Wild Wood (58 page)

Authors: Posie Graeme-Evans

BOOK: Wild Wood

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Mary Joseph had been puzzled, and perhaps she’d shown it, for the countess said smoothly, “And here is my daughter, Alicia. Alicia, this is Sister Mary Joseph.”

She’d shaken the little girl by the hand—so serious and, unfortunately, so plain, though wearing a pretty dress—but seeing a dark-haired boy all by himself, she’d said, “And who is this?”

The countess had turned. And paused. “That’s Rory.”

Just that. Nothing else. She’d not attempted to call the child over. In that awkward pause, the countess had swept her daughter on.

Sister Mary knows what happened next. Uncertain of what to do, she’d wandered around the hall, looking at paintings and a magnificent, if battered, suit of armor. An open door took her inside a library, and there, outside, where garden faded into shadowed forest, she’d seen her. Eva.

The girl was standing in a pool of light where there was no light. And Eva had smiled at
her
. A silver figure in the falling snow. And then she had turned and walked away into the trees. Into the dark.

Sister Mary Joseph closes her eyes.
Five months dead, but I saw her. And her white skin seemed silver in the light because she was naked.
How can she tell Jesse that?

Mrs. Valentine nudges her friend Miss Bester. “Should we wake her up? She’ll miss dinner.”

Miss Bester shakes her head. The letter has fallen to the floor but the old nun looks so peaceful. “Let her sleep, poor thing. She’s earned it.”

Mrs. Valentine nods wisely. “Done a lot of good in her life, Sister Mary Jo. Come along, then.” The two old friends get up and leave the nun to her dreams.

They pass the Christmas tree and pause. “Looks lovely up there, doesn’t she?”

Miss Bester nods. “Magical.”

Among the tinsel and the lights, the silver fairy looks down from the top of the tree. Light from the windows gilds the white quilt covering the garden outside as fresh snow begins to fall, and the radio sings on to itself.

Silent night,

Holy night . . .

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Caerlaverock, Tantallon, Dunvegan, Cawdor, Eilean Donan, Alnwick, Bamburgh. The names roll like thunder out of the riven history of the wars between Scotland and England. Castles, each one of them—and so many more—went into the making of Hundredfield and the story I wove around that place. It grew slowly, this tale, and three times I went back to Scotland and the borders region to find the pieces that would bring my puzzle together.

First, twenty years ago, there was Dunvegan on the Isle of Skye, and the legend of the Fairy Flag. In some odd way that stayed with me—the story of the fairy woman who married a McLeod.

But it wasn’t just the buildings that brought me back: It was the landscape and the light as well. And the people. I like Northerners. I like their toughness and I like their humor.

Then there’s the work that the Landmark Trust does in rescuing smaller, but no less significant, structures than the great buildings preserved by the National Trust for Scotland. That needs a tribute here.

A year or so back, Andrew and I stayed in a fortified tower house in Dumfries and Galloway on the Scottish side of the borders.
The Castle of Park is small as castles go, and it was just before the country shut down due to snow, so we wore a lot of clothes to keep warm. But it was there, in that frozen world, I found the bones of Fulk’s great keep, with its staircase tower and twisting staircase leading up to the cap house. And in the mornings, I watched deer pick their way out of the trees, foraging for food. You don’t see that where I live. . . .

And Rosslyn Castle, too. The home of the Sinclairs for hundreds of years, and close by the famous Rosslyn Chapel (of
The Da Vinci Code
fame). What a privilege it was to stay there as well. Each night I read ghost stories lying in the bath and drank red wine in front of the fire. It was Rosslyn Castle that gave me the bedrooms in Hundredfield’s New Range, and the layers and layers of rooms and chambers stuck to the cliff and climbing into the sky. Half ruined now, what a vast place it must once have been.

Bamburgh, too, stays with me. That great hunched mass of buildings crowning a cliff by the wild North Sea gave me so much. There, in the courtyards behind the walls that men did indeed once patrol, was the very form and shape of Hundredfield.

Scotland. Cumbria. Northumberland. I never want to leave unless it’s to go home.

But it’s not just the country I’m grateful to here. There are a roll call of people I want to personally thank who, each in their own way, has made
Wild Wood
real.

First, last, and always, there are my publishers, Simon & Schuster worldwide, and most particularly Judith Curr, who has supported my books from the very beginning. And of course Sarah Branham—my dear New York–based editor who works with Judith in that great ziggurat on the Avenue of the Americas. Thank you both, so much. How awed and astonished I was to walk into that building for the first time in December 2000. And
then
to be handed a three-book deal, when I was already on my way back to Australia to roll production, finally, on the television
series of
McLeod’s Daughters
after waiting so many years. That was a day.

Lou Johnson, Simon & Schuster, in Sydney—thank you so much, Lou—and all her dedicated and hard-working team. Larissa Edwards and Anabel Pandiella are just two among so many who deserve my gratitude for all they have done to help my books on their way, past, present, and future.

And Nicola O’Shea, my Australian editor. Draft by draft, Nicola is the voice of reason when my own goes missing. Writing is tough sometimes. It’s not a war zone, but it can feel like it if the writing day warps out of shape. Paranoia! Anguish!

Thank you, Nicola, again. One of us has to keep a clear mind, and I’m glad I’ve got access to yours.

My agent, Rick Raftos. Unflappable man! Thank you, Rick. Kind, decent, smart—that’s you.

And thank you, too, to the friends I talk to during the writing process. Vicki Maddern. Yes, you. How compassionate you were when I was on the floor. Your calm helped me so much. It seems to me that writers, all over the world, must be a secret society. There are signs and signals by which we recognize another of our own kind. A light in the darkness, for instance. That’s a pretty good sign. In your case, you held up a bloody big flaming torch, and I stumbled toward that beacon very gratefully. Thank God for you! And Prue Batten. How good it was to talk story and process with you. What courage you have, Prue, and that’s an inspiration. Thank you.

Niki White, from Nikstar. I always thought that having a personal publicist was . . . well, remarkable. And I’ve discovered it is. Thank you as always, Niki, for the care and imagination you bring to helping me find ways to talk to the world from my ridgeline in Tasmania.

Of course, too, there’s my family. I write for all of you, each adult, each child, and you’re all in my head, all the time.

And finally, Andrew Blaxland. Dear husband, loving friend.
You built me an office this year out of a more-than-fragile shed. Now I can’t believe my luck each time I open this door, because I’m surrounded by such beauty. And today as I sit here, in the place you’ve made for me with the long views over the hills and the water, my soul says thank you.

P
OSIE

Huon Valley, Tasmania

March 2015

MELANIE LUNDEN

P
OSIE
G
RAEME
-E
VANS
is the author of five internationally bestselling novels, including
The Dressmaker
and
The Island House.
An Australian television producer in a former life, she has created and commissioned numerous much-loved programs for children and adults, most recently the worldwide smash
McLeod’s Daughters
and the Daytime Emmy–nominated
Hi-5.
She lives in Tasmania. Find out more at
PosieGraemeEvans.net
.