Winter Shadows (15 page)

When the buzzing in my ears settled, I sat up and tried to draw a deep breath, but I could make only pathetic gasping sounds
.

On his knees in front of me, Duncan Kilgour muttered, “I’m so sorry, Beatrice.”

I looked at him. “You are an opinionated pompous agitator with no feelings for anyone else. I hate you. You have ruined everything.”

He rose and left the house without speaking another word. I slowly caught my breath. In a daze of misery, I tidied the kitchen and went up to bed, the candle casting long, ominous shadows ahead of me
.

Escape from the shadows wouldn’t come through sleep. I lay awake, the hours slowly ticking by. Duncan Kilgour had been educated by an aunt who was, from what I’d read in the newspapers and periodicals my great-aunt sent us, a bluestocking and a freethinker. I’d read that both were held in disdain by many critics for their intellectual pursuits and their determination to change society the way Dickens tried to with his novels. Kilgour had been all over the world in the last few years. What had he seen that made him so sure of himself? What had he read? I envied him his passion and certainty – yes, even his education by a woman whom, I reluctantly admitted, I would like to have known. He would be tested often in life about his freethinking views, of that I was sure
.

I sat up. I wasn’t actually agreeing with the man, was I? Was he right about Robert and others like him? No. He had to be wrong. Robert Dalhousie was a good man. Duncan Kilgour was a troublemaker
.

Confused and deeply saddened, I took my diary, my pen and ink, and crept downstairs, opened the harpsichord, and played softly so as not to disturb the others. Nôhkom and Papa were used to my practicing at odd hours, but Ivy always protested
.

I played “Drive the Cold Winter Away,” a lively tune the girls will perform on Christmas Eve. I hoped it would cheer me. But I couldn’t give it the lilting melody it called for. When I came to the third verse …

 … I could go no further. The evening started out with such pleasure. Now, all celebration, all hope for a happy Christmas, was gone
.

As I write this, I realize I must face things as they are. In one respect, Kilgour was right. Reverend Dalhousie thinks of my family and me as converted heathens. I am sure he is sincere in his desire to be a good minister, but he appears to carry the seed of bigotry toward Indians and our country-born Scots deep inside him, like so many new British do. Perhaps that will change as he gets to know my grandmother’s people at St. Anthony’s and here in the settlement of St. Cuthbert’s
.

There is no hope of ever becoming something other than what I am. Nothing will change. I am destined to live with my father and his shrewish wife until I, too, am old and gray. I will remain alone. This is my future. This is what I must accept
.

The little voice in my head scoffs at me:
How will you perform your duties at church in good spirit? How will you continue with the choir, singing praises you don’t feel, celebrating a feast you are no longer part of, all the while knowing the shadows are sliding closer?

Note to myself: Accept the way things are, Beatrice. Don’t ask for more
.

B
eatrice Alexander and I looked at each other in wonder. I could see she was upset. As her figure shifted in the dim light, about to fade, I called out, “Don’t give up, Beatrice! Be strong!” There was a wavering blackness all around her. In seconds, she vanished under it.

When I turned to go to my bedroom to see if the diary might be there, Daisy met me on the stairs. For a brief moment, I wondered how she’d gone back in time.…

“I heard you playing music,” she said. “You woke me up! Who were you talking to?”

“Oh, go back to bed, you little troll.”

As I pushed past her, she said, “You’re crazy, you know! Mom says so! And you know what? I think you were sleepwalking like some freaked-out zombie!” She followed me down the hall.

I spun around. “Go. Back. To. Bed.”

“I can’t sleep. I feel sick.”

“Great. I’ll get the blame for that too. Just go to bed, Daisy!”

Fat tears rolled down her face. “But I do – I
do
feel sick.” And to prove it, she threw up on the rug, just missing my feet.

I ran to get Jean, who lurched out of bed, shrieked, and woke up Dad. They both dashed up and down the hallway, bringing buckets, cloths, towels, and rug shampoo for the brand-new hall runner. Daisy stood there, shaking and whimpering.

“I told you she’d catch Cassandra’s flu!” Jean shouted at Dad. “I told you!”

Dad, hair on end, handed me a hot facecloth and ordered me take Daisy to our room and clean her up. The hallway was smelling utterly foul, so I was happy to do it.

After I wiped her pasty face and changed her pj’s, I said, “If you feel like barfing again, use this.” I handed her a wastebasket with a garbage-bag liner.

“I don’t feel like doing it anymore. I ate too much popcorn watching that stupid movie tonight at Tracy’s stupid birthday party. Her mom gave us lumpy poisoned cookies and made us drink sickening herbal tea. I hate Tracy. And her mom.”

“How much popcorn and how many of those poisoned cookies did you eat?”

“I don’t know. Lots.” Her cheeks were bright pink.

“You’ll survive.” I sat on the end of her bed. “I threw up once at a sleepover. Popcorn covered in Parmesan cheese. I kept eating it. I can’t stand Parmesan anymore.”

She let out a soft burp. “This popcorn was that
double-caramel kind you buy at the mall in the city. All sticky and sugary and buttery. And the cookies were double-double chocolate chip. The other girls were being mean to me, so I just ate.”

She looked so pathetic, I patted her foot under the covers. “Sorry. I’m sure talking about food probably makes you feel worse.”

She gave me a tremulous smile. “It’s okay. I feel a lot better now.” Her mouth drooped. “Nobody at school likes me. They used to!”

No wonder, with that constant scowl, those long braids sprouting out the sides of her head, and those oversized glasses that looked like they’d come from a Salvation Army bin.
How could Jean let the kid go around like that?
For one second, I felt sorry for the little twerp.

“Look, Daisy, if you’d just try and –”

“How are you, sweetie?” Jean cried as she rushed in. “You come on back to our room, love. You don’t need to be here.” She gave me a fierce look.

“It’s not my fault. I have strep, not stomach flu. The kid ate too much junk today at the birthday party, that’s all.”

Jean peppered Daisy with questions, threatening to call Tracy’s mother.

“Maybe all this could wait until tomorrow,” I suggested. “She’s pretty tired.”

Jean looked at me, then sighed. “Come on, Daisy. Bed.”

“But I want to stay in my own room!” Daisy wailed. “With Cass.”

“No! You might get her throat!” She dragged the kid out.

“And I’d like to throw myself on yours with my bare hands!” I said to the closed door.

I
woke up with a piercing headache. Grandmother was sitting in her chair, looking at me from under the ruffled edge of her cap
.

“How did you get out of bed?” I asked. “And you’re dressed!”

She smiled. “My son asked Duncan to help me this morning. You were up late with your music, and he knew you would be tired.”

“That man came into this room? Got you up? Dressed you?”

She nodded. I hadn’t heard a thing. He saw me sleeping in my nightclothes. My face grew hot with embarrassment
.

“He gave me porridge with sugar, as I like it,” nôhkom said. “And cream from his own cows. Did you know he built his barn right next to his house and put his chickens in there? They are still sitting. He got that idea from others at the forks up the river who don’t speak English like you or me. He is a smart boy, that Duncan.”

“He is a cruel, coarse, vile man,” I said, dressing quickly in the cold
.

“He makes me laugh. He’s a good thinker, that Duncan.”

I sighed. “Nôhkom, how can you remain so cheerful alone in this room all day?”

“I am old. I have my memories. I live with my family – and with my husband, again and again in my thoughts. I have many years to see and feel once more. And I am not always alone. My son comes to visit me every day.”

“Papa comes up every day now? I-I didn’t realize.…”

“Little Minty or Duncan helps him. Sometimes all three are here to see me.” She chuckled. “We tell stories.”

“And Ivy?”

“She does not come.”

“Do you mind that Papa married her, Grandmother?”

“I only care that my son is not happy. But you are home again and –”

“There’s more unhappiness,” I said
.

She shook her head. “Now that you are back, he is getting stronger. I see that.”

“Do you think he loves her?”

“What is
sâkihitowin?”
She put her hand over her heart. “It is what is in here. He is my only son. He is my heart
– nitêh.
And a good man. Like Duncan. Go along – you have much to do today.”

Why did she keep talking about Duncan as if he were a sainted man? I kissed her and she held me tight
.

“I wish I could sit here all day with you, nôhkom, listening to some of your stories. I promised Ivy I would get the rabbit pies and my cakes made early.” I pinned my hair into a loose knot
.

“She is always upset, that one,” she scoffed. “You have all day to bake. It will help you move away from your anger.”

“What anger?”

“Go
, ôhômisîsis,
with your big owl eyes, and make things for celebrating
makosêwi-kîsikâw.
I always liked English Christmas with your mother. I miss my son’s wife. I loved her with my whole heart.”

Tears burned my eyes. I left the room quickly
.

When I pushed open the kitchen door, Ivy sneered, “Is this what you call getting up early? I have things to do!”

Papa was at the table eating his porridge, looking as if he’d been hounded since he sat down
.

“I wasn’t aware I was stopping you, Ivy,” I said briskly. She sucked in a sharp breath. “But I did tell you I would do all the cooking today,” I added
.

“I heated the outside oven and in here, too, Miss Beatrice,” Dilly said quietly
.

I smiled my thanks, pulled on my pinafore, and gathered bowls, pots of rendered fat, pale winter butter deepened with carrot juice, and flour. I would make the rabbit pies first, then the cakes, and finally the shortbread in the lower stages of the ovens’ heat
.

Ivy hissed at Papa, “Do you see how she talks to me? And what good will she be in the kitchen! She can make a half-decent bannock, but can she bake a rabbit pie?”