“You could take Number 9. It's got two beds in there, but the bathroom is at the end of the hall. Mr Ross wouldn't mind going into your old room.”
“That won't be necessary. I don't want to move, or disrupt Mr Ross. I think I was a comfort to Aoife last night. She is frightened of being alone.” Whether that was because of her experiences in New Brunswick or an inborn aversion, Grace wasn't sure. “We'll be fine in Number 6. Look, Mrs M, I didn't mean to deceive you about the hotel. I was going to tell you, but I wanted to wait until I was sure it was real.”
“And now it is?” Mrs M's homely face broke into a smile. “Don't fret, dear. I've had some time to think and maybe I overreacted yesterday. I doubt a lady like you would want to open a boarding house. Mr Hill’s a man who doesn’t fuss over anyone without money and what with all the calls he’s made here lately, I assumed it was about more than a few dollars for your keep.”
“There’s nothing wrong with running a boarding house, Mrs M. You manage this one beautifully. I have no wish to compete with you. What I have in mind is a different sort of establishment.”
“Different how?” Mrs M upended the stoneware teapot over an empty cup which she pushed towards Grace, then refilled her own.
“What I have in mind is a small, exclusive hotel aimed at lone lady travellers. Somewhere they won't be looked down on because they don't have a male escort or a maid.”
“The Dobson sisters are single ladies who travel alone.” Mrs M spooned sugar into her tea and stirred, the spoon clacking against the side of the stoneware mug. “No one looks down on them.”
“I agree, and I don't mean to insult Ivy or Ada, but my establishment will be more - exclusive.”
“Expensive you mean?” Mrs M raised one sceptical eyebrow.
“For ladies with means, shall I say, who like their privacy and want to spend a holiday in congenial surroundings?”
“Are you saying my house isn't congenial?” Her lips lifted on one side in a ghost of a smile.
“You know I don’t. This house is lovely and welcoming. Like a home away from home.”
“Ah, well, it’s nice of you to say so, dear.” Mrs M preened. “Though it sounds like a lot of trouble to me. Those ladies can be very demanding. The less they’ve got, the worse they are, if you see what I mean. Putting on all sorts of airs and graces. I’ll stick with my travelling salesmen. A warm fire and two meals a day is all they need, and they’re not under my feet all day neither. Oh, not that you are, dear, but you know what I mean.” She held her cup in both hands. “I know plenty of places in town who charge more than me. They might have fancy things like chefs and chambermaids in uniforms, but they can't beat my dinners.”
“Exactly, and it's those homely touches which make your establishment so attractive to your patrons. I promise, that if a travelling salesman in a bowler and suitcase turns up at my door, I'll send him to you.”
“Bless your heart, Grace, and I hope you won't be a stranger when you leave.”
The click of the door opening brought Grace’s gaze to where Aoife hovered on the threshold. The dress Marge found for her was an excellent fit, if a little loose around the shoulders. With a few of Mrs M’s meals inside her she would soon fill it out.
Aoife had plaited her wavy black hair and wound it into a knot on the back of her head. Apart from the boots she borrowed from Marge flapping round her ankles, she looked ready for church. Grace had thrown out the scraps of torn leather Aoife arrived in, so one of their tasks was to get her some new ones.
“And don't you look different, Missy?” Mrs M positively beamed. “I nearly didn't recognize you. Come and sit down, love, and have some breakfast.”
“I see you found my hairpins,” Grace said.
“Oh, I’m sorry if I-” Aoife’s hand drifted to the back of her head.
“You’re more than welcome.” Grace waved a dismissive hand. “And your hair looks lovely.”
Aoife took an empty chair at the table, but not before shooting Grace a wary glance.
“Mrs M says you are welcome to stay for a while, Aoife. As I explained, it was me she was angry with, not you. But we've sorted it all out.”
“I had no idea you were a friend of Grace's, or I would never have been so harsh. But she did look like one of those Irish arabs we have round here sometimes.”
Grace made no comment but assumed the term was uncomplimentary.
Mrs M poured her a mug of tea, the brew having stewed somewhat since Grace arrived. “Here you are, dear. Drink it while it’s still hot.”
“I didn't look much like anyone's friend yesterday, madam.” Aoife accepted the tea with a smile. “You don't have to apologize.”
“It's Mrs M, dear. And I'll let you into a little secret. Back in County Cork, oh, about a hundred years ago now, my best friend was called Aoife.” Blinking rapidly, she patted Aoife’s hand, scraped back her chair and rose unsteadily to her feet with a tiny grunt. “Ah well, I’d better get on. Can’t sit here chatting all day.”
“Was she crying?” Aoife asked after Mrs M disappeared into the kitchen.
“You know, I rather think she was.”
* * *
Over the next few days, Aoife’s cuts began to heal, her bruises faded, and her strength returned, as did her cheeky disposition and her inherent charm. She made herself useful by helping Marge change the beds and doing laundry, thus earning gratitude from both women. She also proved to be an accomplished cook. Grace frequently returned from her visits to Prince Street and found them laughing together over a batch of scones or fruit cake that Aoife produced for the guests’ tea.
With her secret revealed, Grace no longer avoided the subject of where she was going each day. She even asked Mrs M's advice as to the best crockery for kitchen use and what design she should choose on the china for the tea room.
“I don't want it to be too delicate or fussy, but simple and essentially English to reflect the style. I’ll take Aoife with me and see what I can find in town.”
“I’ll save you some time.” Mrs M opened a cupboard in the dresser from which she withdrew a thick book she thumped onto the table, the cover bearing the words, Eaton’s Fall and Spring Catalogue, in bold print. “Just about anything you want will be in there.”
“What’s this, Mrs M?” Grace leafed through the first few pages of pen and ink drawings of ladies in hats, blouses and walking skirts.”
“A mail order catalogue. You’ll find an Eaton’s in most households.” Mrs M resumed her seat. “Anything you cannot find in town will be in that there book. It’s how we buy most things.”
Grace continued to flick idly through the four hundred or so pages from embroidery supplies, furniture, baby carriages to clothes of all types for men, children and babies. “Goodness, this is quite a book. There are pocket watches, silverware, even engagement rings in here.”
“It brings the best department store in Toronto to your fireside,” Mrs M said with a knowing wink.
“Thank you, Mrs M. Eaton’s should use that as an advertisement. May I borrow this?” Grace tapped the thick book with a fingernail.
“Of course, dear. Bring it back when you’re finished with it.”
“Why don’t you come out with me for a walk, Aoife?” Grace asked later that morning. “Only a short one. The fresh air will do you good. You cannot stay inside all the time.”
“I’ve been out in the yard hanging out the washing, haven’t I?” Aoife said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
All Grace’s ploys to tempt Aoife out of the boarding house since her arrival had failed. Aoife reminded Grace of a cat she once owned. The animal had been injured and abandoned, but even when restored to full health, he refused to venture beyond the garden. It was as if once outside, he was afraid he might not be allowed back in again.
She had not yet mentioned the existence of the hotel to Aoife, and asked both Mrs M and Marge not to talk about it either. When they asked why, she explained it would seem as if Gr
ace was forcing her own good fortune under her friend’s nose when she had little in the world to recommend her.
‘Please, Aoife. There’s something I want to show you.”
“What sort of something?”
“You’ll see when we get there. It’s a surprise.” Grace placed a straw boater on Aoife’s head; another prize from the goodwill bag. The only thing missing was the shawl Aoife had always worn on SS Parisian. Grace always looked for that flash of emerald green as Aoife moved through the pressing crowd on the boat deck. She made a mental note to find one for her. Aoife wasn't Aoife without that shawl.
“All right, but I can’t be gone long. Mrs M has promised to show me some of her Acadian recipes. Not that I know what an Acadian is.”
“Someone once told me a little about them.” Grace collected her hat from the row of hooks in the hall, recalling with a pang her conversations with Andrew Jardine on the subject. “They were the original French settlers who came to Nova Scotia in the sixteen-hundred’s.”
“They called their home Acadie, but when it was ceded to the British after the Treaty of Utrecht, the Acadians were systematically deported. Some Acadians came to live on the Island where they made their home.” She pulled the front door closed behind them.
“Why were they deported? What did they do?” Aoife kept close to Grace’s side as they walked along King Street, darting nervous glances around her.
“Now there's a question.” Grace linked arms with her, and instantly Aoife seemed to settle. “They probably didn't do anything. But when countries fight over territory, it's never the people living there who benefit. Some Acadians came to Prince Edward Island to live, which was called Isle Saint-Jean in those days and still under French rule. From what Mrs M told me, it was a savage time, and many of the Acadians died on the voyage to France. No wonder they work so hard to keep the traditions and family names alive. Who wants history to forget you?”
“I had no idea it was so sad.” Aoife watched her feet as she walked. “Mrs M said her husband’s family had been here for two hundred years. Do you suppose they were among the original Frenchies?”
“It’s possible. And it makes sense if she likes to make the traditional dishes.”
“She wants to show me how to make chicken fricot for supper tomorrow. But I’ve no idea what it is. Apart from the chicken part.”
“I remember she made it for the Dobson sisters one evening as a treat. It was a delicious chicken soup with dumplings.”
They reached the corner of Prince and Richmond streets where Grace paused in front of the white painted house, bringing Aoife to a halt beside her. “What do you think?”
“Very nice. Much prettier than Mrs Mahoney’s. You didn’t say you were moving to another boarding house.” Her eyes filled with fear as she glanced at Grace. “Or are you taking up a position?”
“Position? What sort of position?”
Aoife shrugged. “Like me, you ran away from home. So you'll need a position to support yourself. I cannot see you as a parlour maid or a skivvy, so it makes sense you would be a governess. Or is this a school and you’re going to be a teacher?” Her eyes darkened with concern and Grace experienced instant regret at having kept her in suspense.
“No, Aoife, I’m not going to be either of those things. I’ve bought this house and intend to run it as a hotel.” She nodded to where several workmen were visible through the windows, some perched on ladders or moving through the rooms. “Those men inside are renovating it for me.”
“This is yours?” Aoife gaped at the newly painted facade. The formerly grimy upper windows now gleamed in new, pristine frames. The rotted clapboards had been replaced and the roof scrubbed clean of all traces of moss. The front garden had been cleared and a new lawn laid. Raised flowerbeds built to hip level on either side of the path made a fragrant entry to a new front door with stained glass panels.
“You didn’t tell me you were rich, Grace.”
“I’m not, at least not now. This place was a bargain, but the renovations cost more than I thought. Though I believe it will be worth it.”
“Can we go inside?” Aoife’s mouth hung open again as her gaze swung from one side of the building, over the roof and to the other side.
“Of course. Why do you think I brought you here?” Her eyes watering instantly at the strong spirit smell that hit them like a wave, Grace led Aoife into a hall crowded with tools and pots of paint. Ladders were propped against walls, the rooms filled with laborers who carried tools and packing cases. As Grace and Aoife progressed through the house they were greeted by cheery voices and doffed caps.
“We’ll start in the kitchen.” Grace led the way through an inner hall to the east side of the house. “I'm rather proud of how this room has turned out. This will be the center of all my operations.”
A wall between a small parlour and the original kitchen had been opened out to form a room sixteen feet square with the gleaming new cooking range complete with six hotplates and three ovens.
The dresser bought from Mr Daly had taken four men to dismantle and move into the kitchen. Sanded down and painted a matte bone white, it was a splendid piece of furniture which now occupied the opposite wall from floor to ceiling.
A solid pine table ran down the center of the room, its surface gleaming with recently applied wax.
“With all the cooking which will take place here, I expect that table to be as scarred and dented like Mrs M's within a few weeks,” Grace said.
“It's a fine room.” Aoife's voice was an awed whisper as she wandered to the black range and lifted pots arranged on the metal plates. “Who's going to do the cooking?”
“An interesting question.” One which plagued her since she blithely told Mrs M that she would do the breakfasts herself because they were easy. Mrs M and Marge dissolved into almost hysterical laughter and after Grace’s disastrous first efforts, she realized how wrong she was. Catering for the public would be no easy task.
“I'll need someone who knows what they are doing. I’ll also need a good baker for the tea room too, although I could engage the services of local bakeries and buy cakes and pastries.”
“Better to make them on the premises, Grace. Then they’ll be unique to your place,” Aoife said. “Why would anyone come to a tea room for a cake they can buy for a quarter of the price from a bakery?”
“That's a good point. I’ve put advertisements in the newspapers announcing the opening in June. Now all I have to do is wait for some firm bookings to come in. Perhaps I should advertise for a cook?”
“Pardon me for saying so, Grace. But you should have thought of that before now. Bookings and a fancy kitchen aren’t much good if there’s no one to make their dinner.”
“Again, a good point,” Grace conceded, flushing. Not for the first time did she wonder if she was competent enough to make the venture a success. “The walled yard is through that door on the left over there through which the deliveries will arrive via a rear lane. The cellar can be accessed through the kitchen and the yard so not everything has to come in through the kitchen.”
“You've got it all worked out, haven’t you?” Aoife sighed, her hands braced on the table as she stared around her. “It’s a fine, grand house. I’m sure lots of people will want to stay here.”
“I hope so. The garden furniture will arrive next week once the gazebos have been installed. The builder suggested I have a watertight shed built to put them all in for the winters, or they’ll rot in all the snow they get here. More expense, but he convinced me. Did you know it snows here from November to April? I’ll have to make sure we have plenty of boots and warm clothes.”
“You could burn peat on the fires. Mrs M told me there are large peat bogs on the island but there's no coal. Strange that.”
“I've had one of those heating boilers they make in America installed. It works by running hot water through pipes. It cost me a fair bit but worked out less disruptive than installing new fireplaces and chimneys to the r
ooms that don't have them. The Queen Hotel has a similar system, and I wasn't going to be outshone. My guests will have every luxury.”
“Well, I never,” Aoife said, impressed. “Though there’s nothing like an open fire on a chilly day.”
“I have those too in the lounge and dining room, more for atmosphere than heat. We’ll be cozy here no matter what Canada’s winters throw at us.” Grace hoped she was right. The stories she’d heard about the Northumberland Strait freezing over each winter didn’t bode well.
“I’ll never forget the back kitchen in Falkener street on a January dawn.” Aoife gave an exaggerated shiver. “My room was behind it and I could hardly feel my toes when I woke up of a winter morning.” Aoife nodded to a door set in a deep alcove at the opposite side of the room. “Where does that door go?”
“My home,” Grace said proudly.
“I thought this whole house was your home?”
“It is, sort of, although most of it will be open to paying guests. This,” she strode to the door and flung it open, “is my private domain. I’m thinking of having a brass knocker on this door to deter unwanted callers.”
Aoife followed her into a large sitting room where two sofas occupied the space on either side of a fireplace with a stone surround. A bay window, smaller than the ones in the main rooms, was still large enough for the circular table and straight-backed wooden chairs set in it. A roll of something which looked like a large rug was set to one side, and a bureau which still bore its delivery straps, ready to be placed wherever she directed.
“I love this teal and yellow wallpaper, Grace.”
“Another of my favorite Morris designs. This one is called Pimpernel.” Beyond the small lobby a bedroom the same size as the sitting room contained a vast canopied bed in pale wood which the salesman at Wright’s told her was the finest ash wood.
“My own bathroom is through that door there, but it’s the same as all the others in the house.”
“It’s all lovely and you deserve it after what you told me about that man MacKinnon.”
Envy the Wind Page 17
