Envy the Wind

by Anita Davison

  Primitive? From what she and Frederick read about Nova Scotia, Halifax was a thriving city with beautiful architecture and a forward thinking society.

  A clerk in the outer office scrambled to his feet as she appeared, his skinny limbs encased in skin-tight black reminding her of a spider.

  Grace paused in the doorframe and turned back, lowering her voice. “By the way, Mr Beech. Why Liverpool?”

  “It’s the main port from where the immigrant steamships cross the North Atlantic.” He spoke softly, as if aware of her need for caution. “I have no idea when the next sailing is scheduled. However, something tells me that it would be wiser for you to wait there, than remain here with the threat of discovery.” His brown eyes softened with sympathy.

  He was right. If she was determined to leave, she must go as soon as possible.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m inclined to take your advice.” Her gaze flicked to the clerk and then back at the lawyer.

  “Ah!” he held a finger to his lips. “Don’t worry about my staff carrying tittle-tattle. My clerk is indentured, and therefore bound by the same rules of confidentiality which restrict me.”

  “That’s reassuring.” She inclined her head. “I’m most appreciative of both your assistance and your discretion, Mr Beech.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs MacKinnon. I was only a clerk myself when James Aitken was a client of my father’s. I remember him very well. I’m gratified to see his daughter has a similar independent spirit.”

  Buoyed by his unexpected kindness, as well as the details of her changed circumstances, Grace descended the short flight of steps into Hampstead High Street.

  “You was gone ever so long, Miss Grace.” A lanky girl dressed entirely in shades of taupe and dun brown sidled up to her. “I was sure someone from the house would drive past and see me.”

  “My apologies, Annie.” Grace strode along the High Street, her steps lighter and more confident than when she arrived, forcing the maid into a run to keep up with her.

  “You look a lot happier than when you went in. It was good news then?”

  “The very best. Now.” She halted abruptly, causing Annie to collide with her. “I'm taking a trip, and I’ll need your help.”

  “A trip, Miss Grace?” Annie’s eyes widened. “Does the master know?”

  “Not yet, but he will.” Grace looked both ways as they reached the corner of Holly Hill, at the top of which the MacKinnon gothic mansion crouched. She surveyed the distant outline and shivered, which had little to do with the chill March wind that creeping inside her coat collar and biting her nose and cheeks.

  “Where are ye going, Miss?” Annie's bonnet strings had loosened, sending her hat bouncing on her shoulders as she ran along beside her.

  “Canada.”

  “But that’s the other side of the world!”

  “Not quite.” Just then it felt like the perfect distance. “Annie,” she lowered her voice, though the road was deserted. “I want you to hide a bag for me.” She wouldn't be able to sneak a full size trunk out of the house without it being remarked upon. “Maybe two bags. I’ll see what I can manage.”

  “What about your lovely gowns, Miss Grace? All your fine books and your mother’s jewelry?”

  “I’m not going to forgo this chance for a few dresses. I’ll take my mother’s jewelry as it can be sold if necessary, and a few of my favorite books. My everyday clothes and linens will occupy most of the space so there will be no room for ball gowns.” Grace made a sharp turn into the lane that served as a shortcut back to the house.

  “’Tis a dreadful shame, Miss.” Annie sulked as she trudged along beside her. “You has so many lovely things.”

  “That’s all they are. Things. Now, I rely on you to keep my secret, Annie. The best time for me to go would be this Sunday when everyone is at church.”

  “But you’ll be missed. The master insists everyone attends service.”

  “I’ve thought of that. When everyone is about to leave, you’ll go down and say I have women’s problems. No one will question that. Nor will they want to be late, thus it’s unlikely I’ll be cross questioned.”

  “I could ask Jeb to help.” Annie skipped ahead and pushed open the wrought iron gate that gave a small, protesting squeak. “He’s sweet on me and will do anything I ask. He could borrow his father’s gig. No one will miss it for an hour or so, what with everyone at church.”

  “Oh, would you, Annie? That would be a great help.” Grace climbed the rear steps into the hall. “I’ll give him five shillings for his trouble.” And his silence. “I don’t suppose you would come with me?” She felt compelled to ask, but instinct told her Annie would refuse. A widowed mother and younger siblings needed her wages.

  Annie’s face blanched, but before she could respond, Grace pressed her forearm. ‘Don’t worry, Annie. I know it’s not possible.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss. Going to Canada sounds real exciting and I would, if it weren’t for Ma and the girls.”

  “You don’t need to apologize, I quite understand.” Disappointment filled her, but not enough to spoil the anticipation of what she was about to do. There was no time to engage another willing maid she could trust with her secret, so Grace would have to face her future entirely alone.

  Doubt pulled at her lower belly. What was she thinking? She had always lived in London. How could she contemplate travelling thousands of miles to a strange country where she knew no one? But then, she knew few people here apart from the MacKinnons, and she was running away from them.

  “I will be all right.” She pulled back her shoulders. “Hundreds of emigrants leave these shores every day for new lives. Why shouldn’t I do the same? And you’ll keep your promise not to tell anyone where I’ve been today, won't you, Annie?”

  “I always keep my promises, Miss.” Annie nodded gravely. “But what are you going to tell the master if he finds out you weren’t at the church hall helping with the bazaar this afternoon?”

  “Nothing.” Grace lifted her chin, the brown envelope a satisfactory bulge in her bag bolstering her courage. “From today, what I do is entirely my own business.”

  Chapter 2

  SS Parisian, Halifax Harbour, Nova Scotia

  Grace braced a hand on the ship’s rail, her other clamped onto her hat as a swell tilted the deck. Land was a blurred purple line beneath an overcast sky where seagulls wheeled overhead. White flashes on grey, they soared on currents of air on a single wing beat, then dropped like stones until they caught another current, climbing upwards again, their mocking cries triumphant, sharp and sad.

  Spring had not yet arrived in the North Atlantic, and an icy north wind chased the blood from her fingers and stung her cheeks. After a week at sea, she fretted to be on dry land again. The steady thrum of the engines floors below kept her awake on her first night but now vibrated through her feet in a familiar, almost comforting, way.

  Travellers strolled the boards of the upper deck; businessmen with their wives, nannies and their charges and elegant dowagers, their hats as wide as their shoulders. A tapestry of crimson red, turquoise and sapphire blue, primrose yellows and sage greens, in fur-lined cloaks and overcoats against the chill, the day bright and almost windless.

  Passengers from steerage sat in groups, sprawled on winches and packing cases scattered about the deck. Women in headscarves and men in long black coats, all eager for their first view of Nova Scotia. Couples strolled arm-in-arm with little space to move, many wrapped against the cold in the shipping company’s grey blankets. Solitary young men in thick woollen sweaters leaned against the winch lines smoking homemade cigarettes and staring broodily out over the ocean, while children issued high-pitched shrieks as they ran between them.

  Like sparrows and blackbirds, they flowed around the lower deck in contrast to the peacocks and birds of paradise on the upper levels.

  Grace leaned on the railing, her gaze on the deck below and wondered again about those people, few of whom shared a common language,
but whose ambitions for a better future than the life they left behind matched her own.

  “Not long now and we'll be in Halifax.” Priscilla, her stateroom mate, a diminutive blonde with a tendency to plumpness sidled up to her at the rail, a question in her vivid blue eyes. “Did the steward come and collect our luggage?”

  Grace nodded, trying not to flinch at the heavy floral perfume the girl favored. Priscilla had left half her belongings strewn about the stateroom. Grace packed them for her before the steward arrived, but there would be little point mentioning it when she'd not get any thanks.

  “Excellent. I knew I could rely on you.” Priscilla waved a vague hand at the tween deck below them. “They’re just like animals, aren’t they? All huddled together like that.”

  “That’s quite harsh, Priscilla.” Grace rolled her shoulders, shrugging off Priscilla's remark. The girl’s mean nature still surprised her.

  “And must they make that infernal racket?” Priscilla’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the jaunty notes of an accordion that struck up from somewhere.

  “I quite like it.” Grace smiled as a young man dragged a girl into a circle to dance; maybe in a last chance to establish a connection before they left the ship to go their separate ways in a strange country. “They might be poor, but they share the same hopes for a new life we do.”

  Priscilla was not listening, her attention having shifted to a group of affluent young men in blazers standing farther along the rail, their voices raised in the braying tone of the young and entitled.

  A youth with fair hair that falling over his forehead tossed a handful of coins over the rail into the crowd below. A violent scramble ensued to retrieve them. A small, ragged boy was knocked to the ground by a larger, stronger youth, who took off with his prize, the brief scuffle eliciting loud claps and yells of encouragement from their audience.

  “How cruel,” Grace murmured under her breath.

  “It’s only a bit of fun,” Priscilla tutted, one hand propped on a hip to give her audience a view of her voluptuous curves. “You're such an enigma, Grace.” She issued a light, hollow laugh. “You speak and dress like a duchess but say the strangest things.”

  The young man who threw the coins caught Priscilla’s eye, grinned and nudged the one next to him. The first one whispered something and in seconds, the others joined him.

  Their open appraisal sent angry heat flooding Grace’s cheeks and she turned away, but could still hear their lewd comments made in too loud whispers.

  A crewman strolled past and requested the raucous group move aside. Grace harboured a vague hope he might reprimand them for their behavior. Instead, he passed them and halted in front of her. Priscilla's eyes lit with admiration, for the young man was tall and imposing in his immaculate uniform, with a neatly trimmed beard that appeared to be standard for the higher crew.

  “Miss McKinnon?” He pinned her with an enquiring.

  “It’s Mrs MacKinnon.” Grace’s mouth went suddenly dry. What had she done to attract the attention of the crew?

  “Telegram for you, ma’am.” He thrust a small brown envelope toward her.

  She eyed the envelope but made no move to take it. “There must be some mistake.”

  “No mistake, ma’am. You’re the only McKinnon on board.” He shoved it into her free hand, snapped a brief salute and strode off along the deck.

  Her heart fluttering like a panicked bird, she slid a thumbnail beneath the seal. Her hand shook so badly, she could hardly unfold the slip of opaque paper inside, its corners curling inwards in the wind. She smoothed it out and read what was written by a juvenile hand in stark black capitals.

  YOUR REPREHENSIBLE BEHAVIOUR DISCOVERED STOP MY AGENT WILL MEET YOU AT PORT OF HALIFAX STOP YOU ARE TO ACCOMPANY HIM TO HALIBURTON HOTEL STOP PASSAGE SECURED ON SS KENSINGTON FOR RETURN TO ENGLAND IN FOUR DAYS STOP.

  ANGUS MACKINNON.

  Her stomach clenched. The deck seemed to tilt beneath her, though the sea was perfectly calm. She closed her eyes until the dizziness abated. Briefly, she wondered what the wireless operator must have thought as he transcribed the uncompromising message.

  “What’s that you have there, Grace?” Priscilla drifted back to her side and attempted to read over her shoulder.

  “Nothing important.” Grace crumpled the slip of thin paper and shoved it into her skirt pocket.

  “If you say so.” Priscilla's sceptical gaze slid to a spot over Grace’s shoulder and she gave an exaggerated sigh. “Really, it’s too bad. How does she do that?”

  “Who does what?” Grace looked to where a slender girl with long, curly black hair mounted the outside companionway wearing a well-made but worn coat which was a few inches too short. The coat was fastened to the neck, most likely to hide the shabbiness of the dress beneath.

  Reaching the top of the companionway, the girl tossed the end of her green woollen shawl over one shoulder and gave the deck a slow, sweeping look before catching Grace’s eye.

  “That Effie girl does realize this is the saloon deck?” Priscilla made no attempt to lower her voice as the girl strode confidently towards them. “Steerage passengers aren’t allowed up here.”

  “It’s Aoife, and hush, Priscilla, she’ll hear you.” Grace summoned a smile, admiring the fact nowhere appeared to be off limits to the Irish girl.

  “I did hear yer.” Aoife insinuated herself between the two women at the railing. “And yer don’t fool me with your airs and graces, Miss Prissie.”

  “Well, really!” Priscilla's cheeks flooded an unbecoming red. She looked about to deliver a withering response, but instead, flung away from them and joined the group of young men whose raucous laughter drifted along the deck.

  Aoife’s most startling feature was a mane of black hair that fell in tangled waves down her back, though her light brown eyes were too small, her nose too long, and her lips a little too narrow to be striking. Grace knew that when angry, her features screwed up like a cross fairy, only to transform with delight at small kindnesses offered by strangers.

  “You shouldn’t goad her, Aoife,” Grace whispered, “This might be our last day, but she could still make trouble for you.”

  “I’m not scared o’ the likes of ‘er. Schoolmistress, my arse.” Aoife swiped a hand beneath her nose. “She’s a brasser if ever I saw one.”

  Grace suppressed a shocked gasp, wondering if the word meant what she thought it did, but was reluctant to show her ignorance by asking.

  On her first day on board, totally lost by the various decks and corridors and unfamiliar with shipboard manners, Grace had wandered onto the steerage deck. While the other passengers stared at her and edged away, Aoife approached her with a bright smile and a cheery greeting. She had explained how the steerage and second stateroom passengers occupied separate areas of the ship and never mixed.

  Apologetic but intrigued, Grace discovered that like her, Aoife travelled alone and over the next few days, the pair formed an unlikely friendship. One night, to the plaintive tune of a lone violin, she and Aoife huddled on a hatch cover and shared the cake Grace snitched from the second-class tea.

  As pink fingers of an Atlantic dusk crept across the sky, Aoife revealed how she had answered an advertisement in the Liverpool Post for 'Ladies inclined to matrimony.' And embarked on correspondence with a farmer who lived in Marysville, New Brunswick. With an assisted passage granted by the Salvation Army in order to join him, Aoife talked of living under clear skies and fresh air instead of the choking fumes of a Liverpool slum.

  “Even so, you should be careful coming up here,” Grace warned, scanning the area nearby for members of the crew who strode purposefully across decks and scaled companionways, busy with the imminent arrival of the ship.

  “They'll no' bother with me, not today.”

  “I cannot believe we are finally here.’ Grace leaned both forearms on the rail, the paper in her pocket crackling as she moved, bringing her thoughts back to her pressing problem.

  “You look a
bit peaky.” Aoife peered into her face. “Did that nor-eastern keep you awake last night?”

  “A little, but never mind me, I had a relatively comfortable bunk to sleep in. I heard the crew ordered the hatches battened down. It must have been frightening for you below decks”

  “It weren't so bad.” Aoife shrugged. “Mrs Murphy’s nippers got pretty scared, so I brought the youngest into bed with me.”

  Lying rigid in her bunk as the ship pitched and rolled, Grace found the whole experience terrifying, her hands gripping the sides of her thin mattress. She could not imagine what it must be like to lie in a room below the waterline stacked in bunks on top of one another in the dark; listening to murmured prayers and snuffling sobs of the children as the floor dipped and heaved beneath them.

  A loud ripple of high, girlish laughter jolted Grace from her thoughts.

  “Knew I was right ‘bout her.” Aoife nodded to where Priscilla preened for the benefit of her male audience.

  “Never mind her.” Grace nodded to where more couples joined the dancing on the tween deck. Someone played a harmonica and both young and old stomped the boards to its high-pitched, frantic tune.

  “I’m surprised you aren’t down there,” Grace said. “It’s become quite a party.”

  “I’ve said me goodbyes.” Aoife’s expression grew wistful. “I wanted to see you ‘afore we arrived, but you don’t look very happy to be here. You’ve been talking ‘bout Halifax all week, but you’ve barely said one word.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be miserable. It’s just-’ Grace sighed, withdrew the telegram from her pocket and handed it to her.

  “What's this?” Aoife frowned, turning the paper over in her hands. “Who’d be sending you a telegram? You said no one knew you were on board?”

  “It’s from my father-in-law. He insists I go back, but I refuse to be treated like an upper servant in his house. I want my own life.” Grace hated the whine that entered her voice. Her guilt for Annie resurfaced, the poor girl had doubtless been dismissed for helping her escape. Not that she could do anything for her maid now, what with her own future placed in jeopardy.