The Sister's Tale by Beth Powning (e reader for manga .txt) 📕

told me she spoke to you about the ashes. I’m sorry, Flora, I did tell you twice. I lost me temper, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s all right. She was…”

“She’s a fair person, she is. Like her husband. They’re good people. We’re lucky to be here.”

Her gentled tone brought an unaccustomed prickle to the back of Flora’s nose, a rush of tears.

No tears. Never tears.

“I told her something,” she said.

Mary sat back on her heels. Margaret turned from the sink. Water plinked into the dishpan.

“I have a sister. I have a little sister. Three years younger than me. Her name is…her name is Enid. We was orphaned and put in the workhouse. So I guess we were paupers, in England, anyway. A lady told me if I came to Canada I could save my money and bring Enid over, and she made me feel like I had to do it if I loved my…if I…so I left her behind, I told her she would be coming over soon as could be. And not a word since. Years ago, it was. I asked Mrs.…I wanted to know if I would be paid, like.”

Margaret put both hands over her mouth.

“Did she get brought over too?” Mary asked.

Flora shrugged.

“Sent, more like,” Ellen muttered. “The likes of that lady wouldn’t of held you by the hand, would she now.”

One tear slid down Flora’s cheek as her secret was told, and taken from her, like handing over a baby, watching as it was cradled, passed from person to person, revered.

—

George Francis Train’s vitriolic comments dominated The Record for the next three weeks.

She’s a pauper. There’s a bid! That face he turns to us is stamped as only Satan stamps the faces of men. If he were dumb, and we heard not his rude and filthy jesting, the sensuality of his heart would be revealed in his face. But he is the lowest bidder and the woman pauper is handed over…

The diatribes found their way into the international papers. For the first time, the rector of Josephine and Harland’s church preached a sermon attacking the pauper auction and advocating the building of an almshouse. The St. John paper printed its own headline: Terrible Dominion Slavery. George Train reprinted articles from England and the United States expressing shock and outrage, and condemning the country that could allow such outrage to human dignity. Letters to the editor reflected the town’s seething divisions: fury at Train—A shame that the fair name of one the most beautiful spots in Canada…—or appreciation—May heaven send us more such cranks…

Josephine, learning that Flora was fully literate, knowing that she was reading the paper, sent Margaret to ask Flora into the parlour. She sat at her desk, exasperatedly jiggling the handle of a jammed drawer. She explained to Flora that both she and her friend Mr. Fairweather were joining the voices calling for an almshouse.

“He would rather not be the Overseer of the Poor. It is an appointed position. He and I and my husband went to school together.”

Flora stood stiffly, stroking the turkey feathers of her duster. She wondered if Mary, Margaret, Ellen or Mr. Dougan were ever invited into the parlour to talk to their mistress about anything other than the day’s orders.

“He and I do not believe in the pauper auction, you see.”

Flora didn’t know what to say, or what was being asked of her. She wondered if Mrs. Galloway wished her new servant were in an almshouse.

“I am very happy to have you here, Flora. I want you to know that I am very sorry about the way I had to…acquire you. I know you are not a pauper, not really.”

Josephine leaned forward on her chair, almost, it seemed, asking forgiveness. Flora did not know how to respond, how to feel.

In her bedroom, she looked into a mirror on her dresser. She could not remember what she had looked like as a child. There were no mirrors in the workhouse. She and Enid saw only vague reflections in the long windows, before the lights were extinguished. She did not understand why men looked at her and then looked again as if they did not believe what they had seen. She did not care about beauty nor know if it was what she possessed.

—

Josephine answered the phone. She heard the operator’s baby making happy sounds.

“Good morning, Mrs. Galloway. How’s Maud?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Martin. She’s fine, back in school.”

Carrie’s voice came on the line.

“Good morning, Josephine. I’m not coming today. Did you hear? The show has been cancelled. The pauper’s owner will not let Mr. Train exhibit him. Moreover, Mr. Spooner has let him go.”

“Let who go?”

“Mr. Train. He’s to pack his bags and leave town. My mother phoned to tell me the news. She heard it from her brother.”

Josephine pictured George Francis Train holding a leather suitcase in one purple-gloved hand. He would not mind, she thought. He would return to the greater world and continue ferreting out injustice. She would follow his career in the newspaper. She felt an emptiness within herself, however, as if his energy had ignited a spark that would die, unused. She had planned to invite him to dinner. She wanted to ask him about his wife and his children and why he had written that his favourite thing was to sit on park benches feeding squirrels and listening to the sagacity of children. She had planned to tell him that she, herself, had once felt the urge to help those in need. How, as a schoolgirl, she had been known as a person with the ability to protect, heal, tame, love. How she had not known in what capacity she might use this skill, and, in any case, realized that there was probably none for a woman outside of mothering, and yet because of her desire could understand his own fierce outrage. She had thought that he would press his lips to her hand, and that she would feel the brush of his