“It’s all right, Mother.” Harriet tried to smile
reassuringly even as her heart sank. It was much worse than either
of them had feared. Quickly she settled Anna in a fleece-lined
basket, set George to gathering firewood, and Maggie to washing the
few crusted dishes left forgotten in a basin of dirty water.
While Allan tended to his parents, she would have to
deal with the practicalities of life. She accepted it with a
determined pragmatism; busy hands meant less time to think, to
worry.
Within an hour there was a cheerful fire, a pot of
stew with dried meat and root vegetables simmering over the flames,
and the water barrel had been refilled.
Maggie leaned into Harriet’s side, her hand bunched
in her skirt like a much smaller child. Harriet put a comforting
hand on the girl’s shoulder. It was disconcerting to her, she knew,
to arrive at a Mingarry changed beyond all recognition.
The last time they’d been here, it was spring; the
windows had been thrown open to the warm air, fragrant with lilac,
and Sandy had played his fiddle. Maggie had lifted up her skirts
and danced; Harriet had as well, and Betty had tapped her foot to
the music, her fingers busy knitting a gown for little Anna.
How horribly different this dark, dank place was,
smelling of sickness. Harriet gave Maggie a little nudge.
“George has found the box of spillikins, there by
the fire. Go have a game before supper.”
Maggie went dutifully enough, although once the
little sticks were spilled out, she involved herself in the game,
and Harriet tended to Anna, her troubled thoughts still at bay.
Allan returned from the bedroom, where he’d settled
Betty and looked in on his father, and glanced in approval at the
changes. “Thank you, Harriet. It’s good to see i
t as it was. As it should be.”
She shrugged his words aside. “How is your
father?”
“He doesn’t stir. If his chest didn’t rise and fall
with breath, I’d think him dead.” Allan sat at the table, wearily
running a hand through his hair. “Mother’s taken it hard, as I’m
sure you can see. I didn’t realize how frail she’d become. She’s
not capable of the household chores, and the girl who was helping
with the heavy work left a fortnight ago to marry a lad from
Charlottetown. I didn’t even know.”
Harriet pressed her lips together and silently
served Allan a bowl of stew and tankard of ale. Maggie and George
left their game of spillikins by the fire, subdued by the
prevailing mood of the house, and joined them at the table.
It was only after supper, when the children were
asleep in the spare bedroom, that Harriet and Allan were able to
resume their conversation.
“What shall we do?” Harriet asked quietly. She’d
found the mending basket and started on it with resolute
determination. Allan gazed bleakly into the fire.
“I can’t see there is much choice. Mother and Father
can’t cope on their own, and there’s no one to help.”
Harriet focused on threading her needle. She did not
want to see the despair in Allan’s eyes which she knew would be
mirrored in her own. “They could hire someone to help in the house.
And John in the fields...”
“John can’t labour by himself.” Allan paused, and
Harriet glanced up, almost recoiling at the anguish in his eyes.
“Harriet, I can’t leave them now, not like this. It wouldn’t be
right.”
“I know.” It didn’t need saying, she knew, for the
decision had been made the moment they’d crossed the threshold and
seen the empty fireplace, the bare shelves. They would stay and
help.
“What shall we do with our own holding?” Harriet
asked. “The house?” She thought briefly of the comfortable house
they’d left, snug and ready for winter.
“I’ll go back tomorrow and get the things we need. I
can close up the house, and the fields will lie fallow. It might be
good for the land, for a year.”
Or more
,
Harriet added silently. How long would they be here, away from
their own lives?
“John can come with me, help bring our livestock
over here.” He touched her hand briefly. “It might only be for a
little while... the winter, which is lonely as it is. You’ll be
glad of the company.”
“Yes.” Harriet resumed sewing, not trusting herself
to say more. She knew Allan felt guilty for the time he’d spent
away from his family, pursuing his own dream. No amount of faithful
service afterwards would erase that guilt. She also knew that Sandy
was not going to get better with any haste. If they left in spring,
it would be because he’d passed on, and she couldn’t wish that. Not
now, not yet.
She raised her eyes and smiled at Allan. “It will be
all right.”
He nodded, managing a small smile back. “I pray so,”
he said. “It’s the least I can do, after...” he trailed off,
shaking his head.
“I know, Allan,” Harriet replied softly. “I
know.”
Caroline smiled in satisfaction at the sight of at
least a dozen boxes neatly piled by the door of the modiste’s.
She’d spent an agreeable morning charging an outrageous sum to her
uncle’s account, and there would be two new evening dresses, as
well as three day gowns, to collect in a fortnight’s time.
Meanwhile, she was able to take home no small number of gloves,
hats, handkerchiefs, spangles, and other fripperies she’d firmly
decided she could not do without.
“Why don’t you put these in the carriage, Jackson,”
she said airily, “while I take a turn about the park.”
Jackson, her uncle’s hired driver, shuffled his feet
in obvious reluctance. Caroline knew she had succeeded in charming
him with a few well placed winning smiles and demure looks, but it
did not keep him from doggedly going about his duty. “I hardly
think it is fitting for a female such as yourself,” he stammered.
“Ladies in Boston don’t walk by themselves.”
“Oh, but surely this is an agreeable place for
ladies?” Caroline inquired with an air of innocence. “The houses
seem quite pleasant, and I’m certain I saw a few ladies taking the
air.”
Jackson mumbled something unintelligible, and
Caroline smiled in implicit acceptance. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Before he could offer any more objections, she left
the shop, snapped open her parasol, and walked briskly down the
street. She longed for a moment’s freedom, away from her uncle’s
servants who often seemed like her gaolers.
Taking a deep breath, she looked around the
fashionable neighborhood. She was charmed by the row of townhouses,
the neat front gardens and wrought iron fences, and the general air
of genteel prosperity.
There were some ladies strolling down the pleasant,
tree lined street, but Caroline noted they were accompanied by
matrons, governesses, or other suitable chaperones. A few of them
glanced her way with speculative interest, for while it was clear
she was a young woman of some quality, they no doubt wondered at
her boldness in strolling unaccompanied.
She sighed inwardly. Although it was perfectly
proper for her to reside in her uncle’s house, a surly housekeeper
and taciturn butler were hardly respectable companions for a girl
intent on making an advantageous alliance.
A sudden feeling of disquiet infringed on her
earlier sunny thoughts. Although her uncle resided in an affluent
part of Boston, and was clearly invited to some respectable
occasions, Caroline could not help but feel there was something
amiss in the house--and society--he kept.
She thought briefly of the dinner party to which
he’d escorted her a week ago, with the promise of charming company.
Charming indeed!
The evening had been a sore disappointment. The
party had consisted of herself, her uncle, the odious Dearborn
she’d met back at Lanymoor, and his rather foppish son that even
she found insipid.
Uncle James had ordered a private room at one of
Boston’s finer establishments, and Caroline had endured Frederick
Dearborn’s slobbering over her extended hand--thank goodness she
had worn evening gloves!--and his inane and irritatingly adoring
chatter.
More bothersome than Frederick’s attentions,
however, were those of his father’s. Never overt or overbearing,
Matthew Dearborn still managed to convey an intensity of interest
which left Caroline queasy and uncomfortable. She often felt his
eyes resting on her, and felt as if she were mentally being
devoured.
The elder Dearborn did not address her once the
entire evening, which somehow made it worse. It was, she thought
later, as if she were no consequence because he had already decided
what to do with her.
Which was ridiculous, because Caroline intended to
have nothing to do with either of the Dearborns. She’d made as much
clear to her uncle in their carriage on the way home.
“If that is your idea of a treat, Uncle, you are
sorely mistaken in what you think pleases me.”
James, preoccupied and brooding, barely glanced at
her. “What pleases me should please you, Caroline.”
“Well, it does not!” After several hours of the
unendurable company, she could not help but be pettish. “Do you
think to propose a match with Frederick Dearborn? Because I will
not have him. I do not care how rich he is.”
Her uncle merely raised his eyebrows. “Have a care,
niece. Your dowry is modest and you are unknown in this country.
You should treat any offers you receive with due consideration and
sobriety.”
“I won’t marry him,” she repeated shrilly, her hands
clenched into fists.
James laughed dryly. “Never fear. I won’t have you
wasted on that dandified character. His brains do not reside in his
head, of that I assure you.” He resumed his moody staring out the
carriage window, and Caroline was left feeling that the
conversation had been concluded most unsatisfactorily.
“Caroline! That is, Miss Reid.”
Caroline whirled around, a smile lighting her features as she saw
Ian Campbell behind her, his hat in his hands, looking handsome as
well as delightfully uncertain.
“Mr. Campbell! I am surprised to
see you here. Do you reside in this part of town?”
“No, but my sister-in-law does. I was visiting her.
And you?”
“I was at the modiste’s,” Caroline admitted with a
little smile, her head cocked to one side. She saw Ian’s gaze sweep
her form with appreciation, and then he flushed and looked down in
obvious embarrassment.
“A delightful occupation of one’s time, I am sure,”
he said after a moment. He paused, the blush that stole across his
cheeks making the freckles on his nose stand out. “I wanted to
apologize, Miss Reid, for my conduct towards your uncle the other
evening, at the musicale.”
Caroline wrinkled her nose and said pertly, “Then
perhaps you should make your apologies to him.” She did not want to
discuss her uncle, even if it provided a possible avenue for some
mild flirtation.
Something in Ian’s face hardened. “I am afraid that
is quite out of the question. However, I did not mean to subject a
lady of your sensibility to such a scene, and for that I am indeed
contrite.”
Caroline’s hands tightened on the handle of her
parasol. She felt torn between her desire to be pleasing and gay,
and the confidences of her uncle, which had tried her sorely. “I’m
not sure I should accept such an apology,” she said quietly.
“Considering the offense given to my uncle.”
“He’s regaled you with his side of the story, I
see.”
“He has explained things.”
“Then you know he swindled me out of my family’s
home, as well my own inheritance,” Ian said, bitterness spilling
forth and spiking his words.
Caroline thought of her uncle’s explanations. “You
signed the contract,” she said, her voice strangely whispery.
“That’s hardly a swindle.”
Ian shook his head. “I should’ve known you would
take his side. What recourse could you possibly have? I only wanted
to apologize for my conduct, that is all.”
He sketched a bow and turned to leave. Caroline
found herself taking a step forward, involuntarily, and her parasol
clattered to the paving stones.
With a little, ironic smile, Ian picked it up and
handed it to her.
“Thank you.” Caroline stumbled over
the simple word. “I don’t mean to offend you,” she blurted. “You’re
angry. I didn’t want that.” She felt as gauche as a country maid.
She’d wanted to flirt with Ian Campbell, entice him a bit, but she
realized what a foolish desire that was. The feud between Ian and
her uncle was long and deep; a few moments’ of trifling
conversation would not heal the still open wounds of long
ago.
“I’m not angry at you,” Ian said. “Only with a feud
that has not let me go these last ten years. You’re right, Miss
Reid. I signed that contract. I was a boy intent on being a man. I
wanted to handle affairs quickly, and be done with it.” He paused
to draw in a ragged breath. “Good day to you.”
Caroline watched him leave, the
dejected set of his shoulders making her want to cry out, ask him
to explain. She stiffened her own stance. It was better this way.
If Ian Campbell was a penniless doctor and
intent on marrying Isobel Moore, they had no business
conducting this conversation in the first place.
Eleanor had not realized how Boston was growing. It
was, she thought as she surveyed the newly built Quincy Market, a
city under construction. The market was an elegantly proportioned
structure of granite and brick, with a domed roof. A few years ago
the place it now stood had been the centre of Boston Harbor;
workers had filled in the harbor to allow Boston to grow, and now
the market was a busy, colorful place, full of food stalls and the
sounds of barter and trade, over which could be heard the mournful
lowing of cattle being led to slaughter.
Even Beacon Hill, the land where the most prosperous
homes were located, was being transformed.