Envy the Wind

by Anita Davison

  “No, it wasn’t. I'm glad you came to me.” Grace wrapped an arm around Aoife’s shoulders and smoothed her rough curls. “Cole isn’t likely to come looking for you, is he?”

  “I doubt it.” Aoife snorted. “He’s probably waiting at the station for the next train and another poor deluded soul.”

  “You weren't deluded, Aoife. None of this was your fault. You believed your decision to marry him was for the best.”

  “Didn't get me far did it?” Aoife pulled back her shoulders inside her loose fitting dress, Grace's handkerchief crumpled in one hand. “I'm not going to spend another moment fretting about it. I'm going to be a chambermaid in a beautiful new hotel, with a room of my own and everything.”

  “Yes, you are.” Grace sighed. If only she could view life with such simplicity. Her own dreams had seemed straightforward, but behind the shopping and planning was a greater concern. What if she couldn't attract enough guests to her hotel to meet the running costs, let alone recoup her investment? Maybe no one would come? A shudder ran through her and she held Aoife tighter.

  * * *

  Grace and Aoife packed in readiness to move to Prince street, their combined belongings fitting easily into Grace’s two bags. They brought them down into the hall where a tearful Mrs Mahoney waited.

  “We’ll only be a few streets away,” Grace reminded her. “But we'll be sure to come back and visit often. You must come to the hotel to tea.”

  “I'll still miss the both of you.” Mrs M snuffled into a handkerchief. “If there’s anything you need, I’ll be here. Oh, I almost forgot, I wanted you to have this.” She stuffed the crumpled handkerchief in one pocket and delved into the other, from which she withdrew a small, cloth covered book and handed it to Aoife.

  “What’s this, Mrs M?” Aoife asked, flicking through the first few pages. “These are your recipes,” she exclaimed, answering her own question.

  “A few of my best Acadian ones too, including my mother's molasses cookie recipe. Use the best molasses you can afford but remember not to roll them out too thin or cook them too long to keep them soft.”

  “I'll remember, Mrs M. And thank you.” Aoife slipped the book into Grace's bag before being subjected to another of the woman's fierce hugs.

  Marge was nowhere to be seen when they left, although at the last moment Grace spotted her at an upper window from where she gave a small, sad wave. Grace gestured for her to come downstairs, but she shook her head, leaving them with no alternative but to blow farewell kisses from the street.

  Grace always regarded Marge as the less sentimental of the pair, but over time, the two women's roles had been reversed, Aoife becoming a firm favorite with them both.

  “Don’t you find Marge a strange one?” Grace swung her portmanteau from one hand to the other and waved to Marge for the last time before she and Aoife turned the corner. “One moment she’s snapping at you and the next she does something incredibly kind.” She recalled the effort Marge went to in order to find a dress for Aoife the night she arrived. “I don't think I saw her husband more than three times while I was there. He was always coming in as I went out, so we hardly exchanged a word.”

  “Mrs M told me she and Rab don't talk much since their son died. When he’s not out on the boats, he’s in Mrs M’s blind pig of a night.” Aoife hefted Grace's other bag onto her hip. They had combined their belongings in order to transfer them to the hotel and could manage a bag each without too much difficulty.

  “Church socials,” Grace said, caught Aoife’s oblique look and added, “Don’t use that term or someone might hear and report her to the inspector.”

  “Church social then.” Aoife shrugged. “Marge doesn’t like it but there isn’t much she can do.”

  “I didn't know they had a son.”

  “They don't. Not now. He drowned during the Galveston Hurricane five years ago when several boats were lost with all their crews.”

  “Oh, that's awful. And poor Marge. I had no idea.” Her steps halted. “Galveston? That’s in Texas. It must have been a bad storm to travel all that way.” She would have to do some more reading about local history.

  “Mrs M said Marge didn't want their boy to go out on the boats, but Rab said it was a family tradition and insisted. The lad was only fifteen.”

  “Is that why they don't get on? Because Marge blames him for his death?”

  Aoife shrugged. “Must be.”

  “I wish I had known, not that I could have made any difference.” She sifted through her memories in the hope she had not added to Marge's grief by an indiscreet remark.

  “Oh, look, Grace,” Aoife paused at the corner. “Doesn't the house look lovely with the picket fence painted white?”

  “It does, but the front would look better with some color. This autumn, I'll plant some bulbs so we’ll have a colorful display next spring.”

  “Fall, they call it fall here.”

  “Of course. I must remember.” Laughing, she looked along the street to where Mr Charles Keogh strolled towards them. Her smile faded and a sinking feeling settled in her belly. “Oh no, not today,” she murmured.

  “Do you know that man, Grace?” Aoife eyed him with suspicion.

  She didn’t respond, but sensed her face warm as he halted in front of them.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs MacKinnon.” He removed his hat, and executed a mock bow, his feet planted apart. “You’ve made a very nice job of it.” He inclined his head at the hotel, then gave the street a slow, sweeping glance. “Discreet, out of the way, and not too large so it is considered exclusive. A nice little business. I expect you’ll do well.” His gaze slid to Aoife with an expectant smile.

  Grace handed Aoife her key. “Would you mind taking the bags inside? I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Aoife’s eyes narrowed, and she stared at Keogh. She slipped the key into her pocket without looking at it; an enquiring eyebrow lifted at Grace.

  “It’s all right,” Grace whispered. “I won’t be long.”

  Aoife directed a final withering glare at Keogh, then grimacing at the combined weight of the bags, took short, labored steps up onto the porch.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Keogh?” Grace asked once Aoife had disappeared inside the house.

  “You didn’t introduce me to the young lady.” He waved a lazy hand behind him in a loose-limbed gesture, rocking slightly on his feet. “That wasn’t very polite of you, Grace.”

  “That’s right, I didn’t.” She flinched at his use of her given name.

  “Best be on my way then. I only stopped by to wish you well.”

  “Now you have. Thank you. I must get on. There is still a lot to do.” She stood her ground, waiting for him to walk on.

  He didn’t.

  “Don’t be so hasty, I deserve a fair hearing, don’t I?” His upper lip curled, and he swayed closer, the unmistakeable smell of brandy on his breath.

  “I have a proposition for you.” He replaced his fedora low on his forehead, tipped his head back and peered at her down his nose.

  “Mr Keogh,” Grace summoned patience. “Our association is over. I appreciate your help in the past, but that is where it stays. “

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He flicked a swift glance at the hotel again. “I take it your paying guests will include Americans?”

  “I imagine some of them will be.” Grace frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “Folks from away like to leave the sweltering cities behind and take advantage of our comfortable summers. They sail their yachts in our waters, stroll our beaches and enjoy the beauty of our countryside.” His gaze returned to her face. “What they don’t think much of, are our prohibition laws.”

  “Why is that a problem? They’re on holiday - I mean vacation. Surely it’s no hardship to do without alcohol for that time?” She knew she must sound naïve but refused to fall in with his line of thought.

  “My dear Grace.” His low, sarcastic laugh made her skin crawl. “You have to understand th
e nature of the affluent holidaymaker. What they don’t like, is being told they can’t have what is readily available at home.” He ran a finger along her jaw, the movement so fast he gave her no time to avoid it. “If you want to make money, my dear, real money that is, you need to provide all the luxuries they desire. If not, they’ll find an establishment that will.”

  “Thank you for the advice.” Grace eased backwards out of his reach. “However, I intend to manage my guest’s requirements and remain within the law.”

  “You ought to think about it, or you could find that fancy hotel of yours empty. And while you do, my invitation to dinner still stands. We could celebrate your new venture and discuss my proposition at the same time.” He lifted his hat an inch and scratched his scalp beneath it. “When is this grand opening?”

  “Quite soon, and it won’t be grand. Even so, I shall be far too busy to go to dinner in the near future, Mr Keogh.” She could barely refrain from a laugh but knew there was no point in antagonising a man who had been drinking. “But thank you for asking.”

  The expression in his eyes became ice cold, all traces of his false bonhomie gone. “Still aiming high, are you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her mouth went suddenly dry.

  “Don’t play innocent with me, Grace. This town is not as large as you might think. People talk.”

  “Mr Keogh, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She kept her voice light while eyeing the open door of the hotel, longing to leave but worried because he might follow her. How drunk was he?

  “You arrived alone on the island, with no family or associates. No one knows who you are or where your money came from.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know about your cozy trip on the SS Elizabeth too, but sniffing round the Jardines and the Cahills will do you no good. They’re Island born of families who’ve been here over a hundred years; almost aristocracy, or what passes for it in this province.”

  Grace inhaled sharply, a mixture of fury and disbelief robbing her of speech. How dare he? Several responses sprang to her lips, which she instantly suppressed. Any rebuttal would only amuse him, and probably fuel his malice.

  “Good day, Mr Keogh. I doubt we’ll cross paths again.” Brushing past him, she stepped into the street, just as a horse-drawn cart rounded the corner and forced her to halt.

  Her breaths came shallow and rapid as she silently pleaded with the cart to hurry. She had to get away from him. How could she have believed he was gauche but harmless? The man was evil.

  The cart swept past her on a wave of animal sweat and manure, just as Keogh’s voice whispered in her ear.

  “Jardine’s only interest in you, Grace, would be one thing and one thing only.”

  Freed at last, she walked rapidly across the street with his mocking laugh still in her ears.

  Chapter 17

  Aoife leaned against a doorframe, her arms folded and a sheaf of letters dangling from one hand. “Then who was he?”

  “His name is Charles Keogh.” Grace blinked at the wave of linseed oil, new paint and turpentine that greeted her. “He’s no one of any concern. Are those letters for me?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Aoife held them out towards her. “I’ve put the bags in our rooms. Do you want me to unpack?”

  “No, we’ll do that later.” She sifted through the sheaf of envelopes. It looked as if the advertisements she had put into the Halifax Chronicle, the New York Times and the Island magazine had produced results.

  A blackfly zipped past her face causing her to jerk back her chin. “It might be an idea to open some of these windows to air the place, not forgetting the screens to prevent any more of those things coming inside.”

  She was unused to the hordes of flying creatures that inhabited this part of the world, sensitive to any nearby buzz or squeak.

  Still distracted by an image of Keogh’s leering face, Grace took the letters into the kitchen and spread them on the pine table.

  “We'll never keep all these beggars out, no matter what we do.” Aoife swatted at the persistent blackfly as she followed her in. “I’ll swear these things like the smell of paint.”

  She pulled out a chair and sat, elbows on the table, her chin propped on them as she watched Grace slit the first envelope. “What have we got?”

  “This is from a Mrs Cartwright from Connecticut who wants to bring her two daughters to stay in mid-June.” Grace looked up from the page. “Do I put the daughters in one room and the mother in a second, or would they all wish to stay together?”

  “Who knows? You'll have to prepare both and ask them when they get here. What else?”

  “A Mr and Mrs Laskey from Saint John, want a room for four days next week.” She handed it to Aoife who added it to the first one to form a pile. “A pamphlet from a milk delivery service. I'll keep that.” She set it aside and opened another. “A Mrs Tenniel, who describes herself as a mature lady.” Grace peered at the shakily written address at the top of the page. “She’s from Boston and says she wants a short holiday after a bout of bronchitis.”

  “I hope she doesn't cough over the other guests and put them off.” Aoife sniggered.

  “She’s quite recovered, or so she says, and hopes the sea air will restore her former good spirits. One thing this will teach me is the geography of North America. I'll have to buy an atlas and mark it to show where my guests come from. Here’s an advertisement from a hansom cab company offering favorable rates to collect visitors from the harbour. That could be useful.

  “Put it on the pile for safekeeping. The rest we can use for firelighters. Not a bad start, Aoife, three rooms booked, and we aren't open yet.”

  The letters in her hand, Grace headed toward the door to her private sitting room. “I'll unpack, then how about some supper?”

  “First, I'll have to learn how to fire up that thing.” Aoife indicated the shiny black iron stove that squatted on club feet at the far end of the room. “Where do I start?”

  “The booklet that came with it is here somewhere.” Grace rooted through a dresser drawer. “Ah, yes here it is.”

  “What’s the round thing on the oven door?” Aoife left her chair and crouched in front of the stove.

  “Um - says here it’s a thermometer. There are also six removable cook lids and two back warming shelves as well as the ones on top. The firebox can take twenty inch logs.”

  Aoife straightened. “Wood and coal?”

  “Don't scowl at me like that, Aoife, there’s plenty of both in the yard. I'll help you bring some in. We'll fill up a couple of wicker baskets, so we don't have to keep going back and forth all day.” She continued to read the booklet. “The foot rest is nickel plated. Not that we’ll spend much time sitting in front of it with our feet up.”

  “Did you have to buy such a big stove?” Aoife swung open the door of the firebox and peered inside.

  “Of course. When we are full, there’ll be twelve people to feed, not counting us. Apart from preparing meals and baking, this monster heats enough water for bathing and will keep this entire ground floor warm in the winter.”

  “I'll see if I can get it going.” Aoife took a white apron from a drawer and tied it over her dress.

  “I wish you’d been here when the salesman called to install it.” Grace set the booklet to one side. “He was such an enthusiastic chap and completely enamoured with his product. It was all I could do to dissuade him from cooking a meal for me to show me how efficient it was. He said that if I used the heaviest hammer I could find and managed to break the lid, he would not charge me for the stove.”

  “That's daft.” Aoife scrunched up her pixie features. “What would you want with a broken stove?”

  “Precisely. I suppose he was confident I wouldn't be able to do it.” She slid a leaflet about painting fences to the back of the pile. “This one’s from Maud, but it’s got Mrs M's address on it.”

  “She must have told the postman we moved.”

  “I wish I could w
rite so well,” Grace scanned the page. “Listen to this.”

  You have restored my belief that kindred spirits are more numerous than I once believed. And what busy, productive women we are, Grace, you with your hotel and me with my novel. I am bereft at not being able to see the Grace and Favor on opening day, but Uncle John is too busy on the farm to mind Grandmother and I cannot leave her alone.

  “My island home is a place of wonder and beauty which I miss dreadfully whenever I leave, and yet my lack of society also makes me a victim of creeping melancholy.”

  “What a shame. I was really looking forward to seeing her again. You'd think her uncle could accommodate her once in a while. Maud gets so little time away from the post office. She tries hard to hide it, but I’m sure she’s lonely.”

  “Not that hard, she sounds right miserable to me.” Sniffing, Aoife collected two plates from the dresser and laid them on the table.

  ‘Don’t you have a range to light?’ Grace narrowed her eyes at Aoife, refolded Maud's letter and returned it to the envelope.

  ‘Pardon me for the presumption, Miss Grace.” Aoife bobbed a mock curtsey, a set of cutlery in each hand. “I’ll remember I’m only the maid in future.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.’ Grace bit down on her tongue until it hurt. ‘You’re much more to me than a maid. I'm disappointed Maud can't be here for the opening and nervous I've forgotten something vital. Perhaps having my own way all the time is making me selfish?”

  “That’s easily cured.' Aoife sniffed. 'Get yourself a cat. They'll always be ten times more selfish than you.”

  * * *

  Grace unpacked her belongings in her room, which barely made an impression in the spacious wardrobe and dresser. Her encounter with Keogh repeated in her head. The way he brushed aside her attempts to discourage him with vague threats, though this time his meaning was clear. If she didn’t sell alcohol to her guests, she wouldn’t have any. Alcohol he was apparently eager to provide.