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

She snatched up the basket, held it like a shield. “Why would you even say such a thing?”

“It’s what you were thinking. He’s dangerous.”

Her heart began to hammer.

“And you like that about me,” he added.

The white flash of teeth.

Behind them, a man snored. Oil lamps flared and guttered, their reflections bent up against the black windows. She stared straight ahead, clutching the basket, thinking of the long walk through the winter’s night from the train station to the house, and how Jasper Tuck was meant to protect her from anything untoward—a rabid dog, a drunken man.

—

Josephine was visiting the Fairweathers for the evening, since Permelia’s brother and family were visiting from Boston. The son, an accomplished pianist, had brought a book of songs. The parlour was filled with women—Josephine, Permelia and her four daughters, the sister-in-law with her two daughters—and an excess of ornament, the women’s dresses with shawls and lace-edged ruffles, the room’s fringed tablecloths, peacock feathers, stuffed quail in a glass case. The daughters sang duets and trios; the young man urged his father to join them.

“We need a tenor. Come on, Father.”

Permelia’s brother waved away the suggestion. He leaned forward and engaged Harland, shifting his eyes only to his son as the story progressed. The girls clustered around the piano, held in check.

“One minute I look out the window and see a moose. Belly deep in snow, staring at the train. Then my eyes fall on a headline—Captain of German ship Goes Insane at Sea, Jumps Overboard. He had an obstruction of the bowel, apparently. Made insane by the pain. They gave him laudanum and he seemed to recover but then he decides that various members of the crew desire to shoot him and begins to fire at random. Subsided after assurances to the contrary. Smoke was smelled, it seems he set his cabin afire. Jumped overboard.”

His eyes widened, unfocused. He narrowed them, satisfied, lifting a glass of port.

“No, darling. You couldn’t possibly have read that.” His wife laughed. “Impossible.”

“What would you know? Do I ever see you reading a newspaper? No, you only ever study your Godey’s Lady’s Book.” He turned to Harland. “And they talk of wanting the vote.”

Josephine felt a headache begin, a slender fracture zig-zagging its way from temple to eye. At the far end of the parlour, tables were set for whist, but after each song the young man swept the page over and the girls remained standing, flushed, and sang again.

Harland spoke into Permelia’s ear, then beckoned to Josephine. She followed him down a hallway into his weather station. The long room was cool, smelled of geraniums and leather.

“I told Permelia I had an important message to give you regarding Flora. I mentioned, also, that you seemed to need fresh air.”

“I do have a slight headache. I am not accustomed to wine.” She felt the fatigue of being a widow in the midst of other women and their families. The effort of repelling regret.

“I never touch it, as you know. Permelia’s brother was unaware of her temperance pledge. We said nothing, not to offend. They arrived with lavish gifts.”

He struck a match, held it to the wick of a kerosene lamp. She saw a table laid with notebooks, pencils, graph paper.

“My weather notes.”

She saw how he marked the passage of his life, in solitude, and had become accustomed to it.

“I received a letter from my acquaintance in Halifax. She knew nothing of Enid, but has discovered the person who delivered her to the train station. A Reverend Snelcroft. I’ve written to him.”

Her eyes went to his fingers spread on the letter. She considered what would happen if she should lay her hand over his. She wanted, only, to be held in a man’s arms. To lay her head against a man’s chest. To be easily, thoughtlessly, part. Not apart.

“You and I both seek forgiveness, Josephine. In my case, it is necessary. But you have no cause for guilt. It is I who asked you to purchase Flora. And you know that you did not truly buy her.”

“I take money from the government. But I give it to her.”

“Well, there. You see.”

She had not thought she was seeking forgiveness and saw no way forward in the conversation, since it seemed to be not about Flora but about themselves.

Wet snow adhered to the windows and slid down the glass, dissolving.

Undone, she thought.

I am undone by a man’s kindness.

He set a glass paperweight onto the letter. A posy of glass cane forget-me-knots floated in its interior.

“We are on the hunt, now. We will find this lost child.” He looked at her but she could detect only concern.

“I do hope so,” she said, taking a step back from the table, seeing his anxiety to return to his duties as host.

He extinguished the lamp’s flame.

TWELVE Soft as Flannel

March 10, 1889

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Dear Mr. Fairweather,

I am in receipt of your letter concerning one of Miss Maria Rye’s girls. I did indeed receive three girls into my home and assisted with their placement with farmers or families that had requested them. I am happy to report that one of them was Enid Salford. She was placed with a farmer on the Northumberland Shore, in a place called Black Creek. I delivered her to the train but did not accompany her to her final destination. I trust that she was received as arranged by mail with a Mr. Albert Mallory. I have not heard from Enid although I have sent several letters, as I promised Miss Rye I would. It is too great a distance for me to travel in order to make an inspection, and I am not myself a young person nor am I in good health. I would be grateful if you would undertake this yourself if possible, although I see that you are in New Brunswick and realize that it will be a considerable journey. There is no financial compensation available, of