A Daughter Rebels Page 10

  At the back of this “secret” drawer, I also found a small diary bound up with a silken cord. Now I rightly despised the concept of reading another’s personal letters or diaries. But I remembered how I had always been consumed with desire to know more about Mama’s background—about her life in Boston, about the reason for her marriage to Papa—and now I had the opportunity to find out. I was all alone. In an instant I had yielded to temptation and undone the cord. I began turning the pages of her diary.

  I was not disappointed. As I flipped through the entries, I was in an instant transported back to Mama’s days as a young woman of sixteen. She and twelve siblings lived in a middle-class home in England with parents who aspired to a genteel place in society. But Mama’s father was a doctor and unable to support his huge brood on the earnings of his medical practice. I flipped through page after page, reading the graphic details of the pressures of poverty she and her siblings suffered. At one point, they were even selling their piss to a dye factory in return for a few pence. How they must have loathed the neighbours who would have undoubtedly called them “piss poor.”

  An entry for September, 1771 related a story of the visit of her father’s sister Elizabeth who lived in America and who was appalled at the condition of her brother’s English household. In a mere matter of days, it seemed, Elizabeth had obtained permission to adopt Mama. She had then taken her in a sailing vessel from her father’s impoverished home in England to Boston, Massachusetts where she put the girl to work in her millinery shop.

  Surely I had deciphered that last phrase incorrectly? I took the diary to a chair by the window where the light streaming in afforded me better vision. I read the diary entry again. Yes, it was true. Mama’s Aunt Elizabeth had put her to work in her millinery shop.

  On another page, Mama set down details of the secret shame this transition caused her. “It is for me an open wound,” she wrote. “It is a plan of life for which I am totally unfit. In the space of a month I have suffered complete loss of reputation and caste. I have been placed in a state of degradation from which it seems I can never rise.”

  But somehow she had risen. After all, she was now Mrs. William Dummer Powell of the town of York, a woman who set the rules of behaviour for upper-class society in this small and inbred community.

  I sat there, the diary on my lap, pondering her rise. I was, in fact, so immersed in my thoughts that I did not hear the bedchamber door open. I did, however, hear the shrieks of my mother.

  “You have dared to snoop in my private possessions!”

  She ran across the room, snatched the book from my hands and struck me over the head with it again and again. It was several moments before I was able to rise from the chair and push her backwards until she fell against the side of the bed.

  “I admit my folly, Mama, but we must talk calmly. My sisters and the servants are in the house, and they will become alarmed by your behaviour.” Without another word, I handed the bottle of laudanum to her. She stared at me for a moment and then tipped her head back and gulped a mouthful of the stuff.

  I sat beside her on the bed. For minutes we said nothing. Then, in a calmer tone, she said to me, “How much do you know?”

  “Only about your grievous time in the millinery shop.”

  “And now you are undoubtedly wondering how I was able to put that humiliation behind me and move forward.”

  “It was marriage to Papa?”

  “Yes. I had become friends with his sister. She was one of the patrons of my aunt’s shop. I had confided in her, and one day as I finished work, she met me at the door of the place, took me to her home, and introduced me to William.”

  She told me more, much more, but I barely listened. I was deep in my own thoughts, and a sort of sympathy settled within me. Now at last I was able to understand her obsession with propriety. She must have feared that her early fate might somehow blight the lives of her daughters. A prudent marriage was the way, the only way, that a woman could establish herself comfortably in York society.

  I took her hand in mine. “I understand a good deal now, Mama. I shall tell no one about this diary and its contents. You have my word.”

  * * *

  Now as I stood in the front hall to wave goodbye to the soldiers, Mama came up beside me. Together we stood and watched them climb into the carriage. As they moved west towards the garrison, Mama turned to me. “I believe we did the right thing in looking after those men,” she said. She walked away from me then and headed towards the withdrawing room. Over her shoulder, she added, “Eliza, Mary, and I have some petticoats to hem. Why don’t you take a walk down along the lake? It is such a pleasant day.”

  Did my mother fear me? Was every moment of her life spent worrying about whether I would divulge her secrets?

  I smiled to myself as I donned my cloak and found a pair of gloves. I could only too well imagine the stitchery scene in the parlour. Perhaps one day soon, I would be forced to be part of it. But for the time being, I intended to savour my freedom.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  November, 1813

  Annie Powell and her husband were having their early morning meal in the breakfast-room. She could smell the scent of bread in the bake oven belowstairs. No need to chastise Cook this morning. Annie was in a good mood; she had slept well. It was so pleasant being back now in her own bedchamber, to lie alone on her own mattress, away from the snores and farts of William.

  It appeared to be a pleasant day for William, too. He had slathered marmalade over his freshly made toast and eaten three eggs instead of his usual two. Now he removed the napkin from his neck as he always did in preparation for departure to his law office in the Parliament Building.

  “So all is well with you, husband?”

  “Indeed.” He smiled at her. “I believe I did the right thing in allowing those soldiers to mend their wounds here. No one suspects me now of Yankee sympathies. I have attracted favourable attention from our interim Governor and all the members of the Legislative Council and when Gore returns, as I believe he soon will, I can see myself ensconced as Chief Justice, the position I truly deserve.” Her husband rose from his chair, threw down his napkin, and puffed out his chest. “Yes, it was an excellent idea of mine to take in those wounded men.”

  “Ah, Chief Justice. That position is long overdue, my dear, and no one could deserve it more than you. But right now I must make one small correction in what you have said. Remember that it was our daughter Anne who first proposed the idea of looking after those soldiers.”

  “Really? That is not my recollection. She agreed with me for once, and certainly that was one of her best moments. But it was I who made the proposal.”

  Best to keep my mouth shuttered!

  “And now, my dear wife, since we are talking about that impossible girl, I have some plans that I intend to put into action. She’s twenty-five years old now, not really a girl anymore, and it’s past the time that she married and moved out of this house forever.”

  “Well, as you know, husband, I have always wanted our daughters to make prudent marriages. Whom have you in mind?”

  “John Beverley Robinson seems attracted to her. What an achievement it would be if we could marry her off to him! My recommendation has secured him the post of Attorney-General of Upper Canada, and I believe he must feel gratitude . . .”

  “And obligation?”

  “Of course. To marry into the Powell family would forever endear him to me—he must know that—and ensure as well a further rise into York’s establishment.”

  “It seems perfect, William. But . . . ”

  “There must be no hesitation, Annie. We must encourage this connection now. I expect your full compliance.”

  In a moment he was gone from the breakfast room into the front hall. Another couple of minutes and Annie heard the front door slam. So that was that. His strong, if unspoken, message was that it was her duty to see that Robinson and Anne were thrown together at every opportunity.

  We
ll, she would do what she could to promote the venture. A good and proper marriage would be just the right thing for her daughter.

  But would Anne comply? Her husband had no idea she had allowed the girl to go freely about the town in the last few weeks. And what a dreadful mistake that had been. Just yesterday she heard what Anne had been up to in those days of freedom.

  Annie had gone into Mr. Boulton’s shop to pick up a hat that the girl Bess had made. As she was trying it on before one of the mirrors in the establishment, the wench had said words that knocked the breath from her.

  “Oh, ma’am, thank your daughter, please do, for what she done to help me sister Phoebe when she gave birth. For certain, Phoebe be dead now if Miss Powell did not untangle the cord and pull the babe forth.”

  Annie remembered struggling to her feet, slamming the chair back against a wall. “Pray wrap the hat up now and let me be on my way. I wish to hear no more details about your sister. You are here to serve me and not to talk to me of things in which I have no interest.”

  The wench had apologized, wringing her hands, sobbing aloud, and running to open the door to the street. As Annie departed, she could see Mr. Boulton come from the back of the shop, presumably to ask the girl what had happened. My God, she thought, in a day the news will be all over town. But she had been fortunate thus far. There had been no gossip. From what she could tell, Mr. Boulton had not found out the truth or if he had, he had decided not to spread it.

  It was evident that Anne had used the freedom she had been given in the vilest of ways. Midwifery! It was an occupation for the lower orders, not for the daughter of William Dummer Powell and his wife.

  * * *

  But later in the morning, as Annie stood in the dining-room sorting out the knives, forks, and spoons that needed cleaning, she had second thoughts. Though four of her nine children were now dead —lying in graveyards or at the bottom of the sea—all of them had been safely delivered into a new world, thanks to the skills of the women who had stood by her during her long hours of pain. These women had called themselves midwives.

  Midwives, yes, they had helped her, but then so had Cook, Lucy the maid, Henry the footman—and all those of the serving classes that she had depended on over the years. She had always taken the serving classes for granted. Why should she think better of midwives?

  And yet, midwives did have special skills. She thought of that serving girl here in this house whom Anne had helped. Anne had understood that the wench was birthing and did not have dropsy, the diagnosis of Grant, her well-educated doctor son. People respected doctors, did they not? Why, then, did midwives not have the same stature? Her husband’s own sister might not have died in childbirth if she had had the services of a midwife.

  Annie pressed the button on the mantel of the dining-room hearth, and in a moment Lucy appeared in the doorway. “Take this cutlery and clean it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lucy said, gathering the pieces into her apron.

  Watching the girl’s back as she left for the belowstairs kitchen, Annie again thought of those long-ago midwives pulling forth nine healthy babes from her womb and protecting her from the puerperal fever that had carried off so many of her acquaintances who had not had midwives to guide them through the birthing process.

  As Annie went through her morning’s duties—giving instructions to Cook, Lucy, and Henry—she weighed in her mind the balance between midwifery and marriage. Marriage it must be, she decided finally. The beautiful daughter of the most eminent family in York must make a prudent selection from the most eligible of York’s young men, marry him, and set up an establishment that would be an example to all around her. Midwifery would be an unconscionable choice, a descent into the depths of society from which there could be no escape.

  Her husband was right. Anne must marry John Beverley Robinson, and she, Annie Powell, must do everything within her power to see that propriety was the girl’s choice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Early December, 1813

  The freedom Mama allowed me during these last few weeks had been bliss. I was even able to assist at several births in the town, though I always used the pretext of shopping at the market with Lucy. These were births to women Mama would consider beneath her—women she would dismiss as “the serving classes”—and their station in life made it easy for me to keep my secrets from her. She would never converse with such people, nor they with her, and hence I hoped she would never find out about what I had been up to.

  But this morning offered a surprise or two.

  I had just donned my cloak and warm gloves for a walk along the lake when the doorknocker banged. I opened the door to find John Beverley Robinson standing on the threshold. He was out of breath and his face was red, from the wind or perhaps from his evident rush up the front walk.

  “Mr. Robinson, please come in.”

  “I cannot stay, thank you. But I need your help. Now, please.”

  Mama had crept up behind me at this point, and she burst into our conversation. “What is the matter, sir? How can we assist you?”

  “Not you, ma’am. It is your daughter I need.” He put out his hand and pulled me towards him. “My sister is giving birth at this moment. She’s screaming and in terrible pain. My brother-in-law said—”

  “Mr. Boulton, is it? I might have known. That dreadful shop girl of his, Bess, must have given him my daughter’s name. I cannot allow her to take part in such—”

  “Mama, please, this is my affair. If Mrs. Boulton needs me, I must go.” I turned my back on her and grabbed Mr. Robinson’s arm. “I am ready, sir. Lead on.”

  We headed down the path, and I was grateful that my companion made no comment on Mama’s loud protests following us as we crossed into the main thoroughfare. She was my mother, after all, and I would have felt compelled to defend her harangue, however much I hated it.

  We scurried along towards John Street and the brick cottage where Mr. Robinson’s brother-in-law, sister, and small nephews lived. I had not expected Sarah Boulton to be in birthing mode again. She was two years younger than I, had been married only yesterday it seemed—though it was perhaps four years ago—and already she was about to produce a third infant. I thought of the turmoil of a household filled with a babe and two small children. And if she lived through this pregnancy, there would surely be several more . . .

  Mr. Robinson interrupted my thoughts. “The woman everyone calls Granny is in the house now, but Sarah told me, through her screams, to get you, Miss Powell. It seems that Granny is no longer persona grata with the upper class in this town. Word has got around that you are the woman to be present in these most private of moments.”

  Granny? The old woman who taught me the basics at Marguerite Vallière’s birthing? I had no time to ask questions for at that moment Mr. Robinson and I reached the front door of the cottage. We entered without preamble, and I was no sooner in the front hall than I heard the screams of the expectant mother.

  “What we need is a hyena,” my companion said, grinning.

  “What?”

  “Pliny the Elder believed that if you put the right foot of a hyena on a pregnant woman, it would be an easy birth.”

  I remembered that I had once liked John Beverley Robinson’s ease with a quotation. But now, recognizing the pain that his sister must be experiencing, I found his remark objectionable. But I said nothing as he pushed me ahead of himself towards the door of a room to the right of the entrance hall. Once inside the tiny, overheated bedchamber, I saw the woman he called Granny wiping the sweat from Sarah’s forehead and making some soothing sounds in the back of her throat. Yes, it was the midwife who had set me straight during Marguerite Vallière’s birthing.

  “You may leave now,” Mr. Robinson said to the woman. “We have no further need of your services.” To his sister, he added, speaking loudly over her moans of pain, “I have brought you Miss Powell as you requested.”

  I turned to Granny, hoping that I did not show my embarrassment at no
t remembering her real name. “I shall, of course, do what I can to assist you, ma’am, but you must stay with me until Mrs. Boulton delivers her child. I remember how great a boon you were to me in times gone by.” To Mr. Robinson I said, “She must stay. She is an excellent midwife who once helped me overcome my total ignorance of the process of birthing.”

  He turned away, slamming the door as he exited. I was glad to see him go. Now Granny and I could concentrate on what was important.

  I leaned over Sarah. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face red and swollen. With each contraction, she seemed to push harder as if she could not wait to get rid of the small body within her.

  I noticed that her legs were too close together. “Try to hold the babe back,” I said to her, “until we can get you stretched enough to push it out.” Granny pulled her legs apart, working to stretch the opening. Soon we could both see the head coming through. Five minutes more and Granny had the babe in her arms. It was a perfect little boy. My attention now turned to Sarah whose blood was pouring onto the sheets.

  I rushed out into the front hall and went down the back stairs into the kitchen where the maid had a pot of boiling water ready. She handed it to me, along with several clean cloths and sheets that she took from the table.

  Mr. Boulton and his brother-in-law were seated nearby, drinking glasses of grog. I told them about the successful birth of the child. I expected some relieved comments from them. Instead I heard Mr. Robinson ask, “Did you really need Granny? I assumed you could handle things on your own.” I could hear the irritation in his voice. After showing a commendable concern for his sister’s welfare, he now seemed to be regretting the expense involved.

  “Perhaps I might have,” I said, “but I could see no reason why you wanted to dismiss the woman. She had done her best to help your sister until my arrival.” I turned to Mr. Boulton. “And you, sir, must have wanted your wife to have all the attention possible during these painful moments.”