Angel on her Knees

By Patricia Josefchak-Pugh

She was just a garden ornament, the little stone angel half-hidden at the bottom of the garden at Grace Hollow.  Who would have thought to look here for a secret that would change lives forever?

 

When Frank and Thea Nickles moved to Fenelon Falls from Toronto, they were looking for a peaceful new start after their hect

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burnstown Publishing House
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772571387

Book preview

Chapter I

Grace Adams sits at her rolltop desk in the library, allowing the pictures of friends and family to conjure memories of past days and younger years. She is old now and knows that soon her cares will be gone. The photos make her smile and she has no regrets. That was one of her wishes for her life—that there would be no regrets. She had always dreaded the thought that one day she would catch herself wishing things had been different. And, though things could've been different, she knew that didn't necessarily mean life would’ve been better.

Grace sighs. She sets aside the photos and reaches for a blank piece of parchment. She has made various arrangements, but there is one more thing to do before she can rest peacefully forever. She has kept a secret for a lifetime. Now she can let that go as well. After penning a few lines, she tucks the parchment into an old journal and pushes it in amongst the books.

* * *

A young couple stood in front of the cottage. It was theirs now. Aunt Grace had passed away and left it to Thea, her niece. It took almost a year for Thea and her husband Frank to settle their affairs in urban Toronto before they could move to this cottage near Fenelon Falls, County Victoria, in the heart of the Haliburton Highlands.

The gift of the cottage had been an unexpected breath of life. They both were at their wits’ end in Toronto. They were on a treadmill that led nowhere. They worked to pay the mortgage. They ate to stay healthy. They exercised to relieve stress. They slept out of necessity. It was a fast track to a dead end. Even paying off their home was too far in the future to provide any solace. All they could do was dream. And then came the letter from the solicitors.

Thea and Frank would still need an income, but the cottage was theirs, free and clear; only the taxes had to be covered and the inevitable series of maintenance expenses.

Frank looked up and sighed. It was one of relief, like a breath owed. Thea put her bag down and promptly spied the weeds in the garden.

Thea, Frank said. Look at it. Just look.

From a crouched position, she regarded the cottage.

It’s beautiful, Frank went on. It’ll look wonderful when I get it painted, and the roof re-shingled, and—

Thea interrupted, Yes, it is home for us now. It will be wonderful. She rose to her feet, her voice softening. You know, Frank, maybe you’re right. It would be perfect for a bed and breakfast. Thea walked as she spoke. We can clear the weeds from this old stone patio and set up some tables with umbrellas. With a little work the gardens will look almost as nice as they used to be . . . She smiled suddenly. Let’s call it Grace Hollow. Do you like that?

Grace Hollow? Frank repeated. Yes, it suits beautifully.

They stood together and looked around them.

Their eyes fell on arbours overgrown with a variety of roses and wild ivy. Clematis wound their way in and out of trellises in an unruly way. Ragweed competed with pink spirea and yellow potentia. A river birch tree swayed lazily in the centre of it all, moved easily by the slightest stirring of the wind. Towering cedars bordered the garden, hiding the flowers and the occupants from the bustle of the outside world. A vegetable garden lay unsown and overgrown with weeds and wildflowers.

Somewhere off in a remote corner the garden dipped down into a hollow. Reeds and bulrushes lined the edge toward the pond below. Orange day lilies rustled in the slight breeze. Wild white and yellow daisies leaned across each other in a graceful dance.

The couple turned to admire their new home. It was small, with a peaked roof. The front had simple lines, recently upgraded with the addition of a veranda. Gingerbread trim provided decoration under the eaves. It had a Victorian character—not for its opulence, but for its romantic cottage charm.

A narrow stone walk led to the front door. The stones were bordered in the joins by thick moss. The door was old, its white paint cracked from years of sun and rain. Ivy covered one side of the front of the cottage. The flowerbeds along the border of the path were growing wild.

Frank said, I’ll even design a canopy for the patio and guests can enjoy the out-of-doors with their papers and coffee on all those lazy summer mornings.

Dreams flooded in on them both.

Thea stood and watched as her childhood times spent with her aunt came to mind. And this, Thea, her aunt would point to a flower, is a peony. It is a summer flower, prone to ants and short-lived in summer storms. Their blooms are heavy and their aroma is heady. They are like debutantes at a coming-out—exquisite.

It came back to her in an instant. Aunt Grace would be there to help her tend her garden. I’ll do my best . . . Thea whispered to herself.

Pardon? said Frank.

Oh, I was just talking to myself. Thea let it drop. Frank was a practical man.

* * *

A fierce summer storm swept into the area from the south. It brought strong winds and rain. Canadian summer storms bring with them a ferocity on par with the bitter blizzards of their winter sister. Sheet lightning lit up the night sky and thunder rolled across like a pastry roller on a bumpy board. Thea and Frank had gravitated toward the library for their first evening. Thea had found the fixings for tea, still fresh in sealed tins, while Frank cleaned the old stove and then slowly brought the kettle to a boil. The kitchen was a mystery to them both, with some of its antiquated appliances. But it had running water, so all else was easy to contend with, even if it did take time to figure out. Thea found a tray, and gathered the teapot, cookies, cups and spoons, and tinkled her way toward the library.

Double doors with stained glass fronts opened into a large, high room lined on two sides with bookshelves. At the head of the room was a brick fireplace with an open hearth. A large cast iron screen of an intricate floral motif protected the worn wool scatter rug from flying embers. The other wall was bright with another set of double French doors opening out to the back garden and a cobblestone patio.

Two worn wingback chairs in dusty rose upholstery shouldered the fireplace. A cushy settee with scrollwork along the arms and across the back faced the hearth. A large, low ottoman with a deep mauve cover was within easy reach of all three chairs.

Thea placed the tray on the ottoman. She and Frank opted for the floor and drank their tea while trying to absorb the contents of this magnificent room all around them.

As the night sky drew darker and the storm more fierce, the fire that Frank had struggled with crackled and burned brightly. They soon realized, with the impending darkness, that there was no electricity in this room.

Wait, Frank, I’ll light the candle sconces along the wall. That’s what they are for. Thea used a long taper to light the candles.

The storm may have raged outside but the candles shed an unflickering brilliance around the room. The library was in its glory. It was not meant for the harsh light of electric bulbs. The warmth of its character and charm glowed in the power of six candles and the fire.

It’s beautiful, she said. It’s a room for dreaming, for thinking . . . for inspiration.

You’re right. We won’t do anything to this room except polish the brass and wood, and clean the ash from the grate.

Thea nodded in silent agreement. They drank their tea and listened to the storm. The room flashed brilliantly with the lightning. A crack somewhere close by shattered their peace. The lightning blinded them for an instant while the resounding thunder shook. Then all was silent while the rain poured down, beating against the windows on the patio doors.

Thea held her teacup and explored the room quietly.

It’s a perfect night for this, she said. A stormy night, candlelight and a room full of life to explore. Look, there’s the old rolltop desk back there in the shadows.

Thea tried to open the top. It’s stuck. I’ll check it tomorrow. Aunt Grace used to manage the household from here and do her letters.

She passed it by to look at the small assortment of ornaments and figures mounted on a shelf on the wall above the desk.

Frank stood quietly drinking his tea in front of a painting. It was a portrait. He studied the radiance of the soft face by the candlelight. The face was framed by a summer hat; one side bowed up with the other fanning out. Dark hair fell in short waves. A large corsage of flowers sat on her shoulder, pinning in place a sheer shawl. She wore a sleeveless dress of pale cotton or linen. Clear bright eyes and a relaxed smile looked back at him. She sat in a wicker chair, her hands resting easily on the chair arms. The hands weren’t dainty; they knew the work of a gardener, but they seemed kind. She wore a ring on her wedding finger but only one. Frank assumed it to be an engagement ring. It was largish but not gaudy. The portrait was of a happy woman, perhaps in her early thirties, dated somewhere around 1920.

Thea came up behind him. That’s Aunt Grace when she was young. I don’t remember her that young. She was in her forties when Mom first brought me to visit her. Thea paused. She’s pretty in an elegant way, isn’t she?

Frank nodded his head and turned to his wife. You’ve got the same eyes, clear and bright. And the dark wavy hair, though yours is down your back in those luscious waves I love to stroke. Frank drew her close. Her head rested below his shoulders. Frank was a tall man, around six feet. Thea wasn’t more than five-and-a-half feet, tiny and slender—lithe. Frank loosed the ribbon holding back her hair and combed it with his fingers.

She was quite the lady, Thea began. My mom used to speak of her often. Grace was a renegade for a woman of her day. She inherited this home from her parents and kept it alone until she died. She was outgoing, but too vocal and intelligent. Mom said that Grace decided she wouldn’t marry. She was Aunt Grace to all the town children, and respected by all the ladies of good repute and affluent means.

But she has an engagement ring in the portrait, Frank said.

Thea looked and paused. That must have been before the engagement was broken. I know once Mom mentioned something about Grace and marriage. She had suitors, and one that she obviously accepted, but Mom said Grace believed that marriage would mean she would have to give up too much of herself. But you’re right. She looks so happy in the portrait and beautiful. I can imagine that gentleman callers were frequent. But I can’t imagine Grace married. I can’t even imagine her with children of her own, though she used to dote on me. I guess in those days marriage and spinsterhood were the only choices. I remember my aunt more clearly as I get older. She was truly a gentlewoman, solitary but content and then somewhat reclusive in her later years.

Thea hugged Frank a little tighter.

I don’t really know how Grace lived her years, but I expect I’ll get to know her quite well through this house. I’m sure she kept journals. Perhaps she left them for us. It’s too late to ask Mom or Dad. Maybe the townsfolk will provide some memories.

Both were oblivious to the rain. Both were content in each other. Just now they didn’t need the rest of the world.

* * *

Thea awoke to a hazy and hot midsummer morning. The storm had done nothing to relieve the humidity. The air was like