by Vicki Delany
“I have something I must show you,” Martha Ostrander said, bustling off to the back room. Maggie ran her fingers across the smooth wood of the table. Mr. Ostrander was a deft hand with woodwork and everything in their home had been carved with an extra touch of pride and no lack of skill. Martha came back, carrying a small flat square object. She was young and pretty and joyously happy with her strapping young husband and brand-new baby. She was Maggie’s only friend.
“This came just last week. The preacher brought it, a gift from my sister in Niagara. Her husband was in Butler’s Rangers, you know, dear, and they’re doing ever so well. Imagine, having money for trinkets such as this. I’m quite jealous.” She smiled at the baby asleep in its basket by the fire, her fond expression belittling her words. “Have a look.”
It was a mirror. A beautiful silver hand mirror, of the type Maggie used to have on her dressing table.
She held it up to her face. For a moment she scarcely recognized the woman looking back at her. When had she last seen her reflection? Probably not since New York, a glimpse of herself as she’d waked past a glass window. No one here had glass for their windows; a bit of oiled paper set in the frame to let in some light was the best they could do.
She was so old. The paper-thin skin beneath her eyes was the color of the sky before a thunderstorm broke, tiny lines radiated out from her mouth, skin hung loose at her throat, and sharp bones protruded above sunken cheeks. She lifted a hand and touched her hair. More than a few silver threads were woven among the black.
So old.
Mrs. Ostrander read Maggie’s mind and laughed. “I thought the same, my dear. Time and this hard land are written on our faces.”
Maggie put the mirror face down on the table.
Time. Once she had measured the passage of time by days. Friday piano lessons, Tuesday the art tutor came, Sunday Father led the family to church, Wednesday Mother entertained ladies to tea. At the most they marked the months: July they visited Father’s sister in Philadelphia, and Mother’s parents came to the house in the Mohawk Valley for the entire month of December.
Time is now marked by the seasons. The first white flower in the woods grabbing the light of the sun before the foliage grew in meant there would soon be good food to eat; stifling summer when the air was as thick as a raincloud; the harvest which brought so much work; the first snowflake, sign of hardship to come.
Time was passing her by.
When she allowed herself to think about it, she was sorry she had not married Rudolph. Sorry he’d preferred a cow and a young wife to her. She hadn’t loved him, but she knew love was a rare bonus in most marriages, particularly on the frontier, where marriage meant survival for a woman on her own. The best a woman could hope for was that her husband be kind to her.
Jane had given birth nine months after her wedding to Rudolph Mann, a healthy girl, and another was on the way.
Martha’s baby grizzled and stretched, and the young mother hurried to its cradle.
“I’d best be heading back,” Maggie said, getting to her feet. “Work will still be waiting.”
Martha gave her a smile. “So it will. You take care, won’t you, my dear.” She picked up her baby, and Maggie showed herself out.
As Maggie had watched the snow fall in the dark still forest, she made up her mind at last. Come spring she would be leaving. The fact that a woman such as her, of her age and her still attractive looks (or so she thought until she looked in that mirror), with good breeding as well as skill in the kitchen and with a needle, was still unwed, could only be because Nathanial Macgregor discouraged any and all potential suitors.
His wife liked having a servant, and goodness knows the family needed someone to do the hard work in the kitchen and the vegetable garden.
It would no longer be Maggie Macgregor. Her heart would break to leave sweet little Emily, who regarded Maggie as a mother. But as much as she loved Emily, the girl was not her own child, and Maggie would not give up hopes of a better life for herself.
Time, as she saw in Martha’s mirror, was passing. She was thirty-one, and her chances of making a good marriage were likely gone. If she didn’t leave, she’d stay here, Marie’s servant, Nathanial’s…what? Marie was pregnant again, complaining constantly about the ache in her back or the tiredness in her legs, and Nathanial’s usual black moods were getting blacker.
Many of the other settlers had added onto their initial shanty, expanding rooms, adding some nice, although rough, furniture. Some had even built—with the help of their neighbors—log barns and outbuildings. Slowly, very slowly, trees were being cut down, land cleared, crops planted, livestock breed.
The Macgregors, however, were falling further and further behind. Caleb was a good worker, but Jacob could be counted on to disappear whenever a strong back was needed and now that he was almost seventeen was muttering about wanting more out of life than a hardscrabble farm in the wilderness and a father too quick with his fists.
Nathanial was a stubborn man, quick to take offence, too proud for his own good. He rudely turned aside advice he would have been well-suited to accept.
And Marie—everything was too difficult, too much trouble for Marie.
Their house still had nothing more than the one original room with an alcove for the parents’ bed. One room where the family cooked and ate, rarely entertained visitors, and where Maggie and the children slept. Maggie knew most of what went on in the bedroom, and she could hear, although she tried not to, Marie complaining when her husband came to bed that she was unwell and besides, he mustn’t take the chance of harming the baby.
The baby was due to arrive in the fall. Could Maggie stay one more winter? Her help would be needed. She’d happily leave Marie and Nathanial on their own, to survive or not. But Emily? Dear little Emily, who snuggled against Maggie in the dark cold nights and had a ready smile when she knew Maggie was feeling down. Realizing that lazy Marie had no inclination to educate her daughter, Maggie took it upon herself to teach Emily her letters. They had no books, but some of the settlers had brought one or two with them, and books were freely lent. The previous autumn Maggie had traded her frying pan, one of the last of her own possessions, for a stub of chalk and a small slate on which the girl could practice forming letters. She’d come to realize that Emily was exceptionally bright and felt a stab of pride, as if she, Maggie, had had something to do with it. The leather-bound ledger and small bottle of ink was brought out only as a special treat when Maggie allowed Emily to record something permanent on the precious paper.
It would be hard to leave Emily. She wouldn’t miss the boys, though. Caleb and Jacob, who as they grew into men followed their father’s lead and turned increasingly dictatorial with Maggie.
All winter and early spring Maggie had dithered.
That night she made up her mind.
The house had one large fireplace used for cooking and for heat. They tried to keep the fire burning all the time, as it was difficult to start a new one using flint and a short iron bar. It was Maggie’s job—everything in the house and garden was Maggie’s job—to ensure the fire was well banked overnight so there would be sufficient live embers in the morning to begin a new fire.
By late March, winter was not yet over and that night the temperature dropped sharply, and they were hit by an unexpected fall of snow. Maggie, exhausted as she usually was, slept deeply. Emily snuggled closer, and Maggie wrapped them both tighter in their blankets without waking.
Nathanial’s roar of rage had Maggie sitting up in bed, blinking away sleep.
“The fire’s gone out, you bitch,” he yelled. He crouched in front of the hearth, a length of firewood in his hand. She pushed Emily aside and clambered out of bed. Her nightgown bunched around her legs.
“Let me see,” she said, “there must be some embers left.”
“You think I can�
�t check for myself?” He rose to his feet. His hand tightened on the wood. “You lazy, ungrateful bitch. I put a roof over your head and food in your belly, and you can’t do a simple job like tending the fire.”
Emily began to cry. Marie got out of bed and came to see what was going on. In their corner, the boys sat up, watching silently.
“We’ll get it started again,” Maggie said, turning. “Jacob, get dressed quickly and run to Mrs. Ostrander and ask for some embers from her fire. You can carry them back on the shovel.”
“You don’t give orders to my son,” Nathanial yelled. “He’s his own work to do, not yours.”
Out of the corner of her eye Maggie saw something move. She lifted her arm as the wood descended. She fell back with a cry and fire raced through her shoulder and down her arm. She tripped over a bench and crashed to the floor, landing hard on her back. Shock filled her head and her vision swam. Nathanial stood over her, staring down. His eyes burned so fiercely he might be able to start the fire with a glance and, still clenching the log, he lifted his leg and kicked her, hard, in the side. Her shoulder felt as if it were burning, and she struggled to suck in air through her aching ribs. If she hadn’t seen the blow coming the log would have struck the side of her head.
As she fell, her nightgown rode up, over her thighs. Her legs were braced on the floor, feet planted and knees bent as her head swum and she struggled to breathe. She looked into Nathanial’s face and saw his eyes move. They traveled down her body and rested on her exposed upper legs. His face grew slack and his lips opened and a bubble of saliva formed at the side of his mouth.
“No, Papa, no.” Then Emily was on the rag rug beside Maggie, trying to shield her with her little body.
Nathanial lowered the log and stepped back. He dragged his gaze up her figure to rest on Maggie’s face. “Jacob,” he said. “Go to the Ostrander’s for fire. Marie, get your daughter dressed. And you,” he touched Maggie’s leg with his toe, “get off the floor and get yourself decent. My sons and I have work to do and we can’t waste time sitting around waiting for our breakfast because a useless slut can’t keep a fire going.”
Maggie got to her feet, slowly, full of pain. Emily helped her, but no one else dared to step forward. Jacob pulled on his trousers and ran out the door. Marie went back to her alcove, pulling the blanket door after her. Caleb followed his brother outside.
Nathanial threw the wood to the floor and sat down at the table. He watched Maggie with dark eyes as Emily led her toward her bedding and her few belongings.
Her shoulder was not broken, nor were any ribs, as she’d feared at first. Her body ached and her skin was a mess of black and purple bruises for a few days. They soon began to fade, but the look in Nathanial’s eyes did not.
He’d tasted blood and power, and he wanted more.
Maggie had no money but she had the skills she’d learned in New York and on this farm. She’d go to the city of Cataraqui at the head of the St. Lawrence River. As the countryside opened to settlers the town was growing into a major center. The sale of Hamish’s earrings should net her sufficient money to live for a while. She could get a job with the garrison, doing laundry, sewing, cooking. If the town continued to grow, one day there might even be an opportunity to open a restaurant. Perhaps she’d be able to purchase a house in which to take boarders.
She had to leave this place. She would make her own life, to succeed or to fail come what may.
She rarely thought of her family, her mother and father and brothers. What would her mother think of her now? Of what she hoped to become? A woman on her own, a businesswoman. Through her pain, Maggie smiled at the thought.
If she was successful enough, able to provide for herself, why she might not even have to get married.
The thought was so liberating she found herself warming from inside as the days got longer and the snow turned to rain and the fields to seas of mud and she made her plans.
Chapter Thirty-two
I woke with a start, my heart pounding, drenched in sweat. For the briefest of moments I couldn’t quite remember where I was. I wasn’t even entirely sure who I was. A car came down the road, its headlights sweeping across my windows, and I could see my room. My bedroom in my sister’s house. Not a fire burning in the fireplace, but an electric bulb hanging from the ceiling.
I was safe here.
Panic subsided, and I lay back against the pillows. The sheets were damp and wrapped around my legs like a shroud. I’d had a strange dream, something about an unhappy woman in a long dress looking out into a forest of giant trees.
I tried to fall back to sleep, but slumber would not come. Thoughts of Hila, her death, the vandalism in the Harrison home, Gary Wolfe and Rick Brecken, filled my mind. I tossed and turned, worried, angry, frightened.
In my past life, on the rare occasion I’d not been able to sleep, I’d read in bed for a while until I drifted off, but reading a book these days was not relaxing; it was hard work.
I remembered something I’d been able to read.
Sipping out of bed, I padded down the hall in my bare feet. Thin strands of cold white mist drifted before me, but it didn’t even occur to me to think of fire. This was not smoke. The nightlight burned in the bathroom. The house was quiet.
I switched on the light at the end of the hall, and carefully made my way up the stairs to the attic room. I stood in the doorway for a moment sniffing the air and looking at the dark. Then I turned on the light and sat down in the comfortable old chair beside the wooden tea chests. I shifted papers aside, and thought I could detect the fait odor of Earl Grey, of Indian tea plantations, dusky-skinned women bent over green plants with wicker baskets on their backs. The white mist dissolved and I felt the stuffy warm air of an overheated attic room.
I took out layers and layers of envelopes and boxes. As I dug my way down, excavating, the paper got yellower and frailer, the ink fainter. Some pages practically dissolved at my touch, yet I kept digging. Reaching the bottom, I unearthed a small leather- bound book, tied with a frayed leather cord.
The leather was dry and full of small cracks. Pieces crumbled and a fine red dust covered my hands. I gently undid the cord. A couple of inches broke off. I fingered the binding, hesitating. I should take this to a professional, someone who knew how to handle it to allow the minimum amount of damage. Impatience won, and I finished untying the cord with as much care as I was able. I opened the cover, holding my breath, but the paper held. I read the first page and was crushingly disappointed. Columns of numbers. Some sort of shopkeeper’s ledger probably. I turned the pages. The numbers ended and a child’s handwriting began. The ink was faded and the paper old, but most of the paper was intact.
The Journal of Miss Emily Macgregor was proudly printed across the top of a fresh page. I glanced quickly over the neat lines of handwriting. Something about Mother being ill and Father telling her she was a naughty girl.
Boring.
I wasn’t interested in this, but Jake and his mother might be, although they were not named Macgregor. I yawned. Time to go back to bed. I began to close the book.
My hand hovered in the air. The white mist returned. It swirled around me. Outside, an owl called. I turned more pages, feeling almost compelled to do so.
The handwriting changed. No longer a child’s big letters but an adult’s excellent penmanship. I bent my head and began to read.
***
March 28, 1788
I am trying to preserve as much of this paper as I can. Who knows when we will be able to get more. Even should some arrive, we would not be able to afford it. I am trying to encourage Emily to work on her letters, and I permit her to write in this book as a small reward for a job well done. It would be nice if Emily has a journal to pass on to her own daughter someday.
Something happened today and I feel compelled to record it. Mrs. Ostrander,
who has become my good friend, received a gift from her sister. A beautiful silver mirror, of the sort I used to have on my dresser. I looked into it and could scarcely credit what lay before me.
For a moment I did not recognize the woman looking back at me. When had I last seen my reflection? Probably not since New York, a glimpse of myself as I’d waked past a glass window perhaps. No one here has glass for their windows; a bit of oiled paper set in the frame to let in some light is the best anyone can do.
I am so old. The paper-thin skin beneath my eyes is the color of the sky before a thunderstorm breaks, tiny lines radiate out from my mouth, skin hangs loose at my throat, and sharp bones protrude above sunken cheeks. More than a few silver threads are woven among the black of my hair.
So old.
***
May 12, 1788
Freedom.
What did that mean?
Maggie thought a lot about freedom that spring and her determination to become free strengthened. She would be free from the whining demands of Marie, the brooding ever-watching Nathanial, their rude sons.
Men had fought and died for what they called freedom. They waged war, destroyed lives, decimated the countryside, burned towns, all while shouting slogans of freedom or loyalty. Maggie had never even stopped to consider what the word meant. As a woman, nothing was expected of her but to do as her father and husband ordered and smile while she was doing it. If she were unfortunate enough not to marry, then she would do as her master, or what relatives would reluctantly agree to take her in, instructed.
