by Ann Birch
From the front window, Anna watched Robert stride across the street on his way to the courtroom. It had been a satisfactory breakfast hour.
She turned away from the window, laughing to herself. In the space of a mere three weeks in this outpost, she had become everything of which Mrs. Powell would approve. She would sit down now while the moment was fresh in her mind and write to Ottilie von Goethe. Her friend would be amused to hear of her metamorphosis into a, a—what would Ottilie call it?—eine biedere Hausfrau.
But the inkwell was not on the table in her bedchamber. She pulled the bell for Mrs. Hawkins. The woman was there in an instant, wearing a clean apron and a modest, grey-striped dress. “Ink, if you please.”
“Right away, ma’am. I be just this moment warming the inkwell on the hearth. I looked to it while you and the master was at breakfast. The ink was froze solid.”
“Well done, Mrs. Hawkins, thank you.”
“What is all this writing about, ma’am?”
Anna was beginning to enjoy the Canadian servant, if Mrs. Hawkins could be considered typical of the serving classes. In England, they did what they were told without question. Here, they spoke up.
“I’ve decided to write a book about Toronto. My title will be, I believe, Winter Studies in Upper Canada. ”
“Oh, ma’am, there be so much to write on that subject. It will be a heavy book.”
“So much? Really? I find very little so far to write about. But I do have an observation to make that I must set down as soon as you’ve warmed the ink. ‘One day of a Canadian winter is only distinguishable from another by the degrees of the thermometer’.”
Mrs. Hawkins put a finger to her chin in the manner of Anna’s London editor. “Perhaps it be clever, ma’am. I do not set myself to judge. But it also be what every newcomer says of this country.”
“Really?”
“You must get out and about, ma’am. Watch the savages catch their fish from holes on the ice. Go to the falls at Niagara. Have a ride in one of them fancy cutters and a race on the lake. There be nothing like falling into a soft snowbank. You won’t be getting that thrill in one of them fine places you come from.”
“I am going for a ride on the ice soon with Colonel Fitzgibbon. What do you think of that, Mrs. Hawkins?”
The woman clapped her hands.
“I hope not to be one of those stereotyped Englishwomen you speak of. I am making progress. Indeed, I have even got used to the smell of people.”
“Smell, ma’am?” Mrs. Hawkins’s fingers touched her chin again.
“I couldn’t figure it out at first. Now I know it’s from the layers of buffalo robes that everyone piles over themselves when they go out in their sleighs. There is also a ranker, wilder smell—especially from the officers at the garrison. The source of that one eluded me for a while. Now I have discovered it comes from the bearskins they prefer. But an assiduous washing down with lavender soap at the end of the day removes the stink, I’ve discovered.”
Mrs. Hawkins left the room without further comment and returned in a minute with the inkwell, which she set down on Anna’s table without asking as she usually did, “Anything else, ma’am?”
She did not close the door as she left—was it an intentional omission?—and Anna could hear her comment to her husband, “Just when I be getting to like her, she turns into Lady Snob.”
EIGHT
By noon on Christmas Day, the drawing room at Hazelburn was filled to bursting with Sam, Mary, their eight children, and invited guests.
“Into the breakfast room, everyone,” Sam announced over the din of voices.
“For Bag and Stick!”
“Bag and Stick!”
It had been Mary’s idea to invite Jameson and his wife. “I think Mrs. Jameson may feel lonely in this new environment,” she’d said. “I didn’t like her much when I first met her, but she grows on one.” He’d agreed. It was always a good idea to keep in with the Attorney-General. And Dr. Widmer and his wife would probably enjoy meeting the much-talked-of authoress.
But now Jameson looked quite put out by the shrieks from the children. “I think I’ll just have to be an old stick myself and decline, if no one minds.”
“Not at all,” Sam said, pouring a glass of sherry for his guest and pointing him to a comfortable chair. He noticed that Mrs. Jameson had joined the young people in the breakfast room.
“And I,” Sam’s mother added, “shall be an old bag and sit here in comfort by the fire and work on my embroidery. Please do not feel you must talk to me, Mr. Jameson. I shall be counting stitches.”
“I decline as well,” Mrs. Powell said. “Instead of getting knocked about and putting my back out, Sam, I shall go belowstairs and instruct your cook on the heating of my bread sauce.”
So without the two old bags and the old stick, Sam went into the breakfast room.
The furniture had been pushed into corners, the china stowed safely away, and the centre of the room left bare for the game. Sam suspended a paper bag filled with sweets from a string tied to the chandelier. First he blindfolded his five oldest children and Mary. Then the rest of them: Mrs. Jameson, Dr. and Mrs. Widmer, and his sister-in-law, Eliza.
“Everyone know the rules?”
Everyone did.
“And Caroline, Charlotte, Charlie and I will make sure that the players spin like dervishes until they are quite dizzy. That way no one can cheat.”
Mrs. Jameson, as guest of honour, went first. She spun round and round and round. Then five-year-old Charlotte put a stick into her hand. She swung it towards the centre of the room, striking out three times as the rules permitted, but failing to hit the paper bag.
“You’re out!” Charlie said. The lady retired to a corner of the room and took off her blindfold.
Next came Mrs. Widmer. She seemed dizzy enough, but as she went round and round, she managed to fall into Sam in such a way that her plump bosom pressed against him.
“Watch out, Papa,” little Caroline said, “the lady’s titties keep bumping you.”
“I’m next.” Mary moved into the centre of the room and gave Mrs. Widmer a dig in the ribs with her elbow. “Whoops, excuse me,” she said. “I can’t see a thing.” Then she twirled around and around, and, when Charlotte handed her a stick, she aimed straight for the bag, giving it such a wallop that the paper tore and the candies scattered far and wide.
Everyone took off their blindfolds and went for the candy. The adults and the older children let the little ones discover the best pieces first. Sam noticed that Mrs. Jameson dropped one of her candies directly in front of Charlie’s small arm.
Mary found a piece that had skipped under the buffet in the corner. She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth. “Yum, marzipan. My favourite!”
Sam pulled her under the mistletoe in the hallway. He kissed her sticky lips. “Merry Christmas, my dear,” he said while the children and guests looked on and applauded.
“Don’t forget to pluck a berry from the mistletoe, Papa!” yelled William and George.
“And now,” Sam said, “it’s time to see—”
“What St. Nicholas brought!” Charlie ran towards the staircase, followed by Caroline and Charlotte. “When he came down Papa’s chimbly!”
“Wait, my darlings,” Sam said. “Let us get the rules straight first. The three of you must go with your big brothers and sisters. William, George and Sam, you are in charge. You will get all the stockings down from the hooks over the fireplace. You must be very careful of the fire.”
The adults settled into their chairs in the drawing room, and Sam poured sherry for everyone. Mrs. Powell reappeared from belowstairs, saying, “I think Cook understands what must be done. My dear Mary, you can’t be too careful with bread sauce.”
The shouts from Sam’s bedchamber made them all smile. “Only three of them still believe in St. Nicholas,” Sam said, “but everyone gets a red felt stocking.”
“And this year, the older boys had a good idea,�
�� Mary said. “They took a horseshoe from the stable and made reindeer tracks in the snow. So they’ve all been outdoors this morning to see them. And imagine, just beyond the big red oak in our back garden, the tracks stopped.”
“Where the reindeer flew off into the sky, of course,” Mrs. Jameson said.
Mary laughed. “And the little ones stared upwards as if they might still spot those coursers going back to the Northland.”
“It’s all so much happier than when I was a child,” Mrs. Jameson said, “and the mummers appeared at the front door in strange disguises—I remember monsters and devils—and scared my sisters and me with intrusive questions about our behaviour during the year. My answers were never good enough to satisfy them.”
There was a clatter of footsteps on the staircase, and the children reappeared, each with a bulging red felt stocking. They emptied out the contents onto the floor. Each stocking had an orange which Mary had bought from Mr. Wood’s store. Then a packet of shortbread—“I gave the recipe to St. Nicholas,” Sam’s mother said to the guests—then a small box of candied ginger, walnut halves, and dried sweet apples and dates. Finally, on top, the wrapped wooden gifts made by Mr. Ross, carpenter and undertaker. This year, Mary had ordered a box for Sam Jr.’s treasures, and wagons, marionettes and dollies for the younger children.
“Miss Siddons has a party for you all in the nursery now,” Sam said. “Off you go and enjoy it while we have dinner.”
“Oh Papa, Miss Siddons has a puzzle for us, too,” Ellen said. “It’s General Washington on his white stallion, and if Emily and I can put it together in an hour, she’ll give us a prize.”
The dinner gong sounded then, and the adults went into the dining room, where Cook and her helper had set out the roast goose, cranberry-orange relish, brussels sprouts and whipped potatoes. Sam carved, and Mrs. Powell spooned liberal portions of bread sauce onto everyone’s plates, whether they wanted it or not. The manservant James poured the wine.
Sam sat down. “It’s a happy day for me, too. Sir Francis Bond Head told me yesterday that I am the new Superintendent of Indian Affairs.”
“Bravo, Jarvis,” Widmer said.
Jameson raised his glass. “Well done.”
“More money, I take it,” Mrs. Widmer said. “It will be welcome with all those children.”
Mary’s mother set down her knife and fork and picked up the monocle she brought to parties. It dangled on a chain around her neck. Conversation stopped while she affixed the glass to her right eye and stared at Mrs. Widmer as though she were some strange beetle that had taken up residence under the carpet. “Mr. Jarvis’s finances are surely his private concern, ma’am.”
Sam downed his wine in a gulp, and James, who hovered by the sideboard, refilled his glass. Sam smiled at his mother-in-law. “As you undoubtedly know, ma’am, Dr. Widmer has for many years held the mortgages on my properties. My improved finances may indeed be of interest to him.”
Beneath the starched linen tablecloth—as he said this—he felt a gentle pressure on his left foot. Certainly not Mary. She was at the other end of the table. It was, of course, the Widmer woman. He leapt to his feet and picked up the large spoon beside the goose. “Did I remember to give everyone stuffing?”
“Are you too hot, Sam?” Mary said. “Your face is very red.”
“My son is an excellent choice for the post,” his mother was saying in her gentle voice. “He even has an Indian name, you know, given to him by his friend, grandson of a Chippewa chieftain, whom my dear late husband and I knew when we lived at Niagara.”
Mrs. Jameson leaned forward. “How wonderful! Oh, Mr. Jarvis, I hope you will introduce me to some Indians. It would be a welcome diversion. But much more than that. It would provide material for my book on Upper Canada.”
Mrs. Widmer giggled. “I’d better behave, or I’ll find myself described in Chapter One: ‘Indians and Other Savages in the New World’.”
No one laughed.
The ceremony of the plum pudding came next. James brought it in, alight in the blue flame of the whiskey which Cook had drizzled over it. Mary cut substantial pieces for everyone, pouring the rum sauce liberally over each serving.
“How many sides has a plum pudding?” Dr. Widmer asked. No one pretended to know, though the joke was an old one.
“Two: inside and outside.” In the polite laughter that followed, Sam was able to move his foot well out of reach of Mrs. Widmer’s.
After dinner, the cloth was whisked away, and Dr. Widmer, the Attorney-General and Sam filled their glasses with port and passed round the walnuts and nutcracker while the ladies retired to the drawing room. Soon Sam could hear Eliza at the pianoforte banging out something from Mozart. She had the touch of a cow moose.
“Mary has taken a liking to your good wife, Jameson.”
“Ah yes, I had hoped that Anna would make friends. I have not been much in society myself, as you may know, but she has taken me in hand and pushes me here and there.” Jameson poured another glass of port, downed it in a gulp, and having made this effort at conversation, slumped in his chair and closed his eyes.
The doctor cracked a nut and popped the meat into his mouth. “It is kind of you to invite us to Christmas each year, Jarvis. These feast days are dull when you have no children around to brighten them.”
“You’ve done me many a good turn over the years, Widmer.” Sam looked over at Jameson. His head was tilted, and his mouth had fallen slightly open. In a softer voice, he added, “I have not forgotten your help when I needed it.”
A slight frown deepened the wrinkles of Widmer’s pale forehead. “I sometimes think of that poor young man. But I know he instigated the whole thing.” Widmer cracked open another nut. “Whatever happened, Jarvis, it’s water under the bridge.”
Water under the bridge, yes, but Sam would never forget that bloody corpse. Or his subsequent lie in the courtroom when he’d stated that Ridout had lived long enough to offer his forgiveness. Widmer, who’d been the coroner, had said it was possible the death had not been instant.
Sam poured himself another glass of port and avoided the doctor’s gaze. They sat for a while in silence. Then Sam looked at his pocket watch. “Time to join the ladies. Shall we take our port and see what they’re up to?”
The scraping of their chairs awoke Jameson. “Sorry, gentlemen. Worked too late last night.”
Eliza was still at the pianoforte. Sam’s mother and mother-in-law sat at opposite ends of the settee where they were intent on their embroidery, Mary and Mrs. Jameson played cribbage, and Mrs. Widmer had positioned herself in the hallway under the mistletoe. She smiled at the men as they came from the dining room.
“Which of you will be the lucky man?” She looked at Sam. Her bodice had slipped down on one side, exposing an expanse of plump white shoulder.
“I am the lucky person, of course, my dear,” Widmer said as Sam and Jameson hurried by her. Jameson joined the cribbage players, and Sam took a seat between the old ladies. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the perfunctory kiss was already over. Widmer plucked a berry from the mistletoe.
Miss Siddons appeared in the archway of the drawing room with Caroline, Charlotte, Charlie and the older girls. “The little ones want to go out and look at the reindeer tracks again,” she said. “I shall take them, and Emily and Ellen will finish their puzzle upstairs.”
“I have a small gift for your schoolroom,” Mrs. Jameson said, rising from the cribbage table and making her way over to the governess. From her reticule, she brought out a small book.
“A dictionary?” Miss Siddons looked at the cover and turned the pages. “And written by you, ma’am?”
“It was my first book—I was twenty-one when I compiled it—and it is the one I’m proudest of. I was a governess then, and I published it for the small boys I taught. It has four thousand words that children may meet in conversation or in the books they read.”
Miss Siddons showed the book to Emily and Ellen. “We
are honoured. We shall use it in our compositions tomorrow.” Sam was glad that his girls looked as pleased as their governess.
Sam Jr., William and George came in. Their voices were rather loud. Perhaps they were nervous, or—more likely—they had been sampling the bottle of whiskey Sam kept in the top drawer of the chiffonier in his bedchamber. “Who’d like to see Papa’s antlers?”
Most of the guests looked mystified. “Papa’s horns?” said Mrs. Widmer. “It would be a treat to see those.” She winked at Sam.
“Antlers, Mrs. Widmer. From a moose that I shot in October on a hunting trip with my Indian friend.”
“With a span of nearly six feet,” Mary said, “and not a point broken.”
“And you have them somewhere on display?” Mrs. Jameson asked. “I should love to see them.”
“They are worth a look, I assure you. Mary took them down to King Street to Mr. Ross, carpenter, coffin-maker and undertaker.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Jarvis. What did this Mr. Ross do with them?”
“He mounted them on a fine piece of black walnut, then he came to the house and put them up on a wall in the nursery. They are magnificent. But after all, Mr. Ross’s motto is—”
“WE SHOW YOUR LOVED ONES TO ADVANTAGE!” The boys shouted this at full voice. Everyone laughed.
Sam left the boys to do the honours and stayed in the drawing room with Mary, Eliza, and the mothers. It was a relief to be rid of Mrs. Widmer for a few minutes.
Mid-afternoon, when the guests had reassembled, Mrs. Powell yawned and roused herself from her stitchery. “Come, Eliza, I told our coachman to be here at two thirty, and it is already past the time.”
It was the signal for everyone’s departure.
In the hallway Mrs. Powell saw the mistletoe and paused under it. “Dear Mr. Powell always enjoyed trying to catch me.” She sighed. “How the years have passed.” Sam noticed a smear of grease down the plain black bodice of her gown, no doubt from the bread sauce.