Jane that her grandmother might not know how to do.”

  “But Mother! Martin and I have a million plans for this summer! He’s going to read Shakespeare out loud to me, and I’m going to teach him to play tennis. Besides, what could I do for Jane?”

  “Braid her hair, and—”

  “I don’t see why I should give up a whole summer with Martin just to braid Jane’s hair! He’ll be going to college in September and I won’t have seen him at all!”

  “Louisa, you have seen enough of Martin Driscoll during the past six months to last for the next six years!”

  “You don’t like Martin. I know you don’t.”

  “I don’t dislike him. He’s a perfectly nice boy. But it wouldn’t do you any harm to meet some other young men.”

  “I’m not very likely to meet anyone locked up in that gloomy old cave in Lynn!”

  But I knew it was a losing battle. Charlotte and I were raised in the school of strict obedience and when we were told, or even asked, to do something, we did it.

  “It’s going to be absolutely awful!” I muttered, “Martin will forget all about me and I won’t meet another living soul and I’ll probably end up an old maid!”

  Mother laughed and hugged me. “That’s extremely unlikely,” she said. “And just remember, darling, if you and Jane are both miserable we can always cut the visit short.”

  How many times later I looked back, remembering those words. If I had forced myself to leave, if I had gone home and taken Jane with me, if we had “cut the visit short,” would things have been different? Or would that last rainy night always have been waiting somewhere to happen? But at the time all I knew was that we were thirty miles from home, embarked on a summer which, while it might not be truly dismal, certainly promised no great diversion.

  However, it always seems to me easier to be happy than unhappy, and since there I was, and there I was going to stay, it was only intelligent to find whatever pleasant aspects there might be in the months ahead. There would, for example, be letters from Martin, and these I looked forward to eagerly. The last evening, when he had come to say good-bye, we had sat in the porch hammock, his arm around my waist and my head on his shoulder, and he had promised to write every day.

  “And you must only read the letters when you are alone, Louisa. When you can’t be interrupted. Because I shall be writing my deepest thoughts, and you must read them just as you listen to me now. With your whole attention.”

  My eyes had misted as I promised. Martin’s deepest thoughts were very beautiful.

  “And you will write to me every day, Louisa?”

  “Well, I’ll try, Martin. But I may be busy sometimes—looking out for Jane, and everything. I may not be able to write every day.” Somehow I could not bring myself to admit that I detested writing letters, and that they always came out sounding stiff and stupid.

  Later, when we heard Father start to cough and clear his throat, the sound coming just as clearly as he intended it to through the open window, Martin kissed me good-bye quite passionately. When he left I stood at the top of the porch steps and waved as long as I could see him in the faint starlight, and then went into the house, my eyes filled with tears.

  But the train trip, the first I had ever taken without my parents, was exciting, and somehow by the time Jane and I arrived in Lynn I was not as despondent as I had expected to be.

  Jane and I had connecting rooms at the back of the big Canfield house, overlooking the garden. Large and square, each room had high, narrow windows framed in heavy drapes, looped back with thick silk cords. The June sunshine came through my two windows now, falling in bright pools on the rose-patterned carpet. The windows were closed—in fact the whole house had an air of being closed—but I managed to raise both lower panes as far as they would go, delighting in the smell and freshness that drifted in.

  “Jane,” I called through the open doorway. “Are your windows open? Shall I raise them for you? They’re quite stiff.”

  There was no answer, and I went to the door that led to Jane’s room. She was standing by the closed window, her forehead against the glass, gazing out into the garden.

  “Jane,” I said again. “Don’t you want the windows open? The air is wonderful!”

  Jane turned slowly and looked at me. “What? I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening. Isn’t the garden beautiful?”

  With affectionate exasperation I moved her so that I could lift the sash. “It’s lovely. Here, smell! Isn’t that better?”

  “Thank you, Louisa.”

  “Get your bags unpacked and put some of your things away, then you can go out. I’ll finish up for you.”


  With the first real enthusiasm I had seen Jane show in months she went quickly to the luggage rack at the foot of her bed where her valise lay open, and started taking her crisp summer dresses from it and hanging them in the tall wardrobe that filled one corner of the room. The rod was so high that she hopped up on a small two-step contrivance which stood in position by the wardrobe door.

  “Your grandmother is well prepared for you, isn’t she?” I said. “She must have known the rod would be too high for you to reach.”

  “This was made for Emily,” Jane said. “This was her room.”

  “Emily?”

  “My father’s sister. She died, you know. Years ago, when she was just twelve.”

  “Oh. Yes, I think I do recall hearing your mother speak of her. I had forgotten. How very sad that she died when she was so young.”

  “I suppose it is,” Jane said with that cool impersonality that children have for people they never knew. “Louisa, that’s all my dresses. Can’t I leave the rest until later? Nothing else will wrinkle.”

  “All right, go along. I’ll be down soon.”

  “Thank you,” said Jane, and was out the door into the hall in a flash. I heard her feet thudding down the carpeted stairs. A moment later a screen door slammed somewhere and then I saw her running across the yard, the sun shining on her long dark braids. She went straight as an arrow to a large bright reflecting ball which stood on its stone pedestal in the exact center of the garden, and I smiled as I remembered the amusingly distorted images that one could see in such silver globes.

  Turning back to complete the unpacking, I thought that in spite of my feelings about it, this summer might truly be good for Jane. She already seemed happier and more at ease than I had seen her since her mother and father died.

  It was close to an hour later before I had emptied the suitcases, put Jane’s and my clothes neatly away, washed the train dust from my hands and face, changed out of my traveling suit, and straightened my hair. I inspected myself carefully in the tall mirror to be sure I looked neat enough to win Mrs. Canfield’s approval; although I had seen her but rarely, I suspected she was not the sort of woman to tolerate laxity in dress or behavior.

  My blond hair, too pale, and inclined to be overly curly, I had managed to brush successfully into a soft roll around my head, twisting the back into a thick knot. I moistened a finger with my tongue and smoothed my brows, accenting their brown arch, and brushing my lashes—which are very thick, as my hair is, but not as pale. My eyes are just plain blue, except that Martin once told me they turn green when I am angry.

  The dress I had put on was a lilac voile, held snugly at the waist by a deeper violet sash, and it fell to my ankles. I felt that I looked quite presentable; and hoping fervently that I could live up to the outer image, I made my way through the long, carpeted corridor, down the wide angular staircase to the lower hall, across the dim parlor and out through one of the tall French doors that led to the garden.

  Mrs. Canfield sat in one of several wicker chairs placed in the shade of a wide-branching tulip tree. She looked so straight and formal that I found myself walking decorously across the velvet grass to join her. As I approached she looked up and smiled.

  “Ah, Louisa. How fresh you look, child! Sit here in the shade and tell me about your parents. They are well, I trust?”

  “Quite well, thank you. They asked me to give you their very warmest greetings.”

  “How kind of them. And your trip was not too unpleasant?”

  “Not at all. Both Jane and I enjoyed it.”

  “Perhaps a cup of tea would be refreshing. I have asked Katie to bring it out here.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Mrs. Canfield made me feel ill at ease and unnaturally prim. Even my words sounded stiff. “How beautiful it is here! I don’t wonder that Jane was so happy to come.”

  “Was she happy? How nice! Of course she was here often before—before the accident, but I did not know whether she would want to come back. It cannot be much entertainment for her, I’m afraid.” She leaned forward slightly and laid her small hand on my arm. “I am most grateful to you, my dear, for consenting to spend the summer with her.”

  “I was glad to,” I said, trusting that this was what might be called a “white fib.”

  I looked across the garden to where Jane was walking slowly up and down the bright rows of flowers, her hands clasped behind her back, seeming to examine each brilliant bloom.

  “I love Jane so much, but I wish she was—well, not so inside herself. She doesn’t laugh, or run, or play the way a little girl ought to. She’s—she’s too quiet!”

  “I shall ask Katie to help me search out some of Emily’s old toys,” Mrs. Canfield said. “They are all packed away in the attic, and there might be something among them that would amuse Jane.”

  “I can help, if you like,” I offered.

  “That would be very kind of you, Louisa.”

  Involuntarily I glanced up at the house. It stood tall and dark gray, with gables and half-hidden dormers, its several brick chimneys soot-stained almost to black. In most of the rear windows the shades were drawn halfway down, rather like heavy-lidded eyes. Only the four windows on the second floor which were Jane’s and mine stood wide open with the shades raised to the top, and two on the first floor in what I judged would be the kitchen. At least Katie believes in letting in a little air, I thought, but the attic probably hasn’t seen a ray of sunshine in years. Strangely, I shivered a little and turned back to the lovely yard in which we sat.

  As warm and lush and fragrant as it was, the garden had a certain strict control about it. The heavy-headed summer flowers grew neatly within their bounds, the tidy hedges of boxwood and privet were trimmed and even, the thick soft grass was perfectly cut and disciplined. But the rich scent of stock and viburnum drifted lazily on the air, birdcalls lilted from the top of the tulip tree, and bright rows of pansies marched along the sharply-edged borders, their gay faces lending a flippancy to the dignity of the place.

  I felt the garden was much like Lydia Canfield herself. Restrained, calm, precise, yet with a natural force and energy which must require a constant effort to hold it always in control. She had been born and bred a Bostonian, I knew, and had not moved to Lynn until the early years of her marriage. She was small, slim, determinedly erect, and I had never seen her dressed in anything other than black taffeta, her chin held high by a boned lace collar. Her hair, gleaming now blue-black in the sun, was just beginning to show bright silver threads in the intricate coronet of braids. She always wore the same four pieces of jewelry: her wide gold wedding band, two magnificent diamond rings, and a long jet chain from which hung an oval black locket, its smooth surface highlighted by another large diamond. She had what Jane called a “closed-up face,” and although her voice was low and beautifully modulated, it lacked warmth. Somehow, through her cool reserve, she gave off an air of strength which was impressive. I was not exactly afraid of Lydia Canfield, but I was quite awed by her, and very much on my best behavior.

  I heard the back screen door open and close, and turning, saw Katie coming across the yard with the tea tray. She set it on a low table by Mrs. Canfield’s chair.

  “I made sugar cookies for Jane,” she said, “and there’s milk for her in the little pitcher.”

  “You’ll spoil her, Katie,” I said lightly.

  “Nonsense, Miss Louisa! She could use a mite of spoiling, seems to me. It doesn’t set right to see a child so quiet.” She turned to Mrs. Canfield. “Shall I fetch her, ma’am?”

  “Please, Katie.”

  Her ample body in its neat gray uniform looked solid and dependable as she walked across the grass toward where Jane knelt by a pansy bed.

  “Dear Katie,” Mrs. Canfield murmured with a little smile. “Nothing could make her happier than having a child around to cater to. If we don’t watch her she’ll stuff Jane as full of goodies as a Christmas pudding.”

  “Has Katie been with you long?”
I asked.

  “Since I was married. She was only sixteen then, inexperienced, but quite desperately anxious to learn. Katie and I have been together for almost forty years. A very long time.”

  “She knew John, then.”

  “Oh, yes. From the time he was born. John was always so very fond of Katie!”

  “And Emily, too?” I asked.

  “Emily?” The barest suggestion of a frown touched her brow and was gone. “Emily was…rather different. She demanded a great deal, even from Katie.”

  “From the little I have seen of Katie I imagine she would enjoy putting herself out for any child.”

  “Katie is very fond of all children, fortunately. She has always had infinite patience with them. Even with Emily.”

  I could not help probing. “Even?” I repeated.

  “Emily was…not particularly considerate of other people.”

  It seemed a surprising statement for a mother to make, and it embarrassed me a little.

  “I suppose all children are a little selfish about their own interests,” I said.

  “No, not all,” Mrs. Canfield replied. Then she lowered her eyes and leaning forward, lifted the silver teapot. “How do you like your tea, my dear?” she asked.

  “Sugar, please. And lemon.”

  As the clear amber fluid flowed smoothly into the delicate cups I watched her face, puzzled by what she had said, and looking for some explanation. But the “closed-up” look was there and I felt unable to pursue the subject. Mrs. Canfield added sugar to my tea, and a thin slice of lemon studded with a clove, handing it to me just as Jane came across the grass toward us, and Katie went back into the house.

  “Jane, dear,” Mrs. Canfield said. “Did Katie tell you she made cookies for you? And here is your milk.”

  “Yes. She told me. May I have two?”

  “If you like.”

  Jane chose one of the deeper chairs, pulling her legs under her and sitting comfortably curled while she nibbled round and round the edge of her cookie, her dark eyes full of quiet pleasure.