Mary shut her suitcase carefully. One latch worked and the strap helped close the other side. She always insisted on carrying it, even if someone offered to help her, for fear it would spill open. She picked the case up with ease; it was light. Mary walked gingerly down the stairs, as prepared as could be, speculating on what new venture might be in store for her.
What kind of person was Mr. Jacques? He had scarcely said a word. What was his family like? How long would it take to get there? Where would she be sleeping tonight?
By now some of the girls had quietly clustered around the hallway. Mary said goodbye to her friends. No-one cried. They were used to farewells by now. As she shook Mr. Murray's hand, he said, “I'll visit you next spring to see that things are working out. Goodbye, Mary.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Murray,” she replied politely and headed for the horse and buggy where Mr. Jacques was waiting. A man of few words, he did not say anything as he helped her into her seat. As they headed down the road, it was an interesting sight they made—horse and buggy and the silhouettes of two figures: one a tall, lean man wearing a hat and the other, a frail curly-headed little child.
As they drove out of Stratford, Mary sat bolt upright. Her mind began to race as her apprehension grew. What will this place look like? Will there be children? Will I share a room? How long will I stay? And most important, will they like me?
The two hour buggy ride to the Jacques farm on the outskirts of Innerkip seemed endless, with only one brief stop made to rest the horse. Mr. Jacques had been silent for the entire trip, speaking only to the horse as necessary. When they finally arrived, Mary was tired and anxious. It was nightfall and difficult to see what the place looked like. Except for a small lamp in the front window, the whole house was in darkness. No-one was there to greet her. One can imagine—a little fair-haired girl with the large frightened eyes, clutching her suitcase and climbing the narrow staircase in a strange house, following the tall silent man, not knowing what would happen next.
Mr. Jacques took Mary directly to her room, said it was time for bed and left abruptly. The room was a small alcove directly above the kitchen. There was a cot, a straw tick mattress, one thin grey blanket, a pillow and a tiny cupboard for her clothes. The sparseness was not a problem. Mary owned so little.
She undressed quickly and climbed into bed. She wasn't hungry even though all she had eaten that day was a bun and a piece of cheese that Mr. Jacques had given her during the trip. She was tired, her legs ached and she had a feeling of uneasiness. Just to be on the safe side, Mary got out of bed and knelt beside her cot. The only light coming into the room was from a slice of the faraway moon and it cast a foreboding yellow glow on the young child's profile.
Mary's voice was shaky. “Dear God,—I hope they will like me. I promise to be good. I want to go to school and have a real teacher.” She got up and started to get in bed, then faltered and dropped down on her knees again. “Amen,” she whispered. Mary had been taught not only to say her prayers but to say them properly, or they didn't really count.
“Some were children barely out of arms and were therefore adopted, but most—more than nine thousand—were past their fifth birthday and in this hard land were expected to earn their keep, tending barns, milking cows, making hay. Often they would rise before anyone in the house, before the first light of day, and they would work until nightfall.” 5
June 10, 1892, Friday
MARY WAS awakened suddenly in the early hours of the morning by four pair of eyes staring at her from the doorway of the loft.
“That's her,” whispered the smallest of the boys, pointing a finger in her direction. Mary turned her head away and lay cowering against the wall. She said nothing. When she looked again, they were gone. She got out of bed, dressed quickly and went cautiously down the stairs. She was curious but at the same time fearful of what lay ahead.
Mr. Jacques was at the kitchen sink. He turned and smiled, “Good mornin'.”
Then she heard a voice from the far corner of the room near the stove. It was a woman who looked much younger than Mr. Jacques. Seated in a bulky chair with a large wheel on either side, she was almost totally wrapped in a blanket even though it was a fine June morning.
“I don't know what time you're in the habit of rising, but here, you are to be the first one up, not the last.“ The woman spoke with a crisp tongue. Mary was stunned and speechless. Not only did the sharpness of tone catch her off guard, but she was curious about the unusual chair. Timidity kept her from asking.
“I'm Mrs. Jacques. I'm in charge. You're to call me Ma'am.” Turning slightly in her chair and motioning toward the wood stove, she continued. “In the winter you are to rake off the ashes and start the fire from the coals the minute you rise. Of course, it isn't necessary in the warmer months. Only time you'll need a morning fire then is when we bake bread, every Wednesday.” Within a short period of time, Mary would come to dislike Wednesdays. Baking bread was no job for a young child. “You'll find the woodpile out back.” Mrs. Jacques continued and pointed towards the door. “Make sure the woodbox is always full. There are two pumps outside, one for the cistern and one for the well. Fill the reservoir in the stove with water from the rain barrel and fill the kitchen pail with well water morning and night.”
Without pausing, but looking Mary right in the eye, she went on, “I expect the kitchen floor swept every morning once the fire is lit. There are two brooms in the shed outside the door, a corn broom and a hickory one. I don't care which one you use. The dogs need to be fed every night by five. Set the table for six and a place at the end for you.” Mrs. Jacques pointed to the far end of the pine table. “I laid out one place so as you could see how it's done. I expect it to look like that. Dishes are on the shelf.” Mary's eyes followed the woman's hands as she issued the orders and pointed in various directions.
“Have you ever made oatmeal?” Mrs. Jacques asked.
“No.”
“It's no, Ma'am.”
“No, Ma'am,” Mary replied.
“I'll show you tomorrow. I can't do everything today. Breakfast must be ready by seven. The boys leave for school at seven-thirty. Do you have any questions?”
“Can I go to school too, Ma'am?” she asked in a quiet, apprehensive voice.
“Not much point starting now. There's only a week or so left and I don't imagine much learning is going on. We'll see about it in the fall.” She paused. “And besides, you'll be real busy right here.”
Taken from the census records of 1891, showing the names of the Jacques sons. Courtesy National Archives of Canada, T-6360.
Mary's eyes dropped. Disappointed by this news and overwhelmed by her array of abrupt orders, she had difficulty hiding her dismay.
“Don't be sulking, Girl. Get yourself some oatmeal, sit on that stool by the corner and I'll explain your other chores,” she said with a slight smile. And so the day began.
Mary was walked through a routine that would soon become all too familiar. Her days would seem endless and her whole being consumed by repetitive, tedious tasks. When one chore was complete, another was waiting to be done.
Mary was not formally introduced to the Jacques children until several days after her arrival. It was Sunday morning and the family was getting ready to go to church.
Annie Marie, the eldest and the only girl, was eighteen and a dutiful daughter. She had dark hair like her mother but was taller and smaller boned. Annie had a forceful, abrupt manner which matched her height. Having finished elementary school,