When he had rushed to leave the ship, he had left them with Dr. Carson, who passed them on to me. “John thought you could find a use for these in the colony,” he had said. “He didn’t want them to go to waste.”
Guilt tugged at my heart at the sight of these children. How different their lives were from the happy brood I saw at the library. I wanted to help, but I just didn’t know how. I didn’t even have enough money to buy the cowpox serum that I needed for the vaccinations. Nor did I know where or how to find those who needed the medicine the most so I could pass it on to them. But more than that, I knew that I was part of the greater problem, that I and those of my kind had forever changed this land so that the Native peoples struggled for a decent life, even to survive.
I hurried on towards the teahouse, a Tudor-style building that would not have been out of place in the centre of London. Inside, I met with Miss Hardcastle, a humourless, greying, middle-aged woman, and told her I was interested in the job posting.
She nodded. “As the volunteer director of the society, I never set foot in the kitchen or serve patrons, thus the need to hire.”
She guided me to a sitting room with a commanding view of the ocean. In the distance, I could see vague outlines of islands.
“Which islands are those?” I asked.
“The San Juan Islands,” she replied, taking a seat.
The name rang a bell. They were the source of an angry dispute with the Americans over sovereignty that had culminated in the Pig War just three years earlier. I remembered reading about it in a book back home in England. It all seemed so long ago. I felt a lump in my throat at my first twinge of homesickness.
“Now, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Miss Hardcastle asked, tucking her ankles under her.
I took a breath and explained my situation, leaving out the scandals, of course.
“How very shocking for you, my dear, that you are forced to take paid employment,” she said when I had finished. “I count myself blessed by the Almighty that I was born into a family of substance. Such a shame it is not the same for you.”
I was beginning to see the sort of person Miss Hardcastle was, and while I wasn’t impressed, I needed this position, so I kept a polite smile on my face.
Oblivious to any offense she may have caused, she carried on. “The mission of the society is to preserve the traditions and lifestyle that made Britain and her empire the greatest in the world. We are of the view that the fine etiquette and class distinctions of England need to be maintained here in the colonies, and what better way to do that than through a proper English tea? You are new to this part of the world. But once you have become acquainted with its customs, you will no doubt be quite shocked at the lack of the locals’ understanding and concern for the relative positions of class.”
I thought of the poor children I had seen outside. What class did they belong to? Were the glories of the great British empire only for the privileged few? Perhaps there are far more important things to be concerned about than class distinction, I wanted to say, but I swallowed my words.
Miss Hardcastle accepted my silence as agreement and got down to business, explaining my duties and terms of employment. I was to greet the patrons appropriately as to their station in society, to engage in polite chat, and of course to serve food and pour the tea. For this, I would be paid the grand sum of two pounds per month. It wasn’t much, but it was more than governess work, and for that, I was grateful.
Without further ado, she handed me a white apron and told me that lunch would start in one hour. As she requested, I began setting the tables with a full lunch service—three forks, two spoons, butter knife, one side plate, one large plate, teacup and saucer, water glass, and sherry glass.
“One more thing,” she said. “This table by the window is for Mrs. Douglas’s tea. I wouldn’t normally seat her at the best table, but she is the governor’s wife and etiquette requires it.”
I was puzzled. “Why not?”
Miss Hardcastle leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Those women think they’re special because their husbands are rich Hudson’s Bay fur traders, but I’ll never accept them as equals. They’re Métis.” When I didn’t respond, she clarified, “Amelia Douglas is half French, half… you know.”
I kept my face open and unruffled in an effort to show her that the information didn’t affect me. “I’ve only heard lovely things about her,” I said. It was a lie, but I didn’t care. I remembered what John had said about the governor and his wife’s marriage. It had been a union of two powerful families where each had much to gain. Amelia, the granddaughter of a Cree chief and daughter of a successful fur trader, and James Douglas, an up-and-comer in the Hudson’s Bay Company, had been clearly destined for great things together.
Miss Hardcastle let out a guffaw, and as she bustled away, I vowed to make Mrs. Douglas feel very welcome when she arrived.
As the ladies began gathering, it quickly became apparent that there was little for upper-class women to do in the colony other than to take luncheon or, I presumed, afternoon tea. The tables began to fill at twelve o’clock and I was hard-pressed to keep up with the basic demands of the patrons and soon gave up on engaging any of them in polite talk. Each table had
