Envy the Wind

by Anita Davison

  “I thought you said I didn’t need a sponsor.”

  “You don’t, but women in business are considered less creditworthy than men. A mistake, as some of the best tacticians I know are women. Your suppliers are unlikely to extend you credit until you have shown the ability to pay your bills for a few months. They’ll insist upon a cash only arrangement to start with.”

  “Isn't that how I keep a close eye on my budget? If I don’t have it, I cannot spend it.”

  “A wise philosophy, my dear. But you're going to need accounts with your suppliers or you’ll find your cash flow compromised.”

  “I would appreciate your recommendations as to people I could trust.”

  “Ah, here's our coffee.” He rose and met the maid at the door where he relieved her of the tray. “Now we have the hard part out of the way, why don't we sit and chat over a hot cup of Columbian and you can tell me all about your new venture. Firstly, how do you like it here in Charlottetown?”

  “It's beautiful, Mr Cahill. I-”

  “Ah, no.” He held up a finger of one hand and passed her a full cup of rich, aromatic coffee with the other. “If I'm to call you Grace, it's only fair you call me John.”

  “John, then.” She tried out the word on her tongue, surprised at how natural it felt. “I’m staying at a very comfortable boarding house and have spent the days since I arrived exploring. Everything you said about the town is true and so different from where I come from. I love the wide streets and the gentle way of life here. It feels like being in a large village where people remember you after two or three meetings. Although I get the impression nothing you do stays private for long.”

  “You'll get used to that, though it's not malicious. We look out for one another.” He paused with the pot over a cup and briefly raised one cynical eyebrow. “Well, most of us do.” He resumed his seat and crossed one leg over the other. “And this hotel you wish to open, what sort of place would it be? Similar to the boarding house where you're staying?”

  “No, I have something more stylish in mind. A small version of a London hotel with proper maid service and a reception desk where guests are greeted, and their needs are taken care of.” She placed her half full cup on the table at her elbow and eased closer as she got into her stride.

  “On the voyage over on the Parisian, there were several American ladies with one thing in common. They were subjected to stares and whispers at the hotels where they stayed, some were even refused service or shunted into a back room out of sight. Why should we continue to tolerate that behavior simply because we’re women?”

  “I can see you’re quite passionate on the subject, and I admit I haven’t given it much thought.” He stirred cream into his cup with a tiny silver spoon that made his fingers look huge. “I was raised to believe ladies preferred to be sheltered from the coarser habits of the male population.”

  “We probably do, in some circumstances, but not when it makes us into virtual prisoners.”

  “Social change, if that's your aim, happens slowly. You cannot radically alter people's perspective with one hotel.”

  “I'm not a rebel, Mr Ca-John. I simply want to offer first class accommodation to ladies of means who wish to travel either alone or with a friend. My husband's aunt always had a fear of hotels as she never knew when she might run into some strange man coming out of the bathroom. For this very reason, all my rooms will have private bathrooms and a ladies' lounge where they can relax without attracting unwelcome male attention.”

  “You're making me think you don't like men, Grace.” His explosive chuckle shot biscuit crumbs into his moustache. He brushed them away, only to re-position them on his waistcoat.

  “Not at all. I have no intention of banning men. Married couples, for instance or a lady with her adult son would never be turned away. But primarily I want to attract ladies.”

  “I don't think you ought to put that particular requirement in the brochure.”

  “Brochure?”

  “Advertising, the key to letting the world know you exist. I would recommend the newspapers in New York, Boston, Toronto and Montreal which will give you the best exposure.”

  “I'll remember that.” Advertising. She hadn't thought of more than putting a card in the newly established tourist office in town.

  “Do you anticipate making an adequate living from renting rooms to a few genteel lady guests? What you describe sounds as if you’ll have heavy overheads. How many rooms are you thinking of?”

  “I was thinking six double rooms, with possibly two singles if I plan the layout properly. I also envisage a dining room serving continental cuisine open to the public for extra income. The house has a large garden where guests can sit in private and enjoy the summer weather.” She took a deep breath. “What do you think?”

  He stroked a thumb and forefinger repeatedly down his moustache. “Have you taken into account that there are at least fifty small hotels and boarding houses in Charlottetown at the moment?”

  “I have. More importantly, my daily walks have taken me to the harbour on most days. Even this early in the season the ferries are always full of visitors. I assume that number increases a good deal in the summer?”

  “It does.” He nodded, smiling. “The Island has been a tourist destination for many years.”

  “What I’m offering will fit in between a boarding house and one of the larger hotels. I hope to offer a novel alternative.”

  “I doubt there's a similar establishment anywhere on this island. I should be interested to see how you progress. I also know all the local suppliers, even own a couple. If you have any problems at all, just mention my name and refer them to me.”

  “I was hoping you could recommend a good builder. Someone who will do a first class job, within a reasonable time.”

  He leant across the space between them and patted her hand. “I know just the person. He’s usually busy, as most good craftsmen are, but I'm sure he’ll be able to help you. I'll call him on your behalf.”

  “That would be wonderful, but I need to take ownership of the property first. I have yet to instruct my bank. I can hardly have walls knocked down until the legal side is completed.”

  “I agree, but it doesn't hurt to give prior warning.” He held up the coffee pot. “Would you like some more coffee?” They spent the next hour discussing Mrs Mahoney, the eccentric Dobson sisters and Grace's daily request for more linens. “I'm sure she thinks I'm strange because I like to bathe every day. I’m determined to provide plenty of towels in my hotel rooms so guests won’t have to ask for them.”

  “Don’t forget to keep an eye on your laundry bills,” he warned. “It’s one of those expenses which can get out of hand if you aren’t careful.”

  “I will. And thank you, you’ve given me confidence I’m doing the right thing.”

  When she took her leave, he escorted her onto the front step. “Feel free to call on me at any time. And even if you don't need me, do keep me up to date with your progress.”

  “I will, thank you.” She hoped her association with John Cahill would also make her less vulnerable to the Charles Keoghs of this world.

  “Only too glad to help. Ah, Emily.” He turned as his wife drifted down the stairs towards them in a sage green gown, which flattered her peaches and cream complexion and enhanced her shiny honey colored hair, her steps slow and measured as if she entered a royal ball. “Grace came to call. Isn't it lovely to see her?”

  “Isn't it?” Her smile did not reach her eyes which remained hard as flint as they tracked between Grace and her husband. “Had I known where she was staying I might have beaten her to it.”

  “Mr Jardine knew where I was,” Grace said. “I'm sure he would have told you had you asked.”

  “I have something to attend to.” John directed a discreet wink at Grace. “I'll leave you with Emily for now, but we must get together soon, Grace. Dinner perhaps?”

  “I would be delighted.”

  “Well, well aren't you
the veritable bloodhound?” Emily joined her on the front step, her attention on a carriage pulling up in front of a white house on the opposite side of the street.

  “Not really, although I have a good memory.” She caught a hardening of Emily's mouth at this oblique reference to the missing business card.

  Smaller than the Cahill residence, the house had appealed to Grace when she arrived, possibly because it resembled a rectangular fantasy castle; a cream and white boarded façade with a turret at each corner. The entrance was reached via a wide covered veranda that ran between the two turrets. A row of round headed windows marched across the upper floor.

  Grace followed Emily’s gaze to where Andrew Jardine stepped from the carriage. He extended an arm back into the vehicle to help down a slender young woman in a forest green coat and matching hat. Behind her came a girl of about seven in a pink dress who reached up and gave Jardine a brief hug before taking the woman's hand. He placed a hand on the young woman’s shoulder and all three of them walked the pathway towards the house.

  “You seem surprised, Grace?” Emily’s eyes widened in mock innocence. “Did Andrew not mention he and Mary were neighbors of ours?” She affected a gentle sigh. “Such nice people, the Jardines. And isn’t Isla a beautiful child? She will be quite lovely when she grows up.”

  “I cannot tell from here, but I’m sure you’re right.”

  It had not occurred to her that Jardine could be married or have children. He never hinted as much at The Waverly, or during their time on the SS Elizabeth, despite there being ample opportunity to do so. No wonder he snubbed her at the Victoria Hotel. He wouldn't want gossip circulating about his having a lady friend.

  “I gather you haven’t seen Andrew since your arrival on the Island?” Emily said, her intense gaze fixed on Grace's face.

  “Not to speak to, no. But then I've been busy making plans and getting to know the town. I expect he's been occupied too.” She tore her gaze away and concentrated on her gloves.

  “He’s been in Halifax most of this week. Something about a ship which nearly sank in the harbour.” Emily gave a tiny gasp which was entirely unconvincing. “Wasn't that the same vessel you arrived on? He said that's where he found you.”

  “It's where we met, yes.” Which explained why she hadn't seen him in town until yesterday.

  “Andrew always says he meets some interesting scrapers on his Atlantic voyages.”

  “Scrapers? What are those?”

  “Have you never heard the term? It's so amusing. It means those people you meet on board with whom you would never mix under normal circumstances.” She wrapped a shiny blonde ringlet around a finger, a small smile playing on her lips. “They amuse you for a while, but once on land there's no inclination to see them again.”

  Grace descended the front step onto the path. “Do excuse me, I have business to attend to. Good afternoon, Mrs Cahill. It was so nice seeing you again.”

  * * *

  Grace retraced her steps back the way she came in a daze, barely recognizing her surroundings, her chest so tight, she found it hard to breathe. Her feet pounded along the packed earth, vibrations jarring through her knees to the rhythm of her labored breaths. What a fool she was to think Jardine genuinely liked her. No wonder he revealed so little about himself. She was no more to him than an amusing creature whom he picked up on a whim to parade before his wealthy friends. Worse than her own hurt pride was the cruel triumph she saw in Emily’s face.

  Grace’s fury grew as she relived the humiliation of Emily’s scorn on the Elizabeth. All her superior smiles and the intimate asides directed at Andrew made sense now. But then, why encourage her to come to the Island, to the same town where he lived? She was bound to find out the truth; or was that all part of his plan? To keep her close, so at some stage he could make her his mistress? Or perhaps he had no plan and he simply didn’t care she would occupy the same place as his family? Because she was nothing to him.

  Her eyes welled, blurring her vision. She blinked hard to prevent real tears from forming.

  In truth, she had made assumptions about Mr Jardine. He never said he wasn’t married, nor had he expected anything of her. He owed her nothing, any more than she owed him.

  Her steps slowed as her anger dissipated and she began to tire, surprised to find she had walked too far and was at Water Street. Realising her mistake, she halted, and released a frustrated sigh as she turned back to where King Street cut across the main thoroughfare, and almost collided with a man coming the other way. She glanced up, an apology on her lips which shrivelled beneath the arrogant stare of Mr Keogh.

  “What a determined face, Mrs MacKinnon.” He lifted his hat briefly, then replaced it. “How fortuitous to have encountered you here today.”

  “Good morning, Mr Keogh.” Surely it was too much of a coincidence to see him again so soon? Had he been following her?

  “I wondered if you had come to a decision about the house?” he asked.

  “What sort of decision?” she snapped, unwilling to enter into that particular discussion. Not today.

  “It occurred to me that having slept on it, the ramifications of running a business without a sponsor might have made you have second thoughts.”

  “For which I assume you would like to put forward a solution?” Irritation sharpened her voice. Were all men so oblique in their intentions towards women? Or did she attract the type somehow?

  “I was about to suggest you sell the house on. I already have a prospect and could arrange the deal for you quite quickly.”

  “The Millers, by any chance?”

  He shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Mr Miller called to apologize for being delayed yesterday and is still keen to buy the house. I just thought-.”

  “That you would double your commission and inflate the price at the same time?” She was losing patience with him. Could she trust anyone?

  “You do me a disservice, Mrs MacKinnon. I’m merely an honest businessman trying to make a living.”

  “I’m sure you are, a businessman, that is. And I appreciate the offer, but I intend to keep the house.”

  “I could still act as your agent. I know quite a few people in town and could get you some good prices on building materials, for example. You’ll need paint, wood and supplies to renovate the building.”

  “I thought you said the house only had minor defects?”

  He had the grace to blush. “Any property owner will tell you there is always something which requires work. I could also obtain furniture, linens, kitchen supplies. Anything you need, I can find for you. I have contacts in most businesses.”

  “I’m sure you do.” A flutter of panic rose as the enormity of her task began to dawn on her. However, she would manage, somehow. She had no alternative. “And by the way, I discovered I’m not in need of a sponsor after all. I doubt our paths will cross again, so good day to you Mr Keogh.” She made to brush past him but at the last second, he leapt into her path.

  “There's no reason we shouldn’t be friends, is there? Why don’t you join me for dinner this evening? I promise not to try and persuade you to sell the house.”

  His boyish grin tugged at something in her heart. Not in a romantic way, more in sympathy that she dashed his hopes of a lucrative deal and he was desperate to recoup his losses. Then an image of Andrew Jardine with his hand on a child’s shoulder jumped into her head. “I don’t think that would be wise, or necessary.”

  “Don’t dismiss me so lightly, Mrs MacKinnon. I have a feeling our association isn’t over yet.” His grin faded as his eyes narrowed, rekindling all her former misgivings about him. Despite the warmth of the day, a shiver ran through her. Grace was about to ask what he meant, but he tipped his hat, turned and strode away, leaving her staring at his back.

  Chapter 13

  Putting thoughts of Andrew Jardine and Charles Keogh aside, Grace decided to forego her usual picnic lunch and went straight to the Merchants Bank where Mr Hill greeted her like an old friend and
invited her into his office.

  “Oddly enough, this morning I was visited by Mr Josiah Daly,” he said once Grace informed him of her new purchase. “He's asked me to deal directly with his lawyer with regards to the paperwork. He also requested me to take charge of the keys to the property to avoid his having to come into town again. I’m to let him know when the formalities are completed.”

  “Would you be prepared to let me have the keys?” Grace asked. “I won’t start the renovations until the property is legally mine, but it would be useful to have access.”

  He considered for a moment. “I cannot see any harm; after all you can hardly run off with a house.” Chuckling at his own joke, he reached into a drawer and drew out a small bunch of keys tied together with a thin strip of leather. “The legalities shouldn't take more than a few days.” He dropped the keys into her outstretched palm. “Have you had any further thoughts about investments, Mrs MacKinnon?”

  “Not really, no. I’ve been preoccupied with my plans for this property.” By the time her list of requirements for the hotel were fulfilled, Grace doubted there would be any funds left to invest.

  “I’ve heard the silver fox industry is booming,” Mr Hill winked at her. “The Island's pelts are in great demand, which means there’s money to be made.”

  She considered profit from the slaughter of beautiful foxes distasteful, but politely promised to give his suggestion some thought. Tucking the keys into her bag, she gave the bulge they made a reassuring pat and thanked Mr Hill for his advice.

  She walked north up Great George street to Queens square towards Wrights Furniture Company; an emporium she discovered on one of her earlier forays into town. Now with a reason to venture over the threshold, excitement pulsed through her as she pushed open the door.

  Alerted by the jangle of the bell, a middle-aged gentleman in an ill-fitting suit strode forward to greet her, a speculative smile on his unremarkable features.