Sowing Poison (8 page)

Martin grinned. “She does all our cooking and it makes my mouth water just to think of it. She's better at it than my mother is.”

“Do you think she might be interested in a job? We've more work than we can handle by ourselves.”

“That would be grand,” Martin said. “I'm on short hours here because it's so slow right now, and even when it isn't, I don't make nearly enough for us all. I don't mind telling you it's been a tough go with Pa gone, but Ma's been reluctant to let Sophie go just anywhere. If it's you and your brother-in-law, and the Temperance Hotel at that, I'm sure she'll say yes, for she'll know that Sophie will be treated well, and there's no chance of her running into the rough bunch that go to the taverns.”

“When could she start?”

“I'll ask tonight when I go home, but I expect it could be as soon as tomorrow if that suits you.”

Lewis nodded his thanks and walked away a relieved man.

Sophie arrived early the next morning.

Daniel was in the sink room filling jugs with hot water to take upstairs to the guestrooms and Lewis was in the kitchen struggling with the beginnings of breakfast when a tap was heard at the back door. When Lewis opened the door, Sophie stepped in and introduced herself. His first impression was that Meribeth certainly seemed to have steered him in the right direction; the girl was neatly and demurely dressed, her hair tucked carefully under her cap. She was quite attractive — she looked a lot like her brother, but with the features softened into a pleasant femininity. He didn't care, really, what she looked like as long as she did the work, but it was nice that she was so presentable.

Sophie bustled into the kitchen and grabbed an apron. “Oh, good, I see you've got the porridge on. I'll start the biscuits. How many are there for breakfast? And are the tables set?”

Lewis had done this the evening before. He found that mornings were such a scramble that it was worthwhile to take a half-hour to brush off the cloths and lay the cutlery before he dragged his weary bones off to bed.

He did a quick mental headcount, relayed the information to Sophie, then showed her the pantry in the cold room just off the back hall.

By the time they returned, the kettle was boiling. He would start the coffee first, then re-boil the kettle for tea. It was a nuisance having to make both, but their American guests seemed to expect coffee at all hours. The Canadians, on the other hand, wanted their tea in the morning.

Sophie seemed quite at home in the kitchen, so when Betsy came in he left them to it. Daniel had already wrestled most of the jugs up to the rooms, so Lewis decided he would help him carry up the rest.

By the time the first guests straggled into the dining room, breakfast was ready, but Lewis noted that the menu seemed to have changed dramatically from the fare that he and Daniel had planned to provide. There were potatoes and bacon as usual, but Sophie's bacon had been fried to a crispy brown and looked far more appetizing than the burnt strips they had managed. She had also chopped some onion into the potatoes, and, in the short time since she had arrived, she had managed to produce a mound of light, fluffy-looking biscuits, an addition that made even Horatio's usually dour face light up. The porridge was free of the sodden lumps that appeared whenever he or Daniel cooked it and there were a handful of chopped apples on top. All in all, it appeared that Sophie would be a fine addition to the inn's staff.

Lewis left Martha to clear dishes away from the tables as the guests finished and went upstairs to help empty the slops and air the bedclothes. Normally he left these rather odious tasks to Daniel, while he washed the dishes and began the preparations for the noontime dinner, but Sophie had chased him out of the kitchen.

“I'm fine here,” she told him. “I've already got the water boiled up for the dishes, so it's just a matter of doing them.” She had smiled when she said this, revealing two astonishing dimples. “I'm sure there's plenty else you could be doing. I'll need a little more firewood in an hour or so, but nothing until then.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied. “I know when I'm not wanted.” At this, she had smiled again, the working relationship between the two sorted out in the matter of a few sentences.

He found himself whistling a little as he climbed the stairs. Complete chaos had seemed suddenly averted, and for the first time since Susannah had broken her leg he was not operating on the edge of panic. Unlike most men, Thaddeus was aware of the amount of work women did, and tried not to take it for granted. But this business of looking after umpteen hotel guests every day was far harder than anything he had ever encountered in all his years as a circuit rider. Or maybe he was just getting old. After all, many families consisted of thirteen, fourteen, fifteen children or more, and someone cooked and cleaned for them all, didn't they? Of course, the older ones looked after the younger ones and pitched in with everything else. The problem, he decided, was that you couldn't expect guests to pitch in.

With relief he turned to the Elliotts' rooms. Mrs. Elliott appeared to be a very tidy soul, and extra clothing was hung on the pegs or had presumably been folded away, probably in the trunk that had arrived with her. He stripped the coverlets and sheets off the beds. He had extra time this morning, so he would turn the topmost mattresses over and smooth out the inevitable lumps and bumps that appeared as the goose feathers clumped together. Betsy had told him he should do this from time to time. (It certainly wouldn't have occurred to him otherwise.)

As he heaved the mattress off the smaller bed and onto the floor, a piece of paper slid out with the inevitable feathers that had escaped the confines of the ticking. It was a sheet of newsprint that had been shoved in between the many layers of bedding. It had been opened and folded to reveal the inside page and, as he retrieved it from the floor, an item in the top right hand corner caught his eye. It was the newspaper he had been reading when the Elliotts first arrived at Temperance House, or at least a newspaper with the same articles, for there was a description of Tom Thumb and the Feejee Mermaid. Horatio must have been as intrigued by these articles as he had been and taken the newspaper upstairs to read.

But then his eyes slid farther down the page to rest on an article he hadn't noticed at the time. “Information Sought by Prominent Businessman,” read the caption. The short item went on to state that a Mr. Augustus Van Sylen, a man of some means and prominent in New York financial circles, was offering a reward for information leading to the whereabouts of a certain Monsieur and Madame LeClair, who had been operating in the city as mesmerists and spirit guides. Mr. Van Sylen had contacted the couple to discover the whereabouts of his youngest son, who had run away two years previously and had not been heard from since. The LeClairs regretfully informed Van Sylen that his son had headed west and had perished in an Indian attack on the travelling party. They claimed to have made contact with the son's spirit in the next world and over a period of the next few months Van Sylen attended their sessions on a regular basis. He reportedly paid a great deal of money for this communication.

The scheme had fallen apart when Van Sylen's son was discovered in New Jersey, living under an assumed name with another man's wife. But by the time Van Sylen returned to demand his money back, the LeClairs had disappeared.

The newspaper itself was local, but a note at the bottom of the article indicated that it had been reprinted from the
New York Tribune
. Perhaps it was just coincidence that Horatio had happened to pick it up from the bundle of papers that were piled on the table in the parlour, but even so, why then would he have hidden it under his mattress? Mrs. Elliott had stated that she was from South Carolina, not New York, and her accent, with its honeyed twang, bore that out. But the description of the LeClairs' activities bore a startling resemblance to the services being offered on the second floor of the Temperance Hotel. What if one of their other guests read the article? Would they come to the conclusion that Mrs. Elliott, too, was a sham? It seemed reason enough to spirit the paper out of the parlour and away from curious eyes, but Lewis had to wonder if there was more to it than that.

He made a mental note of the date of publication and, once he had wrestled the featherbed back onto the frame, he carefully tucked the paper back where he had found it.

When he was reasonably satisfied with the way he had reassembled the linens, he quickly made up the larger bed and turned to the door of the adjacent sitting room. It was locked, and the key was nowhere in sight. He tried the door that led to the room from the hall, but this, too, was firmly locked. A guest was well within his or her rights to lock their hotel room, but in Lewis's experience few ever availed themselves of the courtesy, leaving their doors open so that the room could be cleaned and aired. Apparently, Mrs. Elliott preferred to keep the contents of her sitting room private. That being the case, he decided, she could clean it herself. He shrugged and headed downstairs to see what Sophie was planning for dinner.

The fitful snow of late November had been but a harbinger of what was to come. As the year marched into December the wind switched around and blew in from the northeast, bringing a heavy storm with it. Even if Lewis had not noticed the signs — the sudden change in the wind, the great piling up of cloud on the horizon, the realization that a dull cold was creeping into his bones — he would have known that a storm was coming by the worsening of Betsy's lameness, her blinding headache, and the spike of fever that once again sent her to huddle under a blanket.

The blizzard began in the early evening and continued for two days. Snow piled into the fences and sides of buildings, drifted into sculpted dunes in unexpected ways, obliterated familiar landmarks, and transformed the landscape into an unrelenting uniform whiteness. Many of the guests commented on their luck in being inside with the guarantee of a bed, and not out on the road where they would be forced to find whatever shelter was closest at hand.

“We're warm and cozy enough here,” said the man from Cobourg, for he and his wife continued to consult Clementine every morning. “We weren't too sure about the fare for a time, but that's nice enough now.”

It was more than nice enough as far as Lewis was concerned. Within a day, Sophie had commandeered the kitchen as her exclusive domain. She sent Daniel to replenish their sorry larder from both McFaul's and Henderson's stores and augmented the usual pieces of beef and pork with mutton, haunches of venison, and local smoked fish. Succulent puddings and light-as-a-feather cakes began to appear as if by magic, and when the supply of eggs ran low, Sophie turned her talents to shortcake served up with jars of preserves.

Nor did she confine her efforts to pleasing the guests; she boiled beef tea for the invalids, and made up a posset that she said was called “stewed Quaker.” This was gratefully received by both Susannah and Betsy, who appeared brighter and stronger as a result of her attentions.

By the afternoon of the third day it appeared that the storm had finally blown itself out and Lewis could hear the sounds of shovels and the good-natured banter that seemed to unify Canadians when confronted with an assault from the elements. As soon as Martha finished her dinner, she ran to claim Horatio for a few hours, for there was no school on stormy days and Clementine had cancelled her afternoon session in light of the inclement weather.

The children wound great woolen scarves around their heads and over their mouths and rushed out the door to investigate the wonderland that lay outside. Horatio had never seen such snow, he said, and he was delighted. Martha showed him how to make snow angels, lying on her back and flapping her arms and legs until a heavenly outline appeared. Then they turned their attentions to a snowman, begging an old carrot from Sophie for his nose. One by one the other children who lived nearby appeared and joined in happily. Clementine must have been watching her son from the upstairs window, because just as he was positioning the sticks that formed the snowman's arms, she appeared at the door to offer a scarf and a feather from one of her hats as the finishing touches. The feather gave the snowman a peculiar and rather rakish look, but the children seemed delighted with the contribution.

The next time Lewis looked out the window, there was quite a gang of children, and it was inevitable that they would dig into the banks to make forts, and that snowballs would start to fly. He was intrigued and amused by the battle that was shaping up below, and checked on its progress at every opportunity.

He watched as Martha patiently attempted to teach little Rosie Carpenter from across the street how to aim her throws, rather than just wildly heaving them in every direction. The little girl had likely been sent out to play with her older brothers, but in the way of all older brothers, they had decided to ignore her. So Martha had taken her in hand. Rosie's inclusion on her team put them at a disadvantage, however. All of the other children were older and had mastered the art of the sidearm throw, harder and more effective, more often finding their targets. Rosie bravely attempted to copy them, but in an attempt to get it right she often stood up for too long, taking the brunt of the other team's attack. Lewis winced as a snowball struck her on the side of the head, the force of it knocking her down; but she bobbed up again a few moments later, refusing to acknowledge the discomfort of the hit.

The game disintegrated into disarray when Ed Fisher, oblivious to the war unfolding around him, wandered between the two forts just as Rosie let fly with a determined return salvo.

“Look out!” Martha yelled. Fisher turned his head in her direction at the sound, and for a moment Lewis thought that he would receive the full force of an icy snowball square on the forehead. All of the children dropped their hands and watched in dismay.

But Rosie's throw, though hard, had been crooked, and it curved in a wide arc around the pedestrian to land with a satisfying plump against the chest of the biggest boy opposite her. Her team cheered, drowning out Fisher's indignant protests.

“Rosie, you did it!” Martha crowed, and the little girl started to laugh with the excellence of it all. Martha laughed with her, and Lewis chuckled, as well, though he was quick to walk out onto the verandah, just in case Ed Fisher was prepared to make trouble.

“Are you all right, Mr. Fisher?” he asked.

“Darn kids. They never watch what they're doing. Why aren't these children in school?”

Lewis ignored this. Fisher should know that there would be no school until the village dug itself out from under its blanket of snow.

“Well, no harm done, is there? After all, you weren't hit.”

Fisher stomped off down the street still muttering complaints about the manners of the young folk these days. As he left, one of the bigger boys threw a snowball after him, to the delight of the others.

Lewis was just closing the door when he saw another man approach Martha. The figure looked familiar, but he couldn't think why. It was only when he heard the man speak that his identity became clear.

“You must be Martha?” the man asked. “You look very much like your mother.”

All the children stood in the yard and stared, their laughter forgotten. Finally Martha answered. “Yes, I am, but who are you, sir? I don't think I've ever seen you here before. Were you looking for a bed for the night? Shall I fetch the innkeeper for you?”

In the midst of his astonishment, Lewis noted that Martha had spoken well, politely, and in a way that would make a traveller feel welcome. He made a mental note to compliment her later. But the little girl didn't seem to realize that this stranger wasn't just a traveller looking for a room, but her father — Francis Renwell.

“No, actually,” Renwell replied. “I was looking for you. And your grandmother, if she's nearby.”

“Grandma's sick in bed, but Grandpa's here. Would he do?”

Lewis was through the front door and into the yard before Renwell had a chance to say whether he would do or not. He rather suspected that he wouldn't, for the man looked a little uncomfortable at this intelligence. He hadn't expected to find his father-in-law at home, and why would he? All too often Lewis had been off riding the circuits whenever someone wanted him.

“Francis. You've been granted an amnesty then?”

The rebels of 1837 who had escaped hanging and transportation and melted away into the United States had recently been invited back, all sins forgiven. All, that is, but those of their leader, Mackenzie, who would never be welcome again as far as Lewis could tell. The men who had followed the little rebel had crept back home again, some of them defiantly, some of them sheepishly, but all of them grateful that they could safely rejoin their families and resume their lives.

“Yes, I'm apparently no longer a mortal threat to Upper Canadian society,” Renwell said. “Although I guess it's called Canada West now, isn't it? In fact, I've been in no danger of arrest for quite some time, but it took many months to find the money to come home. They say the United States is the land of opportunity, but fortune has eluded me somehow.”

He spoke ruefully, and Lewis noted that although he was far better dressed than the last time they had met, the quality of the cloth was poor and his boots were worn.

“Come in, come in. Mrs. Lewis has been unwell, but she's better today and will be so pleased to see you.”

“And you, sir?”

Lewis smiled. “I owe you a great debt, Francis. You will always be welcome in my house.”

He turned to his granddaughter. “Martha, dear, why don't you come inside with us so we can all get warm.”

Lewis led Renwell into the now-deserted dining room, beckoning to Martha to follow them. The little girl sat down, not at a table with her father, but at one next to it. She had known that she had a father who had gone off somewhere — her grandparents had made no secret of his existence — but neither had they belaboured the story. After all, they had expected never to see him again, and he had warned them as much himself. Lewis could see that Martha did not realize the identity of this man who had been invited in from the cold. He left the two eyeing each other uncertainly while he went to fetch Betsy.

He discovered her, not sick in bed, but up, dressed, and getting in Sophie's way in the kitchen. The weather had eased up enough to ease her pain, as well.

“We need some tea in the dining room,” he told her. “We have a visitor.”

“Who?”

“Just go on in. I'll set the kettle to boil.”

“I'll do it,” Sophie said. “You go on, too.”

Lewis knew that Betsy would be expecting to see some neighbour, or a member of some former congregation, so her surprise was almost comical when she saw who it was.

“My word! Francis!” And she held her arms out to him in unconditional welcome.

She held her questions, although she was bursting with them, until Sophie appeared with the tea and a plate of leftover breakfast biscuits. As always, she began with the polite inquiries.

“Are you well, Francis? Where have you been living? What have you been doing?”

“I ended up in New York City, working on the docks.” He folded his cold hands around the warm cup and Lewis knew that he would ignore the biscuits until he was invited to take one. When he did, he would devour them, for he had that pinched look of someone who has been on the edge of hunger for a long time. “It's dreadful hard labour and the pay is poor. There are so many immigrants in the city right now looking for work that the bosses can get plenty of men for a song. You can be hired on at a certain rate one day and find your pay cut the next. And you daren't protest, because there are fifty men waiting to take your place. And yet every one of them remains convinced that it's only a matter of time until he'll be living in a mansion and driving a fine carriage. It's far worse than any of the nonsense we ever put up with here.”

“Have a biscuit, Francis,” Lewis urged. “There's nothing like tea and biscuits to warm you up on such a cold day.”

Let the man have a little dignity
, he thought. He appeared to have so little left.

As Renwell gulped down four of the biscuits in very short order, his eyes kept sliding to Martha. Lewis decided to put him out of his misery before Betsy could distract him with any more questions.

“There's time yet to hear about what you've been doing,” he said. “But first, I think there's an introduction to be made. Martha, come here, dear.”

The little girl stood up and approached hesitantly.

“Martha, do you remember the stories about your father? About how he was a brave man and how he rescued me from the ice?”

Martha nodded. Renwell shot him a grateful glance. He hadn't known what Martha had been told, or if she had been told anything.

“Well, dear, this is your father, Francis Renwell, come to make sure you're all right. He couldn't come before, though he wanted to.”

Martha nodded again, her eyes wide. She turned to look at the man who was her father. “How do you do,” she said, relying on the good manners that Betsy had taught her. And then her brow furrowed. “What should I call you, sir?”

“Well,” Renwell said, “why don't we start with Francis and we'll decide on something nicer after we get to know each other a little better. Would that be all right?” Lewis could see that he wanted to take her in his arms, pull her up on his lap, and cuddle her, but had wisely decided against it. It would be too much, too soon. He was still in her mind a stranger, a figure in a story. It would take some time to make him more.

“Why don't you go take Rosie back home?” Lewis said. “Then you can come and have some more tea with us.”

It was a good suggestion. It would give Martha a little time to absorb the fact that her long-lost father had just walked in the door. They waited until she had left before they resumed their conversation.

“Are you just here for a visit, Francis, or do you intend to stay?” Lewis asked.

“It depends,” he said. “I have no sense of how things are, whether or not there's a place here where a man can start over.”

“Things are picking up. They're better than they were, at any rate. In the meantime, we have plenty of room for you — we have a little house of our own out back — and to tell you the truth we could use an extra hand just now at the hotel. In the meantime, you can look around and see what else there is.” The inn promised to run far more smoothly with Sophie in the kitchen, but with so many guests, the addition of another able-bodied adult would be more than welcome, especially if Daniel didn't have to pay him anything but room and board.

It was odd that it was he and not Betsy who had made this offer, but then he realized what she had been preoccupied with. She was fretting about Martha. Obviously one of the reasons Renwell had returned was to see his daughter again. Would he want to take her away to live with him now that there was no price on his head and he could take his place once again as a respectable, if not yet respected, member of the community? Lewis felt a pang at the thought of losing his granddaughter. He knew that she had been Betsy's comfort and delight for some time now. What if Renwell decided, once he was on his feet, to head west, or to try his luck in the city? He and Betsy would no longer be an everyday part of the little girl's life. At the most they would be occasional visitors, grey-haired ghosts who loomed out of a hazy past she could barely remember. No wonder Betsy was preoccupied.