by Vicki Delany
Burden of Memory
Burden of Memory
Vicki Delany
www.vickidelany.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2006 by Vicki Delany
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006900725
ISBN: 1-59058-266-7 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781615950423 epub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
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Dedication
To my father, John Hartley Cargo.
Who put on his pajamas.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
More from this Author
Contact Us
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Carol Lem, Julia Vryheid, Jan Toms, Karen Mitchell, and Gail Cargo for their help, advice, and enthusiasm.
And to Pat and Roy Ashforth for welcoming me many times to their own slice of Muskoka heaven, and for boat tours of Millionaires’ Row.
Prologue
September 1939
It had been a mistake, a bad one, telling the old man. Better to have kept it between the young one and herself. Her mother would be cursing her, if she could, screaming and turning all red in the face, pulling at her hair, pacing in front of the fire, the latest howling baby clenched in her scrawny arms.
But her mother hadn’t lived, had she? The last one had killed her. Killed her and himself as well, the fool. Her mother cursed God and His mother as she died. Amy was the oldest, it was up to her to clean up the mess and call Father O’Malley—who did come, right away, to the girls’ surprise. And offered genuine sorrow at the deaths. He was a great comfort to her sisters, but not to her, Amy, the eldest. What comfort could anyone find in such a death?
Her father, however, remained in his usual seat at the King Street bar, even after she stopped there with the news, drinking until his eyeballs fairly floated. Spending what little was left of his thin pay packet on all who gathered to drink to his wife’s death. Amy and her sisters would clean up, they assured him. They were good girls, and isn’t that what good practical girls were for?
She shook her head: enough remembering. Think on the here and now. She had never been a “good” girl, but she always prided herself on being a practical one. This was an excellent position: The food plentiful and good—meat, milk and eggs, fresh bread, crisp vegetables, not the half rotted ones the staff had been served at her last situation—the bed warm and soft, the mistress not too harsh. The younger girls were spoiled and rude and difficult. But she had lived with much worse. Too bad that the oldest daughter wasn’t with the family more. She was kind.
Stupid thoughts. She had only herself to blame. Too practical this time. Everything ruined by foolish ambition. If she had told the young one, and him alone, things would be all right, wouldn’t they? He would take care of it all. He had piles of money, what else mattered?
She pulled the curtains aside and peeked out. Not that there was anything to see. The drapes had been pulled down from the nursery at the big house years ago, when the children started to grow and wanted something more grownup. So her room received the curtains adorned with the yellow dolls with the blue hair, who played in the wildflower meadow in pretty frocks with flowing ribbons and smiling faces. But the drapes were thick and blocked the light and the worst of the cold, so who was she to care what childish fantasy the fabric mocked?
She loved her little room. She had it all to herself—the family were short staffed this year and had no need for nannies any more. A poor servant girl, daughter of rough Irish immigrants, she had never had a room all to herself before. The luxury was incomparable. Her only regret was that there was no view of the lake from her window. That would be truly wonderful—to watch the play of light on the water from her own bedroom.
She had never been to Ireland, she had never seen the open, storm tossed, angry sea. But she still wanted to. She had sat enraptured as her mother spun words as she spun the cloth beneath her fingers. Her thick accent relating the long tales of her childhood: tales of the dark sea and the cursed, pagan creatures that lived there. And the beauty that was the soft green land beyond.
She would be happy here, if only she had been able to see the open waters of the lake. But her tiny window looked out on the dark forest. The foreboding, enclosing, primitive Canadian forest. She hated it and always would.
She had never been to Ireland. Never touched what her mother called the sacred soil. But she had promised her mother that she would make the trip one day. Alone among the numerous siblings, she had absorbed her mother’s wild tales of the Emerald Isle and dreamt of the day that she would return. Drenched in diamonds and fine silks she would sweep upon the condescending charity school and the arrogant church that had between them conspired to destroy her mother’s soul and, full of pride and arrogance, she would announce her name and the name of her mother. She would tease them with alms and offers of donations and then withdraw the offer at the last moment. They would crawl in the dust (was there dust in Ireland? Probably not. Her mother spoke only of rain upon endless rain and lush green fields). They would crawl in the mud and she would laugh and offer a few scraps of her benevolence. Leaving them hopeful that she would return another day.
Once again, she cursed her wandering, dreaming mind (a gift, that was sometimes a blight, from her mother, weaver of words) and forced her thoughts back to her immediate concern. How could she have made such a mistake? Daring to confront the old man? How could she have been so proud, so vain and foolishly unafraid? Her mother had told her many stories of the landlords back in Ireland, the evil English men. And as she related the tales, old and new, the bitter, hot, salty tears fell on top of her daughter’s red head.
But all was for naught and her daughter had forgotten.
It was near dark. Night came late at this time of year, this far north. But not as far north as the Emerald Isle her mother spoke of every day of her life.
The family in the big house they called a cottage had finally settled down, to read or write letters or play cards. Dinner over, the coo
k and her helpers collapsed by the scarred table with thick chipped mugs of sweet tea. And at last she had been free to escape to her own little room. Finished for another day.
She let the curtains drop and walked to the table where she kept her few belongings. She unscrewed the top on a bottle of cologne he had bought her, touched the open end to her index finger and dabbed the moisture behind her ears and at the throbbing pulse in her throat.
This was the only present he had ever given her. He didn’t want anyone to wonder how she could afford anything too “nice.”
Footsteps on the path. Kicking last year’s dead leaves out of the way. The dog was with him, chasing squirrels and chipmunks through the woods.
It would be war soon they said. Even after the horrors of the last one, the men’s eyes glowed with the excitement of it. The women, young and old, rich and poor, loved or not, those with and those without, knew that the men were all fools.
It was time. The footsteps had stopped. She stood tall, braced her thin shoulders and placed one hand over her belly with a memory of the prayer she had abandoned as her mother died.
Chapter One
A chipmunk dashed out from the shelter of the undergrowth directly into Elaine’s path. From high above, an enormous dark bird swooped silently over the roadway on wide, serrated wings, and snatched the animal in its heavy talons. The pert little mouth stretched into a death scream. The hawk watched Elaine where she sat, shocked, in the illusionary safety of her red BMW. The hawk grinned at the prospect of the meal to come, and perhaps in enjoyment of the crushing of a life in its powerful claws.
In the days to come Elaine would replay the scene in her mind. Over and over.
The hawk and its prey disappeared behind a line of naked trees without a sound.
Unsure of where she was going, Elaine had been driving so cautiously that a gentle nudge of the pedal sufficed to slow the car down. She pulled over to the side of the dusty road and took a deep breath.
As her heartbeat returned to normal, she checked the scribbled directions one more time. After several false turns, at long last this looked as if it might actually be the place she wanted. A handcrafted sign had been nailed to an old pine tree on the other side of the road with the single word Madison written on it in flowery green script.
A narrow driveway ran under the tree, and beside it sat a hand-made wooden garbage bin freshly painted gray with a cheerful green trim—the sign and box that she had been told would be her signposts.
She switched the CD player off in mid-song—leaving Springsteen dancing in the dark no longer—shifted into gear and pulled into the lane. It was narrow, but paved and in good condition.
Once she left the main road the forest closed like a cape around her. Primitive, untamed northern forest that had never seen a chainsaw or shovel. Large boulders mottled ancient white and gray littered the landscape, some of them cut into pieces under the unrelenting, ruthless work of time, water and ice—nature showing off her power. Trees stretched high overhead where they tried to link arms. Branches reached out and scratched a warning on the sides of the car; long grasses stroked the undercarriage with a seductive whisper. Elaine cringed at the thought of her paint job, but the red car handled the steep hill and sharp curves with ease. It was much more car than she could afford, but in one all-out show of bravado she had sunk a good portion of her divorce settlement into the purchase. The car purred as it crested a sharp rise, and she patted the dash with affection.
The lane was long, very long. But at its end the driveway burst out of the shadows and returned to the warmth of the sun, widening to create enough space for a convoy of cars. A rusty old pick-up truck sat beside a shiny green van with handicap plates. A gust of wind blew a snowfall of brown and yellow leaves across the open yard. They swirled to a stop against the garage door, joining the season’s residue already piled in the nooks and crannies of the outbuildings and against rocks and massive tree trunks.
Elaine stepped out of the car and breathed in both the air and the view. She pushed the image of tiny black rodent eyes open wide in shock to the back of her mind.
She only caught the briefest glimpse of a wide gray building the color of a northern lake on a cool, cloudy summer’s day, trimmed with dark forest green, empty terracotta pots, abandoned for the season, and a flash of sunlight on blue water, before the door flew open and a short, stout woman bustled out.
“For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Benson, don’t stand there gaping. You’re late enough as it is,” Ruth Czarnecki scolded, her voice tinged with panic, truly felt. “Leave your bags. Someone will get them. I told you she doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Didn’t you listen?” She virtually shooed Elaine into the cottage.
“Miss Madison expects punctuality above all things,” Ruth huffed, leading the way. The door led through what had no doubt been a mudroom in the years when the cottage overflowed with children and weekend guests. It had since been demoted to the storage of a collection of old coats, gumboots, and umbrellas.
Ruth led the way down a long corridor, walking at a brisk clip. The passageway was dark, in the style of grand old hotels. The floors were hardwood, ancient and worn. A very old, very threadbare, and probably very expensive oriental rug ran down the center of the hallway. Elaine resisted the urge to drop to her knees and run her fingers across the fine wood and inspect the quality of the carpet. The walls were also wood, stained dark. In the middle of the day it was necessary to have lights lit in the wall sconces scattered along the hallway.
A collection of small oil paintings dotted the walls. The style of several of the paintings was familiar and she was sure that if she had a minute, and better light, she could identify them. Ruth stopped so abruptly that Elaine, entranced by the pictures, almost tripped over her. The housekeeper straightened her shoulders and tugged at the sides of her immaculate black dress. Taking a deep breath she raised one hand and knocked firmly. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the heavy wooden door open and gestured to Elaine to precede her.
“You’re late,” the old woman seated in the wheelchair said. Her voice cracked with age but it was still deep and powerful. A voice that expected to be listened to.
“By,” Elaine said as she examined her watch with great care, “ten minutes. Not bad considering that there was an accident on the 400 and the highway was closed for a good few hours.”
Behind her she felt more than heard Ruth pull in her breath.
Miss Moira Madison laughed. “But late none the less. Not acceptable when I was young. My grandfather would have dismissed you out of hand. But things have changed, and most of them for the better, I believe. Come, sit over here and we can talk. Ruth, you can leave us. Ask Lizzie to have tea ready in half an hour.”
“But Miss Madison….”
“Thank you, Ruth.” Also a voice that tolerated no “buts.”
The door shut firmly.
“I like you already, Mrs. Benson,” the old lady said. “Sit down and tell me why I should let you into my life.”
Elaine sat. Moira Madison was tiny. She couldn’t be much over five feet, and probably weighed less than a supermodel after a bout of stomach flu. The hands that rested on the armrests of her wheelchair were gnarled with arthritis, resembling claws more than strong human hands, the fingers looking as if they would snap as easily as matchsticks. The proud face was deeply lined and dotted with liver spots and the gray hair was sparse, almost bald in patches. But her deep brown eyes blazed with intelligence, and Elaine told herself not to underestimate this woman simply because she was old. Incongruously Miss Madison was dressed in khaki cargo pants and a beige T-shirt that proclaimed the purchaser had planted a tree in Africa (or at least donated towards one).
“I have read your books,” Miss Madison said, nodding to the little pile stacked on the desk in front of her. “And I enjoyed them a great deal.”
Goldrush was on top with Into the Bush peeking out from underneath.
“Thank you.”
“Bu
t they are old, are they not? Not as old as I might be, but old for the publishing world?”
“Indeed,” Elaine said, uncomfortable defending her work. “I haven’t had anything published for a while. But they’re still in print,” she hurried to add. “And Goldrush is being considered for use as a high school history book. Or so I’ve been told.”
“In Hollywood they say that you are only as good as your last picture. Is that true in publishing as well?”
“What do you want me to say, Miss Madison?” Elaine bristled. “Those two biographies were great successes, I’m proud of them. But I turned my attentions elsewhere and didn’t receive similar recognition. That’s all.”
The old lady chuckled. “Fame is fleeting indeed. Tell me what you turned your attentions to then?”
“My husband is…was…a screenwriter. He…we…believed that there was a good deal more to be gained by writing popular movies than biographies of pioneer Canadian women. The last few years I concentrated on doing research and editing his screenplays.”
“So why are you here, then? Without your husband? At my little cottage on Lake Muskoka, instead of delighting in the glamorous life in Hollywood?”
“Are you aware, Miss Madison, that it is against the law to enquire of a prospective employee any details of her personal life? We are veering close to that line. I’ve applied for the job of assisting you with your memoirs. You’ve seen my resume and read my work. If that isn’t enough, then perhaps I should take my leave sooner rather than later, and save us both some time.”
The old lady laughed a deep rich belly laugh that had her shaking in her chair. Her chest heaved and she patted it rapidly with one frail, vein-lined hand.
Elaine rose to her feet, wondering if she should rush for help. She didn’t want Miss Madison to collapse right in the midst of dismissing her. But she waved a thin hand in the air, indicating that Elaine should sit, and gradually collected her composure.
“Oh, my dear. That is so good. Of course you are right to remind me of my legal obligations. Sit down, sit down.”
