With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) (5 page)

Left alone while her aunt saw to the disposing of her niece’s bits and pieces, Kerry shut her eyes in utmost peace and hardly wakened when she was picked up again and carried upstairs. Here, in a quiet, tasteful room that had largely escaped the indulgences of the rest of the house, she was undressed by a round-faced, hefty woman who kept murmuring such things as “scandalous,” “burn these,” and “poor wee lass.” But it felt right, good, and blissfully comforting. When a soft, dainty, white gown was slipped over her head and her senses told her it wasn’t her own Fels Naptha-washed nightie, when she was tucked into a bed where the linens had no lye odor but smelled faintly of lavender, Kerry’s final thought for the day was: “If Cordelia could see me now.” The church mouse slipped away forever as the weary child drifted off to the first sweet and dreamless sleep she had known since her father’s death and the beginning of the nightmare.

Pulling off her long kid gloves and flexing her fingers before removing the pins that had held her monumental hat solidly on her head all day, Charlotte Maxwell laid these items into the hands of Mrs. Finch. As cook and general housekeeper, Mrs. Finch had the oversight of the great house with the help of Finch, her husband. Finch was general factotum, serving as butler when that was needed, handyman at times, and jack-of-all-trades, turning his hand to most anything. In the morning and evening he was available to act as Sebastian Maxwell’s “man.” The other regular help was Gladdy, in her teens and supposedly learning the “ropes” for graduation to full maid. Charlotte Maxwell, proud of being an old-fashioned housekeeper, gave the impression that she managed her home with no other assistance when, in truth, there was a gardener who also served as errand boy, delivery man, washer of windows, painter, anything that wasn’t covered by Finch’s expertise. And of course there was Gideon, always available to take his mistress wherever she might like to go, grooming and caring for the horses, keeping the family rigs in fine and beautiful shape. All were overworked; all were underpaid, and each was a servant, in every sense of the word; it was the way of the times.

“Is my niece settled?” Charlotte asked, leaning toward a gilded mirror and studying her face momentarily, perhaps better satisfied than usual because of the dimness of the lamp light; full sunlight wasn’t kind to the rather horse-faced, sallow-skinned, patrician-nosed lady of the manor.

“Yes, mum. She’s off to dreamland, that one. Settled down right proper. She’ll need a bath tomorrer. I hain’t got her things put away, o’course, but there be’nt many of ’em. What she’ll put on in the mornin,’ I’m sure I don’t know—”

“Yes, yes, a bath in the morning, and as for clothes—get some of Frances’s outgrown things. Now, please bring up a tray. Something light—an omelet, perhaps. Has Mr. Maxwell dined?”

“Long ago, mum. It’s comin’ on midnight, y’ know.” Mrs. Finch slyly pointed out the long day and her personal lengthy contribution, which was not, obviously, about to come to an end any time soon.

Charlotte heard the barely concealed complaint and steeled herself against any unnecessary sympathy (after all, the woman was paid the going wage and was well fed—very well fed, Charlotte thought rather critically as she noted the round face and rotund figure standing before her with guileless eyes. And full of good Maxwell food. Though, goodness knows,
the laborer is worthy of his hire
).

Catching herself in the middle of quoting a Scripture where she had never done so previously, Charlotte Maxwell paused, dumbfounded, chagrined beyond imagining. To be so influenced by one small person! The plan was to
be
an influence. Had she, Charlotte, even in one day, made any impact at all on a child who was almost totally lacking in social skills? Or had that child, blithely and casually,
made
an impact? Charlotte squirmed and flushed hotly just thinking about it. The laborer is worthy of his hire, indeed! Where had the thought come from, and why? Weren’t the Maxwells lenient with their help,
didn’t they pay wages promptly, and didn’t they give out new uniforms each Christmas? What more could they do? Charlotte turned a cold and fishy eye on the woman beaming with satisfaction over a thrust well delivered and added with a sigh, “You may go to bed as soon as the kitchen is tidied. You can pick up the tray in the morning. And on your way down, please stop in at the library and tell Mr. Maxwell I should be happy for an opportunity to see him before he retires.”

Below stairs, in his dark-paneled, comfortable “study,” Sebastian Maxwell turned reluctantly from his desk and the spread of blueprints and papers, removed the much-chewed cheroot stub from his mouth, pulled his vest down over his generous paunch, and prepared to go upstairs to meet his wife. Apt to cushion himself away from the toils of everyday life in the great house, he presumed that, by now, Charlotte would be settling herself for a night’s rest, all reference to mundane matters of the house wisely put aside lest it be upsetting to the head of the home who, above all, relished his quiet and privacy. And just now he had the burden of obtaining property for a summer place, as so many of his contemporaries were doing.

The cost of land for the erection of summer residences had rocketed. Lake Simcoe and Muskoka Lakes were choice areas, and Sebastian felt a glow of satisfaction in having obtained one of the last available sites. Land that had gone for fifty cents an acre could now command over eleven dollars. Cottage life was quickly becoming anything but rustic as the competition to excel spread from society home to society home. Magnificent gingerbreaded palaces were built, some of them with room for as many as fifty guests. To be invited to such a “cottage” was a high honor; to be able to issue such an invitation even more honorable.

Thank goodness,
Sebastian thought fleetingly as he laid aside the plans for his new summer residence. Lotte, as he fondly called his wife, with her naturally supercilious nose and stern-featured face, created an aura of respectability and position that was not always meant nor deserved, but that served Sebastian’s purpose: Never, never give the slightest hint of being in any way socially inferior to the Kirkpatricks.

Lady Kirkpatrick, wife of Ontario’s lieutenant governor, was the haughtiest of the haughty in Toronto society. She had chosen Wednesday as her day for an “at home,” leaving the remaining times available for the anxious ladies of the city as they strove to avoid the social insult of being called “provincial”—one who didn’t know the rules of proper etiquette. Pity the man who laughed too loudly, used slang, or failed to stand slightly to one side or behind his chair, never in front, or in other ways showed ignorance of good and acceptable manners—he was labeled a boor. Good manners mattered intensely. Naturally the best-selling book of the day was Emily Holt’s
Encyclopaedia of Etiquette: What to Write, What to Wear, What to Do, What to Say, A Book of Manners for Everyday Use.

Beatrice Fairfax and Dorothy Dix had columns in the daily newspapers doling out advice to the uninformed: When a woman rises to leave, every man in the room gets to his feet. When calling, a woman does not remove her gloves or wraps; she shakes hands with her hostess, accepts a cup of tea (one only, never more), and does it all without removing her gloves. To do otherwise was to prove oneself gauche, lacking in good breeding, ill-mannered and unfit for genteel circles.

Many a “comer”—that is, one working diligently at being accepted—burned with shame as she pored over the columns and realized that she had been wearing gloves of the improper length to tea or that she had overstayed by five minutes the acceptable half hour allowed for the formal call! Such humiliation.

Sebastian Maxwell, “to the manner (and manor) born” in Scotland, schooled and taught and trained until the proper thing to do was part and parcel of his very being, was correctly suave and polished in all ways. His wife, coming from an excellent though impoverished Scottish family, was a model of propriety. Though no beauty even when young, there had been a glow of health and vigor about her that was attractive. And she had the good breeding necessary for a Maxwell.

Entering his wife’s room, finding her sitting at her dressing table brushing her hair and preparing to braid it for the night, Sebastian moved ponderously across the room and stood behind her. Putting his sausage-fingered hands on her shoulders, he bent and kissed her cheek.

“Home safe and sound, I see. Get the child?” Sebastian spoke in small bursts, whether from preference or because physical effort shortened his breath and reddened his apple-like cheeks. To say more when less would do, to Sebastian, seemed totally unnecessary.

Though his wife knew his aversion to scenes or undue emotion of any sort, her eyes raised, met his in the mirror and, with rare passion she burst forth with, “Child? However Avery raised his daughter, it hasn’t prepared her for a life other than that of a preacher of the gospel! The child is a fountain of admonitions, dire warnings, and predictions. It will take a firm hand and an iron will to make a silk purse out of this . . . sow’s ear!”

Knowing her as he did, studying her in the mirror, noting her face with its heightened color, the sparkle in her rather colorless eyes, and the small touch of energy and even renewed youth about her, Sebastian said, “You do love a challenge, my dear. Are you sure this one isn’t more than you want to tackle?” Unspoken, but delicately hinted at, was her age (and his), and the threat to the peace and quiet of the home; Sebastian felt a small frisson of disquiet in his spirit. But Charlotte, usually sensitive to his moods, flung her braid over her shoulder, squared her shoulders, leaned forward, looked herself in the eye, and said, “I believe I’m up to it!”

M
orning came, as mornings always do, and with it and her awakening, Kerry’s peace and contentment of the previous night were replaced by anxiety. Surely this present happiness would vanish away, and she would find herself back with the nuns, uncertain and afraid. Or back in Mrs. Peabody’s rooming house with Papa snoring across the room, sleeping off a night’s carousing—long hours during which she, Kerry, had nothing to do but peruse the Bible or the outdated catalog once again. A familiar pattern; not one she longed to return to. It was the familiarity she clung to, the stability of something known, something of her own. Though it might be marked with a certain misery, it was misery accustomed to and thus her own. And miserable she had been, and lonely, with an unchallenged mind that craved learning and knowledge and an empty heart that cried for affection and attention.

Once, alone and desperate for something to do, she had cut paper dolls from the catalog—a father and mother and baby. Garments for them were cut from the clothing pages, with little tabs to hang them upon the shoulders of the figures. When that was done, she cut furniture for the dolls’ home, furnishing it room by room with selections from the big book. Thereafter, she played “house.” This game kept her entertained through many a lonely day and long evening. When not playing with the cutouts, the pieces were carefully gathered up and saved between the catalog’s pages, to be lifted out and brought to life again and again. One cold day, to start a fire, her father had carelessly wrenched a handful of paper from the catalog, held a match to it, and tossed it into the fireplace. Kerry, suddenly sick and stricken dumb, had watched the little play family curl and catch fire and burn away to ashes. Her own father’s funeral, not long afterwards, was not cause for any more anguish than the moment her paper friends were taken from her.

That day and many others, alone, and with the fire dying down and the room too cold for comfort, Kerry pulled a quilt around her, sat on the window ledge in the only light there was, and entertained herself as best she could—by reading. And reading the Bible, one of the only two items available, the other being the desecrated catalog.

The Psalms were favorites, and she turned to them. Rather than finding comfort from the beautiful, singing words such as “Keep me as the apple of the eye; hide me under the shadow of thy wings” and other passages equally promising, she brooded over, “My bones are vexed, my soul is also sore vexed,” and, “I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.” And she did; far too often, she did.