by Ann Birch
My love, always, always, always,
Ottilie
Anna had just put the letter back on the table when there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hawkins entered. She clutched a blue handkerchief in one fist, and her eyes were pink. Her other hand encircled a slip of paper with a red seal. “Mrs. Robinson’s manservant brought this over a few minutes ago, ma’am.”
Anna slit it open, glanced at it and laughed. “The silliness of the woman! It’s her recipe for Derby cakes. She actually thinks I might carry it about with me over land and sea, lo, to the Western Isles?” She rolled the sheet up, gave it a twist and aimed it at the hearth. It fell into the ashes, where it gave a brief hiss and expired.
“Oh, ma’am, I never learned to make them things right, did I?”
“Thank goodness for that. Who would ever pine for a Derby cake when she could have a slice of your good gingerbread? Now there’s a recipe I’d like.”
The housekeeper dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. Anna walked towards her and put her arms around the woman’s shoulders. “Please, please do not grieve, Mrs. Hawkins. I shall come back at the end of August and say goodbye to you before I set out for New York and Europe. Think, do, of how much less work you will have for the summer months without my clothes to wash and—”
“Oh, ma’am, it be the beginning of the end.”
“It is an end of one life for me, certainly. And I shall miss you so much, dear Mrs. Hawkins. You have been a true friend throughout these long months. But I need to think about new beginnings. And you must stay where you are and help Mr. Jameson. Haven’t you noticed how he looks forward to the comforts you offer—his Sunday tea, his lamb chops with mint sauce? He’s come a long way since those desolate winter days when I first arrived. And now, will you please help me to look over these things on the bed and decide what may be left behind? I expect to have to fend for myself most of the time, and I do not want to be burdened with a heavy trunk.”
Mrs. Hawkins stuffed the handkerchief into her apron pocket. She studied the items laid out. “Oh, ma’am, I love that shawl. Them pink flowers are perfect against your lovely face.” She held it next to her own red cheeks. “And so soft and warm, too.” She put it back on the bed and looked over the other things again. Then she took up the guitar and set it to one side. “Now, ma’am, sure, you do not need this.”
“It was a partial payment for my first major book, you know, and I have never gone anywhere without it.” As Anna looked at it now, she remembered how she had played it on the steamer to Niagara and how wonderfully silly Sam had been in his role of toreador. And now there was Manitoulin to look forward to. She moved the guitar back into the centre of the bed. “Perhaps I shall be in far places where there is no piano, but I shall still have my music.”
“Now, this knife be a good idea, I do say.” The housekeeper ran her finger along the edge of the stiletto. “I will get my man to sharpen it this day. Out there”—Mrs. Hawkins gestured towards the window and the expanse of Lake Ontario—“be savages and white folk worse than savages.”
“Not to mention bears and rattlesnakes and cougars and shopkeepers who overcharge.” She was relieved to hear Mrs. Hawkins’s laugh. Then her housekeeper spotted Ottilie’s gift. She picked it up and turned it round and round in her hands. “A vase, ma’am? Sure, and you don’t be needing that on your trip.”
“Not a vase, Mrs. Hawkins, but something far more useful. Una vasa da notte. ”
“Now, ma’am, none of them frog languages for me, if you please. Just tell me straight out in the King’s English what this be.”
“Chamberpot.”
“Chamberpot?” Mrs. Hawkins shook her head in disbelief. “I never seen a chamberpot like this one.”
Nor had Anna. It did, indeed, look somewhat like a vase. In fact, she had read Ottilie’s letter over several times before she got the right idea. Her friend’s phrase “in moments of dire necessity” had been the clue. Unlike the usual chamberpot, round and deep with a lid, this one was deep, narrow and lidless. Anna could see how, in an emergency, she could place it between her legs and relieve herself without having to retreat to the cover of woods.
Mrs. Hawkins had taken hold of the idea. “Useful it may be. If you be short-taken in the back of a wagon, ma’am, think how—” She broke off, stroked her chin as she thought further. “But adjustments must be made. Yes indeed.” She looked over the items on the bed. “I be taking your drawers away now to put slits between the legs. Just to make things more convenient, like.” There was not an ounce of embarrassment in her manner as she gathered up Anna’s undergarments and made for the door.
“Oh, Mrs. Hawkins, you are a wonder, you are. And for such a wonder, this shawl seems far too small a gift. But here it is.” She took the wool-and-silk oblong scarf that her housekeeper had admired and draped it around Mrs. Hawkins’s shoulders. Then she pulled the housekeeper towards her and gave her a hug.
After she left, Anna picked up the vasa da notte and looked again at the scenes with which it was decorated. No mere container for urine, this was a masterpiece of the porcelain-maker’s art. On its outside and inside surfaces were naughty—indeed, lewd— scenes from the commedia dell’arte. Anna’s favourite showed a bedchamber and two lovers in the throes of intercourse, oblivious to the old man (undoubtedly the husband) who listened from under the bed.
She had also received gifts from three of her Toronto acquaintances. Mrs. Powell had sent a bar of scented soap, and her daughter Eliza a hand towel. And Mary Jarvis’s servant had dropped off a small sachet of dried rosemary. With it was a note that said, merely: “Rosemary, that’s for remembrance.” She was pleased with the little gift and the quotation, surprised that Mary had studied Hamlet, given Mrs. Powell’s views on the uselessness of formal education for women. Perhaps the governess had helped her. She put the sachet in her trunk then took from her shelf Characteristics of Shakespeare’s Women. It was one of her most successful books, and she enjoyed rereading her thoughts on Ophelia. Poor mad Ophelia, deranged by the unhappiness of her love. She had not had the strength of character to get on with life.
But much as she was touched by these small gifts, it was the chamberpot she liked best. So different from the staid pots in staid bedchambers, it would go along with her as a sort of symbol of her new way of life. She must tell Ottilie all this in her thank-you letter. She sat down at her table, took up her pen, and smiled to herself at the thought of how Ottilie would laugh at her wayward fancies.
Part Two
Summer Rambles
TWENTY-EIGHT
In the June sunshine, Sam walked down the main street of Kingston. His second major meeting with the Indian bands had gone better than the first one in Niagara. Not through anything, really, that he had done. Its success had been due to the contribution of a Chippewa missionary.
“Don’t even try to pronounce my Indian name,” he’d said. “Call me George Copway.” He’d given Sam an eloquent message for the Governor. “The pale faces have taught the Indians to drink, to steal horses, to curse, and now it’s high time to give them spelling books.” And he’d followed up with a document on the need for Indian schools, with excellent suggestions on how to proceed. If Sir Francis would only pay attention to it...
And the Indians hadn’t seemed to mind the meeting place at Fort Henry, that citadel of British superiority.
And now, before he treated himself to a well-deserved drink, he had an errand to carry out. After thinking hard about the matter on the steamer from Toronto, he had decided to pay a visit to Mary’s niece and her lover, John Grogan. Or, if they weren’t at home, at least to have a look at the place they lived in.
He walked to the end of town, turned off the main street and stopped at a small frame dwelling behind a freshly painted brown fence, the gate of which opened with a squeak. The front yard was planted in beds of late spring flowers: narcissi, grape hyacinths, daffodils and red tulips. He had not gone more than a few steps down one of the pebble path
s when a stout, bright-eyed young woman launched herself at him, crying, “Uncle Sam! Uncle Sam!”
He kissed Elizabeth and turned to greet the tall man in red coat and epaulets who had come down the path behind her. “My god! Sam Jarvis! What are you doing in town?”
Sam tried to explain while Elizabeth and Grogan—one on each side of him— pulled him towards the house. “You will have tea with us, won’t you, Jarvis? It would cheer us up tremendously.” Grogan looked down at Elizabeth, whose cheeks were streaked with tears. “Elizabeth feels so isolated in this place. But how did you know we were here?”
“Mary’s mother mentioned that you’d moved from London, and I got directions to your house from a sergeant at Fort Henry.”
“London got too hot for us, so Elizabeth and I escaped here till things cool down a bit. Of course, if that devil Mackenzie kicks up a fuss, I’ll be posted to Toronto, and Elizabeth will have to stay behind until things get sorted out.”
Grogan pulled at one of his large ears, looked embarrassed, and blurted, “I say, Jarvis, you’ve always been a decent chap and...I appreciate this...” His voice trailed away.
Sam remembered his own days of unhappiness after his trial and release from prison. “I’ve needed kind words and friendship myself.”
“Dear Uncle Sam, let us sit on the back porch.”
The back stoop overlooked the St. Lawrence River. Elizabeth pulled forward a comfortable Windsor chair for Sam. Grogan took a handkerchief from his white breeches and wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks. He kissed the tip of her nose. “And now, my dear, let us have a good tea. Your Uncle Sam needs sustenance.”
“In five minutes it will be ready. The merchant’s boy delivered some pickled lobster today, and I have just made Grandmama Powell’s lobster pâté. It will be the best tea in the annals of Kingston tea ceremonies, and think—oh think—how fortunate that dear, dear Uncle Sam should come on such an occasion.” The tears had given way to giggles, and Sam found himself suddenly happy to be with his niece and her lover.
“Some sherry while we wait?” Grogan took a decanter from a small table on the porch and poured three glasses. From inside the house, they could hear the clink of teacups and Elizabeth’s chatter to the maid.
“I must tell you at once, Jarvis, before Elizabeth comes back, that I expect the worst from Stuart. He is in a rage, and my friends in London tell me that he plans to file for divorce and sue me for a thousand pounds ‘for the destruction of his marital bliss’. Marital bliss. But he has always been a successful barrister, and even if he does not get what he wants, I fear he will be awarded a substantial sum.”
“Good god, man, how will you pay it?”
“By selling my commission.”
“And that will be the end of your military career. What then?”
“Why then, we will be married and move to England. My family have promised to help us, but they have little to spare. I fear it will be a rocky road.”
Elizabeth came through the back door with the teacups and tea caddy, followed by the maid with the urn. Elizabeth took the tea leaves from the pretty floral tea caddy, put them into a pot, poured water from the urn, passed the lobster pâté on small rounds of oatmeal biscuit, offered more sherry—all in the grand manner of her grandmother. But Sam noticed that her cheeks had been touched with rouge, and her hands trembled.
She closed the lid of the tea caddy with a bang. “Oh, Uncle Sam, I know that I will never see Papa again, nor Grandmama, nor my aunts, nor my daughters...but I could not go on. I...could...not... go...on.” Grogan set down his cup and pressed her hands into his.
“It was as bad as all that?” Sam asked. “I’m afraid I’ve mostly heard the story that Mrs. Powell tells.” How this “volatile and vulgar” granddaughter had “abandoned” her husband and small daughters and taken up with a “low-class” British officer of the Thirty-Second Regiment, posted to Upper Canada. How Elizabeth had disgraced the Powell family and must evermore be banished from it.
Suddenly a shadow seemed to engulf Elizabeth’s round, pleasant face and bright eyes. “He kept quoting that judge who came after Grandpapa...”
“He” was obviously her husband. “You mean the judge who replaced your grandfather on the King’s Bench?”
“Him. My husband would sit there, staring at me through those thick spectacles—Four-Eyed Stuart, people call him—and then, out of the blue, he’d recite the judge’s creed, ‘Men as lords of the creation have a right to chastise rebellious dames, as long as that chastisement does not endanger their lives.’ And I’d say, ‘What have I done now?’ And he’d say, ‘Time for chastisement.’ Just as if I were a fly on the wall that needed swatting. And then, then...” Her face went so white that the blobs of rouge stood out grotesquely.
“He beat her,” Grogan said. “With a riding whip. Where it wouldn’t show. I saw the bruises on her back and legs.”
“I suffered in Hell for three years, and then I met John, and suddenly the world was new again. Suddenly I was Eve in the Garden of Paradise, and he was Adam.”
And look what happened to them, Sam reflected. Aloud he said, “Your grandmother has never mentioned the beatings, though Mary has said things. It’s horrible. And the laws of the country being what they are, this abusive man will get custody of your little girls. My god, what will become of them?”
Fresh sobs from Elizabeth. “I know, I know. I’ve...I’ve blown up the powder keg, as Grandpapa used to say, and now I have no ammunition.”
“But we have each other, dear Elizabeth,” Grogan said tenderly.
“Yes, my darling, we have each other. You know, Uncle Sam, I never, ever, loved my husband. In fact, I scarcely knew him before we married. He used to wink at me in church, and I suppose I was flattered. I was a stupid little girl, I had no education, and everyone wanted to be rid of me. So I went along with it. Women have no choices in this world.” She sat up straight, blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “What I should say is, women have few choices in this world. I’ve taken one of those choices. But oh, Uncle Sam, it’s been hard...”
“Yes, my dear niece, you’ve chosen love above subjugation. Above motherhood. Above gossip-mongering and scandal. You have faced the realities of the world we live in and weighed the consequences. You’ve been brave, braver than any of us could know.” Sam rose from his comfortable chair, made a deep bow and kissed Elizabeth’s hand. “I wish the both of you much happiness.”
He sat down again. “And now, I must have three or four more of those excellent oatcakes and lobster pâté.”
They stayed on the stoop for some time, feet propped on the stretchers of their chairs, and watched the schooners and steamers move up and down the river. Then Sam noticed the sun dipping into the west. He rose. “I had better get to my hotel.”
“Will you not stay with us for the night, Uncle Sam?”
“No, my dear. I thank you, but my hostelry is booked and my luggage delivered there.” He had seen enough of adulterous bliss to know that he needed peace and time to think. “Goodbye. God bless you both.”
Elizabeth wrapped three leftover biscuits in a little white napkin and tucked them into the pocket of his waistcoat. She kissed his cheek. As he walked through the front gate onto the roadway, he turned round. His niece and Grogan stood on the pebble path, among the tulips, waving.
He did not go directly to his hotel. He walked back and forth along the harbour, thinking of those little girls in the hands of a monstrous father, of the sacrifices made by their mother in the name of love, of his own children, of Mary. And Anna.
TWENTY-NINE
Sam and Mary waited together on the pier while Colonel Fitzgibbon superintended the unloading of Anna’s small trunk from the wagon and its placement in the hold of the steamboat which would leave for Niagara in a half-hour. Anna herself stood near the log hut at the end of the pier. She was saying something to her housekeeper—whom Sam recognized from the New Year’s levee—and another woman who held a babe in her arms.
“Who’s that one?” Sam asked. He remembered her from somewhere. The night of the fire, was it?
“Oh, she’s the seamstress who made the gown that Anna wore to the ball. Anna tells me she charges half what I paid to that French woman, so I intend to give her some work soon.”
Anna came towards them holding a small portmanteau. She wore leather gloves and a plain, dark green gown with long tight sleeves. Not a glimpse of those beautiful shoulders and hands. But her smile was in place. “How lovely of you to come here to see me off.”
“But where is the Chancellor, Anna?” Mary posed the question Sam could not summon courage to ask. “I assumed he would be here with the rest of us.”
“He’s gone to the government offices. We said adieu at breakfast.”
There was a long silence. Sam watched the passengers stream onto the pier. “What’s after Niagara?” he said.
“Across the province by coach and wagon. First to the Talbot settlement. I knew Colonel Talbot’s family in the Old Country. Then it’s off to Windsor, by steamer to Detroit, across Lake St. Clair, and up Lake Huron to Mackinaw. Then, if my luck holds, by bateau to Sault Ste. Marie. And afterwards to the gift-giving—”
“Jarvis, Sam Jarvis!” Sam turned to see a young man in clerical rig come alongside. A handsome man with a Roman nose, patrician jaw, and a head of thick dark hair.
“Mac McMurray? It’s been years.”
“Far too long. We’ve just been here overnight. On to Niagara now for the day.” He smiled at Sam’s companions. “And here we have your good wife. And Fitzgibbon. Lovely to see you both. And this is my wife, Charlotte.” He nodded towards the young woman holding his arm. She had brown skin and dark eyes, her hair gathered into a neat braid. In spite of her European-style dress, she was undoubtedly Indian. McMurray turned to Anna. “I have not had the pleasure...?”
In a flash, without waiting for Sam’s intervention, Anna introduced herself and mentioned her “summer rambles”.