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

He took a deep breath. He worked a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his mouth and nose. Josephine saw his hand tremble as he put it back.

“Some have been worked beyond their power of endurance. But as you all know, we have no other way to care for the poor. We have no almshouse. So it is my unfortunate duty to offer these paupers for sale to the lowest bidder. Those who receive them will be paid the amount of their bid by the province, as a monthly sum, for the duration of one year. It is my fervent hope that those who receive these paupers will treat them with humanity and decency.”

He worked spectacles over his eyes, wrapping the temple tips behind his ears. Josephine watched as the girl sat straight and placed her feet side by side, keeping her eyes fixed on Mr. Fairweather. The girl did not appear to realize that she was a lodestone, every man’s eyes sliding, looking away, returning.

“I will begin with these three children so that some one of you will take them home, give them a decent meal, and comfort them in their distress. They are orphans, aged…”

He ran his finger down the paper.

“…aged five, seven, and eight. I offer them as a block.”

Josephine covered her mouth. She would bid for them. She tried to think where she would keep them. She could not put them in her daughters’ rooms. And George would be outraged should he return to find his room occupied.

“What am I bid for the block of three?”

The little boy sat up and reached for his older sister’s hand. Like the mother who should have been there, Josephine thought, and her heart felt thick, shortening her breath.

“What am I bid for the block of three? May I remind you, these are sisters and brother.”

No one bid. Josephine felt a recklessness threaten to overtake her.

“I’ll take the boy,” a man called out. “I bid thirty-five dollars.”

No one else bid.

She drew a breath, parted her lips to speak.

The Overseer brought the gavel down. A wail rose from all of the children. Already the purchaser was mounting the steps.

The two little girls went next, bought together.

The blonde girl sat apart from any others, now, as the older boy was sold. Then the old man. Then the bedridden woman, who went for the high price of $101.

“Flora Salford.” He pointed at the girl.

He had not named the other paupers.

So I will be absolutely certain.

“Formerly a hand at the Quigley farm. You will know that Henry and Ada Quigley met their deaths earlier this month when their horse slipped on ice on the Mine Hill. By her own account, this young woman is fifteen years of age, able and capable of hard work. She comes with complete outfit except she needs winter boots, which the purchaser must provide. What am I bid?”

Harland’s eyes scanned the crowd. Hands shot up. He did not look at Josephine.

He wants me to bide my time? Josephine did not know this game nor how it was best played. I will hear your bid, he had said.

A man’s voice called out. “I bid fifty dollars.”

“Forty-nine.”

The first man, again. Square, fleshy face. He poked up the handle of a cane. “Forty-eight.”

Now a third man. “Forty-seven.”

Harland glanced at Josephine. She held her hands palm outwards, fingers stretched—ten dollars less—hoping he would understand.

“I am bid thirty-seven,” Harland said.

“Thirty-six.” All three men called out at the same time.

Again, Josephine flashed her hands. Harland brought down his gavel. “Sold…for twenty-six dollars.”

An uproar ensued. He pounded, pounded, the crack of gavel on maple.

THREE Polite and Invisible

THE DRIVER WHIPPED the dapple-grey mare into a hard trot. Balled snow flew from her hooves. Flora fell backwards against the quilted padding. The woman who’d won her at auction, jostled, attempted to unfold a plaid wool blanket.

“Pull her down to a walk, please, Mr. Dougan. We can hardly…”

Flora turned to look back. Snowy roof of the train station, a white gleam, and men’s hats, the size of pebbles.

“There,” the woman said, as the horse dropped into a restrained, high-stepping walk. She handed Flora the blanket, which she had shaken from its folds.

“And there’s a ham sandwich for you in the basket,” she said, lifting up a hinged wooden cover, revealing a paper package. Flora was not hungry, but took it out and unwrapped it. The bread was faintly warm, the ham smelled of cloves. She took a bite, seeing that the woman was watching her.

The woman looked away, pulling the bearskin up over her neck and shoulders. She drew a long breath and pressed the back of her glove to her lips.

She was a woman poised between youth and the beginnings of decline, her cheeks marked with fine, curved lines; a slight downturn at the corners of her lips; a strong nose; full, cold-flushed skin, the skin of shade and expensive soap.

“My name is Josephine Galloway,” the woman said, not looking at Flora. “The Overseer of the Poor is my friend. He asked me to bid for you.”

Flora parted her lips to speak and did not know what to say. She hardly knew who she had been and did not know who she was to be now. She did not know whether she was going to the woman’s home as a servant, or was being sent back to Maria Rye, or was being taken to the Overseer of the Poor.

“It is barbaric. He was afraid for you.” The woman glanced at Flora, nervous. Looked away. “I know your name is Flora. You don’t need to speak.”

The horse leaned into the traces, pulling the sleigh up a steep street, passing large, new-looking houses.

“That sickly woman in the wagon,” Josephine exclaimed, a burst. “They were going to put her up for auction! I cannot believe—”

Flora put down the sandwich. She looked out her side of the sleigh, remembering women in the workhouse. Gaunt, motionless. Too sad to eat.

An