Winter Shadows

by Margaret Buffie

  “Aah, Kilgour,” Robert said. “Glad you could join us. Bitter cold night.”

  “I’ve heard the weather on the western seaboard is always milder than here,” Kilgour said with a devilish smirk, banging his buffalo mitts together. “Positively balmy for a young married couple!”

  Robert looked shocked. I’m sure I looked horrified. How dare he reveal what I told him about Robert’s proposal?

  “I saw your lovely sister this afternoon, while you were out, Reverend. She told me your plans.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Mum’s the word, eh?”

  So he did go to her! He was acting just like a caricature of a jolly good fellow from Punch magazine, and I wanted to punch him.

  He bustled us toward the choir stalls, talking all the while about the weather – how many families were suffering with coughs and chilblains and how many were losing animals to the cold and lack of decent fodder. “Minty and I will make our rounds tomorrow with a sledge of hay. The Goddsons are still enduring Angus’s back problems, so we’ll make sure we do some work there. And Will McKay’s wife is frail after the last birth. Another sickly child. Minty goes by and milks their two old cows for them, but both beasts are drying up.” He shook his head.

  Duncan Kilgour is a good man, my inner voice said. You must admit that, Beatrice. But an impossible one! I snapped back.

  I held up a deerskin bag and said to him, “Here are the cakes I promised you, Mr. Kilgour. Perhaps you and Minty could give them to the families you talked about.”

  Robert, smiling his minister’s smile, said, “Most Christian of you, Miss Alexander.”

  Duncan looked at him with amusement. Oh, why couldn’t Robert, just once, be less of a dry stick! I turned away and got busy assembling the singers. My girls went through their songs quickly. The members of the church choir murmured appreciatively when they were done, and the girls, sitting in the front pews, puffed up with pride.

  The church choir did quite well, except for the usual problems – the sexton’s wife’s booming tone that lagged one breath behind everyone else and Miss Stiles’s overwrought nasal warbling. Small bursts of laughter broke out behind me, but my quick glare silenced them. I couldn’t help being grateful for Duncan’s rich deep voice, which added depth to the sparse bass section. More than once, he winked at me, which both irritated me and made me hide a smile.

  Robert sat by the pianist, head on one side, lips pursed. When everyone made ready to leave, he took me aside. “I will speak to your father soon. But I don’t feel quite prepared yet as I have Christmas Eve service tomorrow.”

  “Yes, of course, Robert,” I said. “Perhaps Christmas Day?” For some reason, it seemed vitally important to have the announcement over with.

  He looked startled. “No, no, that would be most inappropriate. It is a sacred day, after all. The church will be terribly busy. I don’t know how I would.…”

  Duncan was talking loudly to someone behind us. I flushed, hoping he didn’t hear Robert’s fussing, and then something – like a sudden warning from my spirit girl – made me say, curtly, “Of course. I didn’t mean here at the church, Mr. Dalhousie. I meant at dinner, at my father’s house later. But you are quite right. It might be better to wait until after Christmas to approach Papa.”

  I thought he might try to reassure me, but he looked relieved. “I agree, my dear. Best do it with dignity and restraint.”

  “Of course, Robert. It’s not as if we’re eager lovers planning to elope, is it?”

  “Yes … quite. We’ll have the rest of our lives to –”

  “Repent at leisure?” Duncan, who had slid in beside me, laughed good-naturedly.

  Robert looked like he’d been slapped by a challenger’s glove. “I don’t find that even vaguely amusing, Kilgour. I take deep offense at the insult to Miss Alexander.”

  People were staring, conversations dying.

  I held up one hand. “Don’t dignify his thoughtless comment by arguing it! I must go. I’ll see you tomorrow at service, Reverend,” I said loudly. “Good night.”

  He nodded, his face rigid. Mrs. Wright, who ran the Ladies Auxiliary, hurried up with a look of intense interest to discuss something about the morning service. I took the opportunity to escape.

  As I strode down the aisle, my spirit girl, Cass, moved toward me, her hair an aureole of light. I stopped in my tracks, and her face lit up. She said, in a hollow whisper, “Did you read it? What I wrote to you?”

  “Yes, yes!” I whispered back. “But why, Cass?”

  Her smile fell, concern creasing her forehead.

  “Beatrice. Don’t do it! You know you don’t –” The shadow of another figure appeared behind her, and they both vanished.

  I covered my mouth. Don’t do it? Do what? Marry Robert? Why? The room slowly lurched around me. Dear heaven, don’t let me faint again. I was becoming like one of those overwrought feeble women in shoddily written Gothic stories that fill so many quarterlies. A firm grip cupped my elbow. Duncan Kilgour half-lifted me toward the church exit.

  “What are you doing, you silly girl? About to marry a young man who is already a dried-up old stick?”

  He had read my very thoughts! Blood rushed into my head, and the dizziness passed. I put on my fur bonnet, tying it tightly as I pushed my way through the small crowd in the foyer. I ran to my carriole, yanking off Tupper’s extra blanket. Our sledge, with Minty driving, was already turning onto the river road, the girls singing and laughing. A dogsled skimmed past me with a hiss of snow, the owner calling good night. I waved as if I didn’t have a care in the world. Gossip would be all over the parish tomorrow – that Reverend Dalhousie, Mr. Kilgour, and I were having a disagreement. Would Robert change his mind about marrying me when he heard it?

  “Beatrice!” Duncan called, running up behind me.

  “Go away!” I could hear the tears in my throat. I climbed into the carriole, and Tupper moved forward.

  “I’ll only follow you home, Beatrice, if you don’t give me an answer to my question!” he said over his horse’s back.

  “All right, here is my answer!” I cried, pulling the reins taut. “Because I have to get away from this staid, dull place before I go mad. Because it will be an adventure – something I long for. I don’t wish to leave my father or my grandmother, but I must and I will. Your dreadful mother and you just make it that much easier to go!”

  “Me? Why me?” he asked, bristling like a black bear, his huge fur hat adding to the likeness. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  “I mean you are the one person I will be glad to see the back of!” I shouted. I snapped the reins, and Tupper, anxious for his evening feed, took off at a brisk trot.

  32

  CASS

  Dad called Daisy back into the room and said, “I told Cass to buy you a Christmas present that you’d like. And she decided this was it. She didn’t check with me, however.”

  Daisy narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  He continued, “I didn’t know what was planned exactly. But you certainly look … spectacular!”

  She brightened.

  “However,” he added sternly, “we were just having a discussion about the fact that she didn’t ask your mother’s permission.”

  “Guess we better go tell Mom then, huh?”

  He looked toward me. “Right.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said. “I won’t let you do it when it’s my fault, Daisy.”

  She suddenly looked grown up. “Jonathan and me will calm Mom down first. Then you come in.” She giggled. “Mom’ll have a bird!”

  “Or a baby,” I muttered.

  “Yeah,” she said, glaring at Dad.

  “You’ll have a kid sister or brother to boss around. It might be fun,” I added quickly.

  She looked surprised. “Let’s go, Jonathan. You come in half an hour, Cass.”

  From the doorway, Blair said, “Everything sorted?” She was looking at Dad.

  I could feel the invisible wall drop
between them.

  Dad said stiffly, “As much as it can be. Did you know about this?”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “What do you think? That I encouraged it? Maybe even suggested it?”

  He flushed. “Of course not. I apologize.”

  “We need to talk soon, okay, Jon? No blame. Just talk. For their sake.”

  “You’re right. Thanks for looking after them today.”

  “I’m staying at Aunt Blair’s for a while, Dad,” I said, just so he was clear.

  “Okay. But only for a few days.”

  I shrugged.

  “One thing at a time. We’ll talk about it later,” he said and left with Daisy.

  It was almost dark when Martin and I drove slowly down River Road. Snow was falling heavily, filling in Dad’s tire tracks. As we rumbled along, I saw the stone and wood bell tower of St. Cuthbert’s Church, its low body crouching behind. This was where Beatrice had directed her choir practices – in the church her dad built. The snow on the trees sparkled like an old-fashioned Christmas card. As we were about to pass by, I could hear a bell ringing. A dark figure, clad in a long dress and bonnet, walked quickly toward the church. Lights inside blinked on and off.

  “Turn here,” I said. “I want to look in the church.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  Martin pulled up in front. “You can be sure the place is locked up tight, until the Christmas Eve service tomorrow.”

  I climbed out of the truck. “You never know. Stay here.”

  As I scuffed through powdered white, I saw the indent of two sets of footprints below a half-inch of snow. One led to a snowblower that stood by the steps, ready for clearing in the morning. The other went up the stairs. The person I saw walking toward the church would have left fresh prints. There were none.

  I pulled hard, and one of the heavy doors screeched open. Warm air washed over me. I walked into the silent nave, my footsteps echoing. Everything smelled of mildew, candles, old books, and … pine? A dim light came on near the pulpit. A huge decorated tree stood in one corner, its lights blinking on and off. Then the tree lights went off and stayed off.

  “Hello?” I called.

  “We’re closed until tomorrow, I’m afraid,” a voice called back. A man with thinning hair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, moved from behind the tree, holding an extension cord.

  “My name is Cass Cullen. Are you the caretaker?”

  “Vicar. William Chancel – no church puns required, thanks all the same!” He spoke with an English accent.

  I laughed. “What is the part called the chancel, anyway?”

  “It’s where the choir sits. Excuse me, I’ll be right with you.” He disappeared again behind the tree.

  “Hey! That’s what I wanted to talk to someone about – the choir.” Something caught my eye. I glanced to one side. Beatrice! Her hair was pulled up in a braided knot, a few wisps floating free. Her face looked thinner. So it was her walking toward the church a few minutes ago. Suddenly, I heard distant, muffled voices all around me.

  I said to her, “Did you read it? Did you see it? What I wrote to you?”

  “Yes, yes!” Her words were a far-off echo. “But why, Cass, why?” She knew my name!

  “Beatrice. Don’t do it! You know you don’t love him!”

  She looked so shocked, I stopped. Who was I talking to? She couldn’t actually be there.

  “Hey! Are you okay? Miss?” Reverend Chancel asked loudly.

  I looked away, just as the tree lights came on. When I looked back, she was gone.

  “Do you live around here?” the vicar asked. “Are you lost?”

  “No. I live at Old Maples.”

  “Aah. Jean Dennett’s new family. She’s one of my regulars. Plays the organ.”

  I knew she went to church, but hadn’t paid much attention to it. “I was wondering if –”

  He put a hand firmly on my arm. “Before you begin, I have to ask a question. Did you see someone or something in the church just now? A person or persons?”

  “Why? Did you see someone?”

  “I wondered if you were talking to one of our resident ghosts?” The tree lights went out again. “Dang and blast!” He fiddled with the light cord. “I’m here tonight because the lights keep going out on the tree, and no one knows why. Our caretaker has given up. These lights could mess up our services tomorrow night and Christmas Day. We’ve had electricians out three times. They all say they’re fine. Anyway, the last few days, when I was alone fiddling with them, I … well … I was sure I saw people who weren’t really here. I tried to make contact with them, but no go. I saw – most clearly – a slim young woman in a long dress and shawl … and now and again, a few others flitting around. One was a rather faded man with a cleric’s collar and surplice, like I wear on Sundays. Once I even heard a choir singing, but only in snatches of sound.” He looked at me. “Oops. I sound a bit mad, don’t I?”

  So … he was seeing Robert and Beatrice! “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “I can’t do otherwise in this place! At first I thought I was going bonkers. But I’m an Englishman, and if we didn’t believe in spirits – ghosts – we would all be bats, as we seem to be teeming with them on our little island.”

  I smiled. “With ghosts? Or bats?”

  He grinned back. “Both. I called the last minister, Reverend MacDonald, in Toronto – he’s over ninety and still going strong – and he told me quite matter-of-factly that these spirits always appear at Christmas. He calls them Miss Alexander’s Choir.”

  I stared at him. “Why does he call them that?”

  “I have no idea. But apparently he’s heard them singing many times.”

  I heard footsteps and expected to see Beatrice right behind me. It was Martin.

  “Goodness, it’s a drop-in center tonight,” said the vicar. “I’m Reverend Chancel. It’s Martin, right? You helped Betty Pelly set up the manger scene a few days ago.”

  “Yes. She and my grandma come here.”

  Reverend Chancel nodded. “Not your parents, though.”

  Martin shrugged. “No. I usually come at Christmas with my aunt and Gran.”

  “I was just about to tell Cass that the previous minister, here for almost seventy years, knows a lot about this area. Miss Alexander was English Métis. It’s a fact that mostly English Métis, or Anglo-Métis as some call them, Scottish Métis really, lived here at one time. It was a unique community in the province’s history for that reason. Most were retired Comany men. We know a Miss Alexander taught for a year at Miss Cameron’s school. That’s in the old school records.”

  “Really? And just for a year? What happened to her?” I asked. “Did she marry the young minister, Mr. Dalhousie?”

  “I haven’t been here long enough to know much about them. Most of the records for the period you talk about were lost in a fire. A real tragedy, that was. I’m not sure who served here after Bishop Gaskell of St. Cuthbert’s and surrounding parishes left. Old Reverend MacDonald is writing down the stories he was told over the years.”

  “Could you ask him what else he knows about Beatrice Alexander? She was eighteen around 1856.”

  “I will. I’m sure she’ll be in his notes. I suspect Reverend MacDonald has kept a lot to himself after he and the old church historian – dead now – had a flare-up or two! Even so, most of it is all hearsay as there is little documented proof. We have very few things from Miss Alexander’s time.”

  Martin said, “Could we look at those notes sometime anyway?”

  “Of course. But not until after Christmas. I’ve a lot going on. It’s too bad we don’t have more material. I’d love to know all about her.”

  “You mean letters or a personal diary, right?” I asked.

  “Wouldn’t that be amazing? But if one existed, it would have surfaced by now. I hear your step-mom, Jean, is gutting Old Maples inch by inch. Maybe she’ll find a letter or two behind the skirting boards.”
r />   I tried to laugh. “Yeah. If only.” We thanked him and left.

  So, he had seen Beatrice too. And didn’t seem bothered by it at all. He hadn’t actually talked to her, though, or given her unsolicited advice like I just did! Was I wrong telling Beatrice not to marry Robert Dalhousie? I had no right to meddle in her life, even if it was over a hundred and fifty years ago. Duncan Kilgour didn’t think Dalhousie was right for her either. Maybe he thought he was the better choice. I did! He couldn’t actually be interested in pale sickly Henrietta, could he? What did he really think of Beatrice?

  It was only later, when we pulled up in front of Old Maples, that I remembered I was about to face Jean’s wrath. As we walked toward the door, Martin hummed the death march behind me.

  33

  BEATRICE

  I was too busy the next morning to think about Cass’s scribbled message, about seeing her in the church, or even about Robert Dalhousie or Duncan Kilgour.

  Ivy was subdued in the kitchen as she prepared Papa’s breakfast, but each malicious look she sent in my direction hit its mark. After Papa went to his study, she sat, hands in her lap, and did not move.

  I sent the girls off to lay the cloths on the dining-room table and trestle tables set up for the youngest diners, so the fabrics would drop their creases. I also gave them a list of the guests; asked them to count knives, forks, and spoons; to put glasses on the table and cups on the sideboard; and showed them how to clean Mama’s wedding silver. Two days ago, I’d made a centerpiece of pine boughs and curled pieces of birch bark in Mama’s only silver bowl.

  There was stuffing to make from dried chunks of bannock, corn bread, onions, and wild sage; there were carrots, turnips, and potatoes to scrub. I hated turnips, but could make them tolerable with cream and lump sugar. There was also a sweet sauce to make for the pudding and a huge pan of sauce from dried high-bush cranberries.

  I prayed Duncan Kilgour would not show up today. Just thinking about him made me prickly and irritable. But what if he didn’t deliver the goose for Christmas dinner tomorrow? That would be worse. A venison joint, cut in thick slices, sat on the counter ready to be larded. But it would not be enough on its own, and Papa needed all the money he would get from selling the few remaining large roasts. I could use two of the inevitably tough chickens in the icehouse, but they were only good for stewing. I almost growled with frustration.