ONE OF THE FIRST LOYALIST HOMES BUILT IN PORT Roseway belonged to Captain William and Margaret Cunningham. It stood one and a half stories with a gabled roof and two brick chimneys. Outside it was framed in timber with white clapboard siding and blue trim. Inside, it had paneled walls of plane boards with a chair rail and wainscoting. At the rear was a barn for cattle, sheep and two horses. Beside the barn, smaller buildings housed chickens and pigs. Along the walled walk, flowers drooped from the heavy frost. There were several black men in the fields behind the house. Simon, a middle-aged black man, was tilling the remains of the meagre garden to the left of the house, which had produced oats, barley, flax, gooseberries, raspberries and strawberries. Two tortoiseshell cats wandered about like miniature guard dogs.
Exhausted from the long walk, Lydia and Sarah proceeded to the back, the usual entrance for servants, and rapped on the porch door. A stout Negro woman opened the door saying, “Oh Lord, it’s you. Good to see you,” her head bobbing from side to side. “I’ll take that laundry. You sure can do a bright wash. Missy Cunningham will see you in the parlour. She’s got something to speak on. She said to bring the girl along as well.”
The pair followed her down a long hallway. “The streets are quiet today, Fanny,” Lydia said.
“Yes, yes. This place had been in a roar for a week, it being the king’s birthday and Governor Parr arriving in his sloop to appoint the new justices. Oh, the noise with all the gun salutes booming from his ship and the cannons goin’ off every half hour down by the shore.”
“I suppose there were fancy suppers and balls. This lot knows how to entertain, but work, that’s another rag.”
Fanny let out a hoot. “You speakin’ the truth on that,” she snorted. “There has been no work here for days, just the drinking. Oh my, the drinking. Shameful! And every night the bonfires, dancing and fighting.”
“They do love a good time to act the fool.”
“Have you heard? The governor has renamed this hell-hole, calling it Shelburne. Well, Mr. Cunningham, oh Lord, that man, he’s bitter for namin’ the place after the prime minister of Britain, the man who signed away their rights to their country and their property to the Patriots. I heard him say he wasn’t calling this place anything but Port Roseway.”
“And right he is.”
Off from the hall to their right was a small library and a tiny room with a spinning wheel and piles of fleece and yarn on the floor. To their left was the dining area and a large kitchen. Ahead, at the end of the hall, lay the parlour. When they reached it, Fanny said, “Ma’am, the Redmonds are here to see you.”
Mrs. Cunningham was a wisp of a woman with long black hair pinned under a white cap. Her smile was broad and her face so golden it looked like fresh butter. From her chair by the window, she called, “Come and sit, Lydia. We have time to talk since no one is hurrying about today.”
The splendour of the parlour reminded Sarah of the Big House. There were long velvet drapes, red velvet chairs, a rug, candle stands and a small table with graceful legs holding a glass decanter with six gold-rimmed glasses. Along the back wall was a china cabinet with glass doors filled with the heavy porcelain dishes she had washed so many times before. It was all so lovely, except that the size of the rooms and the low ceilings paled in comparison to the Big House. Of course it made the little hut in Birchtown feel even more like a shack. Sarah stood by the doorway, her thoughts drifting as she amused herself by thinking that one day she might have a few nice things to call her own.
Sarah’s absence of mind prompted Mrs. Cunningham to ask, “Is Sarah feeling alright?”
“She’s just taken with your place, that’s all. Please excuse her, Ma’am.”
“Excused,” she laughed, then said, “Lydia, I wish you would call me Margaret. The time when you couldn’t call us by our names has passed.” She went to Lydia and placed her arm around the woman’s shoulder.
“I know you don’t see harm in it, but, oh Lord, it could lead to being careless with someone else. I could find myself locked up or whipped. Some things never change. No, Ma’am. I can’t start bad habits, for your sake as well as my own.”
“I’m so sorry, Lydia. Of course, you are right.” She removed her arm. “The world is a shameless place for the way you are treated.”
Sarah was looking about the parlour now and enjoying the warmth from the long yellow flames in the fireplace. A large blue and white jar, delicately crowned with a black wooden lid, caught her eye. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I’m sure I saw one like it at the Big House.”
“It’s a Double Happiness Jar, a favourite. It’s the same jar, a gift from William when we were courting. He found it in a little market off the Thames River in England. I’m so grateful Father had most of our possessions taken away in time.”
“It would have been terrible to have such beautiful things destroyed,” Sarah said.
Grandmother was beside herself. “Mind your manners, Girlie. You have no right to be asking questions and going around Missy’s things.”
Sarah, so distracted, did not respond, forgetting about the rules for servants.
“She’s all right, Lydia. Let her look.”
Ignoring the old woman, Sarah bent to look at the jar. “I’d give anything to have such a thing.” She wanted to hold the delicate object, study the detailing up close. Without thinking, she reached for the jar.
Grandmother swallowed and her anger erupted with a shout, “Leave that, Girlie! That is not your concern. Come back and stand here beside me.”
In an instant, Sarah straightened. In turning to face Grandmother, her hand dusted the jar with a soft sweep, knocking it from the table. Abominable silence. All eyes focused on the jar, forever falling down, down, down. Sarah’s heart pumped fast as she watched the jar land … in one piece … on the thick rug where it rested. The old woman’s eyes rejoined their sockets.
Sarah, ever so gently, returned the jar to its coveted place. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, for being so careless.” She hung her head and waited for Mrs. Cunningham to haul off and slap her, or say that she would have her charged with some offence.
A composed Mrs. Cunningham leaned forward and embraced Sarah, saying, “There, there. You meant no harm, Sarah. It was an accident. It’s a reminder to move the jar to a safer place.” Turning to Lydia, she said, “Do not be afraid, Lydia, the jar is fine.”
Fanny, who had been standing inside the doorway to announce the meal, slowly came to herself and sputtered, “Your lunch is ready, Ma’am.”
“Come along,” Mrs. Cunningham said in a kind voice, extending her hand to the kitchen.
Sarah was silent. Her eyes twitched with confusion. Why such unusual kindness towards Grandmother, inviting them to her table when the custom was for servants to eat separately? And such mercy and understanding when she nearly broke a precious object as the vase? There were Negroes serving time in jail for the careless handling of property.
In the kitchen, fresh bread and large bowls of corn chowder made with new potatoes, fresh onions, corn and bits of bacon awaited. Blueberry-gooseberry pie and tea followed. After the meal, Mrs. Cunningham reached into a green jar on the window ledge and placed two shillings in Sarah’s hand, then handed two crowns to Lydia. “You both are a godsend. I’ve never forgotten the promise I made to mother to look after you, Lydia.”
“We are grateful for your kindness, Ma’am.”
“I never dreamed our lives would come to this, that we would have to leave our southern homes and start over in a foreign place. The war was a wicked display of hatred and unjust for those of us who wanted nothing more than to support the king.”
“Oh, Lord, I worried for you when the soldiers came. I saw you looking back from the carriage. It was a terrible time.”
“We tried to be brave, but with William away at sea and Father’s death, we were defenceless. Then Mother passed away during the trip here … The strain was too much for her.” She reached out with both arms and hugged the old woman. “I was so happy to see old friends after I arrived. It’s a challenging place, this Roseway. These settlers are a quarrelsome lot. Tempers are hot. Everyone is worrying about class and privilege, not fully understanding the hard work and grit needed in a place like this. Now with the laws in the colonies forgiving us and returning Loyalist property, many are giving up and leaving. I believe things will improve.”
“All of our lives have changed, Ma’am. Nothing will ever be the same no matter what anyone decides. I appreciate all you and the mister do for us. I sure do.”
“There is no need for that.” She extended her gaze to Sarah and then back to Lydia. “I must get to the point. I have an offer to make. Sarah is grown now. It is time to send her to work. Poor Fanny has such pain in her joints and back, she says she will not be able to work much longer. Perhaps I could indenture Sarah. I will speak to William about this when he returns and get him to draw up an agreement. Fanny works for her room and board. However, Sarah might be happy to work for wages. Two years sounds reasonable. Times are hard, but we will do what we can for her.”
“The girl is a good worker.”
“Yes she is. I was always fond of her.”
Grandmother excused herself from the table and nodded to Sarah to do the same.
“There’s another bag of laundry waiting to be done by the porch door, Lydia,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “By the way, I hear Mr. Carter is here in Nova Scotia working as a slave hunter. You must always have your certificates with you. Please be careful.”
“Yes Ma’am.” Grandmother patted the rag purse. “I aim to be safe.”
They took their time going back to Birchtown. Sarah poked along, understanding that work was scarce and positions hard to come by, but somehow becoming indentured was not what she had imagined for herself. While the thought made her sad, her mouth produced a smile — she had to admit she liked this little woman, though the way she treated them was so peculiar.