Although she is up here all hours of the day, Grandmother knows what is happening below stairs. She also knows my shadows are back. But I say nothing. I keep my plans to myself. Aggathas Alexander is too old and frail to take her granddaughter’s worries into her weary heart.
“As long as I have you, nôhkom, I’m happy.” I kissed her soft cheek. “I wish I could stay and care for you all day. “
“Do not worry about me. I can stand up to that skinny mac- âya below stairs.”
“She is wicked. And with you feeling so much stronger, she’d better watch out!” We laughed, but we both knew she was no match for Ivy. I threw my pinafore on the bed, straightening everything quickly. “I’ll try and come home midday.”
“No! No! I will use the chamber pot. I need only fire, food, and my memories. I will see you tonight.” She lowered her voice. “Little Dilly comes up and talks to me, and I can send her to fetch things. She is homesick and finds comfort with me. I get to talk in my own tongue, and I find comfort with her.”
That made me feel a bit better. I’d have to keep that little secret from Ivy, though, or the poor child, Dilly, would suffer for it.
Before leaving for the Upper Canada school five months earlier, I had shown Papa and our daytime help, Mrs. MacRay, how to care for nôhkom. Papa was busy then as the main builder of stone houses for the entire Red River area and one of the leaders of our community. Why he suddenly up and married Ivy, the Widow Comper, a month after I left, is a mystery to me. Ivy brought to their union her late husband’s poor farm, a sour disposition, and a close-fisted, yet grasping hand. One of her first acts as mistress of the house was to release kind Mrs. MacRay from her duties.
Farmer Comper had been known as a grim, short-tempered man living with his Indian wife and two small sons in virtual isolation on his small farm. Five years after his country marriage took place, his young wife suddenly died. He had never been involved in our community and, clearly, no parish woman would marry him, so one day he up and left, returning two months later with a thin dark Scottish widow by the name of Ivy Kilgour. Not long after Farmer Comper’s death from a heart seizure, my father became Ivy’s third husband.
Soon after he and Ivy wed, Papa fell off a scaffold in the church, whilst hanging a wrought-iron chandelier. The doctor from the Lower Fort told him that his spine was damaged – perhaps permanently – and although Papa has hopes for a return to full health, his new and leaner financial situation forced my return home.
I was shocked to find nôhkom so weak, with running bedsores on her narrow back and thin shanks. I pressed her to tell me about Ivy’s treatment of her, but she refused to say anything.
I immediately called in our local healer, Mrs. McBride. Ivy had objected at first, but I told her that Papa would soon know about nôhkom’s condition. She’d blustered her ignorance of any “condition” at first, but soon grew very quiet on the subject. No doubt, working out her defense. I was angry with Papa for accepting Ivy’s lies, but I also knew he had been distracted by the loss of his work and his own physical pain. I made sure, however, that he saw his mother’s scarred back.
I could tell, like me, Mrs. McBride was aghast, but she quietly set to work on nôhkom. I so love this plain, unfussy woman. The last time she came, she was satisfied that nôhkom’s open sores had finally healed, thanks to her hot poultices of alumroot and my turning nôhkom regularly when she was in bed.
Mary McBride came as Mary Macfarlane from the island of Islay in Scotland, where she had been a healer and midwife. A short, broad, cheerful body with rusty flyaway hair and red cheeks, she had just turned thirty when she’d married a widower with five children – James McBride – a kindly Rupert’s Lander and a great friend of my papa’s. At the time, she was working in the settlement as a midwife. She moved to St. Cuthbert’s with Mr. McBride and became a willing student of the Indian shaman who visits our village. We have one English doctor for the entire settlement, and as he must tend to all families, from the river forks seventeen miles away to the Lower Fort six miles past us, he has come to rely on Mrs. McBride for much of our parish health concerns.
Note to myself: Call by her farm soon and buy more winsikis - which she calls snakeroot – for nôhkom’s persistent cough.
When I’d helped Mrs. McBride put the final steaming poultice on my grandmother’s back a week ago, she’d looked at me intently. “Can I help you, lass? Are you no’ sleeping well? You need a tonic, I think. Do you no’ have some Laborador tea around?” When I shook my head, she added, “Well, I’ll leave you a mixture of that and dried birch leaves – makes a good all-round tonic, that does. If that doesna help, I’ll make you a tincture of valerian. I used that a lot back home. I think you might need it.” She chucked me under the chin and left.
Her concoction of leaves helped give me a bit more energy, but the shadows remained. I couldn’t ask for the other medicine. We owed her enough for nôhkom’s treatments as well as the massages and specially prepared mixture for Papa’s constant pain – and Mrs. McBride deserves every penny of the small amount she charges. Besides, what could possibly help disperse this darkness in my mind? I must find my own way out of the shadows.
As I settled nôhkom, making sure she had everything at hand, the guilt I still felt for having left her to go to school in Upper Canada flooded me again. I couldn’t talk to Papa, who was dealing with too many dark things of his own. What does the future hold for us all? For me? I wondered.
“Go, child, or you will be late for sure!” nôhkom called.
Unable to speak, I gave her a hug, gathered up my books and papers, shoved them into my pouch, and ran down the stairs. I heard Ivy’s and Papa’s voices in the kitchen. Suddenly Ivy’s grew shrill and Papa’s silent. A dark wing fluttered across my vision. Dressing quickly in my outer clothing, I grabbed my snowshoes, wrapped a warm scarf over my fur bonnet, and escaped into the snow.
4
CASS
With Daisy asleep in her bed, I sat against my pillows in the dark, letting Debussy’s Clair de Lune flow through my earphones. I’d learned to play it on the piano because Mom loved it so much. Suddenly, on a swell of music, I knew my heart was about to burst. I shut the music off, picked up the little star brooch, and, holding it tight, fell asleep, only to be woken up by raspy murmuring followed by heavy coughing. Daisy must be getting a cold. That’s all I needed – a snottier than usual roommate.
I lay there, groggy and dry-throated. The room was freezing. Have the electric baseboards gone off again? Outside my window, snow was falling heavily and silently, the moon’s light glowing dimly behind it. I could see Daisy’s fat little mound in the middle of her bed. Have I been talking in my sleep and woken myself up? I used to do that a lot when Mom was sick. Dad would always appear and stroke my sweating forehead until I fell back to sleep. Neither of us ever spoke. We knew why it was happening.
I was about to sit up when my bed tilted, and the room started to lurch around me. Then, just as quickly, it stopped. I was dragging in a shaky breath of relief when I realized that a small table stood where my desk should be. Daisy’s bed looked different too – bigger, chunkier. Low flutters of red and orange bounced off the spot where the wall jutted out. The fireplace? With a fire in it? How could that be?
I pushed away the heavy comforter and stepped down, stumbling over a fur rug. I could hear a distant sound of rushing water outside. A book lay open on the table. I felt no heat from the flames as I moved closer to the fire. A dream. That’s what this is! I touched the book with a fingertip. Cold and damp. A page covered in handwriting shimmered in the dim light.
I scuttled back to bed with it under my arm. The comforter was not mine, and a fur rug was piled on top of it. Don’t panic, Cass. It’s just a dream! I climbed onto the lumpy mattress and reached over to turn on my lamp. There was only a candle stuck in a metal holder, a rough tin cup beside it bristling with long wooden matches. I scraped one against the cup. It fizzed into a pale flame, and I touched it to the wick.
The book was a journal of some sort. On the first page, in small scripted writing, was Meditations of a St. Cuthbert’s Parish Daughter, December 8th, 1856, Old Maples. The writing was tight and hard to read in places, but I caught the gist of it quickly.
A hundred and fifty-four years ago, the writer – a girl a bit older than me – lived in this very house! The diary had been started a few weeks after she returned home from a private school in Upper Canada. She described her life with her father, grandmother, and horrible stepmother. She also described something called her shadows.
Is that what you have in your head, Cass? Shadows? Is that why you’re so down all the time? Where did this diary come from? How did I –
“I’ve been watching you,” a voice called. “You’re acting weird!”
I quickly slid the book under my covers. Daisy was sitting up, pointing an accusing finger. My bedside lamp was on, the candle gone.
“You acted like you were reading a book, turning pages that weren’t there. You looked really crazy!” Daisy’s mop of dark hair stood on end, her cheeks flushed.
I was chilled right through to my bones, even though the air was much warmer than before. All my furniture was back in place, the fireplace covered in its cheap siding. Nothing’s changed, Cass. It never did change; it never really happened.
“See, you’re still acting weird,” she cried. “All googly-eyed!”
“Go back to sleep.” I turned off the light and burrowed deep under my covers.
“I’m going to tell Mo-om,” she sang. “I’m going to tell her your craaazy!”
After a few more threats, she shut down. When I heard soft snoring, I searched for the diary. It was gone. Okay … if I wasn’t dreaming, what else could have happened? Was I seeing things that weren’t there? Hallucinating? Doesn’t that usually mean a person is going crazy? I’m pretty sure I’m not nuts. Not yet, anyway. No. Had to be a dream. Definitely.
The next morning, I woke up surprised that I’d actually slept with no new dreams at all. I searched the bed thoroughly. Still no diary. Confirmed. It was all a dream. Wicked stepmothers are even in my dreams now. Soon I’ll turn into Cinderella.
I got ready for school and clumped downstairs to the kitchen. Jean was sipping tea while Daisy whispered furiously at her. I grabbed a cheese scone, nuked it, and sat down.
“That’s enough, Daisy, thank you,” Jean said, her eyes on me. I blinked right back at her, then bit into my jam-smeared biscuit. “What are you up to, Cassandra?” she asked, as if genuinely puzzled.
“Eating breakfast, thank you, Jeanette May.” I’d learned her full name when the minister announced it at their wedding.
“You know, Cassandra, you don’t pull the wool over my eyes. You may be able to pull it over your dad’s eyes, but I know what you’re up to.”
“Yeah!” cried Daisy. “We know what you’re up to!” But she suddenly looked confused. I wanted to laugh, but didn’t have the energy.
I swallowed my mouthful. “I wouldn’t know what wool to pull over your eyes, Jeanette May. I don’t even knit. And by the way, when you figure out exactly what I’m up to, let me know, okay? I bet it’s far more interesting than I think it is!”
I grabbed my jacket, hat, and scarf; stuck my feet into my boots; threw my backpack over my shoulder; and walked out the door to wait for the school bus.
5
BEATRICE
I cannot sleep. I am sitting in bed, writing by candlelight. The fire is crackling in the hearth, but I also indulged in a few wedges of pine in the corner Canon stove. Grandmother woke in the middle of the night with deep-chest coughing. I gave her some of the snakeroot mixture Mrs. McBride had stopped by with. It calmed her enough that she was finally able to sleep. I sigh. Soon it will be time to get up again.
Yesterday morning, after leaving Papa and Ivy arguing in the kitchen, I walked outside to find the snow no longer falling. The pink haze drifting across the horizon promised more to come. A path had been cleared to our barn across the cart track. When I pulled the barn door open, our pair of oxen snorted and lowed in their stalls. I was pleased to see Tupper already hitched to the little sleigh inside the dark odorous space. I am always thankful for this invention of Papa’s, with its strong runners and buffalo skin stretched like stiff yellow parchment over the wooden frame. With moccasins, fur hat, mittens, and a thick buffalo robe, I can tolerate the coldest weather.
Minty Comper, Ivy’s stepson and our stable hand, moved from the shadows and opened the side door, followed by Papa’s mongrel hounds, Brutus and Caesar. Ivy no longer allows them in the house. She claims they will knock Papa off his sticks, but it’s really because she hates dogs. Minty is a slender boy of fourteen, with the dark skin, sooty hair, and black eyes of his Cree mother. He wore his usual thick coat, moccasins, and round buffalo hat.
I climbed into the sled. “Thank you for getting Tupper ready, Minty.”
“Not me.” He smiled shyly, then looked away, opening the door wider.
Tupper stepped forward, and the sleigh scraped across manure and hay to the snow trail outside. Duncan Kilgour appeared around the corner, carrying a shovel. I nodded my thanks. He raised a hand. I made a promise to keep my eyes and ears open on Minty’s behalf – just in case Kilgour or his mother decide to take advantage of the boy. While he eats supper with us now and again, I see no affection between Ivy and Minty, although she’s known him since he was a child.
Tupper pulled the carriole over the crisp whiteness toward the river track, his hooves tossing up clumps of snow, his mane and tail whipped by the wind. Soft puffs hit my face, decorating my bonnet with snow flour. Soon he found his rhythm along the tamped-down road. Our neighbors are always busy on the track, hauling wood or keeping river holes open for water and fishing.
I sucked in a deep breath of sharp air, and the remains of my early shadows fluttered away. For now, a small voice inside me warned, only for now. I wouldn’t listen to it. I would be brave today. And, if not happy, then resolute.
Farmyards flashed by, with their small whitewashed houses of squared logs. Their barns crouched nearby, piles of new manure steaming into the icy air. I waved at James MacDonald as he came out of his barn. He and his wife, Amelia, had lost their new baby to croup last week. There are now six tiny crosses in a row in the church graveyard marked BABY MACDONALD. Not one of their children has survived. James walks with a stooped shuffle, although he is still a young man. Many children are buried alongside their mothers in that graveyard, but this poor couple lives in a state of unending grief.
The St. Cuthbert’s church steeple appeared just over the rise. Our long-term bishop, Mr. Gaskell, is retiring to England this week. Whether the new minister, Robert Dalhousie, and his sister, Henrietta, will bring some life to the parish remains to be seen. Miss Dalhousie, a sickly young woman, automatically became the new headmistress of the parish school. I can’t help but wonder how she copes with farm children every day with only two young girls as helpers. Or how long it will be before she begs off her duties.
I would like to have taught in the parish school upon my return, but the only work I was offered came from Miss Cameron’s School for Girls. I was grateful to take it.
Until Bishop Gaskell and his domineering wife take their leave, the Gaskells and the Dalhousies are living together in the vicarage across from the church. I was asked by Reverend Dalhousie to become the new choir mistress, one of Mrs. Gaskell’s former duties, taken over by determined force and ruled by an iron fist for many years. Even so, Mrs. Gaskell is quite incapable of holding a single note in pitch. I can at least carry a tune and play the piano quite well, so I can surely do no worse than her.
As I drove past the church, I wondered if this new duty would help dispel some of my shadows. Ah, the voice whispered, you know they will never leave you.
Something heavy dropped inside me. I pulled on the reins and Tupper stopped, looking back at me, puzzled. The sky above his head was a sweep of blue-gray; the rising sun a brilliant arc. I
knew I should be feeling joy at such splendor. This small village along the banks of the Red River is my home – and yet, I see it so differently now, with altered, more critical eyes. Like those that had so recently judged me in Upper Canada.
It was Papa’s idea to send me for advanced schooling at Miss Peacock’s Ladies Academy, far away in Upper Canada. He wanted me to find stimulation and new interests in a more sophisticated society and secretly hoped, I think, that I would find a husband to offer me a better life.
My childhood had been a lonely one. Miss Cameron’s school had not yet been built, and Papa didn’t want me taught my lessons by Mrs. Gaskell, so he tutored me at home. When I turned fifteen, social visits were arranged with a handful of the daughters and nieces of retired factors in the parishes of St. Cuthbert’s and St. John’s, but not one had the same interests as me. Now these daughters of retired officers are focused on their own husbands and children or planning visits to members of their family in the settlement, in order to enjoy a more exciting social life. Finding a husband is a matter of great importance to them.
I don’t want a husband. I agreed to go to Upper Canada because Miss Peacock’s academy offered lessons on teaching children, but more importantly, it stressed the reading and comprehension of literature, music, and art. I hoped these would help with my writing, so that, one day, I might become a published author like Jane Austen or Charlotte Brontë or Mrs. Gaskell – no relation to our bishop! While at the school, I read Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist and David Copperfield, and I knew the author had based them on his knowledge of London. I was shocked by the plight of the downtrodden in his stories. Before that, I had received Jane Eyre from one of my mother’s sisters in England and had read it over and over, until its pages curled.
At the academy, I soon learned that my dream of intellectual freedom had been just that – a dream.
Winter Shadows Page 3
