“I have good news for you,” Harland said, on shortened breath. “Concerning Flora.”
She felt his commiserating glance, but fixed her eyes on the striated ice, seeing things she would not tell. Simeon’s letters in a hatbox beneath her bed. How she now understood Flora’s stunned silence after the auction. How she now knew that life was a structure whose frame could collapse, all at once and without warning.
“You know that I received a letter from Miss Rye saying that Enid Salford was delivered to Halifax.”
“Yes.”
“I wrote to a close acquaintance of mine there. She knows a woman who is one of Miss Rye’s ‘trusted friends.’ These people keep in touch with the girls and convey details of their well-being—or ill use—to Maria Rye. My friend gave me an address, so I have written to this woman, asking if she placed Enid Salford. Or if she knows the person who did.”
Josephine looked up at him. Their eyes met and saw more than each intended. She tightened her mitten on his arm—looked away, examining the musicians. They wore black caps with gold badges; matching jackets with stiff, raised collars. Fingerless gloves.
“That’s good,” she said. “Shall I tell Flora?”
They went halfway around the rink before he answered. “I was going to say no, let us not get her hopes up, but then it came to me that this girl has been kept like a…like a tiger in a cage. She has been effectively imprisoned most of her young life. This must end, don’t you agree? She has proven herself intelligent, capable and strong.”
“Yes, oh yes. She is a wonderful help to me. She should know you are sending the letter, even if it ends in disappointment.”
Harland’s chest lifted and his stride shortened while maintaining the music’s rhythm. She saw that he bore a pleased expression.
“Tell her that I’ll be sending a letter by tonight’s mail,” he said.
Men passing on skates, wives on their arms, nodded to Harland; their eyes dropped to Josephine and sobered, remembering Captain Galloway. Women’s sympathy came a beat too late, after a flash of pity, self-satisfaction and a shameful pride, knowing that unlike Josephine they were still married women, fully employed as such, loved and augmented, one-half of a sum greater than its parts. Permelia’s husband is so kind to poor Mrs. Galloway, women would murmur to one another over the rims of teacups, speaking of the cornet band and the rink and the lovely morning.
“Have you begun circulating your petition?” she asked.
“For the almshouse? Yes. I wondered if you would care to present it at a tea meeting. Not at your own…place,” he added. “Mrs. Smith has said she would support the cause but has no interest in presenting the petition. Someone needs, you see, to explain the situation.”
“I…”
…sometimes cannot get out of bed in the morning…She sensed that Harland wished to meet her eyes, in query or to exchange a smile, but she stared straight ahead, letting her skates find their way, wondering if Maud and Flora would come with her to the tea meeting. Despite her misgivings about Lucy’s fervour, she felt an unusual sense of anticipation, picturing her own signatures—on the almshouse petition, on the suffrage petition—like promises to herself.
—
January 5, 1889
Dear Mrs. Jonah,
I write to you from New Brunswick, where until recently I have been serving the position of Overseer of the Poor. It is in this capacity that an English girl, Flora Salford, came to my attention. She was brought over as one of Miss Maria Rye’s orphans. It is thought that her younger sister, Enid, was delivered to Halifax in a similar group of girls.
I take the liberty of contacting you since my dear friend, Alicia Alward, informed me that you are a trusted friend of Miss Rye, and may have placed the younger sister.
It will be my utmost pleasure to hear that this was indeed the case, and I remain in eager anticipation of anything you can tell me about this girl, Enid Salford, for whose welfare her sister, Flora, is in constant agitation and worry.
Thanking you in advance for any information you may send,
I remain,
Yours truly,
Harland Fairweather
—
At Mrs. Smith’s tea meeting in aid of the almshouse petition, Josephine, Flora and Maud were given a little round table next to the piano. Josephine sipped tea, her heart racing. She could not take a single bite of the pound cake filled with strawberry jam and whipped cream. Harland had made the assumption that she would describe her experience, and the organizer had simply sent her a note to confirm the date. Flora, too, was to speak; her cheeks flamed, and she had not picked up her fork. Josephine reached over and patted her hand.
“It’s only Pleasant Valley women,” she whispered.
Gaslights burned on the walls; in the low, amber light, ornaments glittered—beads, sequins, brooches. A woman stood, tapped a glass with her fork.
“Mrs. Josephine Galloway will now…”
“You’ll be all right, Mama,” Maud whispered. She had worn her best gauze blouse; Ellen had repaired the jet buttons. Maud had insisted on adjusting Flora’s hair, easing the tight topknot into a looser pillow.
Josephine rose and stood by the piano. The drawing room was crowded with the round tables; she saw the relaxed, expectant faces of women, some half-turned on their chairs.
“I was asked by Mr. Fairweather, who was then the Overseer of the Poor, to attend the pauper auction and bid for a young girl. She should not have been sold as a pauper, he told me, but he had no choice in the matter.”
As she described the crowd of men, and the way she had elbowed her way to a place below the platform, the tinkling of forks and cups and saucers faded to silence.
“They were lined up on the platform in the freezing cold.
