Free Darkwood by Rosemary Smith Page A

approach you again, you have my word as a gentleman,’ he assured me.
    ‘I do trust this is true, and in answer to your question, I found this poem today, written by our grandmother. On reading it, I had a sudden, urgent desire to see her bluebell wood.’ As I spoke I pulled the piece of paper from my pocket, thankful that after the recent encounter with Jared it was still intact.
    I handed it to Gareth who read it. After some time he spoke, ‘Poignant words from a grandmother who loved poetry as much as we do.’ He handed Lizzie’s poem back to me. ‘Let us walk.’
    As we walked in a companionable silence, I realised what was missing. No birds sang here and none sat on the grey branches of the trees. I could see it was getting lighter and that we were nearly at the other side of the wood.
    I stopped and looked up at his handsome face.
    ‘Gareth, do you know where our grandmother, Lizzie is buried? I scoured the churchyard on the day of our arrival, but could find no trace of a headstone with her name upon it.’
    ‘I have no idea,’ he replied softly. ‘It is as if she vanished off the face of the earth. It is as much a mystery to me as yourself. Mother will not talk of it and I have pressed her many times on the subject, for I loved my gentle grandmother.’
    ‘Likewise,’ I replied with some emotion at Gareth’s words. This was another thing we had in common.
    ‘One day soon we will walk through the graveyard together, for two pairs of eyes may be better than one.’ His words pleased me. To know he wished to spend time in my company made me realise that he was now in some way closer to me.
    Suddenly I became aware of my surroundings, the moor stretched away in the distance, the scenery reminded me of the view seen from Culmoor Church. It was hard to imagine how a wood had appeared in the middle of the moor.
    ‘What are you thinking?’ Gareth’s words drifted across to me.
    ‘I am unable to understand how a wood like this came to be in the middle of Dartmoor?’
    Not wishing to alarm you further, Silvia, legend has it that the devil planted the trees and gallops through here each night on the stroke of midnight. But have no fear, it is but folklore.’ As he spoke I looked back at the wood and was startled to find I recognised this end of it and I searched my mind as to why I should.
    The answer came to me suddenly. It was where Samuel Hunter, our grand-father, had had his portrait painted which now hung at the top of the staircase at Darkwood.
    ‘Your thoughts, Silvia?’ Gareth asked.
    ‘This is where our grandfather had his portrait painted,’ I replied, and Gareth nodded in agreement.
    ‘Let us return to the house, Silvia, for the sun is falling and I don’t wish you to catch a chill.’ At Gareth’s words I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders and taking the arm he offered, we retraced our steps back to Darkwood.
    As I snuggled my face into the pillow that night, I thought what a long eventful day it had been and certainly one of mixed fortunes. I drifted off to sleep with a picture of the bluebell wood in my mind and Gareth’s gallant acts in saving me twice that day. I recalled him calling me ‘my love’, and my last thought was that I could hardly wait to be his wife.

 
    8
     
    The Sunday morning following that eventful day, we were all to attend church as it was the third time our banns of marriage would be called. Gareth had attended on his own the two previous Sundays, but today there would be a family gathering including myself and with the exception of my mother, who said that she was saving her strength to walk up to the church on my wedding day.
    The invitations had been sent out to a great aunt and cousin I didn’t know at Lydford and one to Estelle, who to date, had not responded. With only a handful of people it would be a quiet wedding, but none the less important.
    Isabel and I felt some anticipation as our gowns would be delivered on Tuesday. We were a trifle