She rose, slowly, and took the dress from him.
“I’ll go stand under that tree.” He pointed. “You can see me from the window. I’ll keep my back to you.”
“You’ll get wet.”
He went out and shut the door behind him, jiggling the latch to ensure that the door was secured.
He crossed the lawn and stood under the tree, facing the street. She retreated to the far corner. Rows of buttons to be slid from their holes; silk lining, the frou-frou of a petticoat. She stepped into an underdress of blue velvet, reaching behind to snag hooks into eyes. Then an overskirt of soft white wool, draped from pleats at the waist to expose the blue dress. A short jacket of the same soft white, reaching only to the edge of her breasts, connected across the blue velvet underdress with wide tabs. Like a fruit, half-peeled, she thought, working at the buttons. At the jacket’s neck was a stiff lacy frill. She tugged at the skirts, patted them in place, and looked up to see a girl precisely her age, staring at her. Shock conveyed an instantaneous impression, the girl like the heart’s longing made visible, barely flesh, a blue mist of loveliness in the dim, dusty light. Mr. Tuck had stood a floor-length mirror at the back of the workshop.
She lifted the dress to keep it from the floor, went to the door and opened it.
He turned. She could not see his expression as he stood with his arms folded, looking across the sodden grass.
—
June 10, 1889
Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario
Dear Mr. Fairweather,
I rec’d yours of the first concerning Enid Salford. I am happy that she has been located and I trust in your good intentions to unite her with her sister, Flora. It is difficult when running an enterprise as complex as my own to keep track of every child after they have been placed, especially if their people do not take the time to write or they fall into circumstances beyond my control, as with these girls.
It is good people like yourself that I trust and expect to come forward in this fine country. Please know that Enid was sent with a kit worth £8. If you take her yourself I will send you all that I have concerning her parentage. If you decide upon adoption perhaps you would be so good as to remunerate me this amount. Excuse the brevity of this letter, I am in much haste due to a shipment of children arriving this morning.
Yours truly,
Maria Rye
—
On the brilliant, windy day of June 20, the regatta began at nine a.m. sharp in St. John harbour.
Harland and Permelia stood on the deck of the paddle wheel steamboat David Weston, off her thrice-weekly St. John–Fredericton run. Luncheon would be served in the dining room on the saloon deck, windows flung wide so diners could watch the races. Harland lifted his binoculars to observe the sculling teams in their red, blue, yellow, or white jerseys, their striped caps. Oars flashed as the rowers pulled out into the harbour, circled, jockeying for position near the start off Reed’s Point at the foot of Prince William Street. The falls, reversed by high tide, made no roar. Three canoes emerged from the shadow of the cliffs, passed close by the steamer. He had noted, in his program, a one-mile canoe race—Indians only.
Scanning the city, he could see that the streets were rivers of heads, hats, parasols. Flags snapped over the brick buildings.
“The judge’s boat,” he remarked, shifting the binoculars back to the harbour. He pointed with one hand, following the enlarged scene: a man stood in the bow of an open boat. The judge, Harland presumed, miniaturized by distance, pressed binoculars to his eyes, staggered and put one hand to the gunwale; his binoculars, briefly, crossed Harland’s. He thought to mention this to Permelia, the oddity, but said nothing, assailed with a familiar weariness—how he would need to endure her perplexity at his comment, her lack of interest.
She had not wanted to attend the regatta, but changed her mind when she learned that they would not be standing in the crowds but dining on the steamer, where she might show off her new lavender dress and straw hat with purple grosgrain ribbons.
She tugged at his sleeve. “I need to sit, Harland. Let’s go to the Grand Saloon. We can see perfectly well from there.”
They found a small marble-topped table next to a window. Harland ordered tea, followed the three canoes with his binoculars until they arrived at Reed’s Point. Permelia leaned back, took a breath through her nose. She was suffering the constriction of her lungs. Her corset had become difficult to hook.
He opened the program, read aloud.
“The race should start any minute for the centreboard sloops. After that is the fishermen’s race, no less than sixteen-foot keel, one mile. Then the sculls. There are…”
“For goodness’ sakes, Harland.” She pulled a fan from her tapestry handbag. “I can read it myself.”
He set the program on the table and spread his hands on either side of it. White marble, cool beneath his palms. He turned to face the window.
“I am interested,” she said. She opened the fan, rotated the program. “Let me see. You have a friend competing in the single scull?”
“Professional four oars.”
“You see,” she whispered, fanning herself, watching women descending the circular stairway. “I was right, Harland. There should be less trim on the hat. Puffs and plumes are out. Just look at that one. And that one.” She pointed behind her fan at a woman seated on a plush covered chair, another on a leather chesterfield. “Awful.”
At the bang of the starter’s pistol, the white sails aligned, then began to spread across the harbour, bent upon Partridge Island.
He pressed the binoculars to his eyes, keeping a particular sail within the eyepiece, as if he himself were the man at the helm. “I have chosen a date to go to Nova Scotia,” he said. “I cannot
