A Place Called Bliss (7 page)

Completely covered from head to toe, Sophia epitomized the woman of the seventies. Only an appearance on the beach allowed for the baring of the arm. So far Sophia had bypassed the out-and-out wearing of the bustle; to date her clothes simply reflected its emergence. To be properly proper, she admitted now, with another sigh, she would have to conform, and soon. Hopefully Hugh, waiting below, would not frown when she appeared. Though he said little in the way of criticism, his frown was enough to give Sophia the guidance she needed to fit into the lifestyle of Heatherstone.

Taking up her gloves—no lady of any consequence would appear on the street without them—Sophia perused her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled; she was a vision of elegance with no expense spared. She laid aside her trifling troubles and counted her blessings: a beautiful child asleep upstairs; a house of magnificent proportions and detail; a distinguished husband awaiting her.

“Will you and Tessie be taking Margaret out today?” she asked Kezzie before putting her anxieties completely out of mind.

“No, Mum, not today; Tessie will be goin’ out. ’Tis the day of her husband’s company picnic,” Kezzie said. “The brass finishers, Mum, and the plumbers and the steamfitters, all havin’ one grand day of it.”

“Do you wish you could go, Kezzie?” Sophia asked, although it was a little late to do so.

“No, Mum. I’m happy as a lark here with the bairn.”

Sophia knew it was true. Kezzie, she admitted, had more time with Margaret than she did. After all her yearning and longing, the never-ending tasks associated with a child were more than Sophia had bargained for. And so she was contented, perhaps even relieved, when Hugh had insisted that Kezzie be given responsibility for the baby. “After all,” he had pointed out, “she’s had lots of practice. I turned out all right, didn’t I? I guess she can look after the child without any difficulty.”

Though it was a time of great wickedness, most people still held firmly to fixed doctrines (or biases) that had been well established long ago and were not about to be relinquished here in the new land. It was a strongly religious time, with the day of rest strictly observed. Camp meetings ran for weeks; religion took on the form of recreation. Canadians were gripped with the need for revival, and churches flourished.

Circuit riders abounded, and the pleasures of sin were exposed mercilessly. But it was an era of drunkenness; whiskey was sold by the dipperful at the cost of a few cents, and saloons and taverns did a landslide business. Men made shameful displays of themselves as they staggered from bar to bar; often they ended up in the gutter for all passersby to see, perhaps stumble over. To think of her precious child surrounded by such debauchery gave Sophia’s heart a twinge. It was a strong argument in favor of adopting the wearing of the blue ribbon that distinguished the abstainer.

And she should think about joining the small, concerned groups beginning to do something about the high infant mortality rate—everyone knew that half of the dead were children. Was it possible that the milk delivered to the door daily was the cause of it? Often it had the taste of wild turnips or stinkweed. Montreal’s water, when it was analyzed, showed “animal and vegetable refuse, manure, fish spawn, straw, hayseed, and a small cistoid worm.” Could Toronto’s be any better?

To suffer what she did aboard ship to bring her child into the world and then to lose her to one of the many ailments that picked children off so quickly—the thought was unendurable. The Galloway cupboard bulged with hyped patent medicines that promised cures for everything from scrofula to cancer. Expectorants, balsams, and bitters—Sophia bought most of them. But to actually swallow them was another thing.

Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral, the persuasive vendor had claimed, would cure colds, coughs, and all diseases of the throat and lungs, and was cherry-flavored. That it smelled like alcohol and made her head spin when she tried it caused Sophia to put it at the back of the cupboard for the time being. But when one was desperate to save one’s child’s life—to what lengths would one go? Very far indeed, she admitted, and she invested in McKenzie’s Dead Shot Worm Candy against the possibility of such a problem, common among all children. “Your child will ask for it,” the purveyor assured, “because the taste is so pleasant.” Could something taste good and be potent at the same time? Or
was it just colored water, or almost pure alcohol? Sophia stared at the bottles with their colorful labels and was none the wiser.

Uncertain as she was, just this morning she had bought a bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, called by some “gripe water,” against the day small Margaret would begin teething. Doing the very best she could, still it felt like groping in the dark. What in the world had people done in the old days, before marvels of modern science such as Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters came on the market? Or Warner’s Safe Kidney and Liver Cure, Sage’s Catarrh Cure, Piso’s Consumption Cure? If one suffered from la grippe, malaria, blood poison, rheumatism, or sour stomach, wouldn’t one try, from pure desperation, a bottle of Dr. Plew’s Microbe Killer?

Having done the best she knew in regard to proper medical care for her child and knowing Margaret would be safe at home with Kezzie, Sophia felt free to go on her outing with a clear conscience.

And so it was without undue guilt she slipped into the nursery, ran her fingers lightly through the silky black tuft of hair on her sleeping daughter’s head, and turned toward the graciously appointed room where her husband waited.

In the new land as in the old, Victorian rules and regulations reigned, and one was expected to follow specific guidelines for accepted behavior. Etiquette books advised against “undue emotions whether of laughter, anger, mortification, disappointment, or selfishness.” Therefore Hugh, a gentleman through and through, was calmly reading the paper as he waited. No gentleman ever stared at his pocket watch in polite society unless invited to do so, a rule, Sophia felt now, that kept Hugh from such uncouth behavior. And since conversing in loud tones was the mark of an oaf, his tones were mild when he looked up and asked, “Ready, my dear?”

With one quickly stifled thought for the more earthy and virile but gentlemanly (and absent) Angus, it was no effort at all for Sophia to return her husband’s smile. And why not? Dressed in frock coat, double-breasted waistcoat, wing-collared shirt,
and striped trousers of excellent cut and material, Hugh was an escort to be proud of. Thank heavens he had no need of a corset!

What a glorious round of entertainment was available! It was a time of beginnings, or “firsts,” for the nation: the first organized hockey game, world champion oarsmen, golf club, bicycle club, and intercollegiate football games. Archery, croquet, baseball, yachting—all were available for participation or for spectating.

Lacrosse was billed by some as “Canada’s national game,” and it was to a special match the Galloways intended going. Pitted against the Canadian team were the famous “Twelve Iroquois Indians” who had played a command performance game before Queen Victoria. Their captain was listed as Tier Karoniare; Sophia found the player’s names unpronounceable as well as incomprehensible and much preferred their aliases: Pick the Feather, Hole in the Sky, and more.

Hugh placed Sophia’s mantelet of English covert cloth around her shoulders, took his silk hat in hand, and turned toward the door where Casper hovered ready to usher them out to the hansom cab awaiting them. Settling herself comfortably, Sophia wasted a brief moment’s thought on her brother—
is Preston as satisfied with his end of the bargain as I?
—and cared not a whit for his satisfaction or lack of it.

With her master and mistress gone and the house quiet around her, Kezzie hastened to the nursery, dismissed the impatient Tessie, picked up her precious charge, changed her napkin, settled in a rocking chair and put in the pink mouth the rubber nipple that, with its sediment of stale, caked milk—and with sterilization unknown—was an almost certain death trap.

Dear Mam:

July 5, 1878

Of course there is no place to mail a letter (unless we meet a traveler going back to Fort Garry, and these are few and far between), but I will keep working away as I get a chance, jotting things down to help you understand what this migration is all about. How I wish that, like the children of Israel, our shoes would not wear out! Angus walks most of the way. It would be wonderful, too, if quail (or the local partridge) would rain down upon us every day. Game is plentiful, however, though Angus grieves to see the waste of buffalo. Often they are slain and just the tongue removed. It’s counted a great delicacy. The hump, also, provides very fine eating.

One learns to try new things. For instance, Mrs. Varnisch, having stripped the large bone of a hind leg free of all flesh, buried it in the fire, and in about one hour served us a taste of baked marrow. Truly delicious, and a change from rabbit, which seems to be our main bill of fare. That is because the boys of the group love to hunt and often enliven their days with some kind of contest to see who can bring in the most. Cammie begs to go with them, but I cannot allow it. He is much too young, and I fear some terrible accident, or being lost in the grass, or being stolen by an Indian. The very thoughts make me shudder!

July 8—We have barely begun, and already we have had a death. It is Mrs. Swart. All night we could hear the sounds of her suffering, and I suffered with her, you may be sure, with the memory so near of my own recent loss and the terrible agony of that time. They say time makes you forget—pray God I will. To go through so much and have no baby! I yet grieve.

We buried Mrs. Swart and the infant with her. We women washed them both and wrapped them snugly in what Mr. Swart called her “marryin’ quilt.” Well, it has become her “buryin’ quilt.” We could hardly bear to watch that poor man, with his two little girls clinging to his trousers, and him shaking and trembling so. The only thing that helped was that we have a man in our group who is a sort of lay preacher. We’ve never acknowledged his religion any more than to ask him to say grace whenever he is around when we eat—a sort of politeness on our parts, I guess. Well, this Carlton Voss took out his Bible and we all expected the usual ashes to ashes and dust to dust. We’d sung “Nearer My God to Thee,” when Mr. Voss read something I’ve never heard before—all about King David and his little baby that died, back in the Old
Testament. King David said, “I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.” And then Mr. Voss talked about how that babies, being innocent, go straight to be with the Lord, which I guess I knew all along but never got much comfort out of because I never expected to see my dead baby again, me being unfit for heaven and all.

Well, Mr. Voss, right there at that hole we dug in the prairie, said plain as day that we are sorrowful but not as sorrowful as we would be if we had no hope. Hope? I said to myself through my tears—that’s what I need. I dug out our old Bible, Mam, and looked up that Scripture, which is First Thess. (too hard to spell, and even harder to find!), chapter 4 verse 13. I’m puzzling on this. Perhaps there will come a day when I can talk to Mr. Voss and get him to explain this hope to me. I need it, Mam, I need it bad.

July 9—Started early today because of the short day yesterday. We ate bannock for breakfast, made quick over the fire, and not exactly as bannock is made in Scotland. Here, if you have baking powder, you add it to the flour along with some lard or grease and a little salt. If you don’t have B.P. you go ahead anyway and it turns out flat, but when fried good it tastes well enough. I like it best just to leave the shortening out of the dough and fry it in butter about half an inch thick. It is delicious! Of course I can’t see you making it there at Heatherstone.

We are all weary tonight, made about fifteen miles. The two little Swart girls rode with me; they seem so bewildered at leaving their mother back “in the dirt in her blanket.” I guess there are worse things than leaving your loved one in the deep, cold depths of the sea. It will always grieve me that I wasn’t there to say farewell to my baby. Did I tell you I named her? In my heart I call her Angel.