April 1794
Eliza Russell places her pail of spring flowers on the broad oak table in the kitchen of their commodious new house on the commons. She’s mighty proud of this dwelling and tries not to let herself be undone by Peter’s constant complaints about how dear its construction has been. It has two storeys in the Georgian style and surrounding it are fifty acres of land, several out-buildings, and a spot near the back door where she intends to plant an extensive garden.
Right at this minute I’m a-going to plant a flower garden between the pages of that family Bible we never look at. She takes it from the bookcase in the withdrawing room and brings it to the kitchen table. From her bucket she takes the flowers. She has good specimens of each of the ones an Indian woman pointed out to her: red wakerobins, white wakerobins, marsh marigolds, purple crocuses, and one called Indian turnip which has an odd flap-like flower at the top of its stem.
She places a few of the flowers between two sheets of paper and inserts the papers into the centre section of the Bible, hoping the papers will keep the pages of the Bible from being stained. She has so many flowers she has to keep skipping pages so she can get them all crammed in. In five weeks, she’ll take the flowers out and put them into frames or decorate her letters to her dear English friend Lizzie with them. She may even present some to Mrs. Simcoe who shares her interest in wildflowers. And for certain, I’ll take some to Mr. White to give to that Indian who cooks for him. She will be the better for something pretty to cheer herself up with.
She has just got all of them tucked into the Bible when Mary comes in the back door. “Aunt, what is a prick?”
“You must remember, child, to introduce topics of conversation with a preliminary phrase or two. Surely you know what a prick is. You pricked yourself with a needle last week and the blood ran. That was a prick. Don’t you remember?”
“No, no, Aunt, this is a different prick. It was written on a sheet of paper nailed up in the square today. Everyone tried to keep me from seeing it. It said Mr. White’s prick was a dirty wick, or something like that. They wouldn’t let me get close enough to read it all.”
There’s something here I don’t understand. It sounds almost . . . carnal.
“Oh, Aunt Eliza, you’re going to be in trouble if Uncle Peter finds out what you’ve done to the family Bible.” Mary points and giggles.
“I think you’d be the better for not being so nosy, my dear,” Eliza says, happy that the child has been distracted from her interest in pricks. “Now, help me out. Have we got something we can pile on top of the Good Book to put extra pressure on these flowers?”
Mary considers. “Why not just cram it back into the bookcase and let the books on each side of it do the pressing?”
“Excellent.” Eliza pushes the Bible back into the row of books. Good, it’s a mighty tight squeeze.
“But what will we do if Uncle Peter decides to read something from it?”
“He has some new books to read. A pile came today on the packet boat from dear Lizzie in Harwich. They’re on the dining-room table.”
Mary runs to look at them. “Goody Two-Shoes,” she says as she picks up a book from the top of the pile and leafs through it, making gagging noises. After a minute or two, though, she says, “Give me this one, will you, Aunt Eliza? It doesn’t seem to be as bad as its stupid title.” She takes the book and runs into her bedchamber. In this commodious new house, they all have separate rooms, thank the Lord.
* * *
Eliza awakens, the sound of the door slamming bringing her to consciousness. She has a crick in her neck, having fallen asleep in a dining-room chair, her head on the table. She looks at the clock on the sideboard. Dear Lord, eight p.m., and Peter will be wanting some supper.
Her brother enters the dining room before she has time to ready herself. “Sleeping, sister? Surely you would be more comfortable lying in your bedchamber?”
The crick in her neck is mighty painful, but she sits up and tries to smile. On the table in front of her is the open book she was reading when she nodded off.
Peter picks it up. “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Are you unhappy, sister, with the life you have here with me in this new world?”
“No, dear Peter. Happy I am to be here with you. I can think of no other occupation than to be your companion and support. I am reading the book because Lizzie sent it to me. It has received much praise in England. But it put me to sleep, as you can see.”
Peter laughs, but there is little mirth in the sound. “You got to page five. That is a start.”
Job comes in and stirs the fire in the hearth. “I have some biscuits, cheese, and apple preserves, ma’am,” he says, laying the table with the silverware that has newly come from Mr. Hamilton’s warehouse in Queenston.
Peter eats in silence and drinks the wine Job has poured for him. Eliza watches him, knowing from his heavy breathing and the manner in which he slaps the butter on his biscuits that he has something of import to tell her.
At last, as he downs the last dregs from the bottle, he speaks. “Where is the girl, sister?”
“She took her supper on a plate in her bedchamber. She is deep into a book from the package Lizzie sent.”
“Good. For what I am to tell you is not for innocent ears.” In a low voice he tells her about the notice posted this day in the public square. Though she still does not fully understand the coarse language, she understands its import.
“And who is responsible for these words, brother?”
“It’s Idiot Jarvis and that wife of his. Of that I am certain. I went to his house today. It was not a pleasant visit, I tell you. The man screamed at me and denied everything. I had to stand in their kitchen and listen to his diatribe while I breathed in the stink of shit. Excuse me, Eliza, but there is no other way to describe the stench of the place—”
“Do not apologize. The woman dispenses castor oil for all afflictions. You remember she once left some of her remedy for us, and we fed it to the groundhog?”
“You understand, my dear sister.” He smiles at her, then continues, “But worse than the stink were the words that Jarvis uttered when I confronted him. He told me the man Tickell had already visited him, and he is now going to challenge Tickell and White to a duel. ‘My honour is at stake, and I intend to see that they pay for their slur on my reputation.’ That is what he said to me. My God, the whole town is in upheaval. Since the Governor is still away and Osgoode has not yet returned from the circuit, I must deal with the matter myself. White will give me no trouble, but Tickell is a different matter.”
“And what about Mr. Small? Is he not part of this, too?”
“I went to his house after I left Jarvis. Small is an amiable man. He made a pleasant little defence of his wife. He seems as certain as I am that Jarvis and his wife are behind it all, ‘stirring the pot,’ as he put it. But he shrugs it off. So he will not be a problem.”
“Surely you are right that Mr. White will accept no challenge. He hates duels. But what about Mr. Tickell?”
“I must sort it out tomorrow. Tickell and Jarvis intend to meet behind the Freemasons’ Lodge at dawn, and I must be there to stop them. As for the bastard’s threat to White, I can bring in a court order for him to keep the peace.”
“There was some line about Mrs. Small, was there not? I can’t quite remember.”
“‘The bold Mrs. Small just loves being fickle.’”
“You haven’t talked about her, Peter. Is she somehow the cause of this muddle?”
“Oh, sister, you might as well hear it all now. While Jarvis was denying having anything to do with that wretched verse, his woman stood by his side and spewed out filth about Mrs. Small so foul it almost drowned the stench of shit. Perhaps she just wanted to deflect my attention from her husband. Perhaps what she said was just a nasty rumour. Yet . . . I can’t help feeling there’s no smoke without fire.”
Eliza listens as Peter tells her a story that puts her to the blush. Oh good Lord, I must find some way to warn Mr. White.