If you have crossed the River Farrow to the hamlet of Keywell this
week, you will have noticed the flowers left there just at the middle
of the bridge. There are always flowers at this particular time of
the year, a sad tradition that has never quite been forgotten. It was
over one hundred years ago this month, young Isabelle Graham was to
be wed to John Truitt. A young couple looking forward to building a
future together. The bridge over the River Farrow, Belle’s Bridge,
is named for Isabelle, not to mark the happy occasion of her nuptials
but rather her untimely demise, for it was on the very morning of her
wedding she never made it across the bridge to St. Hildegard’s to
make her vows.
Brides are usually all aflutter with their wedding preparations so
no one thought anything was amiss when Isabelle did not show up quite
on time. As the minutes ticked away, people began to talk amongst
themselves that perhaps she had changed her mind or worse, something
had prevented her from getting to the church.
Earlier in the week, Isabelle had made arrangements to go to her
friend Ellen’s house in Amberliegh on the morning of her wedding,
dress there and walk to the church with her father. On the morning of
the wedding, Belle’s uncle James Graham knocked upon Ellen’s door
informing her he had had a message from Isabelle asking if he would
walk her down the aisle as her dear father had fallen ill. But
Isabelle hadn’t shown up at Ellen’s to dress. Together Ellen and
James Graham walked the short distance over the bridge to Keywell
where they found Thomas Graham unconscious in bed and no sign of
Belle.
James Graham went and quietly told the vicar what had transpired and
having been to his brother's house could not say what had become of
the girl. It wasn’t until later that day that someone spotted
Belle's hat in the tree by the bridge which lead to the grim
discovery of her body below on the bank of the River Farrow.
To this
day the truth has not been uncovered.
Surely someone must have even
the smallest of clues?
We
lead into a legend, with a well rounded account of a grandmothers
tale, through the hearing of a small child.
We
offer you what has become
"The Legend of Belle's Bridge"
My name is Alice Powell. I have lived in Amberleigh all my life,
first in a cottage on the Comely Estate and presently at No 7
Butcher’s Row with my brother, William, who is a lieutenant in the
Royal Navy. In a small village, everyone knows one another as their
family’s lives intertwine with your own. It is how villages are;
one extended family. When you live in a place all your life the place
itself becomes part of your family. Things like landmark trees, the
oldest building and historic details of that place become part of
your own history, in essence, you are the living history of that
area.
When the days draw in we all spend more time indoors close to the
fire. Ladies read or sew and chat as they stitch, while the men tend
to talk and the children amuse themselves playing. During these
evenings, when I was a girl, I listened to my grandmother chatting,
sometimes in hushed tones and it was those conversations I was most
interested in. Always a curious child I’d sit quietly playing and
later stitching and my ears would prick up when the conversation
turned to subjects not meant for the young. Sometimes it was just a
single sentence other times more. Over the years I came to know a lot
more about the village and its inhabitants. My grandmother, I
suspect, was curious by nature too and so she talked about these
things often. That is how it came to be with me. I always wanted to
know more, and to my folly I found out more one winter’s evening.
My mother was very distracted by her flock of ducks which had been
slowing falling with disease. She was proud of her ducks so when this
illness struck she was beside herself with worry trying to find the
root of the problem and save the remaining handful of ducks before
they too succumbed to this dreadful disease. During this time, when
she would sit by the fire stitching with my grandmother, her
distraction with the ducks played a big part in my education about a
good many things in the village and its history. For on one occasion,
my mother did not shush my grandmother telling her not to speak of
such things and I learned a new story to add to what I knew of
Amberleigh’s history.
Granny began by saying she’d put flowers on Belle’s Bridge as
she always does at this time of the year, flowers from her own garden
and with a small prayer, she lays them at the side of the bridge
where poor Isabelle’s life tragically ended. I’d heard Granny
mention doing this before and I knew Isabelle Graham had fallen to
her death on her wedding day, but no more detail than that. Without
my mother’s usual interference, Granny continued to talk in a low
voice, staring into the fire as if she were looking back in time,
watching this terrible scene unfold.
I sat rigidly in my chair, trying not to make the slightest sound
or movement that would jar my mother back into the conversation so
she could stop my grandmother before she finished the tale. That
night I heard about the day Isabelle Graham was found laying dead at
the foot of the toll bridge on her wedding day.
Granny, was transfixed, her stitching forgotten as she began
talking about her grandmother, a friend of Isabelle, whose name was
Ellen. Ellen Porter, Isabelle Graham and John Truitt were all close
friends, as close as siblings, always together. It was only natural
that John should marry one of the girls and he chose Isabelle. They
began walking out when she was just 15 years of age. Ellen of course
felt left out when they began their courtship and just one year later
when the banns were read at church, she tried to share in their joy
but knew when they married, she would be on her own as they would be
making their home and settling into married life just as she hoped to
do one day. Her happiness for them was bittersweet as it signalled
the end of their carefree childhood days.
On the day Isabelle and John were to be wed, Isabelle would come
to Ellen, whose family lived on the high street in town near to the
church and from there she and her father would walk to the church for
the ceremony. This way her dress would not get dusty on the walk over
the bridge from Keywell. Tis true, it was only a short walk from the
Hamlet but Ellen insisted Isabelle should not take any chances on
ruining her best dress as rain could come at any time and with it mud
and puddles. So, it was agreed, Ellen would help Isabelle dress and
for Isabelle, whose mother had only just died two years ago, it was a
welcome invitation to share the joy of this day with her best friend.
Granny looked down at her stitching and closed her eyes for a
moment before continuing. She seemed to take a deep breath before she
spoke the next words. Her great-uncle, who was also an admirer of
Isabelle, muttered about that fateful day for many years afterwards.
No one ever found the reason for Isabelle’s death and it tormented
him. He thought her memory should be laid to rest and not have this
terrible uncertainty hanging over it. Granny repeated Uncle Morton’s
words twice as if to give them deeper meaning. “It was a peculiar
morning. It was a peculiar morning” Ellen was up before dawn
getting things ready. She tidied the sitting room and lit the fire so
there was warmth when Isabelle arrived, even though it was hours
before time. She sat at the table and then
jumped when Morton, her brother, entered the room. She stood and said she
must go and feed the chickens and dashed from the room. Morton
thought it odd that Ellen should be so jittery when it wasn’t she
who was marrying. He poked the fire, and got his coat and boots on to
go and take care of the horses. It was a quiet morning with the sun
just rising over the morning mist. The ground was dewy and his breath
hung in the air. He pulled his collar up and his cap down over his
ears as he walked to the stables rubbing his hands to warm them. The
cat yawned and stretched as he unlatched the door then followed him
inside hoping to find a warm spot within to nap. As he worked, he
thought of the day’s tasks, wondering if John Truitt was coming to
the house too before going to the church. He hadn’t thought of it
before now and as best man he should sort it out so there was no
confusion.
Morton left the stables in search of Ellen but she was not with
the chickens. They were pecking greedily at the ground, the sun
becoming more evident which allowed him to see they’d been fed, but
there was no sign of Ellen. Sighing he went back to finish in the
stable thinking he’d speak to her at the house. Three quarters of
an hour later while he warmed his hands by the fire in the sitting
room Ellen burst into the room, then stopped short seeing him and
composed herself. Morton turned to speak to her about the morning’s
events confirming that John would first come to the house and the two
of them would walk to the church before Isabelle arrived to dress. As
he spoke, Morton noticed Ellen’s hair was slightly dishevelled and
she seemed a little breathless but simply attributed that to the fact
that girls were always over anxious about these things.
Shortly afterwards, John rapped at the door and together he and
Morton made their way to the church laughing and talking. The rest of
the family had already arisen for the day and were each doing their
chores, one by one dressing for church and leaving Ellen alone to
wait for Belle. Ellen sat with a cup of tea when she
heard a knock on the door. Opening it she discovered James Graham
standing there saying he’d received word earlier
advising him to meet Belle at Ellen Porter’s house before the
ceremony as her father was ill. Together they waited and when it
began to be apparent that Belle was going to be late, they decided to
walk over to Keywell to see what was causing the delay.
There was no answer to their knock at the door. James Graham
opened the door and entered finding the house quiet and very still.
His brother was in bed, oblivious to everything. James turned to see
Ellen looking for something. A note, she told him. As he turned back
to his brother, he thought he witnessed her put something into her
pocket. Ellen called out that perhaps Isabelle had taken a different
path and they’d missed her and she was at her house and she dashed
away up the garden path to the road. When he caught up to her she
seemed a bit distracted but chattered on saying they must get back to
her house so the wedding wasn’t delayed any further, and yet Belle
still hadn’t arrived.
It was at this time James Graham quietly spoke to the vicar and
John Truitt. The men were organized into a search party and off they
went leaving the ladies at church to pray. Three hours later,
Geoffrey Coyne called out to the other men saying he’d spotted a
hat in the tree by the bridge that didn’t look as if it had been
there very long and that was how the grim discovery of Isabelle’s
lifeless body was discovered on the muddy bank of the River Farrow
below.
Mother seemed to suddenly realise she’d been daydreaming only to
hear Granny speaking in a strained voice, saying Morton always had a
bad feeling about the events of that morning. Mother began to
frantically shush Granny then. To this day, no one really knows what
truly happened to Isabelle Graham on the day she was to be wed. I
still lay flowers on the bridge at this time of the year; for this
story is not only one of Amberleigh, but also of my family. John
Truitt and Ellen Porter are my great-great-great-grandparents.
Throughout
all of history, rumour and innuendo span the wide gap of a long ago
happening of factual truth. Naturally things would be
twisted, they may not have heard everything quite correctly, we all
know how our youthful minds alter the truth of a matter when there
is wide speculation following legendary tragic news. No blame can be issued as
to the confusion or mistaken truth, and the interpretation of the
hearing is always greatly exaggerated into far more mysterious
circumstances than that of the actual truth.
What happened on that fateful day? How did Isabelle
Graham fall from the bridge?
Was it an accident? Was she pushed? Did she jump?
The
true story unfolds as follows:-
On the evening prior to her wedding, Isabelle Graham was all of a flutter, so excited with Joie de Vivre of matrimony on the morrow. St. Hildegard was her place of worship and the church in which her nuptials would be spoken. She felt thrilled and a little nervous blush rose to her cheeks. John Truitt was to be her husband. He had paid her court for a 12 month now and during the last Autumn Harvest Celebration had procured a handsome position working for the Viscount Comely in Amberleigh as an under-gardener to tend the gardens of Comely Manor. John had proven his worth to her father, Thomas Graham, loyalty to his daughter and as he had always preferred this lad, he approved the match.
Isabelle
cut a small slice of carrot & parsnip pie, but had no stomach for
it, then poured herself a horn of warm ale, and sipped as she went
through her toilette in her mind, that she would undertake at her
best friend Ellen's cottage, in the neighbouring Amberleigh village.
The bridal attire that would be laid upon the straw mattress, every
piece in the waiting position of adornment.
Beside
her own cot, draped over the dower chest, she had stacked her wedding
garments in neat folds & wrapped in a large shawl. She would
carry this to Ellen's tomorrow. Her best hand embroidered petticoat,
clean linen shift, stays, that she had spent most of the year, adding
a final decoration. Its stomacher had been well worn, the darning so
neatly done that one could barely tell, so now with new ribbons Belle
had bought especially, looked almost like new, to her it seemed. Her
pair of sleeves were from her mother's chest, bequested to her on her
deathbed, and in turn, inheritance from a grandparent. Incredible,
beautiful embroidered with ornate pomegranates and strawberries with
little beetles and butterflies and snails. She would have Ellen help
her dress, & pull up the chemise through it, and tie the points
on to her shoulders of her stays. The metal tags hanging so
gracefully. Oh, how she longed for the night to be over, so she
could take comfort in chatter with her dear friend to help her settle
herself. Tomorrow she would be wife!
She
was very concerned though, with the state of health of her dear papa,
who now had a raging fever and had not taken on any liquid, in the
last few hours as his throat pained him so, and had not improved. He
was in fact lying in a state of restlessness on his cot, his brow so
hot to the touch. The previous night shivering with cold yet his
nightshirt drenched in perspiration. He had been muttering in delirium most of the day, and now coughed much, which heaved his
large frame up, as he tried to fend it off.
The
colour of his face worried her deeply. At 10 of the night, he had
awoke, startling her, uttered in a parched voice that he feared he
may not make the walk to the church dearest Belle, as his legs would
not hold him. She allayed his worries and told him Uncle James will
help, she just knew he would. With this news, Thomas, slid into a
fitful slumber, mind eased somewhat.
As
the night wore on to midnight, the bride to be, dared not not sleep
in her cot, how could she when her father needed her so. Thomas’
coughs had lessened, but his fever got no better. She feared for him
& sat upon padded milk stool, & lay her head upon his chest
as he seemed to be aware she was aiding his rest with her presence.
Occasionally patting her hand.
She
felt somewhat comforted even if he was not presently himself. Soon
dreaming of her beloved John,
A
shiver of coldness swept over her delicate slight shoulders &
descended down her back which disturbed the brides slumber. Her brow
damp with hair affixed like it was pinned there. Belle found it
difficult to raise her head, barely opening her eyes was all she
could do at this moment. Her jaw ached and there was a strange thick
feeling at the back of her throat, she put it down to perhaps snoring
from such an odd attitude of sleep. At last she roused herself
upright and straightened her hair, her scalp hurt to touch it as
though some unseen hand had pulled and twisted it fiercely, while her
neck had the deepest crick. Belle carefully reached out feeling her
fathers forehead, his appearance had gained a strange green tinge to
the skin. His breathing shallow. The sky outside was overcast and yet
the birds were in full chorus, so pretty she thought. Wondering what
the hour could be, she recalled her long awaited day! This would not
do! There are things to be done. And she alone must accomplish them.
Trembling
somewhat that she put down to nerves, she set about trying to relight
the embers that lay in the grate under a half burnt log. Using
tinderbox and flint to strike a spark, her hands shook so that it
took her at least 7 attempts, til finally it had caught upon the dry
leaves and twigs, & the fireplace was aflame. Belle then set
about the cottage re-organising her fathers bedclothes and plumping
his small pillow. She poured some kettle water that was just warm,
and bathed his brow then repeated the action with her own.
Belle saw to it that some water passed her fathers lips. That should
see him until I return later.
When
Isabelle took a mouthful herself it caught in her throat and revealed
the most atrocious of pains, as though she had crushed rocks inside
the back of it. I cannot swallow! I cannot swallow! Hands why are you
shaking so?
Her
neck catching at her reaction. Ow…. She cowered.
In
the short distance up at the Mill there in Keywell, the sound of a
donkey braying told her that the Millers son, was leaving with his
usual load of ground flour for the bakery in Amberleigh and
neighbouring Bexford… so it must be 9 of the clock! If she would
hurry she shall catch the millers boy, and made her way teetering
upon unsteady feet, a little step at a time, out her door and into
the road. As the cart approached her cottage, the noise of solid
cartwheel upon dry dirt road,was this morning alarming to her ears.
She hailed the young lad to stop for a moment, with a wave and he
halted the wooden cart.
He
congratulated her on her wedding day, she responded in a thick voice
that sounded foreign to her, then asked would he be so kind as to let
James Graham know, that her father was poorly, and if her uncle
would call into Ellen's at 11 of the clock to escort her to the
church. The lad said he was late in getting away anyway this morning,
got the house name in his mind, and he would do so straight away Miss
Graham and wished her all the best. With cart wheels grinding onto
small rocks in the road, it became unbearable to her ears and she
fled awkwardly inside, shutting the door.
Isabelle
was aware she was not herself and there was a desperation to each
movement that made no sense in her mind. She tried to hurry her
actions into moving quicker, but her body had taken on a shuddering affliction that she could not control. The headache, her brow was
heavy and hot, and she just needed to lay her head down, just for a
moment. Not yet Isabelle, she told herself. It is past 9, and on the
heels to 10 of the clock… we must be at Ellen's now! Gather your
things, come on girl, hurry. Picking up the pockets and tying them
around her waist, she then bundled the cloth with her wedding
garments within, then wrapping her fathers very long thick shawl
about her shoulders and halfheartedly tucked into her waist band,
the ends dangling to the ground. Remembering her bonnet at the last
moment, she popped it on her head, without tying the ribbon beneath
her chin. She bent down and kissed her papa on his forehead, then
made her way out of the cottage and along the short road to
Amberleigh. She could see the spire of St. Hildegard's and felt more
settled.
Isabelle
Graham felt a strange sensation take over her awareness, as she
trotted and felt as though her head was raised high above her ears.
She coughed noisily, painfully quacking and her thoughts became
surreal, how strange she decided, she felt rather like a duck. She
could not feel her legs as the feet seemingly slapped and pounded the
road and yet she felt every single step judder through her whole body
and deeply into her head. She felt nausea descend upon her, and desperately wanted to sit down and close her eyes, but alas there was
no where but the ground, until the bridge… Yes the bridge will do
perfectly. Staggering now, as her gait became more & more
ungainly, awkward with the load she carried, it seemed ever so heavy
for her small thin arms, more so with every step forward. And she
only had a little way to go. Finally reaching the edge of the bridge
Isabelle reached out with her load settled atop of the side as she
clung to the waist high stone wall and lay her head upon it. Belle
rested for a good few minutes, her breath becoming quickened and
laboured by the minute. She felt so tired. So thankful to have
reached such cool salvation. “Rejoice, Rejoice, Emmanuel …”
she croaked singing aloud, unaware she was doing so, throwing her hat
in the air with no knowledge of it. Then her mind snapped back as she
saw it snagged in a tree lower down… JOHN….she caught her breath
in a half cough….. . WAITING….. I must go to him… Then sucking
in her breath fell into a coughing fit like a rabid dog barking,
silently screaming in her head from the pain it caused down inside
her tortured throat. Her parcel shifted from her sudden attack and
tipped forward now laying dangerously over the edge. Belle reached
forward as her body convulsed again in a coughing spasm, this time as
she did so, the precious cargo she carried swung free of the stone
support and it pulled her arm downwards, she reached over with her
other arm to stabilize but it merely pulled her forwards, she pitched
over the wall of the bridge falling to the base of the stone peers.
She knew not what hit her. Overcome with a crushing rush of noise in
her blooded ears, severe dizziness of her broken head, contorted body
and then no thing ….. utter pure ethereal love washed her mind, the
words again somewhere in the background as in a choir in full voice…
Rejoice! Rejoice!…………………….. she fell into a deathly
stillness.
