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Harriet sat on the steps of the lodge nursing a cup of coffee and listening to Winnie complain that Tom hadn’t returned yet.
“He knew I was coming and it’s been almost a week,” Winnie grumbled, sighing and leaning back to tip her face to the sun.
“You know what he’s like when he’s painting or tramping through the bush. He forgets what year it is let alone what day,” Harriet soothed her. Personally, she thought if Winnie was dogging her footsteps as much as she did Tom’s Harriet would be sorely tempted to disappear into the bush too. “Have you got the cottage all set up for the summer,” she sought to change the subject.
“Pretty much,” Winnie nodded, “Father arrived five days ago and has done most of the heavy stuff, I’ve got the beds all aired and swept out the dust.” She paused and grimaced. “The Blechers are supposed to arrive today or tomorrow. I hope Tom and Martin Jr. don’t get into it over the war.”
“They’re the German-Americans with the cottage not far from yours?” Harriet tried to put faces to the name.”
“That’s right.”
“I didn’t realize Tom and Martin don’t get along. Surely nothing serious, I hope.”
Winnie shrugged. “Martin Jr is just so opinionated, and he tends to side with the Germans when the men start talking about the war. You can imagine how well that goes over.”
“Is Martin Sr. as opinionated? Or his sister? What was her name?” Harriet wrinkled her brow.
“Bessie. She’s a quiet sort, always hanging around with Martin Jr. I’ve tried to be friendly to her, but she doesn’t seem interested. Very much keeps to herself and her immediate family that one. And don’t even ask me about the mother. She can be mean as a cornered badger, that on.”
“Hmmm,” Harriet murmured for want of something better to say. A flash of sunlight on a paddle drew her gaze to the far side of Canoe Lake. She squinted against the sun bouncing off the water and stood up. “Looks like Tom’s canoe.” She pointed toward the peculiar coloured canoe approaching toward the Mowat dock.
“Well, it’s about time.” Winnie got to her feet and started toward the dock with a determined stride.
Harriet subsided back unto the step and sipped the remains of her coffee. She was anxious to show Tom her sketch of the birch grove, but no way did she intend to get herself in the middle of what looked to be a lover’s quarrel. Tipping the last of her coffee unto the ground, she got up and sauntered into the main hall of the lodge.
“Looks like Tom Thomson is back from his latest excursion,” she commented to Annie as she passed the open office door.
“Hummpf,” Annie snorted, “I suppose that Trainor girl has hightailed down to meet him.” She shook her head. “Wasting her time, that one.”
“What do you mean?” Harriet leaned on the door frame dangling the empty coffee cup from her index finger. “He seems to like her well enough.”
“That may be, but that man’s ain’t the marryin’ type and marryin’ is what Winnie Trainor has in mind.”
“I thought they had an ‘understanding’?” Harriet indulged her curiosity with a little gossip.
“If an ‘understanding’ means she’s at his beck and call when he has a mind for it, I guess you’re right. But he ain’t lookin’ for anything permanent.” Annie sniffed. “And if he was, he could do better than her.” She turned back to whatever was on her desk, effectively ending the conversation.
Harriet continued to the dining room to leave her cup and then mounted the stairs to her room to collect her paintbox. She left the birch grove study still curing on the windowsill, locked the door and headed for the stairs. The sound of voices stopped her at the top. Whatever Shannon and Annie were discussing seemed to be pretty serious and from the tone of their voices something they didn’t want anyone else to overhear. Carefully stepping down unto the first riser, she peered through the railing while keeping herself in the shadows.
“Tom’s back. You’ll need to talk to him about—”
“I know what I need to do. Hush your trap woman. Anybody could be listening.”
“The only one in the lodge right now is that St. George woman and she’s up in her room. I just saw her go us a moment ago.”
“Still. You gotta be careful. We got a good thing goin’ with the Indians and using that trapper guy keeps our hands clean. Nothin’ to connect us with anything. Certainly not bootleg whiskey.” Shannon’s features took on an innocent air. “No need to get the supplier concerned either. We don’t’ want to cross that crowd.”
“Just be sure you talk with Thomson. Make sure he don’t know nothin’. And if he does, make sure he ain’t gonna do anything about it.” Annie glared at her husband and disappeared into her office.
Harriet slunk back up onto the upper hall floor and then down the hall a bit. She made sure her boots clunked on the wooden floor as she returned to the stairs. Whistling, she came down the stairs, paintbox in hand.
“Good morning, Shan. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Harriet swept past the man without pausing.
He grunted in reply and moved deeper into the lodge. Harriet paused at the bottom of the outside steps to take a breath. So that was what that strange character and Shan had been up to in the dining room when what must have been money passed hands. It was really none of her affair, other than it was a sin, or so Father would say, to encourage any man to imbibe alcohol. The corner of her mouth tipped up. That phrase always amused her. As if a woman couldn’t be tempted to get a bit tipsy. Harriet herself was more than a bit curious about what the attraction was. Maybe this summer she’d find out.
“I bet Winnie will be up to the challenge,” she murmured before setting off toward the dock and her canoe. A quick survey of the area showed her that Tom and Winnie were nowhere in sight. So, either Tom appeased Winnie, or they’d gone their separate ways.
Even though the day was young yet, the sun beat down with a ferocity that promised stifling temperatures by the afternoon. Harriet set the paintbox down and flipped her canoe over, she placed the box securely under the bow seat before sliding the boat across the mud into the shallows. The pungent sent of hot, wet mud mixed with an undertone of decaying plant material rose around her as she pushed the canoe into deeper water before getting in. She leaned over and plucked a white water lily from the pads surrounding the craft. The sweet scent swirled around her as her paddle displaced the floating vegetation. The purple spikes of pickerelweed punctuated by the white of arrowhead weed brushed the sides of the canoe until she gained deeper water. Canoe Lake wasn’t deep by some lake standards, the water by the Wapomeo islands was only thirty feet deep. Harriet grinned, which meant the water warmed earlier in the year than deeper lakes and made it perfect for swimming. She dipped her paddle into the still water, enjoying the pull of muscles across her back and shoulders. Kneeling as she was in the centre of the canoe, she had complete control and balance. When she’d first started canoeing last spring she’d perched on the rear seat which made her somewhat top heavy and her strokes less effective. Tom had taken pity on her one afternoon as she fought a stiff west wind with little success. Once he’d shown her how to kneel low in the canoe and in the centre rather than on the end, Harriet had been amazed at the difference it made.
Spying a lightning blasted spruce tree among some lower snags, she aimed the bow toward the spot. With the morning light streaming down like molten honey bringing out the variety of colours in the dead wood, it was just the subject she was looking for. The challenge of recreating the play of light and shadow and the striations in the twisted trunk had her fingers itching to pick up her brushes. Holding her anticipation in check she gave one last stroke and let the bow bump gently into the bit of sandy shore beneath the heap of granite rock the tree stood on. Moving carefully but quickly she hopped out and flipped the painter rope over a convenient bit of stump by the water’s edge. Making sure her paddle was stowed, she picked up the paintbox and scrambled up the incline between two huge boulders. Gaining the vantage point she desired, Harriet opened the lid of the box and pulled out her materials. A sense of joy and soul healing peace settled over her. This was what life was about, living and breathing in the arms of nature and most of all doing what she loved. Smiling, she roughed in the outline she wanted before squeezing paint on her pallet and setting to work.
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Hours later, tired, and more than a little sunburnt in spite of her long sleeves and hat pulled low over her face, Harriet packed up the morning’s work. The light changed as the sun crossed the sky overhead and she lost the perspective she’d been chasing across her work. Massaging her stiff fingers, Harriet stood and stretched before looking at her easel with a critical eye. Head tipped to one side, she moved a foot to one side and then back. Yes, she decided, the bold strokes on the board captured the essence of the scene. This one might just be the one she converted to a larger canvas this winter. Either this one, or the birch grove. Indecision tugged at a corner of her mouth. Perhaps she would ask Tom what he thought and Winnie too. It never hurt to get other people’s opinions, certainly those whose opinions she valued. She packed up her equipment and slid down the slope between the boulders landing in the wet sand by the canoe. It was only a moment’s work to stow everything and unship the paddle.
The sun reflected off the water increasing the weight of the humidity that hung in the air. June in New Ontario could be a mixture of many things, rain, fog and unrelenting heat and humidity. Harriet pulled off her hat and ran her fingers through her sweat soaked hair, the cloth of her shirt sticking to her back.
“Lordy, lordy, it’s hot,” she murmured, plucking the shirt from her chest and flapping the material in a vain attempt to cool her heated skin. That was the trouble with getting so engrossed in her work, little things like bug bites and heat went undetected until she stopped. A quick glance up and down the lake confirmed there were no other boats in sight and the water by the big rocks was quite deep as the shore dropped off quickly.
After only a momentary hesitation Harriet shucked her sticky clothes, hanging the shirt and pants on a convenient bush to hopefully dry a bit before she had to get back into them. Shoving the socks into her heavy boots, she stood for a moment enjoying the soft breeze on her bare skin. Moving to the base of the boulders she stepped off the ledge and let the cool water close over her head. What bliss! She surfaced, blinking the water from her eyes. Treading water, she reached up and pulled the fastenings from her hair letting it float around her shoulders on the surface of the lake. Harriet flipped on her back and kicked her way out of the shadow of the bank, enjoying the combined feel of the water cooling her body and the sun on her face. Light sparkled though the water throwing ripples of light and shadow over her skin lying just below the surface. She closed her eyes and floated, letting the lake breath against her skin, sound deadened by the water covering her ears. This is what freedom feels like, she thought. No constrictions, no rules, well, other than keeping one’s head above water. She grinned and flipped over onto her stomach, striking out further from the shore with smooth strong strokes.
Twenty minutes later, the sun started its descent toward the western trees and found Harriet clothed with her hair pilled haphazardly under hat headed back to Mowat Lodge. Safely tucked away were the results of the day’s work. The stiffening breeze tugged at the stray strands of hair escaping from her hat. Harriet paused to tuck them behind her ears and then took up the rhythm of her stroke again. Beaching the canoe and stowing it, she strode up the trail to the lodge to find things in a turmoil.
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Carrying her paintbox in one hand, with the paddle carelessly balanced on the other shoulder, Harriet hurried her step at the sound of raised voices.
“What’s happening?” Harriet pulled Winnie away from the scrum of men gathered at the foot of the lodge steps.
“Some American looking for Martin Jr.” Winnie kept her attention on Martin Bletcher Sr. who was gesticulating wildly, his face flushed bright red with agitation.
“Whatever for?” Harriet set the paintbox down by her feet and unshipped the paddle from her shoulder.
“It sounds like Martin Jr. came to Canada to avoid the conscription in the States. That tall man in the uniform is some sort of American military police sent to hunt him down.” Winnie pointed to the man in the midst of the huddle of locals.
“And just where is Martin Jr.?” Harriet scanned the gathering.
Winnie snorted. “Probably hiding in a hole somewhere, the coward.” She spat on the ground. “I can tell you Tom is steamed about it. You know he’s tried to enlist twice, but they won’t take him.”
“I didn’t realize that. Why are they rejecting him?”
“Flat feet,” Winnie said. She glanced at her friend and confided. “I’m just as glad to tell you the truth. The thought of Tom being sent overseas and living in those trenches. I can tell you, if even half of the stories are true...” Winnie shuddered.
“I can’t even imagine it,” Harriet agreed. “What’s going to happen with Bletcher Jr. though? Do you think that man is going to hang around hoping he’ll show up?”
“I have no idea. I wouldn’t put it past Tom to go out and hunt him down and drag him back here by the collar.” Winnie glowered at Martin Sr. who was still pontificating at the top of the stairs.
“Where is Tom?” Harriet wondered aloud. “I don’t see him in the crowd.”
“He had a group of fishermen to guide today. I don’t’ expect him back until late this afternoon or early evening. Just as well for the Bletchers he’s not here.”
“Where’s Bessie and Mrs. Blecher?”
“Oh no doubt Bessie is having vapours back at their cottage. I wouldn’t be surprised is her useless brother isn’t hiding under his mother’s skirts.”
“Now that’s a picture, isn’t it?” Harriet grinned.
“Coward, that’s what he is. Personally, I think he sympathizes with the Germans and won’t fight for the Allies.” She turned her head away from the men and spoke into Harriet’s ear. “There’s been rumours about him spying for the enemy.”
“How could he do that from out here in the bush?” Harriet frowned.
“Don’t be silly, Harriet. Think how many trains go through here loaded with troops bound for Halifax? Bletcher Sr. has that radio thing he’s always fooling with. What if it’s not just an innocent hobby like he says?”
“I suppose,” Harriet allowed. She had no liking for family, they were an elitist arrogant bunch in her opinion. Always acting like they were better than anyone else. “Well, if that is the case I hope they get caught and held accountable.”
The two women moved back as the group of men began to break up. Martin Sr. disappeared into the gloom of the lodge with Shannon close behind. The American military policeman shook his head and mounted the horse he must have hired at the Canoe Lake train station. He turned the animal’s head toward the men and fixed each one with a hard stare.
“If any of you know the whereabouts of Martin Bletcher Jr. you are obligated to report it to your military. We’re all in this war together. Anyone neglecting to do their patriotic duty or worse still, spying for the enemy, deserves to be punished.” With a last glare he kicked the horse around and headed down the trail.
“Well, that was a bit more excitement than I was expecting.” Harriet picked up her paintbox and slung the paddle over her shoulder.
Winnie tagged along behind her when Harriet entered the lodge. Puzzled, Harriet made no comment as the other woman waited while she unlocked the door, then followed her inside and shut the door behind them.
“I need your advice, Harriet. I’m not sure what to do, but I think I need to do something.”
“About what?” Harriet opened the paintbox to set her work out to cure in the light from the window. “Do you think Martin Jr. is actually spying for the Germans? Did you see something or hear something?
“Tom.” Winnie ignored the questions concerning the American, sighed and plunked herself down on the bed, making the frame creak.
“Oh. What about him? Did you have a falling out?” Harriet settled on the one straight back wooden chair in the room.
“No, of course not. The opposite in fact.” A slight flush rose up the woman’s throat and across her cheeks. “We’re engaged,” she whispered.
“Why that’s wonderful, isn’t it. So, what’s the issue?” Harriet struggled to follow the reasoning.
“The problem is he’s reluctant to set a date and it’s all Shan Fraser’s fault!”
“How so?”
“Tom lent the Frasers two hundred and fifty dollars in order for them to buy some canoes and of course now that it’s time to pay the money back they’re coming up with all kinds of excuses and downright lies. I keep telling Tom he needs to be more forceful, demand his money back.”
“What did he say about that?”
“He says he’s asked both Shan and Annie for the money and they keep putting him off.” Winnie got to her feet and paced across the room to glare out the window. “We need the money in order to pay for a honeymoon and Tom still needs to buy me a ring.”
“Oh, no ring yet?” Harriet considered the situation. “When did you two come to an understanding?”
“Just this week. I mean we’ve been close for a long time and well now it’s just imperative that it’s made official.”
“And why is that?” Harriet was getting an inkling of the situation.
Winnie continued to stare out the window, her back to Harriet. “I’m late.”
The words were spoken so quietly Harriet wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
Winnie swung back from the window. “I’m late,” she repeated.
“You think you’re carrying Tom’s child? Are you sure? Perhaps you’re just a bit late?”
“I’m fairly sure. I’m two weeks late and I’m always regular.”
“Have you told him yet?”
“Of course! But I haven’t told Father yet. I’m not sure that I will, at least not until I have a ring on my finger and hopefully a husband on my arm. You know an eight month child isn’t unheard of for the first born. Please don’t tell anyone. I can trust you to keep my secret, cant’ I?”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Harriet promised. “What are you going to do if Tom can’t get his money back?”
“We’ll just have to get married without a ring or a honeymoon. I wish I had some money of my own like you do, but my father holds the purse strings, and he doesn’t really approve of my relationship with Tom.”
“Will Tom go along with that? You know who prickly some men are about their pride.”
“He’ll have to,” Winnie insisted.
“I know it’s not much help, but it you need to talk or a shoulder to cry on you know I’m here for you. Let’s talk about something more pleasant for a moment. What plans do you have for Dominion Day?”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” Winnie confessed.
“Are you travelling back to Huntsville for the festivities or are you and your father staying at the cottage? I’m sure there will be some sort of do here. If nothing else it will be an excuse for the men to drink themselves stupid on that bootleg booze.”
“I’m staying here, Father hasn’t said one way or another what he is planning but I doubt he’ll want to go to the bother and expense of returning home for just a couple of days.”
“I’m glad then. I will at least have some female companionship other than Mrs. Fraser.” Harriet took Winnie’s hands in hers. “I’m sure it will all work out in the end. Tom is a good man, I’m sure he’ll stand behind you and marry you.”
“He better.” Winnie managed a watery smile.
“You don’t have doubts, do you?” Harriet frowned.
The other woman shook her head. “Not really, I’m just anxious to get it settled, before...well you know...” She ran her hand over her still flat belly.