Settlement

by Ann Birch

  Sam filled in the trench, and Emily placed the coneflowers in a pickle jar on the fresh grave.

  It was altogether a happier group of little girls that began the march back to the house, stopping from time to time to throw snowballs. Miss Siddons joined in the game, while Sam and Mary and the coachman trudged ahead.

  “Resurrection for a bunch of squawking hens? Really, Sam, that was a bit too much.”

  “More likely for them, I’d say, than for some of the people I’ve seen buried recently.”

  He was glad to hear her laugh.

  At the stable door, Sam waved goodbye to his family and Miss Siddons. “Got some business to clean up here,” he said. When they were out of earshot, he turned to the coachman. “Get me one of the rifles.”

  He set off back to the henhouse and beyond it into the wild bush. The snow was not deep, and the trail was easy to follow, even though some of the blood had washed off in the snow. When the footprints disappeared into the hollow of a huge, dying oak tree, he stopped and lay down on the ground to wait.

  It was a long wait. His fingers grew numb, and the snow melting under him made his whole chest and the front of his legs wet. How long was it? An hour? Two hours? He dared not move to pull out his pocket watch.

  Then a black snout appeared and disappeared. Then a hiatus of a minute or two or three. Then the whole head and forelegs. Sam pulled the trigger. A blast of shot, and the creature lay dead.

  He pulled the fox from its lair and laid the carcass on the snow. It was a large vixen with a beautiful tail, which he cut off. Perhaps the skin could be treated and a fur collar made for Emily. He left the rest of the bloody mess beside its lair—the Indians who sometimes came through the property from the lake would probably pick up the pelt—and began the trek home.

  As he trudged on through the snow, he made up his mind to buy more chickens at the market on Saturday. Emily could come with him and pick out the ones she liked. She would then have new pets to care for, and he would have fresh eggs for his breakfast.

  It was only as he sighted the rear entrance to his house that he considered what he had done. There were surely cubs in that hole in the old oak tree. Without their mother, they would die.

  The vixen had tried in the only way she knew to feed her family. To care for their young: that was the lot of all creatures on God’s earth, man or beast. It was his own biggest responsibility. Perhaps it was something the fine Mrs. Jameson would not understand, playing the role of fine lady to her fine husband. Nothing on her mind but the big decision of what newspaper to read.

  He looked down at the bit of fur in his hand. It seemed diminished and pathetic. With the butt of his rifle, he scooped a hole in the midden at the back of the house and put the tail into it.

  SIX

  Mrs. Powell had extended an invitation for afternoon tea, and Anna’s driver, Hawkins, took her east along King Street to York Street. She had grown accustomed to touring the town daily to leave cards or to visit people who had called on her in her first days in her new residence.

  But she could not get used to the cold that bit her nose and made her forehead ache. Only her feet were comfortable, warmed by the foot muff her friend Ottilie had given her before she’d left Europe. As they slid along the snow-covered streets, she huddled inside the buffalo robes that Hawkins had piled over her.

  “Mrs. Powell’s house, just ahead, ma’am,” he said, then she heard a loud “Damnit, you bastard!” as they narrowly missed a careening conveyance pulled by two huge oxen. It was not really a sleigh at all, only a large board platform raised upon runners, and heaped with logs held on by a few upright poles tied at the top with a rope.

  “Apologies, ma’am, but the rogue nearly hit us.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m seeing, Hawkins. Are those really frozen reindeer lashed to the top of that pile of logs?” But already the sleigh—if it could be called that—had plunged a hundred feet down the road as Hawkins pulled up in front of the Powell residence.

  It was a white frame house with a wide front porch two storeys high, which gave the place the look of a hotel. Hawkins pulled the buffalo robes off her and helped her descend. “Back in an hour, ma’am,” he said.

  The maidservant waited while Anna shed coat, gaiters, hat, lined gloves, and unwound from her neck the warm knit scarf that Mrs. Hawkins had produced from somewhere. In the drawing room, she met Mrs. Powell, her daughter Eliza, and a girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen whom Mrs. Powell introduced as “my granddaughter, Sophia.” Anna was also glad to see Mary Jarvis, the pretty and pleasant wife of the man who had garnered so much praise for an act of vandalism. And there was a woman called Mrs. Fitzgibbon, a smiling lady of perhaps sixty, who wore a dove-grey dress with a fine piece of lace at her neck.

  “Mr. Jameson introduced me to your husband, Colonel Fitzgibbon,” Anna said, curtseying. “A great hero of the War of 1812, so everyone tells me, though he himself denies everything. I’m summoning my courage to ask him to take me for a ride on the lake in his cutter.” She’d found out that these were the fancy sleighs, drawn by one horse, in which the officers from the garrison raced each other over the ice.

  “Perhaps it would be more fitting to go with your husband,” Mrs. Powell said. “In this small world, ladies must be ever vigilant to avoid gossip.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbon laughed. “Dear Mrs. Powell, Mrs. Jameson must go with Fitz. He loves to show off his fine horse and his excellent driving skills. She will have the ride of her life.”

  “Perhaps you would tell him how privileged I’d be to have that ride?” Anna smiled at Mrs. Fitzgibbon, then, remembering her manners, turned to her hostess. “Your house has an admirable location.”

  “Humph,” the old woman muttered. She was swathed in widow’s weeds from head to foot, though Anna knew that her husband, Chief Justice William Powell, had died over two years before. “When it was built, it did indeed occupy a prestigious site commanding an excellent view of the lake. Now, Eliza and I must put up with the commercial district that has grown around us, including that dreadful place.” She gestured in the direction of the British Coffee House which they could see from the front window.

  “Ah yes, my husband says it is a place where a gentleman can get middling ale and vile beer and where one can meet the famous— perhaps infamous—William Lyon Mackenzie,” Anna said.

  A silence ensued. At such moments, as Anna had already discovered during her visits, someone would mention the weather. So she said, “I have never been so cold. When I looked at the thermometer an hour ago, it stood at eighteen degrees below zero. A glass of water by my bedside was a solid mass of ice this morning.”

  Anna’s hostess looked at her over the top of her little round spectacles. “In a well-regulated household, such things should not happen, Mrs. Jameson. You must speak to your staff.”

  There was another pause while a maidservant, noticeably pregnant, set down rolled fish-paste sandwiches and the raisin-filled scones that were the staple of Toronto tea parties. Derby cakes, they were called. “You probably notice my maid has done those things which she ought not to have done,” Mrs. Powell said, waiting until the girl had departed, but not bothering to lower her voice. “No husband, of course, and any day now I expect to have to support the child as well as the mother.”

  She poured tea from an engraved silver pot. “I have been named Honorary Patroness of the Bazaar for the Poor,” she told Anna. “You have perhaps heard that I am lending my name to the event until Lady Head feels able to assume her responsibilities after her long journey from England.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And may we look for your assistance in sewing for the bazaar?”

  “I must decline. I have no needle skills. My interests are writing and translating, sketching and engraving.” Anna turned to the granddaughter seated beside her on the sofa. The girl was looking at her small hand on which glittered a large sapphire ring. “And what are your interests, my dear?”

  “Sophia is
to be married this summer. Her ‘interests’, as you call them, are in embroidering petticoats and hemming sheets.”

  “And I am helping her,” Eliza said. Her face was flushed and her voice too loud.

  “After your marriage, your husband’s welfare must of course be paramount among your concerns, my dear Sophia,” her grandmother said. “I saw that Mr. Powell’s breakfast was always up to snuff. He had to have fresh bread with a good dollop of butter to start the new day. I went to the kitchen at four thirty each morning to see that Cook had fired up the bake oven in time to make the loaves. It was one of my most important wifely duties, for I—and indeed my whole family—knew that Mr. Powell’s digestion at breakfast determined the course of the day thereafter.”

  Anna choked on a piece of Derby cake but recovered in time to give her full attention to the ensuing dissertation on “The Management of Husbands”.

  “Lead up to difficult topics gradually and make sure you have his full attention when you speak,” Mrs. Powell asserted. “Once you are married, dear”—at this point she rapped her silver spoon against the teapot—“you will find that your husband’s interests are no longer entirely centred on you.”

  Anna said, “Inevitably, his mind will be distracted by important issues like the quality of his wine and the reading of his newspaper.” She was beginning to enjoy herself.

  “Very true,” Mary Jarvis added. “But nevertheless, Sophia, one has a reasonable chance at happiness in marriage if one does not expect too much of it.”

  “I do not think this is a subject for levity, Mary—and Mrs. Jameson. Married ladies can always give useful advice.” Mrs. Powell shook her head vigorously, and two sausage curls popped out from her black cap.

  “Oh, Mama,” Mrs. Jarvis said, “what’s wrong with a laugh?”

  Sophia got up from the sofa, her face very red. “You’re making fun of me. I’m going to my room.”

  Mrs. Fitzgibbon put out her hand and touched the girl’s sleeve. “Please, sit down, my dear, while I tell you the loveliest story I know about marriage.” Reassured, Sophia smiled and resumed her seat.

  “During the War of 1812, there was a brave captain stationed at Queenston Heights. One day he went to his commanding officer, General Sheaffe, and asked for leave of absence to go to Kingston.

  “The general said, ‘No, captain, your country needs you here. We expect another invasion from those damned Yankees within hours.’

  “So the captain spoke up, ‘Sir, you command me on the battlefield, but you cannot command me in the affairs of the heart. If you give me leave, I will be back in three days. But if you refuse me, I will go to Kingston anyway. There is a little girl there that I love, and if I can marry her before I am killed, she will have the pension of a captain’s widow.’

  “General Sheaffe got out his musical snuff box, as he always did when anyone crossed him. He snuffed deeply, sneezed three times, then he said, ‘Leave of absence granted.’

  “So the captain mounted his horse, rode one hundred and fifty miles in an exceedingly short time, married his little girl, and returned on the following day to his duties, and to fight another battle.

  “And he lived, Sophia, to be the father of a fine family of four brave sons and one gentle daughter. And he and I love each other as much as we did all those years ago.”

  “I envy you, Mrs. Fitzgibbon,” Anna said. “You married a man of spirit, and you have been happy. How many married people can claim such bliss?”

  Sophia took a cambric handkerchief from her cuff and dabbed her eyes.

  The maid came in again, this time with a decanter of sherry, which she poured into six crystal glasses. Anna noticed that Eliza downed hers in a gulp and reached again for the decanter. Mrs. Powell moved the sherry out of her reach, setting it on a small table beside her chair and keeping her hand on it.

  “Your local engraver, Mr. Tazewell, has been a great help in the preparation of ten etchings for my American publisher,” Anna said, seeking a diversion. “It took me twenty days to complete them, and now I must find a courier who will take my plates to New York.”

  “Why, ma’am, there is no need to worry,” Mrs. Powell said. “I can assure you that I sent twelve place settings of Coalport to my brother in New York, and not a cup was smashed.”

  “Coalport, Mrs. Powell?” Then Anna realized that she had not made herself clear. “Not china. The plates are glass, and I make my etchings upon them.”

  Eliza laughed too loudly. “Oh, Mama, you are so…so…funny.”

  The old woman’s face flushed. Anna took a pencil and paper from her reticule. “But fine china and glass are not unalike, are they? Both need careful handling. My dear ma’am, if you will be so kind as to give me the name of your courier, I shall send him a note and see what he thinks can be done with my engravings.”

  Anna and Mrs. Jarvis left at the same time and stood together for a minute in the street as they waited for their sleighs to arrive. “Mama is greatly worried over Sophia, Mrs. Jameson. My brother has little interest in his family, and his wife is...is indifferent as well. That’s why Mama goes on about the rules of marriage. She thinks by laying down the law on the management of husbands, she can forestall catastrophe. Her other granddaughter, my niece Elizabeth, has just run off with a military man, leaving her two small daughters to the mercy of their violent father. I fear for their safety.”

  “I can understand a woman fleeing from abuse, Mrs. Jarvis. But forgive my ignorance. Why does she not take the little ones with her?”

  “Because the courts in Upper Canada always assign the custody of the children to their father. Even if he can scarcely remember their names. Oh, ma’am, you who have no children must find it hard to understand the burdens women bear in this world.”

  “I am not completely ignorant of women’s burdens.”

  “Have you heard it said that marriage is a nine-month preparation for death? That was my own experience with a stillborn son. And then little Eddie died at one year of age. But I have eight living children. And fortunately, a kind husband. But even if he beat me black and blue every day of my life, as Elizabeth’s husband did, I would not—could not—abandon my children.”

  Anna took Mrs. Jarvis’s gloved hand in hers. “My dear, in some respects, I am fortunate in my own married life. I am free to pursue my own life and my own happiness.”

  Their sleighs pulled up to the curb, and they said farewell. Yes, thought Anna, as the sleigh headed back to Newgate Street, there may be fates worse than my unhappy marriage. If I had children to worry about, I’d have to stick with Robert.

  SEVEN

  Lead up to difficult subjects gradually, and make sure you have your husband’s full attention when you speak.” Mrs. Powell’s comments came to mind as Anna sat across from her husband at breakfast.

  “If you are to advance yourself, Robert, we must entertain. And since there are few theatres, ditto for clubs, we must provide an occasion where people can meet and talk. Put yourself forward, and you will find promotion.”

  He folded his paper and cast it aside. He poured himself a cup of coffee and one for her. He leaned towards her, his brown eyes intent on her face. “And what ideas do you have, Anna?”

  “We will have a levee here on New Year’s Day and invite all the most influential gentlemen in the town—and their wives—to visit and partake of excellent food and drink. I am told that the levee is the most important occasion in the holiday season. It will be an opportunity to show yourself to advantage.”

  “In this town, it is a ‘gentlemen only’ function.”

  “No, no. We must ask the wives as well. There is a good deal of gossip over the Derby cakes and tea. So what better way to spread the word about our ‘happy marriage’?”

  “Gentlemen only, Anna. We must not flout convention.” Robert looked at his surroundings. “But these rented rooms are hardly suitable. And Mrs. Hawkins is hardly capable of providing good—”

  “Have you not noticed how your meals h
ave improved since my arrival?” She pointed to the crumbs and smears on her husband’s plate. “You appear to enjoy Mrs. Hawkins’s marmalade on your biscuits.” She did not tell him that the woman had made it with eight pounds of imported Seville oranges and two cones of the most expensive sugar that the grocer offered. “Indeed,” she continued, “I find that Mrs. Hawkins has a fund of recipes that you, in your bachelor state, have never required. The servants are the least of our problems.”

  “What, then, is needed?”

  “Your carte blanche to have the principal rooms repapered, and some comfortable chairs purchased. For the walls, when they are ready, I can furnish some sketches I have made since my arrival. Mr. Tazewell will frame them for a small outlay and provide some pleasant lithographs of his own for additional decoration. It will all cost you a modest outlay, yes, but the results will be worth it.”

  Her husband stared beyond her at the peeling wallpaper and the sparsely furnished room. His lips opened and closed, as if he were doing sums in his head.

  “Order whatever is necessary.”

  “Leave it to me. Meanwhile, I shall get the invitations out.”

  “No invitations. The gentlemen of the town make the rounds of the best houses without formality.” He consulted his pocket watch and rose. “You are right, Anna. Any expenditure that will facilitate my appointment as Chancellor will be entirely worthwhile. I confess to the desire to leave my name in history books as the first Chancellor of Upper Canada.”

  “Amen to that. You shall be bound up in a book of jurisprudence. I say this from my heart.”

  “Have your little joke, my dear. But I take it as a compliment.” He paused as he put on his coat and top hat. “And I must tell you that you have evidently made a favourable impression on Sam Jarvis and his good wife. They have invited us for Christmas dinner. It may be diverting, though I hope we are not subjected to all those children. At any rate—with some reservations, mind you—I accepted.”