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

pleased, even grateful. Her mother had asked for George’s various dimensions, collar, waist, pant length; she was going to Fairweather’s to buy her grandson proper apparel, since he would be working in the factory office. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. Like a windstorm, sweeping up her son.

Josephine fretted over Sailor, afraid that he would be hit by a carriage or run away seeking Simeon. She put an oval rug beside her bed for him to sleep on. Afternoons, she sat in the parlour, listless, an unopened book on her lap and Sailor curled at her feet.

She had a court date to appeal for custody of her children.

—

Flora had noticed Josephine glance at her with a hint of worry. She knew that as a ward of the province, her keep was paid; Josephine passed on to Flora what she received from the government and gave her more, besides, as wages.

Flora set a teapot and a cup and saucer on a wooden tray. Wind roared in the trees; lilac branches scratched against the kitchen windows. She carried the tea into the parlour, where Josephine slumped at her desk, head in hands, staring at pages densely covered with spiky words. Beside her, Sailor looked up at Flora, showing the whites of his eyes. His tail stirred, hopefully.

“Why,” Josephine said, surprised, “that is so thoughtful of you, Flora.”

“Mrs. Galloway,” Flora said. “You don’t need to pay me. I’ll work for room and board.”

She wanted to say that she was a good gardener. That she had learned, from Ada, how to barter. How to keep hens. How to milk a cow, make butter and cheese, feed a lamb. She wanted to tell her these things. You will keep me, she was moved to say, but did not. Rather, she sensed a change, as the emptiness of the house allowed what little she did say to have more significance.

“I don’t…” Josephine gestured at the page of handwriting. “I don’t know if I can pay you anymore, so I am glad you say so. But I will return the money to you that the government pays me. I insist on that, at least.”

Josephine slipped her hands over her face. Her hair was stiff and oily. Flora did not know when the widow had last bathed.

“Mrs. Galloway?”

Josephine looked up.

“I could wash your hair for you.”

Such grief and incomprehension came over Josephine’s face that Flora wondered if she had heard her correctly.

“Your hair, Mrs. Galloway,” she repeated. “Shall I help you wash it?”

Josephine cried out, as if putting into words her utmost despair.

“Oh, Flora. Call me Josephine. Please…just…call me Josephine.”

SIX A Futile Fussiness

LUCY STOOD IN THE doorway of her mother’s bedroom. Sailor scrambled to his feet, nosed his face beneath her hand.

“I am going to live in St. John.”

Josephine slid shut the drawer of Simeon’s dresser. She had been going through his clothing, which she had not yet removed from drawer, cupboard or closet. She sought frayed collars, loose buttons, telling herself she could not give away anything that showed evidence of her own inattention.

She sat on her bed, frightened by the expression in Lucy’s eyes. Josephine still wore full mourning. Black dress, black shoes.

“I am going for various reasons, Mother. One, because Uncle Charles has decided to take George as his ‘son.’ Two, because Grandfather has offered to pay for George’s education. Three, because no one has offered to do a single thing for me. You are not even my legal guardian…”

“But I—”

“I will go to work.”

A clatter. Downstairs. Something falling, ordinary.

“Where, Lucy?”

“The St. John Cotton Mill. I have secured a room for two dollars a week.”

Josephine clutched one of Simeon’s handkerchiefs. She had embroidered it herself and given it to him as a Christmas present. She had sewn his initials entwined with hers within a chain-stitched red heart.

“Oh, Lucy. Oh, my dear. I beg you not to do this.”

Lucy’s jaw crept outward, her eyes hardening. “Begging is entirely pointless.”

“Why are you angry with me?”

Lucy strode to the open window. She, too, wore a black dress. There was no sound but the hiss of rain, the dragging rush of wet leaves.

“Don’t you miss your father, Lucy? Don’t you…”

“Of course I miss my father.” She turned and sat at Josephine’s dressing table. She tossed her hands into the air. “I’m used to missing my father.” Her voice rose to a shout. Sailor slunk to his rug. “He’s been gone for half of my life, Mother. He could have been working here, in town. He did have that opportunity. And you could have been learning something. Doing something. Other than…sorting through your calling cards. Deciding what to tell Ellen what to make for your dinner parties. Living in this…ridiculous enormous house. Favouring your son.”

Her voice was strained, tear-filled.

“I…”

“I know what you’re going to say. This is what you were supposed to do. Well, I’m not going to do what is expected of me. I am not going to wait for a man to treat me like a princess, then expect me to behave like one. I will never marry. I will make my own money and I’ll keep it.”

Josephine folded her hands, crumpling the handkerchief so Lucy would not see the embroidered heart.

Sailor whimpered, repressing the wagging of his tail to a suggestion.

Lucy kicked a footstool, sent it skittering. She stalked from the room.

Josephine unfolded the handkerchief, smoothed it on her lap. Last week, George had made a visit. They had sat on the side veranda drinking tea and he had introduced the idea of selling the house. He was investigating how much money they might receive from the property if they sold it, once all three siblings reached their majority, and how much Josephine might expect to receive for her one-third. He argued that she would be better suited to a smaller house, with less to take care of. She imagined Lucy listening to his opinions, silent, hostile, evaluating.

What children do not know, she thought. What children can never