Grace steeled herself not to look back, aware he was staring after her.
Chapter 8
Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island
Grace located the boarding house in a wide, tree-lined street of similar clapboard houses with flat roofs. The facade looked recently painted, with white shutters at the three symmetrical windows on each of the three storeys. The front door, with a fanlight above it sporting a design of a sailing boat, was in a covered porch at the side of the house.
Her bags had grown heavier during the short walk from the harbour, the handles scoring ridges into her fingers, so with some relief, she dropped them onto the bare boards, sending a flurry of dust into the air.
A tall, thin woman opened the door a few inches and peered through the gap. Her light blue eyes slid from Grace’s hat down to her buttoned boots, then back up again to her face without so much as a flicker of welcome.
“Are you, Mrs Mahoney?” Grace heaved her portmanteau under her left arm and extended her right to shake the woman’s hand.
“No, I ain't.” She stared down at her hand but made no move to take it. “But this is her place. She'll be back later. Do you want a room?”
“Please, if you have one available.” The woman eyed her brazenly a moment longer, then seemed to make up her mind and yanked the door wider. “She charges seventy cents a night, four dollars for the week.”
“A week would be fine to begin with, if that's agreeable?”
She looked past Grace's shoulder. “On your own, are you?”
“Um-yes, I've just arrived on the Island. This afternoon in fact.” A detail which plainly failed to impress the woman.
“I'm Marge. I cook and clean for her.” She jerked her narrow chin, an invitation for Grace to enter an unexpectedly homely square hall decorated with a tiny flowered print wallpaper. An elongated version of the sailboat covered the boarded floor in bright jewel colors. A dog-leg staircase wound its way to the floor above, lit by oil lamps placed on various surfaces and small tables.
“In advance.” Marge thrust her open palm out.
“Oh, I see. I don't have any local currency, but I do have English banknotes.” Grace opened her bag to show the wad of notes Mr Beech had given her. “Please inform Mrs Mahoney that I'll visit the bank first thing in the morning and change them.”
Marge narrowed her eyes. “All right then. But tomorrow morning, mind.”
“Of course. You have my word.”
“Your word don't mean nothing to me. I don't know you from Eve.' Her apathetic expression implied she had seen everything and expected the worst of everyone. A cotton print dress with mutton leg sleeves in hues of dark green and brown hung loosely on her angular body, a shapeless bun of frizzy russet hair streaked with white sat on top of her head.
Marge pointed a finger up the staircase on her left. “Room 6. First floor at the back. Supper’s at seven in the back parlour. Latecomers go without,” she recited like a mantra as she carried on along the lower hall to the rear.
“I’ll take my luggage up myself then, shall I?” Grace called after her.
“Aye, because it won’t get there by itself.” Marge replied over her shoulder. ‘And don’t you be banging it about when you get up there neither. My man’s sleeping. He's on the boats tonight.”
Grace hefted the portmanteau in both hands and hauled it sideways up the staircase to the floor above, Marge's instruction almost impossible to obey as small tables bearing oil lamps and tiny vases of flowers proliferated wherever she moved along the upper corridor.
The door to Room 6 opened at a touch, which made Grace hope Mrs Mahoney would arrive with a key at some point, though the lack of a lock told her this was unlikely. The bolt on the inside made her feel slightly more secure. The room was surprisingly spacious. A tall, thin window overlooked the rear garden comprised of a handkerchief of lawn surrounded by paving. There didn't appear to be any flower beds or statuary anywhere, only pots and urns in various shapes and sizes set on the stones.
A double brass bedstead dominated the room, two small tables arranged on either side with oil lamps on them, and a three drawer dresser and mirror to one side of the bed..
Grace couldn't resist running a finger over the polished wood surfaces, which came away clean, a faint fragrance of beeswax polish on her skin.
She heaved both of her bags onto the bed, delighted to find it neither creaked nor sank in the middle. She tested the mattress with a bounce, and then another, harder one, noting the sheets and coverlet were spotless and smelled faintly of lavender.
She must remember to thank Mr Jardine when she saw him next, and remembered with a jolt they had made no firm arrangement.
Mildly disappointed but refusing to allow the oversight to spoil her first day, Grace unpacked. With her modest collection of skirts, dresses and blouses stowed in a recessed cupboard, she arranged her beloved vanity set on the dresser. A third door which she assumed was another cupboard, on closer inspection led into a neat lobby with two more doors. One was locked when she tried it, but the other opened into a bathroom with a deep porcelain tub, and a hot water geyser attached to the wall above it. A washbasin and water closet with a chain pull completed the facilities. Not a private bathroom, but if she was lucky, she would only have to share with the boarder who occupied the room behind the locked door.
* * *
Grace emerged from her room at a little before seven, according to the grandmother clock at the end of the hallway. She crept downstairs and along to the rear of the house. Following the savoury smells of roasted meat and fresh bread, she entered what she assumed must be the parlour. The room was empty when she arrived, but the clash of pans and dishes accompanied by chattering voices indicated the kitchen next door.
A pine Welsh dresser ran the entire length of the room, the upper shelves containing plates, cups, saucers and serving dishes in a soft Provençale blue glaze with a single white flower sprig decoration while the lower ones held stoneware in a uniform shade of grey-blue. A scrubbed table set with eight plain chairs arranged in front of a small fireplace, a window on the opposite wall gave a view to the yard.
A slightly plump woman with fair hair halted in the kitchen doorway, a large tureen balanced in both hands. “Good evening m’dear. You must be my new guest?” Her rounded vowels and sweet expression endeared her to Grace immediately.
“I'm Grace McKinnon. Pleased to meet you.”
“What a lovely thing you are, dear.” She stared at the tureen in apparent confusion, then tutted and set it on a cork mat on the table top, rubbed both hands down her apron and thrust out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“She says she'll pay you tomorra’,” Marge said at Mrs M's shoulder, a pile of earthenware soup plates balanced in the crook of her arm.
The dresser was crammed with the same crockery, plates, cups, saucers and serving dishes, each one in soft Provençale blue glaze with a single white flower sprig decoration.
“I don’t have any Canadian dollars, I’m afraid,” Grace explained. “You have my word I shall visit the bank tomorrow and pay you for the week.”
“She tol’ me that too,” Marge said on her way to the table where she plonked the plates, rattling them ominously against the tureen. She raked Grace with a suspicious glance before marching out again.
“Oh, don't you go fretting about that, m'dear. You look like a nice young thing.” She sent a swift look in the direction of the kitchen. “Marge can be a bit sharp, but she doesn't mean it. I'm Mrs Maureen Mahoney, but everyone calls me Mrs M. Now, if you take a seat over there at the end so we can all see you.”
“All?” Slightly unnerved, Grace lowered herself into a wheel backed chair.
“I've two other boarders this week. Misses Ada and Ivy Dobson on their twice yearly visit from New York. They're regulars of mine, but I warn you they tend to complain a lot.”
Grace stared around from the dresser with its neat rows of earthenware to the cosy fire that crackled in the
hearth. “From what I’ve seen your house is extremely comfortable, what can they have to complain of?”
“Well bless your heart, but it's not my accommodation which bothers them. They find Charlottetown too provincial for their taste and not like they're used to.”
“If they don't like the town, then why do they come?”
“They has to.” Marge skirted the table, slamming cutlery onto its wooden surface in front of each chair as she went. “What with that brother of theirs holding the purse strings.”
“Aloysius Dobson,” Mrs M said in explanation. “He inherited all their father's money and came to the Island ten years ago. The sisters refused to leave the family home in Manhattan, so if they don’t make the mandatory duty visits, Aloysius will cut off their allowance.”
“Why don’t they stay at his home?” Grace chose not to comment on the mean spiritedness of male relatives, a subject familiar to her.
“He’s a resident at The Victoria Hotel and they refuse to pay their prices,” Mrs M said.
“They charge more-n ten dollars a week to stay there,” Marge said, obviously impressed. She dumped a basket of roughly torn bread in the center of the table.
“Yes, thank you, Marge,” Mrs M said, a warning in her voice.
“I see.” Grace glanced at the small wooden clock on the mantelpiece, noting it was already ten past seven. What happened to Marge’s pronouncement that ‘latecomers went without’?
“Suppers' a bit late,” Mrs M said, following her gaze. “I’m not too strict where the sisters are concerned. They’ve never been good timekeepers.”
As if on cue, the door opened again, and two middle-aged ladies bustled into the room.
Both well-endowed, they were far from fat, but looked nothing alike. One had brown hair and a dark complexion, wide spaced eyes the color of milk chocolate, a long thin nose and a high forehead. The other was ash blonde and fair skinned, her eyes set close together beneath a beetling brow and a snub nose. Their clothes were equally diverse, with the darker one in shades of purple and black while the fairer of the two favored a pale shade of pink with numerous flounces on the skirt and sleeves.
“Mrs M, we’ve had the most horrible day,” the first lady said.
“We couldn’t find any decent hats in the town,” her companion added. “It's too bad, but we'll have to wait until we go home to find what we need.”
“Ada would spend all her money on hats if she could, the fussier the better,” the darker sister said.
“I like hats, Ivy.” Ada waggled shoulders, fluttering the pink flounces on her blouse. Her eyes focussed on Grace. “Oh, and who have we here?” She tugged out the chair at right angles to Grace and perched on the edge, her chin jutted close to hers. “What’s your name, dear?”
“You didn't mention you had a new guest, Mrs M,” Ivy said with a slight sneer. “I thought we were your only boarders this week?”
“This is Mrs MacKinnon.” The landlady busied herself arranging napkins and soup bowls, her refusal to look Ivy in the eye implied she did not feel obliged to explain. “She’ll be with us for the week.”
Grace was about to suggest this was yet to be decided, but left that discussion for another time.
“Where are you from?” Ivy demanded.
“Now, Ivy. You shouldn’t question the young woman.” Ada leaned closer. “Where are you from, dear?”
“England,” Grace answered, “I arrived this afternoon.”
Mrs M removed the lid of the tureen, releasing a cloud of steam that smelled of potatoes and herbs, filled a bowl with a ladle and passed it to Grace.
“I didn’t know any steamboats arrived from Europe today.” Ivy dragged out a chair on the other side of the table and sat down. “Which one were you on?”
“The Parisian,” Grace said. “She arrived in Halifax yesterday.”
“Not that ship that collided with another boat in Halifax harbour?” Mrs M dropped the ladle into the tureen with a splash. “I read about it in this morning’s paper.”
“It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounds,” Grace said. “The captain made a dash for the quay and everyone got off safely.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Ivy slurped from her spoon.
“But all the same, it must have been terribly frightening.” Ada’s gleeful expression invited more details.
“Leave the girl alone, Ada. You can see she’s safe and uninjured.” Ivy rolled her eyes. “My sister has a yen for the dramatic. The Herald said the ship was still afloat and no one was hurt. Fuss over nothing if you ask me.”
“Nobody did ask you, Ivy,” Ada said.
“This is delicious soup, Mrs M,” Grace ventured as the two sisters glared at each other across the table, savouring the delicate taste of leek and herbs with just the right amount of pepper.
“Thank you, dear. It's one of my Irish grandmother's recipes.”
“We don't normally eat such simple fare,” Ivy said. “We're from New York, you know. The cuisine there is far superior.”
“I'm looking forward to exploring the town tomorrow,” Grace said, embarrassed for Mrs M, who took this oblique insult in her stride.
“Provincial little place with not much to recommend it.” Ivy sniffed.
“I come from a village north of London, so it might suit me perfectly,” Grace said.
“That's not quite accurate, Ivy,” Ada contradicted her just as Mrs M looked about to interrupt. “The architecture of the public buildings in Charlottetown is quite remarkable.”
“You mean they used bricks instead of wood?” Ivy sniffed again. “Hardly impressive. It's too quiet here for my liking and the men seem to think more of their horses than they do their wives.”
“Horses are valuable,” Marge muttered as she set a platter of sliced roast pork on the table so hard a bowl of apple sauce toppled over, saved from spilling by Mrs M. “Wives ain’t.”
Grace bit her lip to prevent a laugh. What was meant to be a quiet supper began to resemble a theatre performance, with Ivy's scathing remarks diluted ineffectually by Ada while Marge threw the odd barb into the mix, the whole refereed by Mrs M.
By the time Grace finished her pork and roast potatoes, she was thoroughly enjoying herself. Mealtimes at the MacKinnon mansion were almost silent affairs which began with a prayer and ended with a lecture when Angus MacKinnon felt inclined to remind her or Frederick of their transgressions - again.
Thoughts of her husband made her wistful, followed by a stab of guilt that she hadn't thought of him at all lately. Not since Andrew Jardine had swept her into his arms in the customs shed at Halifax.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs M handed Grace a portion of peach cobbler. “You're looking a bit peaky. I expect you’re tired. It's a long journey from Halifax.”
“I'm fine, just reminiscing. This is a lovely meal. These peaches are delicious.”
“Preserved, but quite tasty if I do say so myself.” Mrs M beamed. “We do well for fruit here in the summer. I always buy a lot of everything as I do like to put aside my preserves.”
“I shall have to pay attention, Mrs M. You could teach me a lot when I get settled.”
“You intend to live here?” Ivy's spoon hit her plate as if this notion was unbelievable. “On the Island?”
“We thought you were a visitor. Like us.” Ada included Ivy in her description.
“I do, and no, I’m not a visitor,” Grace replied, mildly irritated by their continued disparagement of a place that was not only beautiful, but clean and well ordered. “I was told this is an excellent place to begin my new life.”
“Really?” Ivy peered down her nose at her. “What was wrong with your old one?”
Grace made her voice hitch slightly. “My husband died.” Past experience taught her death tinged with emotion was invariably a conversation stopper.
“How awful for you, and you so young.” Ada's eyes welled with tears. She dragged a handkerchief from inside her sleeve and applied it to her eyes.
“Stop blubbering, Ada, you didn't even know her husband,” Ivy snapped.
“What's that got to do with it?” Ada rubbed her nose hard with the scrap of lace. “One can still sympathize with another's loss.”
“I agree, Miss Dobson,” Mrs M interjected, scowling at the stone-faced Ivy.
“I suppose you are young to be widowed.” Ada sighed. “It must have been devastating if you felt you had to come all this way to forget.” She blew her nose nosily.
“With few friends and no family, there was nothing to keep me in England.” None who cared for her anyway. “Prince Edward Island seemed a good place for a new start.” Nor did she wish to forget Frederick, only to be able to think about him without a mixture of regret and guilt. She wanted to preserve the few happy memories of their years together.
“Then may I welcome you to our own little paradise, my dear. Life can be good here for those willing to work.” Mrs M pushed both palms against the table and levered herself to her feet. “Marge don't stand there gawping at Mrs MacKinnon. Go and make the coffee.”
Marge pushed away from where she slumped against the doorframe and returned to the kitchen.
Grace finished her last spoonful of the peach cobbler, replete and feeling quite at home in the cosy parlour with people who seemed genuinely interested in her.
After hot, rich coffee served with tiny almond biscuits, the Dobson sisters retired to their room a little after nine o'clock, still squabbling about trivialities as they retreated along the hallway.
Repeating her promise to visit the bank the following day, Grace wished Mrs M and Marge a goodnight and went to her room where she changed into her nightgown.
With her hair combed out over her shoulders, she stood at the window and looked out across the darkening rooftops to the black strip of ocean in the distance.
This was her home now, the place where she would perform her rituals of work, friends, disappointments and achievements. The red earth was very different, but the soft green hills she saw from the steamboat were reminiscent of where she was born. She sat unmoving as golden evening light faded to fingers of purple and pink that darkened to navy beyond the horizon, waiting for homesickness and regret to overwhelm her new surroundings. They did not come.
Envy the Wind Page 9