Chapter Thirteen

 

 

March 1793

At first, Eliza Russell was mighty pleased with the Canadian snowfall. Snow in England, if it came at all, was slush and muck. She and Mary made snowflakes from bits of paper dear Peter procured for them, and they’d hung them all over the cabin for Christmas time. But now she just wants this wretched season to be gone. It’s so cold, her fingers are almost numb, and the smoke from the chimney is intolerable.

“I do wish you would stop your moaning and groaning, Aunt,” Mary says, between the coughs that rack her small body.

I must have been talking out loud and not realized. “Sorry, child. Why don’t you get your book and read it?”

“Ha. Don’t you remember, Uncle Peter snatched it from me at breakfast. Said he would not give it back until I finished eating. As if I could stomach one more mouthful of that cornmeal porridge.”

“Now I am a-wondering who is moaning and groaning?”

Job gets up from his chair in the corner of the room and stirs the soup on the hearth. It creates a diversion, and Eliza knows that’s what he intended. He’s a good man and a good cook, and Eliza knows not what she would do without him. Even with his help, she and Mary are housekeepers, seamstresses, and chambermaids. Thank the Lord that the slave bill, according to Peter, has been put aside until the second session of the legislature opens in May. Not that it will much change Job’s life as a slave, but it may give him ideas above his station.

There’s a thump on the door. “It’s that horrible Jarvis woman,” Mary says, peeking through their tiny front window. “I’m not staying around to hear her call me a savage. I’ll take myself and my moccasins into the bedchamber.”

Job retreats again to his corner. Eliza has not time to ready herself except to remove her apron, stained red from a jacket she had been dyeing in madder.

Mrs. Jarvis holds a babe in one arm, a healthy-looking infant she calls Samuel Peters, named after their little son who died of diphtheria in the fall. She sweeps into the room, wriggles out of her mantle, throws it onto a hook in the wall, and before Eliza can say “please sit down,” moves the rocking chair so that its back is to Job. She then pulls out the linen strip that fills in her low-necked bodice, and bares her breast.

“What a blessed relief,” she says, as the babe sucks. “He screamed the whole way here. No wonder William says he has not the same affection for him as he had for our dear departed son.”

She looks around the room. “How do you manage, Miss Russell? William tells me your new house is in the making and you will soon be out of this hovel.”

“It is scarce ready, ma’am, and I will not be a-going from this place for many a month.”

“A pity indeed. William and I now have the most comfortable cottage in the province. Why, our very cellar is larger than this room. You should see it. William has stocked it with wine, apples, butter, maple sugar—one hundred and fifty pounds of it—flour, cheese, coffee, and loaf sugar.”

“That must be dear, ma’am.”

“William thinks only of the comforts of his family, Miss Russell. He spares no expense.” She frowns. “And you do not get out and about much, do you? I have not seen you at our subscription balls over at the Fort.”

I’m not a-going to tell her I have no money for clothes for dining out. My brother has spent more than a thousand pounds on the new house, all out of his own pocket. “I have been ill with the ague, ma’am.”

“Let me send you some castor oil. It is a panacea for all ailments, I have found.”

She pops out her other breast and transfers the babe to it. “Have you heard that the Lady Simcoe is searching for a wet nurse for her new infant?” She makes a noise that’s more a snort than a laugh. “I’m thinking of seeking the job myself. The woman has too much money to throw around. That’s why her husband married her. She’s got him right under her thumb. Petticoat rule, that’s what it is.”

She does like that expression, I’ve heard it a hundred times. “Tea, ma’am? Mr. Hamilton procured some for us from Montreal before the lake froze.”

Mrs. Jarvis watches while Job puts some tea leaves into a pot and pours boiling water from the copper cauldron over it. “You have only one servant, Miss Russell. He seems efficient. My kitchen maid Fanny was a perfect Devil incarnate. She ran off with a sergeant at the Fort, and yesterday William told me the man shot himself through the head one month into their marriage. Now I have a Scotch girl, a nasty, sulky, ill-tempered creature. Richard, our manservant, has turned out to be a perfect sot. Rum, dear rum, is his idol . . .”

While her guest rambles on, Eliza catches Job’s eye. He stands behind the visitor’s chair and makes a gesture that reminds her of a fiddler playing a reel. His gesture is amusing, but it puts her to the blush.

“How red you are, Miss Russell. Perhaps I should not discuss the servants in front of your man. I must now find some slaves, though they may all run away on me this summer when our Bachelor-at-Large and the Governor pass that piece of chicanery that frees all negroes.”

“The slave bill, my brother says, forbids the import of more slaves, but for certain does not force us to give up the ones we have now. So you would be the better for getting your slaves now, ma’am.” I’m mighty pleased to set the . . . bitch . . . straight on that one . . .

“Well only God knows what the Simcoes are up to. Or our Bachelor-at-Large either, for that matter.” She puts the babe against her shoulder and administers a slap to its back. It gives a loud burp.

Time to pretend ignorance. “Bachelor-at-Large, Mrs Jarvis?

“Your dear friend, Attorney-General John White, and lately thief of large chunks of my husband’s salary.”

Eliza is now genuinely at a loss. “What do you mean, ma’am?”

“The Governor has done nothing but complain about William’s supposed slowness in administering land grants. He has now allowed that man, who is nothing but a sycophant and a liar, the right to collect half of the fees on land patents. And William must still pay all the expenses of his office. You can have no idea of the cost of parchment which must be imported.” She slaps the babe’s back again.

“Parchment, ma’am? Why does Mr. Jarvis have the expense of parchment? My brother told me Mr. Jarvis issues his land grants on paper, so he should not have to charge for parchment.” Now I have undone things. Not that I care. The sooner she is a-going from my kitchen, the better.

“I have no more to say, Miss Russell. I can see that you know little about the affairs of this godforsaken world. Though I might pity you for your ignorance, perhaps it is best to be ignorant. Then you have none of the cares and worries that beset me.”

Mrs. Jarvis hands the babe to Eliza while she tucks the linen strip back into her bosom. Eliza has not held a babe for many years, and as she looks down at the toothless smile the child bestows on her, she remembers . . . “No,” Mary’s first word, the bunch of dandelions the wee lass picked for me and arranged in a pickle jar, the . . .

“What you have to smile about in this place, Miss Russell, eludes me. I shall go home now. I cannot think that all this smoke can be good for my son.” Mrs. Jarvis has donned her coat and now takes back the babe. “I shall send over the castor oil for your ague with a servant this afternoon. Thank you for the tea. Good morning.”

The door has scarce closed when Mary comes out of the bedchamber. “Oh Aunt,” she says, “let me pour you a large glass of rum. You’ll need it to wash down that castor oil.”

For a moment, their shared laughter warms Eliza’s hands and conquers Mary’s ever present cough.