Winter Shadows

by Margaret Buffie

  “I never thought of that.” Tears threatened.

  He slid one hand forward and grasped my fingers. A shadow fell over us. It was Blondie, wearing tight jeans and fat furry boots, her silky hair flowing down the front of her blue parka. I pulled away first. Martin left his hand where it was.

  Tricia said, “So what’s with you two? Are you going out, or what?” Her face was tight. I felt sorry for her.

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Martin.

  “Well, which is it? Never mind. I can take a hint. She’s weird, you know, Marty. Everyone says so,” she said and walked out of the restaurant.

  I could see the manager, Donna, watching us out of the corner of her eye.

  “Why did you say that?” I asked Martin.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not jumping the gun. I just don’t like her much. She kept calling me Marty even when I told her not to. So you were a good – what I mean is …”

  “A good excuse to dump her?”

  He grinned. “Shouldn’t we get to the schoolwork discussion?”

  “I’m too tired. My dad and Jean are having a party tonight, and my dad made me promise to be there. I don’t want to go, but –”

  “Oh, yeah, Daisy mentioned that. What time does it start?”

  I looked at the clock. “An hour ago?”

  “You better get a move on.”

  Despite everything, the day had turned out to be a pretty good one after all. Maybe I should give in to Dad just this once. I grabbed my jacket. “You may as well come, too.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. I just walked out the back door and headed straight for the truck. As he leaned past me to open my door, he turned and smiled. My heart felt light for the first time in weeks.

  23

  BEATRICE

  Are you seeing angels of your own?” Duncan Kilgour asked, looking at me sitting in the snow. “I’ve watched you – you are seeing something.”

  I dusted off my arms and hat. He pulled me up.

  “I must get those cakes in the ovens,” I said, “before your mother throws everything out.”

  He nodded, turned, and led the way to the carriole. As I followed him, I asked, “You don’t seem to know Ivy very well. Did you not grow up with her?”

  “I was sent away as a child. I was told my mother could not support me,” he said.

  “Did your father die?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it sudden?”

  He looked at me. “No, it was a long dissipated death, if you must know. My mother is a bitter woman. I came here to try and find out what happened to her and to see if we could one day be mother and son again.”

  I wanted to say, Well, let me know if you ever figure out your mother because I never will. Perhaps my face said it for me. “My papa has given her a good home” was all I could think of.

  “I agree. Your father is a patient man. But you don’t seem to be a patient young woman, Miss Alexander. You want my mother to see how good your father is to her and to change overnight. But you must give her time to mellow.”

  I let out an unladylike snort and pretended to cough. Only a man would think another man could change a quarrelsome and discontented woman. Ivy wouldn’t mellow.

  As I climbed into the carriole, he put out a hand. I waved it away, only to stumble and almost crush the precious eggs in their bed of straw. I settled in carefully and, as Tupper pulled the sleigh away, I heard the thud of horse’s hooves, softened by snow, close behind. The spirit girl’s face floated into my mind. Why did he ask me about angels? I could never tell him. He would think I was really an okîskwêw.

  He left me at the house, calling, “I’ll be back for some rabbit pie – don’t eat it all!” Although I tried not to, it made me smile as he spurred his horse down the road.

  The cakes were in their pans in minutes. Dilly, bless her, had kept the ovens stoked. The small Christmas pudding wouldn’t have much time to ripen, so I added some of Papa’s apple cider and placed it in a clean cloth in our old steamer. The kitchen grew warmer. My stepmother was nowhere to be seen, but Papa was there, repairing a moccasin. I slid two fluted rounds of shortbread marked with narrow triangles into the oven. More rounds waited their turn on the table.

  Papa, Dilly, and I ate slices of the first rabbit pie for lunch, tender with rich gravy.

  “I’ve missed your mother’s cooking. You have her knack,” Papa said, a spot of gravy on his contented face. Of course, Ivy chose that moment to walk into the kitchen. When I offered her some pie, she looked at it as if it were full of maggots and walked out again.

  Papa shook his head, but neither of us had long to fret over Ivy, for there was a knock on the back door. When I opened it, three dark little faces stared at me from under bonnets covered in thick scarves. I’d forgotten all about the girls from Miss Cameron’s school!

  Each one carried a rolled cotton mattress of blue-and-white ticking and a deerskin mîwat to carry their belongings in. After introducing them to Papa, I sat them down and gave them each a portion of rabbit pie.

  Caitrin, Dona, and Anna Grace were three of our pupils from northern posts. They looked remarkably like sisters, with their matching gray dresses, thick black hair in ribboned braids, and beaded moccasins.

  After greeting them, Papa said to me, “Tonight is the party for the bishop and his wife, is it not?”

  I stared at him. “I’d forgotten that as well! I’ll take a basket of shortbread.”

  The girls helped me set the table for dinner in the dining room. Soon, they were talking quietly to Dilly. Afterward, I took them upstairs, where Dilly and I put their mattresses on the floor and covered them with quilts. As soon as they saw Grandmother, they clustered around her. She smiled happily, touching each girl in turn, speaking in her soft singing birth language.

  Miss Cameron had made me promise to keep talking to the girls in English, as all the fathers wanted their daughters to fit into the settlement’s British society, so I said in English, “This is my grandmother, Mrs. Alexander. You must help her when she asks.”

  Grandmother said in Cree, “We will do well. You must rest before dinner, Beatrice.”

  I lay down on my bed. Grandmother and the girls talked quietly by the fire.

  “I don’t think Ivy would welcome taking three of my pupils to the vicarage tonight,” I said, “but perhaps …”

  Nôhkom looked at me in amazement. “No, no! They will stay and keep me company. They can make me tea, and we will have our own party.” The girls nodded vigorously. “My son’s wife won’t even notice they’re here.”

  I smiled, closed my eyes, and fell instantly asleep. I was awakened by a gentle nudging. The Three Graces, as I now called the girls in my mind, crept back to Grandmother, who twitched her head toward them. They left the room in close single file.

  I changed into my one good dress – a gown of dark green silk, with shiny black stripes and full sleeves. I sat close to nôhkom’s knees, my skirt spread out, while she made two braids to loop around my ears before tucking them into the coiled knot on top of my head. When she was done, she kissed me with a loud smack. I placed the star pin at my throat and slipped on Mama’s drop-pearl earrings.

  “Pinch your cheeks, nôsisim, to give them color.” I did as I was told.

  The Three Graces appeared with a tray of food and gazed at me in wonderment. When I explained they were welcome to eat with the family, they sat on the floor around Grandmother. Given a choice, I would have done the same.

  The dining-room table had been stripped and relaid in the kitchen by Ivy, who snapped, “No need to go to extremes and eat in that cold damp room just because we’re going out of an evening. I sent those Indians upstairs to eat with the old woman. They don’t belong at our table.”

  “Tonight,” I said firmly, “they prefer to eat with my grandmother, but as daughters of respected Company families, they will sit with us whenever they wish.”

  Ivy glared at Papa, who said, “Beatrice is
right. They come from good homes. All good people deserve our table.” Ivy pinched her lips shut.

  While Dilly served dinner, I threw on a coat, trudged to the oven outside, and, in its blast of fragrant warmth, pulled out three glistening brown cakes. As I carried them back to the house, the pans burning through my mittens, Kilgour appeared around the corner. He took one of them in his leather gloves, placed it on the table in the kitchen beside the remaining rabbit pie, and sniffed deeply. “Heavenly! Before I take off my coat and enjoy some of this, I have something for you.”

  He winked at Papa, then left the house. He returned carrying a tall graceful balsam tree in one hand and a bucket in the other, with slices of wood and a hammer inside. Behind him came Minty, hidden by a pile of freshly cut balsam boughs.

  “We’ll keep the tree’s feet wet for you in the bucket,” Kilgour explained, “and you can decorate it when you’re ready. I will set it up for you, Miss Alexander, when you decide its location.”

  “Why have you brought that filthy thing into the house?” his mother protested.

  “But I am thrilled with it, Ivy!” I cried. Without thinking, I gave Duncan Kilgour a hug and was enveloped in the scent of frosted pine needles by a strong arm dragging me closer. I stepped back quickly, tripping over my dress. He and Minty took the tree to the drawing room, which was cold – ideal to keep the cuttings fresh.

  When Duncan returned, he removed his coat and fur hat. I noticed that his beard was trimmed and his hair slightly shorter. And clean. He wore striped woolen pants, a white shirt, plaid silk vest, and a heavy frock coat in black twill. However, on his feet were beaded knee-length moccasins.

  That crafty grin of his was wide and challenging. “Am I proper enough for you, Miss Alexander?”

  While Ivy scolded him for his Indian footwear, I busied myself cutting the pie. For once, I agreed with his mother. Didn’t he own even one pair of decent boots? I ignored my inner voice, which suggested I was annoyed because he hadn’t said how nice I looked.

  Papa wore his gray frock coat and trousers, a vest with silver buttons, and a cotton shirt with a high-starched collar. A length of soft white silk around his neck was tied into a large floppy bow. Ivy was encased in a fussy purple taffeta dress. A small glittery brooch holding a tired feather adorned her coiled hair. Against her narrow chest rested a large cameo. Mama’s cameo. My father was frowning at her, but she seemed determined not to look at him.

  Ivy picked at her food, finally shoving it away. Minty, Duncan, and Dilly ate huge wedges of rabbit pie. I put out a plate of shortbread, which disappeared quickly. Then Minty went to the barn to hook up the horses. I put on a heavy green wool cape of my mother’s and a dark green bonnet with a spray of grouse feathers on the side.

  Minty brought the old sledge close to the house. It is used for hauling hay, but in the winter makes a most commodious box sleigh. Kilgour settled Papa under a buffalo robe, then fussed around his mother, the tightness on her face finally softening. He began to tuck a rug around me, but I told him I was fine.

  He sat next to me. Heat radiated from him, and I felt sheltered and warm. We were off with a loud jingling of bells.

  Just ahead, the vicarage appeared, its windows lit with tapers – a whimsical and pretty sight. A plain pine wreath adorned the front door.

  When we knocked, the bishop, a self-important little man with unruly side whiskers, bounced up behind his wife, both crying greetings. Hovering in the background, his blond hair lifting in the breeze from the open door, was our official host, Reverend Dalhousie. I couldn’t see his sister, Henrietta. They ushered us into a room full of awkward guests. Thanks to the Gaskells, our parish was not accustomed to formal social gatherings.

  Mothers, eager to make an impression on the new minister – the most eligible bachelor in the village – had dressed their daughters carefully, many in their best summer gowns. A few girls were quite blue with cold, their shoulders covered only by fine wool or silk shawls with long fringes. Some mothers even threw speculative glances at Duncan Kilgour, who was a lumbering giant next to the elegant Reverend Dalhousie.

  “Here’s our new choir mistress!” cried the bishop’s wife, pulling me into the room as if I were an obstinate child. “I shall expect you all to be patient with her. I think Miss Alexander, although not quite as musical as I, will manage fairly well. In time.” She looked at me doubtfully.

  I heard Duncan Kilgour’s low chuckle.

  A voice called out, “Did you bring your fiddle, Duncan?”

  “No,” he called back, “it was made clear to me it would not be welcome.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd. The fellow who asked the question glowered at the bishop’s wife, who was trying to remove the basket of shortbread from my hand. I pulled it back and gave it to Reverend Dalhousie. “Please add this to your table,” I said.

  He nodded and glanced toward a young woman languishing on a chaise longue. The bishop’s wife patted his arm. “Poor Henrietta, not able to fulfill her duties again. Give the basket to one of those new servant girls and tell them to keep it back for me, Robert, dear. I do so love shortbread and will take it with me on my journey.”

  I bristled. “The girls are not servants, Mrs. Gaskell. They’re my pupils. And I made the shortbread for the party. You are welcome to any that remain, I’m sure.”

  Two red spots appeared on her fleshy cheeks. She turned to Ivy and said, “You are to be congratulated for putting up with all of the disarray in your newly formed household, Mrs. Alexander. I thought Miss Alexander went to Upper Canada to find a husband, but here she is back again, unmarried.” She sighed. “One has certain duties to one’s husband’s children. My stepchildren live far away, for which I am exceedingly thankful.”

  “As they are, too, no doubt,” I muttered to myself.

  Duncan Kilgour took my arm and led the way to Henrietta’s couch. She was dressed in deep rose, which exaggerated the paleness of her white blonde hair. A small pug-faced black-and-white spaniel lay on her lap.

  Kilgour leaned over and said something to the woman. She laughed, covering her slightly protruding teeth with a small fan. He introduced me. She eyed me vaguely, before turning back to Kilgour. They chatted, while I stood there like an unwelcome third cousin. I hardly recognized this urbane man as the one I first met after returning home. Why did that irritate me so much?

  I was pushing my way back through the throng when a voice beside me said, “I think Miss Dalhousie has made a conquest. That should make you happy, Miss Alexander!” The beastly woman was tracking me like a she-wolf.

  Mrs. Gaskell continued, “Perhaps your brother will marry the vicar’s sister, and they can find you a husband amongst his settlement friends.” She took in a sharp breath. “I hear he goes to the forks often – to dances and card parties. Still, I suppose many young men sow their wild oats before they settle down. Miss Henrietta’s rather pretty – and, of course, as British as he is – so I think her softer ways will tame him in time. I hope he has money for servants as she is quite hopeless about the house. What good she is to her brother, I cannot say. Why, I would imagine your own brother will –”

  “He is not my brother, as you well know, Mrs. Gaskell,” I said. “And I do not wish to hear malicious gossip about Miss Dalhousie. If you will excuse me.” I took shelter beside Miss Cameron – who was looking fine in a brown dress trimmed with green braid – all the while wondering how many others thought I’d left the parish to find a husband.

  Reverend Dalhousie joined us, no doubt seeking refuge from the anxious mothers and their shyly smirking daughters. As we chatted, I felt awkward, remembering the words spoken in our kitchen. When Miss Cameron moved to speak with someone, I was glad when a parishioner dragged him away.

  Soon, two stout matrons took their places at either end of the tea table to pour. I ate three of my shortbread, so there would be less for the bishop’s wife, and chatted with various people, but couldn’t keep my attention from Kilgour. He was making a complete f
ool of himself, I decided, serving the vicar’s sister with dainties and entertaining a group nearby with hilarious descriptions of his last hunting foray.

  Papa was tucked in a corner, talking in earnest with three Company officers-turned-farmers. He looked very happy. Ivy stood alone near the fireplace, sipping tea. I lifted a plate of small cakes and offered them to her. She refused with a sniff, before saying in a satisfied tone, “It looks as if Henrietta Dalhousie and my Duncan have made a match. He seems quite smitten.”

  I murmured something about putting the plate back and stood at the tea table eating three more shortbread, despite the shadows gathering in on me from all corners of the room. Why did nothing ever change? Why couldn’t I have found the strength to snub Robert Dalhousie? This was a man who thought I was a half-breed, not a complete human being. Did I look like a madwoman gobbling down my own biscuits to keep Mrs. Gaskell from having any? An image of Dainty, our mother pig, rose before me, and I almost burst into giggles.

  The group around Kilgour was making such a disturbance with hoots and clapping that Mrs. Gaskell had to bang the dinner gong repeatedly to get everyone’s attention. Robert Dalhousie officially wished the bishop and his wife a fond farewell, and the bishop offered, in return, a long and pompous speech, while the last dregs of tea grew cold. At the end of his oration, everyone bundled up for the short ride home.

  Duncan moved away from the group around Henrietta, his eyes searching the room. When they caught mine, time seemed to stand still. He moved through the crowd and looked down at me. “I think your papa has grown fatigued, Beatrice. We should get him home.”

  I nodded, feeling something drop inside me. What had I expected him to say? He reached up and, with his thumb, wiped crumbs from the side of my mouth. For a moment, the room vanished and the sounds of talking dimmed. He turned and walked toward Papa. The rush of cold air from the door as people said good night swirled around me.

  I was speechless. He’d ignored me all evening and then had the impudence to address me by my first name! And he’d touched me in a way that would make anyone who was watching think we were intimate. I turned away, put on my cape and bonnet, and signaled to Minty, who was in the kitchen.