by Beth Powning
Scanning the city, he could see that the streets were rivers of heads, hats, parasols. Flags snapped over the brick buildings.
“The judge’s boat,” he remarked, shifting the binoculars back to the harbour. He pointed with one hand, following the enlarged scene: a man stood in the bow of an open boat. The judge, Harland presumed, miniaturized by distance, pressed binoculars to his eyes, staggered and put one hand to the gunwale; his binoculars, briefly, crossed Harland’s. He thought to mention this to Permelia, the oddity, but said nothing, assailed with a familiar weariness—how he would need to endure her perplexity at his comment, her lack of interest.
She had not wanted to attend the regatta, but changed her mind when she learned that they would not be standing in the crowds but dining on the steamer, where she might show off her new lavender dress and straw hat with purple grosgrain ribbons.
She tugged at his sleeve. “I need to sit, Harland. Let’s go to the Grand Saloon. We can see perfectly well from there.”
They found a small marble-topped table next to a window. Harland ordered tea, followed the three canoes with his binoculars until they arrived at Reed’s Point. Permelia leaned back, took a breath through her nose. She was suffering the constriction of her lungs. Her corset had become difficult to hook.
He opened the program, read aloud.
“The race should start any minute for the centreboard sloops. After that is the fishermen’s race, no less than sixteen-foot keel, one mile. Then the sculls. There are…”
“For goodness’ sakes, Harland.” She pulled a fan from her tapestry handbag. “I can read it myself.”
He set the program on the table and spread his hands on either side of it. White marble, cool beneath his palms. He turned to face the window.
“I am interested,” she said. She opened the fan, rotated the program. “Let me see. You have a friend competing in the single scull?”
“Professional four oars.”
“You see,” she whispered, fanning herself, watching women descending the circular stairway. “I was right, Harland. There should be less trim on the hat. Puffs and plumes are out. Just look at that one. And that one.” She pointed behind her fan at a woman seated on a plush covered chair, another on a leather chesterfield. “Awful.”
At the bang of the starter’s pistol, the white sails aligned, then began to spread across the harbour, bent upon Partridge Island.
He pressed the binoculars to his eyes, keeping a particular sail within the eyepiece, as if he himself were the man at the helm. “I have chosen a date to go to Nova Scotia,” he said. “I cannot keep putting off poor Miss Salford.”
“You can’t choose a date without consulting me.”
The sail tipped dangerously close to the water. The captain stayed his course, his crew leaning far over the opposing gunwale.
“I have consulted you for two months, Permelia. I have come to the conclusion that you will indefinitely postpone my expedition.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harland. There have been—”
“Don’t bother. Please. I know what there has been. I am going to inform Mrs. Galloway and Miss Salford that I intend to go after my mid-summer sale.”
The wind strengthened as the boats passed the headland; a sloop was gaining on the leader. Partridge Island loomed over the boats, the quarantine buildings black, blocky shapes against the sky. The bell buoy clanged, dim and intermittent across the harbour.
“It will be so hot in July.”
“Yes, it would have been better to go sooner, but you expressed concern about the state of the spring roads.”
“Really, Harland. You have no reason to care about that girl, Flora. Even if she is outrageously beautiful.”
He kept his hands steady, sweeping the binoculars over the flotilla.
“Perhaps if she were a fat little thing with spots you wouldn’t care.”
She might be right, he thought, picturing Flora. Her firm, desperate expression. The fierce set of her shoulders. The competence of her hands.
He set down the binoculars. The boats were about to round the island.
“Miss Salford is the age of our own daughters. I would be shocked indeed if you were to accuse me of an attraction to such a child.”
“No, I…no. Of course not.”
“I put young Flora up for…I tire of this conversation, Permelia. Mrs. Galloway feels herself both responsible and indeed indebted to Flora. The girl has helped her a great deal. You know that Simeon’s death…”
The waiter arrived at their table, carrying a silver-plated salver. Permelia and Harland sat back as he served tea with sugar cookies and cherry bread.
“Josephine has had a dreadful time,” Permelia murmured. Prim, her face closing as she sipped. “She should not have chosen a sea captain for a husband.”
Harland watched steam spiralling from the teapot. He smelled the saloon’s sun-warmed plush. Clink of china, spoons on saucers. Permelia’s skirts filled the space beneath the table. He remembered the moment when Simeon, a new boy, had come into their classroom. Insouciant, composed, Simeon had slid behind his desk and Josephine had lowered her face to glance from beneath a fringe of hair. And he himself had felt helpless, like the regatta’s early leader, now fallen back into the flotilla.
“That comment exhibits a remarkable lack of feeling,” he said. He felt an ugliness in his nostrils, the set of his mouth.
“Oh, goodness, Harland. I feel very sorry for her. And I can see that you are too prone to exhibiting sympathy for her.”
She stroked her linen napkin, folded next to her plate. A garnet ring, too tight, compressed the wrinkles of her knuckle.
“Indeed, I have changed my opinion, just now. I have been so foolish. It is because of Josephine that you are so keen to undertake this journey, isn’t it. You have a desire to impress her. You wish her to admire you. It is shocking. It is hurtful. I do believe you are in love with her.”
They met each other’s eyes.
He remembered how, during the first year of marriage, she had strewn ill-considered opinions, and he realized that she was someone other than the small, full-fleshed, cheerful girl he had thought her. In the second year, he left her to her interests: baby, servants, dressmaker, the orchestration of status; and learned to hide his own enthusiasms—the sight of dawn’s flush on the lilies, his inordinate pleasure in the decorated shop window. He found refuge in his weather station. In his civic duties, now abandoned. And, lately, he admitted to himself, in Josephine’s need.
“I consider that comment beneath my dignity to answer,” he said.
He resumed watching the race, breath shortened by anger. The boats had disappeared behind the island. He realized a strange relief in this, the disappearance of the boats, the momentary absence of their crews’ striving, the ocean leading his eyes to the horizon.
“There is such a thing as compassion, or civility, Permelia.” He spoke to the window. “In the eyes of most people, what you call being do-gooders is, in fact, doing the right thing.”
“But you are not doing the right thing, Harland. You are using false civility to hide the truth of your attraction to a widow. If you go on this journey to seek that girl’s sister, you will prove this to me. And I will not be quiescent. I will take it as your answer to me, since you refuse to admit what is obvious.”
It occurred to Harland that they could not continue like this. He watched the coruscating light, a passionless occurrence signifying that nothing was of consequence save cause and effect.
* * *
—
The morning air was cool, although already the promise of heat warmed the veranda. Josephine noticed dew on the rocking chair and saw last year’s leaves drifted in the corner, making a musty smell beneath the sweetness of honeysuckle blossoms.
She sensed a change in herself, ever since Harland told her that
Permelia refused to allow him to make the trip, and that he had acquiesced to her demand. Permelia does not want me to go, he said, she feels the store cannot afford my absence—and she realized her dread of Permelia’s smothering anger, which she had sensed ever since the trip had been proposed.
She wondered if she, herself, alone, should go to Nova Scotia. I am an independent woman, she thought, I need ask no one’s permission. It was a new perspective on widowhood, this sense of freedom; and yet she did not dare.
She stood and leaned against the veranda railings.
“Simeon?” she whispered. She realized, suddenly, with fearful honesty, that she was the only one listening.
Someone must go.
She could not imagine who it should be. She could not bear the thought of Flora’s disappointment. It was a problem she would have to solve, like so many others.
* * *
—
After breakfast was served, the dishes washed and put away, and the tea towel hung on its rack, Flora stood beside the cupboard, hands clasped in front of her.
“I have decided to go to Nova Scotia.”
Josephine started, pricked herself. She was repairing a sleeve’s cuff.
“No!” She sucked her thumb. “Certainly not, Flora.”
Ellen put a finger on the line of the recipe she was studying. She looked up, considered first Flora and then Josephine. Sailor, on his rag rug, abandoned his snuffling. He watched, poised.
“She’ll be capable, Mrs. Galloway. She’s got a good head on her.”
“I’m afraid for you,” Josephine said, ignoring Ellen’s comment. “You don’t know what you might find. You don’t know where to look.”
“I crossed an ocean,” Flora said. The words were dark, the weight of cast iron.
Sailor barked, once.
“Now, my girl.” Ellen abandoned the recipe, put a hand on Flora’s shoulder. She patted it, gently. “We all know what you’ve seen.”
Flora’s hands flew up, fingers outstretched. “I know what to look out for. I can take care of myself. I’m afraid for my sister.”
“I suppose.” Josephine’s words wavered between fear and fact. She set down her sewing. “I suppose. There’s no one else.”
“That Mr. Fairweather,” Ellen flicked a crumb from Flora’s shoulder. She stomped to the stove and lifted the lid. The coals lay red, winking. “He could pave the way, so to speak.”
* * *
—
Later that morning, a letter came from Lucy. The rocking chair was now dry. Sailor made a bed for himself on the drifted honeysuckle leaves. He dozed, but peeked every once in a while, checking on Josephine.
June 28, 1889
Dear Mother,
I do wish you could come to our meetings. They are the focus of my life. They make me able to endure the living conditions I am suffering, and, of course, the work, which is dreadful, especially as the days get hotter. But I am only in the position of thousands of others, and have no complaint to make—personally. Of course, I’m glad that it makes me able to speak from a real perspective.
What we are challenging is the idea that in the home there should be harmony between a dependent wife and a protective husband. In the home, as well as in every other place, women are seen to be in a dependent and secondary position. But we are not Lesser Beings! We are not by nature weaker, less smart, less able, or in need of protection. Oh, it makes me so angry, Mother, and so determined, and so proud to be part of this movement! We seek nothing less than full recognition as human beings.
Josephine caught Lucy’s excitement, found herself nodding in agreement. She felt purpose steeling her backbone, firming her jaw. Pride, warming her heart. Her girls would have opportunities she could never have foreseen.
Cousin Carrie is particularly interested in Married Women’s Property Rights. She has presented papers concerning the topic, showing us that even the new and improved legislation is subject to interpretation by judges. It seems, Mother, that we are still treated as helpless, only worthy of protection, no matter what the law says. I am quite certain I shall never marry.
Presently, we are putting all our efforts into this petition for full suffrage, which is gaining momentum. We are writing letters to our Members of the Legislative Assembly, seeking their opinion on the bill. We are writing letters asking support from the trades union, and to many other public bodies. We are asking the newspapers to support our position. I do hope, Mother, you will put pen to paper.
How is everything at home? Are you going to find Flora’s sister? I hope…
Josephine put down the letter.
She drew a long breath.
Yes.
She would contact Harland, as Ellen had suggested. If Flora were to go to Nova Scotia, she would ask him to pave the way.
* * *
—
To: The Proprietor
The Pictou Inn, Pictou, Nova Scotia
July 10, 1889
To Whom It May Concern,
I write on behalf of Miss Flora Salford, who will be arriving at your hotel sometime in the week after your receipt of this letter. She is travelling on my behalf, seeking a young girl, her sister, who may be in the vicinity of Pictou. My wife and I would have accompanied her, but I find that I cannot leave my business at this time. Please assign her a good chamber. She is visiting on a mission of possible unpleasantness, since we do not know in what circumstances she may find her sister. I beg your kindness in attending to her needs, which I cannot at this time anticipate, as well as satisfying with your fabled hospitality her general well-being. Please send me the bill for any and all expenses.
With kindest best wishes,
Harland Fairweather
* * *
—
Two weeks later, Flora boarded the Intercolonial early in the morning, changed trains in Moncton, and then changed trains again, boarding the Short Line in Oxford Junction. Sweat trickled down her back as the train laboured through the Cobequid Mountains, steam billowing past her window. A small folding table separated her from a sleeping boy, sprawled in the adjacent seat. She lifted a cedar writing box from her carpet bag, given to her by the Hilltop sisters. She opened the lid. The box was lined with black velvet and contained pen, ink and lavender- coloured paper.
“Write to us,” they had said, as if Flora were embarked on the Grand Tour of Europe.
I might well be having a holiday, she thought. Who would know? She closed the box. Boarding the train, no one had stared at her. She was not wearing a placard around her neck, nor shabby boots, nor carrying a paper bag smelling of hardboiled eggs. She was seventeen years old, now, not ten. Folded in her purse were paper notes, money Josephine had given her; Reverend Snelcroft’s letter; and the address of the Pictou Inn.
The boy next to her rolled over, tucking up his knees. His cheek was sheened with perspiration. He placed his hands as if in prayer, worked them beneath his face.
The whistle sounded. The train was crossing a road.
Drowsiness unmoored her thoughts, thickened her eyelids. The iron wheels clacked over the ties, the car rocked.
* * *
—
As she carried her carpet bag from the train station to the hotel, Flora felt she hadn’t left Pleasant Valley, only stepped into the train while the town’s elements were rearranged—picket fences, shop doors open to cool interiors, awnings casting shade across wooden sidewalks. Different, in Pictou, though, was the mewing of gulls and the sound of the docks—clangings, the shouts of stevedores.
She let herself into her room but did not unpack, only sat on the edge of a chair, one hand clutching her bag. The window offered a view to the harbour; on the far side of the water, like a dash of paint, were light-burnished hayfields. She glimpsed her reflection in an ornate mirror. Her hair, slipped from the brown velvet hat, h
er eyes, startled, half-frightened, oddly surrounded by things not her own: a tall dresser with lace runner, a red Turkish rug. She saw, in the reflection, the net curtains billowing up, settling down, in air that touched her face, smelling of wood shingles and the sea.
She imagined mown hayfields on the farm where Enid lived. A tiger cat, perhaps. A puppy. You can bring them. She saw Enid’s face, puzzled, gazing at her as if she were a stranger come to take her away from a place she might not wish to leave.
FIFTEEN
Enid
THE FAINT ROAR OF the sea came from beyond a small woodlot on the far side of the road. There was no breeze. She squatted, prising a handful of weeds from around onions planted in the back garden; blackflies settled on her temples and the back of her neck. She ducked her face into her arm, raked the itchy bites with her fingernails. She could see the dog, panting on the dirt in front of the unpainted house where chickens had made hollows. Aprons and tea towels hung from the clothesline. Heat shimmered from the rust of buckets half-lost in grass, from the nails of pigpens built with scrap lumber.
She heard hoof beats and the rattle of wheels; a wagon emerged from the trees and came down the hill, a small bald man driving with a woman on the seat beside him. He stopped in front of the house. The sound of his voice was strange in this place, where she heard only the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Mallory.
“Whoa.”
She dropped the weeds, slipped through the grass and worked herself into an alder bush that had grown against the kitchen window. From there, she could peep around the corner and see the yard and the front of the house.