Chapter Six

The following day was a Sunday and Betsy helped them spit a nice piece of beef for dinner. Then she and Lewis and Martha walked to the Methodist meeting, leaving Daniel with strict instructions regarding the importance of frequent basting.

The Elliotts had retired to their rooms after breakfast and had not re-emerged since, which surprised Lewis a little. Clementine had gone to great pains to acquaint herself with the inhabitants of the village, and Lewis had assumed that she would consolidate this beachhead by making an appearance at one of the Sunday services. Perhaps there was no church of her persuasion here, although there were plenty enough to choose from — his own Methodists, the Presbyterians, the Anglicans, and even the Roman Catholics, who presided over not only a church but a boarding school that housed nearly a hundred students.

This school existed largely due to the efforts of one Archibald McFaul. McFaul had arrived from Ireland as a penniless boy and through intelligence and industry, had risen to become one of the most successful businessmen in Wellington and a leader in the community. His success had been shouted to the world when he built a large brick house on a knoll overlooking the lake. It was an extraordinary building, grandly constructed with stone lintels, four large chimneys, and elegant French doors that graced the façade. McFaul had dubbed it “Tara Hall” in honour of his Irish origins.

It was McFaul who was in a large part responsible for the lively Catholic presence in Wellington. As soon as he had been able to afford it, he had fetched a priest from Ireland to establish a church and a school. And then, a few short years later, he turned his graceful house over to the priests. There were differing motives ascribed to this astounding gift — some said it was McFaul’s sense of piety that was responsible. Others claimed that his extensive enterprises, in particular his far-flung shipping business, had suffered heavy losses and that he could no longer afford to maintain the massive home. Whatever the reason, the gesture had only elevated McFaul’s status within the community. The church elected to use Tara Hall as a boarding school, and soon Catholic families across the province were sending their offspring, boys and girls alike, to be educated in Wellington. On Sundays, these pupils traipsed along to the wooden church that had been built behind the school.

If Lewis had been forced to guess, he might have expected Mrs. Elliott to attend this church. For some reason he had a vague notion that there were many Catholics in the southern states. But there were many other denominations, as well, and he supposed it wouldn’t be surprising if Mrs. Elliott belonged to one that was peculiar to that part of the country, and therefore declined to attend services here.

It was not really any of his business what the hotel guests did, he reminded himself. The Elliotts could honour the day in any way they thought fitting.

When Lewis and his family arrived at the Methodist meeting house there was a knot of people on the sidewalk passing the time of day before they went in. All of the conversation was about the ice storm and the damage that had been done. Of particular interest was the fate of the missing Anthea.

“We can only hope they read the weather signs before they left Oswego,” said Alonzo Jones, who had fished the waters of Lake Ontario nearly all his life. “If they were out in the lake, they’d have been in trouble with all that ice on their sails. Their only chance would be to steer for Main Duck.”

Main Duck was one of the islands that stretched across the eastern end of Lake Ontario. Situated almost exactly halfway across, just outside American waters, it often served as a haven for ships in trouble. The island was used as a fishermen’s base in the summer, but the owner grazed livestock, as well, and there would be a man or two left there all winter to see to the cattle. In a violent storm, a ship’s captain might well make for Main Duck, sure of a safe anchorage for his vessel and food and shelter for his crew.

“Peter Spencer is beside himself,” Jones said, “with his brother and his sister both on board. He’s always claimed there’s no storm on the face of the earth that Matt Spencer can’t sail through, but I don’t know — with the ice coming down so fast the way it did, I don’t know how any ship would survive. In spite of what he says, Peter’s worried all right. You can tell just by looking at him.”

“Well, we’ll just have to pray that the Anthea never left port,” Lewis said. And with the rest of the faithful Methodists, he entered the meeting house and did exactly that.

When they returned to Temperance House after the service, the roast was a little burnt on the outside, and Daniel had forgotten about making any gravy, but in a few minutes Betsy had set everything right and they served up an excellent Sunday dinner.

At mid-morning the next day Clementine Elliott steeled herself to enter the dry goods store. When she had first started making the rounds of the village shops, she had always made a point of making a small purchase or two, often lingering over her choices for an hour or more. She had soon zeroed in on Scully’s store as one of the hubs of conversation in Wellington, especially for the women.

Nearly everyone who came into the store would pass a pleasant word with Mr. Scully, who would inquire as to the health of his customer and his customer’s family, but it was his daughter Meribeth, the dressmaker, who always took the inquiry farther, following up with questions regarding neighbours, acquaintances, and far-flung relations. She had a prodigious memory for the details of family connections and, in particular, the history of disputes and disagreements between them.

Having a dressmaker right in the store was a good business practice for Mr. Scully. Meribeth often commented on which qualities of cotton or bombazine would be appropriate for which style, and which colour would most suit the customer — although black and brown remained the most respectable colours for married women. She made suggestions regarding how each item should be trimmed, whether with ribbon or lace, and which styles were currently in fashion in London or New York. Many customers felt uncomfortable with taking the cloth away to sew themselves, or to another dressmaker when Meribeth had been so helpful in its selection, and so they would contract with her to cut and assemble the article, as well, doubling the profits for Scully, for every penny made was put into the store account, and few coins found their way back to Meribeth.

This was only fair as far as Scully was concerned, for he knew that he would be responsible for his daughter’s keep as long as he lived. There was no point in setting aside a dowry for Meribeth. No man was ever likely to come courting her, for she had been born with a twisted spine, a malformation that had killed her mother in the birthing. The fact that the child had survived at all was a shock to everyone, and for a time Scully had hoped that the deformity would correct itself as she grew older. Instead, it grew worse, and her corkscrew back bent her over at the waist, so that she had to tip her head up and sideways in order to meet anyone’s eye.

Her father had decided to put her to work, teaching her the intricacies of cutting cloth and of making fine, even stitches. She had shown a surprising aptitude for tailoring, and an ironic interest in the latest fashion. Her willingness to share her expertise made her popular with Scully’s female customers, particularly the young girls. They listened to Meribeth’s advice, for they knew that there was no element of competition in her suggestions. She would not ever lure away the young men they had their eyes set on.

Meribeth whiled away the tedious hours she spent with a needle in her hand by tracking her neighbours’ business. She heard every item of news and piece of gossip that passed through Wellington’s lively and extensive grapevine, and mentally fit it into the giant jigsaw puzzle of events and personalities that comprised the village’s social life. She shared her knowledge with whoever came into the store, for the passing on of one item would often prompt the offer of another.

She had been aware of the arrival of the exotic Mrs. Elliott almost immediately. Bella MacDonald had been passing Temperance House as Clementine alit from the wagon, and after taking careful note of her cloak and hat, had scurried to Scully’s to report their cut and colour to Meribeth, in the hopes that she might be able to copy it. Bella was to be married the following year, and was busy assembling her trousseau.

Meribeth was intrigued, and hoped that Mrs. Elliott would soon grace the shop. She had the latest available patterns, of course, and kept herself as up-to-date as possible with new trends in dresses and hats, but styles took a long time to work their way across the ocean from London and Paris, and often she had only written descriptions or drawings to guide her. Actually being able to examine a stylish outfit firsthand would help her immeasurably — she would be able to see how the cloth was cut and inspect the details of how it was assembled.

When Clementine first entered the store, she had very graciously removed her cloak and hat and allowed Meribeth to look them over carefully while she made a show of inspecting the bolts of cloth and spools of lace on offer. As far as Clementine was concerned, these were of poor quality. Eventually she had purchased a small packet of pins, just for the sake of buying something, but by then she had listened to a full half-hour of the dressmaker’s prattle.

She had been able to formulate a very clear picture of the village just by listening. She knew not only who was angry with whom, which village men were drunks, and which had an eye for the girls, but also who had suffered a loss, who was grieving, who was expecting a child. The next day she returned with a magazine, a newer one than Meribeth had seen, that had a number of drawings of the necklines currently fashionable for evening wear in New York. From then on, it seemed natural and easy to drop in every day.

Clementine knew that she had caused a sensation in Wellington and that the women remarked on her fashionable clothes, while the men remarked on her. It was not difficult to impress these villagers, she thought, stuck as they were in such a backwater place. She also knew that her regular appearances at the dry goods store had elevated Meribeth’s status by the mere fact of association, and some of the village women who had previously not frequented the store, now began dropping by in the afternoon just on the off-chance that they might get a peek at Mrs. Elliott’s clothes. Mr. Scully was delighted; for it meant that each of these women could be counted on to purchase at least some small item. And each time, in the course of conversation, they would impart a bit of news that Meribeth would happily repeat to anyone who would listen.

Until now, Clementine had simply let the little dressmaker chatter away, taking the information as it came, tedious though that had been. Now she judged that it was time to start directing the conversation into specific areas of interest. She took a deep breath, mounted the steps, and opened the door.

Mr. Scully beamed when he saw her. “Mrs. Elliott! How grand to see you. And how are we today?”

“Good day, Mr. Scully, I hope things are well with you.”

“Never better, never better,” he replied, bowing slightly as he did so. “And what could we do for you this afternoon?”

She had no chance to answer as Meribeth bustled over from her corner.

“Mrs. Elliott, how wonderful to see you,” she said. “My goodness me, I’ve just started the rosettes on Bella MacDonald’s bodice. You’re not in such a hurry that you couldn’t take a look at them for me, are you?”

“Well.” Clementine made a show of hesitation, then began peeling off her gloves. “Perhaps I could take a quick look.”

Meribeth was full of the usual inconsequential details of village life. Sarah Bowerman was still resting, apparently, after her fall on the ice, but it looked as though it had done her unborn child no harm. The Presbyterians had still not collected enough money to begin building a church, in spite of a concerted subscription drive. The Carrs were still struggling after the death of Mr. Carr, although Martin was working at the sawmill and taking his entire pay home to his mother.

“I hear there is great concern about the missing ship,” Clementine said when the dressmaker stopped to draw a breath.

“Oh, my goodness, that’s a terrible thing! We can only hope they’ll turn up safe and sound. It’s happened before, you know, a ship caught in a storm and presumed lost, and then some time later you find out that everything is fine. It’s worrisome, though.”

“How long will it be before we know for certain?”

“Sometimes you never find out,” Meribeth said. “It’s a peculiar thing. Sometimes the lake never returns the wreckage, especially if the ship went down where the lake is deep. Other times, weeks might go by and then a body might be discovered on a shore far distant from where anyone would expect. Then again, it might be thrown up in front of the victim’s own home. There’s no accounting for what could happen, and all anybody can do is pray and wait.”

“That’s assuming that the ship was wrecked in the first place,” Clementine pointed out.

“Oh, my yes, the best news possible would be that they stayed snug in port somewhere. Even then, it might take some time before they felt it safe to set out again. You just never know about these things.”

“They tell me the captain is a local man.”

“Matt Spencer, yes, and his sister is the cook.” And at that Meribeth settled in to relate everything she knew about the Spencer family.

Lewis was at a loss to explain why Mrs. Sprung kept returning to the hotel, but each morning since her first visit she had walked through the front door just before nine o’clock. Now that she knew where the Elliott rooms were, he simply nodded a good morning to her and waved her up the stairs. During the course of the morning he would hear various rappings and thumpings from upstairs, and then Mrs. Sprung would depart again a couple of hours later, clutching a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes.

That morning he had just finished scrubbing the last of the breakfast dishes when the front door opened. He assumed it was Mrs. Sprung again, and it wasn’t until he heard someone clearing his throat that he realized it wasn’t. It was a ruddy-faced man who looked vaguely familiar to Lewis, but he couldn’t quite come up with the name.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Nate Elliott,” he said, and his face reddened even more.

Lewis directed him up the stairs, and it was only later that he realized the man was Peter Spencer. This was an unwelcome realization. There could be only one reason that he would be visiting Clementine Elliott; he was hoping she could help him discover the fate of the missing Anthea.

Lewis went fuming back into the kitchen, wishing he could think of some way to get his brother-in-law to put his foot down in this matter.

Daniel had taken a cup of tea in to Susannah, relieving Betsy of her invalid-sitting duties for a few moments. Lewis had arrived back in the kitchen only just in time to stop his wife from peeling the mound of potatoes that were set out for the noonday meal.

“I’ll do those later if Daniel doesn’t get to them,” he said, although he sincerely hoped that this wouldn’t be necessary. “Come and sit down for a minute. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

She looked puzzled, but obligingly settled herself down at the kitchen table.

“It’s not your hotel,” she pointed out, when he outlined his concerns about the activities taking place in the upstairs room. “It’s Daniel’s place to stop it if he thinks it’s wrong, but he has no qualms about it at all.”

“That’s because Mrs. Elliott has bewitched him,” Lewis grumbled.

“No, it’s because Mrs. Elliott is a paying customer. Enough people turn away because there’s no drink here. If Daniel starts questioning everyone’s business, he won’t have any customers at all. It’s bad enough the way he keeps pestering poor Mr. Gilmour.”

“You don’t think it’s some sort of witchcraft or something?”

“Of course it isn’t. We can’t communicate with the dead. You know that as well as I do, Thaddeus. There’s no doubt in my mind that there’s some sort of jiggery-pokery going on, but I honestly don’t see what you can do about it. If she was asked to leave, she would no doubt simply move down the street to the other inn, or operate from the Elliott farm, and in the meantime you would have deprived Daniel and Susannah of most of their current income. I know it seems wrong, but I don’t think it’s wrong enough to make a fuss over.”

As usual, Betsy’s opinion was one of good sense, but he kept an eye on the hall after that. Within an hour, Peter Spencer came down the stairs with a satisfied look on his face.

“I knew it,” he said to Lewis. “I knew there was no chance that Matt could ever drown. He was born with a caul, you know.”

There was a persistent opinion that babies born with a caul were impervious to death by drowning, that somehow the birth membrane protected them from a watery death. Lewis subscribed to no such notion, but he was reluctant to snatch away whatever hope this man held.

“You’ll see,” Spencer said. “They’ll turn up. Mrs. Elliott said they were happy where they were, and she thought they might be near an island. They were on their way from Oswego, you see, so an island makes sense. They probably put in at Main Duck and can’t get away again.”

If that were the case, if the crew was indeed comfortably housed in one of the cottages on the island, they might well take a few days to ensure that the weather was fair enough to continue. In the meantime, it would be impossible for them to notify their relatives of what had happened. Similarly, if they had never left Oswego at all, they could bring news of their own fates as quickly as anyone else. If Spencer and Mrs. Elliott were right, it was not surprising that no news had reached their ears. Lewis could only hope Peter Spencer’s optimism was not ill-conceived.

“We can only pray that this is the case,” Lewis said, and Spencer appeared satisfied enough with this half-hearted response.