Alias Grace (60 page)

The hardest thing for me was viewing him as a full-grown man, as I’d known him only as the gawky lad who’d played the flute the
night before Nancy died, and was sitting on the fence the very first day I came to Mr. Kinnear’s.

Finally I said yes. He had the ring all ready, in a box in his vest pocket, and he was so overcome with emotion that he dropped it twice onto the tablecloth before putting it on my finger; for which I had to remove my glove.

Matters for the wedding were arranged as quickly as possible, and we remained at the hotel meanwhile, with hot water brought to the room every morning, and Janet stayed with me as being more proper. All was paid by Mr. Walsh. And we had a simple ceremony with a Justice of the Peace, and I remembered Aunt Pauline saying so many years before that I would no doubt marry beneath me, and wondered what she would think now; and Janet stood bridesmaid, and cried.

Mr. Walsh’s beard was very large and red, but I assured myself that it could be altered in time.

I
t is almost thirty years to the day, since when not yet sixteen years of age, I first went up the long driveway to Mr. Kinnear’s. It was June then, as well. Now I am sitting on my own verandah in my own rocking chair; it is late afternoon, and the scene before me is so peaceful you would think it was a picture. The roses at the front of the house are in bloom – Lady Hamiltons they are and very fine, although subject to aphids. The best thing, they say, is to dust them with arsenic, but I do not like to have such a thing about the house.

The last of the peonies are flowering, a pink and white variety and very full of petals. I don’t know the name, as I did not plant them; their scent reminds me of the soap that Mr. Kinnear used for shaving. The front of our house faces southwest and the sunlight is warm and golden, although I do not sit right in it, as it is bad for the complexion. On such days I think, This is like Heaven. Although Heaven was not a place I ever used to think of myself as going.

I have been married to Mr. Walsh for almost a year now, and although it is not what most girls imagine when young, that is
perhaps for the better, as at least the two of us know what sort of a bargain we have got into. When people marry young they often change as they grow older, but as the two of us have already grown older there will not be as much disappointment in store. An older man has a character already formed and is not as likely to take to drink or other vices, because if he was going to do such a thing he would have done it by now; or that is my opinion, and I hope that time will prove me right. I have prevailed on Mr. Walsh to trim his beard somewhat and to indulge his pipe smoking only out of doors, and in time perhaps both of these things, the beard and the pipe too, will disappear altogether, but it’s never a good idea to nag and push a man, as it only makes them the more obstinate. Mr. Walsh does not chew tobacco and spit, as some do, and as always I am thankful for small mercies.

Our house is an ordinary farmhouse, white in colour, and with shutters painted green, but commodious enough for us. It has a front hall with a row of hooks for the coats in winter, although mostly we use the kitchen door, and a staircase with a plain bannister. At the head of the stairs is a cedar chest for the storage of quilts and blankets. There are four upstairs rooms – a little one intended for a nursery, then the main bedchamber and another in case of guests, although we neither expect nor wish for any; and a fourth, which is empty at present. The two furnished bedchambers each have a washstand, and each has an oval braided rug, as I don’t want heavy carpets; they are too difficult to drag down the stairs and beat in spring, which would be worse as I get older.

There is a cross-stitch picture over each bed which I did myself, flowers in a vase in the best room and fruit in a bowl in ours. The quilt in the best room is a Wheel of Mystery, the one in ours a Log Cabin; I bought them at a sale, from people who’d failed and were moving West; but I felt sorry for the woman, and so paid more than I should. There have been a great many things to be seen to, in
order to make everything cosy, since Mr. Walsh had developed bachelor’s habits after the death of his first wife, and some things had become none too savoury. I had a large array of cobwebs and hanks of slut’s wool to sweep out from under the beds, and also a fair deal of scrubbing and scouring to do.

The summer curtains in both bedchambers are white. I like a white curtain myself.

Downstairs we have a front parlour with a stove, and a kitchen with pantry and scullery all complete, and the pump inside the house, which is a great advantage in winter. There is a dining room, but we don’t have that sort of company very often. For the most part we eat at the kitchen table; we have two kerosene lamps, and it is very snug there. I use the dining-room table for sewing, which is especially handy when cutting out the patterns. I have a Sewing Machine now, which is worked by a handwheel and is just like magic, and I am certainly glad to have it as it saves a great deal of labour, especially for the plain sewing such as the making of curtains and the hemming of sheets. I still prefer to do the finer sewing by hand, although my eyes are not what they used to be.

In addition to what I have described, we have the usual – a kitchen garden, with herbs and cabbages and root vegetables, and peas in the spring; and hens and ducks, cow and barn, and a buggy and two horses, Charley and Nell, who are a great pleasure to me, and good company when Mr. Walsh is not here; but Charley is worked too hard, as he is the plough horse. They say there are machines coming in soon that will do all of that sort of work and if so, then poor Charley can be turned out to pasture. I would never let him be sold for glue and dog meat, as is the habit of some.

There is a hired man who helps on the farm, but he doesn’t live on the premises. Mr. Walsh wanted to employ a girl as well, but I said I would prefer to do the work of the house myself. I wouldn’t want to have a servant living in, as they pry too much, and listen at doors; and
also it’s much easier for me to do a task right myself the first time, than to have someone else do it wrong and then do it over.

Our cat is named Tabby; she is the colour you might expect and a good mouser, and our dog is named Rex, he is a setter and not bright, although well-meaning, and the most beautiful shade of reddish brown, like a polished chestnut. These are not very original names, but we don’t wish to get a reputation in the neighbourhood for being too original. We attend the local Methodist church, and the preacher is a lively one and fond of a little Hell Fire on Sundays; however I do not think he has any notion of what Hell is really like, no more than the congregation; they are worthy souls, though narrow. But we have thought it best not to reveal too much of the past, to them or anyone, as it would only lead to curiosity and gossip, and thence to false rumours. We’ve given out that Mr. Walsh was my childhood sweetheart, and that I married another, but was lately widowed; and that since Mr. Walsh’s wife died, we arranged to meet again, and to marry. That is a story easily accepted, and it has the advantage of being romantic, and of causing pain to no one.

Our little church is very local and old-fashioned; but in Ithaca itself they are more up to date, and have a good number of Spiritualists there, with celebrated mediums coming through and staying at the best homes. I don’t go in for any of that, as you never know what might come out of it; and if I wish to commune with the dead I can do it well enough on my own; and besides, I fear there is a great deal of cheating and deception.

In April I saw one of the celebrated mediums advertised, a man, with a picture of him; and though the picture was printed very dark, I thought, That must be Jeremiah the peddler; and indeed it was, as Mr. Walsh and I had occasion to drive into town for some errands and shopping, and I passed him on the street. He was more elegantly dressed than ever, with his hair black again and his beard trimmed in the military fashion, which must inspire confidence, and his name is
Mr. Gerald Bridges now. He was doing a very good imitation of a man who is distinguished and at home in the world, but with his mind on the higher truth; and he saw me too, and recognized me, and gave a respectful tip of the hat, but very slight, so it wouldn’t be remarked; and also a wink; and I waved my hand at him, just a little, in its glove, as I always wear gloves to town. Fortunately Mr. Walsh did not notice either of these things, as it would have alarmed him.

I would not wish any here to learn my true name; but I know my secrets are safe with Jeremiah, as his are safe with me. And I remembered the time I might have run away with him, and become a gypsy or a medical clairvoyant, as I was certainly tempted to do; and in that case my fate would have been very different. But only God knows whether it would have been better or worse; and I have now done all the running away I have time for in this life.

On the whole, Mr. Walsh and I agree, and things go on very well with us. But there is something that has troubled me, Sir; and as I have no close woman friend I can trust, I am telling you about it, and I know you will keep the confidence.

It is this. Every once in a while Mr. Walsh becomes very sad; he takes hold of my hand and gazes at me with the tears in his eyes, and he says, To think of the sufferings I have caused you.

I tell him he did not cause me any sufferings – it was others that caused them, and also having plain bad luck and bad judgment – but he likes to think it was him that was the author of all, and I believe he would claim the death of my poor mother too, if he could think of a way to do it. He likes to picture the sufferings as well, and nothing will do but that I have to tell him some story or other about being in the Penitentiary, or else the Lunatic Asylum in Toronto. The more watery I make the soup and the more rancid the cheese, and the worse I make the coarse talk and proddings of the keepers, the better he likes it. He listens to all of that like a child listening to
a fairy tale, as if it is something wonderful, and then he begs me to tell him yet more. If I put in the chilblains and the shivering at night under the thin blanket, and the whipping if you complained, he is in raptures; and if I add the improper behaviour of Dr. Bannerling towards me, and the cold baths naked and wrapped in a sheet, and the strait-waistcoat in the darkened room, he is almost in ecstasies; but his favourite part of the story is when poor James McDermott was hauling me all around the house at Mr. Kinnear’s, looking for a bed fit for his wicked purposes, with Nancy and Mr. Kinnear lying dead in the cellar, and me almost out of my wits with terror; and he blames himself that he wasn’t there to rescue me.

I myself would as soon forget about that portion of my life, rather than dwelling on it in such a mournful way. It’s true that I liked the time when you were at the Penitentiary, Sir, as it did make a break in my days, which were mostly the same then. Now that I come to think of it, you were as eager as Mr. Walsh is to hear about my sufferings and my hardships in life; and not only that, but you would write them down as well. I could tell when your interest was slacking, as your gaze would wander; but it gave me joy every time I managed to come up with something that would interest you. Your cheeks would flush and you would smile like the sun on the parlour clock, and if you’d had ears like a dog they would have been pricked forward, with your eyes shining and your tongue hanging out, as if you’d found a grouse in a bush. It did make me feel I was of some use in this world, although I never quite saw what you were aiming at in all of it.

As for Mr. Walsh, after I have told him a few stories of torment and misery he clasps me in his arms and strokes my hair, and begins to unbutton my nightgown, as these scenes often take place at night; and he says, Will you ever forgive me?

At first this annoyed me very much, although I did not say so. The truth is that very few understand the truth about forgiveness. It
is not the culprits who need to be forgiven; rather it is the victims, because they are the ones who cause all the trouble. If they were only less weak and careless, and more foresightful, and if they would keep from blundering into difficulties, think of all the sorrow in the world that would be spared.

I had a rage in my heart for many years, against Mary Whitney, and especially against Nancy Montgomery; against the two of them both, for letting themselves be done to death in the way that they did, and for leaving me behind with the full weight of it. For a long time I could not find it in me to pardon them. It would be much better if Mr. Walsh would forgive me, rather than being so stubborn about it and wanting to have it the wrong way around; but perhaps in time he will come to see things in a truer light.

When he first began this, I said I had nothing to forgive him for, and he shouldn’t worry his head about it; but that wasn’t the answer he wanted. He insists on being forgiven, he can’t seem to go on comfortably without it, and who am I to refuse him such a simple thing?

So now every time this happens, I say I forgive him. I put my hands on his head as if in a book, and I turn my eyes up and look solemn, and then kiss him and cry a little; and then after I’ve forgiven him, he is back to his usual self the next day, playing on his flute as if he’s a boy again and I am fifteen, and we are out in the orchard making daisy chains at Mr. Kinnear’s.

But I don’t feel quite right about it, forgiving him like that, because I am aware that in doing so I am telling a lie. Though I suppose it isn’t the first lie I’ve told; but as Mary Whitney used to say, a little white lie such as the angels tell is a small price to pay for peace and quiet.

I think of Mary Whitney frequently these days, and of the time we threw the apple peelings over our shoulders; and it has all come true after a fashion. Just as she said, I married a man whose name begins
with a J; and as she also said, I first had to cross over water three times, since it was twice on the ferry to Lewiston, going and coming back, and then once again on the way here.

Sometimes I dream that I am again in my small bedchamber at Mr. Kinnear’s, before all the horror and tragedy; and I feel so safe there, not knowing what is to come. And sometimes I dream that I am still in the Penitentiary; and that I will wake to find myself once more locked in my cell, shivering on the straw mattress on a cold winter morning, with the keepers laughing outside in the yard.