Outcasts of River Falls (11 page)

With new vigour, Alice retrieved the necessary items as Aunt Belle picked the child up and laid her on the kitchen table. The baby didn’t stir, behaving rather like a limp rag doll.

Aunt Belle took the vial of powder and mixed some into the cup of water, then dipped the cloth into the slurry and put the end into the child’s mouth. Patiently, she dripped the medicine into the baby as the anxious parents hovered nearby.

When she was satisfied the infant had ingested enough of the draught, Aunt Belle wrapped baby Louisa in a blanket and returned her to the cradle. She then went to the stove and proceeded to make tea.

Kathryn was starting to think of this beverage as Métis chicken soup. All it took was the slightest problem, and out came the teapot.

They sat silently drinking the strong brew as Kathryn endlessly refilled their cups from a bottomless pot. The only noise that of the grandfather clock ticking loudly as the long minutes marched slowly by dragging the hours with them.

Without warning, the baby mewled; then Kathryn saw a pink fist thrust upward from the cradle.

The young mother rushed to her child, picking the babe up and holding her close. Then she raised her tear-stained face, wonderment replacing despair. “The fever, Belle, the fever, it’s broken! She’s cool to the touch and her colour is much better. God bless you!”

Belle went to examine the infant as the father stood mute witness, apparently not believing what was happening. Then everyone was laughing and hugging as the reality of the unexpected recovery became real.

Kathryn’s mind swirled with questions. What was this medicine? Where had it come from?

The bottle lay forgotten on the table and Kathryn picked it up. Printed clearly on the label was one word:
Aspirin
. She’d heard about this new discovery and knew it was available only from a doctor. She also knew it was very,
very
expensive. How could Aunt Belle have come by this wonder drug?

Then she remembered the noises in her dreams, and her disturbed sleep. Had the Highwayman made a midnight delivery last night, a delivery of much needed, rare medicine? If so, this was a fairytale ending to a story that
could have been heart-wrenchingly tragic. Kathryn couldn’t
have written a more wonderful epic: drama, fear and then, thanks to a magic elixir delivered by an unknown hero in
a black mask, the baby princess saved and the kingdom re
joicing.

By the time Kathryn and Aunt Belle left, the baby had eaten, wet her diaper and was kicking and cooing like any other happy child. They bade the relieved young couple good-bye and rode back toward River Falls.

“Aunt Belle, that couple, they aren’t Métis, are they?” she asked, balancing herself on Nellie’s broad back. She had been trying to puzzle this out.

“No, Katydid, they aren’t.”

“Then why did you help them? A nice white couple like them: they could have brought the doctor out from Hopeful. ”

Her aunt stiffened. “I’ll thank you not to talk like that, young lady. When folks are in need, the shade of their skin is the last thing to worry about. That child was extremely ill and the old drunk they call a doctor couldn’t heal anything more than a blister or a boil. Could you live with yourself if we let that baby die and kept the medicine for only our own? Katy, it doesn’t matter who it is, we work together out here.”

Kathryn supposed she should be quiet, but after her experience at the school, she fairly bristled. “And you can bet the doctor wouldn’t make any house calls to River Falls if one of the Métis children was sick.”

“And two wrongs make a right? No,
ma chère
, we must lead by example. That innocent angel didn’t care what colour the person was who saved her. Maybe in the future, she will grow to an adult who will see the wisdom of being colour blind. The Métis will be here for a long time and so will the white man. We must plant the seeds and wait for the harvest.”

Kathryn had nothing to say to this. Aunt Belle was right, of course. And she had been amazing during the whole ordeal, so calm and in charge, truly a pillar of strength.

In this savage land, where the rules of civilized society proved tenuous at best, it was easy to forget the ideals one had been raised to believe in. Kathryn felt ashamed of her racist remarks; she hadn’t meant them.

How easy to slip into that trap.

She thought of her father. He would have been so proud of his sister; more proud of her than of his daughter.

There was still one mystery. “Aunt Belle, where did you get the Aspirin? I read about it back east, but as far as I know, it’s a special thing indeed.”

Casually swatting at a horsefly, her aunt dismissed the question. “Where it came from is not important, Katydid, what matters is that we had it in time. Sometimes Providence steps in and delivers what we need.”

Providence, or a masked stranger who procured it gratis from a hospital somewhere, Kathryn thought as they rode on in the warm noonday sun.

Chapter 8

A
Lord
,
a
Lady and
Aladdin
’
s
Lamp

Once they arrived back at the cabin, Aunt Belle busied herself as though nothing unusual had happened.

“What kind are you going to make?” she asked, slipping her apron on, then pulling bags marked
flour
and
sugar
from the tall cupboard and placing them on the table.

“Kind?” Kathryn needed a second to catch up.

“Yes, kind of muffins.”

Kathryn noted the growing pile of what she guessed would be needed ingredients, none of which she had the faintest idea how to use. She didn’t want her aunt to know she’d used up all her culinary talents when she’d made tea and re-heated the bannock. “Ah, I’m not sure. What would you suggest?”

Her aunt thought for a moment. “Hmm, as far as in
gredients go, muffins take a lot, and you won’t end up with a large number to share. How about thimble cookies instead? The same amount of basics will go a lot further and I have several jars of raspberry jam you can use.”

“That sounds perfect.” Kathryn hadn’t a clue what came next.

“What would you like me to do?” Her aunt indicated the stove. “I could fire up the oven.”

“Good thinking. We certainly will need a fiery oven.” Kathryn removed her sweater, hanging it on a peg next to Aunt Belle’s shawl and tried to imagine how one made a thimble cookie. “And I guess we’ll need a, a...”

Aunt Belle waited expectantly.

“A...a thimble!” Kathryn blurted triumphantly.

Her aunt gave her a knowing smile. “You haven’t any idea how to make cookies, do you?”

“Actually, cookie cooking has a pretty low rung on my academic ladder. I don’t plan on being a pastry chef.” Kathryn didn’t want to say what she truly dreamed of being, as it invariably brought snickers. Her classmates equated aspiring to become a barrister with wanting to be Queen of the British Empire or Czarina of all the Russias.

“You do know how to do the basics like bake bread?” Aunt Belle asked cautiously.

Kathryn shook her head.

“How about cook a moose pot roast and make gravy?”

Again, Kathryn demurred.

“Mon Dieu!
Can you poach an egg, child?”

This was like speaking a foreign language to Kathryn. “Eat, yes; cook no.”

Aunt Belle then did a remarkable thing. She hugged her niece warmly. “When I was a girl, I had a lot of trouble with cooking too. My mother had serious doubts I would survive without her. If you like, I could teach you?”

“Me? Cook?” Kathryn had never thought about this. She supposed it would be a worthwhile talent to have; after all, even lady lawyers had to eat. “That would be much appreciated.”

For the next hour, Kathryn was instructed on how to measure and sift the flour, whisk the eggs, chop nuts and make the deep dimple that would hold the jam in the cookies.

By the time they finished the lesson, Kathryn had a whole new respect for anything baked, toasted, chopped, fried, boiled or blanched. Never before had she considered how the meals she ate were prepared. She assumed there was a process with pots and ovens, measuring and peeling, but at her elite school, young ladies were not allowed into the scullery and the food had simply come out of the kitchens and appeared in front of her.

Kathryn placed the last batch of cookies on the table, and then wiped her forehead. “Impossible!”

Aunt Belle’s approval was obvious as she inspected the dozens of golden brown jewels spread out across the table. “To celebrate your first cooking class, I’ll clean up while you deliver these to our neighbours.”

“I can’t turn down an offer like that!” Kathryn agreed as she surveyed the mess the kitchen was in. She was also eager to move on to the second step of her cunning plan –
gathering information and pertinent clues. After the As
pirin episode, in which Aunt Belle had been so stingy
with her information, Kathryn’s curiosity had taken con
trol. She needed answers, which meant asking the right questions.

After carefully wrapping the cookies in waxed paper, Kathryn set out to distribute her goodies and in the process, discover as much as possible about the Highwayman.

Although the people were extremely surprised and grateful at her offering, the first four households Kathryn visited did nothing to help solve the mystery. Each time, she drank cups and cups of tea as she listened to the many stories about this wonderful phantom. With each telling, he grew larger; still, no one knew who he was. It was not until she got to Madame Garnier’s cobbled cottage that things started improving.

“Le Bandit de Grand Chemin! Un homme mystérieux, oui?
He comes and goes; no one knows where he lives. Sometimes, he disappears for weeks at a time, then
voila!
Like magic, he appears when he is needed most,” Madame Garnier offered enthusiastically. “He is the sword of justice, sent by God, I am sure.”

Kathryn filed this information away. The Highwayman would disappear for weeks at a time and reappear without warning and no one knew where he lived.

Her next stop yielded no new information and she was fast running out of cookies. With only two batches left, Kathryn hoped she would come up with something special to help track down this legend known as the Highwayman. She turned into the lane that led to Madame Thibault’s. As she walked up to the ramshackle house, she couldn’t believe what she saw. Two very young boys – for they could be no more than five and seven – were throwing knives into the dirt at each other’s feet, which were perilously close to the blades.

“You there, you boys! What on earth do you think you’re doing? Stop that, this instant.” Kathryn stamped her own foot for emphasis. She wondered where the boys’ mother was and why she didn’t make these naughty children cease this insanity before one of them lost a toe.

The youngest was speechless, and his elder brother gave her a foul glare. “Why should we stop? We’re not doing anything wrong,” he protested.

“I hardly think flinging knives at each other is sanctioned by your parents,” Kathryn used her most mature voice, sure the boys heard the authority in it.

“Papa lets us play
la petite patou
.” His head went up proudly and with more than a little defiance. “He says every Métis should know how to throw a knife and this game is a fun way to learn.”

The boy crossed his arms in what Kathryn could only call righteous indignation. She didn’t know what to say. Some of the customs she’d discovered in River Falls were completely bizarre, but if they were to grow up hunters, she supposed being familiar with a deadly blade made sense. After all, she was a stranger and could make an honest mistake through simple ignorance. Perhaps she had been the tiniest bit hasty.

Kathryn sniffed. “Oh well, if your parents know, carry on.”

Feeling rather foolish, she whisked by them and went to the door of the house, which stood open.

“Hello?” Kathryn knocked tentatively. “It’s me, Kathryn Tourond; I met you at Madame Ducharme’s.”

The lady of the house waved her in. “Of course, come in, my dear.”