Envy the Wind

by Anita Davison

  “Mrs MacKinnon is lately from London and intends to settle in Canada, John,” Jardine said. “I invited her to see Charlottetown, however I'm having trouble convincing her you would be happy for her to accompany us.”

  “I would be delighted. You hail from London, Ontario?”

  “No, sir.” Grace grinned up at him, all her former apprehension dissolving beneath his welcome smile. “The other one.”

  “Ah, what brings you all the way across the Atlantic to our beautiful island, my dear?”

  “I suppose you could say, life, sir.” She tried not to stare but his bright blue eyes and flirtatious smile held her entranced. 'Mine specifically. I find myself in need of a new direction.”

  “I do like a woman with secrets, and I’ll wager you have an interesting story to tell. Perhaps we'll have an opportunity to get better acquainted during the trip?”

  Grace hesitated, unsure how to react, but before she could summon a response, a high, female voice called from farther along the deck.

  “Really John, can’t you even wait for me to get out of the carriage?” A woman in a floor length silver fox fur coat sashayed along the deck towards them, several hatboxes bouncing on strings from her hands. She looked to be at least ten years Cahill’s junior with small features, a pert straight nose above rosebud lips, her brows and lashes the color of dark honey.

  “You might have helped me with my parcels, John. I shall be furious if anything is damaged.” A fur hat that exactly matched her coat was pulled low on her blonde curls. Behind her trotted a plump, unsmiling woman, a bulky vanity case held in both hands.

  Jardine inhaled a sharp breath, followed by a low disappointed groan. “Mrs Cahill,” he said in response to Grace’s enquiring look.

  “She insisted on accompanying me on this trip,” Cahill said, interpreting Jardine’s look before turning a lazy expression on the owner of the voice. 'Emily, come and meet Mrs McKinnon, who is joining us for the crossing.”

  “How do you do?” Her shrewd brown eyes swept across Grace from head to toe before shifting to Jardine where her bored expression disappeared, and her eyes sparkled with child-like delight. “Andrew!” She dropped the boxes on the deck and threw herself into his arms. “How lovely to see you. I had no idea you would be joining us.”

  “Emily.” Jardine’s voice tightened as he disentangled himself from her embrace as if handling a wet dog.

  “This trip is going to be so much more thrilling with you here,” Emily gushed. Her attention went briefly back to Grace. “You must excuse me, Mrs - Um. I need to get settled in our suite. I expect we’ll meet in the lounge for coffee presently.” She gave Grace a taut smile, then turned to her maid, pointed wordlessly at the hat boxes before sweeping back along the deck.

  The maid gathered the parcels from the boards, adding them to the vanity case, and with her burden awkwardly balanced, took short, rapid steps to catch up with her mistress.

  “That’s another thing I like in a woman.” Cahill gave a low, throaty chuckle at his wife's stiff, retreating back. “A healthy dose of jealousy.”

  * * *

  “Don’t let Emily bother you.” Jardine rested his forearms on the rail and stared out at the sea. “She dislikes anyone who deflects attention from herself.”

  His tone suggested he had no time for Emily Cahill, yet Grace had seen that manner before in men rejected by a woman they admired or had lost to another, more handsome or richer man.

  She had not made up her mind which applied in this case when the crewman clicked the barrier into place. With a grumble and whir, the engines roared into life and the steamboat eased away from the jetty. As their speed increased, her stomach clenched as images of the previous day returned.

  “Is that a castle over there?” she asked in an effort to distract herself, nodding to an outcrop of land nestling in the sea with a line of grey stones running around the perimeter. “I didn't know Canada had castles.”

  “It's a fort. Fort Charlotte, named for King George III's queen. It was built during Father Le Loutre's War to defend the strait.”

  “I kept up with you until the last part. Which war was that?”

  “I shall have to educate you on our legendary heroes.” He sliced a sideways smile at her. “It’s required for anyone wishing to live on the Island. You have to name them all.”

  “Really?” Her breath hitched and he laughed.

  “I’m teasing. But here’s your first history lesson. In the mid seventeen-hundreds, Charles Lawrence and John Gorham, clashed with Louis Le Loutre who led the Mi'kmaq tribe and the Acadia militia against the British.”

  “Tribe?” She swung to face him. “There are Indians on Prince Edward Island?”

  “Yes, there are. But they only raid the town once every few months.” She glanced up at him and gasped, to which he gave a low chuckle. “I’m joking. There have been Mi'kmaqs in the west of the island for thousands of years. Long before the European settlers came. They're law abiding Catholics for the most part, a gentle, interesting people who contribute a good deal to our society.”

  “I didn't mean to imply otherwise,” she replied, bridling slightly at the thought he was mocking her. “I was just - surprised.”

  “You're so easy to tease, Mrs MacKinnon. Were you aware your eyes change color when you are distressed or happy?” His sideways smile had a twist to it which sent a glow through her so intense, she looked away.

  “Um – so I’ve been told. I would like to discover more about them. I-uh meant the Indians.” Her nerves quietened as the deck settled into a familiar, solid vibration beneath her feet.

  “It’s a ferry ride from Charlottetown to the Mi’kmaq encampment on Rocky Point which is an excellent area for a picnic on a sunny day. For a real flavor of their culture you must be sure to attend the St Anne's Day celebrations which they host on the reservation at Lennox Island each July with a feast, singing, music and dancing.”

  “I shall have to remember that. It sounds fascinating.” She chose her words, careful to avoid accepting his invitation when none was offered. “Incidentally, who won this war you mentioned?”

  “The British, of course.” He turned from his contemplation of the deep aquamarine sea with white topped waves. “You’re looking distracted. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Er no - not really. I’m excited about going there, but-” At his wry look, added, 'I suddenly feel a long way from home.”

  “Isn't that what you wanted?” He twisted towards her, concern darkening his eyes.

  “It is.” She must stop thinking about England as her home. Especially when she was always little more than a guest in the MacKinnon's house.

  “You look cold.” He pushed away from the rail, an arm extended in invitation. “Shall we go inside?”

  “Good idea.” She hoped her nose hadn't turned an unbecoming red, a hazard with skin as pale as hers.

  “Spring comes later to the Maritimes than Europe, and as I mentioned before, this winter was particularly hard. Snow towered over some rooftops and three weeks ago, the Northumberland Strait was frozen over. We were completely cut off from the mainland so the ice boats were employed to run between the capes.”

  “Ice boats?” Grace frowned uncomprehending.

  “Rowing boats are dragged over the ice to deliver the mail in the winter. Even now we might have to take the odd detour to avoid a few ice floes off the coast, though hopefully none big enough to cause any trouble.” He looked about to offer her his arm, but at the last second clasped his hands behind his back.

  “There will be a spring then?” Grace hunched her shoulders against the sharp cold that cut through her coat. How bad did the winters become here?

  “Indeed, there will be a spring, followed by a glorious summer.” He guided her into a lounge that took up a third of the stern end of the deck; a window ran all the way around giving a panoramic view of the coastline from one side, and the open sea on the other.

  A steward arrived with a tray lo
aded with a silver coffee pot and a platter of pastries. He placed the tray on a low table surrounded by plush red sofas, bowed and withdrew.

  Jardine gestured to one of the sofas. When she was seated, he took a tub chair. “These look good, don’t they?” He pointed to a plate that held a variety of Danish pastries, the swirls of icing and sugar gleaming in the light.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the Cahills to join us?”

  “Unnecessary.” He held the plate higher “Besides, Emily will declare she's starving, then select the smallest one, but eat none of it.” He gave a shudder. “I find it infuriating.”

  “What a waste.” Grace helped herself to an almond cream pastry, taking a bite of the creamy delicacy. “Mealtimes were the one thing the MacKinnons didn't skimp on.”

  “How long will it take?” He poured coffee into two cups.

  “How long will what take?” Grace removed a stray flake of pastry from the corner of her mouth and frowned.

  “Before you stop talking about the man you came all this way to get away from?”

  “I-I didn't realize I was doing it.” Preoccupied, she did not notice the Cahills join them until they took their seats. They had removed their fur coats, the clothes beneath them no less impressive. Cahill wore charcoal grey with a mustard waistcoat sporting a thick gold watch chain. Emily wore a russet gown which complemented her golden curls.

  “Oooh, lovely! Croissants, my favorite,” Emily exclaimed. “I’m positively starving!” She selected the smallest pastry on the platter and dropped it onto her plate.

  Jardine's mouth twitched and Grace almost choked on her first mouthful of coffee.

  “Are you settled into your cabin, Mrs MacKinnon?” Cahill eased into the sofa opposite, his knees spread across the entire seat.

  “I haven't seen it yet, but I'm sure it will be lovely.”

  “If there's anything you need, just ring the bell.” He slid two pastries onto his plate, demolishing the first in one bite. “Has Jardine explained our route?”

  “A little. I assume we'll follow the coastline east and then go north.” His admiring look made her feel her time poring over the atlas wasn't wasted.

  “Quite right. There are many islands in this part of the world so once we pass Canso on the tip of the coastline, we run north between Durrells and Janvrin Islands before calling in at Port Hawkesbury to refuel early this evening. We'll enter the Northumberland Strait by morning which will bring us into Charlottetown around early afternoon tomorrow.”

  “John, really,” Emily pinched a small flake of pastry with her thumb and forefinger. “I'm sure Mrs MacKinnon doesn't want a geography lesson.”

  “But I do,” Grace said. “I'm fascinated, and looking forward to learning all about the province. Thank you again for allowing me to join you.”

  “You intrigue me, Mrs MacKinnon.” Emily dropped the piece of pastry onto her plate. “You’re evidently of good family, I can always tell. But why are you travelling alone without even a maid or a male relative?”

  “Emily!” Her husband muttered in warning, his coffee cup frozen in mid-air.

  “It was a straightforward question.” Emily's cornflower blue eyes widened in mock innocence “I only asked, because you don’t look like a Sifton immigrant.”

  “I'm sorry?” Grace frowned and tore her gaze from the pile of crumbs accumulating on Emily's plate.

  “Clifford Sifton,” Cahill said. “He’s our venerated Minister of the Interior. He has laid out a strict policy as to the type of immigrants he feels should be allowed into the country.”

  “He thinks they should all be white farmers wearing sheepskin coats,” Jardine leaned forward to stir milk into his coffee. “Accompanied by several sturdy children capable of hard labor.”

  “Oh dear, does that make me ineligible?” Grace split a mischievous look between them. “I’ve never owned a sheepskin coat.” This remark was greeted with a bark of uninhibited laughter from Cahill, a less exuberant one from Jardine and a sulky pout from Emily. Thanks to Mr Beech's advice, Grace had checked the immigration rules at the Salvation Army Office in Liverpool carefully before boarding the ship.

  “In your case there's no question as you’re British born.” Cahill directed a withering look at his wife.

  “Perhaps you’re acquainted with the Highfield MacKinnons?” Emily asked. “Or perhaps you’re related to the Lieutenant Governor, Donald MacKinnon?”

  “Neither, I'm afraid,” Grace said, instantly regretting her tone of apology. “The name is purely coincidence.”

  “Pity.” Emily sniffed. “I might have been able to introduce you to my friends.”

  “Perhaps you’d consider obliging anyway, Emily?” Jardine avoided her eye, crossed one leg over the other and flicked a speck of dust from his trousers.

  “It’s not as simple as that.” Emily gave a hollow laugh. “One must be careful to whom one exposes one’s closest acquaintances.”

  The pair exchanged a long look which held something Grace couldn't define. “It wouldn’t hurt to allow the misconception to spread,” Cahill said. “There are plenty of MacKinnons on the Island.” He addressed Grace. “It might even open some doors for you, my dear.”

  Grace smiled, but doubted she possessed the confidence to pull off such a deception.

  “You didn't answer my original question, Mrs MacKinnon.” Emily dissected a second pastry, having barely touched the first. “Why did you come to Canada? You aren’t a runaway, are you?”

  Jardine inhaled slowly and Cahill muttered his wife's name with a resigned shake of his head.

  “I suppose I am in a way,” Grace said, refusing to be cowed.

  “There, you see, John.” Emily flashed her husband a triumphant look. “You must tell me everything, Grace. I may call you Grace?”

  “My story isn’t very exciting, I’m afraid,” Grace replied, aware she didn’t offer the same intimacy. “After my husband died, I wanted to get away from old memories, although I have yet to make up my mind what to do here. I imagined I might open some sort of business.”

  “Not a hat shop I trust.” Emily discarded the rest of her pastry onto her plate. “Sifton’s not keen on shopkeepers.”

  “Emily is teasing, aren’t you?” Jardine glared at Emily.

  “Of course I am, Andrew, dear.” Her tone was conciliatory but her eyes sharpened. “I'm merely curious as to how Grace intends to earn a living.’ She brought her cup to her mouth and fluttered her eyelashes over the rim. “I assume she will need to?”

  “I will indeed. But why does your governor despise shopkeepers?” Grace asked, aware she was being patronized, but her lack of knowledge rendered her ill-equipped to fight back.

  “Sifton imagines that to make the Island a haven for foreign shopkeepers would signal the community’s inevitable demise,” Cahill supplied with a broad, cynical smile. “Not that Emily agrees. She likes nothing better than to shop. Don't you my dear?” He leaned across the space between them and delivered a friendly if heavy handed slap to his wife’s knee,

  Emily inhaled slowly, while Jardine held a ghost of a smile on his lips.

  Grace looked away, self-conscious. She was unable to judge if his contemplation was critical, admiring or indifferent. The man confused her.

  Turning back to her host, she found he too stared at her expectantly. “I beg your pardon. What was that you said?”

  “I asked where you intended to reside in Charlottetown?” Cahill poured milk into his second cup of coffee. “I can recommend The Victoria Hotel.”

  “I'm sure I'll find something suitable.” Grace buried her nose in her cup, aware the town's best hotels would be beyond her means.

  “I admire your independence, my dear.” He withdrew a calling card from an inside pocket and held it out. “It doesn't hurt to have connections, and if I can be of assistance, use this. Even if it's only to get the best prices at the mercantile.”

  Grace accepted the rectangle of pasteboard edged with gold from his square, blun
t fingers, an exchange closely followed by Emily’s narrowed gaze and tight jaw. She groaned inwardly. As twenty-four hours in the woman’s company loomed ahead of her, she reminded herself to ask Jardine what a mercantile was.

  Chapter 7

  The rest of that afternoon passed amiably with a walk on deck, a game of cards and tea, followed by a rest in their respective suites before dressing for dinner. The cream and white bedroom assigned to Grace was larger than her accommodation on the Parisian, with ornate gilt mirrors and light fittings that exuded an air of opulence and style. The tang of beeswax polish, new paint and linseed oil told her the suite had been decorated recently, and all the surfaces vigorously cleaned.

  An adjoining bathroom decorated in pink and cream with a marble basin set below a gilt bevelled mirror was equally luxurious. She lingered for a while, taking advantage of the pots of cosmetics laid out among perfumed soaps and fluffy white towels. These made up for the fact that she had left her bag in the lounge.

  On her way back along the internal corridor she halted outside the dining room at the sound of her name and peered around the jamb to where the Cahills stood close together.

  “It’s not as if she’s connected to any MacKinnon who matters, John,” Emily said. “People will think I’m trying to impose a fake on them. They would never forgive me.”

  “What nonsense!” John laughed. “Mrs McKinnon is a well-bred young woman who would benefit from an introduction. She has both the manners and the breeding not to embarrass you. I thought you would welcome the notion of making her your protégée.” He ran a finger down her cheek. “Please. As a favor to me.”

  “It would have to be the right occasion.” Emily pouted.

  “Good girl.” He turned the stroke from a sensual gesture into a patronizing one. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

  Grace clenched her jaw and darted behind the bulkhead. As if she needed a fatuous, cotton-wool brain like Emily Cahill to smooth her way. Giving them a few seconds to move away, she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath and entered the room, almost colliding with Emily, who had not moved.