—
After breakfast was served, the dishes washed and put away, and the tea towel hung on its rack, Flora stood beside the cupboard, hands clasped in front of her.
“I have decided to go to Nova Scotia.”
Josephine started, pricked herself. She was repairing a sleeve’s cuff.
“No!” She sucked her thumb. “Certainly not, Flora.”
Ellen put a finger on the line of the recipe she was studying. She looked up, considered first Flora and then Josephine. Sailor, on his rag rug, abandoned his snuffling. He watched, poised.
“She’ll be capable, Mrs. Galloway. She’s got a good head on her.”
“I’m afraid for you,” Josephine said, ignoring Ellen’s comment. “You don’t know what you might find. You don’t know where to look.”
“I crossed an ocean,” Flora said. The words were dark, the weight of cast iron.
Sailor barked, once.
“Now, my girl.” Ellen abandoned the recipe, put a hand on Flora’s shoulder. She patted it, gently. “We all know what you’ve seen.”
Flora’s hands flew up, fingers outstretched. “I know what to look out for. I can take care of myself. I’m afraid for my sister.”
“I suppose.” Josephine’s words wavered between fear and fact. She set down her sewing. “I suppose. There’s no one else.”
“That Mr. Fairweather,” Ellen flicked a crumb from Flora’s shoulder. She stomped to the stove and lifted the lid. The coals lay red, winking. “He could pave the way, so to speak.”
—
Later that morning, a letter came from Lucy. The rocking chair was now dry. Sailor made a bed for himself on the drifted honeysuckle leaves. He dozed, but peeked every once in a while, checking on Josephine.
June 28, 1889
Dear Mother,
I do wish you could come to our meetings. They are the focus of my life. They make me able to endure the living conditions I am suffering, and, of course, the work, which is dreadful, especially as the days get hotter. But I am only in the position of thousands of others, and have no complaint to make—personally. Of course, I’m glad that it makes me able to speak from a real perspective.
What we are challenging is the idea that in the home there should be harmony between a dependent wife and a protective husband. In the home, as well as in every other place, women are seen to be in a dependent and secondary position. But we are not Lesser Beings! We are not by nature weaker, less smart, less able, or in need of protection. Oh, it makes me so angry, Mother, and so determined, and so proud to be part of this movement! We seek nothing less than full recognition as human beings.
Josephine caught Lucy’s excitement, found herself nodding in agreement. She felt purpose steeling her backbone, firming her jaw. Pride, warming her heart. Her girls would have opportunities she could never have foreseen.
Cousin Carrie is particularly interested in Married Women’s Property Rights. She has presented papers concerning the topic, showing us that even the new and improved legislation is subject to interpretation by judges. It seems, Mother, that we are still treated as helpless, only worthy of protection, no matter what the law says. I am quite certain I shall never marry.
Presently, we are putting all our efforts into this petition for full suffrage, which is gaining momentum. We are writing letters to our Members of the Legislative Assembly, seeking their opinion on the bill. We are writing letters asking support from the trades union, and to many other public bodies. We are asking the newspapers to support our position. I do hope, Mother, you will put pen to paper.
How is everything at home? Are you going to find Flora’s sister? I hope…
Josephine put down the letter.
She drew a long breath.
Yes.
She would contact Harland, as Ellen had suggested. If Flora were to go to Nova Scotia, she would ask him to pave the way.
—
To: The Proprietor
The Pictou Inn, Pictou, Nova Scotia
July 10, 1889
To Whom It May Concern,
I write on behalf of Miss Flora Salford, who will be arriving at your hotel sometime in the week after your receipt of this letter. She is travelling on my behalf, seeking a young girl, her sister, who may be in the vicinity of Pictou. My wife and I would have accompanied her, but I find that I cannot leave my business at this time. Please assign her a good chamber. She is visiting on a mission of possible unpleasantness, since we do not know in what circumstances she may find her sister. I beg your kindness in attending to her needs, which I cannot at this time anticipate, as well as satisfying with your fabled hospitality her general well-being. Please send me the bill for any and all expenses.
With kindest best wishes,
Harland Fairweather
—
Two weeks later, Flora boarded the Intercolonial early in the morning, changed trains in Moncton, and then changed trains again, boarding the Short Line in Oxford Junction. Sweat trickled down her back as the train laboured through the Cobequid Mountains, steam billowing past her window. A small folding table separated her from a sleeping boy, sprawled in the adjacent seat. She lifted a cedar writing box from her carpet bag, given to her by the Hilltop sisters. She opened the lid. The box was lined with black velvet and contained pen, ink and lavender- coloured paper.
“Write to us,” they had said, as if Flora were embarked on the Grand Tour of Europe.
I might well be having a holiday, she thought. Who would know? She closed the box. Boarding the train, no one had stared at her. She was not wearing a placard around her neck, nor shabby boots, nor carrying a paper bag smelling of hardboiled eggs. She was seventeen years old, now, not ten. Folded in her purse were paper notes, money Josephine had given her; Reverend Snelcroft’s letter; and the address of the Pictou Inn.
The boy next to her rolled over, tucking up his knees. His cheek was sheened with perspiration. He placed his hands as if in prayer, worked them beneath
