A Daughter Rebels

by Ann Birch

  She gave me this information, all the while waving her closed fan at me, forcing me to remember the language thus imparted: I do not like you. How I wished at that moment to tell her exactly where her fine fan had come from, but I dropped a curtsey and apologized, though my stomach churned.

  Master Robinson intervened, grabbed up an oyster knife, cracked several of the creatures open for the lady, put them on a plate, and presented them to her with a flourish. “And now, ma’am,” he said, “please allow me to find you a table where you can enjoy these delicacies.”

  He departed on this errand, leaving me at the buffet table to inhale the stink of the oysters and to reflect upon the power of patronage in this town.

  As I turned away, I met Mama and Papa. “Insolent girl,” Papa said by way of greeting. “You know I have just been promoted to the Executive Council, a great favour bestowed upon me by the Governor, and yet you take it upon yourself to insult the lady.”

  “I was, sir, merely commenting on my dislike of the oysters. I had no intention of insulting the lady. Indeed, I had no idea at all that she would be eavesdropping on a private conversation.”

  And then Lieutenant Stretton, standing nearby, came to my rescue. “Oysters are the scavengers of the deep,” he told Papa. “They open their broad lips and lick up the slime at the bottom of the sea. We must not blame Miss Powell for the delicacy of her taste. Please permit me to serve her with some mashed potatoes and a roll or two, and we shall find our way to a table.”

  In a flash, he handed me a plate of potatoes, a roll, and a pat of butter in the shape of a pineapple, and taking my elbow, steered me away from my parents.

  I was touched by the lieutenant’s kindness, and I felt compelled to sit with him for the next hour while he regaled me with more details of his garrison blockhouse watercolour painting. “So difficult to catch the sunset over the lake behind it . . .” His voice dragged on. My mashed potatoes grew cold on my plate, and as I finished my second glass of port wine and felt myself grow stupid and thick-headed, I made a resolution.

  I would endure the tongue-lashing which Mama and Papa would give me that night when we arrived home. Then, as soon as escape was possible, I’d pack my portmanteau and depart for a visit to my brother John in Niagara. There, at least, I could be free of the pettiness of this wretched town for several weeks.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Winter, 1808

  Well, “the best-laid schemes o’ mice and men/ Gang aft a-gley”—to quote that verse Mama was always intoning—and here I was, still in York, unable to get to brother John’s house because Papa decided I could wait for the sails in the springtime. “I have no funds, girl”—girl, that’s what he always called me—“to hire a sleigh and pay for two nights in a wayside tavern besides. You can wait for the ice to break up and then cross to Niagara by sailing vessel. Better still, go in the late summer or fall. Your mother tells me John is being married in August, and would, I am certain, prefer to receive you after that event.”

  But I decided not to wait. John seemed always glad to see me, and I was desperate to get away from York. I considered pawning a bracelet to acquire some funds of my own, but when I went to look for it, I could not find my jewel box. “Put away for safe-keeping,” Mama said. “One must never place complete trust in the serving classes. I shall find the appropriate ornament for you as it is required.” A complete distortion of the truth: I suspected it was her daughters, and me especially, that Mama felt she could not completely trust.

  So I was a prisoner in York. My winter internment was eased only by the appearance of my brother Jeremiah, newly arrived from England where he had been for several months following his release from a South American prison. Though I was happy to see him, I did not allow myself to dwell on the expenses of his journey here and who paid for that outlay!

  This morning I watched Mama’s face as Jeremiah dumped his bowl of oatmeal porridge into the breakfast-room hearth fire. I could tell from the flash of her eyes and her intake of breath what she was thinking, and for once I was with her. Mama and I spent half of yesterday afternoon churning the cream for the butter for that bowl of porridge. We did not have enough servants for all the hard work that “a gentleman’s house” in York entailed. Now all that was left of our chore was a stink.

  For a moment I waited for the outburst Eliza, Mary, or I would have received if we had tried the same thing, but all she said was, “Dear Jerry, let me tell Cook what you would like for breakfast, and she will prepare it for tomorrow’s meal.”

  “What I would like for breakfast, my dear Mother, is shredded fresh coconut laid on slices of orange accompanied by a —”

  “Tot of rum?” I asked.

  “Not a tot, dear sister, bring on a full tumbler.”

  I laughed, perhaps immoderately, and Mama went into chastising mode. “It is not seemly, Anne, for a woman to laugh about alcoholic excess. And I must ask you, Jerry, not to encourage these lapses in good taste. Prudence and propriety must always guide us.”

  Jerry turned away from the fire, a scowl on his handsome, tanned face. He set the empty bowl on the table with a bang, and said, “Please excuse me, Mother, I have forgotten the niceties of this place. And perhaps it is unnecessary for me to relearn them.”

  “Why, Jerry, why? You will surely stay with us for a while and take your proper place in the society to which we belong?”

  “No, I cannot stay. I must set out again for England and from there to South America as soon as I can.”

  Mama began to whimper. I thought I understood her chagrin. It was only a year ago that Papa spent months travelling about the world in an attempt to persuade officialdom to free Jerry from his imprisonment in a Columbian fortress. The money he expended in the effort had bankrupted us. And now the “pirate,” as everyone in York called Jerry, intended to go back to South America? I felt like whimpering myself. But I tried to stay calm. I moved from my place at the table and put my hands on Mama’s shoulders.

  “Let me pour you another cup of coffee,” I said, knowing how much she liked the beans Cook always ground for the men in our family.

  But even the coffee did not soothe her. She kept dabbing at her eyes while Jerry and I tried to make conversation. But what could I talk to him about? He was twenty-two years old, from a world far from muddy little York, and because he had spent most of his youth being educated in England, I had scarcely seen him more than two or three times in my entire life. I heard about him only from the gossip-mongers in this town and from conversations I had overheard between Mama and Papa. He had apparently sold military trinkets to some South American mogul telling him they were gold when they were really brass gilt. Then, being found out and facing death as punishment, he had escaped on a ship that was soon captured. Afterwards he ended up as a prisoner in that fortress from which Papa had extricated him after much effort. What could I say to him about these goings-on? And what could he know of the petty round of activities that constituted my life?

  We sipped our coffee and avoided eye contact. At last—after a long pause—he said, “I’m sorry to have upset you, Mother. But I must be clear about my future plans.”

  “I . . . cannot . . . talk.”

  “My sister and I shall take a walk then, Mother, and give you time to compose yourself.”

  One of the things I enjoyed about Jerry’s presence was the opportunity it afforded me to get out of the house into the open air for exercise. We went straight to the armoire in the front hall and drew out the gear necessary to protect us from the winter blasts. As I fastened the tabs of my wool redingote, Jeremy flipped a long cashmere scarf about his neck and said, “Meet me at the stables, Anne. We shall take off from there.”

  Uh oh, I knew what that meant. From the front window I watched him go into the lane beside our house. I laced my high warm boots, gave him a few minutes to ready himself, then headed for the stables.

  Jeremiah was waiting for me, his baboon comrade beside him on a long chain. The animal erupted into
a loud yelp when it saw me, and he yanked it back sharply just as it was about to leap onto my shoulders. My brother told me that it was a young baboon, a mere three feet in height now, but that in a year or two, it would attain its full size of five-and-a-half feet. He had bought it from a street vendor in Haiti. It was a female, its name being Josette which Jerry told me to pronounce “hozet.” I had heard Papa shouting at Henry, our servant, when he complained that Josette had frightened our horses. “Get used to it, or get out!”

  I found myself in agreement with Henry. I imagined how spooked our horses must have been to find this hairy creature in a stall beside them. It stood on two legs like a human and its face resembled that of some grotesque half-wit. Without warning, it would jump on their backs and thrust its five-digit fingers through their manes.

  But now it was on a lead and as Jerry pulled the chain up short, it appeared ready to trip along with us. So we set off in the direction of the lake where there was a pathway that led along the shore.

  For a few minutes, we gave ourselves up to the pleasure of the open air and the wintry sunshine and the sight of the carioles gliding along the ice on the lake. But I knew I needed to put some things straight with my brother. “You must try to be more sympathetic with Mama,” I said when we had walked half a mile or so towards the garrison.

  “I know, I know, dear sister, but she has no idea of the constraint I feel in this narrow world—or the anger that tugs at me constantly when I am forever reminded of the money that she and Papa expended to get me out of that fortress prison. I am grateful, of course, but I do not want to feel forever obligated to them. And I cannot agree to recompense them for their sacrifice by giving in to their wishes to see me established in a ‘prudent’ office position in this town or in New York with my Uncle George.”

  “This I understand completely, Jerry. ‘Prudent’ is one of Mama’s favourite words. But you hear it only for brief periods when you visit. Think of me and your sisters. Day in and day out, year in and year out, we hear the word.”

  I knew that my voice became loud, and the baboon, perhaps reading my distress and finding its chain loose for a moment, took a great leap onto my shoulders, knocking me backwards onto the path. While I lay there, it threw my cap off with its hands and began parting the strands of my hair.

  “Will it bite?” I cried, as Jerry pushed the animal away from my head.

  “No, she is just looking for lice.”

  At this point we both burst into laughter. Jerry helped me up, got the animal under control again, retrieved my hat, and we resumed our walk.

  “What will you do then, dear brother, if you refuse to take a prudent position in Papa’s law office or in Uncle George’s bank?”

  “I must go back to South America, to Venezuela this time. I learned a lesson from my stupid attempt to defraud that Columbian mogul. Now I have committed myself to freeing Venezuela from Spanish yoke. Oh, Anne, in this world of York I see too much prudence—that is true. But in the world I inhabit I see too much barbarity. When the Spanish coastguards captured the vessel I sought refuge on, they killed all the crew and forced me to bear witness. They hanged my mates first and then they cut off their heads and staked them onto poles that they spiked into the walls of the seaside town. For some reason, they merely imprisoned me, leaving me to suffer the incessant nightmare of those killings. I can never forget that I was the cause of this cruelty.”

  At this point Jerry’s voice broke. “Knowing what I know about man’s inhumanity to man, I cannot stay in a world of safety and comfort, living out my life in prudent endeavours that have no effect on the barbarity that exists all around us. There is another vision before me now. I have sworn to the English government to help break the Spanish yoke and set Venezuela free.”

  “A noble quest, dear Jerry. And you must forgive me if I have seemed in any way to discourage it.”

  Josette was now sniffing at a stray dog that had come loping towards us. Jerry let the lead extend to its full length. Then with his free arm, he embraced me and pulled me close.

  “I see Mary fixed on a prudent marriage. I see Eliza intent on pursing a life of propriety as laid out by my parents. But you, dear Anne, you are different.” I heard the sob in his throat as my head lay against his chest. “You want to be free. Tell me, what does freedom mean to you?” He drew back at arm’s length from me and I saw the tears in his bright brown eyes.

  Suddenly I was telling him all my hopes and dreams.

  “Oh, dear Jerry, I want to be part of a world that is larger than the confines of this little town. I want to travel. I want an education. I want . . . I want . . . to be a midwife. In this world of pain and suffering, I want to ease the agony of women in childbirth. I want to help them bring healthy, happy babies into the light of day.” I stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. “It is a modest vision compared with yours. But—”

  “A noble one. You must pursue it, Anne. Never lose that vision.”

  He pulled Josette towards him and rubbed the top of her head. In her sub-human way, she seemed to smile at him. From the pocket of his coat, he pulled one of Cook’s breakfast scones and fed it to her. Then we turned and retraced our steps towards home.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, my brother Jeremiah and his baboon pet managed to get passage to Montreal on a mail courier’s sleigh. From there he arranged to board a sailing vessel bound for England. For weeks we waited to hear of his safe arrival. But no news came. It was only in April that a traveller staying overnight at Jordan’s Hotel told the proprietor that the Alexander had disappeared under the sea waters somewhere off England’s south coast.

  But Jerry’s words to me on that walk along the lake did not sink with him. I grieved for his loss, and I kept his words in my heart. In the short time that I knew him, he had been kind to me, encouraging me as no one else had. “Never lose your vision,” he said, and those words propelled me forward.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Niagara, September 1808

  I awoke to the smell of sausages and coffee—real coffee—and sounds of laughter from the kitchen. To the flowered wallpaper opposite my bed, I uttered my morning prayer: “Thank you, Brother John, for delivering me from Mama and Papa.”

  I pushed down the pretty red-and-white quilt that my sister-in-law Isabella had stitched and hopped out of bed to see what kind of day it was. Through the wide front window, I could see the blue sky and the green shade of Oak Grove and people already walking with their dogs down the lane. Did the sun always shine in Niagara?

  I donned a high-waisted housedress of light blue muslin, a pair of comfortable slippers, and ran downstairs to find John and Isabella sitting over coffee. John had just that moment popped a piece of sausage into his bride’s mouth, and she took it from him, smiling and laughing at him, oblivious of the grease dripping down her chin. When they saw me, they made no effort to hide their fun.

  “Good morning, dear sister,” Isabella said. “Help yourself to the scrambled eggs. I fear, alas, that John has stuffed me with the remnants of sausage.”

  I heaped my plate with the eggs from the platter in the middle of the table. John and Isabella had no “belowstairs” in their two-storey, comfortable, clapboarded house, and Cook hovered by the open hearth, tending to a savoury stew and trying to ignore the shenanigans of her employers.

  “We must walk to the wharf at the mouth of the river today,” Isabella said. “John is off to York in an hour.” Her laughter, in one quick moment, had turned to a sob. I knew that Papa’s influence had made John Clerk of the Legislative Council, and I guessed that he was now obliged to sit in the Parliament.

  “I shall not be gone long, my darling. I must try to show an interest in what my new position entails. I’ll listen carefully to Father’s babble, have a pint or two or three at the inn, say how-do to Mother and my sisters, and catch the vessel back across the lake as soon as I can break free.” He grabbed Isabella’s hand in his and kissed her fingers.

  She leaned
close to John, her blonde hair brushing against his cheek. “Ask your Papa why he and your Mama did not come to our wedding dinner. My parents went to a great deal of expense for the feast and . . .” Here she paused and laughed. “Indeed, they hoped to impress your folks with the spread.”

  Since John made no reply, I spoke up. “They wanted to come. Perhaps you do not remember the local tragedy that occurred on the same day?”

  They stared at me.

  “A tragedy?” John said, “I had not heard of one. But then, I was thinking of nothing but my own happy day.” He turned to Isabella, his strong white teeth sparkling in a broad smile.

  “Mrs. Gore’s English setter Spot died.”

  Now they began to laugh. I joined in. “You who have lived in The Centre of the Universe must have recognized the importance of Spot in the life of York,” I said to Isabella. “Why, even the flag over the Parliament Building was at half-mast for two days, surely you remember that, and the Lieutenant-Governor himself delivered the funeral service at the garrison. Mama made Eliza, Mary, and me attend. Even our former Administrator Peter Russell got up from his bed to attend, and the man is almost in his grave. And Papa—”

  “He went too?” they both shrieked at me.

  “Yes. He had to. Now that he’s on the Executive Council, he’s hoping for a promotion to Chief Justice, and he does everything possible to stay in accord with the Gores.”

  “A formal funeral for a dog . . . I can’t believe it,” Isabella said, her cheeks growing pink from laughter.

  “You have no concept of the place of that animal in Mrs. Gore’s life? Why even when poor old Mr. Russell dies, there will not be as much fuss.”