Winter Shadows (16 page)

He sighed. “She made all our meals after Anne died. Go and have a rest, Ivy.”

It was as if the name Anne set her off even more. “A rest? Who will do a cleaning of the house today? Not her or that
Indian she’s taken as her personal maid, that’s certain!”

She was talking as if Dilly weren’t in the room! “Ivy –”

Dilly spoke up, “I milked the cows, Missus. And dusted the rooms up and down.” She gave me a small nod. She understood
.

“You are an excellent helper, Dilly,” I said
.

Papa hid a smile in a large spoonful of porridge as Ivy flounced from the room
.

I poured myself a mug of tea and cut a slice of bannock to chew on while I worked
.

“Can I light a fire in your study first, Papa?”

“No, lass, I can do that. Duncan raised the wood-box, so I can reach it easily.”

Mr. Kilgour seemed to do a lot around here. Didn’t he have his own farm to tend to? I only hoped he had the good sense to stay away from me today
.

It was already hot in the kitchen. The windows were frosted, letting in a smooth white light. Working and chatting with Dilly was the only way to stop Kilgour from pushing into my thoughts
.

The pastry was on the rabbit pies, and I was telling Dilly how to determine when they were done, when Ivy walked in, her eyes scanning the clutter
.

“I will need some eggs, please, Ivy,” I said. “It’s time to make the cakes.”

She looked at Papa. He looked back with a steady eye. She opened one of the long cupboards, reached into a crock, and put six dull brown eggs into a shallow bowl. I needed more, but I could make do with those
.

“Thank you, Ivy,” I said
.

“I know Gordon enjoys a slice of cake, though I don’t eat it myself,” she said
.

As she walked toward the kitchen table, I caught a gleam in her eye just before she tripped. The soft-shelled eggs splattered onto the floor
.

Papa called out, “Ivy! Wait, Beatrice. All is not lost. Don’t move –”

But Ivy wasn’t finished. She lost her footing and scuffled through the eggs, grinding them into the floorboards. “Oh, bless me, look what I’ve done. And that was the last of my eggs!” She turned to Papa with stricken eyes, then turned her back on him and smiled at me
.

W
hen I woke up, it was still dark. Beatrice’s diary lay on the table beside the dwindling firelight. I quickly pushed the heavy covers back – maybe now I’d find out why she was so sad.

Should I write a journal too? But what if Daisy found it?
She’d give it to Jean, and Jean would give it to Dad, and Dad would march me off to a shrink. Beatrice didn’t understand what was happening to her and was clearly emotionally fragile. It scared me. If I suddenly wrote to her, it might tip her into a shadow so black she couldn’t get out. Yet, I couldn’t risk losing touch with her.…

I focused on the new entries she’d made to her diary. When they put one over on Ivy with the jar of filched apples, I laughed. Except for Ivy, everyone seemed in tune after that, and I realized Beatrice and Duncan were beginning to like each other. I was rooting for them. But hope ended when Reverend Dalhousie showed up and caused quite an upset. Or rather, Duncan did!

I couldn’t get a fix on him. Like Beatrice, I wondered
why he’d come to stay near his mother. He clearly didn’t like her much. It was as if he hardly knew her. And he definitely had some strong opinions – and a big mouth – about Robert and the Church!

I fell asleep wondering what would happen next.

When I woke up on Friday, I felt much better. I still had a week of antibiotics, but couldn’t take another day hanging around the house. Besides, it was the last day of school, and I needed stuff from my locker. I bumped into Daisy and Jean on my way out of the bathroom.

Daisy looked better, but Jean said, “Holidays start tomorrow, so I’ll keep her home.” She stroked Daisy’s tangled hair.

After the warmth of my bed for three days, the cold hit me hard, even with my ski jacket on. I was glad the bus came quickly. Martin’s new girlfriend was on it. She swung her hair over one shoulder and stared right through me. Fine. Like I cared. Martin didn’t get on at his stop, and I was relieved. I heard a few girls whispering –
bus, crazy, loser
– but I ignored them.

I got through the first few classes, but was exhausted by the time the principal came on the intercom just before the lunch bell. When he said we could all go home, everyone cheered. I had just pushed my way to my locker when Martin tapped me on the shoulder.

“You look better.”

“I feel better.”

“Sorry I didn’t get back to your place. I had to work. Can you come to Pelly’s on Sunday afternoon to plan this assignment? I gotta work tomorrow again. We can go online to do our research. I could pick you up around one and –”

Tricia the Bus Girl came up behind Martin and wedged herself between us, shoving me with her elbow. “Hi, Martin.”

“This is Cass, Tricia. We’re working on an English project over the holidays.”

“You were the one who was so mean to Marty on the bus that day,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “Who isn’t? Everyone is mean to Marty. I even wrote a song once called ‘Let’s All Be Mean to Marty ’Cause He’s So Easy to Be Mean To.’“

Martin glared at me. “Now who’s being mean?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I muttered.

He turned to her and said, “Cass and I have to talk, okay, Tricia? I’ll – uh – be right with you.”

A friend of hers appeared and looked me up and down with a dead cold stare. Martin looked trapped. I shrugged and walked away.

I was about to push the metal lever for the outside door when he came running up behind me. “So, you okay for Sunday? One o’clock?” His eyes were so dark, his shirt so white. “I’ll pick you up, okay? We need to get this sorted –”

The two girls were halfway down the hall watching us, so I threw my arms around him. “Of course I’ll come! I’ll be ready at one on Sunday. See you then!”

I grabbed a seat on the school bus.
Why did I act so juvenile?
With luck, Martin would just laugh it off. At worst, he’d cancel Sunday.

Kids poured out of the school in waves, some getting into cars, others hopping on buses. I spotted Martin’s watch cap and Tricia’s long hair in the crowd and braced myself. But they walked past the bus, followed by the other girl, who was holding hands with a tall skinny boy. They stopped at a truck with P
ELLY’S
F
AMOUS
D
OGS AND
F
RIES
, W
E
D
ELIVER
on it. Martin climbed into the driver’s seat. Tricia, blonde hair flying in the brisk wind, let the other two climb in the narrow backseat, then got in beside Martin.

As the bus trundled forward, I gazed out the window. I felt stupid, embarrassed, and utterly alone.

I
left the destroyed eggs where they were and went straight to the outside oven. The pies were golden and bubbly. I brought them inside and told Dilly not to leave the kitchen until I returned. Papa was staring at Ivy, a rigid set to his jaw, while she fussed over the ruined eggs with a wet cloth. I went straight to the front door, pulled on my moccasins, coat, hat, scarf, and mittens, and slammed the door behind me
.

Thankfully Minty was feeding the animals. Between us, we soon hooked Tupper to the carriole. I clicked my tongue and we were off, in the opposite direction to the church. The track was tamped solid. Halfway to my destination, the sun’s warmth on my bonnet made my neck and shoulders relax a little. The sky was a startling blue, without a cloud; the river crisscrossed with snowshoe and dogsled trails; the shoreline etched in crisp bright light
.

An unwavering line of smoke rose from the Comper farmhouse chimney. In the yard, the old barn stood sharply against the blue backdrop. I could see a large new shed attached to the back of the small whitewashed house
.

I reined Tupper in, surprised to see the back door covered with a painting of a great blue heron knee-deep in marsh grass. The bird looked like it would spread its huge wings and fly away if I came too close. Beside the shed, four large sled dogs lay gazing impassively at me with triangular eyes. I knocked on the heron’s head. There was no response
.

“Hello?” I called
.

I opened the door and stepped into a spacious room. Someone had replaced the walls and upper loft with log supports. It reminded me of army barracks. Against the far wall stood two neatly made beds. There was also a stone hearth, with two horsehair parlor chairs and a small table for each. Beside me was a makeshift kitchen. A pot of something gamey simmered on the Carron stove. Beside it, a wooden ledge held plates, utensils, and a huge cast-iron frying pan
.

A painter’s easel and a table covered with jars of paint, brushes, cleaning spirits, and pencils stood in the middle of the room. Paintings were stacked three and four deep on the floor. I wandered around them in wonderment. Was this Duncan Kilgour’s work? Surely not Minty’s! I took in colorful maps on thick paper; birds and animals surrounded by trees and terrain; portraits on stretched canvases and smooth boards of local men, women, and children of the parish in their distinctive blend of English and Indian clothing, working in autumn fields; others of Swampy Cree people in traditional dress, of Ojibway men in a birch canoe skimming along the river, and of Rupert’s Landers riding horses during a hunting expedition, their energy rippling across the canvases
.

An unfinished work rested on the easel. It was of Minty, crouched over an empty trap. Nearby a wily rabbit sat behind a tree, watching. It made me smile. All the paintings were signed D.A.K. I wondered what the A stood for
.

As I stumbled forward a few steps, the door banged open behind me. Duncan Kilgour said, “When there was no answer, you should have called for me outside. You have no business in here.”

“You walk into my house whenever you please!” At that, he smiled. “I came on a mission. I’m not leaving until it’s accomplished.”

“And what’s your mission, Miss Alexander? Have you come to add something to last night’s war of words – like, perhaps I should burn in the caverns of hell?”

Frustrating stupid man made me want to smile
.

“Your mother deliberately dropped the last six of her preserved eggs on the floor, rather than let me have them. She claims they were her last. You promised to give me some if she did not honor her promise. Even three would lighten the cakes. I don’t want my friend’s precious gift of fruit ruined by your mother’s deliberate and willful …”

“Then, Miss Alexander, you shall have eggs.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kilgour.” I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of mentioning the paintings, however
.

“Come! Let me show you something!” I was sure he was about to guide me to his work, but he turned to the door
.

“I’ve been admiring your paintings,” I heard myself saying and could have strangled myself with my mittened hand. “I can’t imagine how you…” I waved one arm at them
.

He looked nothing like an artist. His arms were crossed over a coat of dull white wool, with horizontal bands of color. His leather leggings were covered in flecks of hay, his moccasins filthy. He smelled of barn and fresh air
.

“Aah. You can’t understand how a lout like me could actually create something?”

“They are beautiful,” I said quietly
.

He shrugged. “Some might agree. To me, they’re a record.”

“A record? For what purpose?”

“Perhaps simply that I, Duncan Kilgour, once existed.”

He turned and walked out of the house, leaving the door open
.