“I beg your pardon?” Grace’s cup halted in mid-air.
“You’re English aren’t you?” He nodded, congratulating himself.
She sighed, replacing her cup in the saucer. “I am, yes.”
“How long have you been in Charlottetown?”
“Not very long.” She felt he deflected her to avoid her question. “You were explaining the functions of a sponsor to me, Mr Keogh.”
“A simple arrangement.” He shrugged. “You engage me to manage your affairs. I act for you, negotiating major purchases, pay your bills and so on. For a fee, of course.”
“Of course.” Grace pretended to give the idea some thought, but she would never again allow a man to control her life. “I'll have to think about it. Perhaps when I’ve decided the manner of the business I wish to run, I’ll let you know.”
“That’s your prerogative, naturally. But I ought to point out I do have other clients who occupy my time. If you leave it too long, I might not be able to accommodate you.” He drained his cup, and pushed himself to his feet, indicating the meeting was at an end.
“How might I contact you?” Grace gathered her things and rose. “You did not give me your card.”
“Oh, just ask for me here by name at the desk.” He escorted her to the door at a much faster pace than when they arrived. “The porter will take a message and pass it on.”
“You live at the hotel?” Perhaps he possessed better means than she thought?
“I negotiated a favorable rate.” His slow wink conveyed something, but she wasn’t sure what.
She had little time to speculate. Through the glazed lobby doors, she spotted a tall man on the street outside and immediately recognized the streak of white in his full head of otherwise black hair. Her breath caught in her throat as Andrew Jardine entered the lobby in the company of another man, the pair engaged in an intense discussion. As he came level, he, glanced sideways as if aware of being watched. He halted and did a swift double take, his eyes lightening. Her heart lifted as he looked about to speak, but then his gaze slid abruptly to Mr Keogh and he bit back whatever he intended to say.
His eyes darkened with what? Confusion? Anger? She couldn’t tell. Only that what he saw displeased him.
His companion said something to him and Jardine nodded, then carried on past her into the lounge.
Grace stared after him, bewildered. “Is something wrong, Mrs MacKinnon?” Keogh asked.
Grace blinked, collecting herself, though her feet felt glued to the floor. “N-no, nothing. I thought I might have left my gloves behind.”
“Are they not the items in question?” He pointed to her left hand where the gloves were squashed together in a shapeless lump.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she murmured, her head down as she busied herself putting them on.
Without waiting for Keogh, Grace pushed through the door into the street, her throat tight.
“Now, dear lady, might I hail a hansom for you?” Keogh followed her out, evidently eager to get away.
“There’s no need. I don’t have far to go. I’ll be in touch, Mr Keogh. “Thank you for the tea.”
Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel, her bag swinging on her wrist as she strode along the street, her steps quickening with each yard she put between herself and the hotel.
Why did Jardine pretend not to know her? He had been so kind all the way from Halifax, even attentive. She didn’t imagine his interest then, or did she? Just now he looked genuinely pleased to see her, but then - nothing. Was his action to avoid having to introduce her to the man with him? She barely noticed where she walked, and when she next looked up, she found herself outside Mrs Mahoney’s door.
She stepped into the hall, where the sight of the yellow sailboat spread out on the floorboards reminded her that she had bought a house today. A house she would transform into one of the best - no, the best small hotel in Charlottetown. And she would do it without Mr Charles Keogh, or, more importantly, Andrew Jardine. She could cut people too, and she would do exactly that the next time she saw him.
* * *
“There was a telephone call for you this afternoon, Grace dear,” Mrs Mahoney said as she bustled through from the kitchen.
Grace's heart jumped the same way it had when that crewman handed her the telegram on the ship. Her mouth dried as she waited.
“From Mr Hill at the bank.” Mrs M folded her arms beneath her bosom.
“Ah, I see. What did he say?” Grace removed her coat, giving her heart time to settle into a more comfortable rhythm.
“He wants you to call in to sign some documents. Something to do with your new account and funds being wired from London” She tilted her head like an eager bird. “You've decided to stay and set up home here then?”
“Did you think I wasn't going to?” Grace draped her coat over her arm and eased towards the stairs.
“You’ve been a bit confused since you arrived. But it seems you're sorting out your affairs. I was thinking, dear.”
“Thinking what, Mrs M?” Grace halted on the second step and turned back.
“The Dobson sisters are going back to New York tomorrow, so I wondered if you would like their room? It’s bigger than yours, and the furniture is newer. I could let you have it for another dollar a week. I know how fond you are of your daily baths, too, so I could let you have extra towels and linens for another fifty cents a week.”
“That's kind of you to offer, but I'm more than happy in my room.” Grace didn't know how long the renovations to the Prince Street house would take, so extra expenses were something she would rather not incur. “I wouldn't mind the linens, if that’s still possible.” It was worth fifty cents for the luxury of not having to collect towels every day.
“Right you are, then. I'll send some up with Marge each morning.”
Grace watched her over the bannister rail as she returned to the kitchen. Would Mrs M be as amenable when she found out Grace was opening a hotel?
Over a supper of roast chicken and spring vegetables, Ivy and Amy entertained her with stories of their parsimonious brother, whom they had not managed to persuade to increase their allowance.
“It's not as if he keeps them short,” Mrs M said as the door closed on the pair, who retired early to pack for their departure in the morning. “They've bought two new dresses each since they've been here and goodness knows how many gifts and souvenirs to take home. It's always the same with them, money burns right through their pockets.”
“You know what their problem is?” Marge said as she carried the used crockery through to the kitchen. “Those two are afraid Aloysius will propose to Martha Cooley, her who runs the library. I've seen them walking out together to church. Then they’ll likely lose the inheritance they’ve been counting on.”
“You’ll miss them when they’ve gone, Marge.” Mrs M wagged her finger at her. “You always do. Now, Grace dear, what are your plans for the morning? Off out again are you?”
Grace thought for a moment, wondering how much she should reveal. After her talk with the dubious Mr Keogh she debated whether to call on someone she could trust for business advice. Mr Jardine was the most obvious choice but she was reluctant to give him the impression she was chasing him. It made more sense to approach John Cahill, and the more she thought about it, the more it appealed. And if she was lucky, perhaps Emily wouldn’t be at home.
“I’m going to visit a friend and his wife who live in West street. Is it far from here? I haven’t decided whether to take a hansom or walk.” She added, the ‘wife’ part to avoid any speculation on Mrs M’s part. She wasn’t a gossip, but she did have a keen interest in everyone’s business.
“Friends in West street, eh?” Mrs M said, obviously impressed. “It’s up to you, dear. You could walk it in twenty minutes, or take a hansom if it’s raining. If you can find one this side of Queen square that is.”
“It’s not always been nice by the Government Pond,” Marge said appearing abrupt
ly from the kitchen. “Most people call it The Bog as it was on a swamp.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t sneak around like that.” Mrs M jumped and glared at her. “Gives me palpitations, it does.” She clapped a hand against her upper chest in emphasis.
“Don’t pay any mind to her.” Mrs M dismissed Marge with a wave. “It’s where all the old shacks used to be. The Loyalists who settled here after the Revolutionary War brought their African slaves with them. When their descendants were freed, that’s where they lived, though most have moved on now and the land around the pond itself is being tidied up. They’ve built some lovely houses there now.”
“I was just saying, Mrs M,” Marge said, defensive. “Grace told me she’s interested in the Island history and I thought she’d like to know.”
“Yes, all right, Marge, that’ll do. Go and refill the coffee pot, would you, I’m that thirsty tonight.” She waited until Marge had gone and lowered her voice. “Marge’s grandma was from a Bog family. Not that you’d know with her freckles.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Marge’s ancestry suddenly became more exotic than Grace had imagined. But I am interested, Mrs M. And there’s no reason not to be proud of your heritage, Marge,” Grace addressed a smiling Marge who had returned with the refilled coffee pot. “I don’t know much about mine and would like to know where my descendants originated from.” Apart from her Scottish name, Grace didn’t even know if Scotland was where she came from. Angus MacKinnon always changed the subject when she asked.
“It’s not only the Irish, Scots and English who made this place. There’s the Africans, Lebanese, Turkish, and all sorts.” Marge sniffed as she placed the coffee pot on the table. “There’s plenty who call the Island home and The Bog is part of it.”
“I would love to hear more about it sometime, Marge.” Grace caught Mrs M’s tightly clamped lips and decided to leave before an argument started. “Dinner was lovely, thank you.” She scraped back her chair. “Oh, by the way, what was in those sandwiches you gave me this morning?”
“What was that, dear?” Mrs M frowned as she looked up from pouring her coffee.
“The-um brown concoction you gave me. I’ve never tasted anything like it before. It was quite - unusual.”
“Oh, the peanut butter do you mean? It’s made with steamed peanuts crushed and mixed with sugar.”
“That’s a strange name, when there’s no butter in it?”
Mrs M shrugged. “Don’t ask me why, dear. A Montreal man invented it, I’m told. An American salesman brought some from the World’s Fair in St Louis last year and ever since, I’ve had some on order at the mercantile.” She huffed a breath and patted Grace’s hand. “Sorry, dear, it didn’t occur to me you wouldn’t have had it before. Perhaps I could make something else for you tomorrow?”
“Please don’t worry. I admit it was a bit odd at first, but it was very tasty.” And the seagulls loved it.
Chapter 12
Grace recalled the Cahill house was located on West street, but without the missing business card she had no idea how to get there or which house to look for. That early in the morning there were few people on the streets other than tradesman’s carts, and the first one she asked spoke in such a thick Scots brogue she could hardly understand him.
Thanking him politely she backed away, then she spotted a postman on his rounds. No more than a youth, he was more than eager to share his knowledge of the town and gave her a detailed route to follow.
“The Cahill residence is fourth on the right as you enter the street. A double bay house with a covered porch and blue roof, Miss.”
Thanking him, she repeated his directions in her head, walking north along Pownal and left at Rochford Square to an area of grassland with pathways beneath mature trees, but with none of the aesthetic features Queen square offered. Following the signs for Victoria Park, she found the street not far from the Governor’s house, a small lake visible at the end of the road.
The unimpressive name had not prepared her for the half dozen or so mansions spread out along the wide tree-lined road which sheltered the roadways between larger than average plots with gardens, groves and hedges.
The Cahill residence was as the postman had described it; an impressive colonial style building with arched windows and a deep blue mansard roof, which gave it the look of a French chateau.
Her knock on the front door, set beneath an iron canopy between iconic columns, had not yet been answered when John Cahill strode around the side of the house, a soft felt hat askew on his flowing silver hair, a pair of secateurs in one hand.
He halted a few feet away, his eyes alight with recognition,
“Mrs MacKinnon!” His handsome face split into a wide smile. “How delightful to see you.” He tossed the shears casually onto the porch and grasped her hand in both of his. “I was only saying to Emily last evening that we hadn’t seen anything of that charming Mrs MacKinnon. Where have you been hiding, my dear?”
Grace could only imagine how Emily must have reacted to such a question.
“I'm also pleased to see you, Mr Cahill.” Her voice caught in her throat, touched by his genuine welcome. “Did I interrupt your gardening?”
“Not at all. I was just idling away the morning with a spot of pruning. Making room for the roses to bloom. What brings you to my humble home?”
Grace almost laughed. “I was hoping to ask your advice. And you did say that if there was anything-”
“Of course, of course. I'd be happy to help, in any way I can.” He threw an arm lightly around her shoulder. “Hilda, you aren't needed,” he addressed the maid who answered the front door. “Mrs MacKinnon is a friend. Bring us some coffee would you, we'll be in the study.”
“Yes, sir.” The maid bobbed a quick curtsey and scurried back into the house.
He led her into a double height entrance hall, in the center of which a wide staircase split at the top onto a gallery that ran around the entire upper storey.
“You have a beautiful home.”
Her steps slowed as she stared at the Wedgewood blue walls and the ornamental white columns with scrolled corbels flanking each doorway. A sparkling multi-tiered crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, each facet reflecting the light.
“Thank you, my dear. My father built it some fifty years ago. I always thought it was a little too grand for the descendants of immigrant Scots farmers, but Emily likes it.”
“How could she not.” Grace looked down at her shoes which sank to the uppers in the thick patterned blue and gold carpet.
The study reminded her of the reading room at the British Library, but prettier. A leather topped desk sat inside a full height curved window, the walls around the room filled with floor to ceiling shelves crammed with books. In contrast to most home libraries she had seen, the volumes were of uniform size and color with the appearance of never having been opened, let alone read. The phrase style over substance sprang to mind.
“What can I help you with, Mrs MacKinnon?” Avoiding the two chairs set on either side of the desk, he gestured her into a wing back chair beside an empty fireplace and sat on the one opposite.
“In the first instance, I've bought a house.”
“Well, that's certainly an impressive beginning to your new life.” His bemused smile emphasised the tiny lines beside his eyes.
“Not for me to live in. I mean, I do intend to live there, but only in part of it. I'm going to open a hotel.”
“A hotel? My goodness, you are an ambitious young woman.” The leather chair creaked as he eased further into it and crossed his ankles. “And you've only been here a few days. I'd be interested to see what you achieve in a year.”
“It might sound as if I have come to you with a fait accompli, but I saw the house purely by accident. I had to act immediately, or I risked it being bought by someone else.” Why was she justifying herself? She bit down on her bottom lip.
“I've made some of my best business decisions on impulse, Mrs MacKinnon.”
“Please, call me Grace. And I'm so glad you said so because I knew the second I saw the property it would be perfect. I was able to obtain it at a lower price too.”
“Well done, and where exactly is this house may I ask?”
“Prince street. On the corner of Sidney street opposite the Methodist Church. At least I think it’s Methodist.”
“Close enough to town to be convenient and yet far enough away from the commercial area with all the noise and activity.” He nodded approvingly. “Sounds like an extremely good choice, Mrs - I mean, Grace. How can I be of help?”
“I need a sponsor. Someone to act for me in financial matters.”
“Do you have the funds to secure this house?”
“Oh yes. I haven’t come to ask you for money.”
“What about a contingency for the renovation, running costs, staff and so on until you are established?”
“Yes, to all of those. I can afford to stay at Mrs Mahoney's until the work is done, providing it doesn’t take too long. I’ll miss the Easter trade, but if I work steadily, I can open in time for the summer visitors.”
“Hmmm.” He shook back his leonine mane of hair. “You’ll certainly have to be organized with builders and so on. However, I'm not sure about this sponsor idea.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Quite simply, because you're British born, Grace, and soon to be a property owner which will give you automatic voting rights in municipal elections. You'll be a respected member of the community. I don’t see why you feel you need anyone to sponsor you.”
She brought a clenched fist down on her knee, her suspicions confirmed. She would have some harsh words to say to Mr Keogh if she ever saw him again.
“You appear to have the financial aspect adequately covered,” he went on. “But I would suggest you engage a lawyer and a reputable accountant. I could arrange introductions for you if you wish? I know a few people who would give you a good, and more importantly, honest service.”
Envy the Wind Page 12
