Mr. Fenton came before dark to take Mrs. Fenton and Fanny home. He says he will come to get us first thing in the morning so that we can set out for Sherbrooke.
I felt tears gather in my eyes when he said it, and Fanny slipped an arm around my waist and said she would miss me. A few tears slipped down my cheek when I said I would miss her too. It was as hard to say goodbye to her as it was to Anna. Fanny is my first true friend in Canada.
I brought out my package and presented it to her. She unwrapped it eagerly and was not at all disappointed. She declared that it was the finest shawl she had ever seen and wrapped it around her shoulders. Even Mrs. Fenton said that it was well-made. Then Fanny reached into her pocket and brought out a little package for me. When I opened it I could hardly believe what I saw. It was a brand new little book filled with blank pages.
“Mrs. Hall said that you like to write things down,” she said. I felt my cheeks burn. Sister Marie-France must have told Mrs. Hall about how and why Mrs. Johnson had dismissed me. Fanny hugged me again and said she hoped that I would write to her, and that she would write to me too and would count the days until I returned with the Halls.
Tears trickled down my cheeks as I watched her drive away with her parents. I waved until she was out of sight and called goodbye until my throat was sore.
December 3, 1847
Mr. Fenton arrived bright and early as he had promised, and loaded Lucy, Mrs. Lyons and me into the sleigh with all our bundles. The day was cold but bright and the snow hard and crisp under the runners of the sleigh. Mr. Fenton seemed pleased with our progress. For my part, I was happy to reach Sherbrooke.
The Halls have rented some rooms in a house in town. Mrs. Hall greeted us at the door. She scooped Lucy into her arms and covered her with kisses. But in reply to Lucy’s demands to see her father, Mrs. Hall said she must wait, for her father was sleeping.
Mr. Fenton did not stay, for he wanted to return home before dark. Before he drove away, I asked him to watch for any letter for me at the post office in Sherbrooke. He said that he would, and truly astonished me by grasping my hand and wishing me good luck and saying that he hoped I would be reunited with my brother. Fanny must have told him. It was the first time Mr. Fenton has said anything to me, for he is a quiet man.
December 4, 1847
I have not seen Mr. Hall yet. Mrs. Hall says that he does not feel up to visitors, although Lucy was allowed to sit with him for a few minutes.
Mrs. Hall is pale and her face lined with worry. As soon as Lucy was in bed, Mrs. Hall asked to speak to me. Mrs. Lyons was with her. Her tone was sombre when she said it was clear that they could not soon return to Sherbrooke and farming and, for that reason, she had to let one of us go. I looked down at my feet and prepared myself for what was to come. But it is Mrs. Lyons who is to leave, not me.
“Oh no,” I said. It wasn’t right that Mrs. Lyons should go and I should stay. “Let it be me,” I pleaded. “Mrs. Lyons has been with you longer than I have. And she can cook!”
Mrs. Lyons laid one hand on mine and smiled at me. She said that she had already spoken to Mrs. Hall. She had received word a month ago that a favourite niece in Montreal was expecting and would welcome her help with the new baby. She had been wishing she could go, but was reluctant to leave Mrs. Hall. But now that things had changed, she was free to be with her niece and to welcome the new babe. She said she knew I would be a great help to Mrs. Hall, for I had learned a lot. Besides, she added, I was alone in the world, and that wasn’t right. Mrs. Hall not only needed me with her, but she also wanted me to stay, and Mrs. Lyons was glad for that.
Mrs. Hall agreed and said that she truly needed me. I was almost in tears, torn between the kindness they both showed to me and the loss of Mrs. Lyons, who has been such a good friend.
Mrs. Lyons will leave in a few days’ time.
December 6, 1847
Mrs. Lyons left today. She gave me a beautiful handkerchief that she had embroidered with autumn leaves, for she said she knew how I loved the colours. She said that she hoped to visit one day and to sample a meal that I had made. I hugged her, and she hugged me back. I will miss her.
December 7, 1847
Mrs. Hall had to run some errands today and took Lucy with her. She said that Mr. Hall was asleep, so there was nothing for me to worry about. I was sitting on a sofa knitting when I heard a terrible crash. It had come from the sick room. I rushed in and saw water all over the floor. Mr. Hall had tried to pour himself some water from a pitcher on a small table beside his bed, but his left arm — his only arm — is weak and he dropped the pitcher. When I went in to clean it up, he shouted at me to go away. He said he did not want anyone to see him as he was. I tried to tell him that I just wanted to mop up the water and pick up the pieces of broken jug, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He shouted at me until I left the room and was not content until I had shut the door. I was shaking when I sat down again on the sofa. He was so pale and thin, and the right sleeve of his shirt hung empty. It was all I could do to not stare at it and to keep the pity from my eyes. But the poor man. How is he to manage now?
When Mrs. Hall returned I told her what had happened, and she rushed into his room. She stayed for a long time.
December 8, 1847
The doctor came again today to see Mr. Hall. When he came out of the sick room, he and Mrs. Hall talked for a long time in hushed tones. Mrs. Hall was quiet for the rest of the day. She seemed lost in thought and worry.
December 9, 1847
A quiet day. I amused Lucy as best I could while Mrs. Hall sat in a chair by the window. Her face was lined with worry. I hope Mr. Hall is not worse. She has not said anything about her conversation with the doctor yesterday.
December 10, 1847
After Lucy lay down for her nap, Mrs. Hall called me to her. Mr. Hall’s wounds are going to take a long time to mend, she said. His right leg is badly damaged, and without his right arm, it is unlikely that he will be able to walk without assistance. Continuing with the farm is not going to be possible. Her voice trembled as she told me that she has decided to write to her family back in England to tell them that it would be best if she and Mr. Hall returned there in the spring. Her father is in business and she is sure that he can find a position that is suitable for Mr. Hall that will not require much physical effort. She will also be able to rely on her own family for help, not only with Mr. Hall but with Lucy and the new baby as well.
I am ashamed to say that while she was telling me this, I was thinking only of myself. Was she going to ask me to go with her? I could not do that. I could never leave Michael. But what would become of me when she left? Would I be able to find another position? Would I ever find another employer as kind as Mrs. Hall?
“I would like to take you with me,” Mrs. Hall said. “But I cannot. I’m sorry, Johanna. I know how hard things have been for you. You have been a part of this family. I know Lucy will miss you and so will I.”
She also told me not to worry because this was all a long way off. She promised to help me find another position in the area before she leaves, and to write me a good reference. I had tears in my eyes when I thanked her.
December 11, 1847
Mr. Hall improves a little every day. Mrs. Hall says that he is cheerier now that Lucy is here. He reads to her every night before she goes to bed.
December 13, 1847
Michael is found! What a glorious day! Here is what happened.
The morning was bright and sunny, and Lucy was restless in the house. More than once Mrs. Hall scolded her for not being quiet while her father slept. Finally I offered to take her for a walk through town. We had a jolly time making tracks in the snow and sliding on the ice of a pond. On the way home Lucy asked for a story and I told her one. I was nearly finished when the house came into sight and I saw Mrs. Hall standing in the door, clutching a shawl around her. She seemed to be watching for someone. My heart seemed to stop in my chest and I feared the worst. Mr. Hall must have taken a bad tur
n, and Mrs. Hall must be waiting for the doctor. Why else would she be standing there in the cold?
Then she caught sight of us and waved for us to hurry. I didn’t want to alarm Lucy, so I proposed a race. She ran ahead of me and her mother bundled her up into her arms. Mrs. Hall kissed her and smiled at me, which was a great relief. Clearly I was mistaken and all was well with Mr. Hall. Perhaps Mrs. Hall had just been eager to have Lucy back again. Perhaps her father had been asking for her.
Mrs. Hall continued to smile as she helped Lucy out of her boots and coat. I was about to go to the room I shared with Lucy at the back of the house when Mrs. Hall said, “You have a visitor, Johanna.”
No wonder she was smiling. The Fentons had come to visit. Fanny was here! And all this time I had thought I might never see her again. I hurried into the parlour.
But it was not the Fentons.
It was Connor!
He stood when he saw me and looked me over and laughed, declaring that he would not have recognized me in such a fine dress and with meat on my bones for a change. I ran to him and hugged him. But how on earth had he found me?
As Connor told the story, he had lived for several weeks with the family who took in Daniel and who, he said, were taking good care of him — better than Connor himself could have done. Reassured but restless, he had gone back to Montreal to look for work.
“I was in the square near the house owned by the nuns,” he said. “Can you guess who I saw there?”
I stared at him, hardly daring to hope.
It was Michael! He had seen Michael. But he isn’t in Montreal. He’s living on a farm with Uncle Liam.
“Does he know about me?”
“He knows that you did not perish in the sheds,” Connor said. Sister Marie-France’s second letter had finally reached Uncle Liam. As soon as Michael realized I was NOT dead, he travelled to Montreal, hoping that the nuns would know where I was. But when he got there, he was disappointed. Sister Marie-France had died of the fever.
Tears sprang to my eyes when Connor told me this. The news of Michael had been like a bright summer sun. But this news of Sister Marie-France was like black clouds. Why did bad always follow good? Why couldn’t everyone live happily ever after?
According to Connor, Sister Marie-France’s replacement was not as organized as Sister Marie-France had been. She did not know what had become of me.
“Then how did you find me?” I asked.
He told me that Michael had left Montreal and gone back to Uncle Liam’s farm. Connor stayed to find work, which was not easy. The economy was bad, there were so many people seeking employment, and there was widespread resentment against all the Irish who had flooded the city. Connor said he had been welcomed and fairly treated when he’d first arrived as an orphan, but soon found himself just one Irish lad among thousands who stood accused of stealing jobs from the people of Montreal and undercutting their wages by agreeing to work for whatever an employer might offer. But Connor was lucky. He was hired on by the boss of a logging camp, although not the same one that had employed Mr. Hall. There he had met a boy, a cook’s helper. The boy was Irish as well, so he and Connor became friendly. “He likes to say he’s an honest man,” Connor told me, “even though he got his start in this country as a thief. He says he knows you, Johanna, and that you do not approve of him. His name is Tommy Ryan.”
I stared at Connor. I could hardly believe it. Tommy Ryan — that young thief I met in Montreal. He told Connor where I had gone. Connor said he immediately found someone who could write a letter for him to Michael. Then he set out to find me. It was the Fentons who told him I was in Sherbrooke.
Tears of joy ran down my cheeks. Michael was alive and well. Uncle Liam was well too. It was only then that I thought of Connor’s brother Kerry, who had been taken off the ship at Grosse Isle. When I asked about him, Connor turned sombre. Kerry had died the day we departed by steamer to Montreal. Poor Connor. He, like me, had only one brother left in this world.
I looked at Mrs. Hall. My dream was coming true, while hers had been dashed. But her face brimmed with joy, and she hugged me and told me how happy she was that my brother was found. She gently explained that I would have to wait until spring for the St. Lawrence to reopen before I would be able to travel by boat, and said she knew how hard it would be to wait, but that meanwhile I would be such a great help to her.
It was then that I knew everything had worked out for the best. I would stay with her until we were both able to begin our travels — she to her family across the ocean and I to mine inland. I hugged her back and told her she was as close to my own mother as I could ever have hoped to find.
I am almost at the end of the book I brought from home. As soon as it is finished, I will use the new book Fanny gave me to record my new life when it begins.
Epilogue
When at long last spring arrived, Johanna travelled by boat to Cobourg in what is now Ontario and then by wagon to Peterborough. Peterborough was named for Peter Robinson, who brought nearly two thousand Irish settlers there in 1825. Here Johanna was finally reunited with Michael, whom she hardly recognized, as he had grown taller and filled out, from being able to eat his fill. She met her Uncle Liam for the first time. He owned some land near the Otonabee River. He had built a small cabin and had started to clear the land of trees so that he could plant crops and graze some cows.
Johanna fit easily into the small household, happily filling the role of housekeeper, quickly putting to good use all the skills she had learned with Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Lyons, and adding new ones to her store of knowledge. As she reported to Fanny in the first of many letters over the years, her cooking rapidly improved. So did her knitting. Her scarves no longer turned out lopsided, and the thick socks she made kept her uncle’s and brother’s feet warm in winter. She found special pleasure in collecting scraps of fabric so that she could piece together quilts that drew on her memories. One of lush greens reminded her of her home in Ireland. Another, pure white with small bursts of colour, conjured up early spring growth emerging from the depths of winter. Riots of colour depicted patches of wildflowers deep in summer.
With Michael’s help, Uncle Liam cleared his land and built a snug little farmhouse to replace the cabin he and Michael had been living in when Johanna arrived. It wasn’t long before Michael fell in love with Mary Kehoe, the daughter of a neighbouring farmer. He married and brought her to live at Uncle Liam’s farm. Mary and Johanna became fast friends and spent many an evening knitting and sewing, and talking and laughing.
Johanna became as expert at dressmaking as she was at quilting. She was soon sought out by other women to help with sewing chores or to make dresses for them and their daughters. It was while she was making a bridal dress for a miller’s daughter that she met Thomas Macdonnell, the bride-to-be’s brother. He was tall and handsome, with dark curly hair and clear blue eyes. But it was his easy laugh and the calm delight he took in life that drew Johanna. His good humour reminded her of her father, and he had a store of tales like her grandfather and a gift for bringing them alive as he told them. Johanna fell in love with him almost immediately and did not hesitate for even a moment when he proposed marriage.
Johanna and Thomas’s first child, a son, was born before their first wedding anniversary. Johanna named him Francis Joseph for her father and for the patron saint of his occupation. A daughter soon followed. Johanna named her Eileen, after her mother. Three more children came, each little more than a year apart — Patrick, Connor and, finally, Anna, named for Johanna’s childhood friend. Johanna was never able to trace her friend’s whereabouts, but thought of her often in what soon would become called “the old days back home.” She was grateful that all five children survived their younger years.
Johanna and Thomas regaled their children with stories. Johanna told them all about her family and the country from which they had come. She told them about the good years as well as the bad, about the journey across the ocean and the days of tremendous sorrow. S
he also told them the stories of Lusmore the humpback, the beautiful maiden, and all the other tales of banshees, fairies, pookas and leprechauns that she had learned from her grandfather. When her daughters were old enough, she let them read the cramped little record she had kept of her first months in Canada.
Johanna continued to write about the important events in her life, as well as many letters — to Mrs. Hall back in England with her family, and to Connor, who was not very good about writing back, but who came to visit once when Johanna’s children were small, and again when her son got married.
Johanna always wore her father’s St. Joseph medallion around her neck on a silver chain, even though it had been rubbed so smooth that it looked like a blank disc of tin. Whenever she thought about her parents, which she did often, her fingers went to the disc and she rubbed it and believed that she could still feel the warmth of her father’s fingers upon it.
Johanna lived to be a very old woman and welcomed twenty-three grandchildren and fifteen great-grandchildren into the world. She made each one a small quilt, rich with the colours of Ireland, and when she took them on her knee, she told them tales of the old country in the soft Irish lilt that she never lost.
Historical Note
“The Great Hunger” (An Gorta Mór in Irish) or the Irish Potato Famine of 1845–1851 was one of the most devastating events in Irish history. Before the famine struck, Ireland had a population of eight million. By the time it ended, nearly one million Irish had died of starvation and disease and another million had fled the country as emigrants. About three hundred thousand of these emigrants boarded ships for Canada.
Even before the famine struck, Ireland was a poor country. Most of the land in the countryside was owned by English landlords; most were Protestants who did not even live in Ireland. They rented out little parcels of land to Irish Catholic farmers. Many of these tenant farmers were so poor that they lived in one-room cabins and slept on straw on the ground. Poverty was made worse in Ireland by the rapid growth in population in the first four decades of the 1800s. The increasing number of people led to an increasing demand for land. Farmers began to cultivate land that was not suited for many crops. This land could, however, grow potatoes.
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