Winter Shadows

by Margaret Buffie

  He snorted. “But I bet she said this place was not a good atmosphere for you.”

  I looked away.

  He sighed. “She’s probably right. But this is only temporary, Cass. We need to talk it all out. I want you home with us. But I don’t want you to come home because I tell you to. I think you’ll want to return once Jean and I settle things. There’ll be big changes in this house.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll let you know. Get your things together. Jean can drive you.”

  “No, it’s okay. Martin’s waiting.”

  “That’s another thing we need to do. Talk about Martin.” He laughed when he saw my face. “Don’t worry. I like the kid. But a talk is required.”

  I gave him a short hard hug. “I’ll be here every weekend, Dad. I just –”

  “I know, honey. I understand. Don’t have to like it, though. I’ll expect you here every Friday, and you’ll go to school from here on Mondays. One month. Then we rehash this. I’ll be checking up on you.” He coughed and burrowed down under his blankets. “I’ll have that Martin talk when I feel better. Meanwhile, just assume you’ve been given it.”

  I laughed, then went to my room to pack. Daisy was lying on her bed, her back to me. I could hear the odd sniff.

  “I guess your mom told you what’s happening.” I zipped the bag shut and worked my way through the books I needed for the English poetry paper. Regular school stuff could be picked up another day. I zipped my laptop into its case.

  Daisy didn’t answer me, so I sat on the end of her bed cross-legged. “I just need some time away. I’ve been causing too much trouble in the house. I need breathing space. Dad’s okay with it. I’ll see you on the weekends.”

  “Yeah, but your stuff will disappear bit by bit, until all that’s left is your bed and a few weekend clothes in the cupboard. I bet you’re even taking your laptop, right?”

  I glanced over at my pile of luggage. “I need it for schoolwork. You can come and visit me at Blair’s. Martin and I could pick you up at school now and then, after Christmas. Take you over. Maybe have supper a few times in the holidays. We can all play Yahtzee.”

  She rolled over. Her eyes were red. “What about Christmas?”

  “Are you kidding? Strict orders to be here.”

  She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips under her glasses. “Okay. Does Mom have Blair’s phone number?”

  “Yep. And I have a cell phone. I’ll give you that number, too.”

  She nodded thoughtfully, taking the scrap of paper I handed her. “I guess that’s okay.”

  After I’d climbed into the truck and Martin pulled away, I just couldn’t make myself look back at the house.

  When I hauled my stuff into Blair’s, I stood in the hallway, suddenly shy and awkward. She gave me a big hug. “What’s the deal you made with your dad?”

  I gave her the short version. “I’ll tell you more over lunch.”

  “Good. I hope the deal includes a family counselor. I know a good one.”

  “I’m thinking Dad’ll decide if we need to rip our hearts out in front of someone.”

  She laughed. “Right. Hi, Martin. You can carry your stuff up to your room later, Cass. I’ve set lunch by the fire. Nicer there.”

  “Would it be okay if Daisy came over a few times for dinner? I told her we could play Yahtzee.”

  “She’s welcome anytime. You decide when!” she said, heading for the kitchen.

  Martin said, “Your aunt’s a great person. Think your dad and her will be friends again?”

  I smiled. “Anything’s possible now.”

  39

  CASS

  Christmas turned out okay. Dad asked Blair for Christmas dinner, but she went to a friend’s place. We were all a bit relieved, I think.

  Dad was still thick with cold. He drank spiked coffee while we opened presents in the morning. As a token of our fledgling truce, I decided to give Jean the earrings I’d bought in Selkirk. She wore them all day. And no clichés flew. I’d left the pink Santa in my stuff at Blair’s.

  Jean wore Daisy’s holly pin at dinner. Daisy was excited and out of control, of course, but we rode through it. I went to Martin’s afterwards to visit with his family. His brothers teased him about me all night. It was fun.

  I waited to hear from Beatrice, but nothing happened. On Boxing Day morning, I was getting ready to go back to Blair’s when I tried touching the star brooch one more time. Still nothing.

  Did Beatrice leave Old Maples suddenly? Did she marry Robert earlier than planned? What happened to Duncan? To Beatrice’s father? To Ivy? To her grandmother? What happened that Christmas Day in 1856?

  How could it all just end like this? I’d learned so much about Beatrice through her journal, but what had she ever learned about me? Had I made any difference in her life? Why did she stop writing?

  The more I thought about it, the crazier it seemed. How could two people who lived a hundred and fifty years apart connect? If only we could have really talked – just once. I had so many questions; I know she did, too.

  Martin and I spent a lot of time together. It was fun working on our English project, and we got an A. His parents were great, and I saw quite a lot of his aunt Betty. I got to know his grandmother too. But every time he dropped me off at Aunt Blair’s, I went right back to worrying about Beatrice, Duncan, and Robert.

  I tried not to let my anxiety about the past get in the way of making things better with Jean. Dad was clearly happier now that she and I were trying to get along. She hardly ever slipped up and called me Cassandra anymore, and when she did, she’d laugh and say, “Oops! I’m in trouble!” I didn’t roll my eyes. Not in front of her, anyway.

  If we were totally honest, we’d have to admit we didn’t really like or trust each other much, but we were trying. And if our feelings never went beyond a quiet truce, like Beatrice and Ivy’s, that would be okay.

  Was I feeling Mom around me? No. I tried talking into the air sometimes, hoping she’d hear me, but it was harder than I realized bringing down the wall I’d put up between us. Maybe Blair just thought she felt Mom because she needed to feel her.

  Daisy made new friends the first week back at school – two geeky girls, all grinning braces and spectacles, who hung out at Old Maples and played board games and Barbies and talked about boys for hours. But I had my own room to hang out in – at last.

  Dad said he’d make changes in the house and he did. I suddenly got my room back when Jean had her small grand piano moved into the dining room. She’d have her music lessons there until they built an extension on the west side of the house that would also include a second-floor room for the baby.

  One day, Jean called me at Blair’s. I took the phone carefully. “The renovators got going on your fireplace today. Should be done by the weekend. But no live fires, Cass. Those old fireplaces worry me.” I reluctantly agreed.

  Aunt Blair gave me two old comfy chairs from her shop and an electric grate that glowed as if it were burning real coal. I could hardly wait to see what the fireplace looked like underneath its ugly painted wall box.

  The following Friday, I went to Old Maples from school to find the renovator’s truck outside. Two workers were having coffee with Jean. I waved at her and ran upstairs.

  I stood in the doorway. There it was: Beatrice and her grandmother’s fireplace, just as it appeared in my dream! Made of limestone, its ancient slabs were dotted with tiny prehistoric water creatures. Around it was a set of narrow worn shelves. My heart sank. All the shelves were empty. No diary.

  “So it’s really over,” I said to the quiet room, holding tight to the little star brooch. “You are really gone. And I’ll never know what happened.”

  A small soft voice whispered, “Yes, my chick. She left us for a while. But she also remains here. Look to the small door below.”

  Over my shoulder, I caught a flash of bright old eyes and a pale bonnet surrounding a crumpled dark face. And then it was gone. But I could fee
l her presence close to me, watching and waiting.

  I studied the fireplace. All I saw was the small stone structure, five plain shelves on either side, and a smoke-discolored mantel. What did she mean, Look to the small door below? Each set of narrow shelves ended with a deep baseboard. I kneeled down and pushed, but each board remained firm.

  I sat back on my heels. Beatrice’s grandmother had directed me here, so a cupboard or alcove had to be here somewhere. I examined one set of shelves close to the floor. Nothing. I looked at the other set and found a small hole in one board. I put my finger in and pulled. The board held fast. I braced my foot against the wall and pulled again.

  The board came away with such force, it knocked me over. Rubbing my sore hand, I peered into the low rectangular space under it and pulled out a flat object. Beneath a thick layer of dust was a leather-wrapped parcel with faded writing on it.

  To Cass. Happy Christmas!

  Shivers went from my knees straight up my body and into my arms. I opened the parcel carefully. Sitting on the floor, I began to read Beatrice’s last entry.

  40

  BEATRICE

  Flustered by Duncan’s gifts, I fled the room, exclaiming over my shoulder that there was still much to get ready. Once in the kitchen, I searched for my pin, remembering suddenly that I’d worn it to church. Did it fall off there? I scoured the house for it. When the girls asked me what was wrong, I told them and they helped me search. It was nowhere to be found. Even Ivy helped. I wondered briefly if she had taken it, but, for once, became certain she was innocent. If it was lost forever, surely this was a warning.

  I continued doggedly with dinner preparations, hoping they would help me stop thinking about Duncan and the lost pin. Before I knew it, the food was almost ready and our guests had arrived, greeted by Papa and Ivy. The girls were watching the guests crowd into the hallway. I was a bundle of nerves, hiding in the kitchen. For I had made a momentous decision. Would I back out at the last moment? Did I have the strength to speak up? To muddle me even more, Duncan came into the room to offer help after building up the fires.

  “No, no, I am fine!” I said, my voice high and off-center as I struggled to lift the iron bar full of venison off the fire with Papa’s old leather mitts.

  He leaned over and, with towels around both hands, grabbed it from me. “I’ll tend to this. You do something else.”

  I didn’t argue. He carefully slid the slabs of venison onto a massive wooden board while I mashed the turnips. Then he carved the venison, the goose, the large whitefish, and the pickled buffalo tongue he’d also brought earlier. The room steamed with mouthwatering odors.

  I tried to stay as far away from Duncan as I could, but I seemed to find him near me every time I turned around. We often touched without seeming to. He’d heard about my lost pin. “We will find it,” he kept saying.

  I was breathless with apprehension about seeing Robert and so upset about the pin that I begged Duncan not to talk of it again.

  When I lined the dishes up on the table, the girls carried them out to the dining room. I tried to pull myself together. I had to carry out my final decision. Now. As Duncan and the girls headed out the door, loaded down with the final platters, I ordered Dilly to ask Reverend Dalhousie to come to the kitchen. Duncan’s platter banged against the doorjamb, and I caught a glimpse of his startled look as the girls ushered him through.

  I took off my apron. A few moments later, Robert, looking fresh in a new collar of untainted white – a present from his sister or a concerned woman of the parish? – edged through the door.

  “Your little maid said you wished to speak to me. I’m sorry you have to spend so much time in the kitchen, but the table is groaning with your appetizing dishes.”

  I coughed lightly. “Yes. I do have something I wish to speak to you about, Reverend … Robert. A painful and difficult thing.”

  He nodded solemnly. “You’ve made a decision, and you have not chosen me.”

  I put my hand to my throat, feeling for the missing pin. “Whatever do you mean? Not chosen you? Who else would I –?”

  He bowed slightly. “Forgive me for interrupting. Kilgour woke up my entire household this morning, banging on my door. He insisted on talking to me. He told me that I would destroy you if I married you, that he was not going to see you waste your life with someone who didn’t love you with all his heart.” He smiled a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “He didn’t!”

  “Do not be too hard on him. You were about to decline my proposal anyway, were you not? I wish only your happiness, Miss Alexander. Let it end here. “

  “You mean, you are not even a little bit upset?”

  “As you have said, there is no love on either side. Nothing has been announced yet, so no one need know I asked. I wish you well, Beatrice. However, in retrospect, I think your decision is the right one. For I fear you may not have the … um … temperament for the arduous and selfless work of a minister’s helpmate.”

  Not the temperament to be his helpmate? Not his wife, but his helper? Duncan Kilgour spent the morning manipulating my life, and now I was being chastised by this pompous preacher.

  I cried, “Come! Let us eat our festive meal, Reverend. For it appears you have something to celebrate. Not having me as a wife!”

  I marched out of the kitchen. I touched cheeks with Henrietta and Miss Cameron and welcomed their guest pupils. Duncan was already seated beside nôhkom at the long table. I commanded everyone to sit down in my best teacher’s voice. And they quickly sat.

  Duncan glanced at me, his face wary. Nôhkom smiled sweetly. Papa, always the genial host, was cheerfully chatting with Henrietta, who seemed quite animated, her dog’s squashed little face peering over the tabletop with gluttonous eyes. Even Ivy didn’t complain that I was acting as hostess. She smiled coyly at Papa from the other end of the table. I held my head high. Soon the food was passed around, for I insisted everyone in the house should be seated, including Dilly, who was bright cheeked and happy, wearing one of my old dresses.

  Papa’s apple cider was poured by Duncan. As he poured some into my glass, he leaned over me, as if about to say something, but I talked loudly to Papa and ignored him. I wanted this meal over with, so I could plead a headache when the afterdinner guests arrived. I was desperate to go to my room to vent my utter fury and mortification at Robert Dalhousie’s and Duncan Kilgour’s cruel behavior and to cry for my lost pin.

  Duncan Kilgour kept trying to catch my eye. He looked worried. As well he should – bullying loudmouth that he was, slinking off to threaten Robert and turning him against me. Robert was talking to Miss Cameron, their heads together.

  Perhaps I should change my mind. Robert was a decent, kind man, after all. And what happiness could I hope to find by remaining here? However, one could not turn down a marriage proposal only to ask for it back. Besides, he didn’t want me! A wisp of shadow fluttered around my head.

  It was a jolly dinner for everyone else, it seemed. Miss Cameron and Robert were conversing amiably, while the young people, shy at first, were soon chatting and laughing.

  Papa talked to me about my new book of poems, admitting he’d read it before wrapping it for me. I smiled, but my smile felt frozen in place. As the girls cleared the table, Papa patted his stomach and Ivy giggled with delight.

  The world had surely spun upside down.

  When Dilly and the Three Graces entered the room with the pudding, sauce, and other sweets, Papa demanded the pudding be lit. Over its blue light of alcohol, Duncan gave me a bleak smile. I stared back, ice in my veins.

  After the pudding and sweets were eaten, the tables were pushed back for music and dancing. Soon the other guests arrived – Mrs. McBride, her husband, James, and her three sons, carrying their violins; and a neighbor, Jacob MacFadden, and his family, who were also great friends of Papa’s. Soon fiddles were tuning and people were dipping into the warm wassail bowl by the fire. Everyone demanded that Duncan and Minty bring ou
t their fiddles as well.

  Duncan laughed and said he’d fetch them from the kitchen. But he moved to stand beside me. “What is wrong? You look –”

  “Go away!”

  He took my arm and I shook him off. “What is it, Beatrice? Has Dalhousie said something?”

  Papa and Ivy were staring at us.

  “Go to the kitchen. Now!” I commanded.

  He hesitated, then called out, “Even Beatrice wishes me to play the fiddle. I’ll grab yours, too, Minty!”

  I followed him down the hall. When the door shut behind us, I pushed him so hard he lost this balance and banged against the table.

  “How dare you interfere in my life! I was about to tell Robert I could not marry him, but he told me you’d already tried to force him to take back his proposal!”

  “I did no such thing. I told him to think of you and not his household needs. He needed testing!” Duncan was looking haughty and hurt at the same time.

  “So you decided to manipulate things in your usual bullying way! Robert told me I did not have the temperament to be a minister’s wife! You suggested that, didn’t you?”

  He sat back on the edge of the table, arms folded. “So he has been trying to figure out how to wheedle his way out of it all along. You see? I warned you!”

  “He’s too much of a gentleman to do such a thing. I turned him down!”

  “Of course, he would have married you! He sees himself as a man of honor. But I knew you were going to leave with a man who didn’t love you, just to spite me!”

  “You? What makes you think you had anything to do with my decision? You are an arrogant rooster!”

  “What you’re really angry about, Beatrice, is that you turned him down, only to find out that’s exactly what he hoped you would do!” He laughed loudly.

  “That is a lie!” I shouted, my ears roaring with rage.

  “Think about this, Beatrice. I’ve saved you from going to church every Sunday to admire the dull droning sermons of a dull droning husband; from tending to his frivolous, sickly, hypochondriac sister; from tea at precisely four, rising at precisely six; and especially from books of carefully chosen anemic poetry. Now you are free to read dangerous novels, maybe even write a book of your own, and to enjoy musical evenings of quadrilles and Red River jigs.” He nodded his head at the door, where the lilt of fiddles and violins playing their mix of Celtic and Indian tunes drifted in.