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

lawyers. So that women will have the vote to ensure these changes. Even become lawyers and write new legislation. The women in the group are not all privileged, Lucy. There are single and working women, too.”

Lucy took the card and angled it, tipping her head. She drew a long breath as if overwhelmed by the challenge she had imposed upon herself and which, Carrie could see, far surpassed her imaginings.

—

Flora stepped onto the porch of Fairweather’s Gentlemen’s Clothing store. A boy was painting the railings. The paint in the bucket was skimmed with dust and contained a half-drowned butterfly. A bell tinkled as she opened the door. Inside, it was cool and smelled of sizing. She approached the counter where a girl was absorbed with folding a shirt.

One of Mr. Fairweather’s daughters.

“May I speak with Mr. Fairweather?”

The girl’s eyes shifted with a sequence of expressions that Flora had become accustomed to: surprise, jealousy, disdain—the paradigm of finding Flora inadequate to her beauty.

They went to the back of the store.

“Visitor for you, Mr. Fairweather.”

“Come in.”

Over the girl’s shoulder Flora glimpsed the Overseer perusing a catalogue with drawings of men’s collars. He rose to his feet, flustered.

“I am the one who…”

“Yes, yes, yes. Of course. I remember.” He scurried away his papers. “Are you happy at…of course, such a sad time. Do close the door. Sit, sit, Miss Salford. Please.”

She sat, thinking of the butterfly and wishing she had paused to pinch it, for she’d seen its paint-coated wings stirring. Mr. Fairweather, too, resumed his seat, gripping his hands together on his desk.

A nice family, he’d told her. Where you’ll spend Christmas.

He coloured, a flush that began above his collar and streaked up his neck.

“Is Mrs. Galloway…something…”

“Please, I wondered if Mrs. Galloway told you about my sister.”

“Your—” The colour subsided as his thoughts cleared. “Ah, yes. She did tell me.”

His temporary confusion emboldened Flora. She sat forward on the edge of her chair.

“I want you to help me find my sister. Me and her were separated. Like them children at the auction. They told me I was to come to Canada and better myself. I was to make a home so me and Enid wouldn’t be in the poorhouse. I promised my sister that.”

Fists, white-knuckled. Pressed to her knees.

“I promised her.”

He drew a breath, picked up a glass paperweight, watched the play of light in its suspended flowers as he turned it.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you, Miss Salford. After Ada and Henry died, you know, there was simply no time. It would have taken weeks, perhaps months, to determine which of the philanthropic organizations brought you here. Or to search the ships’ passenger lists. We had to find a place for you.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Fairweather. You done a good thing for me. I am happy to be with Mrs. Galloway. But I have to find Enid.”

He nodded, held up a hand.

“Yes, yes. Of course. I will make a start to look for your sister.” He retrieved a sheet of paper, slid a gold pen from its holder, a tiny ear spoon at its tip. He rubbed the spoon between two fingers. “Let’s begin with what you can remember. All right?”

He met her eyes and she saw his shame.

—

At church, the following Sunday, the minister preached on the evils of the pauper auction and the need for an almshouse.

“For the love of money is the root of all evil, 1 Timothy 6:10,” he said. “We should not begrudge our taxes for this use. It is our duty to our fellow man.”

Permelia and Harland sat in their usual pew.

It was mid-July and the heat was oppressive, extending even into the night. Permelia chafed at Harland’s presence in the bed, calling him a stove. He began sleeping on the porch where he could smell the sharpness of dew-wet soil, loosened around his perennials. He listened to the town’s quiet—no horse hooves, no strike of hammer or cry of child, only the chirr of insects. Up the street, Josephine slept alone like Permelia, only not by choice. He imagined that she curled on her side with arms spread around the phantom shape of Simeon. He’d hardened and relieved himself, guilty, ecstatic.

He flushed, in church, remembering. Handkerchief in his hand. Washing it.

It would never happen again, never. He stared straight ahead, listening to the minister, but could not help glancing sideways. Josephine wore black, a lightweight crepe. Her face was veiled, her Bible bound in black Moroccan leather.

He would help the girl, he thought, and felt a lightening, a relief from the weight of guilt. He sensed the justice of doing so. The expiation. For he had followed the progress of the little boy separated from his sisters and discovered that he was hard used by the man who had purchased him.

He thought of renouncing the job of Overseer of the Poor. Paying the fine. Permelia shifted on her seat, plucking at her skirt, a sheen of perspiration on her face. She fretted over the fit of her clothing and complained of the cook’s food.

—

Maud answered the telephone. It was Mr. Fairweather.

“I have purchased bicycles. I wondered if you and Flora would like to try them. Perhaps Mrs. Galloway, too?”

Josephine smiled when told of the request.

“Goodness, no, Maudie. You go. You and Flora. Does he want you now? You go right down. The dishes can wait.”

Maud and Flora went to the store. Mr. Fairweather wheeled out two brand-new bicycles.

“My wife, Mrs. Fairweather, you know, she won’t try,” he said. “Nor any of my daughters.”

“You first, Flora,” Maud said, nervous.

He held the bicycle steady while Flora clambered onto the seat, hitching up her skirt. He held the back of the seat and ran behind, letting go only long enough for her to feel the thrill of freedom.

—

Fireflies blinked, the darkness lilting with their interrupted wander. Maud and Flora had taken to playing checkers on the front veranda, evenings, by the light of a kerosene lamp. Both would turn sixteen in August.

Josephine