A Fallen Woman
1796, Carleson Peak
“Miss, I’m so sorry.” Mama’s maid stood at the kitchen door, her face red with frustration and defeat.
“Quite all right, Fisher. Cook and I are finished here.” Twenty-one-year-old Susan Gray took off her apron and handed it to the maid.
Since she was fourteen, she’d run Millam Cottage as if she were its mistress. She consulted with the kitchen about stores and menus every day. Until her little brother John went away to school, she’d been his governess. On the rare occasion Papa brought home a guest, Susan served as his hostess.
She didn’t have to be told what the matter was now. Mama had slipped away from Fisher and out of the house. Again. She reached for the two bells dangling from wall hooks by the door. “Did you see which direction she went?” she asked, handing a bell to Fisher.
“No, miss.”
“We can’t go wrong to start in the woods.”
Susan rushed outside without taking time to find her hat and gloves. With Fisher on her heels, she crossed the garden to the path Mama had worn during the years the Grays had lived at the cottage. “Let’s split up. You go north to the fairy mound, and I’ll go to the great ash tree.”
Susan carried her bell by its clapper to keep it silent. She and Fisher had devised the scheme a couple of years ago. Whoever found Mama first would ring her bell to let the other know and take the poor wretch straight back to the cottage and a warm fire. It saved spending more time in search of the searchers.
A soft breeze played over Susan’s face like a cat’s paw. It was cold out for early autumn, and she picked up her pace. Mama was so frail. It wouldn’t do if she caught a chill. At a distant sound, Susan stopped. She couldn’t tell if it was Fisher’s bell or a human voice. Sometimes Mama sang when she danced through the trees in her search for the white lady.
After a few minutes, Susan resumed walking. It must have been nothing, only the wind in the leaves. When she was a little girl she believed in the white lady, the magical creature of Mama’s imagination: a fairy queen who stole human babies from their nurseries and in exchange left behind whorls of oak beneath their blankets. If you heard her song, you’d be her creature forever.
Mama’s fascination with the white lady was bewildering to Susan—until she grew up and slowly realized her mama was not quite right in the head. Then the white lady metamorphosed from romantic figure into harbinger of Susan's fate: to be housekeeper for an often absent father and nursemaid to a wretched, delusional mother.
Susan would never marry. Never know a man’s love.
She had come to the understanding five years ago at Baroness Branch’s harvest ball. She was sixteen, and a young had man asked for a third dance. She knew what a third dance meant. It meant more than politeness. More than hope for an introduction to her father, Mr. John Gray, the brilliant engineer favored by the Duke of Gohrum.
The young man took her hand and, so very briefly, squeezed it more firmly than he should. With the first notes, he risked brushing his lips across the back of her glove then let go as they took their places. She stepped toward him with the music, barely able to control her shy smile. When she stepped away, she caught a glimpse of Papa watching from the sidelines. His expression devastated her.
He pitied her, and in a flash of insight she knew why.
Papa had to travel. He didn’t design canals only for love of the work. He was a gentleman, and one day he would inherit a comfortable fortune. But his marriage had met with strong disapproval from his family. He was estranged from his own father and had lost all financial support. Papa needed the earnings his designs brought.
Susan could never marry. She would not leave her wretched mama to the care of strangers.
From that night, she attended no ball or any public function. She pulled herself out of the world and retreated into the
1796, Carleson Peak
“Miss, I’m so sorry.” Mama’s maid stood at the kitchen door, her face red with frustration and defeat.
“Quite all right, Fisher. Cook and I are finished here.” Twenty-one-year-old Susan Gray took off her apron and handed it to the maid.
Since she was fourteen, she’d run Millam Cottage as if she were its mistress. She consulted with the kitchen about stores and menus every day. Until her little brother John went away to school, she’d been his governess. On the rare occasion Papa brought home a guest, Susan served as his hostess.
She didn’t have to be told what the matter was now. Mama had slipped away from Fisher and out of the house. Again. She reached for the two bells dangling from wall hooks by the door. “Did you see which direction she went?” she asked, handing a bell to Fisher.
“No, miss.”
“We can’t go wrong to start in the woods.”
Susan rushed outside without taking time to find her hat and gloves. With Fisher on her heels, she crossed the garden to the path Mama had worn during the years the Grays had lived at the cottage. “Let’s split up. You go north to the fairy mound, and I’ll go to the great ash tree.”
Susan carried her bell by its clapper to keep it silent. She and Fisher had devised the scheme a couple of years ago. Whoever found Mama first would ring her bell to let the other know and take the poor wretch straight back to the cottage and a warm fire. It saved spending more time in search of the searchers.
A soft breeze played over Susan’s face like a cat’s paw. It was cold out for early autumn, and she picked up her pace. Mama was so frail. It wouldn’t do if she caught a chill. At a distant sound, Susan stopped. She couldn’t tell if it was Fisher’s bell or a human voice. Sometimes Mama sang when she danced through the trees in her search for the white lady.
After a few minutes, Susan resumed walking. It must have been nothing, only the wind in the leaves. When she was a little girl she believed in the white lady, the magical creature of Mama’s imagination: a fairy queen who stole human babies from their nurseries and in exchange left behind whorls of oak beneath their blankets. If you heard her song, you’d be her creature forever.
Mama’s fascination with the white lady was bewildering to Susan—until she grew up and slowly realized her mama was not quite right in the head. Then the white lady metamorphosed from romantic figure into harbinger of Susan's fate: to be housekeeper for an often absent father and nursemaid to a wretched, delusional mother.
Susan would never marry. Never know a man’s love.
She had come to the understanding five years ago at Baroness Branch’s harvest ball. She was sixteen, and a young had man asked for a third dance. She knew what a third dance meant. It meant more than politeness. More than hope for an introduction to her father, Mr. John Gray, the brilliant engineer favored by the Duke of Gohrum.
The young man took her hand and, so very briefly, squeezed it more firmly than he should. With the first notes, he risked brushing his lips across the back of her glove then let go as they took their places. She stepped toward him with the music, barely able to control her shy smile. When she stepped away, she caught a glimpse of Papa watching from the sidelines. His expression devastated her.
He pitied her, and in a flash of insight she knew why.
Papa had to travel. He didn’t design canals only for love of the work. He was a gentleman, and one day he would inherit a comfortable fortune. But his marriage had met with strong disapproval from his family. He was estranged from his own father and had lost all financial support. Papa needed the earnings his designs brought.
Susan could never marry. She would not leave her wretched mama to the care of strangers.
From that night, she attended no ball or any public function. She pulled herself out of the world and retreated into the
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