by Ann Birch
“Go as soon as you can, Eliza.” William took a few coins from his waistcoat pocket and placed them in Eliza’s hand.
“Poor Mary,” Annie said, “she bears the disappointment with the piety that marks her character.”
Annie was dismayed to see Anne set down her knife and fork with a clatter on the side of her plate and push its uneaten contents away from her. She stood up. “Please excuse me. I am not hungry. I shall retire to my room for a rest.”
“Sit down and eat, girl. You cannot waste food. Have you any idea of what it costs me to feed this family?”
Annie watched with relief as Anne sat down again, picked up her fork, and pushed the food around on her plate.
“What possesses you to act in this way, girl? Since you have come back home from Tolpuddle, your behaviour has been unacceptable.”
“Have I not spent every waking afternoon on stitchery, Papa? Have I not gone back to teaching Sunday school as the Reverend Mr. Strachan has asked me to? Did I not help Lucy serve food to the members of the Legislative Council who dined here yesterday?”
“Your questions are impertinent and undeserving of an answer. Eliza helps her mother quietly and efficiently day after day without all this hullabaloo. Mary has made a prudent marriage with a worthy member of York society. Of course, we all regret the loss of her first babe, but—”
“Mary told me, Papa, in a letter that I received yesterday, that her child had been strangled by its umbilical cord. That would not have happened if she had had a trained midwife to assist in the birth. Why is it that—”
“This is neither the time nor the place to discuss these intimate details. Now, Annie, please pass me another glassful of shrub so that I can get on with this meal that has turned into another lamentable occasion of which we have had too many of late.”
“You do not wish to hear about the intimate details of a woman’s life, Papa. So I shall be brief in the comments that I must make to you now. I shall repeat why I said. Mary’s poor babe might have had a chance to survive if my sister had been able to obtain—”
“You are babbling, girl. Get on with it.”
“Very well. I ask you again, Papa, if you will provide me with money to set up a school of midwifery here in York.”
“My daughter giving instructions about childbirth to a herd of housemaids and shopkeepers’ wives! Balderdash!” Annie watched in horror as William picked a piece of duck from his plate, grease and all, and threw it in his daughter’s face, yelling “Slut!.”
In response, Anne rose from her chair, reached into the centre of the table for the bowl of shrub, and upended it on William’s head. “Since you have called me a slut, Papa, I feel justified in acting like one.” She left the room, oblivious to her father’s repeated shouts. Eliza followed her, upset and in tears.
Annie stared at the mess on the table and at the liquid dripping down William’s face onto his vest. What am I to do? How am I to go on day after day with these outbursts? No doubt the servants have heard everything. Soon our family squabbles will be the talk of the town.
She rose to make sure that the French doors leading to the hallway and the stairs downward to the kitchen were closed. “Please, husband, though I sympathize with your response to Anne’s request, I cannot approve of your language to her.”
William had seized a napkin and was mopping at his face and vest. “I believe the girl to be mad. We must think of a solution, Annie. Is there some way our son Grant can be of help? Perhaps an opiate to keep her quiet? You must talk to him on the morrow.”
“Please, please, husband, stop shouting. The servants will hear what you say. Grant will be of no use. Anne will refuse to take any opiate that our son offers, that I know.”
“Then we must think of another way out. Perhaps we can send her to a nunnery in Lower Canada. No doubt the Reverend Mr. Strachan will have an idea about that. You know that his wife has connections in Montreal. Since I have a major court case to settle tomorrow, you must visit him and ask for a solution.”
Always, always, always, the problems of this household are loaded onto my shoulders. How much longer can I endure this?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
York, late summer, 1820
A gentle breeze stirred the big oak tree outside Annie’s window, and the sun shone on some late-blooming red roses in the front garden. Annie stepped down onto the floor, using the footstool beside her bed, and took a muslin frock from the wardrobe against the wall. As she dressed, she made plans for the day. She would put aside all the problems with Anne and concentrate on preparations for her favourite daughter’s arrival from Queenston that afternoon. She would get Cook to make some of Mary’s favourite treats.
Descending the staircase, she scented the aroma of something good wafting up from belowstairs. A new recipe for scones, perhaps? At the same time, she heard the thump of a chair in the breakfast-room. That meant that William was already there waiting for her. She quickened her pace. It would be pleasant to share with him her plans for Mary’s arrival while they enjoyed Cook’s baking.
“Where is yesterday’s copy of The Christian Recorder?” he asked her as she sat down across the table from him.
“I have no idea, husband, and it would be pleasant if you would begin our conversation with ‘Good morning.’” He is never to know that I gave the damned paper to Lucy to dispose of.
Just as William was rising to press the button on the mantel, Lucy came in with apple muffins and coffee. “Find me yesterday’s copy of The Christian Recorder and be quick about it. I have to be at my office in a very short time.”
From behind William’s chair, Lucy looked at Annie and raised her eyebrows. Annie gave a quick nod, and Lucy disappeared down the stairs into the kitchen. In a few minutes she returned with the newspaper, shaking off some wood particles as she handed it to William.
“Where the hell has my paper been? It looks as if it has come from the wood stack. Never never never take it out of the basket in the front hall where I pick it up each morning as I come down to breakfast.” Lucy retreated, mumbling an apology.
Annie waited for the inevitable rebuke. “Really, Annie, you must supervise the staff more carefully.”
There was silence then as William shuffled through the pages, pausing from time to time to butter his second, then third, muffin. Annie sipped her coffee and once more turned her thoughts towards the day’s events. Mary was arriving for an extended visit. Her husband Sam would not be with her. His law practice absorbed his time. Oh, how she looked forward to having her girl with her again . . .
A loud bellow interrupted her pleasant reverie. “Is it possible that the wicked girl could have written these words?”
“Please lower your voice, William. What words are you talking about? Can we not have a quiet meal without all this anger? What has upset you now?”
“It is this anonymous letter to the editor from some woman complaining that her parents abuse and neglect her. She notes that her father is one of the chief men in this town, that he has servants at his command, a healthy income to spend, and that he still refuses to educate her or to allow her a measure of independence.”
“Why would you assume that our daughter Anne wrote it? It could surely refer to any of several families in this town. ” But as I said this, I remembered a conversation two days ago between Anne and Eliza in which Anne had used the very words of that anonymous writer. But I intend to say nothing about this to William. Our household is already in disarray, and the only thing I can do now is to keep Anne and her father apart as much as is humanly possible. Another open dispute would only destroy all appearance of family harmony.
“Please, husband, put down that silly paper and finish your breakfast. You must not go into court in a rage for which there is no foundation.”
She was happy to see that her words had a salutary effect. William reached for the last muffin on the plate. Then he crunched up the paper and threw it into the fireplace where it briefly extinguished itself in a
puff of flames.
* * *
Dear Mary arrived in time for afternoon tea. Lucy had taken the best Wedgewood dishes from the china cabinet and put two long-stemmed roses in the Portland vase on the mantel. On one of the mahogany tables, she had set out a platter of Mary’s favourite mince tarts.
Annie was delighted to see her. Her pretty blue Empire gown with a satin ribbon appliqué showed that her husband Sam Jarvis was liberal with expenses. “Sit down, Mary, and refresh yourself after your long journey across the lake. You will notice that Cook has baked a treat in honour of your arrival.”
“Thank you, Mama, but I shall just drink some tea. I do not feel like mince tarts.”
“It was always your favourite sweet, my dear,” Anne said.
“Forgive me, Mama, I am . . . I am . . .”
It was then that Annie noticed her daughter’s pale face. There was surely an excellent reason for her unwillingness to eat. “I understand. You are with child. That is good news.”
Mary began to cry. “No, no, Mama, I cannot face my coming confinement. I think only of the long and difficult labour I endured in bringing forth a dead child. I do not think I can go through that pain again.”
Into Annie’s mind seeped the memories of her own confinements and the agony of each one. She could not leave dear Mary without consolation. “Remember, daughter, that because of Eve’s sin in seeking knowledge, God punished her and all women by giving them painful childbirth. But there was mercy, too, was there not? He gave Adam and Eve his blessing in the form of children. Your next child will surely live, and you will have the joy of its presence.”
Anne was seated beside Mary. She reached over and put her hand across her sister’s shoulders. “I shall use Papa’s expression. Balderdash and bunkum. That sums up my view of Mama’s reference to Eve’s supposed sin. Excuse my impertinence, Mama, but I have my own ideas on pain in childbirth. Dear sister, when the time comes, I hope to be near you to give you an infusion of meadowsweet to lighten your ordeal.”
Mary smiled. “Does that really help, Anne?”
“It was one of the midwife’s remedies that I learned about in Tolpuddle.”
Annie listened to their conversation. She wanted to dismiss Anne’s suggestion, but she was happy to see the smile on her daughter’s face. If meadowsweet really did work—and she had heard so much about Anne’s skills in midwifery—then she would make certain that the girl was present to assist Mary when the time came.
“All very well, my dears,” she said. “But let us not say anything to Papa about this matter. When your time of birth arrives, Mary, we shall all be there to assist you. Do not worry.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
January, 1821
It was late morning when Eliza came into the bedchamber to chastise me for lying on the bed, still in my shift. “Get up, Anne, we have so many petticoats to hem for the poor, and I need your help, or the work will never get done.”
“I cannot endure another day of this,” I said, pulling a quilt up over my ears. “Go away.”
“Please, sister, please.”
“At thirty-two years of age, I am confined to my parents’ house, subject to their every dictate, and treated like a half-witted girl of fifteen.”
“Submit,” Eliza told me, adding, “I have done so.”
“But I cannot be like you, Eliza. You never seem to have a moment’s freedom or a jot of self-fulfillment. Even when you sit down to play the pianoforte, Mama is at you to assist her with some wretched task.”
And truly, I knew that Eliza’s patience and compliance had been achieved at considerable cost. Though I could say nothing to her about the problem, I watched her daily consumption of brandy or sherry grow until she seemed to go about her tasks in a half stupor. Just last week, she and I sat with a roomful of biddies stitching away on prayer cushions for Mr. Strachan’s church, and I had to press my foot against hers from time to time to keep her awake.
I noted also that there was now nothing much that interested her except the gossip of the town. I knew that she probably had some tidbit to impart to me this morning for she yanked the quilt from my face and pulled me upwards. I complied—what else was there to do?—and went to the captain’s chest at the bottom of the bed from which I pulled a bedraggled muslin gown. Unfortunately this action merely fuelled her desire to “spill the beans,” a phrase I’d heard my American uncle use when Papa and I had stayed with him on our way to England.
“Oh Anne, do not wear that droopy thing. You must know that certain people in this town have noticed your lethargy, and they attribute it to your disappointment over Mr. Robinson. They are saying, in fact, that you are ‘distracted’ after him.”
“And who, pray, was the chief spreader of this most interesting news?”
“Mrs. Small, in fact. She has told everyone that on at least three occasions you have crept into the Robinsons’ house where you have spent time ‘fondling their infant son.’ She implies that this action comes from a broken heart.”
I laughed. “I suppose that I must not blame the much-maligned Mrs. Small for spreading this most interesting anecdote. It’s her revenge on Mama who has never really appreciated the woman’s fine talent for invention and focuses only on her long-ago adultery with Mr. White.”
I pulled the “droopy” dress over my head and smoothed my hair into place. While I was in Tolpuddle I had it cut short so that it curled naturally around my head and needed no care or primping. Of course Mama and Papa had chastised me, calling the cut “unnatural,” but I kept it that way.
Eliza was in full sail now. “But you do seem to yearn after Mr. Robinson, Anne. I noticed how you chatted with him and how attentive he was to you at Governor Maitland’s last Assembly.”
“He merely found me a seat for the songs and recitations. I suspect he has heard Mrs. Small’s gossip and enjoys it. He is a man who craves centre stage in our small world.”
Eliza sighed. “I must go back downstairs now. I shall tell Mama that you are up and ready for the stitchery.”
The door closed. I waited until I heard her footsteps descending. Then I burrowed back into the captain’s chest and extracted a small bottle of laudanum that I had stolen from Mama’s store. She had not noticed its absence, or if she had, she probably thought that in moments of distress she had drunk it all. No doubt she would buy some more soon at Mr. Allan’s store.
I held the bottle to my lips and swigged a gulp or two. As I restored the bottle to its hiding place, I reflected on poor Eliza’s dependence on brandy. Was brandy a worse anodyne than laudanum? The answer was obvious.
* * *
Downstairs in the parlour, I found Eliza already lost in a pile of petticoats. I sat near her in the most uncomfortable chair I could find since from experience I knew that an aching back would in time give me a legitimate excuse to escape upstairs to the bedchamber where, once more, I would seek to drown my sorrows in slumber. I would try hard to avoid the laudanum.
Mama was also present. She had laid her stitching aside and was in the process of opening an envelope. “It was just this moment delivered by one of our dear rector’s servants, and I must of course give it my immediate attention.”
“Oh, good Lord,” she exclaimed as she read it. Since Mama rarely took the name of the Lord in vain, I knew the note contained some distressing information. Moreover, her face had turned crimson, and for a moment I found myself hoping that she still had enough laudanum hoarded somewhere to calm herself.
“What is it, Mama?” Eliza asked. “May I be of help?”
My mother read the note aloud, weeping as she uttered the words of its content: “I do not enter into the unhappy differences between you and your daughter Anne, but they are common knowledge to us all. I wish them buried in oblivion, and I will not grant either of you Holy Communion until they are resolved in harmony and peace.”
I could not control my actions at that point. I threw down the damned petticoat I had started to stitch, ran over to Mama
’s chair, tore the note from her hand, and threw it upon the fire.
“Oh, my God,” I said, having no inhibitions about the use of the Lord’s name. “The men in this world! They wreak their revenge on us women, not on the male race. Is there any mention of Papa in this note? Is he to be forbidden to take Communion? No, of course not. And yet, Mr. Strachan must surely know that these so-called ‘unhappy differences’ are mostly between Papa and me, not between you and me.”
“But what am I to do? If we are banned from Communion, the whole world will see and ponder the cause.”
“Excuse my language, Mama, but I don’t give a damn about being excluded from that silly ritual of chewing on a bit of stale bread and drinking some bad wine. But I know it is a matter of importance for you. Go now to the desk and reply to the man.”
I pulled her forward, pushed her towards the desk in the corner of the parlour and plunked her down on the chair. I picked up the plume, dipped it in the inkwell, and thrust it into her hand. “Write,” I said.
“But what am I to say?”
“I shall dictate. All you have to do is write it down.”
To my utter surprise, Mama nodded. Here is what I told her to write, trying not to choke as I spoke these words: “My dear Mr. Strachan, Anne and I have settled our differences and look forward to your continued blessing upon us.”
Mama seemed pleased, finished writing this sentence, signed her name, and was about to return the plume to its place on the desk when I spoke again. “We are not yet finished, Mama. There is one more sentence that must be added. ‘I trust you will not grant Holy Communion to my husband William who is the instigator of all the dissent in this house.’”
I, of course, did not expect Mama’s compliance in the writing of these additional words, but I was surprised to hear a snort of laughter from Eliza.