The Secret of Sentinel Rock (15 page)

Emily stood silently with her mother and Aunt Liz as Aunt Maggie placed the lilies by her grandparents’ monument. Then she wandered off, not wanting to stand by the new mound of earth. Her grandmother’s body lay there, but not her spirit. Instead, she ambled along the grassy paths as the others chatted ­quietly.

She examined the engravings on the headstones, discovering earlier and earlier dates. She felt herself drawn to the oldest section in a far corner of the graveyard. Here the inscriptions were more difficult to read on the weathered white stones, and some markers had fallen ­over.

As she paced slowly between the gravesites, studying each of them, a strange feeling of anticipation came over her. Then she found what she knew would be there: a row of Elliott family crosses. They stretched in an irregular line along the back of the cemetery. Apprehensively, she read the ­names.

At the very outside edge she found Granny Elliott’s modest tombstone. Emily fell to her knees, shivering. Right beside it, she discovered a smaller one. She pushed aside the wild rose bushes that almost obscured the dates and read:
Emma, Beloved Daughter of George and Margaret Elliott, 5 May 1887 - 27 September ­1899
.

Reaching out a shaky hand, Emily fingered the etchings on the headstone and whispered a silent prayer for her long gone friend. In her heart she’d known Emma had not survived the terrible illness. Rising and stepping away, she headed to the line of spruce trees and crawled through the fence that enclosed the cemetery. She stood breathing deeply in the warm spring sun, staring across the ­landscape.

She was not surprised to find that she could see the outcrop of rocks on her grandparents’ farm in the distance. She knew now she was standing on the outer edge of what had been the Elliotts’ property. In silence she walked back to the car where the others waited for ­her.

Emily felt they’d obviously been talking about her, because they fell silent when she approached. She couldn’t bring herself to speak. Instead, she stared out the window at the blur of scenery that streaked past in swirls of dust as they drove along the gravel ­roads.

When they returned to the house, Emily shot up the stairs for the old family photograph hidden under her window ledge. She needed to find out about the people in it. Aunt Maggie was the only one who could make any connections at ­all.

Her mother and Aunt Liz were preparing coffee, but they stopped short when Emily thrust the photograph into her aunt’s hand. All thoughts of a snack were forgotten when Aunt Maggie exclaimed in surprise at the ­print.

“Goodness, Emily. Where on earth did you come across this?”

Quickly she explained about finding the glass negatives in the attic and her mother getting the print made. “Do you know who they are?” Emily held her breath. She could hear the clock ticking as she waited for her aunt to ­answer.

“Well….” Aunt Maggie studied the photograph. “These are your relatives on your grandmother’s side – the Elliotts.”

So she’d been right. Her grandmother and Emma had been related. But how? “Who are they?” Emily pumped, hardly able to contain her eagerness. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table by her ­aunt.

“Well, this is George Elliott Senior and his wife, Margaret,” Aunt Maggie said pointing to the older couple. “They’d be your ­great-­grandparents.”

“Really? My ­great-­grandparents?” Emily caught her breath and exhaled slowly, waiting for her aunt to confirm ­it.

“Certainly. They’d be your grandmother Renfrew’s parents,” Aunt Maggie repeated, stopping after every word as if to emphasize each generation. She tapped her fingers slowly on the table top as she ­thought.

“Wow.” If they were her ­great-­grandparents, then that meant Emma must be her ­great-­aunt. A sudden giddiness swept through Emily. “But where’s Grandma in the photo?”

“She wasn’t even born when this picture was taken. They took this before they left Scotland. Your ­great-­grandmother was expecting your grandmother when they decided to emigrate.”

“And she was born on the wagon trail here.” Emily interrupted, thoroughly excited ­now.

“Why yes, Emily. She was.”

“Wait a minute. I thought it was Molly that was born on the trail?” Emily tilted her head and looked at Aunt Maggie. She thought hard. Something didn’t ­fit.

Aunt Maggie chuckled. “You’re partly right. Molly was what they called your grandmother when she was younger. But she was christened Mary. When she grew up, there was another Molly in the community, so she decided to switch back to Mary.”

Kate looked at Emily with a puzzled expression on her face. “How did you know?”

Emily realized her mistake. She took a breath and tried to calm herself. “Uh, I guess maybe Grandma told me about it or something.”

“So, can you tell us who the others are?” Aunt Liz questioned. They all gathered in closer around Aunt ­Maggie.

“I’m not sure I recognize everyone. When I knew them they were much older, of course. But let’s see.” Slowly Aunt Maggie pointed to the two ­youngest-­looking girls. “These would be Beth and Kate – Elizabeth, no, Elsbeth, and Katherine, really.” She turned to look at Emily’s mother. “You knew you were named for her didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” said Kate. “Mom always said I was headstrong and stubborn, just like Auntie Kate.”

“She was right.” Aunt Liz stepped away as Kate tried to give her a playful ­swat.

“Now, girls.” Aunt Maggie reprimanded them, then continued naming the faces in the photo. “These are probably Uncle Alex, and Auntie Bella. They were the oldest. I’m not sure of all the others.”

“Uncle Alex – was he called Sandy?” Emily felt a faint smile tug at her ­mouth.

“Why yes, I believe he was – when he was a boy.” Aunt Maggie turned back to pondering the photo, mumbling names to herself. “Some of them died young and some moved away. Uncle Jack was the one that died nine or ten years ago. You probably don’t remember him, do you Emily?”

“Yeah, sort of. Is he the one with the big bushy eyebrows and long tickly white beard, that lived near Wolseley?”

“Wow, you do have a memory, kiddo. You’d only have been about three when he died,” said Aunt ­Liz.

Aunt Maggie raised her eyebrows at Emily. “And this was Uncle Duncan. He’s been gone for years. He left the farm and moved to Victoria after his wife Anne passed away.” She paused. “Now some of these middle children I’m not sure of.”

Why was she so slow to recognize them? Emily couldn’t contain her excitement any longer. “That’s Geordie.” She pointed to him in the ­photo.

“Well, I believe you’re right, Emily. How did you know?”

“I suppose your grandmother mentioned him too?” asked Aunt Liz, coming to her ­rescue.

“Yes, I guess so,” said Emily, relieved she didn’t have to provide an ­explanation.

“And this must have been Emma. Such a tragedy, you know.” Aunt Maggie seemed unaware that Emily had sucked in her breath and was waiting for her to go on. “She survived a ‘flu epidemic while caring for the rest of the family. In fact, they say she saved Molly and her mother from death’s door. But she was so worn out, poor child, that when she caught pneumonia, she never recovered.”

Emily turned to see both Kate and Aunt Liz looking at her with thoughtful expressions. She stood passively, listening to her ­aunt.

“There wasn’t much that could be done in those days,” Aunt Maggie continued. “No doctors around. And they didn’t have the kinds of medication we have today. None of the rest of the family knew anything about plant medicines. What with the old Granny gone – that was George Senior’s mother, you know. She died in the epidemic, a month earlier. Even if they had known what plants to use, Emma was too ­run-­down. She wouldn’t have made it anyway.”

“It’s too bad, really,” her aunt stared at her gnarled hands. “They say Emma could have made a wonderful doctor. She had this natural ability to recognize plants and know what they were good for.”

Emily smiled at ­this.

“Your grandmother used to say she could feel Emma around her like a guardian angel, teaching her all about nature’s ways.” Aunt Maggie twisted in her chair to look at Emily, and poked her in the side with her cane. “You know, young lady, your grandmother insisted you be named for Emma. As soon as you were born, she said she had the feeling you were a kindred spirit. Of course, your mother, stubborn as she is, wouldn’t give in entirely. She said Emma was too old fashioned. Emily was as close to Emma as she’d allow.”

Emily felt warmed by this knowledge. Grandmother Renfrew had been special to her as well. As her aunt drifted into grumbling about her various medical problems, Emily walked over to the kitchen counter and stared out the window in a ­daze.

“Em, are you all right?” Her mother came up behind ­her.

“Yes. I was just thinking about what it must have been like for Grandma’s family…being pioneers.” She turned back to the table and picked the photo up again. Gently she caressed the picture with her fingertips. “So, this is the Elliott family then. And that’s Grandmother’s parents and brothers and sisters.”

Kate placed a hand on Emily’s shoulder, just as Aunt Liz came up behind them. “That’s quite a story about Emma,” her aunt remarked. “I remember hearing something about her when I was a child.”

“Yes,” agreed her mother. “And isn’t it strange that you just met someone named Emma too, Em?”

Emily nodded and didn’t respond, hoping there would be no more questions. Instead she pictured Emma standing on the rock the first day she’d seen her with her apron and ­blue-­flowered dress blowing in the wind. All of a sudden Emily remembered Grandmother Renfrew’s quilt. “Mom, could I go get that quilt and show it to Aunt Maggie? You know, the first one Grandma made?”

“Sure, Em. Do you need help getting it down?”

“No, I can manage.” Emily was already on her way up the stairs. Now that she knew Emma’s family was really her grandmother Renfrew’s family, the coverlet had more meaning for ­her.

When it was laid out on the table, Emily examined the different coloured patches of material a little more closely, trying to figure out which swatches belonged to what articles of clothing. The plaids and stripes were obviously from the men’s flannel shirts, and the plain and print calico bits from skirts and blouses. But what caught Emily’s interest were the flowered scraps that had originally been dresses. Somewhere in a hidden corner of her mind an idea popped forward. Yes. There it was. The swatch from Emma’s dress; a blue background with small pink flowers. The one Emma had always ­worn.

Suddenly everything was coming together for Emily, and she needed to be alone to sort it all out. “Mom would you mind if I went up to the rock one more time?”

Kate looked at her daughter, a softness about her eyes. “Sure, go ahead, Em. Say ­good-­bye to Emma.”

Emily almost blurted out that Emma was already gone, but something told her that her mother ­knew.

“What is this rock?” Aunt Maggie quizzed as Emily started towards the hallway for her ­jacket.

Kate explained the place to her, and Emily stopped to ­listen.

Aunt Maggie snorted. “That rock. Your Grand-mother spent more time out there…” she shook her head. “I guess it was Emma’s favourite place, too. That’s why the area is still the way it was so long ago. No one wanted to disturb it. They sort of left it in memory of her.”

“I’m glad they did. It’s my favourite place too,” Emily ­said.

Her mother looked across the room at Emily. “Em, what were you saying about that rock the other day…?”

Emily could feel the panic rising from her stomach. Oh, no. But then the kettle began whistling and Kate hurried to the stove. Emily made a beeline for the stairs. “I just have to run up to the attic for a minute.”

“Would you mind putting the quilt back, Em, before you leave?” Kate called, busy pouring water into the teapot with her one good ­hand.

“Okay.”

When she returned the quilt, Emily headed to her attic room. She wanted to jot down the dates from Emma’s headstone before she forgot them. She’d bring everything else up to date ­later.

In her hurry in reaching for her journal under the hidden ledge, Emily pushed the notebook farther back and felt it slide down the wall. Now how would she get it out? Sticking her hand into the gap, she dug deeper. Then her hand touched something soft and lumpy. Once over her initial fright, she tugged at the mound until it came ­loose.

She gasped at the sight of Emma’s embroidered bag. Pulling the cords apart, she dumped the contents onto her lap. The stones! Quickly she counted them and found all ten there, including the one she’d used. She recognized its smooth oval ­shape.

How incredible for her grandmother to have kept them all these years! But how had Emily’s special one come to be there? Had Geordie somehow realized it belonged in Emma’s pouch and returned it? Perhaps that was one mystery she’d never ­solve.

Carefully Emily tucked the stones back into the bag and returned it to the hiding spot. There was no point in returning to the past now that Emma was gone. Jotting down the dates from the headstones in her retrieved notebook, she replaced it in the hidden wall space as well and trotted back down to the ­kitchen.

As she passed the table, she grabbed a sandwich, but dropped it when Aunt Maggie tapped her ­hand.