Winter Shadows

by Margaret Buffie

  It just came out. “I can’t stay there anymore. Can I live here with you?”

  She looked into her wineglass. “We both know what your dad would say to that.”

  “But if I got him to agree?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds like running away from the problem, Cass.”

  “But you just called it toxic there. Even for a while? Say, a year?”

  “If your father agreed, of course I’d let you stay. But he won’t.”

  “He might.”

  “Let’s get through Christmas first, okay? But you have to promise, before any decisions are made, you will somehow make a kind of provisional peace with Jean.”

  “You know that’s not going to happen.”

  “My one criteria for you moving in with me, Cass, would be that you don’t leave that house hating Jean. Maybe family counseling would work. But that’s the deal. Okay. Bed. I’m too tired to think anymore, and you’re too emotional to see the sense in what I’m saying.”

  “So, in other words, you don’t really want me here.”

  “Yes, Cass, I do.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed her. We dragged our way upstairs, where there were two small bedrooms and a bathroom. We silently brushed our teeth together.

  “ ‘Night,” I muttered.

  As I was walking past her, she hugged me. “I love you so much, Cassy. I would do anything to make this better for you.”

  “I love you too,” I whispered, hugging her back. I could feel her sharp shoulder blades under my hands. Maybe her shadows had been even worse than mine.

  I ran to the spare room, changed into the pajamas I kept here, and climbed into bed. Tardy was lying on top of two hot-water bottles wrapped in fleece. I took one and hugged it.

  I couldn’t think about Jean and Dad anymore, or even whether or not Beatrice would find me here, so I thought about Martin. What if, tomorrow, he acts distant and uneasy? Maybe he was already regretting what he’d said. No more thinking. I fell asleep to Tardy’s plump purring.

  When I woke again, it was still dark. Suddenly Tardy leaped off the bed and ran into the hall with a Halloweentype hiss. Beatrice appeared in front of me, holding her journal. As I blinked up at her, she placed it on the bed and drifted back into the moon’s pale light.

  I turned on my lamp and read about her visit to the Comper farm. My heart stopped when she described making snow angels with Duncan and seeing me. Our timing was askew, but I knew for certain, now, that I really had seen her – and that I had also seen, twice briefly, the shadowy figure of Duncan Kilgour.

  She called me her spirit girl. She was excited that we’d spoken – if only for a moment beside the Christmas trees. She knew I was unhappy, like her. And she’d more or less guessed the reason.

  I read about the vicarage party and laughed at her wry humor, about Duncan’s behavior to her, and, finally, Robert Dalhousie’s marriage proposal. I lay back, wondering what it all meant. Would it free her from Ivy and maybe even the shadows? Or would her leaving just make everything worse? Would my leaving Old Maples make things worse for me?

  Beatrice would finally have a great adventure to write about. Is that what she really wanted? Didn’t she notice how Duncan hung around her all the time? Didn’t she take in how interesting and funny he was? He was so much more attractive than stuffy old Robert. And what did she want from me? Why were we seeing each other? I stared at the pages long and hard.

  I could feel the warmth of the diary cooling under my hands. In a desperate rush, I grabbed a pencil from a pot on the side table and wrote, Wait. Don’t rush. Think hard before marrying Robert Dalhousie. Be strong. The pencil was slip-sliding over the page, leaving only faint marks. I pressed as hard as I could. What about Duncan? And I signed it Cass.

  27

  BEATRICE

  I stared at the closed door, uncertain what to do or think, my thoughts were in such turmoil. Robert had just left, believing we were promised to one another. I thought of Mr. Rochester’s ardent proposal to Jane Eyre … how she heard him call to her across the moors after she ran away. But in my restricted life, there was no mad wife locked in a tower room, and I was not running broken-hearted from the man I loved. Writers of fiction create romance to stir lonely hearts. Like mine. However, one thing was clear to me – if I wanted to drive away the shadows and create a meaningful existence for myself, I must take the opportunity Robert offered.

  I ran upstairs and wrote everything in my diary. But it did not help. I wanted so badly to share the burden of this decision with someone who would understand. Would my spirit girl understand? I closed my eyes and envisioned her clearly. She looked sleepy, and, when she saw me, she smiled and reached toward me. I held out my diary. When I opened my eyes again, it was still in my hands. How foolish I was!

  Surely, I was losing touch with reality. Would I soon move into a strange imaginary world of my own? I placed my diary back in its secret spot, determined to do all the little daily things that would keep any kakêpâtis thoughts at bay, and walked firmly down each stair toward the kitchen. My decision was made: I would marry Robert Dalhousie and start a new life.

  I prepared our midday meal of boiled bacon, cheese, and soda bread – nôhkom’s favorite. I wondered if I should tell her about the proposal before I told Papa. Ivy was upstairs with one of her headaches. The fuss over the Christmas tree had clearly been too much for her. As long as she didn’t burn it down, I didn’t care. I looked at my beloved papa talking quietly to his mother in her language, while I stood at the edge of a great precipice, my heart pounding.

  When the girls helped nôhkom upstairs to rest, I said quietly, “Papa. I have something to tell you,” but at that moment, Duncan Kilgour walked in, carrying a mammoth frost-covered whitefish on a length of rope.

  “Dinner, my lord, my lady! I caught it the second my bait dropped. Gutted and ready for the fire. Mother will only kill this magnificent fish a second time by cooking it. I beg you to prepare it, Miss Alexander!”

  Why did sharp prickles of alarm go through me at the sight of him? I knew I must tell both of them quickly. Before I lost heart.

  I opened my mouth, but the words that came out were “I must take some tea to Ivy – she is not well.” I poured tea into a cup and stumbled to the door.

  Ivy responded to my knock with a curt “Enter!” The room was as chilly as her greeting. “What do you want?” She sat by her stove wrapped in a quilt, her graying hair tangled on her shoulders.

  “I brought you some tea, Ivy. Is there anything else you need? Perhaps more wood on the fire?”

  “Is this some feeble attempt to make up for creating chaos in my house?”

  “Not at all. Papa said you have a headache.”

  She took the tea and sipped it. “Pshaw! Cold.” She held out the cup.

  “I’ll make a fresh pot.”

  “Don’t bother.” As I turned to go, a hand shot out and grabbed my arm in a tight grip. “Stay away from my son.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Fluttering around Duncan with that butter-wouldn’t-melt look. Undermining me. Stay away, I tell you!”

  I pulled my arm back. “I don’t want your son. I am already spoken for.”

  She let out a scornful laugh. “Who would marry you?”

  I jumped straight into the yawning precipice. “I received a proposal of marriage from Reverend Dalhousie this very morning, as it happens.”

  “Don’t lie to me! That man’s as English as English can be and too full of himself to marry a half-breed.”

  “Nevertheless, he will speak to Papa soon.”

  “Then you must be forcing his hand somehow!” A light sparked in her eyes. “You’re with child! That’s it! Isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ivy!”

  She put her head back and called, “Gordon! Gordon!”

  I ran down the stairs, followed by her shrill voice.

  “What on earth has happened?” Papa said.

  “I must s
peak to you, Father. Now. It is important.”

  “I’ll go and see what’s put her in such a dither,” Duncan offered. “She won’t stop.”

  “No!” I cried. “Your mother provoked me. She claims I have designs on you, Mr. Kilgour.…”

  “Well, I can tell her that –”

  I knew he was about to make fun. I held up one hand. “Stop! Please! Listen!”

  “Out with it, my dear,” Papa said, “or Ivy will be down here telling us herself.”

  I took a deep breath. “Robert Dalhousie has asked me to accompany him to his next posting. Out west. As his wife. Ivy has accused me of … seducing him into taking me along. It is a complete falsehood.”

  For a moment, no one moved.

  “Have you accepted his proposal?” Papa asked.

  I held my trembling hands firmly against my waist. “Only if you agree, Papa.”

  “I will not stay to supper,” Duncan Kilgour said. “I will see you at rehearsal, Miss Alexander. Mr. Alexander, please do not allow my mother to make too big a fool of herself.” He grabbed his coat and hat. The door banged shut behind him.

  28

  CASS

  I was in the shower when Aunt Blair knocked. “Your dad just dropped off some clothes for you. The bag’s on the floor out here. Martin’s downstairs already.”

  By the time I brushed my teeth and got dressed, Martin was working on a pile of pancakes. He gave me a bright smile. He didn’t look like he was thinking about how to tell me he wanted out.

  I managed to choke down one bite. “Did Dad say anything?” I asked Blair.

  “Only to call him when you’re ready to come home. I told him you’d be here for a few days.”

  “Thanks.” The next mouthful tasted better. I ate two pancakes. We were doing the dishes when the doorbell rang. My heart flip-flopped. Please don’t let it be Dad and Jean.

  Aunt Blair went to answer it, and, in the distance, I heard a whining voice. Daisy? Were they all here? Blair walked in with a flushed and swollen-eyed kid. No Dad. No Jean.

  “She heard you were going shopping and told them you’d made plans with her for today. Jon’s waiting outside for an answer.”

  “You promised, Cass,” Daisy said with a sniff. “I got money I saved, and Jonathan says I can use your credit card too.” She looked pathetic.

  I swallowed down a flutter of panic. How could I cope with Daisy around? How was I supposed to think and work things out?

  The kid had her hands folded under her chin like she was praying to me.

  “I guess so,” I said with a sigh.

  She beamed and twirled in a circle, then ran outside to tell Dad. What the heck was up with her? She’d been the devil’s spawn for three months. The news of the baby must have really affected her. She ran back in.

  “Your dad says have a good day.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Dad.”

  “We’ll use my van,” Blair said, “but I have to deliver some things on the way back.”

  Martin said, “How about you take Daisy, and we follow in my truck, Miss … er?”

  “Call me Blair. ‘Miss’ sounds terribly old.”

  “Okay, we’ll follow you, Blair. You can make your deliveries afterward that way.”

  “Sounds good, Martin. Come on, Daisy.”

  “But I want to go with you, Cass. You promised,” Daisy moaned.

  “Up to you, Cass,” Blair said.

  Half an hour later, we squeezed Daisy into the small backseat and followed Blair’s van along the road to Selkirk.

  Daisy was quiet. Martin kept looking at me with a small frown. “So are you put off about what I said last night? About … you know?”

  I could almost hear Daisy’s ears prick up, so I answered carefully, “No. But I figured you might be sorry you ever said it.”

  He took my hand. I heard an intake of breath from behind us. Martin grinned and turned the radio on. “Jingle Bells” was playing. He sang over it, “Jingle Bells/Batman smells/Robin laid an egg/The batmobile lost a wheel/And the Joker got away, HEY!”

  Then Daisy did a version from school about Santa smelling and reindeer running away. Martin topped that with a gruesome “Dashing through the snow/on a pair of broken skis/over the hills we go/crashing through the trees/the snow is turning red/I think I’m almost dead/they rushed me to the hospital/I almost lost my head! HEY!”

  We made up more verses as we went along. When we pulled up in front of a row of craft and gift shops, my stomach hurt from laughing. We met up with Blair and cruised the shops. I picked out a china Santa for Jean that I knew she’d detest – his suit was flaming pink and a wobbly-legged fawn looked up at him with sickening adoration. One of Santa’s eyes was off-center. Even better, it cost me three bucks. I looked at a pair of smooth oval green-stone earrings that Mom would have loved, so I bought them for her.

  When Blair wandered off with Daisy to look for my gift next door, I picked out a dark green angora hat and scarf set for Daisy and some silver hoop earrings for Blair with a matching clip-on bracelet. Then I bought a black-and-yellow scarf for Martin. In the truck, Daisy showed me a holly-leaf crystal brooch for Jean, but was careful not to show me another small box she covered with her hand. I grinned inside. Jean would hate that hideous pin. Would she wear it Christmas Day to please Daisy? Would she put my Santa gift on display? Doubters. I had a prick of guilt about the pink china Santa, but it didn’t last long.

  Martin and I picked car stuff for our dads. I didn’t get the usual Terry’s Chocolate Orange for the toe of my father’s stocking. There were no traditions for us left, so why bother?

  I walked with Martin toward the truck as Aunt Blair dragged Daisy into a toy store. “You two go on ahead and find some lunch,” she called. “I’ll take Daisy to the tea shop down the street when we’re done. I’ll meet you back here at one.”

  The sun was shining, and, despite the wind, the inside of the truck was warm. “You want to go to the tea place with them?” Martin asked.

  “No. I’m up to here with crowds. Let’s eat in the truck. There must be a competitor you want to check out?”

  We took off, stopping at a chip shop that featured double dogs. We shared fries and analyzed the cheap oil on them.

  “My parents don’t want me to run the restaurant,” Martin told me. “They say it’s just long hours, hard work, and worry. They want me to do what I want.”

  “And that is?”

  “Well, I hope to run the restaurant, actually.”

  I laughed.

  “Or,” he continued, “a trendy one in Winnipeg. I’m going to chef school after grade twelve. Apprentice at a good restaurant. Work here on weekends. My mom and dad think I’ll be a painter or a poet or an actor.”

  I pushed him. “They wouldn’t want that. No money in it.”

  He slicked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You want to be rich one day?”

  “No. Just happy. I learned when Mom died how fast things can go wrong. Money can’t change that.” Or buy a whole new day, I thought. Or alter something you did that you regret … but I won’t go there. Not today.

  His fingers twirled my hair. “So what’s with Daisy? It’s like she hangs on your every word. I thought you two hated each other.”

  I shrugged, not moving my head in case he stopped. “She’s such a sad case, that kid. Those glasses are hideous. Her hair looks like a Victorian doll’s wig – stuck on her head like it doesn’t belong to her.”

  I glanced over his shoulder and saw a couple of stores that made me sit up. I put my hand on his arm. “I have the best idea!”

  He smiled and leaned closer. “Mmm. Me, too.” I decided his idea was better … for now.

  A few minutes later, someone rapped on the window. We both jumped back. Staring up at us was my unlovely stepsister, her huge glasses shining with interest.

  “Where’s Blair?” I asked, rolling down the window.

  She pointed at the idling van two cars down. “We’re going to deliver stuff
to people who bought from Blair’s store.”

  “You can’t. Wait here.” I got out of the truck and ran over to the van. “We’re going to spend more time in town, then take Daisy back to your place, if that’s okay.”

  “Good idea,” Aunt Blair said. “I suspect your parents need a day alone.”

  “Yeah, so Jean can lecture Dad on how I can’t be allowed to put that toothpaste back in the tube.” She looked puzzled. I added, “Never mind. See you at your place. We’ll be back by dinner.”

  When she drove off, I grabbed Daisy’s hand and marched her toward the little shops on the other side of the road.

  29

  BEATRICE

  Papa groped for his crutches. “Come to my study, Beatrice.”

  We’d just closed the door behind us when Ivy pushed it open. She looked like a madwoman, with her thin wild hair, staring eyes, and red blotchy skin.

  “This daughter of yours has fallen with child and claims she is going to marry that upstart of a minister, who is no better than he should be! She doesn’t even deny it! You must cast her out, Gordon!”

  “I have been home less than a month, Papa,” I said firmly. “I hardly know the man!”

  “She’s lying!” Ivy spat out. “All those choir practices – home late afterward! Why else would a man of his background ask to marry her – a wanton half-breed.”

  Papa stamped his crutches on the floor. “Ivy! Be quiet!”

  “Listen to me, Gordon! I am telling you, she is –”

  “You’ve taken too much laudanum again, Ivy. I have warned you how it twists your mind. Robert Dalhousie asked my daughter to marry him because he knows she will make the best of wives. Unlike you, who spreads poison like a ripe plague through this household. If you do not stop these slanderous lies, I will send you to your son’s farm for good and shun you forever!”

  Ivy backed against the door. “You would send me away? Duncan would not allow you.…”

  Papa moved quickly toward her, sticks banging the floor. “Don’t test me, Ivy.”