Mrs. Powell had extended an invitation for afternoon tea, and Anna’s driver, Hawkins, took her east along King Street to York Street. She had grown accustomed to touring the town daily to leave cards or to visit people who had called on her in her first days in her new residence.
But she could not get used to the cold that bit her nose and made her forehead ache. Only her feet were comfortable, warmed by the foot muff her friend Ottilie had given her before she’d left Europe. As they slid along the snow-covered streets, she huddled inside the buffalo robes that Hawkins had piled over her.
“Mrs. Powell’s house, just ahead, ma’am,” he said, then she heard a loud “Damnit, you bastard!” as they narrowly missed a careening conveyance pulled by two huge oxen. It was not really a sleigh at all, only a large board platform raised upon runners, and heaped with logs held on by a few upright poles tied at the top with a rope.
“Apologies, ma’am, but the rogue nearly hit us.”
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing, Hawkins. Are those really frozen reindeer lashed to the top of that pile of logs?” But already the sleigh—if it could be called that—had plunged a hundred feet down the road as Hawkins pulled up in front of the Powell residence.
It was a white frame house with a wide front porch two storeys high, which gave the place the look of a hotel. Hawkins pulled the buffalo robes off her and helped her descend. “Back in an hour, ma’am,” he said.
The maidservant waited while Anna shed coat, gaiters, hat, lined gloves, and unwound from her neck the warm knit scarf that Mrs. Hawkins had produced from somewhere. In the drawing room, she met Mrs. Powell, her daughter Eliza, and a girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen whom Mrs. Powell introduced as “my granddaughter, Sophia.” Anna was also glad to see Mary Jarvis, the pretty and pleasant wife of the man who had garnered so much praise for an act of vandalism. And there was a woman called Mrs. Fitzgibbon, a smiling lady of perhaps sixty, who wore a dove-grey dress with a fine piece of lace at her neck.
“Mr. Jameson introduced me to your husband, Colonel Fitzgibbon,” Anna said, curtseying. “A great hero of the War of 1812, so everyone tells me, though he himself denies everything. I’m summoning my courage to ask him to take me for a ride on the lake in his cutter.” She’d found out that these were the fancy sleighs, drawn by one horse, in which the officers from the garrison raced each other over the ice.
“Perhaps it would be more fitting to go with your husband,” Mrs. Powell said. “In this small world, ladies must be ever vigilant to avoid gossip.”
Mrs. Fitzgibbon laughed. “Dear Mrs. Powell, Mrs. Jameson must go with Fitz. He loves to show off his fine horse and his excellent driving skills. She will have the ride of her life.”
“Perhaps you would tell him how privileged I’d be to have that ride?” Anna smiled at Mrs. Fitzgibbon, then, remembering her manners, turned to her hostess. “Your house has an admirable location.”
“Humph,” the old woman muttered. She was swathed in widow’s weeds from head to foot, though Anna knew that her husband, Chief Justice William Powell, had died over two years before. “When it was built, it did indeed occupy a prestigious site commanding an excellent view of the lake. Now, Eliza and I must put up with the commercial district that has grown around us, including that dreadful place.” She gestured in the direction of the British Coffee House which they could see from the front window.
“Ah yes, my husband says it is a place where a gentleman can get middling ale and vile beer and where one can meet the famous— perhaps infamous—William Lyon Mackenzie,” Anna said.
A silence ensued. At such moments, as Anna had already discovered during her visits, someone would mention the weather. So she said, “I have never been so cold. When I looked at the thermometer an hour ago, it stood at eighteen degrees below zero. A glass of water by my bedside was a solid mass of ice this morning.”
Anna’s hostess looked at her over the top of her little round spectacles. “In a well-regulated household, such things should not happen, Mrs. Jameson. You must speak to your staff.”
There was another pause while a maidservant, noticeably pregnant, set down rolled fish-paste sandwiches and the raisin-filled scones that were the staple of Toronto tea parties. Derby cakes, they were called. “You probably notice my maid has done those things which she ought not to have done,” Mrs. Powell said, waiting until the girl had departed, but not bothering to lower her voice. “No husband, of course, and any day now I expect to have to support the child as well as the mother.”
She poured tea from an engraved silver pot. “I have been named Honorary Patroness of the Bazaar for the Poor,” she told Anna. “You have perhaps heard that I am lending my name to the event until Lady Head feels able to assume her responsibilities after her long journey from England.”
“Indeed.”
“And may we look for your assistance in sewing for the bazaar?”
“I must decline. I have no needle skills. My interests are writing and translating, sketching and engraving.” Anna turned to the granddaughter seated beside her on the sofa. The girl was looking at her small hand on which glittered a large sapphire ring. “And what are your interests, my dear?”
“Sophia is to be married this summer. Her ‘interests’, as you call them, are in embroidering petticoats and hemming sheets.”
“And I am helping her,” Eliza said. Her face was flushed and her voice too loud.
“After your marriage, your husband’s welfare must of course be paramount among your concerns, my dear Sophia,” her grandmother said. “I saw that Mr. Powell’s breakfast was always up to snuff. He had to have fresh bread with a good dollop of butter to start the new day. I went to the kitchen at four thirty each morning to see that Cook had fired up the bake oven in time to make the loaves. It was one of my most important wifely duties, for I—and indeed my whole family—knew that Mr. Powell’s digestion at breakfast determined the course of the day thereafter.”
Anna choked on a piece of Derby cake but recovered in time to give her full attention to the ensuing dissertation on “The Management of Husbands”.
“Lead up to difficult topics gradually and make sure you have his full attention when you speak,” Mrs. Powell asserted. “Once you are married, dear”—at this point she rapped her silver spoon against the teapot—“you will find that your husband’s interests are no longer entirely centred on you.”
Anna said, “Inevitably, his mind will be distracted by important issues like the quality of his wine and the reading of his newspaper.” She was beginning to enjoy herself.
“Very true,” Mary Jarvis added. “But nevertheless, Sophia, one has a reasonable chance at happiness in marriage if one does not expect too much of it.”
“I do not think this is a subject for levity, Mary—and Mrs. Jameson. Married ladies can always give useful advice.” Mrs. Powell shook her head vigorously, and two sausage curls popped out from her black cap.
“Oh, Mama,” Mrs. Jarvis said, “what’s wrong with a laugh?”
Sophia got up from the sofa, her face very red. “You’re making fun of me. I’m going to my room.”
Mrs. Fitzgibbon put out her hand and touched the girl’s sleeve. “Please, sit down, my dear, while I tell you the loveliest story I know about marriage.” Reassured, Sophia smiled and resumed her seat.
“During the War of 1812, there was a brave captain stationed at Queenston Heights. One day he went to his commanding officer, General Sheaffe, and asked for leave of absence to go to Kingston.
“The general said, ‘No, captain, your country needs you here. We expect another invasion