Return to the Island: An utterly gripping historical romance

by Hewitt, Kate

  “If you did sell the farm,” Ellen asked slowly, hating even to bring up the question, “where would you go? Somewhere in Stella?” She could not imagine them all displaced, scattered across the country.

  And where would she go? Back to Glasgow? It seemed the most practical possibility, and yet she resisted it. The island was her home. It was the McCaffertys’ home as well. They had to find a way to stay, somehow.

  Rose sighed as she slowly wiped a plate dry. “I don’t rightly know, to tell the truth. A place in Stella would be an expense, still. I suppose I could throw myself on my brother, your Uncle Hamish’s charity, although he has his own struggles now, poor man.”

  Ellen nodded slowly in sorrowful agreement. When she’d first arrived in America, she’d lived with her Uncle Hamish and Aunt Ruth in the small town of Seaton, Vermont, where they’d run the general store. Ruth had died years ago, and Hamish had sold the store when it had been overtaken by the glossy promises of the Sears Roebuck catalogue. Now he lived in a set of rooms above Seaton’s new drugstore, and worked the counter part-time, even though he was past sixty years of age. He seemed happy enough, although Ellen knew he still missed Aunt Ruth terribly. She could not imagine Aunt Rose sharing his small living quarters, or keeping house for him.

  “And if you didn’t go to Uncle Hamish?” she asked.

  Rose sighed. “Perhaps to Gananoque, where Sarah is, although she only has a room in a boarding house. No one’s got much space to spare anymore, have they?” she said with a sad smile. “Nothing is the same as it was.” Rose paused as she gazed out the kitchen window at the golden evening. “Life was hard enough, goodness knows, before the war, but I’d go back to those days in a heartbeat sometimes.”

  “So would I,” Ellen agreed quietly. The war had shaped everyone, molded them in hard and heartfelt ways. It had left gaping holes in the very fabric of island life and it was impossible to knit it back together; the only way forward was to make something new from the tattered remnants. But what? And how?

  Again Ellen thought of Lucas’s outlandish idea. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone because she didn’t want to offer false hope, which she knew from bitter experience was worse than none. But if there was a way… If she could help to save the farm and keep Aunt Rose and her cousins safe in their home… Surely she couldn’t let her own fear and doubt keep her from at least suggesting it. If Rose thought it was a mad idea, then she’d drop it at once. But surely her aunt deserved to know about the possibility, at least.

  Ellen took a deep breath. “Lucas Lyman mentioned something to me,” she said as they finished the dishes and Rose put the kettle on the stove. Ellen hung the damp dish towel over the railing on the cooking range. “An idea about the farm. It sounds mad, I think, and it probably is, but I felt I should at least mention it to you, just in case…”

  The hope that leapt into Rose’s eyes and animated her face made Ellen’s heart sink. What if it all came to nothing? Which it probably would. She still couldn’t believe that anyone, never mind wealthy society ladies, would want to spend their vacations at Jasper Lane.

  “Lucas did?” Rose said as she got the teapot down and began to make tea. “He’s such a fancy man in Toronto these days. His father is so proud of him, I know.”

  “Yes, although I imagine Mr. Lyman could use Lucas’s help back on the farm,” Ellen said with a bit more acerbity than she’d meant to reveal.

  Rose raised her eyebrows. “I think Lucas is most useful right where he is. But what idea did he have about our farm? I can’t even imagine.”

  “It really does sound mad,” Ellen warned her aunt. She felt embarrassed to mention the art holidays, the presumption that she had enough skill to offer them. She hadn’t picked up a paintbrush or pencil in years, and still had no real desire to do so. How could she possibly teach others?

  “I don’t mind mad,” Rose answered. “At this point, I’d happily welcome any idea. The madder, the better!” She sat down at the table and Ellen joined, the teapot between them.

  The kitchen was quiet and peaceful, the view of rolling fields to the placid, glittering surface of Lake Ontario making Ellen think, for one wild second, that city tourists would want to come here. It was certainly the loveliest place she’d ever been, the only place where she felt as if the very land seeped into her bones and became a part of her.

  “Are you going to tell me, then?” Rose asked with a smile as she poured them both cups of tea.

  Ellen took hers with a murmured thanks, taking a sip as she steeled herself for what lay ahead. “Well… Lucas had the idea of offering holidays here to city folks. Art holidays, actually.” She let out an embarrassed laugh as she felt herself start to blush. “We could—well, I could—teach people to draw and paint, things like that, but also give them a little taste of helping on a farm. No mucking out stalls, of course, or any of the hard or dirty work. Just feeding a few chickens, picking a few berries, simply things city folk might enjoy, make them feel useful…” She trailed off, embarrassed by her suggestion. When she’d said it out loud, she realized how ridiculous it all sounded. What city folk wanted to feed chickens?

  Rose was staring at her, a look of rapt incredulity on her face, her teacup stalled halfway to her lips.

  Ellen smiled uneasily. “It is mad, isn’t it? I knew it was. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it…”

  “No, no, I think it sounds brilliant. Art holidays! I would so love for you to use your talent, Ellen.” Rose paused, frowning as she sipped her tea. “But I have no idea what city people want these days. The farthest I’ve gone in years is Kingston.”

  “Lucas seems to think the good matrons of Toronto would love to rusticate here, but, of course, we wouldn’t know unless we tried. And trying would be a risk,” Ellen continued hurriedly, feeling compelled to point out all the dangers and downsides of the foolhardy plan. “We’d most likely have to spend some money to smarten the place up a bit…”

  Rose looked around the kitchen in all of its shabby comfort and laughed. “Of course we would. And advertising and art supplies too, I suppose. Would we advertise in the newspapers?”

  “I’ll pay for those,” Ellen said firmly. Rose opened her mouth to protest, but Ellen cut her off with a firm shake of her head. “Please, Aunt Rose. I insist. You won’t let me help in other ways, but this would benefit me as well. You must let me. If I’m to share in any profit or benefit, then I shall share in the cost, as well.”

  “You sound quite convincing,” Rose answered with a wry laugh. “And so I’ll agree.” She paused, her expression turning both serious and wistful. “Do you think we can manage it, Ellen? Really?”

  Belatedly, Ellen realized she’d been talking as if it was all about to become a reality, as if all they needed was a lick of fresh paint and a paragraph in the back of the Toronto Daily Star. Her heart lurched and then suddenly skipped a beat in excitement. What if that was all they needed, more or less? Could they actually do this…? Was she mad for thinking—hoping—that they could? Rose was clearly looking to her for an answer.

  “Manage what?” Caro asked as she came into the kitchen, swatting her hand in front of her face. “Ugh, the black flies are terrible tonight. I nearly got eaten alive walking through the woods to the Wilsons.” She washed her hands at the sink and then turned to look at them both, eyebrows raised. “You both look like Malkin after he’s got at the cream. Guilty and proud and just a little bit sick. What’s going on?”

  Rose let out a little laugh as she went to fetch a cup for Caro. “Ellen has come up with the most amazing idea—”

  “It’s Lucas’s idea,” Ellen protested, not wanting to take the credit, especially if Caro thought the idea was absurd. She was just beginning to hope it might actually be possible. “I just told it to Aunt Rose. And I’m not sure it will even work.”

  “An idea?” Caro folded her arms, managing to look both wary and hopeful. “What is it, then?”

  “Art holidays!” Rose exclaimed, and then proceeded to
tell Caro Lucas’s plans, while her daughter’s eyebrows drew closer and closer together in a skeptical frown. She clearly was not caught up in the fancy of it the way Rose was.

  “You think rich city people would pay to board here?” she asked, her voice full of doubt. “Louisa didn’t think much of it, back in the day, and I can’t imagine any Toronto ladies would feel differently.”

  “That’s true.” And Louisa, Ellen realized with an unpleasant plunging sensation in her middle, was most likely the kind of customer they would be trying to attract—a wealthy, bored woman, looking to be entertained and amused. Caro was right—back in the day, Louisa had turned her nose up at the farmhouse, and indeed the whole island, even though she’d ended up marrying an islander. She’d gone now, left Jed and the farmhouse and the life they’d built together, and Ellen didn’t know if she’d ever be back.

  “It sounds like a nice idea,” Caro continued kindly but firmly, “but I can’t imagine we’d ever gain enough guests to pay our way. And they’d want all sorts of silly luxuries—breakfast in bed and champagne and caviar, no doubt. They’d expect a hotel, and they’d get a farm.”

  “Breakfast in bed we could do,” Rose said, her smile faltering, and Ellen could see she’d already lost her enthusiasm, her shoulders slumping and her mouth turning down. “But perhaps you’re right, Caro. We are a shabby lot…” Rose fought for a smile and Ellen’s heart ached.

  She couldn’t bring herself to say anything encouraging; it felt cruel. She’d been right all along, she thought with a pang. It had been a mad idea. The farmhouse and their simple life there weren’t smart enough to cater to city tourists and all of their fussy wants. Why had Lucas put the dream in her heart, and why, oh why, had she mentioned it to Rose?

  “Never mind,” Ellen said as bracingly as she could. “It was just an idea. We can think of something else.”

  To which neither Caro nor Rose replied, for they knew as well as Ellen that there was nothing to say.

  That evening, Ellen wrote Lucas. She sat at the little desk in the window of her bedroom overlooking the copse of birches that separated the Lymans’ property from the McCaffertys’. If she craned her neck, she could just make out the Lymans’ farmhouse; she hadn’t seen Jed once since she’d asked him about buying the pasture and he’d turned her down flat.

  Ellen sighed, knowing she could hardly blame Jed for refusing, although his surly manner had stung. She wondered if he would even care that the McCaffertys might be leaving the island; he seemed not to care about much these days.

  She spent a good hour composing the short letter to Lucas, to inform him they would not be turning the McCafferty farmhouse into some sort of ludicrous McCafferty inn. It was hard not to let an accusing note color her words, because in truth she was annoyed, and even angry, with Lucas for giving her the idea in the first place. It was an unfair sentiment, Ellen knew, and yet she felt it all the same. Vain hope was a terrible thing, and yet that is what she’d dared to have, when she had allowed Lucas to kindle her dreams.

  Thank you for thinking of us, she finished writing, but if selling the farm comes to pass, as indeed it seems likely to, then it is most sensible for Aunt Rose to move to Seaton or Gananoque, and I suppose I shall return to Glasgow.

  She put her pen down and pressed her fingertips to her eyes. To go back again after only a few months on the island… it felt unbearable. Impossible, even. Yet what other choice did she have? She could not throw herself on her Uncle Hamish’s mercy along with all of the McCaffertys, nor would she want to. At least she had somewhere to go, a house waiting for her, with her friends Ruby and Dougie living there. They’d be surprised to see her, but they’d welcome her, Ellen knew, and she would have a home, even a happy one, to live in. She could surely not complain, for others had it so much worse.

  The lecturing role at the Glasgow School of Art she’d been offered had no doubt been filled by now, but Ellen would have enough to get by for a little while, at least. Perhaps she could offer art tuition to schoolgirls, similar to what she’d have done here, but across the sea, in a whole other world. She could find her way, and yet none of it appealed in the least.

  She sent the letter the next day, her heart heavy as she handed it over at the store in Stella, for the post that traveled by ferry. Rose had told her that morning that she intended to put the farm up for sale; her eyes had been sad, her smile wry as she’d looked helplessly at Ellen.

  “I really don’t think there’s anything else to do. I can’t manage the farm on my own, and I won’t sacrifice my children’s livelihoods to keep this place going. Even if Peter and Andrew both worked the land as much as they would, we’d barely eke out a living. Times are just too hard.”

  “I wish there was another way,” Ellen had cried, and Rose had nodded in sympathy.

  “So do I, Ellen. So do I.”

  Despite her aunt’s resolution, Ellen couldn’t bring herself to start making arrangements for her own travel yet; she still hoped for some eleventh-hour rescue, although from what quarter it would come, she could not say. In any case, it would be some weeks, or perhaps even months, before Rose was able to finalize the plans for herself and the family, and Ellen certainly wouldn’t leave before then.

  There would be enough to arrange, with all the children to be thought of; Caro had decided to find a position as a schoolteacher—there was a post opening in Napanee—and Peter, still seeming utterly indifferent to all possibilities, would stay with Rose for the meantime, wherever she went. Andrew would continue at Glebe, Gracie at Queen’s, and Sarah at Gananoque.

  “There’s no rush, really,” Rose had said tiredly, trying to seem both practical and brave. “It will be some months before the farm sells, I should think, although I’d rather be settled before winter.”

  Ellen wrote to make an appointment with the bank for the next week that she dreaded keeping. Rose had agreed to go with her, to sign the papers that would allow Jasper Lane to be put up for sale. It all felt so very final, and yet they’d all come to the conclusion, Caro and Peter as well, that there was nothing else they could do.

  “Better to sell the farm now, before it gets into even more disrepair,” Caro had said with brave pragmatism. “Perhaps we’ll get a good offer.”

  And if they didn’t? Ellen dreaded to think, even as the possibility brought a treacherous flicker of relief.

  For now, at least, she and Rose could both enjoy the sunshine as they sat on the front porch, shelling the summer’s first crop of peas. Caro had gone to the Wilsons again; Iris was still poorly and the children needed care.

  “I shall miss this place,” Rose said with a sigh as she sat in a rocking chair on the porch, a bowl of peas in her lap. “I know I shouldn’t complain, as so many others are facing the same.” She ran her thumbnail along the seam of a pod and dropped the bright green peas neatly into the bowl. “At least Sarah shall be all right. She’ll keep her teaching post, and Gracie will stay at Queen’s. Thank goodness she received that scholarship.” Rose’s concerned gaze moved towards the barn, where Peter was working. “It’s Peter I worry for the most,” she said in a low voice. “At least here he has the farm to occupy him. I’d say a town like Gananoque might be better for him, especially if he could find a proper job, but there aren’t that many going these days, and, in truth, I don’t know if he’d be hired anyway, or if he’d be able to keep at it.”

  “I know.” Ellen worried about Peter too. He was so silent and distant, as if he’d tucked a large part of himself away and even he wasn’t able to find it again. The upheaval of losing the farm and having to move would surely not help at all, and she hated to think of him spending his days sitting in a chair, simply waiting for the hours to pass, with nothing useful to do.

  Rose squinted as she looked down Jasper Lane, the trees arching overhead casting it into shadow. “Good heavens, isn’t that Bert Sanders on his old bicycle?”

  Ellen looked down the lane, suppressing a smile at the sight of the rather corpulent Bert
wobbling along the dirt road on a rusty bicycle. “I believe it is. What do you suppose he wants?”

  “He runs the telegraph office, although people don’t use it nearly as much as they used to now everyone’s getting a telephone.” Rose shook her head, smiling. “Such newfangled notions! I can’t see us having one anytime soon.” She glanced at the house with fond sorrow. “Do you suppose the new owners might put one in?”

  “Let’s not think of that yet, Aunt Rose.” Ellen glanced again at Bert, wobbling ever closer. “Do you think we have a telegram?” Gone were the days when a telegram meant only bad news, a son or sweetheart, a brother or friend missing in action, presumed dead, or worse. Far worse. Even so, Ellen couldn’t keep her heart from fluttering in fear. Who could be needing to reach them so urgently?

  “Hello, Mrs. McCafferty, Miss Copley.” Bert, huffing and puffing, came to a stop in front of the porch, the bicycle wobbling so much Ellen feared he would fall right off, into the dirt. “I have a telegram for Miss Copley, from Toronto.”

  “The only person I know in Toronto is Lucas,” Ellen said, surprised. “But why on earth would he send me a telegram?”

  Rose’s smile held a hint of hope as well as a good dose of curiosity. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Feeling an unsettling mixture of unease and excitement, Ellen took the telegram from Bert, who, with his thumbs hooked into his suspenders, clearly had no compunction about remaining to hear what it said, and would no doubt have the news spread over Stella before the sun was down.

  Ellen unfolded the telegram, her anxious gaze scanning the typewritten missive. “I suspected you would tell me it wouldn’t work. Stop,” she read out loud. She glanced nervously at Rose, who gave her an encouraging if uncertain smile. “So I took the liberty of making arrangements myself. Stop.”