Читать книгу Settlement - Ann Birch - Страница 10

THREE

Anna’s husband must have known that she had arrived in Toronto. At this time of year, there was but one steamboat a day from Niagara, and this vessel had been the last to make the crossing till spring. But he had not come to meet her. She stood alone on the dock, her trunk and portmanteau beside her on the slush-covered planks. The bay had nearly frozen over, and three feet of snow lined the shore, blowing into her face. The other passengers had already commandeered cabs or rushed into the waiting arms of family and friends. What to do next?

In the one letter she had received from Robert weeks ago, he had mentioned a pretty little house he was building with a view of the lake. Where was it? Would it have a hot fire? An obliging maid to serve a tasty dinner? She looked up towards the town, a dingy place of frame and log buildings against the dark gleam of a pine forest.

On the street facing the bay was a tavern towards which a man in a greatcoat and top hat appeared to be heading. She saw him pause to look out towards the lake and the departing steamboat. Then, seeing her alone on the wharf, he moved towards her.

“Help you, ma’am?” He removed his hat and bowed.

He had friendly blue eyes that looked straight at her. Not a young man, middle-aged like herself. Up close, she could see that his coat was well-cut superfine and his gloves, good leather. Evidently a man of stature.

“I’m Anna Jameson. I expected my husband to meet me here, but something must have delayed him.”

“Mrs. Jameson? Ah, you are the Attorney-General’s wife. Welcome to Toronto. The town has been expecting you to arrive.” He smiled. “Do not look surprised. You will soon find that there are no secrets in this place. I’m Sam Jarvis. At your service, ma’am.”

In an instant he had hailed a two-horse wagon on runners, driven by a red-cheeked yokel who made no effort to help. Two swings of Mr. Jarvis’s arm, and her luggage was aboard. Then he steadied her up the step to a wooden plank which served as a seat.

“No. 1, Bishop’s Block, Newgate Street,” he said to the driver, slipping a coin into his outstretched hand. And to Anna, “He’ll get you there safely. Good day to you. Undoubtedly we shall meet again soon. I look forward to it.”

They went west along the street bordering the harbour. It was called Palace Street. What a misnomer! She saw one ugly church, St. James by name, without tower or steeple, and some low government offices of red brick. There seemed to be taverns everywhere, but not a single bookseller’s shop. The snow pelted into her face as they moved through dreary, miry ways, largely solitary because of the storm. It was strangely quiet, the horses’ hooves muffled in the falling snow. Eventually, the wagon stopped—not in front of a pretty little house—but beside one of five forlorn-looking brick row houses, on a desolate street.

The driver set Anna’s luggage by the front door, leaving her to climb down from the seat by herself. She watched him drive off. Across the road she noticed a wretched little shanty and a poor half-starved cow, up to its knees in a snowdrift. She ploughed through the snow and banged on the knocker of the brick house.

The sturdy, grey-haired woman who opened the door looked half surprised, half alarmed to see her. But she straightened her apron and curtsied.

“Come in, ma’am. I be Mrs. Hawkins. I fear we have not finished redding up for your arrival. We supposed the boat might be slow coming through that slushy water.” She led Anna up a creaking, uncarpeted staircase. At the top she called out to a small wiry man, evidently her husband. He lugged Anna’s baggage up the stairs and slung it into a room where the bed was unmade, and the bedding and towels were piled upon the mattress. The fires were out. Everything was as cold and comfortless as the outdoors.

Anna looked into another room made dingy by hideous wallpaper of creeping vines. There was a pine dining table, six chairs and a buffet. She tried to envisage a fine supper party in this room. There was a Coalport dinner service that looked usable on the buffet, and perhaps Robert would spend money to repaper the walls. She lost herself for a moment in reverie; then she noticed that Mrs. Hawkins was concealing something behind her apron. She smelled spirits on the woman’s breath.

“Has Mr. Jameson said when he will arrive home?”

“No, ma’am. It be eight o’clock most days, though he never do say for sure.”

She suspected that the manservant had also been drinking. The decanter of brandy on the buffet was half empty and had no stopper. Tired as she was, she held out her hand to the woman.

“Give me the stopper. Better still, put it back where it belongs. Make your husband and yourself a strong cup of tea and bring one to the bedchamber for me also. Then I expect you to get the fires lighted, these rooms made ready, and the meal preparation under way. When I’ve had my tea, I will go for a walk. I expect everything to be in order when I come back.”

The tea was scalding, and she felt better after drinking it. It was now the middle of the afternoon, and already the light through the dirty windows seemed darker. She made haste to put on her heavy outerwear and went down the stairs, but as she moved towards the door, the servant came running with gaiters and two strange-looking wooden soles mounted on iron oval rings. “These be for the outdoors, ma’am.”

Anna put on the canvas gaiters. She could see that they would provide warmth and protection from the slush. Then Mrs. Hawkins showed her how to put on the things she called “pattens”. They raised Anna’s shoes an inch from the ground, and they made a clanking sound when she moved forward. “You’ll not be noticing it in the snow, ma’am,” the woman assured her.

But when Anna tried to walk down the street, she found it necessary to adopt a kind of waddle, feet far apart, to compensate for the extra width of the pattens. An urchin pointed at her and laughed. Suddenly she was tired, more tired than she had ever been in her life. She turned back to the house, shook off the pattens in the front hall and removed the gaiters. She took her coat and went upstairs.

In the drawing room across the hall from the dining room, she found one comfortable armchair beside a Pembroke table piled high with newspapers. Perhaps it might be a good idea to find out the news in this wretched place, she thought, and took the top paper from the pile. But the headlines blurred in front of her, and her eyes closed.

As she drifted into sleep, she could hear the servants’ voices.

“Thought we’d say good riddance to her for an hour.”

“At least she be asleep. But not for long, I’ll warrant. ‘Meal preparation’, that’s a new one. I’ve got to be finding my recipe book.”

“Shake a leg, woman. Or we’ll have our walking papers.”

A striking clock woke Anna up. She felt much warmer, almost too warm under her coat. The housekeeper and her husband had evidently applied themselves to their labours while she slept. Fires had been lit in each of the fireplaces, and her bedchamber was in order, though there was little in the way of real comfort. Perhaps there were merchants who would supply comfortable chairs or bookcases for her volumes.

The woman brought hot water to Anna’s room, set the pitcher down with a thump, and left, muttering something about recipes. Anna removed her travel-stained clothing and washed herself in the basin. She had kept a new silk dress for the reunion with her husband, and she took it from her trunk. It was of two pieces, with a close-fitting bodice and a full, pleated skirt. The sleeves were narrow at the shoulders and wide at the wrists, and when she raised her arms, the sleeves fell back to show to advantage her white wrists and arms.

While she waited for Robert, she looked around the house. She found a rough pine table in an unused bedchamber and had the manservant put it in her room. At least she now had a desk of sorts. She unpacked some of her books and her drawing materials and spread them out on its surface.

The case clock in the drawing room struck eight, then eight thirty. The door opened. Anna moved into the hallway to greet her spouse. For a moment she stood, unable to speak, seeing afresh after three years’ separation his tall, elegant form, his curly hair and large brown eyes, the right one with a slight strabismus.

“My dear,” he said, extending his fingers so that they brushed her sleeve. “I am happy to see you looking so well.” He smiled.

“I am glad to see you in evident health and good spirits, too, Robert.” She raised her arms to embrace him, but he was already removing his coat with the help of Hawkins. There was a long pause. The servants hovered. “Go belowstairs,” Anna said to them, “and bring up our dinner.”

“I see you have already taken charge, Anna. I fear I am too tired at the end of the day to give instructions. Hawkins and his wife provide a dish of gruel and a decanter of wine.” Robert threw his coat onto a chair. “Let us move into the drawing room.”

He took the comfortable armchair for himself, and she perched opposite him in a straight-backed Windsor chair. He looked her over. “How strange it seems to have you with me again, Anna.”

“If I may borrow a phrase I overheard from one of the boat passengers today, ‘Where the deuce were you when I was freezing my balls off on that blasted wharf?’”

“I am sorry, my dear. I had hoped to be there. But at the last moment, His Majesty’s representative, Sir Francis Bond Head, requested my presence at Government House for coffee. I foresee an opportunity for advancement to Vice-Chancellor of the Province—if the winds are favourable. If one hopes for promotion, one cannot be too assiduous in attendance when the Governor summons. Such are the realities of life in this place.” He paused, his attention diverted by a newspaper beside his chair.

“But why did you not send someone to meet me? Why did you leave me to stand on that freezing wharf dependent on the kindness of a stranger?”

“Ah, that was an oversight for which I must beg your pardon. But apart from my dereliction of duty, I trust your voyage was satisfactory? Not too many impediments to your comfort?”

“I have been two months in transit. I shall spare you the details. Except to say that surely Franklin’s charting of the Arctic seaboard was scarcely more arduous than my trek across the Atlantic to this godforsaken town. But I survived, Robert. I thank you for asking.”

Her husband smiled. “Still the jokester, dear Anna. We must talk further at dinner.”

He picked up the newspaper that had engaged his interest and began reading. Anna counted slowly to ten in English, French, and German. Then she closed her eyes for a few moments, trying to shut out of her vision the strangling vines on the wallpaper and the snow collecting on the inner ledge of the ill-fitting window.

“Dinner, master.” Mrs. Hawkins set a platter of sausages and a dish of boiled potatoes on the buffet. “And I made a nice bread pudding for you, ma’am, in honour of your homecoming.”

“One of my favourite things. Thank you. That will be a treat.”

The woman smiled, her lined face transformed into prettiness. She went again belowstairs.

Robert forked sausages onto his plate. “Sir Francis asked me to extend a welcome to you. He said that he looks forward to meeting you at the soirées at Government House. Lady Head arrives in a few weeks.”

“One of the men I spoke to today on the boat from Niagara called His Lordship a nincompoop. Was he right?”

“I can have no opinions. And I must caution you, Anna. While you are here, I ask you to keep clear of any expression of contention.”

“While I am here? What do you mean, Robert? You see this as a temporary arrangement, do you?”

“Please do not pounce on a stray phrase. Of course, I want you to stay.”

“I know you need me to lend credence to your pretence to have a normal married life. That’s what you had in mind when you asked me to come across the sea. But I have nonetheless hoped for more. Some warmth of welcome. Some sympathetic discourse.” She laid down her fork and pushed her plate away.

“You are right, Anna. I want to rise from Attorney-General to Vice-Chancellor of the Province. You are an essential part of my plan. We must try to get on together. I shall do my best to be a good husband. But I doubt, my dear Anna, that you have come across the sea solely for altruistic reasons.”

“So let us lay down our cards. In the twelve years we have been married, we have lived apart for almost eight years, and during all that time, I have been reliant on my own resources as an author, but—”

“Ah yes. You want money.”

“The writing business is uncertain at best. I have been lucky with my books so far, but who knows how long the reading public will stay with me. So here it is, Robert. I shall need three hundred pounds a year to maintain myself and to provide for my parents and my unmarried sisters. My poor father has suffered a stroke.”

“Three hundred pounds!” Robert’s normal pallor disappeared under a pulsing wave of crimson.

“You will be able to afford it. I learned some facts before I left England. The salary of the Attorney-General is twelve hundred pounds a year including fees; the salary of the Vice-Chancellor is twelve hundred a year, not including fees. Your income will more than double. You’ll be a rich man. I ask for a mere three hundred.”

“Never. But as long as you stay with me, I shall give you an allowance suited to your status as Chancellor’s wife. Some of that may certainly be dispatched to your family. If you leave, you are on your own.”

Robert poured another glass of wine, then another and another. Anna spooned some of the bread pudding onto her plate. The rest of the meal passed in silence.

As they parted for the night, Robert stopped outside his bedchamber. “I promised you a pleasant little house, Anna. Alas, it is not ready. The carpenters and bricklayers took a month off for the hunting season. You can’t hurry the hoi polloi in this town.”

“Never mind. This place is just fine. The street is no doubt named after London’s best prison.”

“Would you like me to come to your bedchamber for a while?”

“Perhaps we are both too tired. Let us rest for tonight.”

In her bedchamber, Anna found that Mrs. Hawkins had left two flickering candles. By their light, she removed her dress. Her husband had not noticed her white arms and hands in the new gown. Perhaps he had once found her physically attractive, but that had been long ago.

She remembered his letters during their courtship. They had been delightful, full of warmth and passion. She had fallen in love with those fine words on that beautiful linen-fibre paper. But whenever they met in person, his conversation was strained and impersonal. She had broken off their engagement once, then changed her mind. If he had not been successful and well connected, would she have married him, knowing his cold, reserved demeanour?

Her friend Ottilie von Goethe had asked her once if their marriage had been consummated. Yes, it had been consummated. A grim word, but the right word. It suggested the completion of sexual congress without any of the joy or desire a married woman had a right to expect. In the early days, there had been caresses which had led to gropings and perfunctory encounters, but there had been no northern lights, no shooting stars.

Once she had found on his desk a poem of fourteen lines written to him by Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s son, Hartley. In length, it seemed to be a sonnet, but she remembered the unorthodox rhyming couplet which formed its beginning. And the even stranger content:

Thou art my dearest love. O Rob! Sans thee,

A vast and woeful wasteland my life would be.

“How dare you poke into my private correspondence?” Robert had said, coming into the room as she held the poem in her hand. She had put it aside hastily, but now, as she remembered it, she recognized a truth she had long tried to suppress.

She took from her portmanteau the pocket of otter fur that Ottilie had given her on a fine summer morning in Vienna, as they drank coffee in lodgings overlooking the gardens of Schönbrunn Palace. She held its softness against her cheek now, feeling its warmth and a hint of Ottilie’s scent.

“It’s so pleasant, so pretty,” she had said to her friend, “but what is it?”

“It’s a foot muff, my dear Anna. I understand there will be a frozen lake in that faraway place to which you seem determined to go. No doubt when you are there you will travel in a calèche all by yourself with only the horse to talk to. Keep your poor cold toes tucked inside the muff while you discuss oats and harness.”

Sitting down now at the pine table that must serve as a desk, she put her cold toes into the warm fur. Perhaps she could find release by recording her day’s disappointments in her journal. Better still, she would write a letter to Ottilie. She would begin, “Dearest Ottilie: Here in this forsaken outpost, by that frozen lake you warned me about in July, I long for your overflowing high spirits and joie de vivre.”

She took the inkwell from the top of the bureau and set it on the table. Then she saw that the ink had a thin layer of ice over it.