“Yes. It's kept me extremely busy these past weeks. I haven't opened yet, but hope to do so before very long.”
“I should very much like to see it.”
Grace wasn't sure what to say so she merely smiled, which seemed to disconcert him. He scanned the street before his gaze came back to her.
“Mrs MacKinnon, I hope you don’t think I’m interfering, but I wanted to-” He paused and licked his bottom lip. “To advise you, that is, to be on your guard where Mr Charles Keogh is concerned.”
“I beg your pardon?” Grace blinked, unable to reconcile the man’s name on his lips.
“Only that I appreciate you are making friends in town,” he rushed on, filling the sudden awkward silence. “I don’t think he’s the type of man with whom you should associate.”
“I had no idea you were acquainted with the gentleman.”
“I'm not. Well, not personally, although he does have a certain reputation I thought you should be aware of.”
“Why is it of any concern to you with whom I associate?” Grace bridled at the cheek of the man. “In fact, I find it insulting you should even suggest someone to whom you have not been introduced does not meet your exacting standards.” A torrent of rebuttal sat on her tongue, but she restrained for fear he would mistakenly think Charles Keogh meant something to her. Which might have suited her had she not already rejected him.
“I can see I've offended you, for which I apologize.” His knuckles whitened on the rim of his hat. “I appreciate he's the type of man a lady might find charming, even attractive. His sort are always plausible, until we discover what their real aims are.”
“His sort, Mr Jardine? Do you mean those who find making a living a more challenging task than you appear to, and therefore deserve your contempt?”
What was she saying? Keogh was quite clearly a man who couldn’t be trusted, so why was she defending him?
“I simply urge you to be careful.” In response to her incredulous 'tut' he added, “I only have your interests at heart.”
“My interests? What an odd thing to say. I've been in Charlottetown for almost two months, and on the one occasion when our paths have crossed you had no time for me.”
“Ah, yes that was unfortunate, and now I think about it, unforgiveable. But if you would let me explain, I-”
“I don’t require your explanations, sir. Our association was pleasant, yet brief. And over. Now I must go. I am very busy. Good day.”
“Mrs MacKinnon! Grace!” His insistent cry followed her along the road as she marched away.
She was almost a block away before she chastised herself for not asking after his wife, if only to see the look on his face.
* * *
Grace's hand shook as she let herself into the boarding house, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it; her eyes squeezed shut as she attempted to calm her rapid breathing.
She accepted that Andrew Jardine was out of her reach weeks before, so why did he have such an effect on her? The thrill of seeing him again combined with the resentment at his neglect confused her. As did his claim he only had her interests at heart.
“Grace!” Marge's voice broke into her jumbled thoughts and her eyes snapped open to where she beckoned from the rear hall. “Come here, quick!”
“What is it, Marge?” If she needed help setting up the cellar room she could think again. Grace had no intention of getting involved in anything illegal.
“I thought you’d never get back. Come with me, there’s something you need to see.” When Grace didn't move, she shuffled forward, grabbed Grace’s arm and propelled her towards the kitchen. “See what?” Grace halted on the threshold. A figure sat at the kitchen table; a girl by the look of the mane of dark, tangled hair that obscured her face. Bits of grass sat among the thick tresses as well as something sticky Grace chose not to identify. She wore a shapeless cotton dress torn at one shoulder, sweat-stained and filthy; the skirt and hem ragged and ripped in places.
She sat with her head bent over a steaming mug held tightly between grime encrusted hands.
“She came to the back door,” Marge said in a fierce whisper. “Mrs M is out but I couldn’t leave her to wander the streets, so I brought her in.
“Which was very charitable of you.” Grace couldn’t imagine Mrs M objecting to a little Christian charity, not with all the church socials she ran. “Where did she come from?” Grace stared at the bedraggled figure with sympathy.
“How should I know?” Marge gave the back door a searching glance.
“Perhaps there’s a mission in town we could take her to?” Grace whispered. “Or a church nearby which could offer her temporary shelter?”
“That’s the thing,” Marge said. “She mentioned your name.”
“Me? But I don’t-”
Grace looked past the grime and the tangled hair, and gasped. “Aoife?”
The dark head lifted slowly, and a pair of light brown eyes peered out of an extremely grubby face. “Hello, Grace.”
Grace hunched down beside the chair. A hand reached for Aoife’s forearm but drew back without making contact. “Oh, Aoife, look at you.” She rose, scraped back a chair and sat on it, shuffling it closer, aware of an earthy, animal smell that emanated from her.
“No thanks. I already have.” Aoife eased backward against the chair, released her death grip on the mug and held it towards Marge. “I don't suppose I could have some more of that tea?”
Her voice, complete with its familiar hint of mischief, brought a rush of emotion that made Grace's eyes well.
“Of course.” Marge took the mug from her. “The missus won't notice. She’s never grudge a body a cup of tea.” She shuffled to the range and replaced the kettle on the hotplate.
“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” Grace asked Aoife. “I thought you were in New Brunswick?”
“The company wasn't what you’d call genteel.” Aoife huffed a sarcastic breath. “So I left.”
“In something of a hurry by the look of you. And where's your bag?” She scanned the floor but it was empty. Had she come all this way in only the clothes she stood up in?
“Give me a chance, Grace. I've only just got here and I'm that tired.” Aoife took a careful sip from the mug Marge handed back to her.
Before Aoife gave an answer to Grace’s question, the back door banged open hard enough to shake the frame and Mrs Mahoney strode into the kitchen in a whirlwind of indignation. She dumped her shopping bag on the floor which sent onions and potatoes rolling in all directions, her gaze going straight to Grace.
“Oh, you're here then?”
Grace rose and stepped in front of Aoife, shielding her. “Is something wrong, Mrs M?”
“I should think there is. What's this I've been hearing? Mr Hobbs at the mercantile tells me one of my boarders is opening a new establishment in Prince street.” She propped both hands on her plump hips and glared at Grace. “He says you've had builders working on the place for weeks and been ordering all sorts of fancy wallpapers and light fittings. From Montreal, no less.”
“Ah, did he?” Grace hesitated. “I was going to explain-”
“Explain what? That you're aiming to take all my boarders?”
Her eyes flicked past Grace and she pointed a shaking finger at Aoife. “And who’s this might I ask?” Her eyes narrowed for a second while Grace hoped she wasn’t about to order Aoife be ejected.
“Her name is Aoife,” Grace explained, relieved when Mrs M circled Aoife’s chair and tutted in sympathy. “I met her on the ship coming over. I've yet to discover how she got here and why, as I've only just walked in the door myself.” Grace eased Aoife to her feet. “You can question me later, Mrs M. Right now, I need to take her upstairs and get her out of these filthy clothes. She’ll need a bath too, so if I might have some towels? Lots of them.”
“Then what are you going to do with her?” Mrs M demanded, though not unkindly. “There’s no room for her here, and what about my board
ers?”
“She can sleep in my room tonight. We'll work something out tomorrow; but don't worry, I'll pay you extra for the inconvenience.”
“Huh! You’d have my whole linen supply if you had your way, Missy. But if you can vouch for the lass, and you’re willing to pay, I suppose I could oblige.” Her face softened with sympathy. “She’s in a sorry state by the look of her. Get the towels, Marge, but not the best ones.” Mrs M made shooing motions at Marge in the direction of the basement. “And while you're at it, take a bar of carbolic up with you. She'll need it.”
Something awful must have happened to bring Aoife to her door in such a state. Grace wished Mrs M would stop talking so she could find out what it was.
“I didn’t come here to make trouble,” Aoife mumbled as Grace supported her along the hall.
“Don’t worry. We’ll sort everything out.” Grace paused on the second step, addressing Marge over the handrail. “Is there a chance you could bring up some supper for us both later? It doesn't matter what it is. Even soup and bread would do.”
“There’s some leftover chicken stew in the pot,” Marge said. “And I've got a bag of clothes I was collecting for the goodwill. I'll root through and see if I can find something to fit her.” She continued talking as she descended the half-basement steps. “That dress she's wearing will have to be burned. Who knows what’s crawling in it?”
Once they reached Grace's room, Aoife made no protest as Grace peeled the filthy dress from her shoulders, kicking it to one side as soon as it hit the floor. Her slip and undergarments were as dirty as the dress and, if possible, smelled worse. She had lost weight since Grace last saw her, with scrawny arms, and shoulder blades starkly visible through her skin.
“How did you get into this state, Aoife? Did you walk here from New Brunswick?” Grace tried not to stare at the bruises and welts on Aoife’s shoulders and upper arms. Some had scabs and yellowing around the bruises, while others were more recent, sore and inflamed with streaks of dried blood.
“Pretty much.” Aoife gazed round the small room with its cast iron roll-top bath and basin in the corner. “You've got your own bathroom?”
“Not quite, I share it with another boarder. It’s a bit small, but it does what it’s supposed to.” She turned the knob on the hot water geyser that spluttered and coughed for a moment before a stream of steaming water flowed steadily into the tub.
“All I ever had was a tin tub in front of the kitchen fire,” Aoife said. Grace stared at her and she laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I remember those Friday nights when I was a nipper as being cosy and full of laughter. But that woman was right, my dress is no good to anyone now. Not that I’ve got another one.” She kept up a stream of trivial chatter, most likely to avoid talking about what happened to her since they both left the Parisian.
Grace eased off Aoife’s scuffed boots, the soles worn to a wafer to reveal sore and grime encrusted feet, but did not press her. She would tell her when she was ready, and if she wasn’t, perhaps it was her own business.
Aoife bent to remove her bloomers and Grace averted her eyes, though not fast enough to avoid seeing the raised welt across her narrow back as Aoife eased into the steaming water. The skin was broken in places and the marks looked inflamed, some caked with old blood.
“Ohh, that’s lovely,” Aoife released a deep sigh and smiled for the first time since arriving.
Grace wanted to ask if the hot water hurt her cuts, but didn’t like to bring attention to them. “Shall I leave you to have your bath?”
“No, don’t go. I'd rather not be on my own.” Aoife lay passive, her bruised legs stretched out and her arms crossed over her chest, the slight swell of her breasts just visible above the waterline. She looked like a child with her head resting on a rolled-up hand towel.
“Of course, I’ll stay.” Grace retrieved a sponge from the sink and balanced on the edge of the tub.
“I have some violet soap which will make your hair smell lovely and won’t dry it out.” She gave the block of green carbolic a swift kick that sent it skidding behind the water cistern. “Put your hands over your eyes or it will sting.” She worked up a lather and spread the suds into Aoife’s tangled hair, trying not to grimace as the water turned dark brown around her waist with tiny bits floating in it.
She repeated it twice more, while Aoife endured being pulled this way and that, her eyes squeezed shut as the water streamed down her face.
“That’s better,” Grace said when the water ran clear. “Get out and rub it dry with a towel and I’ll change the water.”
“Again?” Aoife stared up at her, both hands braced on the side as she started to get out. “I’ve never in my life had two baths in a row.”
“Why not? Just let me wash all this dirt away first.” Grace plucked another of Mrs M's precious towels off the pile on the floor and applied it to the black ring round the bath.
“How did you manage to find me, Aoife?” she asked as they waited for the geyser to refill the bath with hot water for a second time. With her wide eyed, scrubbed pixie face and her hair hanging in black rat’s tails over her shoulders, Aoife looked human again.
“I had nowhere else to go. I don't know anyone in Canada, apart from you. I remembered that Jardine fella mentioned he was going to Prince Edward Island so I assumed you would too. This was the fifteenth boarding house I tried.” Aoife cocked her chin towards the door.
Grace listened without interrupting, finding it strange that their roles should be reversed and Marge be the compassionate one. She would think about that later. She turned off the geyser and helped Aoife climb into the fresh water, her wet hair wrapped tightly in a white towel on top of her head. Apart from a small cut across one eyebrow and a bruise beneath her chin, her face was clean and unmarked, if reddened by the sun and looking sore.
“I’m causing trouble for you, aren’t I?” The sponge caught the edge of a cut which made Aoife stiffen and duck away. “Your landlady don’t want me here. What if she throws you out? Then we’ll both be on the street.”
“Mrs M won’t do that.” Grace re-applied the sponge more gently. “She was angrier with me than she was with you, though it was for an entirely different reason.”
“Why was she?”
“We’ll discuss that later. Once you’re clean and have had some of Mrs M’s cooking, you’ll feel much better.”
Wrapped in more of Mrs M’s towel supply, Grace sat Aoife on her bed and went in search of a nightgown she could lend her. The one she chose was too long and the straps kept slipping off her shoulders, but at least Aoife looked normal again.
Marge brought a tray of Mrs M’s excellent leftover chicken stew, along with a pale blue dress with a yellow sash she found in the charity bag. “It’s the nicest one I could find with no patches and look, it hasn’t even been re-hemmed.”
“You’re very kind, Marge. Thank you.”
Grace marvelled that her first impression of Marge as a surly, hard woman had undergone a complete reversal since then.
The two of them sat cross-legged on Grace’s bed, the tray between them, eating bowls of hot stew.
“You can stay here with me for the time being,” Grace tore a bread roll into pieces and dipped one into her stew. “It will give us time to plan what to do next.” Her first instinct was to offer the girl a home, but Aoife was proud and her offer might backfire.
“I can’t let you look after me, Grace. I need to work. Could I get a job round here? I was a good tweenie back in Liverpool. I was being trained as a lady’s maid too. Not that I would go back there even if I could afford to.”
“You were to be a farmer’s wife, if I recall?” As Grace suspected, she would evidently take a little persuasion.
“Yes, well, that didn’t work out so good, did it?” Aoife looked away, but her eyes darkened with sadness that reflected the pain beneath her skin.
“What about your husband?” Grace asked without thinking.
“He ain’t my husband!” The spoon clattered back into the bowl, scattering brown drops onto the borrowed nightgown. “Oh, I’m sorry, Grace, I’ll wash it for you, I promise.” Her shoulders shook and a fat tear slid down one cheek into the remains of the stew.
Moving the tray to one side, Grace took Aoife into her arms, the girl’s heart-wrenching sobs vibrating against Grace’s chest.
“It’s all right, Aoife,” Grace crooned into her violet smelling hair. “You’re safe now. No one will hurt you again.”
Chapter 15
Grace was late down to breakfast the next morning, by which time the other boarders had already left for the day. Mrs M had thoughtfully set the parlour table for the two of them with her blue stoneware cups.
“How's that lame duckling who wandered in last night?” Mrs M closed a cupboard door and greeted Grace with a wry smile. “Got all her feathers clean and fluffed up have you?”
“Don't joke, Mrs M, she's had a very difficult time. The poor dear was exhausted, so I've left her sleeping. Would it be all right if I prepared her breakfast myself when she wakes up?”
“Marge will do that when she gets back from the Market Hall. She went to get some fish for tonight’s supper, you miss out if you don’t go early.” She set a jug of milk and bowl of sugar onto the table. “What's this lass’ story then?”
“I don't know yet. She didn't tell me much. She was supposed to have married a farmer in New Brunswick. They had been corresponding for months, but something happened which she won't talk about.”
“One of those mail order brides, was she?” Mrs M slumped into the chair opposite, a steaming cup of tea in front of her as if prepared for a long chat. “Those farming types put advertisements in newspapers for wives to go and live in places no normal woman would want to be.”
“The Salvation Army helped her with the passage but that’s all I know.” Grace ladled honey onto her oatmeal. “Would you mind if she stayed in my room for a few days? I'll pay you double.”
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