At least the boiling anger helped her forget the misery of
Now, clutching the rail, Marta prayed God would keep her on her feet and keep what little food she’d eaten in her stomach.
She cast any thought of ever getting on another ship into the undulating sea. She would never see Switzerland again. Tears streaked her cheeks at the realization.
By the time the ship entered the Saint Lawrence Seaway, Marta felt rested and eager to find her way around Montreal. Handing over her papers, she spoke French to the officer. He gave her directions to the International Quarter. Shouldering her pack, she took a trolley and walked to the Swiss Consulate. The clerk added her name to the employment register and gave her directions to an immigration home for girls. Marta purchased a newspaper the next morning and began looking for employment opportunities on her own. She bought a map of Montreal and began a systematic exploration of the city. She spoke to proprietors and left applications, and she found a part-time position in a garment shop in downtown Montreal a few blocks from the Orpheum Theatre.
Expanding her exploration, she came across a large house for sale on Union Street near the railroad. When she knocked, no one answered. She peered in the dirty windows and saw an empty parlor. She wrote down the property agent’s information and then walked up and down the street, knocking on doors and asking neighbors about the house. It had been a boardinghouse for women, and not the sort of women who would be welcome in any decent home. Railroad men came and went. The roof had been replaced four years ago, and the house had solid foundations as far as anyone knew. A woman had been murdered in one of the bedrooms. The house shut down shortly afterward and had stood vacant for eighteen months.
Marta went to the Records Office and learned the name of the property owner, who now lived in Tadoussac. She spent Saturday walking and thinking. Excitement welled up inside her at the thought of her goal being within reach. On Sunday, she went to church and prayed God would open the way for her to buy the house on Union Street. The next morning, she went to the property agent’s office just down the street from the garment shop and made an appointment with Monsieur Sherbrooke to see the inside of the house later that afternoon. He seemed dubious of her intent and said he had little time to satisfy someone’s idle curiosity. Marta assured him she had the resources to make an offer, if the house turned out to be what she wanted.
She hired a ride to Union Street and found Monsieur Sherbrooke waiting at the front door. As soon as he ushered her in, Marta thought of Mama. She had been the first one to believe in her.
Monsieur Sherbrooke began talking. Marta ignored him as she walked through the large parlor, dining room, and kitchen with a sizable pantry with empty shelves. She pointed out the rat droppings to Monsieur Sherbrooke.
“Shall we go upstairs?” He walked back toward the entry hall and stairs.
Marta ignored his lead and headed down the hallway behind the stairs. “There should be a room back here.”
He came quickly down the stairs. “Just a storage room, mademoiselle.”
Marta opened the door to the room that would share a common wall with the parlor. She gasped at the red, green, and yellow
With private bath? She looked in at the pink, green, and black tiled walls and floor, claw-foot tub, and water closet. “Whoever owned this house must have treated his servants very well.”
He stood in the middle of the room, pointing out the brass wall sconces and elegant gaslight hanging above.
Marta looked at the floor. “What is that stain you’re standing on?”
“Water.” He stepped aside. “But as you can see, there’s no serious damage.”
Marta shuddered inwardly.
Monsieur Sherbrooke headed for the door. “There are four bedrooms on the second floor and two more on the third.”
Marta followed him, walking around inside each room, opening and closing windows. The two bedrooms on the third floor were very small, with slanted ceilings and dormer windows, and in winter they would be very cold.
Monsieur Sherbrooke ushered her downstairs. “It’s a wonderful house, with a good location near the railroad and well worth the price.”
Marta gave Monsieur Sherbrooke a dubious look. “It needs considerable work.” She enumerated the costs she would have to bear in making repairs and getting the house ready for habitation before making her offer, considerably lower than the asking price.
“Mademoiselle!” He sighed in exasperation. “You cannot expect me to take such an offer seriously!”
“Indeed, I do, monsieur. Furthermore, you have a moral obligation to inform Monsieur Charpentier of my offer.”
His eyes flickered and then narrowed as he looked her over from head to foot, reconsidering her. “Do I understand you correctly, mademoiselle, that you know the owner, Monsieur Charpentier?”
“No, monsieur, but I do know what went on inside this house and why it has stood vacant for eighteen months. The stain you were standing on in that back bedroom is not water, but blood, as you well know. Tell Monsieur Charpentier I can pay the full amount I’ve offered. I doubt he will receive a better bid.” She handed him a slip of paper with the garment shop’s address. “This is where I can be reached.” She decided to press for whatever advantage she could. “If I don’t hear from you by the end of the week, I have another property in mind. Unfortunately, it is not one of your listings. Good day, monsieur.” She left him standing in the entry hall.
A messenger arrived at the shop on Wednesday. “Monsieur Charpentier accepts your offer.”
As soon as the papers were signed and title received, Marta quit her job in the garment shop and moved into the house on Union Street. She bought pots, pans, dishes, and flatware and left everything in boxes until she finished scouring the stove, counters, and worktable and scrubbing out cabinets and pantry. She set to work scrubbing the floors, sills, and windows. She found a wholesaler and bought material for curtains. She watched personal ads and furnished the rooms with bargain-priced beds, dressers, and armoires and the parlor with two sofas, two pairs of wing chairs, and side tables. She bought a long dining table and twelve chairs at an auction, adding lamps and a few rugs.
It took six weeks and everything she had to get the house ready. She paid for a small ad in the newspaper:
Room for rent. Spacious. Quiet neighborhood close to the locomotive works.
She posted a notice on the church bulletin board and hung a Vacancy sign in the front window. She framed and hung the house rules on the foyer wall:
Rent due the first of the month
Linens changed weekly
Breakfast served at 6 a.m.
Dinner served at 6 p.m.
No meals on Sunday
With the last of her money, she invited her neighbors to a Saturday afternoon high tea. As she served Ceylon tea, apple
The evening after the newspaper came out, Howard Basler, a railroad man, showed up at the front door. “I don’t need much space.” He rented an attic bedroom. A railroader’s wife, Carleen Kildare, came with her two small boys to ask if Marta could accommodate a family. She showed Carleen two adjoining bedrooms on the second floor with a bathroom between. Carleen brought her husband, Nally, back that evening, and they said they would move in at the end of the month. Four bachelors, all railroad men, doubled up in the last two available rooms on the third floor. Once Marta covered the bloodstain with a rug, she slept quite comfortably in the downstairs bedroom.
Only one small third-floor bedroom remained vacant.
One of the neighbors mentioned Marta’s high tea to Carleen, and the boarders teased her about when they might be served like English lords and ladies. Marta told them she’d serve them all high tea on Saturday and they could talk then about whether it would become a regular event. As she served egg and cucumber sandwiches,
