Annie Powell sat in the breakfast-room staring at the table in front of her. On her plate were the remnants of her mostly uneaten breakfast: a slimy poached egg, greasy ham, and cold toast. She moved slowly to the mantel and pressed the button. Cook came up from belowstairs and removed the plate, muttering something under her breath about “bloody wasted effort.” Annie chose not to comment. The fact that the woman would dare to utter such a phrase in her presence merely convinced her that she had lost control of the household. And it was her wretched daughter Anne who was responsible for the situation. Consumed as I am with worry, I have given up the day-to-day household supervision that was once my focus.
She pulled from her pocket the letter from her husband that had arrived yesterday. Upon hearing of his daughter’s determination to leave home, he had written, “She is a freak and a fiend.” Those words were true, but not helpful. The next paragraph contained the comment that he had heard rumours about her “partiality” for Sir John Copley. Who in tarnation was Sir John Copley? And what did it matter? It was the situation with the Robinsons to which she needed a helpful answer.
She turned the letter around to read the crossed lines. This effort required her glasses, which she retrieved from a nearby table. “That monster in human disguise who so torments you appeared to me in dreams so strongly that when I awoke, I expected to find her in my bedchamber. I am afraid of meeting her. My indignation is so uncontrollable that I fear some bit of violence might result.”
Useless. Useless. Why can he not give me some advice instead of maundering on and on and on about his own fears? She bunched the letter into a ball and threw it upon the flames in the hearth.
Who else could she turn to? Eliza was a solace, yes, but a mere woman had no power in this town. Her son John in Niagara would be no help. There was Grant, yes, she could pull him in. And she could try again with Mr. Strachan. A donation to The Society for the Relief of Strangers in Distress—a charity for which she had little sympathy, really—might persuade him to help.
At this moment, though, she would relieve her anxiety by writing to her brother George in New York. He was her one true supporter.
She went into the withdrawing room, seated herself at the desk, picked up her quill and began her letter. She was talking aloud to herself as she wrote, “How fortunate I am to have a dear brother to listen to this tale of woe,” and she did not hear Anne enter the room.
“Oh, Mama, no doubt you are telling Uncle George about the folly and malice of your daughter Anne. Am I right?” The girl actually had the nerve to laugh as she said this.
“You are right, daughter, but it is not a laughing matter.” Annie put down her quill and turned to face Anne. “I shall make my offer to you again—for one last time. I shall give you money for the trip to England, but you must promise me that you will not go with the Robinsons—for whatever reason you give.”
There was a long silence during which they stared at each other. Can she actually be considering what I have said? Really? Really?
“Yes, I may agree to what you have asked. But I, too, make a request. I must have the money in my hands before I make my pledge not to join the Robinsons when they start their journey to New York and thence to England. Do you understand?”
“You do not trust me, girl?”
“I do not intend to get into another argument, Mama. Give me the money and I shall give you my consent.”
* * *
It was late afternoon. Annie walked through the front door of St. James Church to speak to Mr. Strachan. He was waiting for her at the steps leading up to the altar. With him was her son Grant whom she had also asked to be present.
“Why could we not have met you at your house, Mother?” Grant said. “It is so, pardon the expression, bloody cold here.”
“How am I to converse with you when Anne is perhaps listening at the head of the staircase? She does that, you know. I have caught her in the act several times.”
The frown on Mr. Strachan’s face deepened. “Excuse me, Mrs. Powell, but can we get on with the discussion? I have to pay two calls to my parishioners before the end of this afternoon.”
“I shall be brief. I have given Anne money for her trip to England as you suggested, sir. She has promised me that she will not go with the Robinsons. That is all very well, but I do not trust her. That is why I have a favour to ask of you. But before we get into all that, I have some money that I have just procured which I intend to give you as my contribution to the many worthy charities that this church supports.”
She produced some coins from her reticule, but Mr. Strachan did not take them.
“You know that I have no desire to be part of this, ma’am. Nor will I take any bribes you may give me.” The man sounded quite angry.
Oh, oh, I have been clumsy in my approach. I must start again.
“Listen to me, please. First of all, there is no bribery, as you call it. I shall give you this money whether you agree to help me or not.” She made another attempt to pass the money to the vicar. He looked at the coins for a long moment, then reached out and took them from her.
“One week from today, the Robinsons leave by carriage for the trip overland to New York. On that day, Anne may attempt to leave the house and follow them or join them. I need someone to keep an eye on the front door of the house at all times and prevent her from departing. I cannot always guarantee my presence on the scene. I thought perhaps you two gentlemen could sit in the withdrawing room for several hours on that day, seeming to play cards or otherwise conversing, but always watching to make sure the silly girl does not leave the house.”
“It all sounds fine to me, Mother, provided you leave us plenty of Father’s excellent brandy. What do you say, Reverend?”
“I shall think it over, sir.” He heaved a great sigh and jingled the coins in his hand.
“Whatever your decision,” Annie said, “keep that money and spend it on our poor and needy.” There, I think I got it right this time.
She nodded and smiled, then turned towards the church exit.