“Alfred didn't get over to the post office to-day.”
“Father's taken very poorly,” announced Mrs. Campbell, and then she began to cry, in great, gulping sobs.
Elizabeth leaped forward and eased her mother into a chair. I felt tears well up in my own eyes and glanced at Viola. Though different words were used, the report of a sick father shot me back to the evening in our own Ambler's Corners kitchen when Arthur had come home with similar news. I saw from her whitened lips that Viola bore the same memory, but she did not meet my eye.
Mrs. Goodhand reached out to take the letter from her sister's shaking hand. Her husband stood behind her, reading over her shoulder, mouthing the words as he squinted to read in the poor light.
“One of us will go to help Mother with the nursing,” resolved Mrs. Goodhand, folding the letter.
“One of us? Why, both must go at once.” Mrs. Campbell hiccuped.
“Hazel will go tomorrow.” Mr. Goodhand decided the matter in his customary fashion. “If he is not recovered in ten days' time, you will go and my wife will return.”
“But –”
“You cannot leave Elizabeth alone, with your husband gone from dawn till dusk. Alfred and Viola are both here to look after the farm with me.”
I saw Violas eyebrows lift, but she did not argue.
Mrs. Goodhand bore her sister's anguish without flinching. “I believe Howard is right,” she said. “Stop your fussing now, Marion. You'll only distress yourself.”
I had a sudden picture of Mrs. Goodhand and Mrs. Campbell as young women, the former looking like Alfred wearing an apron and being a Bossy Boots to her little sister, just as Viola is to me.
In the bedroom, later, Viola paced back and forth, adjusting the curtain, smoothing the quilt, blowing dust from the bureau top.
“He might have asked me,” she complained. “We are paying boarders, after all. It is not up to me to keep the farm running. There will be all the watering to do, the cleaning, the baking, and the cooking…. You will have to help me, Mable. At home even more than at school.”
“I'd rather eat your cooking than Mrs. Goodhand's,” I said.
She grinned at me. “Oh, Mable, that's true! She's quite the worst cook who ever sliced a cabbage. We shall feast while she's away!”
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 6
The sermon was “God Prefers Us to Be Cheerful,” but I am certain that God looked upon the Goodhand and Campbell families this morning and made an exception.
Mrs. Goodhand made a cold plate lunch and then filled a basket to the brim with provisions for her parents and set off with her husband in the wagon to drive to Berlin. As soon as we had waved them off, I tidied the dishes and made ready to depart for Silver Lining.
“Where do you suppose you're going?” asked Viola.
“To visit Mrs. Rattle.”
“Mrs. Goodhand did not bake this morning. There is nothing to take for her.”
And so I stood, my shawl around my shoulders and my brain not summoning a reason that I still might go.
“I-I-It is my visiting more than the loaves that brings her pleasure.”
“That idea disturbs me greatly. It is widely known that this woman is a crackpot. Perhaps she is the cause of your insolent rhymes? I cannot risk the effect she is having on your behaviour, Mable. I forbid you to go there again.”
“You cannot forbid me! You are not my mother!”
“Thank Heaven for small mercies. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's work to be done.” And she stomped into the yard, swinging a bucket as if to snap the handle.
“Your sister can certainly use some help,” said Alfred gently. “We're short all 'round to-day.” He tweaked my hair as he went out, not knowing he had pulled a gray curtain across my sunny day.
I did my chores in silence, and have come upstairs to fume. How dare Viola tell me where I may or may not visit! I have missed Silver Lining to-day, but I shall not miss it again. Perhaps I need not tell my sister when I plan to pay a call?
MONDAY, OCTOBER 7
I meant not to speak to Viola until Christmas, but we have come to a truce out of necessity. She suggested that I choose friends of my own age and keep my “high spirits” under control. I made several declarations of good intentions, thinking that the shortest path to peace.
After this exchange of dubious sincerity, Viola and I pretended to be farm wives making the supper for Alfred and his father. It was served late, for we could not put the chicken in to roast until we were home from school, but Mr. Goodhand quit his grumblings as soon as the first forkful met his mouth. Indeed, I have never seen him smile at the table before now. Alfred was beside himself “The dumplings are so light! The gravy so rich! Such an apple tart!” until he realized his compliments were also insults to his absent mother. Viola was quite pink with triumph and whispered to me later that we have been trained well to win favour with our cooking.
“Will you listen to this,” said Mr. Goodhand from his stove-side chair after supper. “Hazel's in the paper and not here to enjoy it.
“Mrs. Howard Goodhand has left the village to visit for several days with her parents in Berlin. Her father, Mr. Horace Finchley, is ailing.
“And let's hope this next one is not an omen.
“Mr. Wm. Nichols has returned from Toronto, where he was taking the annual training in embalming.”
“That's gruesome,” said Viola.
“I suppose it's a good thing there's a school for it,” said Mr. Goodhand. “I want someone who knows his business when it's my time come along.”
“That's not a family business I'd be wanting to take over,” said Alfred. “I'm glad we've got a farm.”
“Hey, listen up,” said Mr. Goodhand. “Here's someone you know, Mable.
“A meeting of the Ladies Reading Circle will take place on Sunday afternoon at the home of Mrs. Cora Rattle. All ladies are welcome. Refreshments will be served.”
“Do these women have nothing better to do all day than read stories?” asked Alfred.
“Seems to be spinsters and widows mostly,” said Mr. Goodhand. “No one with a husband to care for is sitting about the kitchen with a book in her hand. There's no man I know that wants to come home to a dose of poetry. You keep that in mind, Mable.”
“Mable is still at an age where a friend seems more important than a husband,” said Viola.
“I cannot truly claim her for a friend,” I protested meekly. I fled upstairs as soon as the washing up was done.
I am not easy, knowing my intention is to deceive my sister and pursue Mrs. Rattle for my friend. But when I think upon the alternative, of seeing her no more I realize there is no choice.
I have written another episode of my romantic novel for Hattie. I find I want to fill it with exotic details that will shock her and make her scold me.
PART THE SIXTH
{THE CAPTAIN'S COMPANION}
Helena gazed into the eyes of her captor, but she was given no time to submit to bewilderment. Captain Joseph Brigand bowed low as he departed the carriage. The gentlefolk aboard the train were herded into the last car and kept under the guard of a lowly villain named Whiphand Pete.
Huddled in a corner were two young children, cared for by an elderly woman. The boy and his sister cried pitifully, while the old woman, with bonnet askew, held them close and sang quietly.
“Shut yer mewling,” growled Whiphand Pete, “or I'll plug yer throats with me boot!” He waved his firearm in the air.
James twitched at Helena's side, and she feared he would take matters into his own feeble hands. Her heart fluttered like a sparrow frightened by a barn cat, but she found courage in the need to protect the children.
“Hear me, sir! I will speak with your captain,” she demanded.
“Heh, heh, heh,” chortled Whiphand Pete. “A feisty one, eh?”
“There is no call to be rude, sir, nor will I permit you to terrify the children needlessly. I must have words with your leader.” And with that, our brave Helena
gathered her skirts and swept past Whiphand Pete toward the door.
“Wait a minute there, little hussy!” the bandit cried. He threatened her with his pistol but could not pursue her for he risked being overcome by the other prisoners. Helena's sweet red lips strove to hide her smile of triumph.
The door was heavy for Helena's womanly strength, but fueled with determination, she flung it open. The wind of a wintry dawn slapped her face like an angry governess, and she caught her breath in surprise. Her attention went to the two men in black coats speaking confidentially together with their backs to her.
Helena stepped from the train ladder and made her way toward them. She recognized the leather hat of Captain Brigand, and she addressed herself to his broad shoulders.
“Captain?” Her voice, which she had intended to be resolute, rang forth like the tone of a cracked bell.
When he turned, Helena was astonished once again by the comeliness of the man before her. His eyes were such a deep, magnetic brown that she felt her body sway toward him.
“Are you ill, madam?” His voice held the concern wished for by every young bride.
“No, no!” Helena lifted her chin to enforce some self-command. “I am here to complain about the actions of your compatriot. He treats us in a most repugnant manner, threatening old ladies and scaring the children.”
“He is a train bandit, my dear,” said Captain Brigand with a teasing smile. “However, he seems to have permitted your escape. Should you not be trembling?”
“It is enough that you have robbed me, sir. I will not be insulted as well.” With every beat of her heart, she fought the desire to throw herself into the man's arms.
So spellbound was Helena that she had disregarded the captain's companion, until he spoke.
“Joseph?”
Helenas head spun as she looked at the speaker. Except for a needle-sharp line scarring his cheek, this man was an exact twin of Captain Brigand. The same flashing walnut-brown eyes, the same full lips, the same fine face.
“Meet my brother,” said the captain with a warm laugh. “We call him Pretty Harry.”
To be continued …
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 8
The evening meal was once more a success. We used the remains of yesterday's chicken to make a splendid pie. Alfred's friend Roy helped out with hauling to-day, so we had an extra for supper. And then Mrs. Campbell arrived with Elizabeth as we finished the rice pudding.
“You've not had a note to-day, I suppose?” she asked. “My sister should know we're waiting for word.”
“She'll be busy at the sickbed,” said Mr. Goodhand, though he'd been complaining of the same thing himself during the meal. “We'll hear tomorrow.”
“If you were the butcher, Aunt Hazel could call you on the telephone,” said Elizabeth. “He advertises in the newspaper that he has a telephone, have you noticed? ‘For Good Meat, phone 91.’ She could call us to say if Grandfather is any better.”
“Well, I'm not the butcher, am I?” gruffed Mr. Goodhand. “No point in foolish fancy.”
“The telephone is getting popular for a reason, Dad,” said Alfred.
“I've seen them work,” said Roy. “My uncle has one.”
“It would make things simpler now,” sighed Mrs. Campbell. “But what will the world have come to when a farm cottage in Perth County has a telephone cable poking out of it!”
“Would it not be a lark, though?” I said. “We could telephone to our mother to say hello whenever we think of her! Or, instead of traipsing across the field tonight, Elizabeth could just have telephoned to ask for news!”
“That's all we need!” groused Mr. Goodhand. “For every woman in Canada to be armed with a telephone! There'd be no work done and no dinners cooked. The hours of wasted chatter would bring about the downfall of the country! Not to mention if giggling girls were to get their hands on such an instrument. Lord be!” And with that, he pushed his chair away from the table and supper was ended.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER10
We heard yesterday from Mrs. Goodhand that her father is very weak. He has such trouble breathing that she and the doctor have constructed a tent to fill with steam to ease the congestion in the patient's chest. Elizabeth says her mother is distraught at being left home, so far away from her ailing father.
I received a letter of my own to-day!
Silver Lining
Dear Miss Mable Riley
I am hosting this Sunday's meeting of the Ladies Reading Circle and would be most appreciative of your assistance in serving the tea.
Please inform if this should cause inconvenience for you or your guardians. The meeting begins at three o'clock, but I hope to see you as soon after lunch as you are able to come.
Affectionately,
Cora Rattle
My first typewritten letter! And see what a flourish she has made of her signature! Using violet ink! I was trembling as I folded the letter and tucked it into this journal. Already the questions raced into my head, fighting for attention: Will Viola let me go? How to convince her? Happily Mrs. Goodhand is away, else she might deal the deciding blow.
LATER
This keen battle with Viola has taught me what our statesmen must apply to any disagreement. I went to her and showed the invitation, without a prologue. She merely shook her head and reminded me of her decision to stop my liaison with Mrs. Rattle.
Here is where I shone. I did not lose my temper or speak in haste, but cajoled instead. Was this not an opportunity for me to witness ladies in society? Could I not benefit from their manners in designing my own? Would it not be elevating to hear a discussion of literature? If I were to prove my maturity, by assisting my sister with good humour from this moment on, oh, please, Viola! Pretty, pretty please?
And I won! She consented! I am to go!
Oh, what shall I wear? If only I had a new shirtwaist! What if I drop a teacup or tip the cakes into someone's lap? Should I try to join the conversation or remain silent, like a servant? How will I make certain to be asked there again? How to put forth the best Mable Riley?
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 11
Alfred took a note for me to Mrs. Rattle to-day, accepting her invitation. It did not say what I feel, which is this:
HOW WILL I EVER WAIT
UNTIL SUNDAY???
(Hesitating Hyphens total to date: 79
Creeping Closer Commas: 76)
PART THE SEVENTH
{THE EARL RECEIVES THE NEWS}
While Myrtle gobbled her sumptuous breakfast, she began to plot the revenge she'd always dreamed of having on her lovely sister.
“Have the valet tell my father that I wish to speak with him,” Myrtle ordered her maid, Elizabeth. “I have news that will spin his poor doddering head back to front.”
With that scornful prophesy came cackling laughter that could scarcely be described as human, let alone ladylike.
Another hour passed before Myrtle was content with her hair, her dress, her jewels, her scent, and finally pronounced herself ready to address her father, the earl. She did not notice the valet roll his eyes before he announced, “The Lady Turtle, I mean, Myrtle, my lord.” (The earl was shortsighted as well as quite deaf, so he did not notice, either.)
“Good morning, Myrtle dear,” said the earl.
“You look dreadful, Father,” said Myrtle, looking upon him with little interest. “Are you poorly?”
“Eh?”
“Are you SICK, Father?” shouted Myrtle.
“I did not sleep. I was kept awake by my concern for your dear sister. I can't think what has kept her from my side since yesterday.”
“Indeed, the reason is not one you would think of,” replied Myrtle with a sneer.
“Eh?” cried the earl. “How you mumble, child!”
“I know where Helena is!” hollered Myrtle.
“No need to bellow like a barmaid, my dear,” said the earl. “Where is she, then?”
“She has run away!” cried Myrtle, hardly containing her glee. “S
he has eloped with a scoundrel and departed on the midnight train! What do you say about your precious Helena now?”
But Myrtle was unprepared for the consternation that flustered the earl. He staggered back, his face ashen. One hand groped for a chair, and the other clutched his chest.
“Hawkins!” Myrtle screamed for the valet.
The loyal servant burst into the room and hurried to his master's aid. The earl's eyes rolled back in their sockets as Hawkins laid him down upon the chesterfield.
“You must summon Dr. Mettle at once, my lady. I know not what you said to his lordship, but it appears you've about killed him.”
To be continued …
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 12
I have fulfilled my duties as Viola's slave this morning we made all the bread for the week (fourteen loaves). Then she kindly assisted me in doing pear tarts for Mrs. Rattle's meeting tomorrow, before we baked a cake for Mr. Goodhand's tea.
We did not mention my outing again, but I wonder if she is a bit envious. Not that I am going, but that she is not. I think sometimes that Viola's sharpness is a cover for shyness she would falter if asked to offer an opinion about a book. Opinions are much more difficult to put forth than facts.
SUNDAY!!! OCTOBER 13
I knew when I awoke this day that I would see and hear much of interest at Mrs. Rattle's gathering but did not expect to return home with my brain on fire.
I arrived at Silver Lining before two o'clock, perspiring though the wind was cold. I worried that Mrs. Rattle's face looked drawn and there were gray smudges under her eyes, but she hugged me in gratitude for coming and I saw at once that she needed my help. My tarts were most welcome, as her own attempt at baking had resulted in scorched biscuits and a fallen cake.
“I have never baked a cake in all my life,” she explained. “As a child, I watched Cook do it every afternoon, but clearly I have forgotten an important detail.” She giggled and pointed at her sunken failure. Her hands were still as rough and red as they'd been the other day.
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