I spent every minute of my waking hours for five days knitting a dark grey spread. My sisters kept asking, “What is it? The colour is so drab.”
But Mama, who has more knowledge of the craft of knitting, said, “Your pattern is quite intricate, and you’ve executed it well. But why are you wasting time on such a basic square? Your talent would be put to better use on a pretty shawl or some warm socks.”
I managed to avoid any definitive replies to these questions and comments. It was Saturday, and I knew I must finish some initials in the bottom corner, and the damned thing would be ready.
* * *
Sunday morning. Papa, Mama, Eliza, Mary, and I were gathered in the front hall preparatory to leaving for church at St. James. Papa had just picked up his Book of Common Prayer and was looking about. Mama appeared nervous. She was fidgeting, pulling her gloves off and on. We all seemed to be waiting for the inevitable.
“Where is Lucy?” Papa asked. He turned to Mama. “Get her up here immediately. We’re going to be late.”
It was at this point every Sunday morning that Lucy appeared carrying Sancho. He went to church with us, carried in Lucy’s arms. Once we were all ensconced in the family pew in the gallery looking down on what my parents called “the lower orders” below, Lucy would hand Sancho to Papa, and the dog would settle on Papa’s feet, serving as foot-warmer. Perhaps he enjoyed this sleepy task on his day off.
At this moment in the hallway, there was silence. “I need that dog,” Papa said. “And I need it now.”
He looked at Mama, no doubt expecting her to take charge as she always did. But her face had become very flushed, and she was twisting her hands.
It was time for me to make my pronouncement. I stepped forward, holding the dark grey spread I had been working on so frantically over the past five days. “Sancho is no longer here, Papa. We have a new and more efficient clock jack in the kitchen now. It turns the spit without the need of the dog. The clock jack will cost you nothing and will eat nothing. Nor will it have to be taken outside to urinate. In fact, this new contrivance is what all fine people in this town will have within a short time. We, of course, are the vanguard.”
“It is a long speech, girl, and where is it leading? You are saying to me that the dog is no longer here, and I am saying to you”—here Papa raised his voice—“how am I to keep my feet warm in that dratted church?”
I held out my handiwork. “Here, Papa, this spread I have made for you will do everything and more than Sancho could do to keep you warm and comfortable.”
He took the spread and looked it over. There was a long pause while he unfolded it to its full length, seeming to note the intricate pattern of the knitting and assessing the warmth of the angora wool I had used. “Hm, hm, hm” were the only sounds he made.
We all awaited the outcome of his assessment. “It seems quite comfortable,” he said at last, “and I see that you have put my initials in the bottom corner.” I knew then that all that knitting had been worthwhile. He folded the spread up again, tucked it under his arm, and moved towards the front door. “Well then, let us be off.”
When we arrived at St. James and mounted the stairs to the box pew that the Powell family owned, Papa settled himself and spread the “comforter” (as I was then calling it in my mind) over his legs and feet. He gave a sigh and opened the prayer book to the General Confession. Later he fell into his usual snooze during the Reverend Mr. Strachan’s too-lengthy sermon.
Coming out of church after the service, we saw Mrs. Jarvis standing at the front door, looking anxious. “Dear sir,” she said to Papa grasping him by his coat sleeve, “Where did you get that beautiful spread? It looks so warm and comfortable. And it’s so much better than having a smelly cur sitting on one’s feet.” She gave a kick at her own turnspit dog cowering at her heels.
“Very pleasant, is it not, ma’am?” Papa replied, moving out of her grasp. “I believe that my daughter Anne made it. As you may know, we no longer have need of a turnspit animal. Apparently it’s the custom now to have a . . . what did you call it, daughter?” He turned to me.
“A clock jack, Papa.”
“Yes, a clock jack, that is it. And you do not have one yourself, ma’am?” I laughed inwardly hearing the incredulity he forced into his voice.
Mrs. Jarvis seemed quite dismayed. She scratched her brow and looked at the servant hovering behind her. “Pick up the animal, girl, and when we get home, you must ask Cook about this new contrivance. We must surely obtain one within the next week.” She rushed off towards the carriage awaiting her in the church lane.
“Put that woman in her place, didn’t I?” Papa said, smiling at me and Mama.
* * *
It was only in the evening after Papa retired to bed that Mama accosted me in the parlour where, for the first time in five days, I was having leisure to read one of Miss Austen’s novels that Mrs. Boulton had lent me.
“I must commend you, dear Anne,” she said. “You managed to stave off an outburst I felt sure was about to erupt.” She smiled at me.
I knew it was the perfect time to bring up a problem that had been bothering me. “Thank you, Mama. But now I must ask you to give me funds to settle my accounts with Mr. Vallière and his family. We owe him for the clock jack and its installation, of course. And then there is the angora wool that his sister spun from the rabbits she raises.” I mentioned the amount, expecting an outburst.
But Mama said, “Worth every penny. I shall sell my gold pin with the amethyst, and we shall consider the matter closed.” And off she went to bed, neglecting even to scold me for reading a book that was not the Bible.
* * *
I visited Jacques Vallière in his shop the next day to tell him that payment would soon be coming. Sancho was lying asleep in the warmth of the smithy. When he heard my voice, he got up, stretched, wagged his tail, sniffed the hem of my gown, and settled again by the fire.
“I am so glad, so glad, Jacques, that you have given that poor little animal a happy ending to his life.”
“And I am happy, too,” he replied. “Thank you, Guy.” It was our private joke.