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“Annie, hello.” Harriet paused in the door of the office. The woman ensconced behind the overflowing desk grunted and didn’t lift her head.
Clearing her throat, Harriet tried again. “I was wondering if the Trainors were in residence at their cottage yet?”
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of ‘em,” Annie replied without looking up.
“Are you expecting any of them to arrive in the near future?” she persisted in spite of the other woman’s taciturn nature.
“Nope.” Annie set down her pen and leveled her gaze at Harriet. “I don’t imagine the daughter will be far behind once Tom shows up, though.”
“Oh, thank you.” Harriet backed out of the doorway and then paused. “Are you expecting Mr. Thomson soon then?”
Annie’s eyes narrowed and her fact took on a calculating expression. “That’s the way the wind blows, is it?”
Harriet’s face heated, but she firmed her jaw. “Not at all, I assure you. I’m merely inquiring as I’d like to take some lessons from him this summer. I do value his advice and I’m intrigued by the direction his art is going.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Annie waved her away with a meaty hand. “You just keep telling yourself that. And if I were you I wouldn’t let Winnie know you’re interested in Tom.”
“I assure you my interest is only in his work, nothing else.” Harriet pivoted on her heel and marched down the hall toward the staircase.
“Honestly, the nerve of that woman,” Harriet fumed as she stamped up the stairs in a far from ladylike manner. At the top of the steps, she turned and regarded the mud tracks left by her boots on the risers. No doubt she’d hear about that from Annie as well, but the fact the other woman would have to clean up the mess brought a grim smile to Harriet’s face. Reaching her room, Harriet unlocked the door and crossed the room to push aside the curtain at the window. The May sun was high in the sky now, visible above the thick growth of trees on the east side of the lake.
“Perfect.” She nodded at her faint reflection in the smudged glass. It took only moments to gather up her painting box and small tin of insect repellant. She wrinkled her nose at smell of the bear grease mixed with sweetgrass and pineapple weed, which Harriet recognized as wild chamomile. Twisting open the tin, she smeared some ointment on every bit of exposed flesh she could find. She might stink to the high heavens but hopefully the pungent ordour would keep the swarms of blackflies away. The tiny insects would find the smallest opening in any protective clothing and feast to their little hearts’ content. Thankfully they only lasted until the temperatures rose in early June.
Suitably armoured, Harriet hurried down the stairs and out the door. Taking a path she’d used many times the past summer she struck off into the bush. She knew just the place to catch the play of sun and shadow on the lake and itched to try and capture not only the image but the essence of the place as well. Recapture that feeling of breathing life into her painting she’d experienced last summer.
A half hour later she reached her destination and after swiping ineffectually at the annoying insects, Harriet set her paintbox on a convenient fallen log and perched on a curving cedar root. Small 8 by 12 shingle board propped in lid of the open pochade, Harriet set about mixing her paints on the handheld palette before sketching in the outline of the scene she intended to capture. Swift broad strokes of colour followed, nothing like the intricate, almost photographic, images the traditional artists were producing. While that technique was the accepted method, Harriet loved the way Tom’s creations seemed to breathe with the life of his subjects and had adopted his unique style. She kept at her painting until the light began to fade. Setting down her brushes, Harriet stood and stretched her stiff back and legs. She moved back a few steps to regard the results of her labour. Not half bad, if she did have to say so herself. The sun was dipping behind the trees, the maples and hemlocks throwing long shadows across the lake. She rubbed her tired fingers together in an attempt to mitigate the increasing chill of the air. It might be May and warm down in Toronto, but here in the bush around Mowat in New Ontario winter’s breath still held sway.
“Time to pack up and see what I can find for supper,” Harriet said to the darkening woods where shadows gathered around the bushes. She made short work of cleaning her brushes and stowing the palette in the paintbox. The still wet painting she set into the clamps in the top of the box where it wouldn’t get smeared. Once she got back to Mowat Lodge she would set it out to cure while she ate.
The trek through the bush took longer than she anticipated. The long day was catching up with her, but she was thrilled with her efforts to capture the essence of the light on the trees and lake. Emerging from the head of the trail she hiked across the Gilmour Lumber chip yard and was soon mounting the steps of the lodge. Hitching the paintbox up with one hand Harriet took the stairs two at a time. Once in her room she removed the board and set it on the windowsill. Stepping away from it for a better perspective she was pleased with the effect her broad brushstrokes had produced. She could hardly wait to show Tom and get his opinion and advice.
Taking a moment to tidy her hair which seemed to have collected its fair share of leaves and twigs, she smoothed the blonde strands away from her face and jammed a battered brimmed hat on her head. Viewing the image in the mirror Harriet allowed herself a chuckle. Father would have kittens if he ever saw her like this, but Great Aunt Lois would heartily approve. Whistling, she left the room, careful to lock the door behind her, and went in search of food.
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The dining room, if the room sparsely furnished area could be called that, two men sat hunched over a table. There was something furtive about their movements, Harriet recognized Shannon Fraser as one of the men, the other was a stranger. How odd, she thought. I wonder what Shan is up to now. The man always seemed to have some scheme or another on the fire. She shrugged mentally, none of her business, thank goodness.
Harriet picked up a tin plate from the pile on the long table by the side of the room and regarded the offerings. Pickles and cheese, biscuits and butter, some meat that she thought was venison. Piling some of each on the plate Harriet took it to a table by the wide windows and then sauntered over to pour herself a cup of coffee with the consistency of mud. A generous helping of sugar made the liquid more palatable. Crossing behind the two men, she caught a wisp of the conversation which made her steps falter. Before they could realize she’d overhead anything, Harriet hastened back to her table.
Interesting, they mentioned Tom and then something I didn’t catch. But I’m sure I heard Shan asking when the next shipment was coming. I hope Tom isn’t caught up in any of Shan’s schemes. Shipment of what? I’d bet my bottom dollar it’s bootleg whisky, there certainly seems to be no shortage of that around here. I wonder if Mark Robinson, the park ranger, is aware. I can’t imagine he’s in on anything.
In spite of the direction of her thoughts, Harriet finished eating quickly. Setting the plate where Annie insisted they go in the bin by the kitchen, she poured another cup of coffee and took herself outside to watch the sunset. Throwing her head back, Harriet let the blended colours of the sky wash over her, the golds and reds and salmons faded to mauve and saffron, then blended with the newly minted green of the bush as the sun hid its face behind the tree line. This early in the year, darkness came early and the air chilled quickly. The lonely cry of the train coming into Canoe Station echoed through the stillness as she drained the last of the coffee from the cup. She wandered back into the lodge and decided to bring her book down and read in the lobby for a while, just in case Winnie or Tom was a passenger on the newly arrived train. It wouldn’t take too much time for them to make their way from Canoe Lake Station to Mowat Lodge.
Twenty minutes later boots echoed on the wooden steps and the lodge door swung open. The man stopped in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the lamp light. He dumped a satchel on the floor by his feet, took his hat off and swept the hair from his forehead. Jamming the hat back over his unruly hair, the man stooped to retrieve his bag. In doing so, his gaze landed on Harriet.
“Hetty, is that you?” Tom Thomson straightened up and crossed the floor toward her after removing his hat and jamming it under his arm.
“Hello, Tom. Yes, it’s me. I just got here today, but I managed to get a bit of time in the bush with my paints already. I can’t wait to get your feedback on it.” She stood, dropping the book into the chair behind her. A tiny flame of warmth flickered in her chest, nobody called her Hetty except Tom.
“It’s great to see you. I have to admit I didn’t expect to see you this early in the season.” He extended his right hand and clasped hers.
She returned the grip and released his hand. “I couldn’t wait another minute. Father was driving me crazy, hinting and then insisting it was way past time I was married and taken off his hands.” She grinned. “So, I took myself off his hands.”
Tom grinned in return. “I can see that.” He cocked his head to the side and regarded her, eyes shadowed by the flop of hair across his forehead. “Somehow I can’t picture you married and fussing around a house all day.”
“No more than I can,” Harriet agreed. “Hence my presence here before the ice has left the lake.” She paused. “Although I suppose I’ll have to marry someday...maybe. But let’s not waste time talking about that right now. What have you been up to all winter?”
“Oh, this and that. Do you remember the sketch of the pine tree, the twisted one on the rock?”
“Of course, I loved that one. So much strength and beauty in it.” Harriet clapped her hands.
“I finished the larger canvas of that this winter and worked on a few other things. I’ve had a bit of luck selling some of my work as well, so I’m not as skint this summer as last.” He stretched his arms over his head. “It’s so good to back here where a man can breathe and the sky isn’t blocked by buildings.”
“Amen to that,” Harriet agreed. “Did Shan know you were coming today? If not you’ll have to find Annie and get a room sorted.”
“I sent a telegram, but you know how things go here sometimes.” Tom shrugged. He turned back and shouldered his duffle bag. “I suppose I’ll go beard the dragon in her den.” He grinned and moved toward the office. “Good night, Hetty.”
“Good night, Tom.” She picked up her book and moved toward the stairs. “Tom,” she paused at the foot, “have you heard from Winnie? Do you know when she’s planning on arriving?”
The tall man turned back to her, looking down from his height of six-feet. “I have no idea, I haven’t heard from Winne all winter. But then I’ve been busy and moving around a bit, I could have missed a letter I suppose. I’m sure she’ll turn up before too long.” He continued toward the closed office door.
“I suppose,” Harriet echoed before going in search of Shan in order to settle the matter of the canoe rental for the summer. The negotiations took far longer than she expected, but in the end she was happy with the deal she’d struck. Never underestimate the power of a determined woman. Not to mention a stubborn one. Harriet giggled as she mounted the stairs and entered her room. The faint moonlight threw the rough ridges of her oils into sharp relief when she looked at her afternoon’s work. The play of light and shadow gave a new dimension to the painting, and she spent a few minutes studying it from different perspective points while moving around the room. “I think it’s good. I mean really good,” she whispered hugging her arms around her waist. “I hope Tom will think so. He might be inclined to mention me to some of his supporters. Wouldn’t that be a triumph, if I could actually get recognition for my painting and maybe even sell some.” She giggled. “Father would really have kittens then.”
Harriet lit the lamp on the dresser and undressed quickly in the unheated room. She pulled on the flannel pyjamas she favoured rather than the voluminous night rail her mother and sisters slept in. Blowing out the lamp she slid into the bed, wrapping the blanket around her and shivering until her body warmth heated the bed enough she could sleep.