Unbeknownst to Helena, the bandits' hideout was only twelve miles from her home. Their thundering ride following the holdup had retraced the miles covered by her train ride the night before.
Helena's father, the earl, had recovered slightly from the heart attack occasioned by the news of Helenas elopement, but hovered now within Death's desiring grasp. The Lady Myrtle, upon causing her father to collapse, had undergone a transformation.
So intense was her remorse that she had vowed to nurse him day and night until he once more looked at her with recognition. She rested only briefly in the armchair beside the earl's bed, praying each time she woke that he might have recovered his wits so that she could make amends.
But there he lay, his skin ashen, his eyelids fluttering occasionally, and his every breath a rasping labour.
When Myrtle notified the police that her sister was missing, possibly a passenger on the train that had been robbed, they had tracked Helena's flight as far as the scoundrel, James, and there the trail went cold. Unwilling to confess his own cowardly behaviour in the face of the outlaws, James had lied and told the investigators that Helena had never boarded the train with him.
As distraught as Myrtle was over her father's illness, she was nearly deranged by Helena's disappearance. Every hour she tripped across some new reason to cry. Elizabeth, the maid, brought chilled cucumber slices to soothe Myrtle's swollen eyes and urged her to partake of soup or biscuits, but was turned away at each attempt.
She who had resented every smile bestowed upon her sister now yearned to see her comely face once more.
“If my father is delivered from his illness,” Myrtle whispered to the moon, “and my sister retrieved from whatever misery has befallen her, I pledge to perform charitable deeds for as long as I shall breathe upon this earth.”
With this solemn vow forsworn, the Lady Myrtle allowed herself to eat her supper and to sink into sleep, not really expecting that tomorrow would bring an answer, of sorts, to her dreams.
To be continued …
The farmers have triumphed!
The men returned for supper in a fever of merriment. I believe Mr. Goodhand thinks he has played out a schoolyard fight with Mr. Forrest and finally succeeded in punching him in the nose. (No such thing occurred, in fact, however much it was deserved.)
The afternoon in the Bright Creek office was spent shouting, stamping feet, and thumping on the table until finally they all sat down like gentlemen to agree upon the details….
The ladies will work one hour less per day and have a full half-hour dinner recess.
They will change tasks every two hours and have five minutes' rest between each change.
Anyone in contact with scalding water or harsh cleansers will be provided with gloves or other protective clothing.
They may be fined only for tardiness of ten minutes or more.
They may speak to each other while they work.
Such a list of improvements! In exchange, the ladies will not protest again and the farmers will sell their milk at the same price as before.
Alfred says Mr. Forrest was grudging in the end but not objectionable. I suspect the ladies will be jubilant.
Mr. Goodhand had quiet words for me, while the others were tidying. “It seems odd to you, Mable, that Mr. Forrest would not consider speaking to the women who were causing the trouble. Mr. Forrest is the sort who thinks it takes men to speak to men. And he would spit beetles before he'd speak to the little girl who had the bright idea how to fix things. I didn't expect to be thanking you, but the idea worked, and here I am.” It was as kind a gesture as he has ever made.
Meanwhile, as closely as I watched Alfred and Viola last night and this evening, I have gained no further indication of their love. I wondered briefly if I imagined my discovery but have decided otherwise. The very lack of evidence has confirmed my suspicion. They are careful in company not to even look at each other.
And so. “Viola,” I said as we readied for bed. “What do you suppose will happen next?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“If we were living in a story, what would be the next chapter? We have left home, traveled afar, met interesting strangers, been challenged by adversity, and encountered the police. Should there not be a love scene?”
“Are you suggesting that your shameless flirting with Tommy Thomas and the Brown twins be counted as love? You are only fourteen, Mable. I think you'll have to wait for your love scene.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Could the love scene be yours?”
She became still as a chair. She knew that I had learned her secret.
“Mable,” she said, looking into my eyes. “If ever you needed to be trustworthy, this is the moment. Sit down.”
She took my hand. “I do not know how you … But Alfred and I –” She broke off, blushing deep pink.
“I know,” I said. “When you came to fetch me at the courthouse, I saw it then. But why must it be such a great secret? Do you not wish to shout the news from the spire of Sellerton Methodist?”
“Mable, you have such childish notions still. We could not continue living in this house if anyone knew. It would be unthinkable! And we have not yet made plans for the future. I must consider Mama. She needs the money I earn. I cannot risk her losing that.”
“But surely the school board cannot fire you for falling in love? That is too cruel!”
Viola smiled as if I were very dull witted. “Not for falling in love, Mable. I will be fired when we marry. There is a law against married women being teachers.”
“You're getting married?” I knew not which bite to take first. “There's a law against it?”
“Of course we'll marry someday. We simply don't know when. We must think of Mama.”
“There shouldn't be such a law! There's no law preventing married men from teaching!”
“That's true,” she said. “Men don't have babies. Marriage does not change their ability to teach.”
“It seems likely to me that a woman with children in her home would understand better than anyone how to teach them,” I said, believing it with all my heart as suddenly as I had thought it up. “There should be a law that only parents can be teachers, especially mothers.”
“Silly Mable.” And she hugged me!
LOVE POEM
As from Viola to Alfred
Perhaps my temper is too tart,
Perhaps my sister lost your cart,
Perhaps, at times, I am too smart:
You simply wink and smile.
Perhaps Cupid shot a dart,
Perhaps my gravy won your heart,
Perhaps, nay, surely, we won't part:
You'll have my love awhile.
I hoped to avoid the Forrests after church this morning (sermon: “Let Honesty Lead You to Heaven”), but Mrs. Forrest was waiting at the churchyard gate to pounce on us while her husband fetched the carriage.
Alfred escorted his mother right past her with only a curt nod. Viola held my hand and we intended to stroll past, but she stopped us with a greeting.
“You there.”
“Good morning,” said Viola.
“I suppose you think you're pretty clever.” Mrs. Forrest spoke to me.
I wondered briefly if she referred to what was foremost in my mind, but answered as though she did.
“I was only trying to help.”
“Well,” she said, “you might have.”
I looked at Viola, confused. Mrs. Forrest seemed to be saying …
“You heard me correctly,” she said. “Your fiddling may have resulted in some good this time. If those hard-headed girls actually perform their duties and they will have no excuse for complaints with the new hours Mr. Forrest will be satisfied.”
“How did you know it was my idea?”
“It had to be a female mind that came up with a sneaky plan like this one,” said Mrs. Forrest. “Alfred is a good boy, but he's as thick as an elm tree.”
Viola tightened her grip on my hand and Mrs. Forrest saw.
“Oh, ho!” she pounced. “That's the way it is, eh?”
Viola and I both shook our heads in protest. Mrs. Forrest seemed to swell with excitement before our very eyes.
“I knew it! You set your cap for that boy the moment you arrived in Sellerton!”
“No,” said Viola.
“I predicted this the night I heard you two singing in the lane like a couple of spooning cats.”
“You're mistaken,” said Viola.
“We'll see about that,” said Mrs. Forrest. “We'll see whether your sister's cleverness can wheedle you out of this one. We'll see how you slide out of the scandal of living under the same roof as your secret paramour! We'll just see …!”
She was positively gleeful as Mr. Forrest arrived in the carriage. He climbed down to help his wife climb up, and he tipped his hat to me. Not knowing, I thought with numbing dread, the earful he'd be receiving on the road home.
I stared at Viola aghast, but she was strangely calm.
“We must tell the Goodhands directly when we get home from church,” she said. “There will be no scandal if we have already made arrangements to live elsewhere.”
“Where will we live?”
“Someone will have a room for us. I will not be defeated by that haranguing old bat. We'll tell the truth quickly before Mrs. Forrest can circulate her version. ‘Let Honesty Lead You to Heaven.’ I love Alfred Goodhand, and so to Heaven I go.”
Ambler's Corners
November 20, 1901
My darling girls,
Never was I more surprised than reading your news, Viola. If Flossie had shaken the feather duster in my direction, I might have fallen over!
I am happy for you, dear child, perhaps more so because I am certain that love came as a surprise to you too. And I am curious beyond words to meet Mr. Alfred Goodhand, to know for myself what you have both told me that he is worthy of you. I think your idea of bringing him here for Christmas is a splendid one. If he can survive a visit in the wild Riley house, he is a fine man, indeed.
All the children send hugs and kisses and shouts and cheers!
Affectionately,
Your mama
I do not think my pencil can race so quickly as my thoughts or my beating heart for Viola is not the only one to have a romance! There, I have said it. Though perhaps I run too far ahead to call it “romance.” The plain truth is I have had a kiss! Yes! A kiss! I was beginning to despair that it should ever happen and now it has! Shall I tell all? Of course! Never again will I have a first kiss to describe and linger over.
The tale begins when the spelling bee ended. Viola had announced that this would be the deciding match. The Commas were in a frenzy of delight (hurrah!), having won by two points. Elizabeth departed in a fit of pique not that I blame her as I would have felt identically had the tables been turned but I was left with no companion.
“Despite your win,” said Viola, “you still must do the sweeping and wash the blackboard.”
I watched with envy the other scholars leave the yard Tommy and Joseph taunting Henry for being on the losing team and the younger girls skipping off home with rosy noses. I did my tasks, wondering how to cheer up Elizabeth (and came upon the plan of a friendship letter, horribly misspelled, to win her smile back).
Viola bade me leave without her as she prefers to grade papers at school while there is still light rather than at the farm by candle.
And so! And so! I set out alone and had come nearly home when who should jump out at me from behind a tree but Tommy! I wish I could say I did not scream, but scream I did, heart bumping in fright.
He laughed, coming close and taking off his spectacles.
“What is it?” I asked, thinking his manner odd.
“Mable,” he said, “I've been thinking about something.”
“Well? What is it?” I asked again.
“Please don't be angry,” he said.
And then, without another moment spent, he leaned toward me and put his lips against my mouth. They were cold, but softer than expected, and tasted faintly of pecans, as if he had been cracking and chewing nuts while he waited for me.
I closed my eyes and then opened them, not knowing which was better. But his eyes were open too, lash to lash with mine. It was so surprising that we stopped the kiss and stared. Who blushed more? I wonder. We could not help but laugh.
And that was it. My first kiss. Now that I think upon it, I wish we had kissed again. I wish I had kept my eyes shut and felt the field tilt beneath my feet. But perhaps it was a good thing, to have shared it with a fellow who could laugh along with me. I do feel a shiver of … of triumph! I've had my first kiss and will remember it for all of my life!
“Very cheeky, Tommy Thomas,” I said. “Do you make a habit of scaring the wits out of a girl and then kissing her?”
He put his spectacles back on and kicked a stone. “It was all right, though, wasn't it?” He looked at me sideways.
I did not mean to giggle, but it slipped out. “Yes.”
Tommy walked with me to the gate. I wonder now when we might kiss again? Certainly not within sight of Mrs. Goodhand's kitchen window! It's a relief there is no school tomorrow, as I must recover from this historic occasion.
I have not told Viola about Tommy and do not think I will. I most certainly will not tell Hattie! (She used to ask, “Would the setting of a kiss be more important or the person?” Well, clearly the person matters more! One is not kissing the scenery!) Hattie is too much of a fussbudget these days to hear my confidence. Perhaps Elizabeth, if the time is ever right. Has she been kissed? I wonder.
Viola and Alfred have decided to have a photograph taken to mark their engagement. There is a fellow in Stratford who has reasonable rates, Alfred says. They will have it done next week and printed in time to send to Mama, that she might have a preview of Alfred before Christmas!
The Reverend Mr. Scott caught my attention this morning during his sermon entitled “To Keep One's Promise Is to Praise the Lord.”
“… It is grave news for good people that since the law first permitted divorce, in 1867, there have been fifty-three couples in Canada to suffer its mortification! Fifty-three couples in only thirty-four years have succumbed to failure, nay, have sought failure, rather than hold fast to the vows made before God. Where can this lead us except into darkness? …”
I suddenly wondered, Was Mrs. Rattle possibly not a widow? Had she been divorced instead? Was she even so audacious as that?
I told myself I would find out the truth to-day. To-day or never, I realized.
As I walked to Silver Lining, snow began to fall, sprinkling all the world with confectioner's sugar.
Mrs. Rattle has begun to dismantle her home. The wicker chairs were lined up, pushed against the wall, and covered with sheets. The books were stacked in crates. The tasseled drapes were taken down, allowing the winter light to pour across the naked dancer on the wall.
“What do you suppose the next tenant will make of her?” asked Mrs. Rattle.
“Is there to be a next tenant already?” It was a dreadful thought.
“Not yet,” said Mrs. Rattle. “I paid the year in advance and there are still a few months on the lease. But I must travel on from here or die of being an outcast.” She clapped her hands suddenly. “I will not indulge in feeling sorry for myself. There is too much packing up to do! I had thought to leave Underwood with you, Mable, but now have had word that the Berlin Dispatch has accepted my application and I will work as a journalist again. Is this not good news?”
“It is,” I said. “Except that you are leaving and I shall possibly never see you again.”
“I do not believe that to be true,” she said, so quickly that she gave me hope. “The likes of us are quite sure to meet again. Berlin is not so far away. It is not Germany, after all. You will be looking for work yourself in only a few years. Who better to approach than an old hand like me? Why, by then, I might own the newspaper!”
“I wish you were not so cheerful!” I burst out.
“Oh, dear. I'm sorry.” She was subdued at once. “I have spent my night hours crying and now seize the daylight to give me courage to go on.”
“May I ask you a question, Mrs. Rattle? Though my sister would scold me for impertinence?”
“Now I'm curious.” She grinned.
“What happened to Mr. Rattle?”
“Ahh. Is it wise for me to tell you? Will you keep my secret?”
I nodded eagerly.
“There never was a Mr. Rattle,” she said. “Cora Rattle is the name I was born with, and I plan to take it to my grave. But by adding the ‘Mrs.’ up front, I add opportunity. A widow can live by herself without suspicion. Why should I avoid such a pleasure because of a silly title?”
“Isn't it odd,” I said, “how Viola is waiting to be married for her life to begin while you think of marriage as an ending?”
“Not an ending for everyone, dear girl, but certainly not one of my dreams. I think your sister will be lucky in her choice of Alfred Goodhand.”
“He's very kind,” I agreed. I looked around the room at clear surfaces and bare walls. “It seems so … so empty,” I said. I bit my lip to hold the tears inside.
“Dear Mable Riley,” said Mrs. Rattle, grasping my shoulders, “when I was your age, I knew nothing beyond lessons in French and drawing with my governess. I was filled to the brim with other people's knowledge. I would have made a good parrot, but my head was as empty as this room.
“This is why I find you so admirable, Mable. You are already asking questions and seeking answers. I wish you had been my friend when I was fourteen so that I had not wasted years having a lazy mind.”
“We're friends now,” I ventured.
“Yes,” she said. “We're friends.”
“I suppose one good thing is that we are writers,” I said. “We could write letters to each other, could we not?”
“Of course!” she cried. “Writers never have to say goodbye. We simply write another letter.” She stepped forward and hugged me tight, a quick and impetuous embrace that knocked the breath right out of me.
Whatever brave face I held while in her presence, it vanished upon departure. I cried without stopping all the way to my bed.
“PERSONAL AND SOCIAL NOTES
“Will you listen to this,” said Mr. Goodhand. “Listen, son. Viola, dear? Are you listening?
“Mr. Alfred Goodhand has announced his betrothal to Miss Viola Riley. Miss Riley will retire as the Sellerton schoolteacher at the end of this school year. A replacement is being sought. Mr. A. Goodhand will continue to work on the farm of his father, Mr. H. Goodhand.
The happy couple will be wed in July and will lease the cottage known as Silver Lining to begin their married life. Miss Riley and her sister, Miss Mable Riley, will live in the cottage until the wedding, with an eye to making certain improvements for the newlyweds.”
“Oh, clip that one out, Howard,” said Mrs. Goodhand. “I'll put it in the scrapbook.”
“Mrs. Cora Rattle has departed the area for Berlin, Ontario, where she will be employed as a reporter for the Berlin Dispatch. Her friends will miss her and wish her well.
“May the evildoers of Berlin beware” cried Mr. Goodhand. “The Avenging Angel is upon thee!” He chuckled at his own wit. Alfred patted my hand.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day.
Viola is insisting, in a friendly, daughterly fashion, that Mrs. Goodhand is still in mourning and should be spared the effort of cooking so much this year. Viola and I will create the feast to celebrate our new relations. Elizabeth will come and chop things up with us. She is very nearly a cousin now. I am to be the pie maker and Viola will do the rest. She is anxious that it all be just right. Alfred is delighted. He will grow quite fat when Viola becomes Mrs. Goodhand if he does not take care!
We have been to Mrs. Rattle's cottage, to finalize our arrangements. Sadly, the first “improvement” we must make will be to paint over the naked dancer on the wall. Viola blushed crimson when she saw it and thanked Heaven Mr. Goodhand did not accompany us!
It is fitting that I have reached the final pages of this record book. I will begin a new one with the heading of Silver Lining! When I began this account, I knew not what the story would be or whom I would meet. It is a sentimental notion, but every day is a new page, sometimes a whole chapter. I have realized that I will be the writer of my own story as much as the reader of others'.
The romantic tale I have been writing for Hattie seems sillier and sillier. And yet I must end it for her, must I not?