Sarah's Legacy (14 page)

It's hard to say whether the whole experience was harder on us or on the poor animals. They must have been confused — after having free rein of the place their whole lives — to suddenly have these two lunatics trying to force them to stay in one place.

The cats were just impossible! Any idea we might have had that they were co-operating was just an illusion brought on by the fact that the lazy things would often lie down and nap for a while once we'd got them into their room. However, the very second the urge struck them to go anywhere else in the house, off they went. You could bring them back twenty times and they'd just keep walking away.

The dogs were just as challenging in their own way. I actually felt sorry for the two bigger dogs during this doomed experiment. Unlike the smaller Plunk and Dusty, who trotted off at will with nary a thought in their seemingly empty little heads, Steinbeck and Boothie seemed to be trying to grasp what was going on. They would sit, heads tilted, eyes questioning, tails wagging happily to show their willingness to follow instructions while we (I hate to admit this, but it's true) actually
explained
that we wanted them to stay
here
in
this room
.

The problem was that the instructions never seemed to become clear to them, and after a while they would just wander away, probably hoping that the next directions we gave them would be a bit easier to understand.

There were a lot of confused and frustrated faces, and not just the animals', before Mom threw her hands up and admitted defeat.

“Oh, let the wretched things go wherever they want,” she said. “They're beyond training and we're just making things harder on ourselves.”

Oddly enough, I felt kind of indignant to hear her call them “the wretched things” like that. They couldn't help shedding or doing things they'd always been allowed to do, and they were, after all,
our
pets.

Well, between that ill-fated project, homework, and chores, I was so tired by bedtime every night that I was asleep almost as soon as I'd settled into bed. As anxious as I was to find out what happened next in Sarah's life, it wasn't until Friday (right after Mom acknowledged defeat) that I had a chance to begin reading the second diary.

I had a quick peek back at the last entries in the first book to refresh my memory and then eagerly took up the next volume to see what happened after Sarah's father had forbidden her from seeing Mr. King again and she had sent him the letter telling him how she really felt.

June 24

Surely this was the longest week of my life! It was barely to be endured. So despondent did I find myself that I could not even find the heart to write. Days without any reply from Mr. King left me to wonder
—
had he received my letter? And if so, had he looked on it with shock and ill will over its familiarity?

But today! At last a reply has come. First, a note arrived yesterday morning, from Burgess, inviting me to a game of whist this afternoon. The invitation seemed unusually insistent, so I felt sure she had some message for me.

Still, I mentioned it to Mother in the most idle manner, as though it interested me not in the least. Any display of eagerness or enthusiasm would have raised her suspicions. Instead, she was insistent that I should go (as I knew she would be), doubtless thinking it would make an excellent distraction from my thoughts of Mr. King.

I had no opportunity to speak with Burgess alone until we had finished the first hands and paused for refreshments. Even then, she managed to be subtle.

“Do try one of these,” she said, holding out a tray of iced cakes. At the same time she passed me a napkin, which she glanced at very quickly.

I took it with trembling hand, meeting her eye with the slightest nod, and felt at once the stiffness of a letter hidden in its folds.

The question of how to remove the letter unobserved was my single difficulty, and one that I managed as though subterfuge has been a normal part of my life. I simply pretended that a sneeze was impending and stepped out into the hallway with my napkin held up to my nose.

Was I not clever? It took but a few seconds to remove the letter and secure it in the deep pocket on my skirt. The torturous part of the ordeal was waiting until I returned home before I could read it.

And now that I have seen its contents, how happy I am! I am sure that in all of Canada there has never been a happier girl. Mr. King has expressed his love and intention to make me his wife.

Of course, the matter cannot be settled so simply as that. Father will never give his consent, and this was plain to my darling, beloved Mr. King.

What he has proposed is enough to send thrills of fear and delight through me all at once. He will come for me on the afternoon of this coming Thursday! I am to walk along the river until I reach the old road, where he will meet me at about two o'clock. From there (my heart quickens with excitement at the thought) we will travel to Montreal, where we shall be wed and take a short holiday as Mr. & Mrs. Alexander King before returning to Brockville as husband and wife.

I cannot bear to think of what Father and Mother will say when they discover what I have done, but by that time it will, at
least, be too late for them to prevent me from the path I am meant to walk.

And, anyway, I am sure they will come to love him even as I have, and when those evil rumours are proven false, everything will be grand.

Oh! I knew that I was destined for something more than a housewife's lot, and it is so! I shall be the wife of the most important businessman ever seen in these parts. As such, it will be my lot to help to bring about change in the affairs of women hereabouts, a role I shall not take lightly but will use for the advancement and betterment of Canadian women so far as my influence may reach.

I was almost as excited as Sarah must have been when she wrote this — except I knew something must have happened to prevent her from her plan to go away and marry Mr. King. As tired as I was, I couldn't put down the diary.

I read several more entries, all filled with plans and happy anticipation. The last of those was written on the morning of the Thursday Mr. King was to come for her, and she promised to write more that evening, but the next entry wasn't until the following day.

June 30

Patience! I must develop patience if I am to be a proper wife to a man of Mr. King's standing in the community. Surely there will be many times when my duty will be to wait for his return from attending to important matters.

Still, it is difficult to be patient when I so long to be at his side. How hard it was to accept the change in plans (as he had intended them) and instead to travel alone to Montreal, where I now wait in solitude for him to join me.

Even more distressing is the delay this will cause in getting word to Mother and Father, who must be frantic with worry over my absence. I had expected to send them word straightaway after our vows had been made and not to leave them anxious on my account for more than a day or two.

I implored Mr. King to send them word but he insisted it was unwise and suggested it would throw our plans to marry into jeopardy. It is true, as he insisted, that someone could be engaged to follow him in order to determine my whereabouts, but surely this would not be attempted if the matter were to be properly studied.

Indeed, the only possible way I can now return with dignity to Brockville is on my husband's arm. Anything less would so tarnish my name that it would be unthinkable to Father.

As it is, every day that passes while I wait is more fodder for the gossip mill.

But I must not think of these things! I must think only of the day (within the fortnight, he promises) when my darling will come to make me his wife, and all shall be glorious and well!

Unable to keep my eyes open another minute, I set the diary aside and clicked off my lamp. Even so, it was hard to fall asleep with the troubling thoughts that were running through my mind.

Clearly, something had gone wrong with the plans that Mr. King and Sarah had made.

If it had been up to me, I'd have done nothing all day Saturday except read Sarah's diaries. Of course, it wasn't up to me. Mom had her usual ideas about us cleaning the house and me getting my homework out of the way. I have to say, though, that it was still a big improvement over sitting alone in our apartment back in Ontario while she put in her usual shift at Pete's.

Mom had been working away at the Hope Chest (I'd begun thinking of it that way, instead of as the servants' quarters) and she'd already made a lot of progress. Except for the walls being in bad shape — mostly from being banged with stuff that was stored out there — and the fact that it really needs new windows, it was coming along pretty good.

Mom had called a few contractors last week to get prices on the work the place needed inside and on some new windows. We were both stunned when the estimates came in the mail, one on Wednesday and the other on Friday. For just the windows
alone
, the companies she'd contacted wanted more than twice the amount Stan had quoted for the
entire job
.

Their prices for the inside work were just as shocking. To have the walls replaced and display shelves and tables built was going to cost almost seven thousand dollars. It was awful to see Mom sitting at the kitchen table staring at the quotes. It was like she was watching her dream slide away from her.

The bottom line was that if she went ahead with the work, it would take almost half of the money she'd inherited from her great-aunt. I knew she'd never take a risk that big. Besides, she'd told me we'd need most of it to live on while the business got going.

I had the extra guilt of knowing she'd never call Stan to see if he'd still do the work for her. So it was a huge surprise that Saturday when a stranger drove up in an old green half-ton truck and knocked on our kitchen door.

“Afternoon, ma'am. Stan Reynolds sent me to unload these here windows he promised to ya,” he explained, pointing to them in the back of the truck. “Said you could let me know if you still wanted the work done at the price
he gave you. Me and the boys can start on Monday if you do.”

I saw Mom struggling with her pride for a few seconds, but the reality of our situation was strong, and after a moment she smiled and told him she'd sure appreciate it. I saw the wistful look on her face then too, and I knew she'd been covering her disappointment over the way things had ended so suddenly.

I also saw the way her eyes lit up a little when the man reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and held it out to her, saying, “Stan said to give you this.”

The spark faded when he continued. “Anything you want to know, you can ask me — or let me know if it don't suit. We can change it before we start if there's anything.”

She took the paper and studied it a bit, then nodded and told him it was fine just as it was. She offered the sketch back but he waved it away, assuring her Stan would send a more detailed work order with the men when they came to do the job. I noticed that she folded it real gentle and slipped it into her jeans' pocket. It seemed like I knew why she did that, and a pain started up in the pit of my stomach.

To make things worse, she said this called for a celebration and we were going to eat out. So we walked over a nearby restaurant called the Cunard, for
Chinese food, which I love but have had only a few times in my life.

Mom ordered moo goo guy pan while I had a combo plate with sweet and sour chicken balls, fried rice, and chicken chow mein. It was all delicious but I still had a hard time eating.

See, even though things had suddenly turned around, I really didn't feel much better. I tried to persuade myself that the main thing was she'd be able to have her business. I made silent promises to help around the house more and even be cheerful about it. And I told myself she'd meet someone else, that in fact she'd probably meet someone better than Stan. (That actually made me feel worse, like I'd just repeated the whole scene at the pool in a different way.)

You'd think that it would get easier to push the whole thing out of my mind as time passed, but it didn't. If anything, it felt like the guilt was piling itself up higher and higher.

Every time I looked at Mom I saw the shadow of hurt and disappointment and I couldn't escape the fact that I'd caused it. She had to be wondering, after things started out so great between them, what had happened. Did she figure that Stan just decided she was boring or unappealing or — well, who knows what she thought.

I wished I could just tell her it wasn't
her
but there was no way to do that without confessing everything,
and somehow it just seemed too late for that. Maybe if I'd spoken up right when it happened, or even a week ago … but two weeks had gone by and it seemed that any chance to talk about it had slid out of reach.

So I just kept trying to push it down and to be extra helpful around the house and I kept trying to persuade myself that if I did enough, I'd have made up for it. Except it didn't seem like something I could even out, no matter what, and it was just eating at me and eating at me.

I tell you, after carrying it around for weeks I was willing to do anything — anything, that is, but tell Mom what I'd done — to make it right. Only I couldn't figure out what that anything might be.

Mom broke into my thoughts as I was thinking all of this. I guess it took her a few tries, because I suddenly realized she'd said my name a couple of times.

“Huh?”

“Goodness, where were you off to?” She smiled now that she'd finally gotten my attention. “Anyway, I was saying that I'm going to go ahead and look for a car. Now that things are really happening with the Hope Chest, there are lots of details I need to take care of, and I can't do any of that without a vehicle.”