Alias Grace (25 page)

“Dr. DuPont says he would be especially interested,” says the Governor’s wife. “Dr. Jerome DuPont, whose acquaintance you have already made. He has such breadth of, he has such a wide range of…of things that interest him.”

“Oh, I would find that fascinating,” says Lydia, looking at Simon from under her long dark lashes. “I hope you will!” She hasn’t said much this evening; but then, she hasn’t had much chance, except to refuse the offers of more fish that have been pressed upon her by Reverend Verringer. “I have always wondered what it would be like, to go mad. Grace won’t tell me.”

Simon has a picture of himself in a shadowy corner with Lydia. Behind a drapery; a heavy mauve brocade. If he were to encircle her waist with his arm — gently, so as not to alarm her — would she sigh? Would she yield, or push him away? Or both.

Back in his lodgings, he pours himself a large glass of sherry, from the bottle he keeps in the armoire. He hasn’t had a drink all evening — the beverage at Verringer’s supper party was water — but somehow he’s as fuzzy-headed as if he had. Why did he agree to address the devilish Tuesday circle? What are they to him, or he to them? What can he say to them that would make any sense to them at all, considering their lack of expertise? It was Lydia, her admiration, her appeal. He feels as if he’s been ambushed by a flowering shrub.

He’s too exhausted to stay up late, and read and work as usual. He goes to bed, and sleeps at once.

Then he’s dreaming; an uneasy dream. He’s in a fenced yard where laundry flaps on a line. No one else is there, which gives him a sensation of clandestine pleasure. The sheets and linens move in the wind, as if worn by invisible swelling hips; as if alive. As he watches — he must be a boy, he’s short enough to be looking upwards — a scarf or veil of white muslin is blown from the line and undulates gracefully through the air like a long bandage unrolling, or like paint in water. He runs to catch it, out of the yard, down the road — he’s in the country, then — and into a field. An orchard. The cloth has tangled in the branches of a small tree covered with green apples. He tugs it down and it falls across his face; and then he understands that it isn’t cloth at all but hair, the long fragrant hair of an unseen woman, which is twining around his neck. He struggles; he is being closely embraced; he can scarcely breathe. The sensation is painful and almost unbearably erotic, and he wakes with a jolt.

Chapter 22

Today I am in the sewing room before Dr. Jordan. There’s no sense in wondering what has delayed him, as gentlemen keep their own hours; so I continue to sew, while singing a little to myself.

Rock of ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in thee;

Let the water and the blood,

From thy riven side which flowed,

Be of sin the double cure,

Cleanse me from its guilt and power.

I like this song, as it makes me think of rocks, and water, and the seashore, which are outside; and thinking of a thing is next best to being there.

I did not know you could sing so well, Grace, says Dr. Jordan, coming into the room. You have a beautiful voice. He has dark circles under his eyes, and looks as if he hasn’t slept a wink.

Thank you, Sir, I say. I used to have more occasion for it than I do now.

He sits down, and takes out his notebook and pencil, and also a parsnip, which he places on the table. It is not one I would have selected, having an orange tint, which means they are old.

Oh, a parsnip, I say.

Does it bring anything to mind? he asks.

Well, there is Fine words butter no parsnips, I say. Also they are very hard to peel.

They are kept in cellars, I believe, he says.

Oh no, Sir, I reply. Outside, in a hole in the ground with straw, as they are much improved by being frozen.

He looks at me in a tired fashion, and I wonder what has been causing his loss of sleep. Perhaps it is some young lady which is on his mind, and not returning his affection; or else he has not been eating regular meals.

Shall we continue with your story where we left off? he says.

I’ve forgotten just where that was, I say. This is not quite true, but I wish to see if he has really been listening to me, or just pretending to.

With Mary’s death, he says. Your poor friend Mary Whitney.

Ah yes, I say. With Mary.

Well, Sir, the way in which Mary died was hushed up as much as possible. That she had died of a fever may or may not have been believed, but nobody said no to it out loud. Nor did anyone deny that she’d left her things to me, in view of what she had written down; though there were some raised eyebrows at her writing it, as if she’d known ahead of time that she was going to die. But I said rich people made their wills beforehand, so why not Mary; and then they said no more. Nor was anything said about the writing paper, and how she had got hold of it.

I sold her box, which was good quality, and also her best dress, to Jeremiah the peddler, who came around again just after her death; and I also sold him the gold ring which she kept hidden under the floor.

I told him it was to pay for a decent burial, and he gave me a fair price and more. He said he’d seen death in Mary’s face, but then, hindsight is always accurate. He also said he was sorry for her death, and would say a prayer for her, although what sort of a prayer I could not imagine, as he was a heathenish sort of man, with all his tricks and fortune-telling. But surely the form of a prayer does not matter, and the only distinction God makes is between good will and ill; or so I have come to believe.

It was Agnes who helped me with the burial. We put flowers from Mrs. Alderman Parkinson’s garden into the coffin, having asked permission; and it being June, there were long-stemmed roses and peonies; and we chose only the white ones. I scattered the petals of them over her as well, and I slipped in the needle-case I’d made for her, but out of sight, as it might look wrong otherwise, being red; and I cut a piece off the back of her hair to remember her by, and tied it together with a thread.

She was buried in her best nightdress, and she didn’t look dead in the least, but only asleep and very pale; and laid out all in white like that, she was just like a bride.

The coffin was pine boards and very plain, as I wanted a stone grave marker too for the money; but I had only enough for her name. I would have liked a poem, such as
From Earth’s dark shadows
though you flee, When in Heaven, remember me,
but it was greatly beyond my means. She was put with the Methodists on Adelaide Street, off in a corner right next to the paupers, but still within the churchyard, so I felt I had done all for her that I could. Agnes and two of the other servants were the only ones present, as a suspicion must have gone around that Mary had died under a shadow; and when they shovelled the dirt in on top of the coffin and the young minister said Dust to dust, I cried as if my heart would break. I was thinking of my poor mother as well, who’d had no proper burial with dirt on top the way it should be, but was just tossed into the sea.

It was very hard for me to believe that Mary was truly dead. I kept expecting her to come into the room, and when I lay in bed at night I sometimes thought I could hear her breathing; or she would be laughing just outside the door. Every Sunday I would lay flowers on her grave, not from Mrs. Alderman Parkinson’s garden, as that was just the one special occasion, but wildflowers that I would pick in waste lots or beside the lakeshore or wherever I could find them growing.

Soon after Mary’s death I left Mrs. Alderman Parkinson’s. I didn’t like to stay, as ever since Mary had died, Mrs. Alderman Parkinson and Mrs. Honey were not friendly towards me. They must have thought I’d helped Mary in her relations with the gentleman, whose name they believed I knew; and although I had not, it is hard to put an end to suspicion once it has begun. When I said I wished to leave my situation, Mrs. Alderman Parkinson did not protest, but instead had me into the library and asked very earnestly once more if I knew the man; and when I said I did not, she asked me to swear on the Bible that even if I did, I would never divulge it, and she would write me a good reference. I did not like being mistrusted in this manner, but I did as required, and Mrs. Alderman Parkinson wrote the reference, and said kindly that she never had any fault to find with my work, and gave me a present of two dollars upon leaving, which was generous, and found me another situation, with Mr. Dixon, who was also an Alderman.

At Dixon‘s I was paid more, as I was now trained and with a reference. Dependable servants were scarce, as many had left for the States after the Rebellion, and although there were new immigrants arriving all the time, the deficiency was not yet made up, and help was much in demand; and because of this, I knew that I did not have to stay in any place if I did not like it.

I found I did not like it at Mr. Dixon’s, as I felt they knew too much of the story, and treated me strangely; so after half a year I gave notice, and went to Mr. McManus’s; but I was not well suited there, as I was only one of two servants, the other being a hired man who talked a great deal about the end of the world, and the tribulation and the gnashing of teeth, and was not much company at meals. I stayed only three months, and was hired away by Mr. Coates, and stayed until some months after my fifteenth birthday; but there was another servant who was jealous of me, as I was more careful in my work than she was; so when I heard of the opportunity I went to Mr. Haraghy, at the same wages as at Coates’s.

That went on well enough for a time, but I began to be uneasy, as Mr. Haraghy attempted liberties in the back passage while I was carrying out the dishes from the dining room; and although I remembered Mary’s advice about kicking between the legs, I thought it would not be right to kick my employer, and might also lead to dismissal without a reference. But then one night I heard him outside the door of my attic chamber; I recognized his wheezy cough. He was fumbling with the latch of the door. I always locked myself in at night, but I knew that lock or no lock, sooner or later he would find a way of getting in, with a ladder if nothing else, and I couldn’t sleep easy for thinking of it; and I needed my sleep, as I was very tired from the day’s work; and once you are found with a man in your room you are the guilty one, no matter how they get in. As Mary used to say, there are some of the masters who think you owe them service twenty-four hours a day, and should do the main work flat on your back.

I believe Mrs. Haraghy suspected something of the sort. She was from a good family fallen upon hard times, and she’d had to take pot luck in the way of a husband; and Mr. Haraghy had made his fortune in hog butchering. I doubt it was the first time Mr. Haraghy had behaved in this way, because when I gave notice, Mrs. Haraghy did not even ask me why, but sighed, and said I was a good girl, and wrote me a reference right away on her best writing paper.

I went to Mr. Watson’s. I could have done better if I’d had the time to look about me, but I’d felt speed was necessary, as Mr. Haraghy had come wheezing and panting into the scullery while I was scouring the pots, with my hands all covered with grease and smuts, and had attempted to seize hold of me despite it, and that was the sign of a desperate man. Mr. Watson was a shoemaker and in great need of help, with a wife and three children and a fourth on the way, and he had only one servant who was not up to all the washing, although a good plain cook; and so he was willing to pay me two dollars and fifty cents a month and a pair of shoes into the bargain. I needed shoes, as the ones I had from Mary’s things did not fit properly and my own were almost worn through, and new shoes were very expensive.

I was there only a short time before I made the acquaintance of Nancy Montgomery, who came to visit, having grown up in the country with Mrs. Watson’s cook Sally. Nancy was in Toronto to make some purchases at a dry-goods auction down at Clarkson’s stores; she showed us some very pretty crimson silk which she’d bought for a winter dress, and I wondered what a housekeeper would be wanting with a dress like that; and some fine gloves, and an Irish linen tablecloth on behalf of her employer. She said it was better to buy at auction than from a store, as the prices were cheaper, and her master liked to stretch a penny. She had not taken the coach into town, but had been driven in by her master, which she said was much more comfortable, as you did not have to be jostled by strangers.

Nancy Montgomery was very handsome, dark-haired, and of about twenty-four years of age; she had beautiful brown eyes, and she laughed and joked much as Mary Whitney had done, and seemed very good-natured. She sat in the kitchen and took a cup of tea, and she and Sally talked over old times.

They’d gone to school together north of the city, it being the first school in the district and conducted by the local minister on Saturday mornings, when the children could be spared from their work. It was held in a log house, more like a stable, said Nancy; and they had to walk to it through the forest, and were always afraid of bears, which were more numerous then; and one day they did see a bear, and Nancy ran away screaming, and climbed a tree. Sally said the bear was more frightened than Nancy was, and Nancy said it was probably a gentleman bear and it was running away from something dangerous that it had never seen before, but might have caught a glimpse of as she climbed the tree; and they laughed very much. They told about how the boys pushed over the privy at the back of the school while one of the girls was in it, and they hadn’t warned the girl, but watched along with all of the others, and then they felt wrong about it afterwards. Sally said it was always the shy ones like that who got picked on, and Nancy said yes but you had to learn to stand up for yourself in this life; and I thought that was true.

While gathering her shawl and things together — she had a lovely parasol, pink in colour, although in need of cleaning — Nancy told me she was housekeeper to Mr. Thomas Kinnear, Esq., who lived in Richmond Hill, up Yonge Street past Gallow’s Hill and Hogg’s Hollow. She said she was in want of another servant to help her with the work, the house being large and the girl who was there before having left to get married. Mr. Kinnear was a gentleman of a fine Scottish family, and easygoing in his habits, and was not married; so there was less work, and no mistress of the household to carp and criticize, and would I be interested in the position?