Happily working among the plants, Maisie watched the river lazily moving beyond the garden. It was a perfect fall afternoon, and she was glad to be outside. The poplars and willows along the riverbanks were turning yellow but the air felt light and deliciously warm for September. She checked the bushes near the house and saw that the rosehips were not quite ready to be gathered. She would have to remind the gardeners to delay pruning until the bright red berries had been picked.
Suddenly, she was startled by the sound of shouting. She turned to see that it was coming from the third floor, where Mr. James was flinging a book from his window. It was followed by another and another and several more after that. All the while, he was yelling something about his miserable schooling. Maisie heard the window slam shut as she ducked for cover. Slowly, she stood and stared horror-struck at the scattered books, their pages lying crumpled against the freshly tilled flowerbeds. Heavy, expensive textbooks, they were. She picked her way over and found that they were books on anatomy, biology and common diseases. Gently gathering them up, she dusted the dirt from one, surveyed the cracked spine on another and discovered wet pages on a third. She was aghast. Why would anyone do such a terrible thing? She carried the heavy stack into the kitchen and excitedly explained what happened to Mrs. Butterfield.
“Did they land on you? Are you hurt?” The housekeeper demanded.
“Oh, no, I’m fine, Mrs. Butterfield, but I’m afraid some of Mr. James’ books are damaged rather badly. I’ll clean them as best I can and take them back up to him.”
“No, you will not, Miss Maisie! You will march them straight out to the trash bin.”
“The trash? Mrs. Butterfield! I can’t put books in the garbage.”
“Yes, you can, and you must. Let me explain what is going to happen here, if you don’t do as I suggest. If you clean the books and take them to Mr. James, he will yell at you. He will demand that you remove the books from his sight, and threaten to set fire to them before he tosses them out of the window again.” She lowered her voice at Maisie’s shocked expression. “You see, he is quite spoiled. It’s best not to upset him further.”
“Oh, my,” said Maisie. “What if he calms down and then wants them back?”
“Well, I can only tell you what happened last time. A few months before you came, young Mr. James was taking a run at law school, you see. Whilst Mr. Willows was working in the library, Mr. James had become frustrated and tossed his books, one by one, out of his bedroom window up there, exactly as he did today. Well, don’t you know that they flew down right in front of the library window, where Mr. Willows was sitting? Mr. Willows became very angry, indeed. He summoned Mr. James and there was a good deal of shouting. Mr. Willows told his son he was behaving in a boorish and ridiculous fashion. This time, Mr. Willows is abroad, and we will miss out on the entertainment. Mr. James must sort this out on his own. He has an allowance to buy new books, so don’t you worry about it.”
“But they are books! I must take them and ask him if he wants them back. Maybe he is less angry now.”
Seeing Maisie’s determination, the housekeeper threw her hands up. “Well, you suit yourself, but be ready to move quickly in case he throws something at you.”
Twenty minutes later, Maisie was back in the kitchen with the books.
“Oh, Mrs. Butterfield!” she spluttered. “He is terribly rude and most frightening.”
“Well, I told you so.” She planted her knuckles on her round hips. “Now, off you go. I told you he doesn’t want them back. Hurry along now and get rid of them. It’s time to start mixing up the bread dough.”
“Mrs. Butterfield,” Maisie looked down at the books and felt her heart pounding.
“What is it? We don’t have all day, child.” She dropped the big flour sack onto the table and sent a cloud of white up around them both.
“Do you think I might put them away in my room? I think it is a sin to throw out books.”
“Suit yourself. I don’t see any harm in it. Just don’t let him catch you with them, as you will learn, when Mr. James pitches a tantrum there is generally another one coming behind it. He has all of the bad temper of his father and none of the charm. Horrible little snot.” She looked at the clock near the stove and reached for the flour. “Now come along, Maisie. Let’s set the bread dough to rising.”
Maisie was thrilled. Books! Books she could keep. She would have real medical texts to read at night. Her life was filled with good fortune.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Spring Ride
April 16, 1902
Maisie poured steaming coffee into the silver pot she’d so carefully polished, and smoothly set it into position next to the warm scones. She took a brief moment to admire the tray, which she believed was the picture of sophistication with lace edged linens setting off the delicate Limoges china and the jams arranged precisely the way she had been taught. With Mrs. Butterfield quarantined in her room with illness, and Lizzie away with Mrs. Willows, today was the day Maisie would move up in rank to parlor maid. Even if it was a temporary assignment, she felt almost giddy with accomplishment.
It had been almost two years since she had come to Ravenscraig and she’d learned a good deal about the lowly jobs in the kitchen and in housekeeping. Parlor duties were a significant step up and she was determined to show Mr. Chadwick that she was ready for promotion. All was in perfect readiness, as she looked up into the approving face of the butler.
“Now, remember, Mr. James does not care to be involved in conversation, especially when he is studying. It is unlikely that he will speak to you at all. When you go up, be sure to put the tray down on the hall table next to the newspaper and not on top of it. Do not take in the newspaper unless he requests it. You will rap twice on the door, gently, so as not to disturb him more than necessary. Do not enter until he has beckoned. If he does not answer, knock again, but do remember to apologize for interrupting his work. Place the tray on the table to the right of his desk, and ask him if he wishes to have the curtains opened. On occasion, the morning light disturbs him. Do not pour the coffee. He prefers to do it himself. Ask if there is anything else he might desire. He may ask for the newspaper. You will then curtsy and remove yourself, closing the door with as little noise as is humanly possible. He is not likely to look up from his work. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Chadwick,” Maisie nodded and carried the silver tray up to the third floor.
James exhaled deeply as he reached for the book on infectious diseases. He refilled his inkwell and carefully inspected the pen nib for damage. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the paper. He counted out the sheets, as was his habit, and carefully restacked them. He was ready. He sighed. Now he’d have to actually get to the assignment. How he wished the work came more readily to him; the pressure of medical school was starting to wear at him. It was one thing to have so easily gained entrance to the Manitoba Medical College. The right family name opens doors faster than academic ability, he had learned, grimacing as he thought about it. The painful truth was that it was quite another thing to earn the title of doctor. But earn it, he would. With new resolve, he picked up his book and dove into the text.
Resolve or not, the light rapping at the door a few minutes later was more relief than bother, as it gave him a new excuse to escape from his work. Mrs. Butterfield was always punctual with his morning coffee.
“Good morning, sir, may I draw the coffee for you? Shall I pour the curtains?” To her utter horror, Maisie’s tongue had flown a good ten feet free of her brain.
“The curtains are open, and thank you, I shall be fine to pour my own coffee.” A smile formed at the corner of James’ mouth. He was surprised how pleased he was at the unexpected sight of Maisie, as he could not remember seeing her in parlor duties in the morning. And here she was, a lovely fluttering bird, discombobulated and fretting over her new tasks.
“What’s this now, Maisie? Where is Mrs. Butterfield?” he asked politely.
“Sh
e is confined to her room with the bronchitis, Mr. Willows.” Maisie’s eyes were on the lace on the tray.
“Ah, an infectious disease of the thoracic cavity, within our midst.” James poked his pen into the air for emphasis and glanced at Maisie, hoping to see that he had impressed her.
Her blank stare was a crushing blow. James was instantly appalled with what he saw as confirmation that he had just made a complete ass of himself. He felt heat rise under his collar as he thought of how pompous and stupid his remark must have sounded to her. Maisie, however, still unsteady from her blundered entry, remained unaware of any embarrassment in the room but her own. She wrestled her wits together and forced on.
“Well, it isn’t contagious any more, thankfully,” she said. “Mrs. Butterfield reports that she is feeling a good deal better and expects to be fully recovered in a day or two.”
“That is certainly good news.”
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
His pulse having returned to a normal rate, James unexpectedly found himself looking to delay her departure. Casting about for something sane to say, he glanced into his textbook and smiled back at Maisie.
“Not unless you can tell me what the tuberculosis authority, uh, yes, Dr. Sigard Adolphus Knopf has to say about dietary requirements for consumptive patients.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Maisie was instantly back on her home turf and responded automatically, as a well-prepared student to a professor. “He recommends that broth or soups should be taken at the principal meal, which he believes should be between noon and two, but a full four hours after breakfast. If the patient has a fever, he says it is best to wait for the fever to reach a low point before food is given and only to give the most easily digested foods. He says the consumptive must be encouraged to chew his food well.”
James was flabbergasted. “Anything else?”
Entirely engrossed in her passion for her studies, Maisie continued on. “Yes. Dr. Knopf thinks highly of feeding raw meat, particularly beef, to tuberculosis patients, very finely chopped or scraped and then mixed with a raw egg yolk.”
She tapped her finger on her chin as she took a moment to think, keeping her head down and her gaze fixed on her fingers playing with the edge of her apron. “If I may say so, I strongly disagree with this, as I believe raw food may cause additional problems. It would seem odd that Dr. Knopf would include that recommendation when the vast majority of patients suffering tuberculosis are from the poorer classes who may not have proper ice boxes or the money to spend on high quality fresh meat.”
Satisfied with the thoroughness of her explanation, Maisie pulled her mind from her medical thoughts and turned to face the young Mr. Willows. She was suddenly consumed with the notion that she must have sounded cheeky in adding her criticism of the great Dr. Knopf and instantly felt shame heating her face. She looked first into the bright blue eyes of the young man and then her brain shifted to register his slack-jawed stare back at her. The shock of realization pierced her, as a bubble pops when stabbed with a knife. What a stupid mistake to reveal her secret studies! How on earth had she let it happen?
Maisie’s hands flew to her face, as she felt her whole life disintegrating before her.
“If there is nothing further, sir, good day!” She abruptly excused herself and bolted for the door.
“Here now, just one moment.” James could not believe what he was hearing. “How is it you have so much knowledge? Is this Florence Nightingale in our midst?” Maisie felt her chest constrict and cursed her unchecked conceit. How could she have behaved in such a manner?
“Well, I ... well, I learned ...” Maisie’s heart pounded as she braced herself to be fired on the spot. “Oh, my, I am so sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Willows, please, do forgive my dreadful behavior.”
Dropping into a hasty curtsy she wheeled to face the door and only then realized that her foot had become tangled in her skirt. She was sent soaring headlong into the doorway. As fate would have it, she hit the opening at the exact same moment as James’s father was entering the room. Completely unprepared for the blow, Rupert went down as if tackled in a rugby match with Maisie coming to rest flat on top of him. Maisie shrieked, Rupert gasped, and James let out a laugh, loud enough to be heard throughout the house.
Chadwick, who had been concealed in the next doorway so that he could spy on the apprentice parlor maid, exploded onto the scene, tossing Maisie onto her feet and assisting Mr. Willows all in one movement. Everyone spoke apologies at once, and again James laughed heartily.
“I assure you it was I who caused the accident,” explained James as he reached to calm his flustered father. “It was entirely my fault, and I should be severely reprimanded for tormenting such a hard working member of our household staff.”
“James, what on earth is going on here?” demanded Rupert.
“Well, you see, I embarrassed poor Maisie through my teasing, and she was only trying to extricate herself as quickly as possible, and wouldn’t it be my luck that you, Father, would be entering the room at the same moment that Maisie was beating a hasty retreat, so you see this is truly all my fault.”
James’ explanation burbled forth with such youthful enthusiasm that Rupert’s anger immediately subsided and he was prompted to inject his own humor into the fray.
“I rather thought that we were going to learn something exciting about Maisie’s past. Have you ever worked with cattle, Maisie? Or, perhaps wrestled alligators?”
“Father, please, I do think poor Maisie has suffered enough this morning,” James insisted.
Maisie’s eyes locked onto the younger Mr. Willows with a gratitude that warmed him like the heat of the summer sun.
“I am ever so sorry! Please, do excuse me,” she stammered and barely remembered a curtsy before dashing from the room.
Any sign that there had been a mishap was by now erased from Rupert’s bearing. He turned to his manservant.
“I’m just fine, Chadwick. Accidents do happen, after all, and it would appear there has been no harm done.”
“Again, my apologies for being so wicked to Maisie,” James added. She is very conscientious in her duties and it was most unfair of me. Mr. Chadwick, please be sure to tell her.”
“Certainly, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?” Chadwick held his head high and spoke as if nothing untoward had occurred.
“No, thank you. The time is wasting and we are off to enjoy a morning ride,” Rupert answered on behalf of his son.
“Very good, sir.”
Chadwick bowed and with heightened dignity aimed at dulling the fresh memory of the disruptive scene, made his way elegantly on to his next duty. He would most certainly be having a chat with young Maisie! The thing of it was she had presented such a dilemma. He would first have to decide whether the exchange he had overheard about the medical issue was appalling or to be admired. What else was going on in this house that he did not know about?
“Well, now.” Rupert was all business. “You promised me you would leave that infernal studying and join me for a ride this morning. Let’s have a bit of fun, shall we? The weather could not be better, old chap, and our horses are certainly not going to be getting ready for the hunting season on their own.”
James was now completely thrown off his studies, not just by the eventful morning but even more so by the staggering display of knowledge from the housemaid. He groaned as he looked at the homework that beckoned and then toward the puckish smile on his father’s face.
“Father, it would give me great pleasure to accompany you on a ride this glorious April morning,” he enthused.
It was, indeed, a spectacular morning. The two rode out of Armstrong’s Point and made their way over the Assiniboine River by way of the Osborne Bridge.
“Everywhere you turn there is new construction in the city,” Rupert said as he admired the new mansions that were going up on Roslyn Road. “Just look at this colossal home, will you? Gus Nanton is building it and it’s to be c
alled Kilmorie, if you hadn’t heard the news. He told me it would be the finest home on Roslyn, and I daresay the old boy has done it. It’s very exclusive with the five acres of land he has set it on. Oh, it does remind me of England. Why, the stables are the finest money can build and the gatehouse itself is larger than many of the homes along Broadway. Winnipeg is the place to be, James. We did well making our move here when you and your brothers were young lads.”
“Well, it certainly is the place to be if you have money,” responded James.
“And you do, so what of it?”
“What of it? Father, I cannot believe you just said that.”
“Well, perhaps not as much as Nanton, but …”
“I don’t care about the money. Don’t you understand?” James rolled his eyes.
“Oh, yes, here we are again. You, who had the good fortune to have been born into a family that enjoys the comforts of wealth and power. You, my socially conscious son, are going to start ranting about the foreigners in our midst, “the strangers within our gates” as the Bible thumpers like to call them. I swear that you and Alfred must be in a conspiracy to see your father to an early grave with all this concern to be looking after the under classes. It confounds me, James,” Rupert shook his fist. “I tell you, this attitude of yours is a great disappointment to me.”
“Father, please. Alfred and I do see things a little differently than you do, of course, but there are very good reasons to look at these problems.”
“You are about to tell me, yet again, about the poverty and the muddy streets and the dirty little hovels that breed disease. Must you be such a, well, such a social reformer, James? It’s so tiresome. I can hardly believe you and Alfred are my sons. How is it possible you don’t see the many benefits of capitalism as I do? I find it astonishing that I have had so little influence on your thinking.”
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