I will, however, be stopping for a good long visit on my return from England. My mother is not especially well—perhaps you have heard. I hope this is good news (my visit, I mean, and not my mother’s illness, which I sometimes think is not illness at all, but is, rather, unhappiness). I do feel we have discovered a surprising harmony in our written exchanges and I look forward to our reunion.
When I see you, I will tell you all about the many developments on the factory front. In short, I have found investors and look forward through the course of my travels to determining the best sort of kilns for what we have in mind, and the most practical way to transport supplies and finished product to the main rail line. For now, that will be by horse and wagon. I am looking into the possibility of a spur line sometime in the future.
There is so much to tell you about the factory and I cannot possibly do so in a letter without boring you.
I will see if anyone—Mr. Wedgwood himself?—can describe to me a practical model for a modest teapot operation. Perhaps, darling Salina, you will be able to start your own pottery club before too long, membership to be limited to serious artists such as yourself.
I have booked passage on the Dominion ship Hamilton, departing Halifax on the 30th of June.
Yours,
Oliver
P.S. Do you think your parents might allow you to accompany me unattended during my stay in Byrne Corners? It is very hard for a young couple to get to know one another when the parents are always hovering in the drawing room, do you not agree? Perhaps I can convince them that my intentions are completely honourable toward their daughter.
Darling Oliver,
I am greatly moved by your assurance of decorum. I have noted that you called me darling Salina, and you will have noted that I returned the endearment. I did not do so without serious thought.
Oliver, there are things you should know if we are going to call each other darling. Forgive my candour. We live in interesting times, do we not? My father saw to it that his daughters were educated, but for what reason, I wonder, since we were all to become the wives of at least modestly successful men, and bear handsome and bright children, preferably a son first, followed by a charming daughter or two. This is an old story, but I must warn you that it is not a narrative that suits me very well. Although I have not gone so far as to join the suffragists, I admire their tenacity and the drive to liberate modern women from the broom closets of their husbands’ houses.
And oh how I hate it when someone, man or woman, says no to me without giving a good reason, or tells me I can’t do something because of my gender.
I look at my two sisters and I see one, Edith, who is conveniently blind to the plight of women because she married a wealthy man who gives her whatever she wants, and another who knows her brilliant mind is wasted and contents herself with thoughts of a weekend excursion to Niagara Falls. This second sister, by the way, is Roseanne, the one I love dearly, and it pains me to write this about her, but she is her own worst traitor.
(There. See what you have gotten yourself into by speaking sweetly to me? You are probably already sorry that you did.)
Here is my true confession. I would like to become something in my own right: a serious designer of fine ceramic objects. I have studied all the books I can find, and I have learned what I can from them. I am sorry no longer to have access to Mrs. Morris’s library of books on European china. That is one advantage of the club I had not thought of. There is the Byrne Corners library and of course my family has a membership, but the only books with any mention of pottery are travel books, and they are unsatisfactory, so I am now against a wall, so to speak.
I so admire the determination with which you attack your dream of owning a factory, and at the same time it saddens me because I wonder, how is a young woman such as myself to become what she dreams of being? I envy you that you can go off into the world just to learn when I cannot do the same. Perhaps, when you are in England, you can find out for me whether there are any women in the factories who have achieved renown. I am curious about that.
I am very sorry that it will be so long before you are able to visit Byrne Corners.
This is a love letter. I have bared my soul.
Yours,
Salina
P.S. Please do not assume that I have the vapours. I do not believe in vapours. They are something cooked up to keep women weepy and weak-willed. (I repeat, see what you have got yourself into?)
My darling,
I will take care to avoid all mention of the vapours as I write about my concern for your happiness. I must admit that I have never before thought of “suffrage” in the light in which you placed it. I know, certainly, that the suffragists wish for women the opportunity to become doctors and women of the law, and of course there is the vote, but to think that a woman such as yourself would be hampered in her attempts at artistic fulfillment . . . it seems neither possible nor right in this modern time.
I am trying to think of a path for you, and I wonder if you might embark on a trip of your own. The option of an overseas trip (such as mine) is no doubt out of the question, but perhaps a trip to New York City and the Metropolitan Museum of Art? Might you convince your sister Roseanne of this, as an alternative to Niagara Falls?
I will try to find out whether there are any renowned women designers in the English pottery business. What a good question.
Please take heart, dearest Salina. There must be a way for a talented and eager young artist to find inspiration. I am with you in spirit.
Yours,
Oliver
P.S. I do not expect I will enjoy the ocean crossing. It will be a long haul for this dry-lander travelling alone, without the company of a kindred spirit. I can’t imagine that I shall find one among my fellow travellers.
(I believe I mentioned before that I am booked on the Dominion ship Hamilton, departing Halifax the 30th of June.)
Dear Oliver,
The cheek!
I am very adept at reading between the lines, and you are surely mad to think that I, a well-brought-up single lady whom you met once previously in a churchyard, should even consider booking herself on a passenger liner to England in order to accompany a man she does not know on a wild goose expedition to visit potteries and industrial plants in the heart of England. You know that a gentleman and a single lady cannot travel together as kindred spirits (to use your words) without shocking the morally righteous.
Shame on you, Mr. Diamond.
I am writing this letter to you without a plan to post it. By the time you read it, the reason will be apparent.
Sincerely,
Salina Passmore
P.S. It is my good fortune that Aunt Aideen chose to name her nieces as her beneficiaries, and I believe she approved of adventure that included ocean crossings since she made one herself.
Dear Mother and Father,
I apologize for the shock of this note, which you will have found on my bed, but I have decided to embark on a grand trip, as liberated young women do these days. I will let you know where I am before long, and I will be very careful and not do anything daring, and I will not jeopardize my reputation. The idea that a young woman should be prevented from seeing the world—or even Niagara Falls, for goodness sake—is outdated, and this is something that I must get out of my system before I settle down to a more conventional life. Perhaps I never will, but you know what I mean. Please do not worry.
Love, Salina
MR. WILLIAM PASSMORE BYRNE CORNERS ONTARIO=YOUR SALINA MARRIED TO OLIVER DIAMOND ECSTATICALLY HAPPY MORE TO COME=SALINA DIAMOND
Dearest Mother,
I must apologize for the regrettable note that I left on my bed, the one that I am sure has caused you a great deal of worry. But you must not worry. You will have learned by telegram that I am now a married woman. I hope you will take pleasure in adding the date of marriage to your notebook of birthdays and anniversaries: June 12, 1903. Is there not something special about being a June bride? Something
to do with the availability of flowers, perhaps, although bridal bouquets are not in abundance on a ship, as you can imagine.
I am on my way to Liverpool, England, with my new husband, Mr. Oliver Diamond, who is travelling abroad to conduct research for his brick factory. You might remember Oliver from Aunt Aideen’s funeral. His father is John Diamond, who is a manager at the Morris plant. We were married en route by the Captain of RMS Hamilton. Mother, please picture your daughter in the pale-blue gown that you like so much, dancing with her husband, and later with the Captain, for he did ask to dance with the bride, and Oliver agreed on the condition that he return me the minute the music was over (I believe it was a Scott Joplin tune). Please picture your daughter married, and happy beyond measure.
We will be staying for a short time in a very decent hotel in Liverpool that caters to respectable business travellers while Oliver plans our tour. I understand that Liverpool is not far from the historic Potteries of Stoke-on-Trent, which I never imagined I would see. Oliver is taking good care of me (although I don’t need taking care of, as you know). One great advantage of being a married lady (and I’m sure there are many more) is that my entry into England was made simple by the fact that I am Mrs. Oliver Diamond, and the authorities required nothing beyond that when we disembarked in Liverpool. Needless to say, Oliver’s papers were completely in order, he being a meticulous planner.
Of course my own interest is in the pottery trade rather than bricks. Oliver says there is the possibility of encountering in our travels one of the Wedgwoods, Major Cecil Wedgwood (who has just returned from the Boer War and is the great-great-grandson of the very Josiah Wedgwood) or perhaps his cousin Francis Wedgwood, who is the current head of the family business. I would appreciate it if you would mention this to Mrs. Morris, should you run into her. You may add that your daughter is soon to move in a most illustrious circle in the English pottery trade. I would love to see the look on her face.
Mother, I am no longer the spinster you worried about, and my husband (how I love writing that) is going to build a business that will rival any in the industry. Oliver is an ambitious entrepreneur who has seen great opportunity in Western Canada in serving the building trade.
Please be happy for me. Please keep Father from wanting to hang me from the nearest tree. I admit that I am glad to be across the ocean as I write.
Enclosed is a letter from Oliver to Father. Oliver is a bit of a traditionalist, which I hope will please you.
I will post this the minute we are on dry land.
Your loving and happy daughter,
Mrs. Oliver Diamond
P.S. I would not wish seasickness on any person to whom I am attached. If you would like me punished for what I have done, please be assured that I have been. I cannot imagine that you could think up anything worse.
Dear Mr. Passmore,
I trust that you have learned of the marriage of your daughter Salina to me, Oliver Diamond.
Please let me introduce myself. I am twenty-six years of age. I was born in Ottawa, Ontario, to John Diamond of England and Abigail Diamond (née Cullen) of Ireland, both now of Byrne Corners, and with both of whom I am sure you are acquainted. My father is a manager at the Morris Castings plant and my brother George works there also. My mother is a reformed Irish Catholic and is active at doing good deeds in the community, her health permitting. We are a respectable family and there is little blight on our family tree.
That said, I am somewhat different from my father and my brother. I would describe myself as a more ambitious businessman, and I trust this meets with your approval as a financial man yourself. After receiving a modest inheritance from a relative, I travelled west looking for opportunities in which to invest and I believe I have found one. I have purchased land near the city of Regina, and am building a manufacturing plant for clay bricks. I have found a potential business partner and several other investors, and we have drawn and signed the legal documents that have solidified our arrangement. The West is a booming place with opportunities everywhere, and I believe I am guaranteed financial success and prosperity.
I hope this reassures you that I am a good match for your daughter Salina. We are very happy as newlyweds and she is ambitious for me, and encourages me at every turn that I am proceeding in the right direction. She has the mind and heart of an artist. We are well suited.
We will not stay in Liverpool long. Our plan is to depart for Stoke-on-Trent, where we will settle ourselves in a boarding house run by a Mrs. Wilson, whose husband was a long-time employee at the Etruria Works. I look forward to the magnificent sight of canals and bottle kilns. They say there are four thousand such kilns in the area, which is an unfathomable number. I look forward also to beginning my apprenticeship in the ways and means of running a clay factory.
I know it is after the fact, but I would like to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage. Perhaps we were impulsive when we were wed by the ship’s captain at sea, but we wanted to travel respectably and not in a frivolous manner, and we felt that a tour of the English Potteries together was imperative.
I await your response. I would like to say blessing, but hesitate for fear of sounding overconfident. Confidence is a mark of the businessman, is it not, but it can be dangerous when it comes to personal matters. Of this, I am aware. I enclose an address in Stoke-on-Trent to which I hope you will send correspondence. We very much welcome news from home.
Respectfully yours,
Oliver Diamond
Dear Roseanne,
I am sure you are annoyed with me for not telling you my plan before I left, but I was afraid I might change my mind if I spoke of it aloud. I apologize all around for the secrecy. Please do not blame Aunt Aideen and please do not blame Oliver. Even he, as it turns out, didn’t guess what I was up to.
In spite of your annoyance, I know you are dying to hear the story so here it is. In short, I slipped out the front door with a small valise and no one noticed. Well, I did run into Mr. Hubbard from the post office on my walk to the train station, and he said, “Going for a visit, are we?” and then he carried on and appeared to have no curiosity whatsoever about where I was going, even though he of all people knew the regularity of my correspondence with Oliver. I thought that he did not possess much in the way of imagination. A woman in the post office would have tried a little harder.
The train took me first to Ottawa and then Montreal, where I had time to brave the French language, find the Morgan’s store on Saint Catherine and buy myself a new hat, which was very foolish. All the way to Halifax I worried that I should not have bought the hat. It was the first time in my life that I fretted about spending money.
When I arrived in Halifax, I found a room at a boarding house and spent two days unsuccessfully trying to find Oliver, and it was my own fault because he did not know I was there. (So, you see, you cannot blame any of this on him.) I was able to purchase a small, semi-private 2nd class cabin, and the day of departure, in a crushing queue on the pier, I had my first moment of real fear, that I had been mistaken and Oliver would not be on board the ship. I almost left the line, but a rude woman gave me a push and told me to pay attention or we’d never get on board, and in the pandemonium I dropped my new hat. I tried to bend to retrieve it but I was being pushed forward, hanging onto my bag for dear life, and once I reached the gangplank I had no time to think because it was steep. I kept my eyes on my feet and prayed I would not slip.
When I was finally on board the ship, I followed the directions I’d been given to my cabin, and when I peered in the narrow door, I saw an older lady in a plain frock sitting on one of two small berths, who welcomed me inside. I sat down on the edge of my berth, which was barely a foot from hers, and burst into tears. I told the woman I was crying over my lost hat, but the truth was, I feared that I had done something impulsive and regrettable, and I would never see my family again. She turned out to be a very kind lady—Mrs. Poppy Brenner—and she told me she was on her way home to Yorkshire after twent
y years in Canada. Twenty dismal years, she said, without elaborating. She was very effusive in her condolences about the hat, and then she prayed aloud that neither of us would get seasick, stuffed her curly hair into a cotton cap, and lay down to have a nap.
A horn blared and the ship began to move. I decided that I couldn’t just lie there in a state of self-pity, so I retrieved my one warm sweater from my bag and pulled it on over my skirt and blouse. I had the last letter from Oliver in my valise and I took it with me, planning to read it again and see if there was any way I might have been horribly mistaken about his date of departure, and I also took the letter I had written to him with a misguided plan to hand it to him in person. As I climbed the three flights of laddery stairs to the deck level, I was plagued by the new fear that if I did find him, he would be on board with a woman, a wife perhaps, whom he had met in the West. Doubt consumed me, and I didn’t know if it was because of the grey sky and rolling sea, or because I had made my plans based on very little evidence that Oliver Diamond would welcome my company: one brief postscript in a letter. Perhaps I had seen only what I wanted to.
When I’d mounted the final stair and reached the deck, I stepped outside. The sky was indeed ominous. I could smell the salt, and the gulls looped and screeched overhead as the ship’s engines rumbled. There were a dozen or so people about, taking the air, or perhaps avoiding the claustrophobia that awaited them below deck. As the air grew colder, fewer and fewer of them remained. I stood back from the railing and drew my sweater up around my ears, and watched as Canada disappeared altogether into the mist. There were a half dozen slotted wooden deck chairs against the ship’s cabin, and I sat in one, not knowing what else to do. A steward in a white uniform came by and suggested that I go below so as not to catch a chill. He had a Scottish accent, and he said it was likely to get rough and he wouldn’t want to lose such a pretty girl overboard (he pronounced it garrel).
The Diamond House Page 5