Sweet Are the Ways: Commemorative Edition (Collected Works of Essie Summers Book 4), page 33
Contents
Preface to the Commemorative Edition
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Afterword
If you liked Sweet Are the Ways…
About the Author
About the Series
Sweet Are the Ways
by
Essie Summers
Commemorative Edition
Published 8 May 2021,
in conjunction with the unveiling of the Essie Summers commemorative plaque on the Dunedin Writers’ Walk
Volume 18 of Collected Works of Essie Summers
This edition contains the full text of the first edition as published in 1965 by Mills & Boon Limited, save for minor emendations to correct trivial errors not caught in the first-edition proofs.
FÍOR HOUSE
All rights reserved.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
First published 1965
Original text copyright © Essie Summers 1965. Emendations to original text copyright © William Flett and Elizabeth Jack 2021.
Photograph of Essie Summers from private family collection, copyright © William Flett and Elizabeth Jack 1961. Used by permission.
Photograph of inscription in Elizabeth Jack’s personal copy of Sweet Are the Ways, copyright © Elizabeth Jack 2021. Used by permission.
Photograph of the Essie Summers plaque before its installation on the Dunedin Writers’ Walk from private collection of Ruth Williamson, copyright © Ruth Williamson 2021. Used by permission.
Photograph of Robert Burns statue in the Octagon, copyright © Andrew Jack 2021. Used by permission.
The poem “My Wife,” by Robert Louis Stevenson, is in the public domain.
Photographs of Manguatua and Taieri Plain, copyright © Ken Pierce 2020.
Front cover illustration by Kegan Pierce, copyright © Ken Pierce 2021
Published by:
Fíor House
926 Goldfinch Avenue, Sugar Land, Texas, 77478
United States of America
To
my husband,
the Reverend Bill Flett,
and to the readers all over the
world who have asked for a story
about a minister
Preface to the Commemorative Edition
Sweet Are the Ways, which of all of the novels Essie Summers wrote was her own favorite, opens in August of 1964 and closes in early June of 1965, with the first snowfall of winter. Its primary setting is the village of Fair-acre Valley. The village itself is fictional, but its locale is a real-life location in the South Island, two or three miles south of Outram, an easy drive from the heart of Dunedin.
Next image: Taieri Plain and the Maungatua, from Three-Mile-Hill Road, on a day of mist and rain. Fair-acre Valley sits roughly at the foot of the bare second-highest peak.
Next image: looking northward up the Taieri Plain from approximate location of main character Elspeth’s cottage in Fair-acre Valley
Although the novel is set primarily in Fair-acre Valley, several critical scenes take place in Dunedin itself, Essie’s dearly beloved adopted home town. When Wallace Perrington strolls nostalgically through the Octagon, or when Dougal MacNab and Elspeth Cameron find a parking place on Moray Place before a night on the town, they are in the cultural and historical and emotional heart of Dunedin, and on ground Essie herself knew and loved. Here, on the western edge of the Octagon, one finds a statue of the greatest of all Scottish poets, Robert Burns. Here also is the Writers’ Walk, where embedded in the footpath on Burns’s left and right are plaques honoring the brightest poetic and literary lights in Dunedin’s proud 170-year history. And if our fictional heroine Elspeth Cameron, who as of this writing would be in her early eighties, were to take a stroll in the Octagon today, one of the plaques she would see would bear the name of Essie Summers.
Next image: the Essie Summers plaque now established on the Writers’ Walk in Dunedin
This commemorative edition of Sweet Are the Ways was published on the morning of May 8, 2021. On that day Essie’s own plaque on the Writers’ Walk was unveiled, and she took her place in the company of the Scottish poet whose work she loved so deeply and quoted so copiously. Her fictional Burns-loving character Fergus MacKinnon would doubtless have approved.
Robbie Burns beneath the Municipal Chambers tower, The Octagon, Dunedin
. . . . .
The publishers wish to express their thanks to Ruth Williamson, who reviewed the entire text of this edition (both original text and editorial content) and made numerous invaluable suggestions. Ms. Williamson also played a critical role in securing a place on the Writers’ Walk for Essie’s plaque, and in organizing the Dunedin Public Library’s exhibition “Season of Summers: New Zealand’s Queen of Romance,” which opened to the public on 7 May 2021 and is scheduled to run until the end of August, after which time much of the material from the exhibition will be available permanently online. The fact that Ms. Williamson made time for her painstaking review of this edition in the midst of her heavy responsibilities in the weeks leading up to the exhibition and dedication ceremony, adds even more weight to our gratitude.
Essie’s son Bill and daughter Elizabeth have also been of much assistance, sharing their own memories of their mother and father, and checking the editorial content to ensure biographical accuracy. This edition could never have become reality without their cooperation and encouragement.
Finally, we are very happy that Essie’s grandson Andrew Jack has taken on the role of designing the cover graphics for the electronic editions of his grandmother’s novels, and also wish to thank him for making a special trip to the Octagon to secure a photograph of Robert Burns’s statue.
Chapter One
ELSPETH felt her heels were tapping out a song of praise as she hurried along the busy Christchurch street. It would never do to be late the morning you were going to give in your notice.
This was not so much a red-letter day as a milestone day. Something she had dreamed of for so long, but there had seemed to be no end to her responsibilities. Now she had none . . . she was gloriously free to pursue her own career.
Nobody needed her presence in the flat, nobody needed her weekly wage. She was the owner of a country cottage, a garden . . . oh, what bliss after a row of pot-plants. She had her car for access to Dunedin and enough of a bank balance to keep her going till her third book was written and published. Besides which, with only herself to keep, her newspaper articles, plus short stories, would keep the wolf from the door.
Paul could keep the flat on till he was married. She’d pay the rent till then, that would help him. He’d need all his money till then. At the back of Elspeth’s mind was the unacknowledged wish that Paul might act out of character for once and insist he paid it himself. But he wouldn’t, money melted with Paul.
Once lately, when she’d remonstrated at his expensive tastes he’d said: “All right for you to talk — you’ve never wanted to go gay!”
For once Elspeth had fired up. “Paul, I may be your aunt, but it’s a matter of relationship, not of years. I’m only five years older. I didn’t have much chance of going gay, did I? I may not have wanted the parties, the expensive snow sports equipment and weekends, the constant dining-out that seems necessary to you, but I would have liked my freedom, would have liked to have been able to travel, to write of some place other than New Zealand.”
Paul had laughed. “Oh, rot! You’re a home-loving body, Elspeth, and you know it. Besides, you’ve been darned lucky. Just imagine having a super job and a sideline that pays really well. I wouldn’t mind if I earned the money you do!”
That stung. Elspeth said, much more hotly than ever Paul had heard her speak, “Don’t call it luck! I’ve had to get up at five in the morning, and sometimes write till midnight, to get two novels written while holding down a taxing job. It isn’t luck. It’s sheer hard labour! Besides, Paul, I needed a man’s wage. Helping with your higher education, paying for Mother’s massage, poor darling, keeping this flat going. I’ve had a man’s responsibility all these years and I’ve not grizzled about it either . . . till now. I’ve no intention of becoming a doormat, Paul. And fair’s fair!”
Paul had ruffled her hair, said laughingly, “You look so sweet when you get mad, Elspeth. You really ought to do it more often. You don’t look half so much the maiden aunt then. Most of the time you’re far, far too angelic . . . that’s why we all impose on you.” And he had gone off whistling.
But he had said too much. Maiden aunt. At twenty-six you didn’t feel a maiden aunt. If that was the way Paul’s set regarded her, she’d better cut free. Now she was doing just that.
Odd how things happened. If Paul hadn’t said just that, she wouldn’t have taken her holidays then. But she’d felt she must get away. In her meanderings, stopping just where she fancied, she had come at last to the country pub at Fair-acre Valley. How fortunate she’d stayed a day or two, just wandering those leafy lanes, had known a desire to climb Candy Hill and, seeking for access to it, had cut round behind the Manse and found the cottage.
It wasn’t a period piece by any means. Stripped of the rosy dreams with which she had endowed it while travelling up the two hundred odd miles back to Christchurch, it was just a shearers’ cottage, leaning up against an old stone stable, relic of the days when the Manse had been one of the old homesteads.
After that it had belonged to one Martha Moore, who for the sake of occupying the old cottage, had acted as caretaker to the church. Now she was dead and the Manse stewards had decided to sell it. If it didn’t sell they’d pull it down and sell the land to a farmer whose property adjoined it. That explained why they were asking so little for it. Houses were hard to sell in Fair-acre Valley. There were no industries, just farms and a handful of necessary shops.
Sheer joy lay ahead. That is, except for having to tell Alexander Hoodman she would be leaving them. But for his backing all these years, his confidence that she would reach the top as an advertising copywriter, she’d never have made it.
Elspeth turned in at the staff door of the huge drapery concern, went to her own office. Her staff of three were already there, eager to hear about her holiday. Once that had been the goal of Elspeth’s life . . . to have an office of her own, not just a desk in the outer one.
Her eyes swept round. It seemed strange that the office looked so much the same, the only difference that the wall-vase now held violets where it had held winter-sweet when she left on vacation.
Yes, it was almost spring . . . and some day, along the banks of the tiny stream that ran just outside her back garden, on its way to join the Taieri River, she would plant irises. She must be there before spring was over.
“The Old Man wants you right away, Elspeth,” said Greta Morgan, her first assistant. “Some big new idea, I shouldn’t wonder. He’s in his pep-up mood.”
Elspeth picked up her pad and went quickly. She had always loved Alexander Hoodman’s big enthusiasms, his boyishness, his big-heartedness. He wasn’t soft, in fact he was the robust, rather blustering type of employer, but it hid a heart of gold. No doubt he’d got a new trade-catching idea and would be all impatience to impart it.
“Ah, here you are,” he said. “Good morning. My word, your holiday has put a sparkle in your eye . . . splendid. Have a good time? Get right into Central Otago . . . do the lakes? Good, good, you’d get lots of coloured slides. Splendid, splendid . . . you must bring them up some time. Adelaide was born there, you know, right in the back country. Still got the mountains in her blood. But sit down, Elspeth, I’ve got something to tell you.”
She sat, her eyes wary. She hoped this new scheme wouldn’t take time. She didn’t want to stay on any longer than necessary. Yet it would be hard to dampen his enthusiasm if he’d evolved something he particularly wanted her to manage.
He reached into a drawer, took out an envelope, threw it across his desk, sat back and beamed like a Father Christmas.
“A bonus. Your share of the success your winter catalogue brought. Yep. Unqualified success. I’ve had the sales analysis. Don’t mind admitting I thought you were flying too high this time. In fact I said so, didn’t I? But it’s certainly paid dividends. Go on, go on, what are you waiting for, lass . . . open it . . . look at it!”
She was a privileged employee, so she shook her head at his impatience, slit open the envelope, and drew out the cheque. She gasped. “Mr. Hoodman! That’s more than my Christmas bonus. It’s ridiculous. Far too much!”
“You deserve every penny. What’s more, since I don’t like impulsive gestures that mean very little when all’s said and done, there’ll be a rise in your pay packet also.”
He must have wondered at the peculiar expression that crossed her face. Not quite what one would expect to see on the face of an employee who’d just received such a reward. But she subdued it immediately. You couldn’t counter a gesture like this by giving notice, could you? Couldn’t wipe that look of pleasure off his face. Oh, dear!
Elspeth rose to the occasion, responded in a most satisfactory manner. She’d have to make an opportunity later.
. . . . .
Back in the office, though she was busy, she couldn’t succeed in banishing worry. It was horribly awkward.
Greta Morgan came in. “Miss Cameron, there’s someone to see you. Not a traveller or a newspaper man.” To Elspeth’s raised eyebrows she added, “I asked him whom he represented and he said: ‘Just myself. Please tell Miss Cameron I’m from Fair-acre Valley and the name is MacNab.’ ”
Elspeth’s colour rose. She hoped this man, whoever he was, hadn’t mentioned his business. It must be about the cottage.
In he came, tall, broad-shouldered, with an unusually tanned skin for so fair a man. His hair had a bleached look at the stubbly ends and his eyes were sea-blue. He looked a farmer. Then he spoke, and Elspeth added to herself: Probably went to Lincoln Agricultural College. (Snobbish thought, Elspeth Cameron, watch it.)
He held out his hand. “My name’s Dougal MacNab. I had to be up in Christchurch this week and the church managers thought it a good idea if I came to see you. I was away when you were there. Ronald Drew, the session clerk, told me what you were thinking of doing to the cottage and said he thought I could perhaps set things in train for you if you were keen to get some alterations done before coming to live there. It’s fairly old-fashioned, but it will make a lovely home, quaint and comfortable, for what he told me you’d planned.”
Elspeth’s green eyes lit up. “How very good of you. It sounds the kindly interest I’d hoped might be present in the village . . . or should I say township?”
“Village,” he said firmly. “They’ve always called it that. Relic of pioneering days.”
Elspeth said frankly, “This makes me feel most welcome. I had doubts, though I loved Fair-acre Valley on sight.”
“What sort of doubts?”
“Well, I’ve heard that in some of our more isolated townships, a newcomer remains that way for twenty years or more.”
“That can be so. But it’s different in your case.”
“My case?”
He grinned. “A lot of the women feel they know you already. They evidently take the magazines your short stories and poems and articles appear in. And the library, I’m told, has three copies of your book.” He looked slightly embarrassed for a moment. “I’ve never read a thing of yours. Might as well confess it. But I will now.”
Elspeth gave a chuckle. “Be careful of what you might be letting yourself in for, Mr. MacNab. I write mainly love stories.”
His eyes met hers squarely. “Well, I don’t know that I’ve anything against love.”
For some inexplicable reason that confused her. Heavens, anyone would think she was sixteen! She looked down on her papers, shuffled them, and was glad when her house telephone rang so she was saved the necessity of replying.
She listened, said, “Mr. Montrose? Ask him if he can wait, say five minutes. If not perhaps he could come back. Thank you.”
She replaced the receiver and was immediately conscious that Dougal MacNab had been studying her. She’d wondered what he’d see. Someone well past her teens . , . with hair neither golden nor brown. A line of freckles across her nose, tall, not a frilly type. Yes, that would be his summing-up, no doubt.
How was she to know he was thinking he liked the way her hair waved back from her broad forehead, that he liked those short straight lashes and the curve of her mouth? And that, as he had a fine appreciation of most things, he liked her long, lovely legs. They were in full view as she swung sideways and tilted her chair to pick up her phone.
