“You can go too,” I said from my cave. When I didn’t hear him leave, I peeked. He was looking out the window.
“Do you ever hear anything up here?” he asked suddenly.
“Like what?” I sat up.
“Music. Faraway sounding.”
“My ears are blocked. But that would be my lovely stepmother. She’s at the piano all the time. Drives me nuts.”
“But I heard it when she was in here, too.”
The door opened and Daisy bustled in. She pointed at Martin. “Hey, you live behind Pelly’s in that blue house. My mom knows you, right?”
He smiled. “Yeah. I’m Martin.”
“Are you coming to the Christmas party on Sunday night with Cass?”
“What Christmas party?” I asked.
“Mom has one every year. She asks some friends and her old-age music students. Some teachers are coming from Jonathan’s school, too.”
“She didn’t tell me,” I said. “When was this all decided?”
“I don’t know. It just was.”
“Is your mom giving a piano lesson right now, Daisy?” Martin asked.
“Why?”
“No reason. You were playing, though, right?”
She shook her head. “Not me. I hate practicing.” She plunked on her bed, looking ready for a long visit.
“Go away, Daisy. Jean doesn’t want you to get sick,” I said.
She slid off the bed. “Mom’s on the phone with your dad, you know. She’s mad. She said you were driving her around the bend.” She closed the door behind her with a satisfied click.
“I hope you’re not in trouble because of me. There! Hear it? Music.”
I waved at him. “I’m always in trouble.” I strained to hear his so-called music. “I don’t hear anything.” Then I grinned. “Hey – good one. Thought I’d fall for ghostly music, huh?” Suddenly a trill of oddly metallic notes echoed from below us.
“That! Hear that?” He stared at me.
I laughed. “That must be Jean on the living-room piano. It’s badly out of tune.”
He was gone and back in a flash. “Still hearing it?” he asked. I nodded.
“Well, Jean and Daisy are in the kitchen. No one is near the piano downstairs. But yet, when I went in there, it was silent.” We stared at each other. “Too weird. Must be a radio playing somewhere.” He checked his watch and grabbed his backpack. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, have a wonderful date with Blondie,” I said. “Don’t get caught checking out her brooch, okay?”
He waved at me and left. I lay there thinking about the piano music. I couldn’t hear it anymore, but who else could have been playing it but Jean? The thing was, the only image that kept flashing in my mind was Martin sitting in a movie with that Barbie doll from the bus. Had I expected him to ask me out? Yes, I had. I sighed. So much for pretending I didn’t like the guy.
I fell asleep watching the moon hanging like a smoky glass orb outside my window. Dad woke me with a plate of chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes.
“Did Jean tattle to you?” I asked.
“About what?”
“About anything.”
“No. I just got home. Why? Have you and she had another set-to?”
To distract him, I said, “I hear Jean’s having a Christmas party on Sunday night.”
“The whole family is having a Christmas party. You included.”
“No one told me.”
He looked guilty. “Jean wasn’t sure she was going to bother this year, with the kitchen renovations going on right now. We only decided yesterday and made some phone calls. Turned out most people were free. You’ve been so ill, I didn’t think to mention it. Anyone you’d like to ask?”
I shook my head.
He said heartily, “I’m sure it’s not too late.”
“I don’t want to ask anyone, okay? I may not bother coming anyway.”
“I want you there. So don’t get any ideas about skipping it.”
I didn’t say anything, just picked up my fork and poked at the smooth brown gravy. It ticked me off that Jean was a way better cook than Mom.
“I mean it, Cass. It’s important to Jean.” He probably saw my eye-roll because he added, “But especially important to me. Okay?”
I nodded and pointed at my food. “Getting cold.”
As he left, he said, “I’ll expect you there. No arguments.”
After I ate half my meal, I pushed the rest aside and leafed through one of the poetry books Martin had brought. Soon my eyelids were drooping. I hauled myself out of bed and had a quick shower, but this time I pinned the brooch inside my pajama pocket. I fell asleep quickly.
When I woke up, music was filling the room. I recognized an old Christmas carol that was on one of Mom’s albums. I’d learned it when I was a kid – “Drive the Cold Winter Away.” It had a light airiness about it on that recording, yet I always felt there was a sadness beneath its melody. Right now, it was being played in a slow sad way. I remembered some of the words.
All hail to the days that merit more praise
Than all the rest of the year,
And welcome the nights that double delights
As well for the poor as the peer!
I pulled on my housecoat and woolly socks and tiptoed down the stairs. The walls were bumpy and cold under my fingertips. I couldn’t find the light switch. I understood why. My heart picked up speed as I neared the bottom.
Moonlight shone from two small windows across the main-floor foyer, sliding softly over dark green walls, a fur rug, and a hat rack made of deer antlers. The closer I got to the heavy oak doors of the main room, the stronger the music grew, becoming complex, sweet, and melancholy. Then it stopped.
As I swung the doors open, I smelled wood smoke. A low black stove, with a big smokestack curling around the ceiling and out through one wall, glowed in the corner of the room. A dark-haired girl sat beside a tiny piano, her candle wavering shadows around the walls. She was writing in a book on the table beside her. I watched her put down her pen, cover her face with her hands, and rock back and forth.
“Beatrice?” I called softly.
She became still. Then carefully, slowly, she turned to look at me.
15
BEATRICE
I gave Reverend Dalhousie a wedge of bannock with last summer’s honey. He sat beside Papa and accepted a cup of tea from Dilly.
“I’ve come to tell you that the party for the bishop and his wife will be tomorrow evening,” he said. “Mrs. Gaskell wants to stay with friends at the settlement for Christmas, before moving on. I’ll take over both parishes once they leave, of course.”
“You don’t seem happy about it, Reverend,” Papa said.
“Oh, no, I’m not unhappy, Mr. Alexander. I mean, if I’m honest – I expected something quite different coming to this wilderness area … to what I thought would be wilderness. Something really worth my … not this.…” He looked around uncomfortably.
I compared Duncan’s full beard, wide arched nose, and thick body to the minister’s delicate features and narrow shoulders. His chin barely showed signs of blond whiskers, even late in the day. Duncan’s eyes were dark, often sparking with mischief, alive, while Robert Dalhousie’s pale eyes were calm, until this odd moment, when he had become clearly uncomfortable. I realized I’d never seen him laugh.
Duncan asked, “You expected savages and found reasonably civilized people, is that it?” His tone was challenging.
“That’s an unwarranted thing to say, Mr. Kilgour!” I said sharply.
“I should explain,” Reverend Dalhousie replied. “Since a young student, I’ve felt a calling to take God’s word to those who do not know Him.”
Duncan’s accent deepened as he spoke: “I was a young student once, too. But my aunt made me read many writers, including freethinkers, and their views on the church and on missionary work. I found myself agreeing with the freethinkers more and more, especially after traveli
ng around this globe and seeing the multitude of religions and ways of living that people like you insist on changing to suit your version of what is the right way to live.”
My jaw tightened. The air was thick with tension.
Robert Dalhousie turned to Papa. “Here, in St. Cuthbert’s, the Indians and half-breeds have been well integrated into our more complex society. I have little to do, even ministering to my second congregation at St. Anthony’s, where most full-bloods are Christians.”
Duncan slapped a hand on the table. I held my breath. “Half-breeds, eh? My mother would approve of your implied prejudices, Minister, but I’m not sure Mrs. Alexander would. Or her son. I believe country-born is less inflammatory, Sir!”
Grandmother sat quietly, an unreadable smile on her face. Papa held up a hand. “This is not something I wish to discuss, Duncan.” But I could see the light had not dimmed in Kilgour’s eyes.
Robert Dalhousie’s face colored. “Please understand, I do not judge. We’re all God’s children. It’s my duty to go where He is not known – to teach His word and to show, by example, the way to live a more enlightened, devout, civilized life. The freethinkers, to whom you refer, I know little about. What I do know is, they say and write things that will never change my church or my God.”
“Showing the way to a more tolerant and cultured life sounds an admirable thing, Sir. But you would change other people’s churches and gods to accomplish it, would you not? Surely there are less insidious ways of enlightening people.”
“It is our duty to help others find our Lord. We embrace people who have lived in ignorance through no fault of their own. They are His children too.”
“So, let me understand. You see Indians who aren’t Christians as children who have yet to grow into their full-civilized form?” Duncan asked, light gleaming dangerously in his eyes.
Reverend Dalhousie turned to Papa again. “I am only saying there are men of the church – family men – who could do the wonderful work the bishop began here far better than I.”
“I don’t think –” I began, but Duncan Kilgour spoke over me.
“Wonderful work? Bishop Gaskell has little education and arrived here with his own garbled interpretation of the Bible, from what I’ve seen and heard. He then proceeded to bully all and sundry with the sensitivity of an ox. Communities everywhere in this country are being ministered by so-called men of God – educated in a quick few months in some stuffy English seminary and sent here to teach the savages. How many months did it take you to become a minister? Two? Three?”
Reverend Dalhousie rose to his feet. “I am an ordained minister, Sir. As long as I remain here, I will never lag in my religious duties.”
Kilgour smiled sweetly at him. “Of that I’m sure, Reverend.”
“Thank you for the tea, Miss Alexander. I apologize for interrupting your busy evening. Good night.” Robert Dalhousie bowed stiffly and left.
When the door closed behind him, I cried, “That was uncalled for, Mr. Kilgour! He was our guest, not yours, and you were extremely rude to him – to all of us!”
“Beatrice,” Papa said, “discussions like this are often heated. Don’t be hasty in blaming Duncan. Testing a new minister is not a bad thing. Dalhousie is a man of conviction, but like so many men from the Old Country, sadly naïve about the people he has determined to save.”
“He is a good man, Papa.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that. And as long as he teaches goodness to all peoples, no one will fault him.” He eased Grandmother gently from her chair. Duncan tried to help, but Papa waved him away. Together the invalids helped each other out of the room. Dilly followed, concern on her young face.
Kilgour sat back in his chair. “You realize, Miss Alexander, that Dalhousie was including your family when he said many of his parishioners are half-breeds. With no idea, of course, that it is the worst of insults. Many of these hastily educated clergy are dangerously ignorant.” Seeing the look on my face, he added, “He would do well to learn about his flock before he tries to change them into his own image.”
I pushed the last piece of greased paper into its pan and covered everything with clean towels. Was I ready for my morning baking? I cast around for something to organize. I couldn’t think. The air was dense and close; black shadows fluttered nearby.
Did Robert Dalhousie see me only as a half-breed? Was he just like those girls in Upper Canada? Did he perceive me as part savage? I tried hard to take a deep breath. Was I tainted by my Indian blood? I couldn’t breathe. Why was the floor moving under my feet? I couldn’t stop myself from sliding to one side. Fingers wrapped around my upper arm and lowered me onto a chair, then pushed my head toward my knees.
When the buzzing in my ears settled, I sat up and tried to draw a deep breath, but I could make only pathetic gasping sounds.
On his knees in front of me, Duncan Kilgour muttered, “I’m so sorry, Beatrice.”
I looked at him. “You are an opinionated pompous agitator with no feelings for anyone else. I hate you. You have ruined everything.”
He rose and left the house without speaking another word. I slowly caught my breath. In a daze of misery, I tidied the kitchen and went up to bed, the candle casting long, ominous shadows ahead of me.
Escape from the shadows wouldn’t come through sleep. I lay awake, the hours slowly ticking by. Duncan Kilgour had been educated by an aunt who was, from what I’d read in the newspapers and periodicals my great-aunt sent us, a bluestocking and a freethinker. I’d read that both were held in disdain by many critics for their intellectual pursuits and their determination to change society the way Dickens tried to with his novels. Kilgour had been all over the world in the last few years. What had he seen that made him so sure of himself? What had he read? I envied him his passion and certainty – yes, even his education by a woman whom, I reluctantly admitted, I would like to have known. He would be tested often in life about his freethinking views, of that I was sure.
I sat up. I wasn’t actually agreeing with the man, was I? Was he right about Robert and others like him? No. He had to be wrong. Robert Dalhousie was a good man. Duncan Kilgour was a troublemaker.
Confused and deeply saddened, I took my diary, my pen and ink, and crept downstairs, opened the harpsichord, and played softly so as not to disturb the others. Nôhkom and Papa were used to my practicing at odd hours, but Ivy always protested.
I played “Drive the Cold Winter Away,” a lively tune the girls will perform on Christmas Eve. I hoped it would cheer me. But I couldn’t give it the lilting melody it called for. When I came to the third verse …
‘Tis ill for a mind to anger inclined
To think of small injuries now;
If wrath be to seek do not lend her thy cheek
Nor let her inhabit thy brow.
… I could go no further. The evening started out with such pleasure. Now, all celebration, all hope for a happy Christmas, was gone.
As I write this, I realize I must face things as they are. In one respect, Kilgour was right. Reverend Dalhousie thinks of my family and me as converted heathens. I am sure he is sincere in his desire to be a good minister, but he appears to carry the seed of bigotry toward Indians and our country-born Scots deep inside him, like so many new British do. Perhaps that will change as he gets to know my grandmother’s people at St. Anthony’s and here in the settlement of St. Cuthbert’s.
There is no hope of ever becoming something other than what I am. Nothing will change. I am destined to live with my father and his shrewish wife until I, too, am old and gray. I will remain alone. This is my future. This is what I must accept.
The little voice in my head scoffs at me: How will you perform your duties at church in good spirit? How will you continue with the choir, singing praises you don’t feel, celebrating a feast you are no longer part of, all the while knowing the shadows are sliding closer?
Note to myself: Accept the way things are, Beatrice. Don’t ask for more.
16
CASS
Beatrice Alexander and I looked at each other in wonder. I could see she was upset. As her figure shifted in the dim light, about to fade, I called out, “Don’t give up, Beatrice! Be strong!” There was a wavering blackness all around her. In seconds, she vanished under it.
When I turned to go to my bedroom to see if the diary might be there, Daisy met me on the stairs. For a brief moment, I wondered how she’d gone back in time.…
“I heard you playing music,” she said. “You woke me up! Who were you talking to?”
“Oh, go back to bed, you little troll.”
As I pushed past her, she said, “You’re crazy, you know! Mom says so! And you know what? I think you were sleepwalking like some freaked-out zombie!” She followed me down the hall.
I spun around. “Go. Back. To. Bed.”
“I can’t sleep. I feel sick.”
“Great. I’ll get the blame for that too. Just go to bed, Daisy!”
Fat tears rolled down her face. “But I do – I do feel sick.” And to prove it, she threw up on the rug, just missing my feet.
I ran to get Jean, who lurched out of bed, shrieked, and woke up Dad. They both dashed up and down the hallway, bringing buckets, cloths, towels, and rug shampoo for the brand-new hall runner. Daisy stood there, shaking and whimpering.
“I told you she’d catch Cassandra’s flu!” Jean shouted at Dad. “I told you!”
Dad, hair on end, handed me a hot facecloth and ordered me take Daisy to our room and clean her up. The hallway was smelling utterly foul, so I was happy to do it.
After I wiped her pasty face and changed her pj’s, I said, “If you feel like barfing again, use this.” I handed her a wastebasket with a garbage-bag liner.
“I don’t feel like doing it anymore. I ate too much popcorn watching that stupid movie tonight at Tracy’s stupid birthday party. Her mom gave us lumpy poisoned cookies and made us drink sickening herbal tea. I hate Tracy. And her mom.”
“How much popcorn and how many of those poisoned cookies did you eat?”
Winter Shadows Page 10