by Ann Birch
Annie climbed down from her comfortable bed and pulled back the curtains to let in the light of another glorious fall day. She looked in the captain’s chest at the foot of her bed and pulled out the garments she would wear. Since there was no maidservant at John’s house to pull the strings on her whalebone corset tight, she had abandoned stays. How pleasant it was to put on only a long petticoat and a plain gray dress with a white fichu. Here in Niagara she felt no need to set a standard for the lower orders. Even though she was to have lunch today with the crème de la crème of this small world, she felt sure that her casual apparel would suffice.
Down the stairs she went to find her daughter and daughter-in-law seated at the breakfast table drinking coffee. Isabella was nursing her infant son and made no attempt to hide her breast when she approached. Immodest as this was, Annie chose to say nothing. The smell of coffee—real coffee—has clouded my judgment, may the Lord forgive me. She poured herself a cupful, took a warm buttered scone from the hearth, and sat down across from the two young women.
“I am visiting Mrs. Hamilton at her fine home in Queenston today,” she said. “It will be too long a walk for me, I fear, and I hope I may borrow your carriage for the morning.”
“Of course, you are welcome to it. But you will be with us this afternoon, I hope,” Isabella said. “The Reverend Mr. Warner is visiting us to baptize John.”
The coffee in Annie’s mouth sputtered forth. She put a napkin to her lips just in time. “Baptism? Here? John? Who is John?”
Isabella laughed. “Your grandson, of course, dear Mother. Whom did you think I was speaking of?”
“But you have not told me any of this before. I assumed the child would be named William after his grandfather. I assumed he would be baptised in the Anglican faith by the Reverend Mr. Addison. I cannot allow—”
“You must not make decisions for my dear husband and me.” Isabella tucked her breast into her bodice and put the babe on her shoulder. “Why should we not call our beloved son after his father? And is the Methodist faith less Christian than the Anglican?” The girl sounded angry.
But it is I who should be the aggrieved one. “Why did you not discuss this with me?”
“Surely it is not your affair,” Isabella said. “Excuse me now, I must put John to bed.” She rose then, and without another word turned her back and headed out of the kitchen.
Annie’s daughter sighed. “Well, Mama, you’ve upset Isabella for no good reason. Why, oh why, must you meddle in matters that don’t concern you?”
“I liked the girl. I thought she liked me. I cannot understand why she and my son excluded me from all these plans.”
“Perhaps because they knew what you’d say.”
“This itinerant preacher, this Warner she talks about, I’ve heard all about him from Mrs. Hamilton. He apparently eschews all the rites of a proper service—”
“Please, Mama, spare me these details.”
“No. Listen. She says he preaches weekly on a flat rock in the dense forest near the mountain. He shrieks at the top of his voice. The neighbours declare that they can hear him from two miles away.”
“Good. We shall be spared the unintelligible rasp of the Reverend Mr. Addison.”
“Stupid girl, is it too much to expect a modicum of respect from you, my daughter? But no mind, I shall go now and prepare for my visit to Mrs. Hamilton. I shall arrange to stay for lunch, and I shall arrive back in this place in the later afternoon after the shenanigans are over.”
“If you are to be so discourteous to your host and hostess, I would suggest that tomorrow morning you take the boat back across the lake to York. You can no longer stay here and abuse their hospitality.”
“How am I to explain all this to your father, wretched girl? You have no understanding of the anger that all this kerfuffle will stir up in him.”
“If that is what is worrying you, you have my sympathy. I know how difficult Papa can be. But since you have managed the man for all these years, I am certain you can find a way around his ignorance and pig-headedness.”
“I will listen no longer. You heap abuse on a decent man. Surely you remember that he was responsible for procuring John’s position as Clerk of the Legislative Council. All I ask of John and his wife is that they show respect and gratitude by naming their son after his grandfather and having him baptized in a proper Anglican service.”
“‘Proper,’ I knew that word would pop out of your mouth sooner or later. I think I’ll drink the rest of this coffee on the back stoop where I can watch Cook in the garden and enjoy air that is free from the vitriol in this room.”
Annie watched as her daughter picked up her cup and saucer and moved out the back door into the garden. In a minute or two, she heard the girl chatting with Cook in a manner that broke all the rules of propriety that keep the upper echelons of society apart from the serving classes. Ah well, at least there’s no one here to report back to my circle at York.
* * *
Her son’s carriage deposited her at the top of the Queenston hill where the widow Hamilton still resided in the imposing two-storey stone house that her late husband had constructed during his heyday as chief merchant of a vast area of Upper Canada. It was a relief to absent herself from the acrimony of her daughter and her daughter-in-law and to settle herself in a comfortable chair on Mrs. Hamilton’s spacious covered verandah overlooking the Niagara River. The view down the hill to the pier and all the log cabins below somehow restored her to a sense of her rank in the world she inhabited.
Though she had once known the Queenston area well during the days of Governor Simcoe’s rule, she had never visited Mrs. Hamilton then. In those days, she had been conscious of the Governor’s dismissive view of the woman’s husband and had herself not wished to seem friendly with the merchant classes. But now that the best of society lived in York, she had been curious to see the Hamilton’s fine Georgian home and to meet Mrs. Hamilton who had been a special friend of Mrs. Simcoe in spite of the Governor’s views.
Mrs. Hamilton had been a bit of a surprise. Slight in build with a lined face, and a nervous habit of rubbing her hands together, she dressed in the outmoded fashions of a decade ago. Today—as if in dismissal of her great wealth— she greeted Annie in a dowdy, faded blue gown with a capacious apron.
“I have just taken these cheese scones from the hearth,” she said, passing them to Annie from the low table in front of the verandah window. “Please try one. I do not allow my cook to make them. They are from my private recipe, and I do not wish the rest of the world to know its ingredients.”
Annie took one and bit into it. The heat of some strange spice overpowered her. She put her napkin to her mouth.
“Ah, you have not tried cayenne before? Mr. Hamilton received a packet of it from the West Indies last summer. Delicious, is it not?”
Just then the sound of cannon from across the river sent the woman leaping upright from her chair to run to the edge of the verandah to look out over the woods to the water beyond. Still seated on her chair and momentarily free from her hostess’s surveillance, Annie managed to stuff the scone into her reticule.
“Something alarms you, Mrs. Hamilton?”
“War with the Americans will soon be upon us. My husband predicted that long before he died. Even Governor Simcoe knew it would be inevitable.”
“But that was just some sort of salute at Fort Niagara, was it not? Perhaps there is a special visitor? Surely there is nothing to worry you?”
Mrs. Hamilton took her seat again. Her hands in constant washing motion, she said, “Have you have not heard that the American garrison fired upon merchant boats last summer? Surely you have read the account that the British commander Isaac Brock sent to The Upper Canada Guardian from Montreal? Surely you—”
“Do not upset yourself, ma’am,” Annie interjected, wishing to stop the woman’s mocking of her ignorance. Why did William not tell me of this? Why does he subscribe only to The Gazette?
“I s
hould not be nervous, I know. My dear Robert did his best to be conciliatory to the Americans. He furnished their garrison with supplies—”
“That, I am sure, also worked to his monetary advantage, did it not?” That should shut the woman up.
“I see you have finished your scone, Mrs. Powell. Please take another one.” The woman dumped one of the wretched things onto the plate Annie held in her lap. “Now please excuse me for a moment while I see how Cook is progressing with our lunch. You will enjoy the view, I know. Dear Mrs. Simcoe loved to sit here. I was such friends with her.”
“My dearest friend, you know, is Mrs. Gore. She and I . . .” But Annie realized she was talking to the wind. Mrs. Hamilton had departed.
Really, no one in this place seemed interested in her exalted position in York society. Isabella had paid no attention to her admonitions this morning, and now the wife of a mere merchant found congress with “Cook” more important than listening to her conversation.
CHAPTER TEN
York, August, 1811
I pulled myself from bed and stumbled to the washstand where I threw some cold water from the pitcher on my aching head. I had suffered since returning from my travels. There was so much that distressed me about York and the life I endured in my parents’ household. But, as Papa reminded me, who was I to complain after two years away from home visiting my dear brother in Niagara and Mama’s brother in New York City? “Be grateful, ungrateful wretch,” were his words to me when I made my unhappiness known to him one evening at supper.
And truly, I was grateful for those months away from the deadly social strictures imposed on me in York. From the peaceful atmosphere of Niagara I had moved to the teeming city of New York where I had soon grown accustomed to the clatter of carriages, the shouting of porters at the wharves, and the bustle of crowds. Never before had I seen so many Negroes roaming the streets, nor had the opportunity to enjoy so many plays and concerts. My Uncle George and Aunt Elizabeth were kind people who made no demands on me and never gave unwanted advice. My return to York had indeed been a cruel change.
I looked back at the bed. Though the sun shone through the window, I felt no desire to greet the day. My sisters Eliza and Mary with whom I shared the room had already dressed and departed. Thank God I did not have to talk to them.
I climbed up again into bed, pulled the blankets up to my chin, and tried to fall asleep. But I couldn’t keep my eyes closed. I kept staring at the wall opposite the bed. On it was the portrait that had lately obsessed my every waking moment. Done by some itinerant artist, it showed Mama—a much younger Mama—holding a babe in her arms. The child’s eyes were wide open. They appeared to stare at the painter. In one of her small hands was a red rose. Mama was dressed in a severe black gown with a white lace collar. Her face was grim.
I had always assumed that the babe was my brother Grant, born in 1779, and now a doctor in the town. But there was something so unhappy about Mama’s features and something so strange about the child’s vacant stare that the picture now made me uneasy. Though it had been on my bedchamber wall for years, I had only recently asked Mama to take it down and put in its place a pleasant oil painting of a bowl of flowers that I had purchased during my stay with my uncle in New York.
“Nonsense,” she said to me. “The picture stays.”
“But could it not go into your room, Mama?”
“It’s here for a reason.”
“Why not offer it to Grant? Perhaps he would like a portrait of himself on his walls.”
Mama looked at me. Her eyes filled with tears. “That baby is not Grant.”
“Not Grant? Who, then?”
“Anne. The first Anne.” After that piece of news, she came towards me and pulled me close to her in an awkward embrace. “I have never told you or your sisters about her. She was born in 1782 and died of fever eight months later.” Now Mama was sobbing loudly. I freed myself from her embrace and settled her into a nearby chair. Though I felt a deep sorrow for her, I felt also anger and disgust.
“Why, oh why, Mama, have you named me after a dead sister? And why, oh why, did you have this portrait made of the babe? It’s sick.” Now I was crying myself. I had been aware, of course, that some people had portraits made of dead relatives, but I had not thought of sharing a room with this ghastly, ghostly spectre whose name I had inherited.
And now, on this morning, as I threshed about in bed, I could suddenly no longer tolerate that dreadful lost child and its grief-stricken mother. I stepped down from the bed and ran across the room to the chiffonier. I whacked open the top drawer, tossing the contents about until I found the pair of scissors I kept there. Two or three more steps then, across to that sick sick sick portrait. Then slash, another slash, and another and another—and soon the dead babe was torn apart. Then I attacked Mama. Slash, slash, slash.
I must have screamed. The bedroom door opened. Mama came in, took one look at me as I tore the strips from the frame. “You are crazy,” she said, and closed the door with a bang.
* * *
Later, much later, as I lay on the quilt I had pulled onto the floor, I heard the bedroom door open again. It was Mary. She stood over me as I lay on the floor. “Please, please get up,” she said. “Mama has gone to get Grant. They will be back here in a short while, and you must be up and about, or I fear what will happen.”
“What on earth do you mean?” I asked.
“Mama kept muttering ‘she’s crazy, she’s crazy,’ and then she went out the front door in a rush, telling me she was going to find Grant.”
I found this news alarming. Grant is a doctor, or so he calls himself, but I see him merely as a quack. “You believe that Mama and Grant are plotting something?”
“I know nothing definitely. But I know this: You must get up and get yourself dressed. You must look your best, Anne. If your hair is combed, your face washed, and if you are settled in the withdrawing room with some embroidery, it will allay Mama’s worries—”
“And any of Grant’s ‘cures.’”
I added, by now thoroughly alarmed, “Get me something decent to wear from the wardrobe, please, dear Mary.” I pulled myself up, arranged the quilt neatly on the bed, and ran to the washbasin where I began some hasty ablutions. Looking into the mirror above the basin, I saw my flushed face and untidy hair, but at the same time, I saw my sister behind me and had a moment to study her countenance as well. Her usually pink cheeks were stained with tears. Though I said nothing then, I saw that she too was suffering.
She was now twenty years old. When I came back home from my visit to my uncle in New York, I had almost expected her to be engaged to John Macdonell whom she had talked about constantly when she was younger, but I found that now she never spoke of him.
She helped me into a clean and well-pressed muslin frock and handed me a tucker to fill in the décolletage. Then she pushed me into a chair and pulled my straggling hair upwards into a bunch of curls on the top of my head. “Quick now,” she said. “Go downstairs and sit with Eliza and our nieces. For God’s sake, pick up some stitching—petticoats, embroidery, whatever is about—and try to look composed.”
I put my arms around her. “Oh, my dear Mary, you are so kind to me. I shall do as you say now, but please, please let us find some time alone when we can talk together. You are unhappy, too. I need to know what grieves you. I have been too wrapped up in my own problems, and I have neglected you.”
Mary gave me a gentle push. “That will come later, Anne. Now you must think only of yourself.” She looked out the window. “I see Mama and Grant in the distance. They are coming up the street now. Quick, quick. Go, go.”
I ran down the stairs. In the withdrawing room, Eliza was banging away on the pianoforte. A tumbler of sherry sat on its polished surface. My nieces sat hunched over their embroidery. I plumped myself down in an empty chair beside them and grabbed up a dress that Mama had insisted I stitch a new collar for. But I had not yet begun the task. There was no needle nearby, and for a mo
ment, I felt helpless. Where was that damned sewing basket?
“Here is a needle already threaded, Aunt,” little Maria said to me, pulling one from her own work and handing it to me. I was grateful. Even the child knew that something was afoot. I plunged the needle into the fabric of the sleeve, hoping that Mama and Grant would not notice that its position was totally askew. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Eliza drain the contents of her tumbler.
I took a deep breath and waited for the door to open.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Annie stood behind her son Grant and watched as he thumped his sack of medical equipment down on the parlour floor. He looked at the stitchers intent on their work, and then turned to her. “What is this, Mother? My sister Anne seems perfectly composed. Her face, perhaps, is paler than normal, but she seems able to do her woman’s work.”
“She was hysterical, Grant, I told you that. She slashed my portrait to shreds and screamed at me. But now she sits here holding a needle, she who hates sewing unless I force her to it. Something is up, I know it. It is some sort of ruse these silly girls have got up to in my absence.”
Annie moved closer to her daughters and granddaughters. All seemed well at first, but then she noticed Anne trying to fold up the dress she was working on. She pulled the dress open and looked down at the needle stuck into it. “Ah, now I see what is up. It is a ruse. The girl was supposed to be stitching a new collar on this garment. But look where her needle is. Yes, look. Her needle is poking through the bodice of the garment. It is nowhere near the collar.”
Grant moved close to his sister. “I know nothing about woman’s work, Mother. But I see what you mean. What is going on here, Anne?”
