“Ah, Grace, there you are. I hope you’ll call on me when you are settled in Charlottetown. The ladies of the Women’s Christian Temperance gather at my house regularly. You must let me introduce you to them.”
“It’s kind of you to offer, Mrs Cahill,” Grace replied carefully. “However, I shall be too occupied during my first weeks to attend ‘at homes’.”
Emily wrinkled her pert nose. “But what of your future, Grace? You're evidently well-educated, so perhaps you could be a schoolteacher? We have some excellent schools in Charlottetown for the worker’s children. I'm sure John would vouch for your suitability.”
“I don't think so, Mrs Cahill.” Grace started to leave before she said something she regretted, but Emily matched her step for step.
“A governess then?” Her eyes lit up as if she had come up with the perfect solution. “English governesses are much sought after in the better homes.” She brought a finger to her pursed lips. “Although you might find a certain reluctance in the mamas to their having a pretty woman in the house.” She rested a hand on Grace's forearm. “A husband is what you need, my dear.”
“That’s the last thing I want at the moment,” Grace said. “I'm still mourning the loss of my first one.”
“You are? My condolences.” Emily’s voice held no sympathy as she gave Grace’s sky blue jacket and skirt a pointed look. “Perhaps when your - um mourning - is over, perhaps you might reconsider my suggestion about being a governess.”
“In which case, I could have found a position and a husband nearer to home.” The effort of maintaining her smile made Grace’s jaw ache.
“Ah, well, I’m sure you know your own mind, but I think you’ll discover things here aren’t quite the same as in London.”
“You know London then, Mrs Cahill?” Grace levelled an innocent look on her, confident Emily had never left the Maritimes.
“Actually, no. I've never had occasion to visit Europe. Not yet anyway.” Her gaze slid to where John stood, his back to the window as he perused a document that had been waiting for him when the boat docked at Port Hawkesbury. “It’s your decision, of course. We’ll talk later, I’m sure.” With a vague wave in Grace’s direction, she strolled towards her husband, possibly to inform him she had complied with his request, at least partly.
“You must learn not to do that,” Jardine said from behind her.
Grace jumped and swung around to find him grinning at her.
“I didn’t see you there.” Grace’s cheeks warmed, partly because she had been caught but also because his gaze bored into hers. “Were you eavesdropping, by any chance?”
“Shamelessly.” He delivered a slow wink that sent her blood racing. “As were you in the hallway just now.”
“And what is it I must learn not to do, Mr Jardine?”
“While you were talking to Emily, your jaw was clenched all the time she was talking. Then when she walked away, you shuddered.”
“I did? Oh dear, that’s not very nice is it?”
“I doubt she noticed, but someone more discerning and less in love with themselves might.”
“And I thought you were one of her admirers.” She slanted a coy look up at him, surprised at her capacity to flirt.
“No, you did not.” He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “She’s vain, and manipulative. Unfortunately, the one person who could have benefited from my counsel chose to ignore me.” He nodded to where Cahill had finished reading and was pouring drinks for himself and Emily.
“He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man gullible enough to be fooled by a pretty face.”
“That's true. John is more than aware of the kind of deal he has struck with Emily. He has no illusions about her.”
“You make it sound like a business arrangement rather than a marriage.”
“Did you think it was anything else?” His mouth twitched at the corner into a cynical smile. “And if you did, you’re too polite to say so.” His eyes softened again. “But I'm being unsociable. You've not got a drink. Allow me to fetch you an aperitif?”
“Um, yes thank you. A sherry would be lovely.” Did he approve of the nature of the Cahill’s marriage, or despise it?
In his absence, she went to the chair she had previously occupied in search of her bag, but it was no longer there.
“Have you lost something?” Jardine asked on his return, two glasses in hand, one of which he handed to her.
“Um-yes, I'm sure I left my bag here, and now I-”
“Is this it?” He swept the navy-blue velvet pouch from the corner of a sofa behind her.
“Ah yes, thank you.” Frowning, she took it from him certain that was not where she left it.
* * *
Grace woke next morning to a calm blue sea beneath a crisp clear sky. “Ah, Mrs MacKinnon.” John Cahill gestured her to join him. “Come and have your first sight of Prince Edward Island.” He nodded to where a purplish hump formed on the horizon. “That's East Point, from which we follow the coastline to Souris and then on to Georgetown. I'll point out the more interesting landmarks as we pass. Now, what would you like to eat?” He rubbed his hands together and approached a row of bain marie's on a side table.
“I think I’d prefer something light. Your hospitality is wonderful, but I've eaten far too much in the last twenty-four hours.
Their mutual laughter trailed off as the contrived cough from the doorway announced Emily’s arrival. “What is it you two have found so amusing?” She flounced to the table and plumped down in her chair, barely acknowledging Grace’s, “Good morning.”
“Nothing important.” Cahill winked at Grace, then glanced up again as Jardine appeared. “Ah there you are. Did you sleep late?”
“I did not.” Jardine frowned, but good-humouredly. “I woke early, so I took a walk on deck.” He greeted Grace and Emily in turn before he joined Cahill at the buffet where he loaded his plate. “Are we making good time?”
“Pretty good.” Cahill helped himself to toast. “We were late getting into Port Hawkesbury due to a few stray ice floes near Isle Madam, but we are averaging eighteen knots, so should reach Charlottetown by late afternoon.”
“You call it an Island, Grace began, “but how large is it? I mean, we regard the British Isles as one but it’s over eight hundred miles long by over four hundred wide. The Isle of Wight, on the other hand is only twenty five by thirteen, but they are both called islands.
“Good point.” Cahill held a finger aloft. “Prince Edward Island is one hundred and forty miles long and forty wide, which might give you an idea.”
“Are the roads good?”
“Good is a subjective description,” Jardine said. “The soil is mainly red clay, so when wet it turns to clinging mud and freezes in winter. If you plan to travel anywhere, make sure it’s in spring and summer.”
“We do have a railroad,” Cahill interjected. “It cuts straight through the middle like a metal spine from east to west, but doesn’t reach the more remote places. For those, you’ll need a horse and cart. But forgive me.” He touched her shoulder lightly. “This is all new to you and you’ll likely not remember any of it.”
“Not at all, I’m taking it all in and it’s fascinating. I'll also be sure to add a horse and buggy to my list of essential requirements.” Grace laughed. “What about motor cars, do you have many of those?”
“Not yet, I’m pleased to say,” Cahill said. “Our roads are not suitable and the few we do have tend to frighten the horses. They are not very popular.”
“I would love one,” Emily piped up. “We saw lots in Montreal and everyone stands to stare when they pass by. Someone told me they can go as fast as thirty miles an hour.”
“Which is precisely why I'm not paying seven hundred and fifty dollars for one, Emily. How would my horses feel if I bought an automobile? They would never forgive me.”
“Oh, you and your precious horses.” Emily huffed. “I'm sure you love them more than you do me.”
* * *
“Where are we now?” Grace asked as they adjourned to the lounge for coffee, arranging themselves on the sofas in front of the windows.
“That white clapboard building on the promontory, the one with the red roof, is the Wood Islands Lighthouse,” Cahill said. “Then we turn north-west past Belle River onto Point Prim, past Governor’s Island and then Charlottetown.”
For the next hour, the SS Elizabeth glided through the strait along a shore of rose and golden sand that sparkled in the sunshine. Coves and small bays wound in and out, beyond which lay a patchwork of lush rolling fields, tidy gabled farmhouses and seaside villages scattered along the shoreline. The occupants of a small rowboat being pulled onto the beach halted to wave at the ferry, greeted by the captain with a cheerful whistle. A driver of a horse and cart raised his hat as he urged the horse into a trot along the coast road, while a group of boys in a field jumped up and down, arms waving frantically.
“Are all the inhabitants so cheerful and friendly?” Grace asked.
“I would say so, yes.” Cahill leaned a hip against the edge of the sofa where she sat, his arms folded. “Most of them recognize the boat, but people on shore always wave to sailboats and the ferries. We’re an island nation and the sea is in our blood.”
“Those cliffs over there look red from here,” Grace said. “But I expect it’s a trick of the light.”
“Actually, they are,” Jardine said. “The sandstone has a high iron concentration which oxidises on exposure to the air and turns them into that warm russet color.”
“That's not a very romantic explanation, Andrew.” Cahill laughed.
“Perhaps not, but accurate.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Grace said. “It’s beautiful.”
“The cliffs are an excellent place for a picnic,” Cahill said. “But make sure you have a blanket with you or the rust will stain your clothes.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” Grace stored the snippet away for future reference.
“There's beauty everywhere you look, in the countryside, coves and small harbours all around the coast.” Cahill sighed with pleasure. “There's a beach on the far eastern tip called Basin Head where the sand is fine and almost white. Some refer to it as the ‘singing sands’ as it squeaks when walked on.”
“How fascinating. I must travel around the Island when I am settled here.”
“That spring I promised you will begin in earnest in late April,” Jardine addressed Grace, possibly to dispel the hard looks the Cahills gave each other. “Our climate is more moderate than in some provinces, due to the warm waters of the St Lawrence river, although you'll find it very changeable.”
“You forget, I’m from England, where it’s possible to experience all four seasons in one day.”
He chuckled. “Then maybe Island life won’t be so different.”
“Charlottetown is around that point just up ahead,” Cahill announced with boyish excitement. “You must come out on deck, Mrs MacKinnon, it’s the only way to fully appreciate your first view of the town. You too, Jardine, Emily.”
Jardine nodded, but Emily pulled a face. “Not me, it's far too cold out there.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I have some packing to do. I’ll see you all when we reach the harbour.”
“I'll get my coat,” Grace said. “And my hat, scarf and my warmest gloves. Oh, and a muff if I can find one.”
Jardine's slow, rolling laugh followed her along the corridor back to her cabin.
Muffled up against the crisp, icy wind, Grace stood at the rail beside Jardine on one side of her and Cahill wrapped in his bear-coat the other. Her heart thumped with child-like excitement and her eyes strained to get her first glimpse of her new home. She could feel her muscles relax and her breathing slow as she took in the simple beauty of the vista ahead of her. It looked almost unreal, with unbroken coastlines and rolling green hills stretching away into the distance beyond the deep aquamarine water. A gentle, if sharp wind tugged at her hat and she couldn’t keep the smile from her face.
“That expanse of green dead ahead is Victoria Park, but we’ll veer off to starboard before that to make the harbour.” Cahill kept up his enthusiastic commentary as the steamboat manoeuvred between two promontories into a natural harbour.
Beyond the wharfs and wooden sheds that made up the dockside buildings, the town’s wide streets stretched into the distance. They comprised a jumble of wooden buildings painted in different colors, with odd brick-built structures and several church spires in between.
“The colors and the light are enchanting,” Grace commented as the steamer glided towards the harbour where fishing boats and yachts scattered like toys as they passed. “It has a feeling of home, and yet I’ve never lived by the sea.”
“I knew you would love it.” Cahill's voice softened. “I always look forward to this view when I come home. I could not imagine living anywhere else.”
“You’re such a sentimentalist, John.” Emily appeared at the door, her fur coat buttoned to the neck and a hat pulled down to her eyebrows. “My John has started a yacht club, you know. We already have a boating club, but this will be much more exclusive.”
“Early stages, my dear,” Cahill muttered. “Early stages. We had our first race last year, but I’ve yet to find a suitable location for a clubhouse. I’m hoping to organize it at Lords Wharf near where I berth the SS Elizabeth, but it’s slow going.”
“Would you ask a crewman to help Hilda with my luggage, John?” Emily asked, evidently bored with the conversation. She nodded to where her maid stood guard over a selection of bags, boxes and a steamer trunk, her arms encumbered with colorful packages. She huddled against the awning out of the wind, eyes narrowed as she hung grimly onto her burden.
Grace withdrew a handkerchief from her bag, using it to wipe away a spray of salt water that had caught her in the face, then frowned. All her familiar possessions were still there, but John Cahill’s card which she had placed in an inside pocket was missing.
A thought struck her, and she glanced at Emily, who turned away quickly, heightened color on her cheekbones.
“Is something wrong?” Jardine asked. “Because it's time to disembark.”
“Ah, no. Nothing.” Grace allowed him to guide her off the boat and onto the wooden jetty where John Cahill waited to take his farewell. “I hope we meet again soon, Mrs MacKinnon.” He held her hand in both of his own. “I meant it when I said you must call on me anytime.”
“Thank you, Mr Cahill, and perhaps I shall.” She withdrew her hand, meeting Emily’s gaze for a long second. “It was so nice to meet you. I appreciate your kindness and hospitality.”
“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your new life on the Island.” Dismissing her, Emily raised her chin, turned and sashayed to their waiting carriage.
Bemused, Grace watched her. Emily must have removed the card when she was in her cabin. A childish trick, and a useless one as Grace had memorised their address and even the telephone number. Besides, John Cahill was obviously a leading character in Charlottetown so why would Emily think she could not find him should she wish to?
Unwilling to make an enemy of Mrs Cahill, Grace vowed not to ask for his help if she could avoid it.
“Are you sure I cannot escort you to a hotel?” Mr Jardine asked appearing at her side.
“I'm sure. I intend to start my new life as I wish to go on. Independent and relying on my own initiative.”
“I hope that won’t prevent us renewing our acquaintance? How will I be able to find you?”
“Perhaps I shall find you, Mr Jardine. Thank you again for all your help.”
“Andrew!” Emily's shrill cry came from the open door of the cumbersome carriage. “We’re about to leave.”
“Stop fus
sing, Emily, we’ve hardly got far to go.” Her husband said from the depths of the carriage.
Jardine smiled and Grace bit her lip. “Do you live far from here?” Grace asked him.
“No, not far. On the west side of town.” He signalled to Emily that he would be there directly but showed no eagerness to leave. “I fear Emily has had her delicate nose put out of joint.”
“How so?” Grace knew the answer but took a perverse pleasure in keeping Emily waiting.
“By your lovely self, of course. As you well know. I'm sure you've noticed how she hates to share male attention.”
“The poor dear. That must keep her in a constant state of unease.” She smiled in response to his uninhibited laugh. “Thank you again for all your assistance, Mr Jardine.” She hefted both bags by their straps and started to walk away. “I hope we shall have occasion to meet again.” Preferably when she had more to show for herself than a portmanteau, a reticule and an old scuffed leather bag.
“Mrs MacKinnon,” Jardine called her back. “Might I suggest Mrs Mahoney's boarding house? It's a comfortable establishment, and the proprietor is, how shall I say, a gentlewoman?”
“Mahoney, you say?” She considered for a moment. “Is it far?”
He shook his head. “Follow this pier along Pownall street, past Water street then turn right at the next corner which is King street. About twenty yards down, you'll see a pale blue clapboard house that sits on its own plot on your left hand side. I’ve heard the accommodation is modest, but the house is clean, and the food is good.”
“Thank you, I shall try it.” Grace set off along the wide street, calling back over her shoulder. “And now you will know where to find me!”
“Andrew.” Emily called. “We really must go. The horses are getting restless.”
Envy the Wind Page 8
