I watched with envy the other scholars leave the yard Tommy and Joseph taunting Henry for being on the losing team and the younger girls skipping off home with rosy noses. I did my tasks, wondering how to cheer up Elizabeth (and came upon the plan of a friendship letter, horribly misspelled, to win her smile back).
Viola bade me leave without her as she prefers to grade papers at school while there is still light rather than at the farm by candle.
And so! And so! I set out alone and had come nearly home when who should jump out at me from behind a tree but Tommy! I wish I could say I did not scream, but scream I did, heart bumping in fright.
He laughed, coming close and taking off his spectacles.
“What is it?” I asked, thinking his manner odd.
“Mable,” he said, “I've been thinking about something.”
“Well? What is it?” I asked again.
“Please don't be angry,” he said.
And then, without another moment spent, he leaned toward me and put his lips against my mouth. They were cold, but softer than expected, and tasted faintly of pecans, as if he had been cracking and chewing nuts while he waited for me.
I closed my eyes and then opened them, not knowing which was better. But his eyes were open too, lash to lash with mine. It was so surprising that we stopped the kiss and stared. Who blushed more? I wonder. We could not help but laugh.
And that was it. My first kiss. Now that I think upon it, I wish we had kissed again. I wish I had kept my eyes shut and felt the field tilt beneath my feet. But perhaps it was a good thing, to have shared it with a fellow who could laugh along with me. I do feel a shiver of … of triumph! I've had my first kiss and will remember it for all of my life!
“Very cheeky, Tommy Thomas,” I said. “Do you make a habit of scaring the wits out of a girl and then kissing her?”
He put his spectacles back on and kicked a stone. “It was all right, though, wasn't it?” He looked at me sideways.
I did not mean to giggle, but it slipped out. “Yes.”
Tommy walked with me to the gate. I wonder now when we might kiss again? Certainly not within sight of Mrs. Goodhand's kitchen window! It's a relief there is no school tomorrow, as I must recover from this historic occasion.
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23
I have not told Viola about Tommy and do not think I will. I most certainly will not tell Hattie! (She used to ask, “Would the setting of a kiss be more important or the person?” Well, clearly the person matters more! One is not kissing the scenery!) Hattie is too much of a fussbudget these days to hear my confidence. Perhaps Elizabeth, if the time is ever right. Has she been kissed? I wonder.
Viola and Alfred have decided to have a photograph taken to mark their engagement. There is a fellow in Stratford who has reasonable rates, Alfred says. They will have it done next week and printed in time to send to Mama, that she might have a preview of Alfred before Christmas!
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 24
The Reverend Mr. Scott caught my attention this morning during his sermon entitled “To Keep One's Promise Is to Praise the Lord.”
“… It is grave news for good people that since the law first permitted divorce, in 1867, there have been fifty-three couples in Canada to suffer its mortification! Fifty-three couples in only thirty-four years have succumbed to failure, nay, have sought failure, rather than hold fast to the vows made before God. Where can this lead us except into darkness? …”
I suddenly wondered, Was Mrs. Rattle possibly not a widow? Had she been divorced instead? Was she even so audacious as that?
I told myself I would find out the truth to-day. To-day or never, I realized.
As I walked to Silver Lining, snow began to fall, sprinkling all the world with confectioner's sugar.
Mrs. Rattle has begun to dismantle her home. The wicker chairs were lined up, pushed against the wall, and covered with sheets. The books were stacked in crates. The tasseled drapes were taken down, allowing the winter light to pour across the naked dancer on the wall.
“What do you suppose the next tenant will make of her?” asked Mrs. Rattle.
“Is there to be a next tenant already?” It was a dreadful thought.
“Not yet,” said Mrs. Rattle. “I paid the year in advance and there are still a few months on the lease. But I must travel on from here or die of being an outcast.” She clapped her hands suddenly. “I will not indulge in feeling sorry for myself. There is too much packing up to do! I had thought to leave Underwood with you, Mable, but now have had word that the Berlin Dispatch has accepted my application and I will work as a journalist again. Is this not good news?”
“It is,” I said. “Except that you are leaving and I shall possibly never see you again.”
“I do not believe that to be true,” she said, so quickly that she gave me hope. “The likes of us are quite sure to meet again. Berlin is not so far away. It is not Germany, after all. You will be looking for work yourself in only a few years. Who better to approach than an old hand like me? Why, by then, I might own the newspaper!”
“I wish you were not so cheerful!” I burst out.
“Oh, dear. I'm sorry.” She was subdued at once. “I have spent my night hours crying and now seize the daylight to give me courage to go on.”
“May I ask you a question, Mrs. Rattle? Though my sister would scold me for impertinence?”
“Now I'm curious.” She grinned.
“What happened to Mr. Rattle?”
“Ahh. Is it wise for me to tell you? Will you keep my secret?”
I nodded eagerly.
“There never was a Mr. Rattle,” she said. “Cora Rattle is the name I was born with, and I plan to take it to my grave. But by adding the ‘Mrs.’ up front, I add opportunity. A widow can live by herself without suspicion. Why should I avoid such a pleasure because of a silly title?”
“Isn't it odd,” I said, “how Viola is waiting to be married for her life to begin while you think of marriage as an ending?”
“Not an ending for everyone, dear girl, but certainly not one of my dreams. I think your sister will be lucky in her choice of Alfred Goodhand.”
“He's very kind,” I agreed. I looked around the room at clear surfaces and bare walls. “It seems so … so empty,” I said. I bit my lip to hold the tears inside.
“Dear Mable Riley,” said Mrs. Rattle, grasping my shoulders, “when I was your age, I knew nothing beyond lessons in French and drawing with my governess. I was filled to the brim with other people's knowledge. I would have made a good parrot, but my head was as empty as this room.
“This is why I find you so admirable, Mable. You are already asking questions and seeking answers. I wish you had been my friend when I was fourteen so that I had not wasted years having a lazy mind.”
“We're friends now,” I ventured.
“Yes,” she said. “We're friends.”
“I suppose one good thing is that we are writers,” I said. “We could write letters to each other, could we not?”
“Of course!” she cried. “Writers never have to say goodbye. We simply write another letter.” She stepped forward and hugged me tight, a quick and impetuous embrace that knocked the breath right out of me.
Whatever brave face I held while in her presence, it vanished upon departure. I cried without stopping all the way to my bed.
“PERSONAL AND SOCIAL NOTES
“Will you listen to this,” said Mr. Goodhand. “Listen, son. Viola, dear? Are you listening?
“Mr. Alfred Goodhand has announced his betrothal to Miss Viola Riley. Miss Riley will retire as the Sellerton schoolteacher at the end of this school year. A replacement is being sought. Mr. A. Goodhand will continue to work on the farm of his father, Mr. H. Goodhand.
The happy couple will be wed in July and will lease the cottage known as Silver Lining to begin their married life. Miss Riley and her sister, Miss Mable Riley, will live in the cottage until the wedding, with an eye to making certain improvements for the newl
yweds.”
“Oh, clip that one out, Howard,” said Mrs. Goodhand. “I'll put it in the scrapbook.”
“Mrs. Cora Rattle has departed the area for Berlin, Ontario, where she will be employed as a reporter for the Berlin Dispatch. Her friends will miss her and wish her well.
“May the evildoers of Berlin beware” cried Mr. Goodhand. “The Avenging Angel is upon thee!” He chuckled at his own wit. Alfred patted my hand.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 27
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day.
Viola is insisting, in a friendly, daughterly fashion, that Mrs. Goodhand is still in mourning and should be spared the effort of cooking so much this year. Viola and I will create the feast to celebrate our new relations. Elizabeth will come and chop things up with us. She is very nearly a cousin now. I am to be the pie maker and Viola will do the rest. She is anxious that it all be just right. Alfred is delighted. He will grow quite fat when Viola becomes Mrs. Goodhand if he does not take care!
We have been to Mrs. Rattle's cottage, to finalize our arrangements. Sadly, the first “improvement” we must make will be to paint over the naked dancer on the wall. Viola blushed crimson when she saw it and thanked Heaven Mr. Goodhand did not accompany us!
It is fitting that I have reached the final pages of this record book. I will begin a new one with the heading of Silver Lining! When I began this account, I knew not what the story would be or whom I would meet. It is a sentimental notion, but every day is a new page, sometimes a whole chapter. I have realized that I will be the writer of my own story as much as the reader of others'.
The romantic tale I have been writing for Hattie seems sillier and sillier. And yet I must end it for her, must I not?
PART THE TWELFTH
{ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL}
Helena waited in the yard while the soldiers went inside to raid the bandits' hideaway. She peered into the gathering gloom of dusk for signs of the departing Captain Brigand and his band of brothers. It was a relief and yet a sorrow that she could see nothing.
Within minutes, the lieutenant again stood before her, all pretense of politeness gone as he roughly shook her arm.
“Those villains were here!” he snarled. “The coffee is still hot in the cups! Where have they gone?”
The other soldiers surrounded her now.
“And who are you?” asked a curious young sergeant with a dimple in his chin.
“I am Helena duBarry,” she calmly replied, ignoring the first question.
“What?” The lieutenant's face turned a shade darker. “Daughter of Fitzgerald duBarry, earl of Abercorn?”
“The same,” answered Helena, confused by his knowledge.
“We have been hunting you these past three days!” cried the man. “Your father wishes to see you before he dies!”
Helena duBarry was brought home to the earl's mansion by Lieutenant McCarthy only sixty-seven hours after she had departed it, but she felt as though six years had gone by.
The Lady Myrtle awaited her arrival with great eagerness and, indeed, ran out into the snow to greet her shod only in satin slippers. The sisters embraced and all was forgiven between them. They went directly to the sick chamber where the earl lay, gray faced, upon his downy pillow.
“Father?” Helena placed her cool hand on his cheek. Hearing his beloved daughter's voice, the ancient man awoke with a rejuvenated spirit. With both his devoted girls to care for him, the earl recovered his health and lived for many years yet.
Helena told her father of her dream to convert their mansion into a new St. Jerome's Home for Foundlings, and he bestowed the house upon her with joy. He soon became known as Granpapa to all the orphans and sat by the fire each evening, telling stories to an enchanted audience.
Captain Brigand and his men never again needed to rob a train. They became upright citizens who taught the orphans riding, gymnasium, and cooking. Lady Myrtle became the instructor of penmanship and manners, though shortly she was wed with Joseph and began a family, which bloomed to nine children. Only occasionally was she heard to use cross words.
Elizabeth, the maid, was wed with Harry (the undergroom being sacked for drinking spirits).
Helena was wed with Tom, but she never had to cook, for he became a master chef of worldwide fame.
Helena dedicated herself to teaching children, her greatest desire being that each should discover what he (or she) wished to pursue as a life's work and not be forced to toil hopelessly for poor wages or merciless employers. That each should be curious and read books and be brave enough to follow his (or her) dream.
THE END
I have grown so accustomed to Mr. Goodhand's nightly readings that I shall miss them when we move.
“A meeting of the Ladies Reading Circle will take place on Sunday afternoon at the home of Mrs. Watson. All ladies are welcome. Refreshments will be served.
“You'd think they'd run out of books, wouldn't you?” asked Mr. Goodhand.
“Shall we go this time, Mable?” said Viola. “I think I'm ready to make some friends in Sellerton.”
I realized that I had never told her what the Ladies Reading Circle truly was.
“I think that's a grand idea,” I said.
Perhaps I would prepare her. Perhaps not.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I was lucky to find two of my grandmother's diaries in the attic of her house, one hundred years after she had written them. Her days were as dull as dirty windows, but I read about them with a thrill of inspiration. The flavour of her penciled notes though certainly not the content formed the beginning of Mable Riley.
I would like to thank the following people for helping this book come to life: Jamie Michalak, my editor, for asking me to add instead of cut; Kathy Lowinger, for loving the manuscript; Martha Slaughter, for kitchen table brain-storming; Ethan Ellenberg, my agent, for his faith; Dr. Matt Nebel, for his veterinary guidance; Sara Reynolds, for always listening; my writing mates, Michele Spirn, Julia Noonan, Roxane Orgill, and Ellen Dreyer, for their treasured opinions; Alissa Heyman, for thoughtful early input; Sally Hill and the other librarians at the Stratford Public Library; Elaine Cook, caretaker of the Brocksden country schoolhouse for letting me peek inside, off-season; the archivists in the Perth County Archives; and of course, my family, Tom, Hannah, and Nell.
Text copyright © 2004 by Marthe Jocelyn
Published in Canada by Tundra Books,
75 Sherbourne Street, Toronto, Ontario M5A 2P9
Published in the United States by Candlewick Press,
2067 Massachusetts Avenue, Cambridge, MA 02140-1338
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced,
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written
consent of the publisher — or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic
copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency — is an
infringement of the copyright law.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Jocelyn, Marthe
Mable Riley: a reliable record of humdrum, peril and romance / Marthe
Jocelyn.
For ages 9-12.
eISBN: 978-1-77049-024-6
1. Stratford (Ont.) — History — Juvenile fiction.
2. Women — Suffrage — Ontario — History — Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8569.0254M32 2004 JC813′.54 C2003-904320-7
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the
Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and that of the
Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation's
Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada
Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.
v3.0
Mable Riley Page 16