Night's Child

by Maureen Jennings

  Murdoch stared at her, trying to read her expression. She was continuing to focus the top of her son’s head. Alwyn kept shifting his gaze between them.

  “And is that what you want to do?”

  Enid finally met his eyes. “If I don’t go, I dread to think what would become of him. He has been in poor health for some time now but he has managed on his own. Now, according to my brother, he has become virtually bedridden. He has to have somebody watch for him because he has to be turned every few hours as his lungs are so congested. Aled’s wife has been doing the best she can, but they have five little ones and it is too much for her.”

  “So will you stay there?”

  She sighed. “I cannot answer that question, Will. I have so few ties here in Canada and so many in Wales.”

  “You have me.”

  “Do I?”

  “The fact you even ask the question tells me you doubt it.”

  Enid again averted her eyes. “I saw your expression, Will, when you read what I had written in my notebook. No matter what you tell yourself, you were not happy at my little fantasy.”

  Alwyn jerked away and looked up at his mother. “What paper, Mamma?”

  Murdoch could feel his temper rising, but he struggled for some civility. “Alwyn, I’d like to talk to your mother in private. Will you go to your room for a little while?”

  The boy spoke to his mother in Welsh. She answered. He wasn’t happy, but after another quick exchange he got off her lap.

  “I’m not going to sleep until you come in,” he said and left with a sharp closing of the door.

  “Thank you,” Murdoch said to Enid. “I was finding it impossible to speak freely.”

  But there was silence between them. Murdoch refused to dissemble by pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. Enid Murdoch. She was right. He hadn’t been happy. He supposed he could have jumped in and said that he’d reacted only out of surprise, but he didn’t know if that was really the case.

  “I’m sorry, Enid, I am extremely fond of you but…”

  “You don’t know if that fondness, as you call it, is enough for marriage. For connection yes, but not for marriage.”

  He was stung by the bitterness in her voice. “I was under the impression we were equally desirous of an intimate connection. I’m sorry you seem to think I was merely gratifying myself.”

  She got up and walked over to her desk, where she’d placed her typewriting machine, bedecked with the silver ribbon of fourth place. “It doesn’t matter what I think, Will. I have to return to Wales. I have no choice.”

  He stared at her back. She had made sure her thick, dark hair was firmly pinned on top of her head for the competition. He’d actually indulged in the pleasurable fantasy of taking out the combs and hairpins and letting her hair cascade around her shoulders. Not much chance of that at the moment.

  “When will you go?”

  “I’ve requested a passage as soon as possible. At this time of year it shouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps as soon as Saturday.”

  “You’ll go from New York?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood up. “There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. I assume you care enough to write to me.”

  She didn’t move. “Of course.”

  He didn’t want to leave things like this. He should rush over to her, take her in his arms and tell her that he would wait, that he did want her for his wife. But he couldn’t.

  “Can I come back tomorrow night?”

  “Certainly, if you want to. I should have an answer by then about the passage.”

  She sat down at the desk and stared at the typewriting machine.

  “Good night then. And congratulations on the competition. You did very well.”

  “Thank you. Good night. Nois da.”

  He was about to offer her a kiss but her ramrod straight spine was too forbidding and, besides, he felt anything but tenderness.

  He left and let himself out into the winter dark.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Honoria Davis was tall and dark-skinned, with long slender hands and feet and a neck as graceful as a swan’s. Her mother said their forebears came from the west coast of Africa, but that was a story she’d been told by the man who owned her and there were no more details available. Neither Honoria’s mother, Grace, nor her father, Ferdinand, had grown up with their parents but what little family lore they had was treasured and passed down like pieces of rich cloth. All Honoria had known was the city of Toronto where she had been born, and she was so accustomed to the behaviour that she met with all the time, she didn’t really question it. Coloured people were not considered to be the same as white people, in intelligence or emotions, and it was a rare person who could bridge that gulf of ignorance. Take Mr. Gregory, for instance. He’d assumed she was illiterate and was surprised when one day, she told him she had gone as far as the fourth standard.

  “One of these days, you can sit at the desk if Clara can’t do it,” he said with a burst of generosity. He actually clapped her on the shoulder as if she were a man. It had never happened though. He was all too aware of how this would look to his clientele. A coloured woman receiving people, unheard of. So she’d been hired to clean the studio, every evening except Sunday, thirty cents a time. Then, shortly before last Christmas, he’d asked her if she would like to be part of one of the stereoscopic sequences he produced at intervals. He’d pay her twenty-five cents for fifteen minutes of her time. That was most generous, he thought, considering she’d never been before a camera before. All she had to do was tie a scarf around her head, put on an apron, and stand in front of the table pretending to wash a dirty pot. He didn’t explain what the story was supposed to be, not out of consideration for her feelings because he didn’t expect her to have any, but simply because it didn’t occur to him. Honoria soon realized that she was to depict the new maid, replacing the pert and pretty French maid, played by Clara. The point was that she, Honoria, was considered so ugly, she presented no temptation to Mr. Newly-wed. Renaldo, who also worked at the studio, played this part, and Honoria was struck by how much the behaviour of her three cohorts paralleled how they were in their real lives. Gregory’s wife, Prudence, who acted the part of the wife, was jealous to the point of irrationality of her husband; Clara would flirt with any male out of baby skirts, and Renaldo behaved as if every woman was put in his path for the express purpose of his gratification. Even Honoria. And therein lay her anguish. He was the only white man she’d ever met who treated her first as female, second as coloured. Initially she was offended by the casualness of his manners, the constant innuendos, the little touches he managed to get in if they were ever in proximity. Then she realized he treated the other women in the same way. The awareness that he spoke in the same tone of voice to Clara as he did to her filled Honoria with a deep, unspoken pleasure.

  After the Newly-wed series of views was complete, Renaldo had winked at her. “If this were the real thing, Ria, my wife wouldn’t be so complacent. You’re as good a sauce of a girl as I’ve ever met.”

  Gregory hadn’t shown her the photographs until she asked to see them. He was pleased with them, but he’d made her look hideous. Her front tooth was blacked out and she was wearing a head scarf and apron over a shapeless dress. When she had complained about it, he’d stared at her in disbelief. Renaldo, on the other hand, touched her cheek gently and whispered, “I’m trying to get the old geezer to do the story of Uncle Tom. You’d make a lovely Eliza.”

  Gregory wasn’t interested in that, probably because the suggestion came from Renaldo, but he did do a sequence called “The slave woman’s agony.” Honoria depicted a woman who was about to be forced to bed by the wicked slave owner, played by Renaldo in padding and false whiskers. In this one, she got to wear a pretty flowered dress. At first, she’d felt uncomfortable that Gregory insisted on pulling the bodice down so low, her breasts were clearly visible. But Renaldo winked and teased her and offered such encouragem
ent she swallowed her protests. Gregory professed himself so pleased he doubled her earnings.

  Tomorrow they were going to do another of the Darkie sequences. She’d already done Darkie Wedding, which she hated because they were all made to look ridiculous. The only bright spot was that her “husband” was Renaldo, who had his face covered with boot blacking. He smelled so bad, she had to laugh at him. There was another shoot coming up soon, called The Darkie Ball. She’d talked her brother, Fergus, into being in it, but once again the other parts were taken by Renaldo and Clara, who was complaining bitterly about having to dirty her face.

  Honoria went into the studio. She had to put out the props and make sure the stage that they used for portraits was well dusted. The long uncurtained mirrors were dark with the night and she could see her own reflection. Briefly, she looked at herself, and wondered not for the first time if there was sufficient attractiveness there to draw her a suitor. And who would that be? There were very few coloured people in Toronto and only Nathan Smith could be halfway considered eligible. Honoria knew he’d got his eye on her but her heart didn’t leap when she saw him and to her mind, if you were going to be hitched to a man for the rest of your born days, you had better be more partial to him than that. “You’re too particular,” said her mother. “You’ll be left high and dry, my girl.” Honoria dreamed of going to America, to New York or Chicago, to find herself a husband, but she didn’t know when she would save enough money for the fare or for living there. They had no relatives in the north and she’d be afraid to go south.

  Suddenly, her heart jumped into her mouth. She was standing in front of the set, the one Mr. Gregory called “the Prince’s boudoir.” She had distinctly seen the cover move on the Turkish couch. For a horrible moment, Honoria thought it was a rat under there. She turned around slowly, picked up her broom, and inched closer to the stage. There was no movement from beneath the cover, but there was something under there, she could see the bulge. Far too big for a rat.

  “Whoever you are under there, come out and show your face or I’m going to whack you good.”

  The scarlet cover shot back and the head of a young girl appeared. Her long hair was loosed and tousled about her thin face and she was wearing an outdoor coat.

  “Who in the Lord’s name are you?” asked Honoria. “And what are you doing here?”

  The girl smiled in a placating way. “Nothing bad, I promise. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “What’s wrong with your own home?”

  She averted her eyes. “I had a barney with my pa and I didn’t want to stay there.”

  “Well that ain’t none of my business. If you think I’m going to let you doss here, you’ve got another think coming. Mr. Gregory will have my hide.”

  “He needn’t know. I promise I’ll be gone before day break. He will never know.”

  “Well you are surely the most audacious child I’ve ever seen in a long time.” She glared. “How did you get in? Am I going to get the blame for a broken door, now?”

  “No, not at all…the front door wasn’t locked.” Again, the shifting glance. “I was trying to find somewhere to spend the night and I tried this place. I didn’t break in or anything. I just walked in. And it looked so comfy in here, I just crawled under the covers and fell asleep.”

  “I don’t believe that. You telling me the most whopping nailer I ever did hear. Mr. Gregory always locks up himself. He would never not do it.”

  “He must have been in a hurry. You can go and see for yourself. There is nothing damaged.”

  “I am not going to let you out of my sight, young lady. You’ll do a bunk soon as I turn my back. Besides, how can you be so cruel as to worry your parents so? They must be out of their minds wondering where you are.”

  “They think I’m staying with my sister.”

  “And where would she be?”

  “She lives with her husband over on the other side of Yonge Street.”

  “What address?”

  Honoria was trying to see if she would catch the girl in a lie, but the child answered promptly and easily.

  “Number forty-four, Temperance Street. She and her husband rent the upper floor above the grocery store.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Mary. She was Mary Price, but now she’s Mary Slade.”

  “And what name were you christened with?”

  “Lydia.”

  “Lydia what?”

  “Lydia Price, of course, same as my sister.”

  The girl shivered. The stove was allowed to burn down in the night and the studio was cold.

  “Please let me stay. I won’t be any trouble, I promise. If I go home, my pa will whack me good.”

  “I don’t care bout that. You must have done something wicked and you deserve what you get.”

  She paused, giving so-called Lydia a chance to come up with an explanation, which she expected would be a right old whopper. However, she didn’t. Whether she knew she wasn’t going to be believed or whether her imagination had dried up, Honoria couldn’t tell.

  She pushed back the velour cover and stood up.

  “Hah, you’ve still got your boots on,” Honoria said angrily. “Don’t you go dropping mud on that leopard skin. I’ll be blamed.”

  “They were quite dry. But I’ll go now. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

  Honoria knew she was being played on like a church organ, but the child looked so perishing and woebegone, her indignation began to melt.

  “You can’t stay here, you just can’t. Get off on home and say you’re sorry. Or why don’t you go to your sister’s like they think?”

  Lydia gave her a wan smile. “You’re right. I was being silly. It’s not that late, is it?”

  “Yes, it is. It’s almost midnight.” She picked up her candlestick. “Come on, I’ll see you to the door.”

  The girl didn’t argue and Honoria walked her through the outer office. She was telling the truth about the door at least. It was intact. And unlocked, which was very unlike Mr. Gregory.

  She ushered the girl into the hall and escorted her down the stairs to the street. Once again, she was jolted. As they paused on the threshold, the light from the street lamp fell across the girl’s face. This close, Honoria saw what hadn’t been obvious in the low candlelight. What she’d taken as high colour, she saw now wasn’t natural. The rosiness of the cheeks was too even, the shadows of the eyelids was too blue. She smelled faintly of scent. Before she could comment, the girl turned and hurried away.

  She was a sly one. You don’t paint your face like that unless you’re up to something wicked. She was nothing better than a doxie. And so young. So very young. She wondered if she should tell Mr. Gregory but almost immediately decided she wouldn’t. If you were coloured, you never went to your boss with trouble in your hands. The likelihood was that it would blow right back in your face.

  She stared after the girl. Her shoulders were stooped and she thrust her hands into her sleeves for warmth. Honoria shivered in the cold air.

  “Wait!” she called.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dawn was only a lightening of the darkness with no sun at all showing through the grey clouds. Even the snow on the shore and lake looked dingy. Levi Cross wrapped the strips of linen that he used for boots tighter around his legs and hefted his sack on his back. Although the surface of the snow had softened in the brief thaw and rain had pockmarked it, he could still make out traces of the footprints and the swath of something being dragged out on the lake. He’d been scavenging along the beach when he’d noticed them. He grinned to himself. Along this section of the beach, nobody would tramp out onto a frozen lake, dragging something heavy, unless they were up to no good. People were always disposing of things in the winter. Dogs and cats were the most common, but he’d even found a small donkey once, stiff and mangy. Money saved from the farrier by leaving the beast on the ice until spring. Not that finding a donkey did him much good, but the dogs and cat
s he carried back to his hut on the beach. When they thawed, he skinned them, cured the hide, and cut it into strips. The cat’s fur he sewed into scarves, which he sold to gullible women as mink; the dog skins, if they were short-haired, made good gloves, which he claimed to be kid leather. It was a decent living, all things considered.

  The tracks were easy to follow and he could see where two men, for they looked like men’s boot prints, had alternately carried and dragged the box. They’d gone to a lot of trouble and he was excited about what he’d find. He could see the tracks returning without the box, so they had left it somewhere. A dog for sure, and a big one at that. Probably the servants being sent to dispose of the dog, a pure breed no doubt, fat and pampered with good skin.

  The soft snow made it difficult to walk and he must have trudged for ten minutes before he spotted the chest. It was shoved under the overhang of a short promontory. Snow had been piled around it to hide it, but some of that had melted in the rain and the lid was visible. Levi hurried over and eagerly brushed away the remaining snow. The trunk was wooden with metal ends, the kind used for travelling. It didn’t look particularly expensive, and had obviously been well used. It was tied around with an old leather belt. He tugged at it but it didn’t move, held fast in the ice now. That didn’t matter, he had his tools. He lowered his sack and took out a saw. The leather belt was stiff but it was easy to cut through. He tried to lift the lid again but it didn’t move. There was a brass lock and either it was locked or frozen shut. He picked up his jemmy, inserted it under the lock, and started to pry it open. It was hard going, which told him the trunk was locked, not frozen. He grunted and exerted more pressure with the jemmy. Suddenly, the lock snapped open. He tried the lid again. This time he could lift it and he peered into the chest. There was a piece of velour curtain on top of whatever was in there, and he pulled it away.

  At first, unable to take in what he saw, he thought he was looking at a large doll. Then he realized it was the naked body of a young boy, curled up tightly into a fetal position. Levi lost his breath for a moment, every instinct telling him to run. Then sense took over. He’d handled many a dead creature before now. The body was squashed into the trunk, but he was able to feel down the sides. You never knew if you’d find something worthwhile. His fingers touched some silky kind of fabric and he tugged at it until it came free. What the hell? It seemed to be some kind of hat, gold coloured, with a sprig of feathers in the front. There was a metal brooch in the front studded with what were obviously fake rubies. He unfastened it and put it in his pocket. The hat he returned to the chest. Now that he felt calmer he had a closer look at the corpse and he shook his head. Somebody had had a go at the lad good and proper. His hair was caked with blood and his nose was destroyed. He dropped the lid, frightened, and glanced around to see if someone were watching him. Then he picked up his sack and began the trek back the shore. He supposed he’d better notify the police. They might be glad of the information.