A Daughter Rebels Page 13

  Annie nodded agreement. Down the stairs she went, into the kitchen where that dratted roast of pork awaited her. “Show me what to do, Cook,” she said, “and I’ll get to it.”

  She cranked and cranked and cranked, and as the spit turned, she grew hotter and hotter. Grease spat onto her gown, and she asked Cook for an apron.

  After thirty minutes, half past noon, she could stand it no longer. “It will have to do as it is,” she said to Cook. “I must go upstairs now and change into a clean frock before the master comes home. You can slice the outside pieces onto a platter, and we shall eat those.”

  “But what am I to do with the rest of the pig, ma’am? The spit dog, it be coming back soon, ma’am?”

  Annie had no idea, but she did not wish to betray indecision in front of her servant. “I cannot be giving you advice that you should already know yourself. But I will say this: the roast is almost cooked. You do not need the spit dog again this day. Give us the well-done pieces as I told you. Then slice the rest of it and cook it in a pan in the hearth.”

  Once again on the main floor, she turned to mount the staircase to her bedchamber just as her husband came through the front door. “Smells good, my dear,” he said, by way of greeting her. “I am mighty hungry for a good piece of pork.”

  “I shall send Eliza and Mary into the dining-room, husband. Anne is unwell and will not be eating with us. Summon Lucy to bring in the food and begin your meal. I shall join you shortly.” She slipped quickly up the stairs, hoping that William had not noticed the sweat on her face and the grease on her apparel.

  * * *

  After dinner and her husband’s departure, Annie, Eliza, and Mary went into the parlour for their afternoon of sewing. They were making petticoats for the Reverend Mr. Strachan’s charity bazaar at the church. Annie set a small glass of laudanum beside her on the Pembroke table. She did this each day now, no longer hiding it away in the bureau drawer in her bedchamber. It was easier to have it close at hand, and today especially, with the problems of the kitchen and the spit dog haunting her, she felt entitled to take refuge in whatever might settle her nerves.

  Beside her, on the other side of the table, Mary was humming “Yankee Doodle” as she stitched. Did that tune arise from her interest lately in Sam Jarvis whose family had originated in Yankee Land? At least it was pleasant to know she had set aside her grief over Macdonell. Seated on the piano stool with her back to the pianoforte, Eliza seemed to be having trouble threading her needle. Annie looked at her, wondering how many glasses of shrub she had consumed with her dinner of pork roast.

  All was quiet for perhaps half an hour. Then the front door banged open. Annie put down her needle and headed into the hallway to see what the noise was all about. There was her daughter Anne on the threshold accompanied by a tall thin man with dirty hands, wearing leather breeches, and carrying what looked like a tool box.

  “Mama, let me introduce you to Jacques Vallière. He just recently started up a blacksmith shop on King Street. He’s here to take away that disgusting wheel we have in the kitchen, and in its place, he will show Cook how to operate this new contrivance he calls a clock jack. It will turn the spit without torturing poor Sancho. Show it to Mama, if you please, Mr. Vallière.”

  The man set his box on the floor and extracted from it a brass contrivance. But Annie could not look at the thing. Words were running amok in her mind. Oh, my God, this is the same man that Anne ran away to Niagara with. What am I to do?

  She managed to blurt out, “And where is the dog? The dog, where is it?”

  “Sancho has a new home with Mr. Vallière. He is now stretched out sound asleep on a mat in the shop. But we do not think the poor creature will last long. He is near death from the overwork and torture we have allowed.”

  Annie put her hands over her ears. “I cannot talk to you now. Go belowstairs if you must.”

  She turned back towards the parlour. Eliza and Mary had stopped their stitchery and were clearly taking in the whole mess. “What is happening, Mama?” Eliza asked.

  “Do not ask me now,” Annie said, seizing the glass of laudanum and lifting it to her mouth. “I shall tell you the whole story later. Right now, I seek oblivion.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I spent every minute of my waking hours for five days knitting a dark grey spread. My sisters kept asking, “What is it? The colour is so drab.”

  But Mama, who has more knowledge of the craft of knitting, said, “Your pattern is quite intricate, and you’ve executed it well. But why are you wasting time on such a basic square? Your talent would be put to better use on a pretty shawl or some warm socks.”

  I managed to avoid any definitive replies to these questions and comments. It was Saturday, and I knew I must finish some initials in the bottom corner, and the damned thing would be ready.

  * * *

  Sunday morning. Papa, Mama, Eliza, Mary, and I were gathered in the front hall preparatory to leaving for church at St. James. Papa had just picked up his Book of Common Prayer and was looking about. Mama appeared nervous. She was fidgeting, pulling her gloves off and on. We all seemed to be waiting for the inevitable.

  “Where is Lucy?” Papa asked. He turned to Mama. “Get her up here immediately. We’re going to be late.”

  It was at this point every Sunday morning that Lucy appeared carrying Sancho. He went to church with us, carried in Lucy’s arms. Once we were all ensconced in the family pew in the gallery looking down on what my parents called “the lower orders” below, Lucy would hand Sancho to Papa, and the dog would settle on Papa’s feet, serving as foot-warmer. Perhaps he enjoyed this sleepy task on his day off.

  At this moment in the hallway, there was silence. “I need that dog,” Papa said. “And I need it now.”

  He looked at Mama, no doubt expecting her to take charge as she always did. But her face had become very flushed, and she was twisting her hands.

  It was time for me to make my pronouncement. I stepped forward, holding the dark grey spread I had been working on so frantically over the past five days. “Sancho is no longer here, Papa. We have a new and more efficient clock jack in the kitchen now. It turns the spit without the need of the dog. The clock jack will cost you nothing and will eat nothing. Nor will it have to be taken outside to urinate. In fact, this new contrivance is what all fine people in this town will have within a short time. We, of course, are the vanguard.”

  “It is a long speech, girl, and where is it leading? You are saying to me that the dog is no longer here, and I am saying to you”—here Papa raised his voice—“how am I to keep my feet warm in that dratted church?”

  I held out my handiwork. “Here, Papa, this spread I have made for you will do everything and more than Sancho could do to keep you warm and comfortable.”

  He took the spread and looked it over. There was a long pause while he unfolded it to its full length, seeming to note the intricate pattern of the knitting and assessing the warmth of the angora wool I had used. “Hm, hm, hm” were the only sounds he made.

  We all awaited the outcome of his assessment. “It seems quite comfortable,” he said at last, “and I see that you have put my initials in the bottom corner.” I knew then that all that knitting had been worthwhile. He folded the spread up again, tucked it under his arm, and moved towards the front door. “Well then, let us be off.”

  When we arrived at St. James and mounted the stairs to the box pew that the Powell family owned, Papa settled himself and spread the “comforter” (as I was then calling it in my mind) over his legs and feet. He gave a sigh and opened the prayer book to the General Confession. Later he fell into his usual snooze during the Reverend Mr. Strachan’s too-lengthy sermon.

  Coming out of church after the service, we saw Mrs. Jarvis standing at the front door, looking anxious. “Dear sir,” she said to Papa grasping him by his coat sleeve, “Where did you get that beautiful spread? It looks so warm and comfortable. And it’s so much better than having a smelly cur sitting
on one’s feet.” She gave a kick at her own turnspit dog cowering at her heels.

  “Very pleasant, is it not, ma’am?” Papa replied, moving out of her grasp. “I believe that my daughter Anne made it. As you may know, we no longer have need of a turnspit animal. Apparently it’s the custom now to have a . . . what did you call it, daughter?” He turned to me.

  “A clock jack, Papa.”

  “Yes, a clock jack, that is it. And you do not have one yourself, ma’am?” I laughed inwardly hearing the incredulity he forced into his voice.

  Mrs. Jarvis seemed quite dismayed. She scratched her brow and looked at the servant hovering behind her. “Pick up the animal, girl, and when we get home, you must ask Cook about this new contrivance. We must surely obtain one within the next week.” She rushed off towards the carriage awaiting her in the church lane.

  “Put that woman in her place, didn’t I?” Papa said, smiling at me and Mama.

  * * *

  It was only in the evening after Papa retired to bed that Mama accosted me in the parlour where, for the first time in five days, I was having leisure to read one of Miss Austen’s novels that Mrs. Boulton had lent me.

  “I must commend you, dear Anne,” she said. “You managed to stave off an outburst I felt sure was about to erupt.” She smiled at me.

  I knew it was the perfect time to bring up a problem that had been bothering me. “Thank you, Mama. But now I must ask you to give me funds to settle my accounts with Mr. Vallière and his family. We owe him for the clock jack and its installation, of course. And then there is the angora wool that his sister spun from the rabbits she raises.” I mentioned the amount, expecting an outburst.

  But Mama said, “Worth every penny. I shall sell my gold pin with the amethyst, and we shall consider the matter closed.” And off she went to bed, neglecting even to scold me for reading a book that was not the Bible.

  * * *

  I visited Jacques Vallière in his shop the next day to tell him that payment would soon be coming. Sancho was lying asleep in the warmth of the smithy. When he heard my voice, he got up, stretched, wagged his tail, sniffed the hem of my gown, and settled again by the fire.

  “I am so glad, so glad, Jacques, that you have given that poor little animal a happy ending to his life.”

  “And I am happy, too,” he replied. “Thank you, Guy.” It was our private joke.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Spring, 1816

  Since the return of the Gores to our little town in September of last year, Papa had been daily anticipating his promotion to Chief Justice. But nothing had been definitely decided, though the Governor had apparently several times implied that Papa was his first choice. The Brits in London were to be the arbiters of this promotion. The result for the Powell family was months of Papa’s tantrums and sulky silences. He made it clear that neither Mama, my sisters, nor I could do anything right. He focused on me especially, asking me daily about my correspondence with John Beverley Robinson.

  “You are now twenty-nine years of age,” he said to me one night at supper, “and it is time that you left this house and found a suitable establishment of your own. I cannot go on supporting you and all these other members of the weaker sex indefinitely. I have mentored Robinson in all his endeavours. He is a capable lawyer and belongs to a distinguished family, and I continue to hope he will reward my efforts on his behalf by taking you off my hands. Have you done anything in your letters to further encourage him?”

  What could I say to this impertinence? I had heard nothing from my supposed lover—beyond the most banal Christmas note—and I had written nothing to him. I therefore had nothing of import to relate. Moreover, I had long ago decided that I did not really love him and in fact could not marry him without feeling the tenderness and passion that should befit a lover. I bent my head over my bowl of carrot soup and hoped that no one noticed my blush of rage.

  My days at home dragged on. Now that my young nieces had gone to New York to stay with Uncle George, there was no laughter in the house. I stitched petticoats, taught a group of children at the Reverend Mr. Strachan’s Sunday school, and listened to my parents’ strictures on every aspect of my life. It was all insupportable. Hope blossomed briefly when Mama received a letter from Brother John in Niagara. He wrote he had recovered from the horrors of the war and had built a fine brick residence. He and Isabella were now the proud parents of a new babe whom they had named William. “Well, better late than never,” Mama said, “though their first-born should have been given your Papa’s name.”

  “May I not go and visit them, Mama?” I asked. “Papa would be glad to have me out of this establishment—of that I am certain—and I could help Isabella with her family duties.”

  “Tush, girl,” she replied. “Your father has no money for idle holidays. Your nieces’ educational expenses in New York will be considerable.”

  Words pop from my mouth at times, and I confess to doing little to control these outbursts. “Such an education will no doubt make the girls more attractive to suitors,” I said, “and will amply repay their grandfather for all the expense of female education which has hitherto cost him almost nothing.”

  To my surprise Mama began to cry. “You surely know, Anne, that I have done all I could to promote your education over the years. The fact that I have been unsuccessful is a constant thorn in my flesh.” She took a handkerchief from her bodice and wiped her eyes.

  I felt compassion for her. What she said was undoubtedly true, but I was unable to offer comfort at that moment. I was in fact at my wits’ end. I knew that, somehow, I must come up with a plan to leave a family situation that was every day more and more permeated with conflict and tension.

  * * *

  Papa’s announcement at supper a few days later offered me a plan. We were eating Cook’s fine lemon cake, and Papa had just helped himself to a third glass of shrub from the punch bowl in the middle of our dining-room table. The sweet rum and citrus fruit mixture had lightened his mood, and he made an announcement that lifted my spirits as well.

  “I have applied for leave to visit England. There, as Governor Gore said, I must visit the Inns of Court and find people of prestige who will be willing to secure my position of Chief Justice for which I have waited so many months.”

  “An excellent idea, William,” my mother said.

  “And what a golden opportunity for me as well, Papa.” An idea had come suddenly to my beleaguered mind.

  “You, daughter? What the devil do you mean?”

  “I shall go with you,” I said. “I can then arrange to meet Beverley Robinson, and we can make plans for—”

  Papa choked on a mouthful of shrub, spewing it over the polished surface of the table. “A daughter leaves home only as a bride,” he said. To punctuate this dictum, he clinked his fork against his glass. It was the equivalent of the bang of the gavel in his courtroom. “I shall see Robinson myself when I am in England and find out his plans.”

  “But surely, William, we must at least consider Anne’s suggestion. Her presence in England would surely be a boon. She could persuade her lover to come to an agreement. . .”

  My sisters Mary and Eliza murmured their assent.

  Papa rose from the table. “I will sit here no longer,” he said. “I, who provide the wherewithal for this establishment, will stay not one moment longer to listen to the squawks of a flock of hens.” He left the room.

  “The rooster has crowed,” I asked, “and we are to cackle no longer?”

  Mama put her hand out and touched my arm. “Do not worry, daughter. I shall return to the issue tomorrow morning over breakfast. To get into an argument now would be useless. But your idea of going to England is an excellent one. Already in my mind’s eye I can see you and Mr. Robinson seizing the opportunity to firm up your partnership.”

  It was not the time to tell her that I had no intention of firming up anything with the man. I needed only to escape from the confines of my wretched life at home and explore
new horizons. I would settle how to escape when I set foot on English soil.

  I clasped her hand in mine. “Yes, Mama,” I said. “You who have lived with the man all these years must surely understand the best approach. I leave you to settle the matter for me.”

  * * *

  Early next morning, I listened for the sound of Mama’s footsteps on the stairs. Good. In a very few minutes, I heard Papa’s tread. I waited for a minute or two, then I crept quietly from the bedchamber that I shared with my sisters and settled myself on the top step of the staircase to listen to my parents’ morning discussion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Annie sat in her chair at the table in the breakfast-room. She looked at the offerings Cook had just placed on the cloth. Putting her hand on the slices of bread in the basket, she felt their warmth and smelled their fragrance. Yes, this was fresh bread, not the reheated slices that Cook sometimes tried to foist upon them. The eggs on William’s plate were the way he liked them—lightly fried—and the bacon beside them was stiff in its crispness.

  She could hear William’s heavy footsteps coming through the hallway. In an instant he had settled in his chair across from her. There was no greeting, but this she had not really expected. She watched as he reached for a slice of bread, sniffed it, put it on his plate, and slathered it with butter and the black-currant jam that was one of Cook’s best offerings. All was well, obviously. She waited until he had gobbled the bread, taken a second slice and mopped it into his eggs, and then she began the conversation she had planned during a sleepless night.