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The day was damp, yet hardly a day at all. Gray clouds hung low in the dismal sky with the promise of reluctant showers. A storm loomed behind the ashen canvass. It had been present ever since the winter months had concluded, and a sodden pall had swept over the coast of the island to remain indefinitely.
Ethel Arsenault longed for the summer days back home at Green’s Shore, even though it would be just as wet there. The farmers would prepare their fields, and heave at the heavy earth in hopes it would soon be pregnant with their summer harvest. Ethel liked when the potato fields stood in perfect columns like soldiers. When she was young, she often gathered the flowers in her apron, picking them before they were pruned to make laurels for the boys.
She hadn’t done that ever since her brother, Ernest, had moved to Charlottetown to invest in shipbuilding. Now, as the wagon bumped between the muddy ruts of the road, the scent of mussel mud was prevalent over the low-hanging lady slippers and spruce trees that crowded the marshlands. It crept in the nose, more sour than regular fertilizer, and made Ethel and her servant, Beulah, want for warmer weather.
“How much longer till we arrive?” Beulah asked as she rearranged the cushions beneath her bottom. Ethel smiled, sympathetic to her friend’s condition. They’d only been traveling a day and had stopped for the night in Cornwall, but even the simple journey in an extravagant stagecoach had taken its toll on their backsides.
“We’ll be crossing the Yorke River soon, Miss Murphy,” one of the lads called from the front, spitting out a mouthful of chew to plop upon the ground.
“It seems to me like we’re headed back in the direction we came, Mr. Carlow!”
Aloysius Carlow—Al—laughed and reached into his pocket to draw out another handful of chewing tobacco. The young man must have taken a liking to Beulah Murphy’s robust personality, as he never spoke back to her when she complained or prattled on idly about dirt, mud, flowers, and horses. For a servant, Ethel had to admit that Beulah was unusual, but the girl was cheerful and had a good head on her shoulders, despite her many eccentricities. Ethel loved her dearly.
“Only way to cross the river, Miss, is by Moor’s Bridge north of Cornwall. Most people take the boats these days. They tend to be faster.”
Mud had speckled the sides of the carriage, but Beulah hung her head out anyway, catching a few freckles upon the slope of her ample cheeks as she peered at the young man’s back.
“Never-you-mind about that, Mr. Carlow!”
Al laughed and tugged at the brim of his straw hat that sat low over his brow. “Just sayin’ is all, Miss Murphy. Mr. Arsenault would have had you and your lady carried by royalty if you’d have wanted.”
Ethel nodded and offered a slight smile in return to Beulah’s worried glance. “I’m afraid I’d be bad company for royalty, Mr. Carlow,” she said. “Surely the smooth-sailing Princess of Wales would be better suited for someone like my sister-in-law, Dolly.”
“She’s been carried by it before, no doubt, eh Mr. Humphrey?” Al looked sidelong to include the older gentleman sitting beside him, in the conversation.
Fritz Humphrey, an old friend of Ethel’s father, who’d been in the employ of her family for as long as she could remember, grunted. It was the usual response, often muttered around a stalk of wheat or from the neck of a bottle. On the few occasions when Fritz Humphrey did deign a few words, so rare was the occurrence that those around him often listened in marvel of what could have possibly compelled him to speak. This, however, was not one of those times.
Despite Al’s nudging, Fritz leant back to drag a pipe from his pocket, proffering the younger man the reins as he went about filling the bowl.
Soon pipe tobacco joined the briny scent of mussel mud. It was a welcome distraction, reminding Ethel of home when both her parents were alive. In the evenings after supper, her father would sit to watch the fields sparkle with fireflies. She wondered if Dolly had such humble memories, or if she’d laugh to hear that some of Ethel’s fondest moments were braiding flowers in her brothers’ hair and watching bugs alight the sky.
“Are you all right, Miss Ethel?” Beulah’s hand was on hers, and it was like fresh warmed bread.
“Just tired. Not used to sitting so long.” Ethel smiled and hoped the gesture filled the gauntness of her cheeks. She admired the fullness of Beulah’s face, especially when the woman smiled. Though Beulah Murphy was six summers older than Ethel, she carried an air of youth in her features. She was plump, red cheeked and as reliable as a daisy. Ethel was glad to share the journey with her.
“I’d have to agree with you on that, Miss Ethel. My poor rump hasn’t been so sore since I was a girl caught licking honey out of my mother’s mason jars.”
Ethel laughed, a response that seemed to please the homely servant woman.
“You know, I’ve heard that since the island unioned with Canada, the prospect of a railroad may be high,” Beulah added.
“Right you are, Miss Murphy. A railroad would sure make traveling by land much easier, especially for farmers inland who need to transport goods.” Al paused and spat again, mumbling to the horses as the road dipped between a trench. Weeds and briars knotted in a tangle over the high arched banks around them as water splashed along the mud-caked spokes of the wagon wheels. Dandelions, ever-present and hearty, grew along the grassy edge where spongy topsoil turned from moistened cake and roots to matted alders.
“I think I’d like to take a train someday.”
“Over the Princess of Wales, Miss Arsenault?”
Beulah huffed and would have spoken if not for Ethel’s interruption. “Yes, Mr. Carlow,” she said, patting at Miss Murphy’s hand that was still hovering above her own. “I’m afraid I get uneasy when aboard a ship. I find it rather unsettling.”
“Unsettling, Miss. Arsenault?”
Ethel nodded, watching as they climbed the banks. The Yorke River, bisected with a wooden bridge, shone in the distance like cathedral glass. “Yes. My late fiancé, Roland Diggory, was lost at sea some time ago. Perhaps you may find it absurd, Mr. Carlow, but I’ve since decided I would rather not be aboard a ship. Ever. Even if it means I shall never leave the island.”
Fritz harrumphed, “Not absurd,” and blew out a cloud of smoke that meandered into the carriage. Ethel found it welcoming.
“A-apologies, Miss. I wasn’t aware of the circumstances.”
“And why would you be, Mr. Carlow?” Beulah interrupted, sitting forward in her seat, if not to rearrange her bottom, then to emphasize her point. “You’re here to drive the wagon! Not to bother us with noisome questions and prattle! If I were your employer, I would definitely be keeping a close eye on you. I suspect you fill your days with loafing and gamboling and chewing that ungodly tobacco. You’ve every known indication of a rascal, Mr. Carlow, and you shan’t get the better of me.”
Al Carlow laughed, and Ethel couldn’t help but join him.
Beulah grinned and sat back, pursing her pouty lips. “At least when the railroad’s built, we won’t have to worry about tolerating the presence of riffraff, eh Miss Ethel?” she said with a wink.
The carriage bounced, and both ladies lurched in their seats as the wheels fell into deep ruts before skidding onward.
“You did that on purpose, Mr. Carlow,” Beulah roared, pulling at a strand of auburn hair that had fallen out from under the short rim of her straw hat.
“Terrible sorry, Miss Arsenault. These roads are treacherous. Tell your servant girl to pipe down, won’t you? She’s awful distracting.”
It’s hard to be melancholy with such vibrant travel companions. Ethel couldn’t help but feel lifted despite the dreary weather. Even Miss Murphy’s constant bickering with Aloysius reminded her of the squabbling blue jays near her home in Green’s Shore. Ethel wondered if perhaps she would return there before summer ended.
Looking down at the floor of the carriage, Ethel opened a small Gladstone bag. Inside the stiff, chapped cowhide case were a few books, a pocketbook, and a leather-bound journal stuffed with a bundle of stamped envelopes. Her brother had sent a missive several weeks ago, begging for her to visit, confessing that he was worried about Dolly during all his time away on business. The letter was there amidst a few others.
She picked out a book and turned the pages of Louisa May Alcott’s well-read Little Women until it settled on chapter four. Ethel had only met Dolly on a handful of occasions, but it had never been anything more than the proper pleasantries exchanged between distant relatives. The young lady seemed a bundle of energy, bright and lovely, and as optimistic as a rainbow on a wet day.
Though Ethel and Dolly were of a similar age, they couldn’t have been any more dissimilar. That her brother Ernest had thought Ethel could even come close to keeping his new bride company was a laugh. Ethel was, by her own definition, a guttering candlestick next to the glowing hearth that was Dolly Arsenault, but now that Ethel was alone and their parents were gone, she had no reason to refuse her brother or his invitation to Charlottetown. She had hoped that refusing to board a ship may have thwarted Ernest’s will to have her there at the earliest convenience.
When the horses finally stalled at the mouth of Moor’s Bridge, Ethel looked up from her book to catch a glimpse of the few small boats and punts that made a wharf out of the right flank of the crossing. Men were loading goods and produce to be transported from Cornwall to Charlottetown, while a few other carriages meandered across the narrow wooden expanse.
The bridge was like an old man’s belt. It spanned the full belly of the Yorke River, hardly able to withstand the small amount of traffic that crossed it. The bridge had been destroyed by ice a few years ago, but despite being rebuilt, it still appeared too narrow for more than one large carriage at a time.
“I heard a parish priest that lives in Rustico brought this horseless wagon to the island a little while ago. Imagine that, Miss Ethel! Being pulled around by something that runs on fuel and bric-a-brac.”
“They can leave those damned terror wagons where they got ’em if you ask me,” Mr. Carlow interrupted, spurring the horses onward as the bridge cleared of passing stagecoaches. “All they’ll do is scare the horses, the children, and rough up the roads. Can you imagine?” He spat again. “I certainly hope I’ll never have to.”
Beulah tutted but didn’t argue as she sat back and stared out the window.
Having read the same paragraph several times with no understanding of the words upon the page, Ethel thought to put her book down and engage in conversation. When she looked up, Beulah had already slumped into a midmorning nap, lulled to sleep by the horses.
Ethel watched as the waves hummed along the glassy back of the river, kicked up by water bugs and the occasional swaying of the bobbing boats. Roland would have loved a seabound journey to Charlottetown. She could picture him at the prow, his topcoat struggling to engulf the playful breeze that flung water and foam to bead upon his spectacles.
I’ve been widowed before marriage...
And yet, despite the clockwork clatter of the horses upon the wooden bridge, time had stopped since Roland’s death. Perhaps Dolly’s sunny disposition would help shed the dreary forecast Ethel Arsenault had resigned to herself.
Roland would have loved the journey to Charlottetown. So, perhaps then, I ought to enjoy it too.
Ethel skipped to chapter five in her book, resolved to finish it before they reached their destination. Overhead the sky grew darker. Across from her, Beulah slept, as restless as the dead.
