Sam Jr., William and George came in. Their voices were rather loud. Perhaps they were nervous, or—more likely—they had been sampling the bottle of whiskey Sam kept in the top drawer of the chiffonier in his bedchamber. “Who’d like to see Papa’s antlers?”
Most of the guests looked mystified. “Papa’s horns?” said Mrs. Widmer. “It would be a treat to see those.” She winked at Sam.
“Antlers, Mrs. Widmer. From a moose that I shot in October on a hunting trip with my Indian friend.”
“With a span of nearly six feet,” Mary said, “and not a point broken.”
“And you have them somewhere on display?” Mrs. Jameson asked. “I should love to see them.”
“They are worth a look, I assure you. Mary took them down to King Street to Mr. Ross, carpenter, coffin-maker and undertaker.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Jarvis. What did this Mr. Ross do with them?”
“He mounted them on a fine piece of black walnut, then he came to the house and put them up on a wall in the nursery. They are magnificent. But after all, Mr. Ross’s motto is—”
“WE SHOW YOUR LOVED ONES TO ADVANTAGE!” The boys shouted this at full voice. Everyone laughed.
Sam left the boys to do the honours and stayed in the drawing room with Mary, Eliza, and the mothers. It was a relief to be rid of Mrs. Widmer for a few minutes.
Mid-afternoon, when the guests had reassembled, Mrs. Powell yawned and roused herself from her stitchery. “Come, Eliza, I told our coachman to be here at two thirty, and it is already past the time.”
It was the signal for everyone’s departure.
In the hallway Mrs. Powell saw the mistletoe and paused under it. “Dear Mr. Powell always enjoyed trying to catch me.” She sighed. “How the years have passed.” Sam noticed a smear of grease down the plain black bodice of her gown, no doubt from the bread sauce.
Sam put his arm around her waist. “May I have the honour, ma’am?” He planted a kiss on her whiskery cheek and felt her stiff body relax for a minute. Then he released her and plucked a berry from the wreath.
“Dear Mr. Jarvis, it is now my turn,” Mrs. Widmer said, coming up close behind the old woman.
“Look at the wreath, Mrs. Widmer.” Mrs. Powell turned and gathered up the folds of her dress. “You must surely know the traditions of Yuletide. All philandering must stop once the last berry has been removed. Mr. Jarvis cannot oblige. There are no more berries.”
“No more berries, you say? Ah, but there are!” Mrs. Widmer lifted up a loop of greenery and pointed to one remaining berry. Then she moved in close to Sam, shutting her eyes and turning her mouth up towards him.
Mary pushed in front of her guest. “My turn then, ma’am. Wives have precedence on such occasions. If it’s the last berry, it’s mine.”
So Sam leaned down and kissed his wife, aware as he did so of Mrs. Jameson’s blue eyes fixed upon him.
The guests trooped towards the coat tree and the pile of scarves, gloves, gaiters, pattens, boots and muffs stowed at the entrance. Sam caught a glimpse of a shapely leg as Mrs. Jameson bent over for a moment to button her canvas gaiters.
He and Mary stood at the door to wave goodbye to their guests. The sleigh bells were still ringing in their ears when Mary slammed the door and turned to him. “That woman is intolerable, Sam.”
“Widmer was one of the reasons I wasn’t hanged, Mary. Have you thought about what we owe the man?”
“Oh Sam, you don’t find her attractive, do you? And what did she mean by ‘Papa’s horns’? Does that have some ribald connotation?”
“To answer your questions briefly. ‘No,’ and, ‘No idea.’ Now let’s go and see what the children are up to.”
Please, sir...” Sam looked up from his newspaper to see Cook standing in the doorway of the breakfast room. Her arms were covered in flour, and her face was flushed, probably from the heat of the bake oven.
“What is it?”
“There be a savage come to the kitchen door, sir. He wants to see you. He says he won’t wait outside and now he be seated on a chair by my fire warming hisself. What am I to do, sir?”
“Go back belowstairs. I will be there directly.”
Sometimes the Indians did not follow white man’s rules. Sam remembered John Beverley Robinson’s story of a native man who had come into his wife’s bedchamber after she had delivered one of their sons. He looked at the babe in its rocking cradle beside the bed, stroked its head and departed through the imposing front door. Had the man perhaps remembered a wigwam on the site of the Robinson mansion?
Sam descended the narrow staircase. The kitchen was dark, lit only by the open hearth, and he squinted into the gloom at the tall, thin man seated by the fire, who rose to greet him.
“Nehkik,” a familiar voice said. “May you walk well in the New Year. I bring gifts to lighten your journey.” Jacob pointed to a deerskin sling on the floor by a chair.
“Jacob!” Sam rushed forward. He hugged the Indian and threw his arms around his tri-coloured blanket coat, while trying to avoid stepping on his heavy moccasins. “What are you doing here, friend?”
And right away, as his arms touched Jacob’s bony frame, he knew something was wrong. He stepped back. Jacob’s eyes glittered and his cheekbones and chin protruded from the sunken skin of his face. There were black smudges on his cheeks.
“Are you ill?”
“Hungry, Nehkik. I am in Toronto with my father, Chief Snake, and my friend, Elijah White Deer. We come by snowshoe across the lake and south to town. It has been a long journey. We go today to speak to the Governor, to ask for blankets and food. We camp for three nights with Mississauga friends by the big lake. Then we go north again.”
“Bring bread and butter, cheese, ham and tea,” Sam said to Cook, who watched them from behind the broad oak table. “And be quick about it.” And turning to Jacob, he added, “You will stay, please, Jacob. Here you will have a warm bed and plenty of food, and you can rest and grow strong again.” It was hard to keep his voice steady as he stared at the emaciated figure of his friend.
“No, I thank you, Nehkik. I must go back to my family soon. They are hungry.”
Cook set a plateful of food in front of Jacob. “Sit here close to the fire,” Sam said, “and say no more until you have eaten.”
“First, I give gifts.” Jacob opened his sling and brought out the objects, each wrapped in deerskin. “This for your lady,” he said, uncovering a pretty fan of dyed fishskin. Next came four pairs of beaded moccasins for the boys, four cornhusk dolls for the little girls, and last, a piece of polished, weighted wood, which Sam viewed with delight.
“A snowsnake! Oh, that will be fun. I’ll take my sons out on the ice one of these fine days. But where are your father and your friend?”
“They find a fox carcass back there.” He gestured in the direction of the henhouse. “They scrape it clean now and take it home when we go.”
Then Jacob reached out and pulled the plate of food in front of him. From a beaded pouch around his neck, he took out a small bone-handled knife and a lead fork and set them beside the plate. Though he probably had not eaten for some time, he cut his ham carefully, slipped slices of cheese between the bread, and chewed each morsel slowly. The lines on