Winter Shadows (28 page)

“No. I live at Old Maples.”

“Aah. Jean Dennett’s new family. She’s one of my regulars. Plays the organ.”

I knew she went to church, but hadn’t paid much attention to it. “I was wondering if –”

He put a hand firmly on my arm. “Before you begin, I have to ask a question. Did you see someone or something in the church just now? A person or persons?”

“Why? Did you see someone?”

“I wondered if you were talking to one of our resident ghosts?” The tree lights went out again. “Dang and blast!” He fiddled with the light cord. “I’m here tonight because the lights keep going out on the tree, and no one knows why. Our caretaker has given up. These lights could mess up our services tomorrow night and Christmas Day. We’ve had electricians out three times. They all say they’re fine. Anyway, the last few days, when I was alone fiddling with them, I … well … I was sure I saw people who weren’t really here. I tried to make contact with them, but no go. I saw – most clearly – a slim young woman in a long dress and shawl … and now and again, a few others flitting around. One was a rather faded man with a cleric’s collar and surplice, like I wear on Sundays. Once I even heard a choir singing, but only in snatches of sound.” He looked at me. “Oops. I sound a bit mad, don’t I?”

So … he was seeing Robert and Beatrice! “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I can’t do otherwise in this place! At first I thought I was going bonkers. But I’m an Englishman, and if we didn’t believe in spirits – ghosts – we would all be bats, as we seem to be teeming with them on our little island.”

I smiled. “With ghosts? Or bats?”

He grinned back. “Both. I called the last minister, Reverend MacDonald, in Toronto – he’s over ninety and still going strong – and he told me quite matter-of-factly that these spirits always appear at Christmas. He calls them Miss Alexander’s Choir.”

I stared at him. “Why does he call them that?”

“I have no idea. But apparently he’s heard them singing many times.”

I heard footsteps and expected to see Beatrice right behind me. It was Martin.

“Goodness, it’s a drop-in center tonight,” said the vicar. “I’m Reverend Chancel. It’s Martin, right? You helped Betty Pelly set up the manger scene a few days ago.”

“Yes. She and my grandma come here.”

Reverend Chancel nodded. “Not your parents, though.”

Martin shrugged. “No. I usually come at Christmas with my aunt and Gran.”

“I was just about to tell Cass that the previous minister, here for almost seventy years, knows a lot about this area. Miss Alexander was English Métis. It’s a fact that mostly English Métis, or Anglo-Métis as some call them, Scottish Métis really, lived here at one time. It was a unique community in the province’s history for that reason. Most were retired Comany men. We know a Miss Alexander taught for a year at Miss Cameron’s school. That’s in the old school records.”

“Really? And just for a year? What happened to her?” I asked. “Did she marry the young minister, Mr. Dalhousie?”

“I haven’t been here long enough to know much about them. Most of the records for the period you talk about were lost in a fire. A real tragedy, that was. I’m not sure who served here after Bishop Gaskell of St. Cuthbert’s and surrounding parishes left. Old Reverend MacDonald is writing down the stories he was told over the years.”

“Could you ask him what else he knows about Beatrice Alexander? She was eighteen around 1856.”

“I will. I’m sure she’ll be in his notes. I suspect Reverend MacDonald has kept a lot to himself after he and the old church historian – dead now – had a flare-up or two! Even so, most of it is all hearsay as there is little documented proof. We have very few things from Miss Alexander’s time.”

Martin said, “Could we look at those notes sometime anyway?”

“Of course. But not until after Christmas. I’ve a lot going on. It’s too bad we don’t have more material. I’d love to know all about her.”

“You mean letters or a personal diary, right?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t that be amazing? But if one existed, it would have surfaced by now. I hear your step-mom, Jean, is gutting Old Maples inch by inch. Maybe she’ll find a letter or two behind the skirting boards.”

I tried to laugh. “Yeah. If only.” We thanked him and left.

So, he had seen Beatrice too. And didn’t seem bothered by it at all. He hadn’t actually talked to her, though,
or given her unsolicited advice like I just did!
Was I wrong telling Beatrice not to marry Robert Dalhousie?
I had no right to meddle in her life, even if it was over a hundred and fifty years ago. Duncan Kilgour didn’t think Dalhousie was right for her either. Maybe he thought he was the better choice. I did!
He couldn’t actually be interested in pale sickly Henrietta, could he? What did he really think of Beatrice?

It was only later, when we pulled up in front of Old Maples, that I remembered I was about to face Jean’s wrath. As we walked toward the door, Martin hummed the death march behind me.

I
was too busy the next morning to think about Cass’s scribbled message, about seeing her in the church, or even about Robert Dalhousie or Duncan Kilgour
.

Ivy was subdued in the kitchen as she prepared Papa’s breakfast, but each malicious look she sent in my direction hit its mark. After Papa went to his study, she sat, hands in her lap, and did not move
.

I sent the girls off to lay the cloths on the dining-room table and trestle tables set up for the youngest diners, so the fabrics would drop their creases. I also gave them a list of the guests; asked them to count knives, forks, and spoons; to put glasses on the table and cups on the sideboard; and showed them how to clean Mama’s wedding silver. Two days ago, I’d made a centerpiece of pine boughs and curled pieces of birch bark in Mama’s only silver bowl
.

There was stuffing to make from dried chunks of bannock, corn bread, onions, and wild sage; there were carrots, turnips, and potatoes to scrub. I hated turnips, but could make them tolerable with cream and lump sugar. There was
also a sweet sauce to make for the pudding and a huge pan of sauce from dried high-bush cranberries
.

I prayed Duncan Kilgour would not show up today. Just thinking about him made me prickly and irritable. But what if he didn’t deliver the goose for Christmas dinner tomorrow? That would be worse. A venison joint, cut in thick slices, sat on the counter ready to be larded. But it would not be enough on its own, and Papa needed all the money he would get from selling the few remaining large roasts. I could use two of the inevitably tough chickens in the icehouse, but they were only good for stewing. I almost growled with frustration
.

That stupid overgrown boy, deliberately baiting Robert, and then harrying me all the way to my carriole. Now there is no goose to roast or fish to poach, and there are nineteen people to serve tomorrow. And to muddle things further, Papa has invited neighbors for a ceilidh afterward. What will Robert think of one of his church elders having a party of music and dance? If he opposes it, he is more like the bishop than I care to think about. Perhaps Robert will realize how a few social evenings can lighten a long winter. I can only hope
.

I decided on a thick dried-pea soup for dinner, with a round of raisin bannock. Pushing damp hair away from my forehead, I was feeling harassed and anxious, but refused to acknowledge the smug smile on Ivy’s face
.

The door banged open and Duncan surged in, holding a huge plucked goose by its feet in one hand and another large whitefish in the other. If I wasn’t still so furious, I might have
hugged him. He was like a snowy messenger from heaven. His mother threw him a look of disgust and left the room
.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Mother!” he called as the door snapped shut
.

I was trying to peel a waxed turnip, but it kept slipping out of my damp hands. Having him near reminded me of the argument last night
.

“Here,” he said, putting down the meat, “let me do that before you chop off a finger. Where are your girls?”

“Oh, just go away, you
sihkosis!”

He bridled. “I speak a little Cree, you know. And I am not a weasel. I came bearing gifts. How can you still be mad at me? I should be the one who is hurt, not you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am angry with you because you are a
cîkahikanis!
Hacking and breaking everything to pieces. You badger and push and –”

“Oh, I am a
mistanask
as well, am I? An animal of different coats with a hatchet in hand!”

I threw the turnip at him. He caught it and stood looking at me, bouncing it gently from hand to hand. I would not cry in front of him
.

“Beatrice. I know I have no right to offer unwanted advice. But there are other ways to freedom than marriage to a dull man – someone you hardly know, to whom you have barely spoken.” He shook his head. “Forgive my frankness.”

Though he looked in earnest, I said, “But still you get your knife in, don’t you? You understand very little about Robert. You don’t know him as I do.” But did I know him? No. I didn’t. Yet, I could not retract my words
.

“You’re right, of course. Forgive me. I do not want us to fall out.”

“When have we ever fallen in, Mr. Kilgour? I will forgive you if you promise never to interfere in my plans again.”

We stood eye to eye, the silence between us charged with something that told me I could change everything in that one moment. But, just then, the girls bundled into the room with armloads of linen cloths and napkins
.

“We can’t work out which ones go on the tables,” said Dilly. I explained again and off they went to try once more
.

Duncan said, “The girls have become good friends. Come, Beatrice. Let’s be friends, too. I’ll be your kitchen slave for the day as penance for being such an overbearing
okimâw.
You be the boss and let me be the helper.” With hands pressed around the turnip, he looked like a little boy caught stealing someone else’s ball and asking to keep it
.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re just showing off now. You’re making me an
okîskwêw,
Duncan Kilgour. Soon I will be completely crazy! Here is a knife. Cut the turnip in small pieces, so it will cook quickly in the morning.”

As he chopped, he asked, “As long as we’re using Cree words, where is kôhkom?”

“Upstairs. I asked her to come down, but she claims she’ll only get in the way.”

He left the room and returned carrying Grandmother, who was tittering like a little girl, one hand to her lips. He set her down and ordered her to drink tea and supervise
.

“But I know little about the English Christmas my granddaughter’s mother used to make,” she said, her eyes twinkling
.

“Don’t believe her,” I said. “Nôhkom was married for thirty years to a Scottish gentleman of high regard. She has cooked many splendid meals taught to her by my mother’s sister, Aunt Louisa, who visited us from Devon. Nôhkom is also a ruthless card player, thanks to Aunt Louisa.”

Duncan laughed. “I must teach you a game called piquet, Aggathas.”

“That would be good,” Grandmother said, with an impish smile that meant she already knew the game, but would tease him by pretending not to
.

A sudden pain pierced my heart, and I turned away from her merry little face. How could I tell her I would be leaving her soon, probably forever?

As they talked and teased each other, I concentrated on making everything perfect for the last Christmas dinner I would have in this house. Once, when I sighed with weariness, Duncan put his hand on my arm. But I moved away – I could not bear tenderness from him. If only …

By dinnertime, the tables were set, the food organized, and everyone but me had eaten their fill of pea soup. We set off for the church in the sledge. Ivy was bundled up against the cold, her rabbity nose twitching between the folds of her fur scarf. She sat beside Papa, her head down. He may have forgiven her, but he was still angry. I wondered if he’d caught the looks she’d cast my way during the day
.

The church was chilly as we assembled the choir in the small vestry and awaited the vicar’s presence. I greeted Miss Cameron. “All is ready for tomorrow’s dinner, and Papa is looking forward to seeing you there. “

She smiled. “I’m happy to be coming, Beatrice. I have made plenty of creamed squash and ginger cakes.”

Robert Dalhousie welcomed the girls and the church choir. Although he smiled at me warmly, I responded with coolness. He frowned, and I felt a twinge of satisfaction
.

When we filed through the nave, the little church was full. It smelled of wet fur, leather, and the lingering odor of barn animals that had been fed or milked before church. The dark narrow faces and smooth round visages of Ojibway and Cree were mixed with those with freckles and red-tinged hair from their Celtic ancestors
.