Annie Powell had a purpose in arranging these early morning breakfasts alone with her husband. It was a struggle to rise in time and get her maid to arrange her hair in a semblance of order beneath her cap, but the effort was necessary. She knew how much her husband hated “women’s chatter,” as he called it, and at this hour their daughters and granddaughters were not yet stirring.
Besides, it was her only chance to talk to him privately about the many things that troubled her at the moment. She needed money to pay for Mary’s new gown for the subscription ball at the York Hotel. And then she had to replace the fan that her tiresome daughter Anne had just lost. She also wanted to hire a tutor to teach the girls French. Anne, especially, had been pestering her for months on this last issue though the girl already knew some of the language.
The breakfast-room was an intimate space with a tall bookcase on one wall and the fireplace just behind their round walnut table. The button on its mantel was conveniently close so that she could summon Cook or their maid Lucy to bring their poached eggs and fresh bread. Usually at this hour of the morning, the scent of baking bread wafted up from belowstairs. Today, however, that scent was lacking. Which meant that Cook was trying one of her ruses again.
“Pass the cream, Mumu,” William said, “unless it’s got curdled from hearing your nonstop complaints over this breakfast hour.”
“I am merely trying to sort out with you some difficulties concerning our family, William. And why in tarnation are you calling me ‘Mumu’? Surely you can remember my name. You make me sound like some sort of cow.”
“You seem to forget that there are now three Anne Powells in this household: wife, daughter, and granddaughter. If it suits me, I shall continue to call you Mumu to distinguish you from the others and because your maiden name was Murray.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it, my dear? But it’s all very well. If you choose to call me Mumu—instead of Annie—I shall call you Dummer.”
She watched her husband’s face redden. She had obviously made a successful hit. Well, Dummer was his second name, wasn’t it? Why shouldn’t I call him Dummer if he persists in this Mumu vein?
But unexpectedly, in the midst of her satisfaction over this small revenge, she felt her eyes fill with tears. The discussion of names had brought unbidden thoughts of their dear drowned son. Images of Willie’s grey body washed up onto the beach at Niagara crowded into her mind and choked her. She took a gulp of coffee to settle herself.
Not seeing her distress—or perhaps not caring—her husband shoved back his chair, threw his napkin into his poached eggs, and rose. She knew it was not only their discussion that angered him. It was also the stale bread he had just eaten. Cook had tried warming old bread before, but this time her ploy fizzled. Annie had known for too many years that the quality of her husband’s breakfast always determined the course of his day. And though she scarcely cared at this moment, she recognized the need to calm him. If she could not put an end to their spat now, it would draw out for days on end. With all that she had on her mind she really did not need this additional stress.
“Sit down, husband. Please.”
“I’m sick of your complaints. You have just spent our entire breakfast talking about how strapped we are for money. I wanted that promotion from our new Governor, but I didn’t get it, thanks to your pigheadedness. What am I to do?”
Annie observed that although his face was still flushed with anger, he had at least seated himself once more.
“I am merely reminding you that our daughters need your attention. There is little money for edu—”
“Education, balderdash. Get them husbands. There are plenty of fools around. Work on it, woman. The sooner we get this house emptied, the better. What am I to do with six women under my feet all day?”
“Scarcely all day, husband. You are in the courtroom most of the daylight hours, are you not? It is I who must contend.”
“And whose idea was it to bring Willie’s small daughters to plague us? They do have a mother, don’t they?” His voice was loud, and she feared the girls upstairs might hear the comment.
She put her hand on his wrist and spoke quietly. “Were we to leave them with that hussy? I heard yesterday from Mrs. Cartwright that she has taken up with a seventeen-year-old private from the garrison at Niagara and—”
“All right, all right. Perhaps we did the right thing to take them in. Just get our daughters settled, will you? Except perhaps Eliza. She’s plain and probably will not attract a suitor. She could be of help around this place, and we would not have to pay her wages. At any rate, I hope you can remember my main point. Women must remain in the domestic sphere, and they have no need for academic training or preparation for careers. Therefore there is no necessity to waste money on the weaker sex. Surely after all these years we have been married, you understand my views.”
She sighed and passed her husband a cup of coffee. At least it was the good coffee that he liked, not that vile chicory she and the girls consumed when he was not around. Anything to save money these days . . . Loyalist Americans like her husband were looked down upon by British-born citizens and his legal stipend scarcely covered the costs of a large household or the travels to Spain and South America he had recently undertaken.
But there was still one thing more she had to get off her chest.
“Why are you so niggly about the money the girls and I spend?” She saw that he was about to push his chair back again. “No, do not leave. Listen to me. You spent one year travelling thousands of miles with an outlay of money I cannot conjure and—”
“Shut your gob. Was I to leave Jeremiah to rot in that Colombian fortress for the rest of his days? He is my son.”
“Our son. And I know that we must support him, however troublesome his shenanigans. But I remind you that my dear brother George dipped into his savings as well to support your endeavours to free Jerry. I ask only that you allow our daughters some of the largesse you have expended on him.”
There was silence. Her husband finished his coffee, rose, and moved towards her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze.
“My dear Annie, let us be friends. I shall do what I can for our daughters and granddaughters. But we must be frugal. You tell me that Mary bought a new gown last week. Surely she could have taken an old one and ‘turned’ it? Do I have the right expression?” He moved towards the door. “Just keep an eye on them.”
A few minutes later, Annie heard the front door shut. With her husband out of the way—off to his law office in the Parliament Building—she sat for a while, readying herself for the day ahead. The girls needed to have another lesson on fans. In the servants’ cupboard belowstairs, she had found a cheap wooden one for Anne to use.
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.