He studied us each in turn, then centred Sarah on a red-velvet-covered stool and gestured for Florence and me to stand behind. We each placed one hand on Sarah’s shoulder and grinned broadly. When all was ready, Monsieur Blanc took a lit candle and touched it to a tray of loose powder. There was a sharp hissing sound, and then a brilliant flash of white light that left me seeing spots as I stumbled about the studio. In the end, I was thrilled with our picture, or photograph, as Monsieur Blanc called it. I bought an extra copy to send to Wiggles, a testament to my new independent life in the colonies.
Sarah and I bid Florence farewell, then made our way home to get ready for our shifts, stopping by the mail office. We almost collided with Mr. Harris on his way out as he’d been focused on the letters in his hand. He seemed discomfited to see us and stammered out an apology.
“Lucky you, look at all those letters,” I said. My spirits were high from a day spent with friends, and I thought I’d try to put him at ease. “From your family, Mr. Harris?”
He flushed. “Just business, I’m afraid, Miss Harding. Nothing that would interest you. Ladies,” he said, touching his hat and turning to go.
There were a few letters for Mr. Roy, which Sarah collected along with a copy of the Colonist, and there was one small envelope for me. I felt a small thrill when I saw it was postmarked Yorkshire.
When we got home, I hurried to my room to change for my shift, and then sat down to read John’s letter.
April 7, 1863
Dear Charlotte,
I trust that by now you and Sarah have made it safely to Barkerville. The gold rush town is somewhat familiar to me as I stopped there for a few days on my last trip. I remember fondly the sweet shop, Martha’s, I think it’s called.
I’m writing with some exciting news of my own. The Royal Geographical Society has asked me to present a series of lectures on my work in the colonies. News of the continuing smallpox epidemic in the New World appears regularly in the papers here and many are asking questions about what Britain is doing to help. I plan to talk about the plight of the Native peoples in the colony of British Columbia and their ill treatment at the hands of the colonial government, settlers, and many of the lawless gold seekers. Some well-known abolitionists are joining forces with me. It’s a highly controversial and emotionally charged subject, but it is one I cannot, and will not, in good conscience, shy away from. As you can see, even in Yorkshire, my thoughts continually return to British Columbia.
My father passed away two days after I got home. He never let on in his letters, but his health had been poor before his stroke, and my brother, Andrew, had been doing the real work of managing the estate and doing a splendid job, really. His wife, Roberta, and their two daughters are quite the mistresses of the house. They happily fulfill the social obligations of our family and see to our traditional charitable endeavours. There’s no real need for me to be here. I am the fifth wheel in the family and an unhappy one at that.
For the past six years, I have roamed far and wide as a clergyman, bringing medical knowledge and care to people in the farthest corners of British Columbia. That’s the life for me, not the life of a country lord. I’m in the process of gathering fresh medical supplies and plan to set sail for Victoria once my lectures are over in three weeks’ time.
It’s not just my mind that draws me back to British Columbia, but my heart as well. I confess my feelings for you have not abated since I have been home, and know that I have made it clear to Agnes (and her father) that we are not engaged. Agnes seemed more relieved than anything. She gave me her blessing and confessed that, while she had been prepared to do her duty to her father and marry me, she was not comfortable with the controversy that swirled about me and my work. She preferred a quiet life.
I don’t expect you to feel the same about me after all that has transpired between us, but I hope you will allow me to call on you when I return to Barkerville soon.
Love,
John
I set the letter on my bed and looked out at the maple tree outside my window. Its new tender green leaves were just beginning to reach their maturity. They would sustain this tree for the summer to come, allowing it to strengthen and deepen the roots needed to withstand the storms of winter. Perhaps that’s what loving relationships do for people. Would I deny myself the chance to mature and grow if I didn’t explore this relationship with John? My heart was pulling me towards him, I realized, and unlike before, I felt compelled to follow.
I found a piece of paper and scribbled a brief calculation. John’s letter took about two months to get to me on one of the clipper ships, or perhaps it took the new faster route through Panama by train. Depending on the ship and the route, I could expect John to arrive in Barkerville as early as midsummer. Of course, there were so many variables and he could be much later. I told myself not to get excited, but my heart wouldn’t listen.
Just then, Sarah came into my room, holding out the Colonist. “I thought you’d want to see this,” she said, her face worried.
I scanned the headlines. There was one small story about the continuing smallpox outbreak, and another about civil unrest in London. She pointed to the latter. I quickly read the short article. Fights had broken out between opposing factions regarding colonial rule and the treatment of
