Daughter of the Vale

What a striking granddaughter you have, Walter, darkeyed and with a smile as bright as fresh snow, said the old farmer, his voice full of pride.
Who is she? Is she yours?

Of course shes mine, sir. Shes a onceinageneration wonder. After all these years Ive seen my son Arthurs child, and now she will be my greatgranddaughter.

Your familys always been fairhaired, you know. Ive heard of the Evansesyour forebears served my grandfather, loyal to a fault.

Their service is true, sir, but you wonder how we came to be this way? My ancestors were all caretakers: my greatgrandfather a steward, my grandfather a bailiff, my father the same, and now I am.

My sons have gone to town. Victor drives the carriage for the lady of the manor, a generous and wealthy woman who has married well and now has grandchildren. Simon works the shop as a clerk, saving enough to open his own business. Arthur, a veteran of the army, rose through the ranks and earned several medals; the Earl praised him highly and kept him close as an aide.

Arthur lives comfortably, keeps the farm running smoothly, and has married a fine young woman named Blythe. She bore a daughter, Evelyn, a delight to all.

Women are few in our line, sir, mostly sons. Yet when a girl is born she is always as bright as Blythe.

The old farmer, Walter, sat mending nets while a sprightly darkeyed girl twirled beside him. Her slender fingers and graceful hands were a marvel, a creature of beauty, hardly a child.

Nearby stood a young squire, George Sinclair, whose eyes never left Evelyn.

Evelyn, will you marry me? he asked.

Im still a child, sir, she replied.

Of course youre young. When youre grown, will you come to me?

When I grow, youll be an old man. Ill choose a younger suitor.

And who will that be? Have you found anyone?

No, not yet. Grandmother Dawn told me Ill know when the right one appears.

Evelyns tone grew thoughtful, her eyes serious.

Grandmother Dawn? Walter, I dont understand. Who is this Dawn? Is she not the wife from our village?

Ah, sir, do not heed her babble. She is just a childs chatter.

May I play with Scout? the girl asked, running toward the riverbank, racing a hunting hound named Scout.

How does she know the dogs name, Walter? asked George.

Im not sure; perhaps you dropped it, or someone mentioned it. I only brought Scout today.

Sir, youre a clever man; do not conjure things that are not there, Walter warned, though the girl giggled and chased the spaniel along the riverbank.

The tale lingered in Georges mind. Like many of his age, he was drawn to mysticism, wrote verses, and was a curious soul.

Later, in autumn, George met Evelyn again while she and her grandfather searched for mushrooms. He set off with Scout.

Walking along a path, he heard a small voice call, Scout, Scouty! He turned and saw the dog lying on its back, wagging its legs as Evelyn knelt over him.

Good day, Evelyn, he said.

Good day, Sir George, she replied. Are you alone?

My grandfather is out gathering mushrooms.

They walked together toward the old mans cottage.

Evelyn, have you changed your mind about marrying me? George asked.

No, sir, your fate lies elsewhere. Youll spend your life abroad, longing for home, and youll have no place here for me.

And what of you? he pressed.

Ill meet you again when Im grown, but the meeting will be hard, as will parting, she answered.

You speak passionately, Evelyn.

Its not me; its Grandmother Dawn speaking, she said.

Who is this Dawn? George pressed.

A wandering spirit, sir, Evelyn replied before darting off to play with Scout.

Walter, you never told me the family legendwhy so many extraordinary girls are born in our line? George asked.

Walter, perched on a stump, smiled. Youre not of our clan, George, but youre curious. Long ago, a gypsy caravan set up on the borders of our lands. The master of the estate loved the gypsies and invited them to stay. He fell for a gypsy girl, a child of such otherworldly beautybright eyes, rubyred lips, pearls for teeth, hair in a golden braid. When she sang, people wept; when she danced, the air swirled.

They called her a witch, but she was simply a child of the road, a Dawn, as they named her for her radiance.

The master begged her father to give her to him, or to sell her, Walter recounted. The old gypsy refused, saying a free spirit cannot be bound. He begged the master to leave her be. The master, desperate, tried to force her, offering gold and promises of palace life.

The girl laughed and said, I am no lady of the court. I belong to the open fields, barefoot, chasing dew. She warned him that his greed would strip him of what mattered mosthis own heart.

The master ignored her, and the gypsies fled that night. In fury, the master chased them with soldiers, accusing the caravan of theft. A clash erupted, and the girl, Dawn, stood before the master, eyes flashing, and said, I warned you; now you shall lose what you cherish most.

The master went mad, threw lavish parties, and scattered his fortune, yet never found peace. He eventually died a broken man, his son Rupert returning alone, having lost his mother.

Years later, Walter continued, your greatgrandfather, Walter, took in my greatgrandfather, made him a steward, and helped raise his children. That is why we are bound together.

George listened, his mind drifting back to Evelyn. He recalled his family papers confirming that lands east of his estate once belonged to the Evens, now his own.

Time changed the country, and with it, fortunes shifted. George was arrested with his comrades during a political purge, held in the old manors cellars until a highranking official ordered their release.

One night, a soft voice called from the window. A girl, luminous in the moonlight, whispered, George, follow me quietly; we have half an hour before the guards return.

She led them through hidden tunnels into a cavern. My people have hidden here for centuries; come, I will help you escape, she said.

Its you, Evelyn, George whispered, astonished.

After all these years, Im still here, she smiled. Remember the family legend.

She guided the men to a secret passage that led to a riverboat, arranging safe passage abroad.

Will you come with me? she asked as they prepared to part.

I cannot, Evelyn. My destiny lies elsewhere, George replied. You must stay and walk your own path.

I understand, she said, but know that I will cherish our time forever.

Exiled, George drew Evelyns likeness from memory and gave it to an artist, who painted a portrait that would later be recognized as the face behind the family legend.

George married, loved his wife deeply, yet the image of Evelyn remained in his hearta pure, untarnished love. Only when he became an old man did the truth of the portrait emerge: the woman in the painting was his childhood companion, who later married the highranking official who had once ordered his release. During the harsh years of repression, her husband was killed, later rehabilitated, and she raised three sons and a daughter.

She lived a long life, seeing only one of her grandchildren before she passed. When that grandchilds daughter was born, the villagers remarked on her uncanny resemblance to the ancient Dawn.

Mr. Nicholas, why does young Emma look so different? She seems not of our line, a neighbour asked.

Our Emma is truly ours, Nicholas laughed, shes as English as tea and crumpets.

Emma, whats your nickname? the neighbour pressed. Is it something exotic? She wears a beautiful necklace.

Its not a necklace, its a brooch, the girl replied, her clear eyes meeting his, and my name is Dawn.

The story, carried through generations, taught a simple truth: wealth and titles mean nothing if you ignore the wisdom of those who have walked before you, and love that cannot be bought endures beyond all.