S ophia turned herself critically before the handsome gold and white French mirror that had been hung in her boudoir and could find no fault with it, and very little with herself.

Hugh had been mistaken when he implied that Toronto styles would be out of date. Eaton, that estimable merchant, did his overseas buying personally and from the best European manufacturers. His goods, readily available in the Toronto store, were thoroughly up-to-date.

Little Margaret Lorena was just a few months old, and already Sophia’s waist could be cinched in to the required eighteen inches. In attendance that morning, Kezzie frowned and pursed her lips even as she laid out the new corset.

“Oh, come, Kezzie,” Sophia said, noting the disapproval, “it isn’t all that painful, you know.”

“It isna natural,” Kezzie maintained, adding darkly, “and you willna be able to eat a bite.”

The corset’s iron grip molded Sophia’s figure into an hour-glass shape, the approved look of the day. Always previously fortified with whalebone, corset stays made of plant fiber had been substituted by a Dr. Warner. “A reward of ten dollars will be made,” the good doctor promised, “for every strip of Coraline that breaks with four months’ ordinary wear.” With more pleasure than usual, Sophia reached for the “Fancy Four-Hook Summer Corset” with heliotrope bands (blue and pink had also been available), which supposedly not only added elegance but strengthened the corset as well. Surely this garment would be less constricting.

There was a rising tide of alarm, among some parents, that motherhood for the next generation was in jeopardy due to the corset. If a girl survived croup, which was treated by a poultice of mashed and roasted onions and hot skunk or goose oil, if she survived acne treated by acid nitrate, if applied spiderwebs successfully stopped bleeding from childhood injuries, and if the boiling of toads with tincture of arnica and butter had cured her of any rheumatism or sprains, she might still succumb to the grip of a corset that crushed her lungs and other internal, important, if unnamed, organs.

Sophia sighed; there were so many things to worry about! She wanted to give Hugh the son he longed for, and in spite of the necessity to be a slave to fashion, wondered about the corset and its effects.

Today Sophia chose cashmere stockings rather than balbriggan, and when they were on, reached for the first of the four petticoats that were the prescribed proper wear.

Wondering if she would ever become used to the luxury of dressing elegantly, Sophia ran her hand appreciatively over the taffeta silk waist Kezzie held out to her. Of royal blue, its inlaid front was of white silk and intricately tucked and trimmed with fancy embroidered gimp. The sleeves were tucked ten times, and the French back had five rows of tucking.

“You’ve heard the criticism, Mum,” Kezzie reminded Sophia as she helped her into her skirt, “about all these clothes slung from the waist rather than the shoulders.” Kezzie’s decent white underslip hung from the shoulders, as did her white uniform. Only her umbrella drawers hung from the waist, and only she knew that these featured a cluster of three tucks above the two-inch hem and that they were a great satisfaction to her.

“All this constriction about the waist, Mum,” Kezzie continued, “isna natural. Hopeful mothers—”

“Well, everyone’s doing it,” Sophia answered, “and I don’t see the population declining.”

Nevertheless, all this worrisome consideration about such a simple and natural matter as having a baby threatened to dim the day, one of very few spent with Hugh, and Sophia turned her attention firmly to finishing her toilette. “Crepons have been all the go for the past season and they are the same again this year,” had been the fashion note that persuaded her into the purchase of the royal blue skirt of crepon cloth. A little over three yards wide, lined with percaline and interlined with crinoline and bound with velvet around the bottom, it had double seams in front and featured the new bulge in the back. From the narrow waist it blossomed out like a bell from the force of the four petticoats beneath.

Seated at last before the mirror, Sophia allowed Kezzie to settle on her piled hair a modish black velvetta hat. Its straight brim was raised jauntily on one side over a bandeau of purple violets; two long jetted coques in plume fashion were set in a low, broad effect around the crown and finished with a knot formed of blue taffeta silk and velvetta. A long, jet stickpin was used, finally, to pass through the knot and secure the entire structure firmly in place.

Completely covered from head to toe, Sophia epitomized the woman of the seventies. Only an appearance on the beach allowed for the baring of the arm. So far Sophia had bypassed the out-and-out wearing of the bustle; to date her clothes simply reflected its emergence. To be properly proper, she admitted now, with another sigh, she would have to conform, and soon. Hopefully Hugh, waiting below, would not frown when she appeared. Though he said little in the way of criticism, his frown was enough to give Sophia the guidance she needed to fit into the lifestyle of Heatherstone.

Taking up her gloves—no lady of any consequence would appear on the street without them—Sophia perused her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled; she was a vision of elegance with no expense spared. She laid aside her trifling troubles and counted her blessings: a beautiful child asleep upstairs; a house of magnificent proportions and detail; a distinguished husband awaiting her.

“Will you and Tessie be taking Margaret out today?” she asked Kezzie before putting her anxieties completely out of mind.

“No, Mum, not today; Tessie will be goin’ out. ’Tis the day of her husband’s company picnic,” Kezzie said. “The brass finishers, Mum, and the plumbers and the steamfitters, all havin’ one grand day of it.”

“Do you wish you could go, Kezzie?” Sophia asked, although it was a little late to do so.

“No, Mum. I’m happy as a lark here with the bairn.”

Sophia knew it was true. Kezzie, she admitted, had more time with Margaret than she did. After all her yearning and longing, the never-ending tasks associated with a child were more than Sophia had bargained for. And so she was contented, perhaps even relieved, when Hugh had insisted that Kezzie be given responsibility for the baby. “After all,” he had pointed out, “she’s had lots of practice. I turned out all right, didn’t I? I guess she can look after the child without any difficulty.”

Though it was a time of great wickedness, most people still held firmly to fixed doctrines (or biases) that had been well established long ago and were not about to be relinquished here in the new land. It was a strongly religious time, with the day of rest strictly observed. Camp meetings ran for weeks; religion took on the form of recreation. Canadians were gripped with the need for revival, and churches flourished.

Circuit riders abounded, and the pleasures of sin were exposed mercilessly. But it was an era of drunkenness; whiskey was sold by the dipperful at the cost of a few cents, and saloons and taverns did a landslide business. Men made shameful displays of themselves as they staggered from bar to bar; often they ended up in the gutter for all passersby to see, perhaps stumble over. To think of her precious child surrounded by such debauchery gave Sophia’s heart a twinge. It was a strong argument in favor of adopting the wearing of the blue ribbon that distinguished the abstainer.

And she should think about joining the small, concerned groups beginning to do something about the high infant mortality rate—everyone knew that half of the dead were children. Was it possible that the milk delivered to the door daily was the cause of it? Often it had the taste of wild turnips or stinkweed. Montreal’s water, when it was analyzed, showed “animal and vegetable refuse, manure, fish spawn, straw, hayseed, and a small cistoid worm.” Could Toronto’s be any better?

To suffer what she did aboard ship to bring her child into the world and then to lose her to one of the many ailments that picked children off so quickly—the thought was unendurable. The Galloway cupboard bulged with hyped patent medicines that promised cures for everything from scrofula to cancer. Expectorants, balsams, and bitters—Sophia bought most of them. But to actually swallow them was another thing.

Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral, the persuasive vendor had claimed, would cure colds, coughs, and all diseases of the throat and lungs, and was cherry-flavored. That it smelled like alcohol and made her head spin when she tried it caused Sophia to put it at the back of the cupboard for the time being. But when one was desperate to save one’s child’s life—to what lengths would one go? Very far indeed, she admitted, and she invested in McKenzie’s Dead Shot Worm Candy against the possibility of such a problem, common among all children. “Your child will ask for it,” the purveyor assured, “because the taste is so pleasant.” Could something taste good and be potent at the same time? Or was it just colored water, or almost pure alcohol? Sophia stared at the bottles with their colorful labels and was none the wiser.

Uncertain as she was, just this morning she had bought a bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, called by some “gripe water,” against the day small Margaret would begin teething. Doing the very best she could, still it felt like groping in the dark. What in the world had people done in the old days, before marvels of modern science such as Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters came on the market? Or Warner’s Safe Kidney and Liver Cure, Sage’s Catarrh Cure, Piso’s Consumption Cure? If one suffered from la grippe, malaria, blood poison, rheumatism, or sour stomach, wouldn’t one try, from pure desperation, a bottle of Dr. Plew’s Microbe Killer?

Having done the best she knew in regard to proper medical care for her child and knowing Margaret would be safe at home with Kezzie, Sophia felt free to go on her outing with a clear conscience.

And so it was without undue guilt she slipped into the nursery, ran her fingers lightly through the silky black tuft of hair on her sleeping daughter’s head, and turned toward the graciously appointed room where her husband waited.

In the new land as in the old, Victorian rules and regulations reigned, and one was expected to follow specific guidelines for accepted behavior. Etiquette books advised against “undue emotions whether of laughter, anger, mortification, disappointment, or selfishness.” Therefore Hugh, a gentleman through and through, was calmly reading the paper as he waited. No gentleman ever stared at his pocket watch in polite society unless invited to do so, a rule, Sophia felt now, that kept Hugh from such uncouth behavior. And since conversing in loud tones was the mark of an oaf, his tones were mild when he looked up and asked, “Ready, my dear?”

With one quickly stifled thought for the more earthy and virile but gentlemanly (and absent) Angus, it was no effort at all for Sophia to return her husband’s smile. And why not? Dressed in frock coat, double-breasted waistcoat, wing-collared shirt, and striped trousers of excellent cut and material, Hugh was an escort to be proud of. Thank heavens he had no need of a corset!

What a glorious round of entertainment was available! It was a time of beginnings, or “firsts,” for the nation: the first organized hockey game, world champion oarsmen, golf club, bicycle club, and intercollegiate football games. Archery, croquet, baseball, yachting—all were available for participation or for spectating.

Lacrosse was billed by some as “Canada’s national game,” and it was to a special match the Galloways intended going. Pitted against the Canadian team were the famous “Twelve Iroquois Indians” who had played a command performance game before Queen Victoria. Their captain was listed as Tier Karoniare; Sophia found the player’s names unpronounceable as well as incomprehensible and much preferred their aliases: Pick the Feather, Hole in the Sky, and more.

Hugh placed Sophia’s mantelet of English covert cloth around her shoulders, took his silk hat in hand, and turned toward the door where Casper hovered ready to usher them out to the hansom cab awaiting them. Settling herself comfortably, Sophia wasted a brief moment’s thought on her brother—is Preston as satisfied with his end of the bargain as I? —and cared not a whit for his satisfaction or lack of it.

With her master and mistress gone and the house quiet around her, Kezzie hastened to the nursery, dismissed the impatient Tessie, picked up her precious charge, changed her napkin, settled in a rocking chair and put in the pink mouth the rubber nipple that, with its sediment of stale, caked milk—and with sterilization unknown—was an almost certain death trap.