A Daughter Rebels Page 2

  But for now, there was still some coffee left in the pot. She poured it into her cup and added a dollop of the whipped cream that she always ordered for her husband’s breakfasts. Then she pressed the button on the mantel. Time to chastise Cook for her abortive attempt to pass off stale bread. Then she must remind the maid Lucy to air the small Persian carpets on the back clotheslines. Lucy had come to them upon the recommendation of Hannah Jarvis, and she was proving to be a gem, willing to undertake the most mundane tasks. The fact that she was a plain girl with a large nose and protruding ears was an asset, too. She was unlikely to have a lover.

  She heard footsteps dragging up the staircase from the basement. Cook must know why she was being summoned.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Could I stand another afternoon like the one I had just endured?

  At two o’clock Mama delegated to me the care of my brother William’s daughters. They were sweet little girls, but they missed their silly mother and their dead father. I tried to divert them with a game of blind man’s bluff, but Mama complained of the noise and set them to stitching samplers.

  I told her, “Really, you can’t expect two small children to sit still and do stitchery all afternoon,” but she merely stared at me and handed them over to Eliza. Eliza kept them happy by singing nursery rhymes with them as they pulled their needles through the canvas. “God Bless Our House” was the idiocy on little Annie’s sampler, while Maria’s said “Faith, Hope, and Cherity.” I seemed to be the only one who noticed the spelling error. I said nothing because if I had, Mama would have made the child pull out the stitches and start again.

  So the six of us—Mama, my sisters and I, and my nieces—sat around in this damnable parlour for three hours. Mama long ago set down the rules for these stitching sessions. “No chatter.” She borrowed that expression from Papa, no doubt. “Chatter” did not, however, preclude any lectures she herself might choose to give us.

  I was knitting stockings for Mrs. Gore’s accursed Spot. Unfortunately the beast had four legs, and I had only just finished the second sock. But Mama was determined to curry favour with the lady and decided to achieve this through my efforts. I tried to drop as many stitches as I could without her noticing.

  Outside, the sun shone, and I itched to go for a walk along the lakefront, but I knew Mama would remind me that it was unseemly for a young woman to walk alone. She always brought up the subject of Mrs. Small who used to meet up with officers from the garrison on her solitary walks. Mrs. Small was married to a clerk in the government whose main claim to fame seemed to be the killing of a former Attorney-General in a duel over the lady’s dubious virtue. Mama has always refused to attend any social event at which “The Woman Small” (her phrase) might be present.

  “But the duel was almost eight years ago,” I said at our last stitching session. “Can she not be forgiven?”

  “Mrs. Small represents all that polite society must not tolerate. I have made clear to Governor Gore that I will attend no social gatherings to which the Woman Small has been invited. Most of the ladies in our circle agree with me.”

  “I am to understand, then, that my sisters and I must obey this rule as well?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why then do we waste our time dyeing our gowns and turning them inside out so that the shiny spots do not show? We shall never get to wear them to a party.”

  “Caring for gowns is a necessary skill for the housewife. When you are married, you will understand the point of what you have learned in this house.”

  “Back to Mrs. Small,” I said. “You must know why Governor Gore is angry with you. He wants to bring harmony to this muddy little town, and you stand up to him over this stupid idea you have about Mrs. Small. Papa lost a promotion through your stubbornness. Surely caring for a husband’s place in society is also a necessary skill for a housewife?”

  Mama became quite apoplectic at this point. She threw her needlework into the walnut box that holds it and slammed the lid shut. And then she gave me her standard lecture on my insubordination.

  So on this occasion, not wishing to extend that lecture, I made no mention of my desire to take a walk. I kept knitting. And knitting. And knitting . . . But at the back of mind, I was contemplating the excitement that I would be part of in the evening. It would be an excursion into a completely new world. Our maid Lucy had arranged it, and we had only to wait for my parents’ exodus to their subscription ball at the tavern.

  Just as I was thinking about this evening’s adventure, Lucy appeared in the doorway. She took in our little scene, gave me a furtive wink, and then cleared her throat.

  “Excuse me, madam, but Mrs. Jarvis is at the front door and has sent in her card. Shall I say that you are at home?”

  “Good heavens, girl. You know I am always at home to Mrs. Jarvis. Send her in.”

  The maid had scarcely turned away before Mama was straightening her cap which had come askew. “Put your knitting away,” she said to me. “Mrs. Jarvis does not need to know what you are doing. Mary, hide that stocking you are darning. Eliza, no more nursery rhymes now, please. Just let her observe my granddaughters at their samplers. It makes a lovely tableau.”

  So there we were, one happy, happy family for Mrs. Jarvis to see and perhaps envy. Mama will never let anyone know how we really live.

  The lady swept in and, as always, seated herself on our best chair without waiting to be shown to it. I liked that about her. She was a robust, strong-featured woman and unlike my mother, saw nothing wrong in walking out to pay calls without a bonnet. This day her abundant fair hair was swept up into a bunch of curls atop her head.

  I was not sure why she and Mama were friends. There was some mystery here. They were both staunch supporters of our British government, but Mrs. Jarvis was born in America. She had to flee to England during the Revolution. Mama, though born in England, lived during her youth in Boston. I’m not sure why she went there. She will not talk about it. But at any rate, their mutual sojourns in America perhaps accounted for their friendship.

  “I am happy to see your granddaughters with you today, Mrs. Powell. I have just been to the Home District School to talk to the schoolmaster and to enrol my daughters. It is so exciting to have a public school set up in this town now. Will your granddaughters be attending as well?”

  “No. I support my dear husband in his view that the female sex does not need formal education. Training in the domestic arts is, of course, necessary, but I am capable of supplying what is needed in that domain.”

  Mrs. Jarvis made a noise in her throat that sounded a trifle rude, but then she smiled and said, “Well enough. My husband and I, however, feel that women must be prepared to meet the challenges of this world. Some of them will marry, of course, but others may be forced to confront the challenges of spinsterhood and reduced circumstances.”

  “We shall seek out husbands for my daughters and granddaughters when the time comes. I feel certain that any eligible male in the town of York will feel privileged to wed a member of the Powell family.”

  Mrs. Jarvis made another gurgling noise in the back of her throat. There was silence for an instant. Then, as the maid brought in tea and Derby cakes, she turned to me. “I was unable to see you last week, my dear Anne, on the occasion of your nineteenth birthday. You are undoubtedly the belle of York, you know. You will have no difficulty in attracting a handsome and well-established mate. No doubt you will soon be the mistress of a large household.” She turned then to my mother again and winked. “In fact, as I say this, I already have someone in mind.”

  I felt embarrassed and angry. Who on earth could she mean? Surely not her son Sam, a mere schoolboy? Nor that loathsome Quetton St. George who always came to the front stoop of his shop to say “bonjour” when I passed by? He always asked, “Comment vas-tu?” assuming I did not know enough of the language to understand the liberty he took in addressing me as “tu” rather than “vous”. I learned some French long ago when I was a small child loo
ked after by a French nursemaid. I did try the language of the fan yesterday, having borrowed Eliza’s for the day, but in spite of repeated thrusts of it downwards, he pretended not to understand.

  And why did Mrs. Jarvis assume that I was going to marry anyone anyway? Disgusted with the turn in the conversation, I excused myself—ladies are allowed to have headaches, according to Mama—and went upstairs to the verandah where I lay down in the hammock to enjoy the fresh air and noises from the street.

  * * *

  I must have fallen asleep. I got out of the hammock and looked towards the road. The sun had moved downwards in the sky, and our street was filled with shop assistants and government clerks going home from their day’s labours. I recognized a bedraggled young woman named Bess who often made hats for Mama. For some reason, Mama was always quite rude to Bess, calling her “my good woman” in the most condescending terms.

  Since Mrs. Jarvis had undoubtedly departed by this time, I knew it would be safe for me to go downstairs again. I moved towards the door into the house.

  Then I heard Mama’s voice below. She had come out the front door to talk to someone on our first-floor verandah. A man, deep voice, heavily accented. My God. Quetton St. George.

  I couldn’t quite hear his words. Only the tone: unctuous, smooth. But my mother’s voice came through loud and clear. “You presume to ask permission to court my daughter? You, a low shopkeeper! Begone!”

  The front door slammed. I peeked through the slats on the railing. There he was, clattering out onto the road, astride his fine mare Marguerite. Someone told me he named the beast after his amour, Marguerite Vallière.

  Shopkeeper or not, I would have taken the man in an instant if I could have loved him. But I knew about his liaisons, his ever-roving eye for une petite fillette. I watched as he turned his horse westward. He shook his fist in our direction. I saw the frown on his bushy eyebrows and the flush on his narrow face. I had always thought of him as a handsome man, but now, looking down on him, I noticed the flat top of his head. For the first time, I thought of those words I’d heard so often from people like Mama: “Never marry a man with a flat head: for however genteel, polite, tender, plausible or winning he may be, you will repent the day of your espousal.” I had always laughed at this bit of matronly “wisdom,” but now I began to speculate on its truth.

  St. George was one of the wealthiest men in town. All the élite in this place bought their imported wine and sherry from his establishment, also their oranges, their dates, their caviar; in fact, whatever appeared on the best tables in this town came from his shop. But for women like Mama, the fact that he was a merchant put him in the class of people they inevitably labelled persona non grata. And I suspected that the main reason he wanted to court me was to give himself a step up in this wretched little town.

  I heard Mama’s footsteps on the stairs. She opened the door and burst upon me. “The nerve of that man! To think of courting you! I can scarcely speak I am so upset at his effrontery!”

  I pulled her close to me and held her. The next part was so easy. “You did the right thing, Mama. I am grateful to you.”

  She did not need to know the whole truth about this man. Certainly not about his liaisons, especially with Marguerite Vallière. I had been in St. George’s shop last week with our maid Lucy and had seen the girl at the back of the establishment. She was young and pretty, but the huge bulge that showed beneath her dress was attracting the contemptuous stares of two of the women who were also in the shop. Later in the day, Lucy had come to me to ask if I would assist the old granny whom Marguerite’s parents had hired for the birth of the child. I had once confessed to Lucy that I had an interest in learning about childbirth, and she had remembered our conversation. Tonight was to be the occasion of my first entry into midwifery, and I could scarcely contain my excitement.

  * * *

  The case clock in the hallway struck eight, and I heard Mama and Papa go out the front door. I watched them climb into our coach that had pulled up to the entrance of the house. Ten minutes later, Lucy came running upstairs to my bedchamber to tell me that Jacques Vallière, Marguerite’s brother, was waiting for us outside on the roadway in his carriage.

  Eliza and Mary were playing games with my nieces in the parlour, and we crept by them. I was so excited I was afraid they might hear my intakes of breath. But apparently they were not really thinking about me. They knew that I often went belowstairs to chat with Cook and Lucy in the evenings.

  We went north. It was dark and I couldn’t see much. We bumped over rough roads for about half an hour until we came to Marguerite Vallière’s house behind her father’s blacksmith shop about a half-mile from town.

  It was a rough one-room log cabin. I was not really prepared for the crowded squalor of the place: the open hearth, the long kitchen table, the torn curtain that separated the cots from the rest of the room, the dirt floor, and the stink of chamberpots and cabbage soup. Marguerite lay moaning on one of the cots while her parents huddled together at the table.

  When she saw me, she stopped crying. She struggled upwards and wrapped her arms around me. I found the transformation amazing. I patted her back and uttered words of comfort that I did not know I had within me. Marguerite seemed to find solace in having a sympathetic young woman with her in those frightening moments of struggle and pain. She lay back, pulling me with her.

  The midwife, an old granny with a lined face, pushed me aside. “It won’t be long now,” the woman said to me. “If you are here to help, get ready to cut the cord.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Scissors, scissors, get the scissors ready.” The woman’s voice was harsh. I felt like an imbecile. Reluctantly I disentangled myself from Marguerite who immediately renewed her litany of screams and curses in which Quetton St. George’s name was paramount.

  I went out into the main part of the room, got the scissors from Marguerite’s mother, and went back behind the curtain. This time the granny seized the scissors from me, threw them to the floor and shouted at me. “Wash them and wash your hands.”

  And so it went. As the minutes rolled by, I began to learn some of the intricacies of midwifery, especially the need to keep everything clean. At midnight, the granny eased the babe from the womb and laid him in Marguerite’s arms. There was a moment then when she forgot her curses, looked at that tiny form in her arms, and smiled. I smiled too when I saw that perfect little red face and the look of accomplishment on Marguerite’s countenance.

  The old woman whom I had helped that night understood the necessity of cleanliness to avoid puerperal fever and certain death. But she needed someone young like me to keep the sheets changed, the water on the boil, and— yes, the scissors sterilized. I had much to learn. But already I felt more confident in my role.

  Next came the wild scramble, horse and carriage careening down the path, to get me back home before Mama and Papa arrived from the party. Lucy, blessed girl, kept my secret.

  That night in April was perhaps a turning point for me. It had nothing to do with my decision to stay clear of St. George. He was never a factor in my life. It was the midwifery I liked, the sense of giving surcease of pain to a woman in the throes of child-bearing, of enabling somehow a safe and happy conclusion to the agony. That happy ending was what made midwifery most worthwhile. And for the first time, I had been part of the perfect moment when a small being entered our crazy world and for a short time, at least, transformed it.

  That night I knew that I had found my vocation.

  But could I find the courage to run myself into a brick wall?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Annie Powell looked at the four knitted socks her eldest daughter Anne had finally completed. There were several places where the silly girl had dropped stitches, but what was she to do? She had already sent a servant with a note saying she would call upon Mrs. Gore this afternoon with the socks for her beloved dog. Since coming to York, the lady often complained about the coldness of t
he winter months and how dear Spot suffered.

  Annie sighed. Perhaps Mrs. Gore would not notice. The lady was not a knitter herself, preferring to occupy herself with needlepoint. Since it was now November, Annie knew that she would probably be grateful. It was always seemly to have friends in high places, and Annie hoped that the gift of socks would earn her a comfortable place in Mrs. Gore’s estimation.

  She called for Lucy to pull the strings of her stays tight, and when the girl went to fetch her dress from the armoire, she looked at herself in the pier glass. The chaos of her flesh was now pressed into a semblance of order, though she could scarcely breathe. She donned her walking dress and her lined redingote with a shoulder cape and comfortable sleeves that extended over her hands and covered up the brown spots that had erupted there during these past months. Then into some comfortable laced boots and she was ready for the long walk west to Government House at the garrison.

  The maid handed her the packet containing the socks, and then in a hesitant voice added, “One suggestion, ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “You are looking a bit peaked, ma’am. Perhaps . . .” She gestured toward the rouge pot sitting on the vanity.

  “Thank you,” Annie said, seating herself to apply the necessary final touch.

  When she descended, she found the withdrawing room empty except for two of her daughters, Eliza and Anne. Eliza was pounding out a waltz on the pianoforte while Anne read a newspaper. She stood in the doorway, unnoticed, until she cleared her throat.

  “Well, daughters?”

  “Oh, Mama,” Eliza said, folding her piece of sheet music and standing up. “I am so sorry. I was just perfecting this waltz so that I can teach it to the little girls and perhaps play it at our next party here.”