Susan Speers Read Free

adventure, his pockets filled with scribbled notes. “I’ll wager we’ll find it today!” he cried with renewed enthusiasm. Our hunt was on for Mad Marchmont’s fifth folly.
    We set forth, rain or shine, our lunch wrapped in grease paper and a bottle of cold tea tucked away in Jemmy’s rucksack. We never tired of hiking across the estate, searching the dense forests and unexpected jewels of emerald meadows for a sight of the missing structure. I began to believe it truly was a myth, but Jem never lost faith.
    “Our great grandfather hid all reference to the funds he used to build it,” Jemmy told me, his eyes glowing with the thrill of the hunt. “Every now and then, the figures don’t add up, or I find a receipt for material with no stated purpose. He built it, I know he did! I just don’t know where. There are maps…”
    What sort of maps?” I asked, eager. Miss Prinn had always praised my drawing, but she exalted over my maps. Mr. Pickety had given me a shy smile of approval when he saw my watercolor map of England.
    “Madison drew endless maps and plans for Hethering,” Jem told me. “Some are fanciful, some are not.”
    “I want to see them.” I knew it was hopeless. Father’s permission had not been granted to me. I was unimportant, a female. He might educate me, but he wouldn’t encourage me.
     “Never mind, Clarry,” Jemmy promised, taking my hand in his warm brown fingers. “I’ll find a way.”
    *****
     
    On one of our happy tramps across Hethering, we emerged from Marchgate Wood at the top of the long grassy hill that led down to Willow’s cottage.
    “We’re in time for tea,” I nodded at the curl of smoke rising from her chimney.
    “You can go if you like,” Jem told me, “but I will keep on.”
    Jemmy only tolerated Willow, while I wanted to spend a part of every day in her magical parlor. With great patience, she taught me to embroider, to create the rainbow clusters of flowers that adorned nearly every cloth in her cottage, and I came to share her love of the bright colored silk threads.
    Outdoorsman Jem was uncomfortable in cozy feminine confines and Willow’s mercurial nature made him nervous. Miss Juniot and I often exchanged anxious glances during his visits, afraid his impatience would hurt Willow’s feelings, but she seemed serenely indifferent.
    That afternoon I stayed with Jem, and we crashed through the unknown forest on the far side of Willow’s meadow to find a field rarely scythed. Its coarse grasses grew long and thick. Jem had got ahead of me, out of sight.
    “Halloo!” I called again and again, hoping he would return. Instead, another figure appeared, a boy closer to my age than Jem’s, with ruddy cheeks and wild brown hair. His rough sewn shirt and wool britches placed him as a laborer’s child. He might have been a laborer himself, for his face and arms were brown and the skin on his hands was broken and rough.
    “I was looking for my cousin Jeremy.” I was sorry to take him from his work, times were hard for the poor.
    “Well, I’m Dickon,” he told me. “S’pose you were visiting the daft’un.”
    “Willow’s not daft,” I cried. “She — she’s special. I won’t let you call her names.”
    “Queer or not, I don’t mind.” He didn’t take offense. “She’s kind and gives me cakes.”
    “Me, too.” We exchanged shy smiles until he ducked his head. Many a friendship has been forged sharing the love of food.
    Jemmy’s long shadow fell across us and he came to stand between me and Dickon.
    “Is this boy bothering you Clarry?”
    “This is my new friend,” I placated Jemmy. I feared a display of his temper.
    “What’s your name, boy?” Never before had I heard Jeremy exercise his privilege. Jem’s resemblance to my father dismayed me.
    “Dickon Scard.” The boy’s face flushed a deeper red at the bite of Jeremy’s voice, but he didn’t lower his eyes or doff his cap. “What’s yours?”
    Jeremy eyes narrowed at the