Why had my mother chosen this stranger as my guardian? Was she a distant relation? My grandmother, mother and for a brief time, my father, were the only family I had ever known. I was more intellectually curious than emotionally curious about our extended family, but my grandmother had been adamantly tightlipped about any other relations. My mother couldn’t give me information she didn’t have, and she had struggled for decades with her own mother’s stubborn reticence. In her last months of life, my mother had admitted, her eyes dropping from mine in that conversation as I now recalled, that her own research had failed to turn up anyone suitable.
Now, as Mrs. Jones hailed a cab, I looked carefully at her features, the distinct profile of her nose and chin, and saw nothing that resembled my mother’s or my grandmother’s features. She seemed to have known my grandmother — was she somehow indebted to our family through that relationship?
I automatically sat down in the cab as Mrs. Jones waved me in encouragingly.
“You certainly surprised the man with your observations about his poor bird, didn’t you?” she remarked, adjusting her gloves. “Probably the average reaction. I must assume that your mother said nothing to you of this arrangement?”
I shook my head, tears of anger starting now as I contemplated this betrayal by my closest and dearest relative. Why keep this from me? Did she think me so uncooperative? To be fair to her, I knew that if she had shared this with me I would have vehemently fought the plan — I was a solitary person, and the idea of being under the guardianship of anyone other than my own mother was abhorrent. I sniffed, realizing that my mother had been right to approach this plan without telling me. Not that it made the current situation any better.
“Oh, now, don’t work yourself into a state,” Mrs. Jones admonished, pulling a monogrammed hanky out of her large purse and handing it to me. “She had her reasons, I am sure. And I am most flattered that she would give me such a responsibility. I had not considered that she would.”
I couldn’t bring myself to agree. The whole situation was just too new. I shook my head at my immature reaction. I should have planned for this! I could have! And then maybe my mother wouldn’t have left me with — I glanced at Mrs. Jones from beneath tear-laden lashes — this woman.
I had no desire to live with a stranger, but I didn’t have the financial ability to strike out on my own. Our home in Toronto was heavily mortgaged, I knew, and a home in London in my name was all well and good — but how to get there? And what to do when I arrived? Perhaps I could sell the property from here, take the money and invest that in my future.
As I was folding and unfolding the hanky, monogrammed with an I, an A, and an H in flowing script, the cab came to a stop. I recognized my family home. Only two days ago my mother’s body was being carried out on a stretcher to the hearse that would bear her out of my life forever. I swallowed painfully, shutting my eyes against that memory and forcing myself to think of all the other moments we had spent here.
Opening my eyes determinedly, I had to admit I was also embarrassed for this fine lady to see where I lived. The brick house was tiny, with a front porch that leaned to the right, its posts having been bolstered with cheap beams in lieu of actually fixing the underlying issues with the structure. The exterior had never been painted, at least in my memory, and the once-wooden trim showed this fact the most, made all the more obvious by the shiny cleanliness of the windows, on which my mother had focused her diminishing energy despite my arguments. I stepped out of the cab, my eyes on the front door, listening to Mrs. Jones tell the driver to wait for us.
My eyes were thus fixed because across the doorway was a chain and a lock, barring entrance to the house. As I strode forward, I spied my former stepfather leaning against the rusted chain-link fence, smoking a thin cigarillo. I stopped abruptly as he recognized me and hauled his flabby frame straight.
“Ya finally showed up, did ya?” he slurred at me, obviously deep into his cups despite the hour. I ignored his tone, instead pointing to the door. The smell of his preferred cheap whiskey assaulted me as I ran my eyes over his clothes, trying to assess just how long he had been drinking. His boots were relatively dry, indicating that he had at least changed since last night, perhaps to attend the lawyer's office. But the grungy neckerchief showcased his last three meals at least, his graying chest hair appearing above the stained white cloth. I calculated his last shave was at least a week ago, and I shook off my disgust with effort to ask:
“What has happened? When I left this morning—”
“They came after you left, the gits,” he interrupted, pulling a crumpled-up piece of paper out of his pocket and handing it to me as my new guardian stepped closer.
Dreading the note, and yet strangely already anticipating its contents, I quickly scanned it. The basic message was unsurprising: his creditors had seen my mother’s death as the final sign they would never get their money back (a fact I agreed with since my mother was the only person in our household who contributed to the mortgage) and had seized the house as soon as her death was officially announced.
Mrs. Jones and my former stepfather were eyeing each other with what looked like equal disdain, so I dumbly handed her the note and made to look at the door more closely. The lock was secure, so I chose the simpler route, edging around the side of the house to the east window we had never gotten around to mending. Pulling it up, I easily entered my former home, wasting no time on the overturned furniture or broken fripperies. I guessed the state of the house was from the creditors hurriedly seeking out any valuables, but it could have just as easily been my former stepfather doing the same. I made straight for my mother’s room, and taking a worn traveling bag from her closet, scooped a few photographs and memorabilia into it.
From her bedside table I picked up the precious photo of her wedding day, running my finger over my father’s visage.
Looking around the room at the quiet femininity of the homemade lace pillow covers and the soft pink of the crocheted blanket, I sat down heavily on her neatly made bed. My mother would have been mortified at the condition of her house, having worked so hard to keep it clean and sparkling despite her ex-husband’s and (I had to admit) my own more slovenly lifestyle. It was only in the past few months, when she had to rely on me in her weakness, that it had fallen far below her standards, cobwebs apparent in the corners of the room and the wooden floors lacking their usual shine. And now with the contents of the house in disarray, I purposely turned my eyes toward her personal effects. Her medicines were still laid out on the vanity. Her journal was still tucked under her pillow. If I closed my eyes, I could still smell that curious mix of lemon and cinnamon that had followed my mother around in her final months. What was I going to do? This house was not even mine anymore. I was out of time, dramatically so.
Scrubbing at my wet cheeks with my knuckles, I dug into my purse to pull out the few bills I had left, counting them out. Probably enough for one night at a hotel, but not much more. I shoved them into the traveling bag, adding the wedding photo and my mother’s journal. I leaned down under the bed to pull out my mother’s jewelry box, not surprised to find that it had been raided, probably by my former stepfather. I clutched at my mother’s silver cross around my neck. The funeral director had handed it back to me by this morning before the burial, and really that was the only piece I would have missed. The cross was tiny, half the length of my pinkie, handed down from my grandmother at her death, and now to me. The chain was slim but dropped the cross itself right at the base of my collarbone, resting there coldly but comfortably, as if it had always been so. I shuddered at the thought that my stepfather might have denied me even this tiny memory of my mother.
I slammed the lid of the jewelry box shut and threw it back under the bed, feeling the urge to scream out loud but somehow stifling it and instead leaping to my feet to stalk to my own room.
I was in no way a clotheshorse, so I saved room for some favorite books, a well-worn pair of walking shoes and a travelin
g coat. I looked around, remembering better times, and had to again fight the urge to scream. The hours I had spent as a child, waiting for her to get home from one of her many jobs, cuddled on her bed wrapped in her oldest shawl and reading whatever newspaper or journal she had brought home from the library for me. How she would carry me from this bed to my own when I fell asleep waiting, and gently kissed my head before pulling the covers up over me. I couldn’t be here any longer. What had made me think I could be here after my mother was gone?
Hearing a raised voice outside, I quickly climbed back out the way I had come.
I was shocked to see my former stepfather shouting at Mrs. Jones, inches from her face. She was silent in her disgust as he accused her of stealing from him and demanded recompense for whatever my mother’s will had promised her. My anger was well stoked by the time I reached her side, as much on behalf of my poor mother as my new guardian, neither of whom deserved this man’s bile. She said not a word to him but extended her hand to me, which I readily took, and, while the neighbors gathered to see what the fuss was about, we headed toward our waiting cab with as much dignity as we could. My former stepfather made the further mistake of reaching out to grab at my shoulder as we had almost gained the sidewalk, and that was when the last astonishing thing happened on that horrible day full of surprises.
Mrs. Jones turned and planted her cane between his legs near the ankles so that his momentum caused him to trip and fall in a cursing heap on the ground behind us. Instead of bolting for the cab, as I thought she would, she stood over him that way, her cold eyes daring him to stand and confront us again. He was a coward to his very soul, though, and gritting his teeth, he just crawled away, hobbling on his injured ankle and grumbling under his breath.
The last of my ties to this city had been cut; this house was no longer my home, the pathetic man crawling away was no longer my stepfather and I was ready to leave all of this behind. I looked expectantly at Mrs. Jones, wondering if it would be difficult to persuade her to let me move to London, a city I had always longed to visit but never dreamed of traveling to. A city that was as far away from my crushing memories as possible.
“All done, then, m’dear?” she enquired, turning to me.
“Indeed,” I answered with finality, turning my back on the only home I had ever known.
Chapter Two
“What an odious man,” Mrs. Jones declared almost as soon as we turned the corner, her hazel eyes flashing with anger. “I will never understand why your mother married that beast.”
I shrugged, remembering all the arguments my mother and I had over him and resolving never to think of him again. “He was a waste of my mother’s time, and I warrant would be a waste of yours should you spend any thought on his existence, ma’am.”
She looked surprised at my bile, but approving, and her mouth slowly quirked up, the pink lipstick she wore a perfect shade for her skin color.
“Well, at least that makes your decision a little easier, Portia Adams,” she prompted, reaching into her purse to pull out a small hand mirror and adjusting her hair, which had not moved at all as far I could tell.
“My decision, ma’am?” I asked, suddenly wondering where the cab was taking us. “I don’t understand.”
“You will come with me to London, as soon as it can be arranged,” she answered, her eyes still on her mirror as she smiled, checking her teeth, and finding all as it should be, snapping the silver compact closed.
I looked down at my hands, nodding slowly. “There is nothing for me here, it is true, but … London? I’ve never been there. I know no one there.”
She tilted her head. “Who is it you know here?”
I flushed, aware of my solitude and for the first time in my life embarrassed by it.
“And you know me now,” she continued, placing her gloved hand on my knee and leaning toward me. “I know you don’t really need a guardian. Anyone with two eyes and a brain can see you are a most capable woman. But I can help you. Think of me as more of a benefactor than a guardian — someone who has interest in your success.”
My lack of skill in social niceties also meant that I had trouble trusting new people, but looking at this regal old woman, I felt no animosity emanating from her. Also, my mother had obviously trusted her enough to leave me in her care, even if I did not need it.
“So … London,” I said, sitting back, my eyes still on this stranger, running through her possible motivations: Indebtedness to my family? Interest in this house in London?
“London,” she agreed with a sigh as she sat back.
We spent the night at a hotel, paid for by my new guardian despite my objections. I knew that I had no right to be so proud; I had so little money to spend that any help she could offer should be accepted with thanks and grace.
At some point that first evening over an extravagant supper in our rooms, I managed to express my thanks. In the depths of my grief and then shock, it struck me that I had yet to do that. The meal consisted of warm beef stew and two kinds of buttered breads along with salads, cheeses and fruits. I took my cue from Mrs. Jones. Rarely had such an array been laid out before me, and I copied the order of foods she chose and the different cutlery she used to ingest them.
She smiled, recognizing my watchful mimicry before saying, “I owe your mother far more than money or support, and I owe your grandmother more than I could ever repay for her friendship when I most needed it. We need not speak of this again, but know I can not only comfortably afford to be your guardian, but it is my honor and pleasure to repay your family in this way for all they have given me.”
“I have to ask, what is it that you owe my mother?” I said. “And surely the friendship of my grandmother was paid in full by your friendship in return?”
Mrs. Jones shook her head adamantly. “No, you can’t possibly understand the significance of your grandmother in my life. And even were it not so, my respect for the woman demands that I do everything I can to make sure her granddaughter is well-established and happy.”
Aside from more expressions of thanks for the friendship she had enjoyed with the first Constance Adams, I could get nothing further from Mrs. Jones. I must admit that I was overwhelmed by this amount of social interaction and was thankful for the longer periods of silence I was granted over the next few days to come to terms with my new circumstances.
The first night I woke sweaty and soaked in tears, clutching my pillow like a vise, and it took several hours to fall back asleep. In the morning I woke late to the sound of a person brushing her teeth in the bathroom, and I painfully swallowed down the knowledge that it could not be my mother. She was dead. How strange to me.
Whatever her motivations, Mrs. Jones had a strange insight into what other people in my life — teachers, friends of my mother — had called my ‘moods’. At first it appeared she shared my solitary predilections, but watching her interact with the staff at the hotel and the various socialites who would stop by our table when we were eating and taking note of her daily routine, I decided that wasn’t it at all.
“I don’t really like being around crowds of people,” I blurted out one afternoon as we bought tickets for our train trip down to New York, where we would board an ocean liner to take us the rest of the way to England.
My guardian looked at me quizzically with the small smile I was becoming accustomed to. “Why, yes dear, I know.”
“And I like time to think. Every day. In quiet reflection,” I continued, watching her reaction, which was minimal except to nod slowly, the smile still in place.
It was my turn to look quizzical. “But how is it you know? Was my grandmother the same? If so, my mother never mentioned it to me.”
To my surprise, that question elicited a chuckle from the older lady, who deftly scooped up our tickets and tucked them into her fashionable purse before turning my way and taking my elbow. “Lord no, your grandmother was a terror on the social scene. She had a laugh you could hear from four tables over, and loved balls
and parties more than anything else in life. She would plan for them for months, and I would have to drag her out of those events at all hours of the morning!”
I shook my head, never having known these details, but believing nonetheless in the picture Mrs. Jones painted of my namesake. It was in these brief moments when curiosity overtook despair that I allowed myself to think of my future rather than dwell in my present.
I took to reading a page in my mother’s journal in the evenings, running my hands over the handwriting, trying to smile through my tears at the memories she had preserved here. Most of the journal was about me. That in itself made me cry because I really had felt like the center of her world, and she obviously agreed. Each entry was only about a paragraph and described anecdotes of daily activities that she found amusing or worrying or just wanted to remember. My first steps were described(skinned my knees because I was determined to have my first walk on gravel). The pride was evident in her account of my being promoted from grade one to three, though her next entry was a worried one centered on my lack of friends. She was right in that I had very few friends in school, but wrong to take on the guilt that her allowing me to move up a grade early was the cause. I was the cause. I was far more interested in education than the children around me.
My prospects in Toronto had been limited by circumstance, having reached the pinnacle of academic success against all odds, much to the embarrassment of my former stepfather. He took great pleasure in reminding me that my schooling was to come to an undramatic end on my twentieth birthday, when he intended to marry me off. How my mother had afforded tutors and lessons for almost two decades I had never known, but I took to learning with the zeal of a long-serving inmate finally granted his freedom.
Jewel of the Thames (A Portia Adams Adventure) Page 2