by Ann Birch
“No.” Not a hussy, at any rate. Anna waited while Mary’s coachman helped her into the carriage. As she waved goodbye, she thought about the Christmas party and wondered why Mary would worry about the Widmer woman. At the same time she remembered herself leaning over to put on her boots at the Jarvis’s front door, and the fleeting glimpse she’d had of her host looking down at her legs. And there had been his kiss...
With a sigh, she mounted the stairs to rejoin her guests. With some effort, she hoped to get through the afternoon without pouring scalding tea down their ample bosoms.
EIGHTEEN
March and still not the slightest sign of spring. At the foot of the staircase, Anna donned her winter armour: coat, scarves, boots and the pattens she now found so necessary for her tramps through the snow. She put her hand on the door latch to go out, then paused. “Mrs. Hawkins,” she called.
The housekeeper came to the head of the stairs. “What is it, ma’am?”
“I thought I could do what I have to do by myself, but I think I need you. Can you possibly put aside whatever you’re doing and come with me to the jail?”
“The jail, ma’am?”
“To visit Jemmy’s mother. You remember that Mrs. Jarvis said she’d gone mad and been incarcerated? It’s bound to be a difficult visit, and I’ve never been in a jail before. I would be so glad of some moral support.”
A few minutes later they set out, walking east along King Street. When they got to Toronto Street, Mrs. Hawkins pointed to a substantial, two-storey red brick building. “There it be, ma’am.”
Anna noted its façade, topped by a pediment like that on a Greek temple, and the pilasters of cut stone on the front and sides of the building. “I suppose I should be impressed that Toronto’s finest architectual achievement is a jail?”
They mounted the steps to the front door, passing the stocks— fortunately unoccupied—and just as Anna was putting up her hand to bang on the knocker, the door opened, and a man burst forth. He was an ugly little person with an ill-fitting red wig and a jutting chin, the bottom of which was fringed with a ragged beard. His cheeks were wet with tears.
“Oh ma’am, look. Mr. Mackenzie.”
He did not hear Mrs. Hawkins’s quiet remark. He was wiping his nose with a crumpled handkerchief and seemed oblivious to their presence.
So this poor man was the evil reptile so despised by everyone she’d met. She stepped aside to let him pass, and then, aware that she might never have another opportunity to speak to him, she said, “Good day to you, Mr. Mackenzie. May I introduce myself? I am Anna Jameson.”
He looked at her fleetingly, his face contorted. “I’m sorry, ma’am, that it is not a time for making conversation. As you can see...” He ran down the steps.
The jailer, a man with a face that drooped like a bloodhound’s, held the door open and watched his visitor depart.
“Whatever is the matter with Mr. Mackenzie?” Anna asked.
“He’s been visiting the poor lad who’s to be hanged tomorrow. Used to work in Mackenzie’s print shop. Stole a horse he did. And Mac’s been hoping for a reprieve from the Governor. No luck, though. Fine folk such as His Royal Highness got no time for the likes of a printer’s apprentice.”
“You call him ‘Mac’. You know him well then, do you?”
“Everybody knows Mac. He stands up for the likes of us, and...” He seemed suddenly to remember that she was not one of his ilk. “And what is your business in this place, madam?”
“I’ve come to visit a young woman who has been incarcerated here because her sister thought she might take her own life.”
“Mrs. Sykes, you mean. A sorry case.” He motioned towards a staircase which led down to a place below the ground floor. “We keep the lunatics in the dungeon separate from the criminals and debtors in the main areas.”
The explanation seemed scarcely necessary. Even before Anna and her housekeeper followed the jailer downstairs, they could hear incessant howling and groans. “Keep up quite a caterwauling, so they do,” the jailer said. “I’m glad when Doc Widmer comes with the opiate. Shuts them up for a few blessed hours.”
Anna put a perfumed handkerchief to her nostrils. She could scarcely breathe.
“What is that dreadful smell?”
“Privy’s stopped up. Hope to see to it in the next day or two. But this jail is no place for a fine lady like yourself. Good enough for the scallywags that bide here.”
“Mrs. Hawkins and I live in a clean, well-aired house. Perhaps the poor mad people here deserve something as good. Mrs. Sykes, as you must know, lost a husband and a child in two days’ time. Surely she deserves compassion.”
The jailer made a noise in his throat that came near to being a guffaw. “Tell that to the powers that be. I just do what they tell me.” He gestured towards a corner of the dank, evil-smelling room they had just entered. “Take your time. Just come back up the stairs when you’ve had enough.”
Coming from the bright sunshine reflecting on the snow, they took a minute or two to adjust to the gloom. The moans and screams led them towards two crib-like cages placed on a bed of straw. They were the size of the lions’ cages Anna had seen long ago at a circus. Two women were chained to the bars at separate ends of one of these, and Mrs. Sykes was in the other. Her curly brown hair was matted and her face streaked with sweat, dirt and tears. Though she was not tied down, she could not stand up, the height of her cage being just enough to allow her to kneel and peer at them in the dim light.
“Do you know who I am?” Anna asked. There was no answer. “I talked to you and your sister the night of the fire —”
The poor woman’s cries grew louder. She banged her head against the bars of the crib.
“Best sing something, ma’am,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “Songs always soothe. Something they know.” She thought for a minute, then began, “Rock of ages, cleft for me.” Her voice was untrained but true.
Anna joined in. By the time she and Mrs. Hawkins got to the second stanza, the room’s inmates had stopped howling. By the final stanza, they had formed a chorus, their voices loud and ragged:
While I draw this fleeting breath,
When mine eyelids close in death,
When I soar through tracts unknown
See thee on thy judgment throne,
Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee.
“Again,” Mrs. Sykes said. And the other two caged women had already begun the first stanza.
So they sang the hymn again and again and again. By the time Anna was wondering if she might go mad herself from the grimness of the lyrics, the three women, one by one, had fallen asleep. She and Mrs. Hawkins finished the last lines of the hymn, waited a few minutes to make sure all was quiet, then crept upstairs, where the jailer was waiting for them by the front door.
“What can be done for poor Mrs. Sykes?” Anna asked.
“Nothing. Lunatics is lunatics. I try to keep them from harming themselves and each other. That’s it.”
“Is their food wholesome?”
“It is what the town budget allows me. Nothing fancy. Water and three half pence worth of bread daily. Porridge on state occasions.”
Mrs. Hawkins and Anna set out for home. For several blocks they said nothing, the only sound being the thump of their pattens in the snow. Then Mrs. Hawkins said, “I recognized Mrs. Sykes, that I did. Not more than a year back, she be making shrouds for the undertaker, Mr. Ross, just along the street here. The poor woman and her husband had put away enough to get on without Mrs. Powell and her do-gooders butting in. But now her man’s gone, and what can she do? Shroud-making with her wits so scrambled? It don’t bear thinking of.”
“No. But if she has skills as a needle-worker, there’s hope. Surely we can find something for her to do when she gets able to handle the grief of her losses. Meantime, I’m going to stop at that coffee house we passed earlier...what’s its name?”
“The British Coffee House, ma’am.”
“I’m going to order ale, some good roast beef, and fresh scones to be taken to Mrs. Sykes and the other two women each day. Once they’ve had good nutrition for a while, I’ll see what can be done further.” Anna had just that day received a few pounds in royalties from her British publisher. She would not have to ask Robert to fund an enterprise he would neither understand nor condone.
“I fear Mrs. Hawkins’s fare is not up to its usual standard,” Robert said that evening, looking down at his grilled lamb chop. “No mint sauce.”
“My fault. I insisted on her accompanying me to the jail this afternoon.”
“My god, Anna, what will you do next?”
She told him about her visit. “Does it not seem to you, Robert, that the justice system is skewed? I have had very little to do with the laws of the land. But now I have plunged with both feet into a mess. This very day I saw three insane women locked into cages in a dungeon. And I heard that a man is to be hanged for stealing a horse—”
“While murder among gentlemen goes unpunished. Only yesterday I met a member of the King’s Bench who four years ago murdered a friend in a duel, and is now cock of the walk. And of course you know Sam Jarvis’s story. But that duel happened in 1817, and one would like to say that things have changed. They haven’t.” Robert shook his head as he put a piece of the lamb chop into his mouth.
“And sodomy is punishable by death. I heard that from someone. Does that not frighten you, Robert?”
His knife and fork clattered onto his plate. “Why do you bring up sodomy? Sometimes I find it hard to keep track of your non sequiturs.”
“You sent a letter in February, just after Valentine’s Day if I remember correctly, to George Herchmer Markland.”
“And what business is that of yours?” He tried to pick up his fork again but stopped. She watched his trembling hand.
“Markland’s office is, so I am told, the place of meeting at night for young men of the lower classes: a drummer boy, a private from Fort York, and one of the Archdeacon’s servants.”
“Who told you this?”
“You gave the letter to Hawkins to deliver. Naturally, he remembered what he had heard about Markland, told his wife, who also had heard rumours about the man, and she told me. It took considerable courage for Mrs. Hawkins to speak on such a subject.”
“Ah, servants’ tittle tattle.”
“No doubt, but I tell you this merely to caution you to be careful in your dealings with George Herchmer Markland.”
“Point taken.” He gave up his attempt to eat, pushed his plate away, the lamb chop half consumed. “I agree with you on the whole, Anna. The justice system is skewed. Why should Markland—if he is a sodomist, and mind you, I am not saying he is—fear a death sentence while murderers go unpunished? But my public responsibility is to uphold the laws of this land, whatever my private views may be. I am not a crusader. It is my conservative approach to law that has won me the most prestigious appointment in Upper Canada.”
“‘Forward with the status quo.’ That must be your battle cry, Robert.”
“Very funny. And now, if we can get onto another topic, let me give you some news you may find welcome. Our lease on this place runs out in three weeks. But no matter. The carpenters are finally back on the job after an extended break for things they considered more important than my needs. So—three weeks from today, we move into that pleasant little house I promised you when I wrote asking you to come here. ”
It was her turn to push her food away. “This isn’t news. This is a ton of bricks you’ve just dumped on me. You expect me to move into this place with you?”
“Now that I am Vice-Chancellor, it is even more necessary to maintain appearances. You must stay by me through the period when I am getting established in my new position.”
“What about all the money wasted on making this place livable?”
“That was your bright idea, was it not?”
“And now you want me to put this new place in shape? You surely do not believe that I have settled into my Mrs.-Chancellor-happily-ever-after role?”
“For the sake of the money I give you, if for no other reason, I expect you will stay. If you leave, you will have nothing but the money you make from your books and your etchings. And may I remind you that under law, I could take every cent of that, too.”
Anna stood up. Remembering the servants belowstairs, she strove to keep her voice controlled. “I shall stay for a while, Robert, but do not for a moment think that your threats have in any way influenced my decision.”
It was true. If he seriously thought of taking her small income to add to his own immense salary, she could make things unpleasant for him. But she doubted that he meant anything much by that remark. He had more than enough money for his needs. Of greater import at the moment were her own inner wishes. She needed his money, yes. But everything considered, she had no great desire to leave Upper Canada immediately. Mrs. Sykes would need her ongoing attention for a while at least. And there was that great wilderness to the north of Toronto that she wanted to explore. It would be splendid material for her book. And...well, face it, there was Sam Jarvis, someone she wanted to know better.
NINETEEN
On his recent walks along King Street, Sam had noticed piles of neat birchbark baskets of maple sugar in Job Crimshaw’s store. “Mokuks,” Jacob Snake called them, and they signalled the probable arrival of Jacob and his Chippewa band at the stand of sugar-maple trees not far from the garrison. Each year, about this time, they travelled from Snake Island in Lake Simcoe to this spot for the weeks of sugaring-off.
He thought of Mrs. Jameson’s research into Indian customs. She might be interested in a trip to the bush. She would never before have seen the sugaring-off process. Mary was visiting her mother for the day, Mrs. Siddons had taken the children skating on the lake, and he had time on his hands.
He looked at his pocket watch: there were still several hours before sunset. He left a note for Mary then pressed the ivory button on the drawing room mantel. Cook’s helper came clattering up from belowstairs. “Tell the coachman to be at the front door in half an hour.”
He had just time to change into a knee-length woollen coat, the buckskin leggings that Jacob’s wife had once made for him, and moccasins. He took two pairs of snowshoes from the armoire in the back hall, and he was ready. “Drive to Bishop’s Block on Newgate Street,” he told John. The town gossips would note the destination of his sleigh, but what of it? If challenged, he would point out his need to keep in touch with the Indians and talk of Mrs. Jameson’s research for her book.
He sent in his card, telling the manservant about the visit. In a minute, the man was back to say that “madam” was anxious to come along. Sam sat in the sleigh and waited, resigning himself to whatever length of time it would take the lady to get ready. He was used to female dithering. To his surprise, Mrs. Jameson was ready in a quarter hour, dressed in enough layers for an excursion to the North Pole. As the coachman helped her into the sleigh beside him, he noticed her footwear.
“And where did you get those moccasins, Mrs. Jameson?”
“The Indians come regularly to our door. Thanks to them, we have had a supply of fresh salmon all winter. And they’re always ready to barter other things as well. I asked my housekeeper to swap a pound of butter for these. Pretty, aren’t they? And so comfortable.”
She poked her foot out from under her long coat. He looked at the moccasins and at the heavy stockings she wore and remembered the slender leg he had glimpsed at the Christmas party. He also thought of Mary’s legs, always encased in elegant boots.
At the garrison, he gave his driver some coins. “Get yourself a drink in the mess, and keep warm there till we return.” Then he strapped on his snowshoes, showed Mrs. Jameson how to attach hers, and they set out along the lakeshore.
She caught on to the technique quickly, saying only, “They’re a bit like the pattens a giant might wear.” After half an hour of slogging thr
ough the damp snow of late winter, they smelled the Indians’ campfires.
“What on earth is that delicious scent?”
“It’s burnt sugar. Isn’t it wonderful? I remember it from the time I first went into the sugar bush with Jacob’s grandfather. I must have been five or six at the time, and I had a little buckskin coat and breeches which the grandmother made for me. I was so proud of myself, I wanted to be an Indian in those days, and my mother tells me that she paid someone to do a drawing of me. She doesn’t know exactly what happened to it in their move from Niagara to Toronto. I wish I knew, it would be amusing to see it.”
Mrs. Jameson started to say something, but Sam’s attention strayed to the Indian encampment close at hand. “Here already,” he said, pointing.
As they came towards the first wigwam, Sam saw a familiar figure carrying an iron pail. At the same instant, one of the sled dogs barked, and his friend looked towards him.
“Nehkik!”
“Jacob!”
Jacob set down his pail and grasped Sam by the arm. “And you, Mrs. Jameson. I am glad to see you in the dark bush.” He took her hand. “How do you like the snowshoes?”
“Not as much fun as the snowsnake, though they get me through the snowbanks well. But I’ve got very thirsty from all this exercise.”
Jacob unhooked a tiny birchbark cup from a braided buckskin rope around his waist. “Then I offer you refreshment.” And he dipped the cup into his pail and held it towards her.
She drank deeply, seeming to savour the clear liquid. Then she said, “Wonderful. It’s so cold and sweet, just like the freshness of the woods and the scented air.” She handed the cup back to Jacob, who filled it a second time and gave it to Sam. Sam had always loved the taste of sap, and here and now in this setting, it seemed better than the finest Spanish sherry.
“Please,” Jacob said, “you come now to my wigwam and see the old lady.” He led them back along a well-trodden path through the bush. They came to the centre of a grove, where the sap was boiling in a huge copper kettle, suspended by a chain attached to a low branch of a pine tree. Piled-up logs burned away under the bucket, and a dozen children ran back and forth heaping branches on the fire. From all sides of the grove, men and women carried sap pails to a large store-trough at the boiling place.