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    Road to Avonlea - Song of the Night
    Road to Avonlea - Song of the Night
    Road to Avonlea - Song of the Night
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    Road to Avonlea - Song of the Night

    By Fiona McHugh

    5/5

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    About this ebook

    She gets some unexpected help from Sylvia Grey, Aunt Olivia's dear friend and a talented songstress, whose beautiful voice casts a mesmerizing spell on hard-hearted Miss Lloyd, and begins to reveal the truth.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavenport Press
    Release dateMay 8, 2012
    ISBN9780981141831
    Road to Avonlea - Song of the Night

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    • 5/5
      Such a riveting tale. I couldn’t put it down. I got so engrossed in the story that I actually felt like I was apart of the story. I also love the TV series and movies as well.

    Book preview

    Road to Avonlea - Song of the Night - Fiona McHugh

    tmp_589cbd38fab0fd905306147facf6afde_0MXGVE_html_688893fc.jpg

    ROAD TO AVONLEA

    Song of the Night

    By: Gail Hamilton

    Based on Sullivan Films Production written by Heather Conkie adapted from the novels of Lucy Maud Montgomery

    SMASHWORDS EDITION

    *****

    PUBLISHED BY: Davenport Press

    Copyright © 2012 Sullivan Entertainment Inc.

    Image Copyright © 2012 Sullivan Entertainment Inc.

    Road to Avonlea is a trademark of Sullivan Entertainment Inc.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for reviewers who may quote brief passages.

    *****

    Chapter One

    Something about the old mansion made Sara pause. Perhaps it was the huge, spiked, iron gates which seemed to bare their teeth at passers-by. Perhaps it was the dark spruces which closed thickly about the silent house, as though guarding a secret. The place seemed full of dead hatreds and heartbreaks. She sensed weeping, tragedy, perhaps even—she shivered—a curse.

    Sara stopped abruptly by the gates, so abruptly that Felix, trudging behind her with the empty laundry basket, bumped right into her. Losing his balance, he careened backwards into Cecily, sending her sprawling.

    For heaven’s sake, Felix King. Just because Mother and Father have left town for the day, don’t think you can behave like a hooligan! chided Felicity, as she hauled Cecily to her feet and dusted her down. Thirteen years old and the eldest of the three King children, Felicity felt it her duty to baby ten-year-old Cecily, and to bully Felix, who, at eleven, stood somewhat clumsily in the middle.

    I’m not a hoo-gi-lan, retorted Felix, who never could get his words right-way up. Sara stopped dead, see? All of a sudden. Like someone reached out and grabbed her.

    That house did, whispered Sara, staring in at the dark building buried amongst the trees. I declare, that house reached out and laid its icy hand on my heart.

    Felicity sighed. Must you make a drama out of everything, Sara? That’s old Miss Lloyd’s house. And in case you didn’t know, houses don’t have hands.

    But Sara failed to notice Felicity’s sarcasm. Her attention was concentrated on the vast, neglected grounds behind the gates. Tell me about Miss Lloyd—please, Felicity, she begged.

    Why, the Lloyd family practically founded this town. Along with the Kings, of course. When Felicity King rode her family high horse, she sounded uncannily like her Aunt Hetty, a born schoolmarm. She’s rich as a queen. People around here call her ‘Old Lady Lloyd’, because she’s so rich and mean and proud.

    Only bein’ rich hasn’t done her a peck of good, added Felix. Pa says no one’s ever seen her smile.

    No one’s seen her, smile or no smile. At least not for ages. Even I’ve got no idea what she looks like, admitted Felicity who liked to make it her business to know the appearance of everyone in Avonlea. Why, Sara Stanley! Where in heaven’s name do you think you’re going?

    For Sara had drifted over to the imposing gates and laid her hand on the latch.

    You can’t go in there. That’s trespassing.

    Sara’s gaze remained fixed on the tangled garden behind the gate. Perhaps poor Miss Lloyd’s dead and nobody knows, she answered. Don’t you think we ought to find out?

    Far up the avenue, out of sight of the children, a dark, hooded shape glided from the cover of the whispering spruces. Up the broad, shallow front steps it skimmed, past the stone urns and even stonier lions flanking the entrance, to the massive front door. Stooping, the figure placed a large fish on the sill, then straightened. As it did so, the hood slipped back, revealing the strong, stern face of Peg Bowen.

    Now in Avonlea, when the name Peg Bowen comes up, most people drop their voices. For no-one knows for sure just who Peg Bowen is, or where, in the general scheme of things, she stands. Unlike the other residents, Peg refuses to live in a house in summer. Instead she roams the green fields, living off wild berries and sleeping under broad, starry skies. In winter her abode is a small, lopsided cabin deep in the forest, which she shares with six cats, a three-legged dog, a crow, a matronly hen, a stuffed monkey and a small, grinning skull.

    Strange stories are whispered about Peg around Avonlea fireplaces at night. Some say she can turn herself into a black cat whenever she pleases. Others lay the blame for a poor harvest or an ailing cow squarely at Peg’s door. Still others claim that Peg knows everything, secret or public, that goes on in Avonlea. For all these reasons and more, people fear Peg Bowen and call her the Witch of Avonlea. But whether Peg Bowen is or is not a witch is a question that only those who really know her can answer.

    Now Peg pressed her brown face, seamed with a hundred wrinkles, against the front door. I’ve brung you a nice fat fish and some herbs fer yer rheumatics, she croaked. I’ll be back tomorrow to pick some firewood. An’ don’t you go neglectin’ those beans I planted, you hear?

    She waited. The house gave nothing back, not even an echo. With a grunt of concern, Peg bent her ear to the letterbox, listening. No sound came from the shadowy interior. Peg frowned. And then she heard it—from deep within the darkness came a harsh, dry cough. That was all. No movement, no answering voice, just a dreary, disembodied cough. It was enough for Peg. Where there’s a cough, there’s life, she reckoned, nodding her head sagely.

    She was about to fade back into the spruces the way she had come, when she stiffened in surprise. Voices! She could hear children’s voices approaching the house. Noiselessly, Peg slipped between the swaying trees and waited.

    Sara hadn’t really meant to trespass. It had been a bright, shiny morning, the sort of morning that makes you feel upstanding and virtuous without having to make any effort at all, when Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet had dropped their three children and Sara off in front of the church.

    Sara had spent the previous night with her cousins at King Farm, where they had played all their favorite games and teased and joked until the old house rang with their laughter.

    It hadn’t always been that way. When Sara first arrived in Avonlea, she had encountered a certain amount of coldness and suspicion. She was a stranger to her cousins then, sent from Montreal by her father, when his business and reputation had collapsed, to the small hamlet of Avonlea on Prince Edward Island. She had survived those first dreadful days and nights. In the large, clannish King family, the isolated twelve-year-old had gradually discovered a warmth and companionship she had only read about in books. She felt part of a whole now, and the daily give and take of family life delighted her. She even enjoyed Aunt Janet’s steady stream of advice. Aunt Janet was so constantly telling her children to do this or not to

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