She inventoried the groceries, making a list for the next time someone went into town, which they did by the mailboat on Wednesday. It took a great deal more time than just going by car, but it was more of an adventure, and it was the best way for Helena to show Margaret the sights. It was good for Helena as well, seeing the places she had frequented when she was younger, and noting how they had changed without becoming entirely different.
For her part, Margaret enjoyed everything about their days out: the weather; the local artisans; the manner of boats that came up through the locks; and the way the trilliums peeked through the dark underbrush. She found there was a rhythm to life in Ontario cottage country, one that was waking up for summer, and a language that separated the locals from the regulars, and the regulars from the tourists.
“Why does everyone use Bala and Port Carling interchangeably?” she asked Helena one evening. It was only just past sunset, and she was writing a letter to her sisters while Helena wove some sort of bracelet out of brightly coloured plastic threads she’d unearthed in the storage room. “They’re in opposite directions.”
“Well,” Helena said, after thinking about it for a moment. “Port Carling is larger, and it’s where the boats come in. But Bala is where the train stops, so it kind of depends on who I’m talking to.”
“So, it isn’t entirely random?”
“No, not really.” Helena put the threads away and got up. She sat down at the long table, where they kept the crokinole board because it was too large to go anywhere else. Margaret got up to join her. “Besides, the cottage is almost halfway between them. Port Carling is where the grocery store is, but Bala is where you go for ice cream and cinnamon buns.”
A week ago, that would have made no sense to Margaret whatsoever, but as Helena set up the crib game and cut the deck for first deal, she found herself on the borders of understanding. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to transmit the details to her sisters just yet, but she had the whole summer to practice.
BY FRIDAY morning, they were well and truly settled in the house, and when she woke up early, Helena decided that the cooler weather that accompanied the rain made it a good day for baking. Fanny and Margaret, who had kept their promise to sleep until noon every day since the previous Friday’s party, took their time mustering themselves into the kitchen, and in their absence, Helena had taken over the entire room with scones, biscuits, bread, and was rolling piecrust on the kitchen table when they finally meandered in.
“Did you get any sleep at all?” Fanny said, staring at the mess.
“A bit,” Helena said. “But the rain woke me, and then I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“Thank goodness the kitchen isn’t underneath the bedrooms,” Fanny said.
“I did take that into consideration. You’ll notice I elected not to repaint the great room.”
Fanny laughed and started to make more tea.
“What is that?” Margaret asked, examining a pot full of brownish liquid that seemed not entirely unlike caramel, though the smell wasn’t right.
“It’s going to be butter tarts when I’m done,” Helena said. “I hope, anyway. It’s been a while.”
Fanny stirred the pot critically. “I think you’ll be all right. Not that anyone has ever succeeded in duplicating your grandmother’s recipe.”
“We keep getting closer,” Helena insisted.
“What are butter tarts?” Margaret asked, at the same time. Helena and Fanny exchanged a look.
“They’re . . . well, they’re like pecan pie, only not,” said Fanny. “And they’re like sugar pie, only not.”
Margaret’s face betrayed her confusion, which made sense as sugar pie was French Canadian and entirely reliant on the presence of maple trees, while pecan pie was from the American States, which had very little to offer in terms of culinary culture.
“Maybe you should wait and see,” Helena suggested. “Fanny’s right. They are little strange to describe.”
“Can I help?” Margaret asked. “I will probably be terrible.”
“You can cut tart shells,” Helena said, handing Margaret the cutter. “That’s difficult to make a mess of.”
Fanny produced some jam to go with the scones and tea, and then all three of them turned their attention to the tarts, which came together quickly. When the last tart was made, Helena and Margaret tried to help with the dishes, but Fanny turned them out of the kitchen while the tarts were baking, claiming that she needed to restore sanity to the room herself.
“Call us if you need anything,” Helena said, and they retreated to the great room to write letters.
As Margaret settled into a seat in the corner of the room, she could already hear the tutorial on hair styling that Fanny had turned on to listen to while she worked. She curled a coil of her hair around one finger and watched it spring back into place, grateful for Fanny’s consideration, and then opened her screen.
Helena made herself write to her mother and father, and then send thank-you notes to everyone who had helped organize the opening of the Marcus cottage for the summer season, before she let herself log on to her –gnet profile, hoping to talk to Lizzie. It was, she decided, probably time to end their communication. As much as she enjoyed it, she did not enjoy the guilt that followed every time she lied to Lizzie. It would be easy enough to say that Henry had met a girl and was walking out with her and should therefore stop chatting with other girls on the –gnet. One last lie, and then it would be over.
When she logged on, Lizzie was waiting for her, and they began to chat almost immediately.
LIZZIE
Does this sound bizarre? I think I’ve lived my entire life not knowing what summer is. But it’s true. Until I came to a place full of people eager to remind me that the winters are brutal and that the lake won’t ever be warm, I never had summer. It’s crazy.
HENRY
I don’t think that’s bizarre at all.
LIZZIE
All my life, I thought summer was a season, but it’s not. It’s a place—a feeling.
HENRY
IT’S funny, until this summer, I think I knew exactly what you mean. I think all of my summers until this one have been like that.
Helena was seated at the table to write, aware that Margaret was also typing at someone where she sat in the reading nook. Helena was reasonably sure she was talking to Elizabeth, who sent them both –grams from the Bahamas regularly and was having a thoroughly marvellous time there.
How are you? appeared on the screen. Then: I wanted to tell you about the party I went to last weekend. The dancing was wonderful.
Helena wondered what other parties there had been held in the area in the last week. Surely no one close by would host a conflicting entertainment with Charlotte Callaghan. She had, of course, not asked where Lizzie was going when she said she was headed north. There were plenty of lakes outside the Callaghans’ social scene, though. Perhaps Lizzie was there.
I’m fine, it’s just I am covered in mosquito bites, she replied, which was only a slight exaggeration. But the one on the top of her foot—those were always the worst—itched intolerably just then, and Helena couldn’t scratch it satisfactorily without taking off her shoe and sock.
Oh, no! came the reply very quickly. Helena was vaguely aware that Margaret was typing furiously, and wondered if she was telling Elizabeth about the party. After the dance, my friend and I sat out for a bit, and I didn’t get a single one, but she is absolutely covered from head to toe. I told her that means she is sweeter than I am, but I don’t think it made her feel any better.
Every molecule in Helena’s body froze. It wasn’t possible. The odds were unbelievably steep. There was no way, no way at all that she should meet a girl in person, and have that girl turn out to be a genetic match with her own code. There was no way. The Computer was infallible, but surely this was too much even for Go
d.
Henry?
Margaret wasn’t typing. She was waiting. She was Lizzie, and she was waiting for Henry to answer.
Henry?
Helena couldn’t answer. How could she possibly explain? She’d had the last lie all thought out, and now it seemed grossly insufficient.
Henry, are you all right?
Helena raised her hands to the keyboard, ready to type something, anything. She could tell from the indicator that Margaret was typing something long, but it had yet to show up on her own screen. She tried to think of something to say that would stop whatever it was Margaret was about to tell her, but a shout from the kitchen pulled her attention away from the screen. Margaret was on her feet, her own screen left in the reading nook, and even though she hadn’t read Margaret’s last message, Helena slammed hers closed so that Margaret wouldn’t see it. Wouldn’t see that Helena was Henry.
“Fanny?” Margaret said. She went down the hall and Helena trailed after her. “Are you all right?”
“Some of the tart shells leaked,” Fanny said. “There’s filling all over the bottom of the oven.”
With the rain, they couldn’t open the windows to air the kitchen out, and so the smell of burning sugar permeated the house.
“I’ll clean it,” said Helena, leaning against the kitchen doorpost as they waited for the oven to cool. “It’s my mess.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t cry over butter tarts, Helena,” Fanny said. She turned and smiled encouragingly. “I’ll get some from the bakery when I go into town, and Margaret can try those instead.”
Helena hadn’t even known she was crying, but now she found she couldn’t stop. It was Margaret and August and the stupid tarts, and she didn’t know what to do. They were going to hate her for her lies, because she had been too scared to tell them right away, and it was too late to change any of that now.
Fanny wrapped up the baking that had survived, and packed it away in the cold box, while Margaret sat at the table and watched the scene unfold. Helena got herself under control, somehow, and looked at the clock. It was almost two, which was when Fanny was supposed to go over to the Callaghan house for tea with Sally.
“Fanny, go. And take the large umbrella,” Helena heard herself say.
“I can’t leave you with this,” Fanny protested, but Helena held up a hand.
“I can manage it,” she said.
Fanny looked reluctant to go, though whether it was for the state of the oven or the state of Helena’s face, Helena couldn’t guess. Finally, Fanny got her rubber boots and the umbrella, and went.
“Helena, I’m sorry about the tarts,” Margaret said. “I cut the shells, after all.”
“No,” said Helena. “My pastry cracked, and they overflowed. It’s my fault.”
She decided that the oven was cool enough, and got down the cleaner and a rough scrubber. At home, the oven was self-cleaning, but here, it was up to her own efforts to make it clean. It seemed depressingly fitting.
“I had a lot of fun making them, though,” Margaret said softly, a smile on her face. “I wouldn’t mind trying again.”
For the rest of her life, Helena could never remember what had caused her to say it.
“I’m Henry,” she said. She was looking into the oven when she spoke, but she said it as loudly as she could manage.
“What?” said Margaret, clearly caught off guard.
“I’m Henry,” Helena said again, still looking at the blackened mess that had welded itself to the oven floor. “You’re Lizzie, and I’m Henry.”
There was a silence that felt eternal and altogether too finite.
“Mosquito bites,” Margaret said. And then she was quiet. She was quiet for so long that Helena could hardly stand it. And finally: “But, the Computer said you were male.”
Helena looked up, at last, and saw the conflict in Margaret’s eyes. It was easy to imagine the loathing and disgust that would follow, so Helena looked away quickly. She would not cry. She didn’t deserve to.
“I don’t understand,” Margaret said. Her voice was soft.
“Neither do I,” Helena said. She felt flat and wound too tight at the same time. “But it’s true. The Computer is never wrong.”
“You’re Henry,” Margaret said. She was still sitting in the chair. She hadn’t moved. “You’re Henry, and you’re my match, and we’ve been sharing a bed.”
She started to sound hysterical at the last part, and Helena couldn’t bear it any longer. She could, just, bear the hatred she knew was coming. Laughter and scorn would be so much worse. If Margaret thought she was freakish, even though the Church of the Empire maintained that God made no mistakes, it would be too awful. Margaret would leave her. August would leave her. She could bear anything, anything but that. She would never have anyone ever again, and she had only just got used to the idea of having them at all.
“Helena, I—” said Margaret, her voice cracking with the effort to hold herself under control, and Helena snapped. She threw the scrub brush into the oven and leapt to her feet.
“I’m sorry!” she said, sobbing. Then she abandoned the oven, burnt sugar and all, and fled up the stairs to the safety of the back bedroom, where the rain seeped in through the broken window despite the plastic sheeting they’d nailed up to prevent exactly that, but where she had never shared a bed with Margaret Sandwich.
CHRISTOPHER HUNTER DEAD IN SHARK ATTACK ON BARRIER REEF
Australians were shocked this morning when they woke to the news that Christopher Hunter, famed naturalist and genetic match to Her Highness, Princess Victoria-Elizabeth, had died of his injuries in a Whitsunday hospital after an accident late the previous evening. An accomplished diver in all conditions, we may never know what led to Hunter’s demise. The family has asked for privacy at this time.
Speculation, of course, turns to Her Highness, and what course she will now chart. Hunter’s engagement to her was not without conflict, and the Princess had openly acknowledged her hopes that the match would stem the rising tide of Australian republicanism. We have heard nothing from either the Crown or the Church regarding what match the princess will now pursue, but readers will recall that another of Her Highness’s matches was rumoured to be from India, a country that has historically rejected dynastic weddings in favour of political concessions.
Donations in memory of Christopher Hunter can be made to the Australian Geographic Society, where it is expected they will commemorate him with some kind of conservation effort specific to his beloved Great Barrier Reef.
—from the Whitsunday Times
CHAPTER
20
“You’re Henry,” Margaret said. She was still sitting in the chair. She hadn’t moved. “You’re Henry, and you’re my match, and we’ve been sharing a bed.”
She didn’t mean to sound hysterical, but she feared she might be. She was, at least, thinking very quickly. All this time, she’d kept her own secret and worried what Helena would think when she knew the truth, and Helena had been living with this looming over her head. She mustn’t have told her parents. She mustn’t have told anyone. Helena didn’t know it, but Margaret was the best person in the Empire for this information. She had resources. She could get answers. She could ensure absolute secrecy.
Helena was shaking, falling to very understandable pieces at last, but Margaret had, in a flash, already thought her way through it. They would know each other’s secrets now. Margaret would tell her the truth of her disguise, and then offer her aid as Crown Princess of the Empire. They would grow even closer. Margaret would help Helena find summer again. They would . . .
They would what, exactly? Why was she so eager to help this girl? She was being selfish, and she knew it, the heroic knight of an old story riding in to save the day. Maybe Helena didn’t want her. But, God, she wanted Helena. Only she had no idea how to get her. She could only try to
fix this, before it got any further beyond her control.
“Helena, I—” Margaret began trying desperately to hold her voice together to tell the correct secret first. To make it right with Helena as soon as she possibly could. She didn’t speak fast enough.
“I’m sorry!” Helena said, crying, and fled the room.
Margaret heard her on the stairs and then too many steps along the hallway for her to have gone to their room. Margaret couldn’t imagine that would be a very soothing place at the moment. She hadn’t made the bed before she came downstairs. She must have gone to the back room.
Margaret took several deep breaths and cast about for what to say. She wished her father were here. He would know. He always knew what to say—and how to say it—to calm a person down. It didn’t matter if that person was his wife or his daughter or a first-year cadet. Edmund Claremont could bring them peace, and that was what Margaret wanted for Helena, almost as much as she’d ever wanted anything at all.
First, she had to leave the kitchen. It was not a good place for conversation. If Fanny came in, they wouldn’t see her coming. She double-checked the oven to make sure it was all right, and then forced herself to walk towards the great room. She could hear Helena upstairs now. Her steps were lighter, but she was still pacing. Margaret would give her more time. She sat down in one of the chairs next to the fireplace, and then got up immediately because the love seat seemed more welcoming. But then the fire seemed lacking. Margaret was able to add a log or two without setting the rug, or herself, on fire. She put the screen back, and watched the flames jump high again. The footsteps upstairs slowed, then stopped.
She was about to get up when she heard Helena on the stairs. The other girl came down, and then right across to sit on the footstool next to Margaret’s seat. Her head was down, as though in supplication, and for a moment, Margaret forgot that Helena didn’t know who she was. It seemed ridiculous, to have a person mean so much and not know that.
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