Though the household was no Paradise, Annie Powell was thankful that it no longer resembled the Inferno. Her small granddaughters seemed to thrive on their days at the Home District School. She had finally scraped together enough money from her annuity to pay the school’s modest fees. Her husband was now on good terms with the new Governor, Major-General Brock, and seemed to recognize that Anne’s friendship with the man was an advantage.
But yesterday things fell apart. Maud, the new housemaid, was taken ill with pains, could do no more work, and spent the day in bed. Annie had summoned her son Grant to have a look at the wench. He said she had dropsy. He bled her, gave her laudanum, and even washed her feet with warm water. And now today, she was screaming again with pain. How much longer could she endure the girl’s outburst?
In the front hall, Annie met Anne, about to depart on her solitary daily walk along the lakeshore. She had decided to allow the girl this privilege, as long as she returned home within one hour. Anne was now twenty-five years of age. Perhaps she would never marry. For a time, she and William had hoped for a liaison with the new Governor, but it appeared that she and Brock were friends only, not lovers. Annie had not thought it possible for a man and a woman to be close friends without marriage, but now she was forced to consider alternatives.
“Daughter,” she said, “I should like you to speak to the new housemaid Maud. You no doubt can hear her screams from the servants’ quarters. I must know what is wrong with the wench. I am tried beyond endurance. Yesterday your brother Grant said it was a mere swelling of the soft tissues, but if that is all that is wrong with her, why in tarnation does she keep up this abominable screeching?”
“I shall look at her, Mama. I do not agree with my brother’s ridiculous diagnosis. I have a very good idea of what is wrong.”
Annie and Anne went belowstairs into the room behind the kitchen that the girl shared with Cook, her aunt. It being a dark room, Annie lit the candles in order the better to see the girl. She was lying spread-eagled on her narrow bed, the covers drenched in wretched, stinking dampness and disarray. Anne took one look at her and went into the kitchen where Cook was busy preparing some squash for supper.
“Leave what you are doing, please, and boil some water. Find some clean cloths and bring them into the bedroom immediately.”
Annie was filled with a sudden foreboding. “What in tarnation is wrong with the girl?” she asked.
“She is birthing.”
“Birthing, birthing! Do not tell me such a thing! She came to me with the highest recommendation from Cook, and now, now I must endure this living proof of her misconduct? This is moral depravity, the like of which I have often heard, but never before—”
“Go upstairs, Mama,” Anne said, cutting her off in mid-sentence. “Find yourself something to do. The girl is suffering, and your words merely add to that suffering. I will see to her care.”
What was she to do? She could not be part of this. She went upstairs to her bedchamber where she shut the door and stuffed her ears with pieces of sponge that she cut from the scrubber beside the washbasin.
***
Time passed. She must have fallen asleep. She was startled awake by a knock on the door. Looking through the window, she saw that night had fallen.
Anne came in. “It’s all over now, Mama. Eighteen long hours that poor girl suffered. But now she has a healthy baby boy—”
Annie put her hands over her ears. “Stop, stop! I will hear no more. It is all far beyond the bounds of decency and propriety. The slut may rest for a few hours, and then I will pack her off to her miserable father who must deal with the disgrace.”
“And now I must ask you to stop, Mama. You condemn her, but you say nothing of the man who seduced her. Surely he, too, deserves your censure.”
Annie backed away as her daughter moved close to her, the girl’s face flushed and suffused in sweat, her voice trembling. “I have already ordered a coach for her,” Anne said, “and I gave her the silver chain I had on my wrist. It is an insignificant piece, but it will pay for the ride to her father who lives several miles north of the town. I would have given her more, but I know that you control the contents of my jewel box.”
Annie could hear no more of this. She slapped Anne across her face and pushed her towards the door. “Get out, get out.”
Then she slammed the door and ran to her bureau where she pulled out the bottle she kept hidden there, and drank two mouthfuls of its contents straight away. Am I becoming too dependent on laudanum? Perhaps. But how can I face the truth about this slut who brought her depravity into our midst? And how can I deal with this daughter who challenges me at every hour of every day? William used to describe her as “the wretch that poisons all our existence,” but since our new Governor expresses his admiration of her, he has of late been more tolerant of her shenanigans. But wait until I tell him of this day’s fiasco.
But will he want to discharge Cook who recommended the slut? How can I manage this household without Cook?
Better I should keep my mouth shut. A married woman is, alas, always the victim of her husband’s whims. Sometimes I wish that I were a spinster, back in Boston with my dear aunt.