A Daughter Rebels

by Ann Birch

  A DAUGHTER REBELS

  by Ann Birch

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 9780228612254

  Kindle 9780228612261

  WEB 9780228612278

  Print ISBNs

  Amazon Print 9780228612285

  BWL Print 9780228612292

  B&N Print 9780228612308

  LSI Print 9780228612315

  Copyright 2020 by Ann Birch

  Cover Art Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  DEDICATION:

  To Carolyn, friend and supporter in a thousand ways

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  In the many months of collecting material for this novel, I browsed through countless books and much Internet information, making notes as I came upon useful tidbits such as the meaning of “trimming the sails” or the food offered to steerage passengers on sailing ships. For information on my major characters, I got a wealth of detail from the Powell Papers in the Metropolitan Toronto Public Library and from the marvellously informative biography of the Powells by Katherine M. J. McKenna titled A Life of Propriety: Anne Murray Powell and Her Family, 1755-1849. Other useful books included the following: Toronto in 1810 by Eric W. Hounsom; The Town of York 1793-1815 by Edith Firth; Capital in Flames: The American Attack on York, 1813 by Robert Malcomson; Muddy York Mud: Scandal & Scurrility in Upper Canada by Chris Raible; Muddy York; A History of Toronto Until 1834 by Richard Fiennes-Clinton; Quackery: A Brief History of the Worst Ways to Cure Everything by Lydia Kang and Nate Pedersen; Nineteenth-Century Costume and Fashion by Herbert Norris and Oswald Curtis; and the informative sketches of many characters in this book found in The Dictionary of Canadian Biography.

  I am grateful as well to the people who always stay with me and support me during the long creative process. Novelist and writing mentor Barbara Kyle offered wise advice and intensive editing. My sons Hugh and John gave ongoing support. Carolyn Thompson found every redundant comma or incorrect detail. Nora Wallner gave me a great idea for the final pages.

  Finally, I am happy to publish again with BWL Publishing Inc. because of the amazing speed, skill, and wisdom with which publisher Judith Pittman, editor Nancy Bell, and designer Michelle Lee move through the process of getting a novel into the hands of the reading public.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Town of York (now Toronto), 1807

  I hated the lesson and I hated the fan I held. Especially those damnable pictures painted on it. On one side were five young girls in antique costume on the bank of a river. They were watching—and obviously envying—the three pairs of lovers cavorting on the other side. Though I wished the fan were at the bottom of the lake, I could not help staring at it and thinking about the stupidity of those girls. Was cavorting with lovers to be the focus of their lives?

  Mama had positioned the three of us—Eliza, Mary, and me—in front of her on the upper verandah of our house. Though the lesson was odious, I did like the warm fall breeze wafting in from the lake, and since I had taken the spot next to the railing, I could look down at the road below and see the passers-by. At that moment, far to the west, I spotted the fine carriage of Governor Gore heading our way slowly. If only he would stop by to visit Mama, I’d be freed from this wretched fan session. But it was doubtful he would. Mama and he were not on good terms for some reason. It was possible, though, that if Mrs. Gore were with him, she might persuade him to visit for a few minutes. She and Mama liked each other.

  Mama’s fan lessons were part of her façade. She presented herself to the world as Mistress Propriety. Always tightly corseted, little sausage curls firmly in place, she lived outwardly by a code of rules straight from the Reverend Bennett’s book of etiquette that had lain on the table in her bedchamber for as long as I could remember. If only the outside world heard the breakfast squabbles she and Papa indulged in, they’d see another side of her. Even to us, her daughters, she always played the part of Mistress Propriety. Did she think we were deaf to the goings-on?

  “Anne, you’re paying no attention. Your attitude this morning is most distressing.”

  Oh, oh, time to listen. Or appear to listen. I brought the dratted fan back up towards my face.

  “Now girls, I see you all have your fans in your right hand. Good. We shall proceed. Does anyone remember what a fan held upright close to the mouth conveys? Anne?”

  “That you have eaten too much roasted garlic and don’t want your suitor to smell it?”

  Mary giggled and Mama’s face turned quite red. “Naughty girl, Anne. Your jokes are not funny. Eliza, you will tell me?”

  Eliza was always docile, always subservient. Though only eighteen, she already tied her hair up each night in curl papers so as to imitate Mama’s hairstyle. She’d say the right thing, bless her, and divert Mama from the lecture she no doubt was longing to give me.

  “A fan held upright close to the mouth conveys the message that someone nearby is listening to the conversation you are having.”

  “Thank you, my dear Eliza. And that gesture is so important, especially if the person you are talking with has something to impart in confidence. Perhaps an estimable young man wants to say a few words. You want to encourage him, but all must be kept quiet until you are officially engaged. You know that I wish for you all prudent and happy marriages.”

  And so it went, on and on and on. I tried not to listen, but I couldn’t shut out the drone of her voice. Touch the right cheek means “yes.” Touch the left cheek means “no.” Closed fan held towards the heart means “love”. . .

  I strove to keep my eyes open and my mouth closed on the yawns that threatened to burst forth.

  Eliza followed the gestures with her usual obedience, but I noticed Mary was taking it all in with a degree of eagerness that turned her pretty cheeks a delicate pink. She told me last night when we were in bed that John Macdonell might already be showing an interest in her. But she’s only sixteen, for God’s sake. When I told her, “Early wed, early dead,” she started to cry. I was sorry about that, but sometimes the truth can hurt. I had looked through enough old family Bibles and burial grounds to know what happened to young brides caught in the throes of child-bearing.

  At last Mama finished our lesson. “To lower the open fan slowly in the right hand until it points towards the ground means—”

  Ah, this one I knew. “I hate and despise you!” Mama was forced to give me a small nod. All the gentlemen in our exclusive little society understood the meaning of fan “language,” and I intended to use this gesture the next time that despicable Quetton St. George made a move.

  Now Mama started collecting our fans. I watched her closely and when she directed her gaze towards Eliza and Mary, I seized the opportunity to fling my fan over the railing. It landed in the street. Good riddance.

  “Oh, Mama, I’ve dropped my fan, so sorry, so sorry. I’ll run down and pick it up.” I was hoping that by the time I got there, a carriage would have squashed it to bits.

  “Stupid girl. That fan had sixteen mother-of-pearl blades. It cost your Papa a small fortune. How am I to get money from him to buy a new one for you?”

  Eliza and Mary rushed to the railing to look down into the road. “Look, Mama!” Mary cried. “Mrs. Gore’s English setter has retrieved it. He’s running after the Governor’s carriage.”

  “Well, that’s that,” Mama said, heaving a great sigh. Her face grew red, and she started fanning herself.

  “Oh, Mama,
” I said, “I had no idea that a fan could be used simply for cooling one’s face.”

  She gave me the look intended to kill.

  “Setters have soft mouths,” I told her in my sweetest voice. “Perhaps when you visit the Gores you can ask if they were able to extract it. It will probably still be in good shape.” Inwardly I was laughing, though I hoped one of those sixteen blades had not stuck in poor Spot’s craw.

  For a moment, I thought Mama would have a fainting fit. All that explosive anger contained within those too-tight corsets . . . But Mama sometimes surprised me. I watched as she transformed her outburst into a loud laugh.

  “Very amusing, to be sure,” she said, taking a breath as deep as the whalebones would allow. “And now, daughters, it’s time to go into the herb garden and pick some celandine. I think, Eliza, we could take that white gown you wore last year and dye it yellow. No one will be likely to recognize it in its new form.”

  Oh God. Could I stand this? Was it my mother’s way of taking her revenge on me? It wasn’t that I minded picking the celandine. It was what happened after we dyed the gown in it that made my stomach roil.

  “Can’t one of the servants do the mordanting?” I asked.

  “No, child. We have a good collection of urine from the chamberpots, and I can’t give the important task of mordanting to the servants. They don’t understand the process of fixing the dye. And we must as a family show them with our presence how important it is that the task be done correctly.”

  And so that’s how our afternoon proceeded. We went into the back forty and picked the celandine. The sticky yellow pus from its stems leaked onto my fingers. Then we boiled the gown with the celandine for an hour and watched it turn from white to yellow.

  Next came the disgusting part of the task. We took the gown from the pot and boiled it in a second pot of urine to fix the dye. As we gazed down into the bubbling, stinky mordant, I tried not to speculate on whose piss gave the deep golden-brown of the mixture and whose, the rank odour of fish. Then out came the gown from the urine, followed by a final boiling in clear water.

  “Lovely, isn’t it, my dear Eliza?” Mama asked, hanging the gown to dry on our clothesline. My sister’s perfect round curls bobbed as she gave her placid acquiescence.

  “You, Mary, you already have a new gown. So that leaves only you, Anne. We could perhaps dye your old blue gown a deep red from our madder plants. It would complement your pretty dark hair and—“

  I thrust my hands toward her, shoving them under her nose. “Can’t you smell that piss? Do you think I’m going to endure another three hours of this torture?”

  “Tush, girl. You’ll make yourself sick with all this fuss over trifles. And do watch your language. You must remember your position in our small world. The Powell girls must always behave with propriety. That includes, of course, the necessity of presenting ourselves at all times in fitting attire.”

  I started shouting. I couldn’t help myself. “Propriety be damned!”

  Was it then I first realized I could not fit into Mama’s mold?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Annie Powell had a purpose in arranging these early morning breakfasts alone with her husband. It was a struggle to rise in time and get her maid to arrange her hair in a semblance of order beneath her cap, but the effort was necessary. She knew how much her husband hated “women’s chatter,” as he called it, and at this hour their daughters and granddaughters were not yet stirring.

  Besides, it was her only chance to talk to him privately about the many things that troubled her at the moment. She needed money to pay for Mary’s new gown for the subscription ball at the York Hotel. And then she had to replace the fan that her tiresome daughter Anne had just lost. She also wanted to hire a tutor to teach the girls French. Anne, especially, had been pestering her for months on this last issue though the girl already knew some of the language.

  The breakfast-room was an intimate space with a tall bookcase on one wall and the fireplace just behind their round walnut table. The button on its mantel was conveniently close so that she could summon Cook or their maid Lucy to bring their poached eggs and fresh bread. Usually at this hour of the morning, the scent of baking bread wafted up from belowstairs. Today, however, that scent was lacking. Which meant that Cook was trying one of her ruses again.

  “Pass the cream, Mumu,” William said, “unless it’s got curdled from hearing your nonstop complaints over this breakfast hour.”

  “I am merely trying to sort out with you some difficulties concerning our family, William. And why in tarnation are you calling me ‘Mumu’? Surely you can remember my name. You make me sound like some sort of cow.”

  “You seem to forget that there are now three Anne Powells in this household: wife, daughter, and granddaughter. If it suits me, I shall continue to call you Mumu to distinguish you from the others and because your maiden name was Murray.”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it, my dear? But it’s all very well. If you choose to call me Mumu—instead of Annie—I shall call you Dummer.”

  She watched her husband’s face redden. She had obviously made a successful hit. Well, Dummer was his second name, wasn’t it? Why shouldn’t I call him Dummer if he persists in this Mumu vein?

  But unexpectedly, in the midst of her satisfaction over this small revenge, she felt her eyes fill with tears. The discussion of names had brought unbidden thoughts of their dear drowned son. Images of Willie’s grey body washed up onto the beach at Niagara crowded into her mind and choked her. She took a gulp of coffee to settle herself.

  Not seeing her distress—or perhaps not caring—her husband shoved back his chair, threw his napkin into his poached eggs, and rose. She knew it was not only their discussion that angered him. It was also the stale bread he had just eaten. Cook had tried warming old bread before, but this time her ploy fizzled. Annie had known for too many years that the quality of her husband’s breakfast always determined the course of his day. And though she scarcely cared at this moment, she recognized the need to calm him. If she could not put an end to their spat now, it would draw out for days on end. With all that she had on her mind she really did not need this additional stress.

  “Sit down, husband. Please.”

  “I’m sick of your complaints. You have just spent our entire breakfast talking about how strapped we are for money. I wanted that promotion from our new Governor, but I didn’t get it, thanks to your pigheadedness. What am I to do?”

  Annie observed that although his face was still flushed with anger, he had at least seated himself once more.

  “I am merely reminding you that our daughters need your attention. There is little money for edu—”

  “Education, balderdash. Get them husbands. There are plenty of fools around. Work on it, woman. The sooner we get this house emptied, the better. What am I to do with six women under my feet all day?”

  “Scarcely all day, husband. You are in the courtroom most of the daylight hours, are you not? It is I who must contend.”

  “And whose idea was it to bring Willie’s small daughters to plague us? They do have a mother, don’t they?” His voice was loud, and she feared the girls upstairs might hear the comment.

  She put her hand on his wrist and spoke quietly. “Were we to leave them with that hussy? I heard yesterday from Mrs. Cartwright that she has taken up with a seventeen-year-old private from the garrison at Niagara and—”

  “All right, all right. Perhaps we did the right thing to take them in. Just get our daughters settled, will you? Except perhaps Eliza. She’s plain and probably will not attract a suitor. She could be of help around this place, and we would not have to pay her wages. At any rate, I hope you can remember my main point. Women must remain in the domestic sphere, and they have no need for academic training or preparation for careers. Therefore there is no necessity to waste money on the weaker sex. Surely after all these years we have been married, you understand my views.”

  She sighed and pas
sed her husband a cup of coffee. At least it was the good coffee that he liked, not that vile chicory she and the girls consumed when he was not around. Anything to save money these days . . . Loyalist Americans like her husband were looked down upon by British-born citizens and his legal stipend scarcely covered the costs of a large household or the travels to Spain and South America he had recently undertaken.

  But there was still one thing more she had to get off her chest.

  “Why are you so niggly about the money the girls and I spend?” She saw that he was about to push his chair back again. “No, do not leave. Listen to me. You spent one year travelling thousands of miles with an outlay of money I cannot conjure and—”

  “Shut your gob. Was I to leave Jeremiah to rot in that Colombian fortress for the rest of his days? He is my son.”

  “Our son. And I know that we must support him, however troublesome his shenanigans. But I remind you that my dear brother George dipped into his savings as well to support your endeavours to free Jerry. I ask only that you allow our daughters some of the largesse you have expended on him.”

  There was silence. Her husband finished his coffee, rose, and moved towards her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze.

  “My dear Annie, let us be friends. I shall do what I can for our daughters and granddaughters. But we must be frugal. You tell me that Mary bought a new gown last week. Surely she could have taken an old one and ‘turned’ it? Do I have the right expression?” He moved towards the door. “Just keep an eye on them.”

  A few minutes later, Annie heard the front door shut. With her husband out of the way—off to his law office in the Parliament Building—she sat for a while, readying herself for the day ahead. The girls needed to have another lesson on fans. In the servants’ cupboard belowstairs, she had found a cheap wooden one for Anne to use.