Alias Grace (33 page)

He gave a sort of sigh, and then he said, Did they have radishes at Mr. Kinnear’s?

Oh yes, Sir, I said, they did; but by the time I reached that place they were past their prime; as a radish is best early in the season, for when the hot weather comes they will go soft and maggoty, and go to seed.

He did not write this down.

As he was preparing to leave, he said, Thank you for telling me your dream, Grace. Perhaps you will tell me another one soon. And I said, Perhaps I will, Sir. And then I said, I will try hard to remember them, if it will help you, Sir, with the trouble you are in; for I was feeling pity towards him, he looked so out of sorts. And he said, What makes you think I am in trouble, Grace? And I said, Those who have been in trouble themselves are alert to it in others, Sir.

He said it was a kind thought in me; then he hesitated a moment, as if to tell me more; but he thought better of it, and nodded goodbye. He always gives the same small nod when he goes out.

I had not finished my quilting block for the day, as he had not been in the room with me as long as usual; and so I remained seated, and continued to sew. After a short while Miss Lydia came in.

Dr. Jordan has left? she said. I said that he had. She was wearing a new dress which I helped sew, of a violet ground, with a white design of small birds and flowers, very becoming to her, and a skirt on it like a half a pumpkin; and I thought she had most likely meant to have more of an audience for it than just myself.

She sat down in the chair opposite me, where Dr. Jordan had been sitting, and began to sort through the sewing basket. I cannot find my thimble, I believe I put it in here, she said. Then, Oh, he has
forgotten about the scissors; I thought he was not supposed to leave them within your reach.

We do not bother much about that, I said. He knows I would not hurt him.

She sat for a little with the sewing basket in her lap. Did you know you have an admirer, Grace? she said.

Oh, who is that, I said, thinking it would be a stableboy or some such young lad, who might have heard my story and found it romantic.

Dr. Jerome DuPont, she said. He is staying at present with Mrs. Quennell. He says you have lived a remarkable life, and he finds you of considerable interest.

I do not know any such gentleman. I expect he reads the newspapers, and is on a tour, and views me as a sight that must be seen, I said a little sharply, for I suspected her of making fun of me. She is of a fun-loving nature, and sometimes goes too far with it.

He is a man of serious pursuits, said she. He is studying Neuro-hypnotism.

What is that? I said.

Oh, it is like Mesmerism, but much more scientific, said she, it is all to do with the nerves. But he must know you, or at least he has seen you, as he says you are still quite handsome. Perhaps he passed you in the street, as you are on your way here in the mornings.

Perhaps, I said; thinking what a spectacle I made, with a smirking ruffian to either side.

He has such dark eyes, she said, they burn right into you, as if he could see inside. But I’m not sure I like him. Of course he’s old. He’s like Mama and the rest of them, I suppose he goes to their table-rappings and séances. I don’t believe in it, and neither does Dr. Jordan.

Did he say so? I said. He is a man of sense then. It’s not a thing that should be meddled with.

A man of sense, that is so cold, she said; and sighed. A man of sense
makes him sound like a banker. Then she said, Grace, he talks with you more than any of us put together. What sort of man is he really?

A gentleman, I said.

Well, I knew that much, she said shortly. But what is he like?

An American, I said, which was another thing she knew. Then I relented, and said, He seems like a proper-enough young man.

Oh I would not want him to be too proper, she said. Reverend Verringer is too proper.

Privately I agreed that this was so, but as Reverend Verringer is trying to get a pardon for me, I said, Reverend Verringer is a man of religion, and it is required of them to be proper.

I think Dr. Jordan is very sarcastic, said Miss Lydia. Is he very sarcastic with you as well, Grace?

I don’t suppose I would know it if he was, Miss, I said.

She sighed again, and said, He is going to address one of Mama’s Tuesdays. I do not usually attend them as it is so tedious, although Mama says I should take more interest in serious matters concerning the welfare of society, and Reverend Verringer says the same; but this time I will go, as I’m sure it will be thrilling to hear Dr. Jordan talk about asylums. Though I would prefer him to invite me to tea in his chambers. With Mama, and Marianne, of course, as I must have a chaperone.

It is always advisable, I said, for a young girl.

Grace, sometimes you are an old stick, she said. And I am no longer a young girl really, I am nineteen. I suppose it’s nothing to you, you’ve done all sorts of things, but I have never been to tea in a man’s chambers before.

Just because you’ve never done a thing before, Miss, I said, is no good reason to do it. But if your mother would be going, I am sure it would be respectable enough.

She stood up, and trailed her hand along the top of the sewing table. Yes, she said. It would be respectable enough. She appeared
discouraged by this thought. Then she said, Will you help me with my new dress? For the Tuesday circle; as I would like to make an impression with it.

I said I would help her gladly; and she said I was a treasure, and she hoped they would never let me out of prison, as she would like me always to be there, to help her with her dresses. Which I suppose was a compliment of a sort.

But I did not like the drifting look in her eyes, or the falling note in her voice; and I thought, there will be trouble ahead; as is always the case, when one loves, and the other does not.

O
n the next day, Dr. Jordan brings me the promised radish. It is washed, with the leaves cut off, and quite fresh and crisp, not rubbery the way they go when left to sit about. He’s forgotten the salt, but I do not mention this, as it is not right to look a gift horse in the mouth. I eat the radish quickly – I’ve learnt the habit of bolting my food in prison, as it must be eaten before it is snatched away – and I relish the sharpness of it, which is like the peppery smell of a nasturtium. I ask him how he came by it; and he says it is from the market; although he has it in mind to make a small kitchen garden himself at the house where he lodges, as there is the place for it, and he has already begun the digging. Now that is a thing I envy.

Then I say, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Sir, this radish was like the nectar of the Gods. He looks surprised to hear me use such an expression; but that’s only because he doesn’t remember that I have read the poetry of Sir Walter Scott.

Because he was so thoughtful as to bring me this radish, I set to work willingly to tell my story, and to make it as interesting as I can,
and rich in incident, as a sort of return gift to him; for I have always believed that one good turn deserves another.

When I left off last time, Sir, I believe Mr. Kinnear had rode away to Toronto, and then Jamie Walsh came over and played his flute, and there was a lovely sunset, and then I went off to sleep with Nancy, as she was afraid of robbers with no man in the house. She did not count McDermott, as he did not sleep in the house itself; or perhaps she did not account him a man; or perhaps she thought he was more likely to side with the robbers, and not against them. She did not say.

So there we were, going up the staircase with our candles. Nancy’s bedchamber, as I have said, was at the back of the house, and was much larger and finer than mine, although she had no separate dressing room like Mr. Kinnear’s. But she had a commodious bedstead, with a fine quilt on it, a summer one in light pinks and blues on a white ground; it was a Broken Staircase. She had a wardrobe, with her dresses in it, and I wondered how she could have saved up enough money to buy so many; but she said Mr. Kinnear was a generous master when the mood took him. Also she had a dressing table with an embroidered runner on it, roses and lilies with the buds of each, and a sandalwood box with her earrings and a brooch, and also her pots of creams and potions were kept there; for before going to bed she greased the skin of her face like a boot. She had a bottle of rose-water too, and let me try some, which smelled most delicious; for on this evening she was all sociability; and a saucerful of hair pomade, of which she rubbed in a little, and said it gave the hair a shine; and she asked me to brush out her hair for her, just like a lady’s maid, which I did with pleasure. She had lovely long hair, a dark brown, and wavy. Oh Grace, she said, that feels most luxurious, you have a good touch; and I was flattered. But I remembered Mary Whitney, and how she used to brush out my own hair; for indeed I had never forgotten her for long.

There we are, snug as two peas in a pod, she said, very friendly, when we were once in bed. But as she blew out the candle she sighed, and it was not the sigh of a happy woman, but of one who is trying to make the best of things.

Mr. Kinnear came back on the morning of the Saturday. He’d meant to return on the Friday, but had been delayed by business in Toronto, or so he said; and had stopped part of the way back, at an inn which was not far north of the first toll gate; and Nancy was none too pleased to hear that, as the place had a bad reputation and was said to countenance loose women, or so she told me in the kitchen.

I replied that a gentleman can stay at such places without any risk to his reputation, as I was trying to calm her. She was very agitated, because Mr. Kinnear had met with two of his acquaintances on the way home, Colonel Bridgeford and Captain Boyd, and had invited them to dine; and it was Jefferson the butcher’s day to come, but he had not yet done so, and there was no fresh meat in the house.

Oh Grace, said Nancy, we will have to kill a chicken, just step out and request McDermott to do it. I said that surely we would need two chickens, as there would be six to dine, with the ladies; but she was annoyed, and said there would be no ladies, as the wives of these gentlemen never condescended to darken the door of the house, and she herself would not be taking dinner with them in the dining room, as all they would do was drink and smoke and tell stories about what fine deeds they’d done in the Rebellion, and they would stay too long and play cards after, and it was bad for Mr. Kinnear’s health, and he would catch a cough, as was always the case when these men came to visit. She allowed him a poor constitution when it suited her.

When I went out to look for James McDermott, he was nowhere to be found. I called, and I even went so far as to go up the ladder into the loft over the stables where he slept. He was not there; but
he had not run off, as his things were still in the loft, such as he had; and I didn’t think he would go away without the pay that was owed him. As I came down the steps there was Jamie Walsh, and he looked at me curiously, thinking I suppose that I’d been visiting McDermott; but when I asked where McDermott could have gone, as he was needed, Jamie Walsh smiled at me again, and was friendly, and said he did not know, but that he might have gone across the road to Harvey’s, who was a coarse fellow who lived in a log house, more like a shack, with a woman not his wife – I knew her by sight, her name was Hannah Upton, and she had a rough look to her and was generally avoided. But Harvey was an acquaintance of McDermott’s – I won’t say friend – and the two of them were in the habit of drinking together; and Jamie then said was there any errands to be run.

I went back into the kitchen and said McDermott could not be found, and Nancy said she’d had enough of his lazy ways, he was always going off when required and leaving her in the lurch, and I would have to kill the chicken myself. I said, Oh no, I could not do that, I’ve never done it before and don’t know how; as I had an aversion to shedding the blood of any living thing, although I could pluck a bird well enough once killed; and she said not to be a silly goose, it was easy enough, just take the axe and knock it on the head, and then give it a strong whack right through the neck.

But I could not bear the thought of it, and began to cry; and I am sorry to say – for it is wrong to speak ill of the dead – that she gave me a shake and a slap, and pushed me out the kitchen door into the courtyard, and told me not to come back without a dead bird, and in a hurry too, as we did not have much time to prepare, and Mr. Kinnear liked his meals on time.

I went into the henyard and caught a plump young fowl, a white one, crying all the time, and tucked it securely under my arm, and went towards the woodpile and the chopping block, wiping my tears
with my apron; for I did not see how I could bring myself to do such a thing. But Jamie Walsh followed me, and asked kindly what was the matter; and I said could he please just kill the chicken for me; and he said there was nothing easier, and he would be glad to do so as I was so squeamish and tender-hearted. So he took the bird from me and neatly chopped off its head, and it ran about with only a neck for a moment, and then lay kicking in the dirt; and I thought it was very pathetic. And then we plucked it together, sitting side by side on a rail of the fence, and making the feathers fly; and then I thanked him sincerely for his help, and said I did not have anything to give him for it, but would remember it for the future. And he grinned awkwardly and said he would help me willingly at any other time I might need it.

Nancy had come out at the last part of this, and was standing at the kitchen door with her hand up to shade her eyes, waiting impatiently for the bird to be readied for cooking; so I cleaned it as fast as I could, holding my breath against the smell and keeping the giblets in case wanted for gravy, and rinsed it under the pump, and brought it in. And she said in the kitchen, as we were stuffing it, Well I see you have made a conquest, and I said what did she mean, and she said, Jamie Walsh, he has a bad case of puppy love, it is written all over his face, he used to be my admirer but now I see he is yours. And I saw she was trying to be friends with me again, after having lost her temper; so I laughed, and said he was not much of a catch for me, as he was only a boy, and with red hair like a carrot and freckled as an egg too, although tall for his age. And she said, Well, a worm will always turn; which I thought mysterious; but did not ask her what she meant, in case she should think me ignorant.