Adjustment Year: Wwi Trilogy, #3 4ro5s

Adjustment Year

WWI Trilogy, Volume 3

Melina Druga

Published by Sun Up Press, 2021.

Copyright 2020 Melina Druga/Sun Up Press Melina Druga www.melinadruga.com

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ISBN: 9798579715395

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Editor: John Druga

Cover art: Victoria Cooper

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

A Sneak Peek at A Journey of Hope

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Chapter 1

February 1919 The old world was dead , never to return. That much was certain. Nevertheless, it was difficult to comprehend that the war was over, truly over, and life would resume again. Yet how was that possible? The Great War ravaged for four and a half years. Sixteen million lives were snuffed out by battles, bombardments, starvation, genocide, disease and drowning. Cities were destroyed, empires crumbled, and monarchs disposed. Ethnic groups asserted their independence, and Canadian women gained the right to vote. Henrietta “Hettie” Taylor was keenly aware of all of this as she dressed for the final time on European soil. Today, she was a nursing sister in the Canadian Army Medical Corps. In 12 days, she would be a civilian for the first time since August 1914. What did being a civilian mean postwar? It opened up a world of possibilities, simultaneously comforting and frightening. Turning sideways, she rubbed her hands over her abdomen and was pleased to see her pregnancy, now in its fourth month, was barely visible in the mirror. Very few people knew she was expecting, but this pregnancy was her ticket home, an almost immediate demobilization. “Are you ready? We need to leave shortly,” a voice said from the threshold. When Hettie was demobilized, medical corps officials said she could not be sent home alone. She required a chaperone, and it must be a woman, which ruled out the obvious choices – her husband or her brother. Everyone expected her to select her dear friend Charlotte Gates or the casualty clearing station’s matron, but instead Hettie chose Elizabeth Barrow. Charlotte was Hettie’s confidant, but Bessie deserved going home more. “Yes,” Hettie said, “but I must nibble on something or I’m afraid I’ll get seasickness.” Bessie’s face was bright and optimistic, the complete opposite of Hettie’s. “I’ll make certain we have plenty of cabin biscuits to curb any nausea.”

Hettie smiled and quickly threw her remaining unpacked items into her steamer trunk. She then fixed her eyes on the English sky, the only part of her mother’s ancestral homeland she could see for this vantage point, and attempted to commit it to memory. Soon this view would be replaced by an expanse of cobalt ocean. That should be a relief, but instead it produced the opposite emotion. How could she leave the killing fields and go home to be a wife and mother as if nothing ever happened? Hettie did not acknowledge the two hotel employees who carried her truck out of the room. Her attention still on the English sky, she was startled by Bessie’s coins rattling in her chatelaine. “It’s time to go, Hettie,” Bessie said while she tipped the men. Hettie pried her eyes from the view and briefly felt faint. How could she leave Europe after everything she’d seen and experienced? “Our work is finished here,” Bessie said as if she read Hettie’s thoughts.

THE SUN OCCASIONALLY peaked through the clouds, brightening the sky, but the wind whipped with late winter intensity, piercing their clothing as if they weren’t wearing any. Hettie pulled on the front of her coat in a manner that implied tightening the garment could make her warmer. “You could call them both Fred,” Bessie said after they exited the car at the wharf. “No, I couldn’t, and don’t you either.” Alfred was not a Fred, and neither was Frederick. Neither had the personality for that moniker. Not that it mattered. Both men were in the crowd somewhere, waiting. But where? Nearly everyone busying about the wharf was in uniform, and the scene was reminiscent of when the Canadian Expeditionary Force arrived in October 1914, naively optimistic the war would be over by Christmas. The keen difference was that now all optimists were long gone, replaced by mentally scarred individuals haunted by the years they’d never get back. Hettie swallowed the lump in her throat. Their entire time in Europe had been characterized by long separations punctuated by reunions, and no one ever knew when would be the final reunion. Today’s reunion would be followed by yet another separation of unknown duration. Bessie grabbed Hettie’s hand. “Come along. We need to find our berth.” Hettie said nothing, her chest growing increasingly tighter as they jostled their way through the soldiers and dockworkers. After several minutes, they spotted a woman waving a handkerchief. It was Charlotte, Hettie’s brother and husband standing beside her. Bessie waved back. Hettie merely blinked. Charlotte elbowed her way through the crowd, her cheeks red from the wind, and squeezed the women. “My dear friends, what an exciting day. I think I’m as excited as you that you’re going home.”

Home? Hettie thought. Is it still home? The last time Hettie set eyes on Barrie, she and her first husband, Geoffrey Bartlette, were at the train station. Geoffrey will never return to Barrie, and everything back home seems different and strange. Her siblings Mabel and Walter were now parents, Alice married, Tommy a widower, and Adelaide was away attending Toronto Normal School. Father retired. Uncle Steven lost re-election for town councilor when antiLiberal sentiments took over the country in 1917, and he was again practicing law. Only Mother and Ida seemed unchanged. Meanwhile, poor Freddie unfairly would be stuck in Europe while she was set free. “Are you envious you’re not coming with us?” Bessie said to Charlotte. “Oh, yes, in some ways, but I’ll recover. I’m going to stay with CCS 100 for a while, but Dr. Fitzpatrick and I are being sent the Mediterranean front to help there.” As Bessie and Charlotte chatted, the trio inched their way to the men, both of whom wore serious expressions. Whom should Hettie greet first? The urge was to run to Freddie, her younger brother by less than 18 months, the only person whose welfare was paramount to her own these past four years, but she had Alfred now. She had taken a vow to this man whom she barely knew. She did love him, but it became increasingly clear to her that she did not love him the same way she loved Geoffrey, although she couldn’t articulate the difference. “Colonel Taylor and Lieutenant Steward arrived not long before I,” Charlotte said when they reached them, “so I was grateful not to wait alone.” Hettie greeted Alfred first, believing his feelings would be hurt if she did not. He was handsome, peering at her with piercing blue eyes and appearing dignified with his strong jaw. If nothing else, she acknowledged, they made an attractive couple. Before their wedding, when Alfred visited her at the casualty clearing station, he greeted her with a handshake. Out of habit, he outstretched his hand now before stopping himself and kissing her. “Are you feeling all right?” he said after their lips parted.

She nodded. “I’m not experiencing anything unusual.” “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it. I don’t know when I’ll be home. If I don’t make it in time, I want you to spend your confinement with your parents. I know you promised Bessie you’d stay in Halifax, but I’d prefer you were with family.” “Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.” “It’s entirely possible. There are too many soldiers and not enough ships to transport them home. I might be here for several months.” She shook her head. “Don’t think that way.” “We have to be prepared for every eventuality, Hettie.” Hettie wrung her hands. Alfred sounded like a military strategist, and she was forced to remind herself that he was a career soldier with experience commanding men in perilous situations. In addition, he had been a confirmed bachelor prior to their courtship, and this “relationship business,” as he called it, was new to him. She would need to forgive his lack of eloquence. “Understood,” she said. “But I want to think optimistically.” The words sounded foolish the moment she uttered them. They had lived on false hope for more than four years. Then armistice came and there was hope, real hope, but there also was the realization that the world was forever altered, shattered beyond repair. How could any rational person be optimistic again? Freddie placed his hands on her shoulders, filling her with warmth. Dear darling Freddie, there was never a time in her life when she could not him being there, her brother, her friend, her fellow mischief-maker. “Father will forgive you before he forgives me,” he said. “It’ll be all right. He’ll be eager to learn what medical knowledge you’ve gained.” “Oh, Freddie.” Hettie threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder while the others looked on. “You’ll get used to those two,” Charlotte said to Alfred. “They’re nearly Irish twins.”

Hettie released her grip, feeling as if she had been caught doing something wrong. Alfred, who was raised with the aristocracy’s rules and regulations, probably thought her quite vulgar. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been myself for obvious reasons,” Hettie said, hoping her pregnancy would be an acceptable excuse for letting emotion get the better of her. “There’s nothing to forgive,” Alfred said, pulling her close. Bessie and Charlotte continued their meaningless chitchat until the ship began boarding. When the gangplank lowered, Hettie watched as if in a dream while it beckoned her to re those she left behind. “This is goodbye, but not forever, my friends,” Charlotte said, alternating between Hettie and Bessie to give kisses on the cheek and hugs. “Just goodbye for now.” Charlotte paused, clenching her headgear as the wind attempted to steal her hat, before giving one final, longer squeeze. “We’ll meet again. I’m sure of it.” Bessie curtsied to Freddie, prompting Hettie to roll her eyes and crack a smile for the first time in days. Is it normal for a 28-year-old woman to have a crush on a 25-year-old man for as long as Bessie has? she thought. Bessie turned to Alfred, promising him she’d take good care of his wife, and Hettie’s smile faded. She was always the nurse, tending to others and ensuring their wellbeing. No one ever needed to take care of her, and she hated the implication that she was helpless in her condition. Hettie, this time in tears, threw her arms around Freddie and uttered her farewells. “I’ll see you soon,” he said. “I’ll follow more quickly this time. I promise.” She nodded and swore she saw tears in his eyes, but there was no time to dwell on his glumness. She shifted her focus to Alfred, kissing him before gazing into his eyes, trying – as she had with the sky earlier in the day – to commit his image to memory. Bessie tugged on her hand. “Come along. We’re going to be late.”

Hettie broke her gaze, and she and Bessie turned to make their way through the crowd. “One more thing, Hettie,” Freddie said. The women stopped. Bessie’s eyes were wide. “We don’t have any time to spare,” she said. Freddie inhaled. “Send everyone my love. Tell Mother and Father not to worry. I have unfinished business to resolve.” “What unfinished business?” Hettie said. “I’ll tell you all in good time.” Bessie tugged on Hettie’s hand, and the women continued walking. “We must go.” “What unfinished business?” Hettie said to Freddie, nearly walking backward as Bessie pulled on her hand. Freddie’s lips were moving, but there was so much clamor around them, she could not hear the response.

THE SHIP’S HORN BELLOWED, and the vessel slowly began to move. Hettie attempted to spot familiar faces, but she was elevated so far off the ground it was impossible to tell one person from another on the crowded dock. People both on and off the ship were waving. She waved as well, just in case her loved ones could see her, and ed that day in 1914 when the entire family, despite their disapproval, had seen her off when she embarked with the Canadian Army Nursing Service. Bessie placed her gloved hand on Hettie’s. “We should go inside. It’s cold.” Hettie nodded. “I didn’t realize how cold I felt until now,” she said when they entered the warmth of the ship’s interior and feeling returned to her fingers. “Let’s get some hot tea or broth to warm you.” Hettie smirked. Bessie will enjoy her time as a temporary maternity nurse. “You mustn’t fret about Colonel Taylor,” Bessie said. “You’ll see him soon enough.” The smirk faded. She hadn’t been fretting about Alfred. At that moment, she wasn’t thinking about him or anyone else for that matter. “Do you realize I’ve been married twice, yet I’ve spent a grand total of three months with my husbands?” Hettie said, wondering why Bessie thought she was pensive. “I’m accustomed to being without them.” Three months of wedded bliss were spent with Geoffrey before the world exploded in war. She and Alfred were together mere days before he and the First Division were sent to for occupation duty, and they hadn’t spent more than a few hours together since his return. “Oh,” Bessie said, apparently not realizing. “Let’s see if we can get the tea or broth in our stateroom,” Hettie said, not wanting to continue this conversation. “I’d like to lie down.”

NEARLY TWO WEEKS LATER, the shimmering sun gave the false impression that it was summer. Only the gusts blowing off the water and into one’s face betrayed the fact it was still winter. Hettie and Bessie sat outside on a forward-facing deck, blankets wrapped over their coats like shawls. Had civilian life always been this boring? The only daily events to anticipate were meals, the occasional cup of tea and bedtime, and Hettie long ago grew tired of reading and polite conversation. Bessie was a fine companion, but she couldn’t conjure interesting things to happen. Waves crashed against the bow as the ship sped toward its destination, the horizon rising and falling in the women’s line of sight. “We’re moving very quickly,” Hettie said. “I hope we don’t hit an iceberg like the Titanic.” “I’d forgotten about Titanic. It seems such a long time ago now. They brought the bodies to Halifax, you know.” Hettie redirected her gaze from the shifting horizon to Bessie. “I was in nursing school when it happened. It was quite a shock. My classmates and I read all we could in the newspapers. We went to the movie house and watched a newsreel about it.” “Nathan and I helped out. There were so many bodies.” Hettie sat forward, eyes wide. “Bodies?” “Oh, yes, they had been at sea for days. Most froze to death, although some had drowned. They were colorless in a way I never saw before or since in a corpse. Some had blue lips and nail beds. The ocean had preserved the victims, so even though they had been dead for days there was no decay.” As Bessie spoke, Hettie envisioned an exaggerated version of the pale skin they’d witnessed in Spanish Flu victims. Bessie continued, “There were men, women, children, Titanic employees. The bodies were embalmed aboard the search-and-rescue vessels. Our job was to try

and help survivors identify bodies and arrange burials. The crews created written descriptions of each of the victims.” “And were the bodies identified?” “Some but not enough. The third-class engers were buried at sea. Not quite 200 bodies were unloaded at Coal Wharf and Flagship Wharf and taken to Mayflower Curling Club. That was the only building large enough and cold enough to be used as a morgue. The club was destroyed in the Halifax Explosion, I’ve been told.” Bessie’s brother, Nathan, died in the Halifax Explosion, and Bessie fall silent. Hettie’s mind flashed to the casualty clearing station’s lawn and how, when battle casualties were heavy, the wounded were lined up on stretchers in tight rows, man after man. She imagined the shipwreck victims arranged in a similar fashion, only on curling sheets. Hettie shook the image of neatly arranged corpses from her mind and steered the conversation back to the Titanic. “What happened to the unidentified bodies?” “They were all buried in a cemetery in Halifax. The ceremonies were the saddest thing I’ve ever experienced.” “Really? The saddest? After all we have been through.” Bessie was transfixed on the horizon for a moment before she made eye . “Yes. With the war, we opted to be there. We didn’t know what would happen once we reached Europe, but we had a choice. They didn’t. We knew we were danger. They were anticipating a safe trip. The ship was moving too quickly, there weren’t enough lifeboats, and the exits leading out of steerage were locked.” Bessie said nothing more, and Hettie closed her eyes, turning her face toward the sun. She wanted to daydream about the roar of deafening waves as they hit a rocky shore, ocean spray shooting up in the air, but instead all she could imagine was ice-cold bodies on a curling sheet, stones whizzing past them. “Hettie look.”

She didn’t know she dozed off until her body, startled by Bessie’s voice, jerked her awake. “What is it?” Hettie said, her eyelids still closed. “Look!” Hettie opened her eyes and followed Bessie’s gaze. Something manifested on the horizon that hadn’t been there before. “What is that?” “That’s land. We’re home.” Land? Home? The smudge on the horizon that was Nova Scotia slowly grew larger and clearer. The choppy water of the open ocean gave way to the smoother waters of the harbor, and Hettie moved to the rail, although it provided only a slightly better view. She felt like a bird in flight, a tiny, frightened bird returning to its nest. Tears clouded her vision. Canadian soil for the first time in four and a half years! “We’re home!” Bessie said then burst into sobs that came on as suddenly as a sneeze. “We’re home!” The friends linked arms and jumped, chanting in unison, “We’re home! We’re home!” Fellow engers stared – first with annoyance, then confusion and finally incomprehension – before ing them at the rail and seeing for themselves what the excitement was all about. Bessie stopped jumping. “We lost our heads for a moment,” she said. “You mustn’t exert yourself.” Hettie, heart pounding and breath jagged, pursed her lips. For a minute, she was able to forget she was pregnant and feel normal again. Was pregnancy going to take all enjoyment out of life? Yes, of course, it was. It already had.

Before she could respond, Bessie said, “We need to pack and quickly.” Hettie took another glimpse at shore, wiped her tears onto her glove and followed her companion. “I think I might kiss the ground when we get there,” Bessie said while they walked down the deck toward the door. “I think you should,” Hettie said and laughed.

Chapter 2

After they disembarked , Bessie really did sink to her knees and kiss the ground. Hettie laughed before crying tears of happiness and pride. They were back in the nation of their birth. The nation their grandparents founded; the nation their brothers, husbands, lovers and fathers fought for; a nation that, despite the naysayers, had survived its turbulent adolescence. Mrs. Walsh, an elderly woman with the posture of someone much younger, greeted them at the dock with a broad smile but a disposition that meant business. “Well, I hear you’re to be a temporary Haligonian,” she said to Hettie after Bessie made the introductions. Hettie smiled politely as she shook her hand. “Yes, that is the plan.” “We’re happy to have you. I’ve prepared a room for Bessie that you will share. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” Mrs. Walsh, the orphanage from Bessie’s childhood, was their only in the city. While the friends waited, heads still spinning from the voyage, she made arrangements for their luggage to be delivered to her home. Halifax was more than 10 times larger than Barrie, around 80,000 residents compared to 6,400, and the cityscape seemed to go on forever. Hettie was amazed to witness the tall buildings, trolleys and hoards of pedestrians, but it seemed next to impossible to get quickly from one side of the city to another, and her hands fidgeted with impatience in her lap. Finally, the taxi stopped in front of a small house nestled close to its neighbors. The yard was snow covered, as was a tall evergreen outside the front-room window. It was reminiscent of a Christmas card and instantly put Hettie at ease about living in the big city. The sound of their crunching footsteps reminded Hettie of a cook mashing graham crackers for a piecrust, and this further added to the Christmas mystique. As they trudged up the walkway, Mrs. Walsh explained how she moved to Truro after retiring but returned to Halifax following the explosion to establish a charity for survivors. Rebuilding was complete, so the charity was

now assisting the city’s indigent. Mrs. Walsh unlocked the front door, and the interior of the home was pleasantly warm and well kept, but the cramped space reminded Hettie of the houses in Barrie’s H Block, the less affluent section of town. Mrs. Walsh ushered them directly up the staircase to a bedroom with two twin beds separated by a table. There was a tiny closet but no dresser, and the only other thing in the room was a lamp. Well, Hettie thought as she examined the Spartan surroundings, I suppose one mustn’t get too comfortable. “I feel like I’m still on the ship,” Bessie said, sitting on one of the beds, and Hettie didn’t know if that was a reference to the size of the room or to dizziness. “The two of you get some rest,” Mrs. Walsh said. “I’ll call you when your luggage arrives.” Hettie stepped back toward the door. “Mrs. Walsh, may I use your telephone this afternoon? It’s long distance, but I’ll pay the additional fees.” “You’re in luck, Mrs. Taylor. I never owned a phone before I started the charity. You can use it whenever you wish. I know your family is out west.” “They’re in Ontario.” “Yes, out west.” Hettie smiled. I never thought we were westerners. Learn something new everyday. “Thank you.” “Rest now.” Hettie nodded. After Mrs. Walsh left, she glanced at Bessie, and they shrugged.

MABEL CONTRIBUTED REGULARLY to the Canadian Patriotic Fund, so when the housekeeper answered the telephone, Hettie identified herself as a representative of the organization. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to keep her identity a surprise, but it was taking her sister several minutes to come to the phone, and now Hettie’s palms were sweaty. What if, for some reason, Mabel was avoiding the fund? When Mabel’s voice finally could be heard on the other end of the line, Hettie suppressed a sigh. “Hello, this is Mrs. Hill.” Hettie gripped the receiver. “Mabel, I’m home.” “H, H, Hettie?” “Yes. It’s me.” Mabel did not answer. Instead, several clonks sounded, and Hettie realized Mabel dropped the receiver and it was banging against the wall. When Mabel’s voice again could be heard, it was low and quivering. “Where are you?” “I’m in Halifax with Miss Barrow. We’re at her benefactor’s house.” “Her benefactor’s home? Why didn’t you Father, so he could come get you?” Hettie shifted her gaze from the telephone’s wall unit to the rest of the kitchen. “That’s because I’m staying here until Alfred gets home.” “Hettie, no, that could be months. We’ve waited years to see you.” Mabel sounded on the verge of tears, and Hettie bit her lip in an attempt to steady her nerves. “It was all arranged while I was still in Europe,” she said, keeping her tone as

confident as possible. “I have to help Miss Barrow put her life back together. She’s a bosom friend. I can’t go back on my word.” “Hettie.” “Let Mother and Father know. I also have a message from Freddie to along. He says he loves you all and not to worry about him. He has unfinished business.” “What unfinished business, Hettie?” “I need to go, Mabel.” Hettie had the time, yearned to talk longer, but if Mabel was going to prod and lecture, it would start an argument. “What?” Mabel’s voice took on a sense of urgency. “Wait. Hettie.” “Tell Father I’m sorry about Laurier. I’ll ring again soon.” On the verge of hyperventilating, Hettie returned the receiver to the hook. The Halifax Chronical Herald sat on the kitchen table, its unfolded front page exactly where she had left it with its headline announcing the death of former Prime Minister Wilfred Laurier a few days earlier. Hettie imagined her father, Benjamin Steward, a staunch Liberal, reading one of the local newspapers, saddened by the news. Laurier’s death meant an end of an era, which caused even her a twinge of sadness. She only ed two prime ministers: Laurier and Robert Borden. The previous man to hold the office left it when Hettie was not quite four years old. Only a bit more than a year ago, she’d placed her first vote. She, and women like her, now had the power to select which political party would control the nation. Some men claimed women’s brains were too delicate for such a weighty, perhaps even vulgar, decision. But what were men’s brains good for? Sending men to slaughter by the platoon? Perhaps delicacy was exactly what the world needed. She inhaled deeply and nearly laughed.

THE MEAL OF BEEF AND potato with onion smelled delightful, but delight was short lived. Mrs. Walsh was a better than a cook. That much was certain the moment Hettie took a bite and blood filled her mouth. She resisted the urge to gag while she chewed her piece, eyes almost crossing as she watched the blood roll from the carcass toward the potatoes. “Mrs. Taylor,” Mrs. Walsh said, “Mrs. Taylor, are you all right?” Hettie looked up. “Yes, I’m fine.” Other than you’re trying to poison me. “Maybe it’s the smell,” Bessie, who worked at a woman’s hospital after nursing school, said. “Pregnant women develop sensitivities to certain scents.” Mrs. Walsh jumped backward in her seat, nearly knocking over her chair. Whether it was from learning a new fact or, more likely, Bessie’s shocking use of the word “pregnant,” Hettie couldn’t tell. Bessie ignored Mrs. Walsh’s reaction and replaced Hettie’s plate with one containing only onion and potatoes. Hettie picked at the bloodless vegetables with her fork, not quite believing she missed the food served in the medical corps, and yawned. It was about 11:30 p.m. back in . Freddie was probably – Bessie cleared her throat, and Hettie lifted her head. Mrs. Walsh was eagerly devouring her slice of meat. Maybe she actually likes it that way, Hettie thought, lip curling. Disturbing. “Tell us about what’s been happening since the explosion,” Bessie said. “Richmond is nearly completely rebuilt. You should see it. You won’t recognize it. My charity provided blankets and clothing to the homeless. And household goods. Much larger funds provided housing and food, so I tried to provide the day-to-day necessities. When those were filled, I put my sights on those who are chronically poor, those whose lives need rebuilt in a different sense. I have an office downtown.” “I’d love to come and see it someday, and help you.”

“The help would be appreciated.” Hettie, not wanting to be left alone and bored every day, said, “I’d like to help out as well.” “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Walsh said. “Not in your condition.” Hettie’s eyes grew wide. “I’m a hard worker.” “I have no doubts about it, but as a nurse you are well aware of how delicate you are at the moment.” I worked for several weeks in this condition before anyone knew, but you don’t think I can help with your small charity that is meaningless in comparison to what the medical corps did? Unable to utter what she wanted, Hettie said, “Then what am I to do with my time? I cannot remain idol until Mr. Taylor returns. That could be months.” Mrs. Walsh glanced at the wall calendar. “There’s always prayer and reflection. A pious mother es her virtue on to her child. I can help you locate the nearest Presbyterian church. I’m Methodist myself.” Hettie’s mind flashed back to her Sunday school days. The Steward children studied the scriptures at school then debated their interpretation at home. Piety, however, was never one of the goals. Feeling hot, she glanced at Bessie. “Well, if that’s how it’s going to be then I should go home to Barrie now. At least there I won’t be locked inside the house.” “Hettie, please. Not yet,” Bessie said, her voice quivering and face turning pale. “All right,” Mrs. Walsh said. “I’ll find something easy for you to do.” Hettie took a drink and set her glass down slowly. “Here, I was thinking I’d be required to lift boxes.” Bessie smirked, but Mrs. Walsh looked down her nose at her like an eagle eying its prey.

“I’ll have to keep my eye on you,” the elder woman said. “Funny. Mother used to say the same.” Hettie picked up her glass and saluted with it. Bessie suppressed a laugh. Mrs. Walsh gave her the eagle look. Hum, Hettie thought, I’ll have to keep my eye on you. I just hope Alfred gets here soon.

Chapter 3

“N athan and I had a flat here,” Bessie said to Hettie while the pair rode in a taxi toward the area hardest hit by the 1917 Halifax Explosion. “He’d walk to the dock for work. I had to travel farther, but I wouldn’t have lived anywhere else. I’m sorry I don’t have any photographs other than the one I had with me in the medical corps.” Hettie tilted her head as Bessie took a photo out of her purse and held it up. Nathan Barrow was young, wearing what was probably his best suit. His image reminded Hettie of her older brother Walter. The men looked the same age, although Walter was a snappier dresser. “He was very handsome,” Hettie said. “Yes, he cleaned up well. He normally didn’t look like this.” Hettie nodded, finding it odd that Bessie was showing off a photo of Nathan with pride as if he was still alive. In addition, Bessie seemed surprisingly upbeat considering this was the first time she had been back to the Richmond District since leaving home in 1914. The taxi stopped, and Hettie, leather portfolio in hand, exited the vehicle and stood iring the new buildings. The portfolio sat on Hettie’s lap during the entire ride, but Bessie pointed to it as if she was seeing it for the first time. “What do you have there?” It contained newspaper clippings and some “before” photos, so Hettie’s plan was to wait until they reached Richmond District before opening it. “Something Mrs. Walsh gave me for our excursion.” “Why did she give it to you?” Bessie said tone suddenly harsh. “What is it?” Hettie hugged the portfolio to her chest. “All will be revealed in due time.” “You’re exasperating sometimes.” “I know. Shall we?”

Hettie gestured that they should proceed then shoved her hand into her pocket. Her eyes had already begun watering from the assault of wind blowing off the water and across the snow. The sooner this tour was over, the better. Bessie prattled about the neighborhood as they walked, but after only a couple of minutes stopped. “Wait a minute. This doesn’t look like my street. It’s all queer.”

HETTIE OPENED THE PORTFOLIO and took out the first photo. “Should it look like this?” “Yes, that’s it. That’s our apartment house. It was right here. This is where,” Bessie paused as realization struck her, “it once stood. We lived on the third floor.” Hettie compared the photo to the modern building, glancing repeatedly between the two dissimilar structures and trying to imagine where the Barrows once lived. Bessie said the third floor, didn’t she? Hettie and Geoffrey lived on the third floor of a triplex before their enlistment, and she vividly pictured it now – the layout of the rooms, the view from the windows, the sounds, the smells. She almost could hear the gentle squeak of the fan as it attempted to cool the hot apartment that summer, her lush green plants adorning the windowsill beside it. In those days, everything was lush and green, even the unhappy things. She despised the triplex, felt stifled by housework and constantly lamented the fact she was forced to quit her nursing job when she married, but now the thought of what she once considered torturous almost made her smile. Then Bessie spoke, and snapped Hettie back to reality. “We moved in in 1907. Nathan worked for two whole years, living in stairwells to save money for this place while I was at nursing schooling. Nearly everything he earned went into his bank .” They continued walking, Bessie imparting memories as they went. When they reached the dock, however, she fell silent. “I think perhaps we should go,” Hettie said, her toes and fingers numb. Bessie did not answer immediately. “No, not yet. I want to see what else is in the portfolio.” Hettie’s stomach turned. “Bessie, I feel ill. I don’t think—” “Please, I would do it for you.” “Yes, you would.” Hettie ed the portfolio, her hand shaking and the knot in

her stomach tightening. “But we can always come again when the weather is milder.” Bessie opened the portfolio and took out two photos, one of the dock and one of rubble, before removing a pile of newspaper articles. Hettie recognized the top clipping as the one she read in Europe when the explosion occurred. It showed a large smoke cloud over what she now knew was the Richmond District. “That’s here, right here, the dock where Nathan worked,” Bessie said, her cadence becoming increasingly shaky as she went. “He was here. His body was obliterated before he ever knew what was happening. It’s still here, in the water, the soil, the air.” Bessie placed her hand on her forehead and began panting. Eyes focused on the dock, she handed the portfolio back to Hettie, then collapsed to her knees, sobbing. Hettie knew the knot in her stomach had been prophetic. She should have tried harder to stop Bessie. She should have known this would happen. “Bessie, I’m sorry.” Hettie rubbed Bessie’s back, attempting to calm her. “Terrible things happen to good people. War kills innocent people. People who didn’t deserve it. Bessie, please. Let’s go see Mrs. Walsh. You can cry all you want in private. It is frightfully cold here by the water. Did you know your winters are harsher than Barrie’s? You’re further north, you know, and closer to the ocean. I really cannot stand here for long, but I will not abandon you. Please, Bessie.” “May I assist you, ladies,” a man said, halting his horse. Hettie smiled and straightened her posture. “I am terribly sorry. I must apologize for my friend. You see, her brother died in the explosion, and this is her first time back. She was a nurse serving in Europe at the time. As was I. We only recently returned to Canada.” The man tipped his hat. “Then I am beholden to you both. My son served in the war, and had it not been for the care he received when he was injured, he would have died. Certainly, there must be something I can do to repay you.” Hettie stopped rubbing Bessie’s back and took a step forward. If they were leaving the dock anytime soon, she needed to make it happen. “Yes, I believe there might be. Could you provide us transport to an office located on Tower

Road near Victoria Park?” “Certainly, if you don’t mind riding with my deliveries,” he said, pointing over his shoulder to two burlap sacks in the back of the wagon. “We have certainly seen worse. I thank you. My friend does as well.” Hettie tugged on Bessie’s arm. “Come along. We’re going to Mrs. Walsh’s office. Come along. We can’t stay here all day.” Slowly, Bessie rose and accepted the man’s outstretched hand.

DESPITE CRYING THE entire way to the office, Hettie’s arm around her, by the end of the hour Bessie was recounting the driver’s kindness to Mrs. Walsh as if nothing happened. “I gave him a quarter for his troubles,” Hettie said once Bessie finished the story. “That was too much, Mrs. Taylor,” Mrs. Walsh said, shaking her head. “His son was invalided out of the army. I felt sorry,” she said, folding linens while the other women took inventory of supplies. “The government will help our veterans. I’m certain.” Hettie shrugged. “That remains to be seen.” Mrs. Walsh did not offer any evidence to her argument, which proved to Hettie that she was right. There were no guarantees the federal government, deeply in debt, would help anyone now that the Treaty of Versailles was under negotiation. Bessie interrupted the silence that had fallen over the room. “I should go back to Victoria General Hospital and inquire about getting my old job back.” “Why do you want do that, dear?” Mrs. Walsh said, glancing over her notebook. “I need to bring in an income. I have no one to rely on but myself.” “Perhaps try private care. There’s is a need for it.” “I should be very employable with my military experience.” “I might have some money in the fund to hire you for a short while.” Hettie listened to the conversation no further than that sentence. Her mind flashed to the newspaper clipping that showed the explosion’s aftermath. What if the explosion had happened in Kempenfelt Bay instead and destroyed Barrie? She shook her head. That was impossible. Large ships, especially ones carrying ammunition, never entered the bay. Something like the Halifax Explosion could

never happen in her hometown. But what if it did? She could envision the waterfront in flames and downtown destroyed, thick black smoke hovering over the city like a phantasm. What if it had been Freddie at the dock? Or Walter or Tommy? Or any of the Bartlette boys? Tears welled up in her eyes as she imagined the panic, the fear, the confusion, and her hands became unsteady. When the people in Halifax died was there blood in the water? Had it tinted the water red like food coloring? She pictured the dock, bright red creeping out from under it and into the harbor. Such a beautiful color. Hettie glanced at the others then continued folding linens. They hadn’t noticed her agitation. If they did, she would use her standby excuse, her pregnancy, to explain the tears, and neither woman would question her. “Hettie,” Bessie said, “what is your favorite color?” Startled, Hettie wiped her eyes before lifting her head. “Red.” “No, no, no,” Mrs. Walsh said, “red won’t do at all. It must be demure. A red dress will not do.” “A dress for what?” “Haven’t you been listening? A dress for Miss Barrow to wear to a job interview. Red is an opera dress color.” Alice has a lovely red dress, and she’s never been to the opera. “Navy blue then.” “That’s a possibility, but I think brown is more appropriate.” Hettie squinted. Mrs. Walsh always wore brown, by far the most boring of colors, in addition to still wearing ’90s walking suits. This officially made Mrs. Walsh more old fashioned than Mother. Maybe even Grandmother. A car backfired on the street outside the office building, and Hettie flinched. Perhaps the city was exploding again, and there would be blood, copious amounts of blood.

“MAY I ASK YOU SOMETHING, Bessie?” Hettie said that night as they sat in Mrs. Walsh’s front room. “Oh, I wish you would,” Bessie said, putting down her book. “You were so quiet at dinner. I hope you’re not upset about the dress color.” “No.” Hettie shook her head, having forgotten about the dress conversation until that reminder. “You’ll look lovely in brown, I’m certain. No. I have an important question.” Bessie sat forward. “Anything.” Hettie rubbed her stomach. “When the time comes, I want you to be my midwife.” “Women are birthing in hospitals now. Well, many of them.” “Doesn’t matter. I don’t know anyone in Niagara-on-the-Lake. I need someone I can trust.” Bessie smiled, nodding. “All right. I’ll do it. But these things don’t happen on a schedule.” “I understand. You can stay with us. Alfred won’t mind.” Bessie looked at Hettie from the corner of her eye, and Hettie wondered if Bessie knew it was a lie. “Yes, make the arrangements,” Bessie said, opening her book. Hettie nodded. “Oh, one more thing,” she said, barely audibly. “What if I die?” Bessie closed her book. “Why would you die?” “It’s been known to happen.” “Did any of your grandmothers or great-grandmothers or aunts die in childbirth?”

“No.” “Then you won’t either. If you can survive the Great War, you can survive anything.” Hettie swallowed so hard her throat hurt. “What do you think it’s like to die? Is it like they tell us in church, that it’s peaceful and people are rewarded for their good behavior?” “Hettie, where is this coming from?” Tears filled Hettie’s eyes. “When Geoffrey ed, did he—” Her face suddenly ashen, Bessie leaned forward and placed her hand on Hettie’s knee. “No, no, no, Hettie, you cannot fall to pieces. I did plenty of that for both of us today.” Three years ago, Hettie vowed she would not become like her former mother-inlaw, Mrs. Bartlette, crying at the drop of a hat over the tragedy of it all, believing nothing turned out well because everything was destined not only to fail but to fail miserably. Hettie vowed instead to live a full, rich life, free from a lifetime of mourning. Because of this vow, she could not allow herself to behave like Mrs. Bartlette for even one moment. She buried her face in her hands and stomped her feet, before looking up and breathing deeply. “I’m all right now. I really must apologize. I did not allow myself to think such thoughts when Geoffrey was killed. There was too much work to be done. I probably shouldn’t allow myself to think such thoughts now either. They are unfair to Alfred.” “Mourning doesn’t work on a schedule either.” Bessie straightened her posture. “Why not go lie down?” Hettie wasn’t tired, but took the opportunity anyway for some time alone. “All right.” She exited the room, cheeks burning red, and quickly climbed the staircase to their room. How could she allow herself to become so upset? That must never happen again in front of a witness.

Chapter 4

“N o, Mother, I am not coming home. I have an obligation here.” Hettie rested her forehead briefly on the wall beside the telephone. “We have had this conversation before.” “And we will continue to have this conversation,” Lucretia Steward said through the earpiece, “until I understand why on God’s green earth you see fit to spend so much time in Halifax. Do you enjoy torturing your family? Mabel was very upset after you rang last week. She was in tears for hours.” “No. Why do you say that? Why was Mabel crying? Why on earth would Mabel be crying?” “Because you’re not home. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.” Hettie pursed her lips. “Freddie isn’t home yet either. I don’t see Mabel crying about that.” “Your place is here with your family. Everyone says so. Why do you simply not understand that?” “I understand that if I was a son, no one would be saying that. If I was a son, no one would be saying that.” “You really shouldn’t make promises without thinking them through. Your last promise ended up being a four-year commitment. You’re not intending on staying in Halifax for four years, are you? Answer me, Hettie. Are you?” “We will discuss this another time, Mother. The long-distance fees must be outrageous.” Hettie put down the receiver before her mother could respond. Bessie’s eyes were upon her. “You sure have a habit of making your family upset,” she said. “It’s a carefully practiced skill,” Hettie said, sitting beside Bessie at the kitchen table.

Hettie expected Bessie to laugh but instead she placed her head in her hands. “I am exhausted. Mrs. Walsh is providing me work, and I’m grateful, but I seem incapable of keeping a pace nearly half as strict as during the war.” “Times have changed,” Hettie said, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her own words. “Maybe so.” Bessie lifted her head, and her eyes indeed were weary. “What is your mother upset about this time?” “She wants me to wait for Alfred in Barrie instead of here. She says the family has waited long enough for me to return. The conversation was all downhill after that.” “I suppose they must miss you quite a bit.” Bessie looked fixedly out the window, and Hettie followed her glare. The sky was overcast, but she saw nothing that would attract her friend’s attention. “I have to leave for work soon,” Bessie said. “You’ll be okay?” Hettie nodded, although she was unsure. “Go do what you must. I’ll send Mother a letter and sort it all out. That’s the best way anyhow. She can’t argue back.” “I’ll be thinking about you. We can talk more later. I really need the money, or else I’d stay.” “I understand, Bessie. I volunteer for the woman, ? I know you don’t want to live here permanently.” Bessie departed, and Hettie remained in the kitchen until she heard the front door close. Making her way to the front room, she watched from the window until Bessie was out of sight. She waited an additional five minutes, to be certain Bessie wasn’t coming back for something she may have forgotten, and then placed a phone call for a taxi.

HETTIE INSTRUCTED THE taxi driver to take her to the dock in Richmond District and waddled out of the vehicle dressed in so many layers it was difficult to move. The layers kept her insulated from the cold, but they also served the added purpose of hiding her pregnancy. Mrs. Walsh and random strangers often fussed about Hettie being in a “delicate condition,” and she was fearful the driver might refuse her service if her condition were obvious. Body shape aside, she felt no different than before. “Humpt,” she said to herself. How can I be any more delicate carrying a child than I was working at the casualty clearing station?

She made her way to the water’s edge and stood, wind whipping around her, gazing over the harbor due east toward Europe. Oh, Freddie, I wish you were here. I need you, and you’re an ocean away. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat as an image of Freddie entered her mind. When will you be able to come home? “You miss your uncle, don’t you, little one?” she said, feeling a fluttering in her abdomen. “You know it wasn’t supposed to be this way? You were supposed to be Geoffrey’s.” Her ears burned. “No, I shouldn’t say that. It’s not fair to your father.” Alfred, she knew, was preoccupied with feelings of hope. She, meanwhile, had been bedeviled with much different thoughts ever since the war ended. Notions of Geoffrey, of what could have been, constantly permeated her thoughts. They had such grand plans until death intervened. They were going to tour the Continent after the war’s end and then come home, have children and grow old ridiculously happy. Hettie leaned for against a barrel that belonged to a nearby warehouse, the image of Freddie replaced with Geoffrey, but this image was not comforting. Geoffrey would not be coming home. He was never coming home.

Her mind flashed to the memory of a summer day when she and Geoffrey were sitting on a blanket by Kempenfelt Bay, a picnic spread before them, and the clear sky a beautiful azure blue. “So how many children do you want?” Geoffrey had asked. “It’s not how many, Sweetheart,” she had responded. “It’s how healthy they are.” He mulled this over and said, “I think five is a good number. Two boys, two girls and a surprise.” She laughed and playfully threw at him flower petals from the bouquet he had given her. “You’re ridiculous. It didn’t work out that way for my parents. They wanted three to five. Ended up with eight. And it certainly didn’t work that way for yours.” He was silent, refusing to meet her eyes. “Yes, healthy is best,” he said after a moment. “No matter the number I look forward to being a father.” The sound of a tugboat whistle jerked Hettie back to the present where instead of it being warm and sunny, it was cold and threatening. He badly wanted be a father, but he’ll never get that chance. It was stolen from him. Hettie wept, crying the very tears she had forbidden herself to shed. There was always a reason to remain stoic – patients, the professionalism of the medical corps, Alfred’s sake, being in Mrs. Walsh’s presence, so Bessie wouldn’t have a breakdown – but none of those things mattered now. “Ma’am, are you quite all right?” Hettie turned to see an old man walking his dog. She quickly brushed her tears away with her gloved hand. “Yes, I’m in mourning. My husband was killed in the war, and I’m grieved he won’t be returning with the rest of the soldiers.” The man smiled softly. “I lost a son in the war. He died in a different war,

though. The South African War.” The South African War? This man must be around Father’s age. “I’m sorry. My—” She was about to say, “My husband fought in the South African War,” but didn’t want him to confuse the man by bringing up a second husband. “My sympathies,” she said instead. “Does it ever become easier?” He glanced at his feet and the harbor before answering. “Yes, I suppose, but there is always a void. It is different if someone dies of an illness or injury. That is a natural death. War is unnatural. Be thankful you never saw the carnage.” Hettie nodded, not wanting to inform him that she routinely had nightmares about the bleeding and maimed patients that arrived at the clearing station. “I’m missing my brother as well. He’s alive, but still overseas.” The man’s tone grew more cheerful. “He’ll be back soon, just you wait and see.” Tears again stung her eyes. “Yes, I hope so.” “Now best get yourself home. This terrible flu is catchy.” The part of Hettie’s face that was visible above her scarf went anemic. “Don’t tell me,” the man said, “someone you know—” Hettie swallowed hard at the thought of Tommy’s dead wife, Maeve, and her unborn child. “My brother, a different brother, his wife and child both ed.” The man shook his head. “You’ve had it rough, haven’t you?” You have no idea. “Yes, sir. You’ve been helpful.” The man tipped his hat, said goodbye and continued on his way. Hettie turned her face upward. Did you send that man my way, Geoffrey, in lieu of Freddie to give me advice? Very clever.

She barely could move her numb fingers. I suppose I should go. But I feel closer to Freddie here. The further west I go, the further apart we become. Hettie took one final, longing look at the harbor then walked back to the main road.

Chapter 5

Standing beside the window for light, Hettie read her telegram aloud:

Hettie, I have received my demob orders. I should be in Halifax on 20 May, just in time for us to spend your birthday together. Make arrangements to meet. Alfred.

Bessie’s jaw dropped . “How wonderful for you. Does he tell you a time?” “No arrival time.” Hettie inspected the telegram as if the information suddenly would appear. “We’ll have to ring the dock, I suppose.” “May 20th. Oh, my, that doesn’t give us much time. Good thing he sent a telegram. He’d beat a letter here.” “No, not much time at all.” Hettie smiled weakly and did a slow burn of the exterior. “I’ll need a new dress.” “You’ll probably need an entire summer wardrobe.” Leaving the window, Hettie sat across from Bessie and poured a cup of tea. “I’m worried about something. You’ll probably think me silly.” Bessie paused her teacup midway between the table and her mouth before setting her cup back in the saucer. “What is it?” “I’m afraid Alfred won’t find me attractive anymore. When last he saw me, I was much smaller. And what if—” What if appearance is the only thing our relationship is built on? “What if I’m displeasing to him?” “I can never imagine you displeasing anyone.” “Thank you, Bessie.” But really I displease just about everyone. “I’ll have to make sleeping arrangements. Mrs. Walsh won’t want a man in her house.” Bessie’s face went white. “But you can’t leave the moment he gets off the boat!”

“Mrs. Walsh doesn’t have another spare room.” Hettie shook her head. “No, we cannot possibly stay here.” “I knew your stay in Halifax was temporary, but I enjoy you being here.” Hettie took her friend’s hands. “Oh, Bessie, I wish I could take you with us. I’m going to be living in a new town with people I don’t know.” “What about Barrie? Surely your husband will take you to see your family first.” “Yes, Barrie. Barrie isn’t Barrie without Freddie and—” She swallowed. Geoffrey and Maeve. “Freddie will be back soon enough. At least you still have your brother,” Bessie said, pulling her hands from Hettie’s. Hettie ed Nathan and felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. “I’m sorry, Bessie. I’m being selfish. That was cruel of me. I should think before I speak.” “I forgive you. You don’t mean to be cruel. Sometimes I think you forget about my situation.” I always forget. So many thoughts swimming in my brain. Hettie stood and returned to the window. She eyed with envy a slim woman in a pastel dress walk down the alley. I wonder if I’ll look like that ever again. Oh, what will Alfred think of me? He’s expecting that, and he’ll get a walrus. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he’d seen me gradually expand. “Bessie, do you have time to go dress shopping?” “Tomorrow.” Hettie nodded. Not that it matters. I don’t have an address to send the bill to. The store will need to send it to Mother and Father unless I can get the store to extend credit. Ugh. I’m costing my husband money before he’s set a foot back home. Does he know what he’s gotten himself into?

“I’ll miss you terribly,” Bessie said, teacup back in hand but again stopped midmotion. “I’ve seen you every day of my life for the past five years.” “I’m sorry, Bessie. You could move to Niagara-on-the-Lake with us.” “I could, but I won’t. My home is here. Besides your new husband doesn’t want me tagging along.” “No, I don’t suppose so.” Hettie immediately regretted her words when she saw tears welling up in her friend’s eyes. Bessie avoided eye and quickly stood. “Goodness, look at the time. I must get to work.” Before Hettie could respond, Bessie left for work uncharacteristically via the backdoor. Mrs. Walsh only entrusted Hettie with the easiest of tasks, and, as she often was, she was alone with too much free time and too many unresolved emotions. But I won’t be alone for long, will I? Alfred is coming home. It should be Geoffrey coming home, which is not to say Alfred should not be alive, but Geoffrey also should be. I should be starting my life with him. “Look at me,” she said, resuming her pre-war habit of talking aloud to herself when alone. “I said ‘starting my life’ when I’m nearly 27.” She laughed and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Alfred’s coming home, but when will Freddie?”

“IS THIS THE RIGHT DOCK?” Bessie said the afternoon of the 20th as she and Hettie made their way along the docks, quays and piers of Halifax Harbour, the late spring sun beating down on their pallid skin. “Yes, yes, we’ve checked three times.” “Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss him disembark.” “Oh, I won’t miss it.” Hettie moved the newspaper she had bought to read while they waited in front of herself like a shield. “I couldn’t.” “I suppose this must be it. Look at the crowd.” Before them was a throng of women, children and middle-aged couples. Nearly every person was proudly holding a Union Jack, although occasionally the horde was peppered by a Red Ensign. Hettie and Bessie carried nothing but their newspaper, but they did wear white armbands adorned with a red cross to signify they were nursing sisters. A ship’s horn blew in the distance. Bessie elbowed Hettie to get her attention as they carefully edged their way toward the water. “That’s got to be it. Something large just entered the harbor.” Hettie swallowed. Everyone else was smiling and cheering; she wanted to cry. As the ship steamed closer, the crowd grew more ecstatic, but Hettie’s chest heaved, her ribs tight. “Is Daddy here?” she heard the child standing beside Bessie say to his mother. “Of course,” the mother said. “He’ll be so pleased to see how you’ve grown.” Hettie could hear no more of the conversation above the din. Would Alfred be pleased to see how she’d grown? Suddenly quite itchy, she squirmed in her new dress, feeling old fashioned and ridiculous in gingham, before taking Bessie’s hand. Before Hettie realized any time had ed, the ship docked and the gangplank

lowered. A stream of khaki descended, each figure in the stream carrying a duffle bag. How are we supposed to find Alfred? The boy’s mother was reunited with her husband. It didn’t seem as if it took much effort for her to find him. Hettie tugged on Bessie’s hand and, as loved ones were reunited around them, the women maneuvered their way closer to the gangplank. Hettie inspected every face, but the men all looked suspiciously similar. We’ll be here for hours before we find Alfred. What if I plain don’t recognize him? I need to look for rank before face. After much searching, she found a colonel, the wrong colonel. She was about to tell Bessie it was hopeless when she identified a familiar face and, forgetting all decorum, pointed. Recognition spread across Alfred’s face, as he, too, spotted them. Clenching both Bessie’s hand and the newspaper, Hettie worked her way toward him, wondering all the while if she was on the verge of fainting. “Hettie, is that you?” Alfred said. “Yes, dear, it’s me,” she said, head titled upward. “Well, then, let me see you.” Ignoring her protests, Alfred snatched the newspaper. “What’s this?” Bessie let go of Hettie’s hand just when she needed the most reassurance. Without the newspaper shield, she felt naked and exposed. She forced a smile. “Oh, I bought it as a souvenir to mark the day.” Alfred believed this explanation and placed his hand on her stomach. “May I kiss you?” “Of course. You’re my husband,” she said, more as a reminder to herself than a means of giving permission. Alfred kissed Hettie, and it felt simultaneously strange and familiar. She felt her cheeks blush and withdrew to meet his eyes. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Hettie. I’ve thought of nothing else for

months.” “I, I,” Hettie paused, not knowing how to respond, seeing as her thoughts had been elsewhere. “I missed you, Alfred.” “We have a lot to catch up on, but first I’d like to change into civilian clothes.” “Change clothes?” Hettie glanced at Bessie. They had spent an entire business day shopping for Hettie’s new wardrobe, obsessing over every detail, but hadn’t once considered that Alfred also would need new clothes. “Well, you don’t think I’m going to stay in this, do you? After 20 years in the permanent force, I’d like to wear something else.” Hettie nodded in agreement before smiling at Bessie. Wait until Alfred learns we haven’t arranged sleeping quarters. “Yes, well, Bessie knows where the department stores are.” The majority of the soldiers had been ushered quickly from the dock to embark on their train ride west, while the soldiers who had been reunited with their loved ones were leaving for home. Within scant few minutes the crowd shrank significantly. The only people who seemed to be lingering were nationalists who arrived at the dock to show patriotic for the troops. “I’m tired of looking at this ship,” Alfred said. “Let’s go.” He offered Hettie his arm, which she took. It brought to mind memories of walking arm-in-arm with Geoffrey through Barrie’s streets. No, don’t think this way. You cannot dwell on despair. I’m Mrs. Taylor now. This is my life. This is the man whose arm I’m holding forever. I must try to be a good wife or at least a fair one.

YES, THERE WERE ONLY two ways Hettie had ever seen Alfred: in his uniform or, like now, completely out of it, his new suit spread neatly on top of Mrs. Walsh’s dresser. The older woman insisted the couple take her room while they arranged age west, but it smelled strongly of rose perfume and for the first time since arriving in Halifax, Hettie was eager to leave. “I was frightened for you to see me again,” Hettie said, her voice low, as she laid in his arms. Alfred caressed her forearm. “Why?” “My body is grotesque.” “You’re expecting. It’s temporary. Only two months left.” “Three as far as everyone else is concerned. Maybe four and a half.” Alfred chuckled. “What difference does the timing make?” “It makes a tremendous amount of difference,” she said, her temperature rising. “Well, my parents are too old to our wedding date. It’s your family you must worry about.” She pictured her parents’ scorn. “Is that supposed to be comforting?” “It’ll be all right. I made arrangements for our homecoming. We’ll spend some time in Barrie then travel to Niagara-on-the-Lake where we’ll live in a hotel until we find a house.” “Why won’t we be staying on your family’s estate?” “I wouldn’t advise it,” Alfred said in a tone that reminded Hettie of how he spoke about military engagements during the war. “I may have reconciled with them, but it’s still a hostile situation.” “That’s reassuring.” “It’s not meant to be. Depending on how it goes, we might not even stay. I left

once. I’m willing to leave again.” Hettie shifted her weight. Great, so we’ll be homeless with a newborn? “I’m sorry.” Alfred stopped caressing her arm and intertwined his fingers in hers. “This isn’t the time to be discussing this. I’ve made you uneasy.” “Everything lately makes me uneasy. There’s too much uncertainty.” She shook her head. “How?” “How what?” “How are we supposed to live this postwar life after everything we’ve seen and done?” “One day at a time, I suppose.” Alfred kissed her forehead. “I missed you, my beautiful wife. We spent too little time together after the wedding.” Hettie trembled slightly ing their wedding day. They wore their dress uniforms, and a military chaplain married them. Freddie, Bessie and Charlotte were there and a few others, but the ceremony lasted mere minutes. The reception was dinner at a restaurant, their honeymoon a stay at a hotel, and after five days, Alfred left for occupation duty in while Hettie returned to the casualty clearing station. Five days wasn’t a marriage by any stretch of the imagination. She and Geoffrey have been married only three months when they left to do their duty. Three months and five days, that was her entire tenure as a wife. Alfred silently pulled up the blanket and tucked it around them, and Hettie knew he mistook her trembling for shivers. “Alfred, were you at Camp Valcartier?” she said, wondering if he encountered Geoffrey there but unable to ask directly. “I was in the Princess Patricia’s. I left at a different time. I was transferred to the First Division in May ’15, not long after—” “Second Ypres. You were replacing some officer who was killed?” “Yes, I would imagine. You were there, you know.”

“I know all too well.” Hettie snuggled against Alfred, trying to shake the memory of witnessing Geoffrey’s death from her mind. “Now that you’re home, I’m hoping Freddie will return soon.” “You need to stop feeling guilty for his actions. He chose the medical corps.” “Oh, I am aware.” Freddie was a conscientious objector, although Alfred was unaware of this. “But the family is incomplete.” “It won’t be that way forever. Everyone will be shipped home. No one is staying on.” “That’s good. I’ve had enough of Europe.” “We’re starting a new life, Hettie. It’s a brand new world.” Hettie swallowed hard. She said nothing and snuggled closer, closing her eyes. What happens if you miss the old world and don’t want a new one?

“If you’re tired, I’ll let you sleep.” “That would be nice. This motherhood business is incredibly tiring.” “I’ll come get you for dinner,” he said. “I shouldn’t sleep for long.” Hettie watched with half-closed eyes as Alfred dressed in his new suit and left, closing the door softly. The moment she heard the click of the latch, her eyes shot open and tears formed. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. It was supposed to be Geoffrey coming home and Geoffrey’s baby and— No, Hettie, stop it. It’s not fair to Alfred who loves you and who is very much alive. It’s been too long. She began to sob. No, stop, stop, stop. They’ll know you were crying. Hettie attempted to sleep, for real this time, but her thoughts were racing and no matter how much she tried, no rest came. Finally, she dressed and examined herself in the dresser mirror. There were dark circles under her eyes, but

thankfully she appeared more tired than upset. “You need to get it together,” she said aloud. Hettie took several deep breaths. Okay, now get out there and act the part.

She forced herself to smile and left the room.

Chapter 6

“D o you need anything else, madam?” “No, that’ll be all. Thank you,” Hettie said, taking a steaming teacup from the train’s steward and lifting it gingerly to her lips. The steward bowed slightly, leaving her alone in the car with a sleeping Alfred. The landscape outside the rapidly accelerating train was increasingly familiar. Hettie traveled this route many times before, the last time being August 1914. That day, she and Geoffrey were traveling in the opposite direction – she on her way to undergo training with the nursing service and he for infantry training at Camp Valcartier in Quebec. For a precious moment, in her imagination it was 1914 again. “This was the best decision we’ve ever made,” Geoffrey said that afternoon nearly five year ago, flashing her a brilliant smile. She turned to her husband and returned his grin. “What a grand adventure it will be.” “I’m so glad you decided to do this with me.” “Anything for you, Sweetheart,” Hettie said and laughed slightly, because truth was she would have sold her soul to be a nurse again. The teacup scalded Hettie’s fingers, causing the memory to fade. She set the cup down on the tray and took another peek outside. Oh, if only Geoffrey were here. He deserves to see this. “Are we nearly there?” Alfred said. His hat had been covering his face, but now he was examining her with quizzical eyes. She shook her head. “It won’t be long, no.” “Do I look all right?” “What?” she said, wrinkling her brow.

“I want to make a good impression with your family. Do I look presentable?” “Of course,” she said, touching her teacup and regretting purchasing a beverage when her bladder currently felt the size of a pea. “I should think, considering our association with the Bartlettes, that my family would be above judging a person by their clothing.” “That’s good to know, because mine isn’t.” What did that mean? To please her in-laws, she be would forced to wear an elaborate costume that required a servant to dress her? Or did it mean no matter what she wore, it would be critiqued? Hettie broke eye and pushed her teacup aside, having lost all taste for it, before yet again turning her attention to the ing landscape. The more I hear about the Taylors, the less I want to meet them.

HETTIE BREATHED A SIGH of relief when she saw that Ida Morris, her eldest sister, not only was waiting at the train station but appeared little changed from five years earlier. She was now 33, but the only visible change was her wardrobe and a few gray streaks in her hair. Ida’s hem was high enough to show off a bit of leg, while her hat was cocked at a jaunty angle over her chin-length hair, giving Hettie the impression of self-assurance. “Hettie, is that you?” Ida said after a moment of unrecognition. “The one and only.” Ida grabbed Hettie’s hands but kept her at arm’s length. “It’s so strange seeing you again and then to see you like this. And we must mob your hair. You’ll find it very liberating and so much easier to take care of.” Hettie bristled when she heard “and then to see you like this” and responded with the only polite thing she could muster. “We had regulations in the nursing service.” “I’m sure you did, but you’re free again now.” Ida glanced sideways. “And this must be your husband.” The moment she spotted Ida, Hettie forgot all about Alfred, and she blushed. “Oh, yes, of course. I forgot you haven’t seen so much as a photograph.” She made the introductions, and Alfred and Ida shook hands. Ida smiled and put her hand on Hettie’s lower back while stretching her other arm in the direction of the road. “Well, no point standing here any longer. I’ll take you to our driver.” Ida informed them of the recent weather and the drive to the train station, but never once mentioned the driver by name. When they reached the street, an oddly familiar young woman leaned against a shiny new Ford. Hettie squinted. “Alice?” She smirked when she realized it was indeed Alice Viens, the penultimate

Steward sibling. When Hettie set last eyes on her, Alice had recently celebrated her 16th birthday. For years, the only thing Alice looked forward to was being old enough to wear long skirts and pin up her hair, yet here she was with a skirt no longer than it was when she was 15 and her hair as short as Ida’s. Alice abandoned her post by the car and ran to Hettie, enveloping her in a firm hug. “Alice, you’re our driver?” Hettie said. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Walter taught me how a few years back.” It took Hettie a moment to process two facts that struck her as unusual. Alice was a woman and a licensed driver? “What does Mr. Viens think?” Alice smiled. “It’s marvelous. You’ll really need to learn. Gardner won’t let Mabel, and Ida is too lazy, and Adelaide, well—” Ida took off her hat and swatted Alice with it. “I am not too lazy. Where am I going to go?” “Anywhere. You could have picked up Hettie yourself, but noooooo you refuse to learn. Really, stop being so old fashioned.” “Old fashioned? Grandmother still wears a bustle on special occasions.” “Grandmother is 80. Anyone who lives that long can dress any way she wishes.” Hettie wondered what Alfred thought of this exchange. She wasn’t sure what to make of it herself. Ida and Alice in the flesh! Alice said, “Hettie, you have the queerest expression on your face. What are you thinking?” “I haven’t been home but 10 minutes, and I have one sister changing my hair and another ordering me to learn how to drive.” “And you haven’t even seen Mother yet.” Alice indicated the car. “Shall we?”

They piled into the vehicle, and as Alice sped toward Mr. and Mrs. Steward’s house, Alfred put his arm protectively around Hettie’s waist. He was, however, uncharacteristically silent. She swallowed, unsure if the feeling in the pit of her stomach was anticipation or fear or perhaps a strange combination of both. “Mother is angry with me?” Hettie said, after what felt like miles but was in reality half a block. Ida and Alice answered, speaking over each other. Ida said, “I doubt that” while Alice said, “Mother is always angry with you.” Alfred glanced at Hettie but maintained his silence. “Well, is she or isn’t she?” Hettie said. “Depends on her mood,” Ida said, turning so she could look into the backseat, “but a lot less now than in past years. Mother still has vigor, but she’s aged considerably. She’s not frail, though, like Father.” “Frail?” “Well, not frail exactly, but his rheumatism is quite bad. He uses a cane nearly all the time.” Benjamin occasionally relied on a cane before the war, but Hettie could not imagine him hobbling about permanently. Such an infirmity was reserved for the battlefield wounded. At the casualty clearing station, she knew those men only as bedridden patients, but after the war, she saw them constantly in England. Some were hobbling about with canes. Others were wheelchair bound. Still others were missing limbs or faces. The very worst facial wounds necessitated plastic surgery, but those patients rarely were seen in public. Hettie visited the wounded at a hospital in England, but once the medical corps learned she was pregnant, she was not permitted to return out of fear the shock of seeing the maimed would cause a miscarriage. “Hettie,” Ida said, “you’ve gone pale.” Not wanting to tell Ida the truth, Hettie forced a smile. “Too much travel. Or maybe it’s Alice’s driving.”

“If you don’t like my driving, blame Walter,” Alice said, ing a delivery truck and turning onto a street Hettie knew intimately. How many times had she walked this neighborhood? It wasn’t long before their parents’ gothic revival home, trees in the front yard and pink roses under the windows, appeared in the distance like a dream. Her childhood home was beautiful, but returning meant facing Mother and Father. How could she answer their questions about her wartime decisions, when she no longer was certain she could defend them? Hettie grabbed Alfred’s hand and clenched it so tightly her knuckles grew white. “Don’t worry,” Ida said. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you, so no one else is here. But be forewarned, a tea is planned for tomorrow afternoon, followed by a family party the next day.” Alice parked the car and honked the horn. The front door to the house opened, and an elderly couple stepped onto the porch. It took Hettie a moment to recognize they were her parents. Lucretia was in the lead – her skirts and hair still long – while Benjamin, as Ida had warned, was leaning against a cane. They were dressed in black, and Hettie ed with a gulp that it because they were still in the mourning period for Maeve. Hettie exited the car, steadying herself on Alfred’s arm, and wishing she had a large object to hide behind. “Alfred, those are my parents. It’s been nearly five years. They might embarrass me.” “I’m beginning to see why you might say that.” She shot him a glance while Alice and Ida, chatting away, walked up to the house and climbed the steps to the porch. They no doubt thought Hettie was following, but she stood, seemingly unable to move, near Alice’s car. Benjamin and Lucretia instead came to her. “Well, don’t just stand there like a statue,” Lucretia said. “Come. Let us see you.” Hettie’s heart palpitations were so severe she thought she might collapse. Alfred

elbowed her gently, and she took a few steps at a time until she found herself enveloped in Lucretia’s arms, the scent of lilac soap tickling her nostrils as her chin rested on her mother’s shoulder. Wasn’t Mother embarrassed the neighbors might see? “Hettie, my girl,” Benjamin said before he, too, embraced her. Was it possible? How was it possible? Her parents had forgiven her! Hettie burst into tears. Her father squeezed harder, his breath shallow, and her mother also began to cry. The fetus inside Hettie stirred, and she smiled, knowing it was warmed by this reconciliation. Hettie never wanted the embrace to end, but eventually it did, and she ed she had an introduction to make. “Mother, Father, this is my new husband, Alfred Taylor.” “New indeed,” Lucretia said, outstretching her hand in such a way that Alfred’s only option was to kiss it. “We’ve been left wondering what you look like.” “My apologizes, ma’am,” Alfred said, kissing the offered hand before shaking Benjamin’s. There was an awkward pause as Benjamin shifted his cane from one hand to another. “Welcome,” he said. “Please, come in.”

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON’S tea was held in the Stewards’ sitting room. Ida, Mabel and Dorothea, Walter’s wife, were in attendance. Alice was home ill, while Adelaide, the youngest Steward, was in Toronto for school. Benjamin, Walter and Hettie’s brothers-in-law, James and Gardner, had ushered Alfred away and he was probably enduring the same sort of interrogation Hettie was experiencing. “I don’t understand why you had to wait in Halifax for three months instead of here while you were waiting for Mr. Taylor’s demobilization,” Lucretia said. “Especially in your condition.” “I’m not an invalid, even in my condition. I was helping Miss Barrow get her life back in order,” Hettie said, her eyes hard. “And his name is Alfred.” “It doesn’t mean anything to me. Before you came home, I hadn’t so much as set eyes on him. I cannot be on such familiar with someone I do not know.” “Well, we were thousands of miles away, Mother. I’m sorry you couldn’t attend the wedding.” “I’m not cross with you, Henrietta. I simply do not think it’s appropriate to be on a first name basis yet.” Hettie said nothing in response, and Lucretia continued, “Before you leave for Niagara-on-the-Lake you must go see Mrs. Bartlette.” Dorothea set her teacup down and said in a tone reminiscent of Alice, “She wants to meet the man you replaced Geoffrey with.” Lucretia shot her an angry glance. “Dorothea!” “Well, that’s what Mrs. Bartlette believes, and I think Hettie deserves to know.” Feeling sick, Hettie placed her hand on her growing abdomen and felt the life inside her stir. Mabel and Alice also were expecting, but only Hettie’s pregnancy was visible.

Her sisters were still enviably thin. A visit to Mrs. Bartlette’s seemed like the worst possible thing to do at the moment. Wouldn’t it make the situation worse? “Is that really why she wants to see me?” Hettie said. “I wouldn’t say that exactly.” Lucretia glanced at the others. “Mrs. Bartlette is hurting. It seems she is forever mourning someone and—” “And she expected me to stay forever in mourning, too?” “Please, do not interrupt. No, she did not expect you to mourn forever, but she did expect you to wait until you came home to remarry.” Hettie’s hand shook, clanging her teacup against the saucer. “No one approves. I understand.” She set the china on the table and stood. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m going to Niagara-on-the-Lake; although, from what I hear, no one approves of my marriage there either.” Hettie stood so quickly she felt faint and swayed. Mabel and Ida gasped, both jumping up to grab Hettie by the elbows and get her safely seated again. Ida tossed back her bobbed hair and looked daggers at Lucretia. “We’ve had enough of this topic, don’t you think?” “I think so, too,” Mabel said. “Something more pleasant, perhaps. Something worthy of a homecoming.” Before Lucretia and Dorothea could respond, the housekeeper entered carrying a fresh pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. She set her tray down, wiped her hands on her apron and quickly retreated. Not recognizing her, Hettie followed her with her eyes. “Mrs. Norris retired and went to live with her nephew’s family,” Lucretia said as if reading Hettie’s thoughts. “When?” “Oh, a while ago. Three years maybe.”

Mrs. Norris is the only housekeeper we have ever employed, and she retires and no one bothers to mention this to me? Was it that mundane and unimportant? Mabel smiled and ed Hettie the plate of sandwiches. “Tommy is moving to Toronto, have you heard?” Hettie shook her head. “No, he’s barely speaking to me.” “Oh,” Mabel said, her cheeks flushed. Apparently, she only now ed Tommy was angry at Hettie for surviving the flu when Maeve had not. “Well, tell her why,” Lucretia said. “He’s going to university to study architecture. He’s gotten a job there as well. He says there is more opportunity there. And Freddie—” Hettie felt the old familiar, wartime feeling of dread overcome her. “What about Freddie?” “Please, do not interrupt, Henrietta. He’s made a career decision as well. He’d like to become a detective.” “He hasn’t mentioned anything to me.” “You have enough to worry about, dear. Besides I don’t think he quite knew how to get ahold of you while you were in Halifax. At least you’ll have a permanent mailing address again.” Mabel smiled again. “Freddie’s also taking classes at Khaki University. Subjects he says will help him later on.” Khaki University was a school established in 1917 to help troops fight boredom by allowing them to take elementary through university level classes. Since Freddie already had a high school diploma, he qualified for the highest-level courses. “Good for him. Father must be proud.” Hettie shut her eyes and tried to imagine Freddie studying. “You know,” Lucretia said in a quiet tone, “Father is proud of you both. And while he doesn’t think the ends justified the means, he’s proud of this country

and what can be accomplished when we all work together. This nation is like our family. We don’t always agree, but we’re proud to be part of it.” Hettie opened her eyes. “Is that true?” “Of course. I wouldn’t tell you something simply to make you feel better. He’s a proud man. He probably won’t be able to bring himself to tell you on his own.” Hettie hung her head. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mother.” “We have always argued, child. You know this household encourages debate.” Lucretia placed her hand on Hettie’s. “You’re home now, and you’re safe. That’s what’s important. We are very dissimilar people and probably always will be. I don’t expect our arguing to stop simply because we’ve had this conversation.” “I understand, Mother. When should I call on Mrs. Bartlette?” “Whenever you feel you can persuade that new husband of yours to visit your late husband’s mother.” Hettie wrinkled her brow.

“PART OF ME IS INCREDIBLY excited whereas the other part is terrified,” Hettie said, attaching a pin to her bosom and flinching after she accidently pricked her finger. “Why is that?” Alfred said, his image appearing behind hers in the mirror. She sighed. “So many reasons. My family disagreed with my decision to follow Mr. Bartlette to Europe. They disagreed with my decision to stay. My parents have forgiven me, yes, but they are my parents. I don’t expect anyone else to have such charity. Tommy, for instance, is angry at me for surviving the influenza when Maeve did not.” “That’s a ridiculous thing to be angry about. He should be happy he didn’t lose you both.” “Tell Tommy that. Well, not literally.” Hettie turned. “Best go and make an appearance and get it over with.” “Who is coming?” Alfred said, running his hands over her shoulders. “All of them.” Alfred shrugged. “All of them?” “Well, not Adelaide, of course; she’s away at school,” Hettie said, her cadence picking up pace with every syllable. “It’s an open house. They come and go as they please, and Father’s family is in Hamilton so everyone you meet will be a Goodwin, Mother’s side, by marriage or birth, for good or bad.” He shook his head. “Did you know you have a habit of speaking incredibly quickly whenever you’re nervous? You’re doing it now.” “Am I?” Hettie opened her parents’ guest bedroom door and heard voices echoing down the corridor from downstairs. Her cheeks hot, she immediately shut the door, leaning against it. “I wish Freddie were here.” “Do you need Freddie?”

“I always need Freddie.” Alfred sighed. “Let’s go. I simply must see these relations of yours that you simply cannot face without your brother at your side.” He placed his hand on hers and together they turned the doorknob. Downstairs, the voices hushed when someone began playing the parlor piano. “See,” he said, “there’s a musical introduction.” Hettie tipped her foot upright and dug her heel into the seam between two floorboards. Everyone will be staring at me. She folded her hands in front of her waist, as she had been taught to do as a child, and wished her hands could transform into wings so she could fly away. A thousand different thoughts floating through her head, Hettie had no recollection of the walk to the parlor. When she and Alfred entered the room, the family’s attention was on the piano player, Dorothea, as she tickled the keys with her delicate hands and sang a pop tune. Walter stood beside her, wearing a tan suit that Hettie recognized as his favorite, while an unknown little boy sat beside Dorothea on the piano bench. “Oliver?” Hettie said. Dorothea stopped playing, and everyone followed her gaze to the guest of honor. “Why, yes,” Dorothea said, “this is Oliver. Come meet your nephew.” Hettie encroached into the room, everyone’s eyes upon her, and feeling as if their googling was burning holes into her skin. She also wondered why it was Dorothea, not Walter, who had answered her question. Please, don’t tell me I have two brothers who are cross with me. The toddler, now also the centre of attention, clenched his mother, his eyes growing wider and his lip quivering. Benjamin thumped his cane against the floor, prompting Walter to approach Hettie and take her elbow. “Allow me to make the introduction.” Walter picked up Oliver who promptly

hide his face. “Hettie, this is your nephew Oliver. Ollie, this is your Aunt Hettie, my sister. Say hello, Ollie.” Oliver briefly lifted his head and waved. Walter lowered him to the floor, and the little boy ran to his mother. Walter guided Hettie to Mabel and her children. “These are Mabel’s sons, Charles and William.” Charles babbled about his toys, and Hettie, not knowing what else to do, patted him on the head. Mabel handed William to her, and a baby’s weight felt alien in her arms. As soon as it seemed polite to do so, she handed him back, silently questioning her own ability to be a parent when she was accustomed to bandaging bodies not diapering babes. “And here,” Walter said, moving on to Ida, “are Agnes, Beatrice and Cordelia. Do you recognize them?” Hettie blinked. Not only didn’t she recognize her nieces, she could not what they looked like five years ago either. “So you allowed Alice to re-pierce your ears?” Ida said before Hettie could answer Walter’s question. “It must feel odd to have hoops in your lobes again after so long.” “Most things feel odd,” Hettie said and forced herself to upturn the corners of her lips in an attempt to hide the truth in her statement. Ida nodded, but Hettie knew she didn’t actually understand. How could Ida know what it was like to be a foreigner in your own family? Walter returned to Dorothea’s side, and the crowd again began to socialize. Hettie made her rounds, greeting relatives, thanking them for coming and introducing Alfred. “Grandmother, I’m sorry to have missed your birthday party,” Hettie said when she reached Rose, her last remaining grandparent. The elderly woman rose from her chair with an air of royalty and took Hettie’s hands. Two days ago, the sisters had commented that Rose still wore a bustle on

special occasions and, sure enough, today she was wearing one. Alice winked at Hettie from across the room. “It’s all right,” Rose, said, squeezing Hettie’s hand as tightly as she could. “What’s important is that you made it home safely. Now we just need to get Freddie home, too.” Hettie’s chest tightened, and she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes, that would be wonderful.” “You will come have tea with me soon, won’t you?” “Of course, Grandmother.” Hettie kissed her grandma on both cheeks and steeled herself to speak to Tommy, but before she could cross the room, she was stopped by the very person who had made her enlistment in the Nursing Service possible. “Uncle Steven! I’m happy to see you.” “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, winking, “so my efforts were not in vain.” Hettie took his hands, her gratitude overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility. “I’m sorry you lost your town councilor seat.” “No need to apologize.” He shook his head. “The universe had it in for me the moment war was declared. A Liberal’s opinion would not stand.” He laughed but stopped when he noticed Alfred standing a few feet behind his niece. She made the introductions and, as the men shook hands, felt Tommy’s eyes upon her. “If you excuse me, I really must speak to my brother.” Hettie smiled at Steven before inhaling and traversing the room. What was perhaps a dozen feet felt like several miles. Tommy said nothing when she approached, his face a mask, betraying nothing, and forcing her to start the conversation. “I’m happy to see you here, Tommy,” she said, her expression serious.

“Mother told me my presence was required.” Mother told you? Don’t you have a mind of your own? “I’m truly sorry about Maeve. I loved her, too.” “I know. You told me already, in a letter, ?” “Yes.” She started to put her hand on his arm but pulled back. “I wanted to tell you in person as well because it’s important.” Tommy focused on the floor. “Nothing is important anymore.” “Postwar life is ... complicated.” “Brave new world, my ass.” “Excuse me?” Tommy made eye , his stare steely and defiant. “It’s something Mother keeps saying. She keeps quoting Shakespeare. ‘O, brave new world to have such people in it.’” “Mother is going about quoting Shakespeare?” “Yes, but only those lines.” He didn’t elaborate, and Hettie was ready to walk away when he added, “You really have missed much.” “I am well aware. More than you’ll ever know.”

A few hours later, feet aching, Hettie collapsed onto the window seat at the back of the house. She closed her eyes, mentally transporting herself back to the casualty clearing station. The family’s jumble of polite voices transformed into an urgent cacophony, and her relative’s delicate footwear now the clomp of medic’s boots and nurses’ heels dashing to and fro. Her nephew’s crying became a patient in pain. That was what was comforting and familiar, not piano concertos and open houses, fashion and finger sandwiches. “I imagine this is all overwhelming,” a male voice said. Hettie opened her eyes to find Benjamin sitting beside her. “It is a bit...disconcerting. I mean, I grew up here – this is my home – but I feel so uncomfortable.” Benjamin did not respond immediately and instead twirled his cane between his hands. “Come with me.” He gestured down the hallway, and Hettie begrudgingly followed, feeling as if she were a child about to be lectured. They entered Benjamin’s study, and Hettie marveled at how it was even more disorganized than it had when she left. Publications were absolutely everywhere as were composition books and the occasional pen or pencil. “You may sit,” he said. Hettie removed a stack of books from the chair in front of Benjamin’s desk and sat. He, however, perched on edge of the desk. Whether it was because his chair also was full of books or because he had another reason, she did not know. “Father, why are we here?” “I have something important to tell you. It’s not easy, so bear with me.” He paused. “I believe I understand why you and Freddie made the decisions you made. The need to help overcame the desire not to be directed about by a colonial power and, as much as I don’t like to it it, this war did thrust our child nation into adolescence.” “Freddie is a conscientious objector,” Hettie said before ing Freddie

had sworn her to secrecy and sucked in her cheeks to stop herself from saying more. “I am aware. But I didn’t come to this conclusion on my own. Walter told me.” “How did Walter know?” Benjamin shrugged. “He claimed everyone knew.” “I didn’t know until Freddie alluded to it. I was preoccupied, but I should have known.” “Hettie.” Benjamin placed his hand on her shoulder. “I cannot imagine what your life has been like over the past five years, being away from home, losing Geoffrey, witnessing the stream of human carnage.” Hettie swallowed. “It was not something I would have ever dreamed would happened to us, to the world.” “I am very sorry you had to endure what you did. I have something else to say also. Perhaps more difficult than the first. I was wrong. You – and your brother – have the right to think for yourself and do as your conscious directs.” Her parents did not apologize often. Hettie sat motionless, unclear how to respond. “Thank you, Father.” “That’s all. I thought you should know. You can go the others now.” Hettie stood and paused briefly to examine clearly her father before leaving the room. He was leaning on his cane, weak, fragile as Ida said he would be. I don’t know what happened in the intervening years, but this is not the Father I know. He is a shell of a man. And I am a shell of a woman, only in a much different way. She returned to the window seat, wishing all her well-meaning relatives would disappear. She didn’t care to hear niceties, no matter how sincere. Alfred was somewhere in the house, having forgotten all about her, and Freddie, Freddie. Her eyes became misty. “There you are,” Mabel said, seemingly materializing out of nowhere. “I

wondered where you went.” “Oh, yes.” Hettie fidgeted with her wedding ring, avoiding eye until her eyes dried. “Father wanted to show me something in his study.” “Yes, he is awfully proud of his newest books.” “Father loves his books.” Hettie swallowed hard. “I’ll be quick. You seem tired.” Mabel sat and placed her hand on Hettie’s wrist. “I wanted you to know something. And I felt it was best to wait until you were home and tell you in person as opposed to in a letter. Mrs. Bartlette saved her money and purchased a memorial stone for Geoffrey. It’s not too far from where Maeve is buried. She hopes it meets with your approval.” Hettie nearly pulled off her ring. “My approval?” “Say you like it, no matter what.” Hettie shook her head but said nothing. Say that I like it no matter what? Why wouldn’t I like it? “You should go get some rest. I’m sure the family will be here for a while yet.” “Yes, I think I should.” Hettie stood. “My apologies to everyone.” Happy to leave the family behind for solitude, Hettie headed toward the back staircase.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the sun beating down on her head, Hettie ambled through the desolate cemetery, alone except for the grave markers and the squirrels and birds. She held her hat, the brim lightly brushing up against the periodic wildflower or Queen Anne’s lace. To the casual observer, her path would seem haphazard and circuitous, but it had an intended purpose. First, she stopped to see Uncle Jeremy, who died in 1877, then her grandfather Lewis Goodwin, who died in 1905, and finally Uncle Oscar who died in 1917. She placed a rose from Grandmother’s garden on each of the graves, content in the belief that the deceased were grateful for her visit. Her face turned sullen as she approached her end destination – the part of the cemetery containing all the graves added since 1914. As she followed Mabel’s directions, Hettie read the names and death dates on the stones. It was clear Spanish flu had taken its toll, and a shiver ran up her spine. Hettie found a stone that read: Maeve Steward “Our Sunshine” 1896-1918. “Oh, Maeve. I wish I had been here, so Tommy wouldn’t be cross with me. Then maybe he would understand how disease works. It doesn’t always take or spare the people we think it should.” She gently placed the next rose on the ground. “This is for you. Newly bloomed.” Hettie had more to say but couldn’t as her lip trembled and her eyes were filled with tears. She glanced over both shoulders, pulse quickening, and nearly dropped her hat. There, glistening in the sun, was Geoffrey’s memorial stone. Mabel said it wasn’t far. Maeve’s marker was a traditional upright gravestone, but the memorial stone was a waist-high obelisk. When she touched the granite, surprisingly warm against her skin, the tears were so thick, she barely could see. She sat beside it, wiped the tears her cheeks and ran her fingers along the etching. “Geoffrey Bartlette. 1890-1915. Canadian Expeditionary Force. Second Ypres.” For a moment, Hettie was back in Ypres, a bead of sweat rolling down her brow.

There were countless wounded, arriving at a faster rate than they could be treated. The dead crowded the yard, and blood stained her apron multiple times as if in a pattern, its color reminding her of raspberry jam. The chaplain read the same psalm repeatedly: “Lo I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” Bong, bong, bong. The bell’s persistent ringing signaled ambulances were approaching. Make it stop. Make it stop. Hettie covered her ears to block out the sound, and when she removed her hands, the only hubbub was birds chirping. The morning after Geoffrey’s death, she wandered the yard among the dead, still wearing her fluid stained apron and her medical mask hanging about her neck like a choker. The bodies were lined up so close together, she was forced to take baby steps or risk accidently stepping on one. She knew what section Geoffrey was in, and through the process of elimination, surmised his location. She checked every body in that section, lifting sometimes two sheets at a time to peer underneath, before she found him. His pale blue face never regained its natural skin tone after the chlorine gas attack, and the bloodstain from his bullet wound was larger than she had initially thought. In that moment, she ed when he arrived at the clearing station and how when she pulled her hand away from his side, it came away red, his life’s blood on her skin. She knelt. “Oh, Geoffrey,” she said both in her flashback and reality, “why did you leave me? We were supposed to spend the rest of our lives together. You were my one and only. You felt you weren’t good enough for me, that you were beneath my station, but you were never inferior. What am I supposed to do now?” Today, the weeping began anew, tears hot and stinging, until she could not breathe, but on that day in 1915 she had been unable to cry, her body and mind numb and incapable of processing or feeling a thing. A horn blew. In 1915, it was an approaching ambulance tooting its arrival. In 1919, it was simply a motorist on the road honking after a near collision with a bicyclist. Hettie’s eyelids shot open. The bicyclist appeared to be wearing khaki. She sprung to her feet, but it was not a soldier. It was merely a man in a tan suit. She ed Alfred and how she left the house without telling him where she was going. What would have been the point? He wouldn’t understand

anyway. No one understood. No one could understand.

Chapter 7

“I promise you this is only temporary,” Alfred said, unlocking the door to their room at an inn in downtown Niagara-on-the-Lake. “We will get a house.” The door swung open, and Hettie peaked inside at their lodgings before looking her husband in the eye. “Why can’t we stay with your parents?” “That’s a bad idea for many reasons.” She didn’t question him – this must be the twelfth time in as many days that he hinted his parents were impossible – and entered the room ahead of him. It was a decent size with a brass bed, a wardrobe and a vanity table. Hettie set her hatbox on the vanity before watching pedestrians on the street. “Why do you always say that?” she said turning briefly from the window, her curiosity bubbling over. Alfred did not answer until he paid the porter and they were alone. “You don’t want to be in the same house. It wouldn’t be good for you in your condition.” “Really, you’re being dramatic.” Alfred shook his head. “If only I were. I hope you’re prepared for tonight,” he said, ing her at the window, his breath hot on her neck. “I treated wounds after some of the deadliest battles in history. I think I can handle a dinner.” Alfred removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “If the war had never started, I’d still be in the permanent force, far from here, and you’d be in Barrie. Never did I think I’d be back in Niagara-on-the-Lake or that I’d—” He stopped, and Hettie turned to make eye . “That you’d have a wife and a pregnant one at that,” she said, her tone sharp. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to, Alfred. You implied it.” He fidgeted with this hat. “All this is strange to me.” “And it’s strange to me to be with someone who hates his family and his hometown.” “I don’t hate it, or I wouldn’t be back here, but if it doesn’t work out within a reasonable timeframe, we’re leaving.” It was bad enough she wouldn’t be in Barrie when Freddie was demobilized. The thought of again traveling made her pulse increase. “Leave for where?” “Somewhere better, but in the meanwhile, I promise we won’t be at this inn for long. We’ll buy a house.” I feel as big as a house. Her stomach turned. “Yes, a house.” He sat on the bed and patted the spot beside him. “Come sit with me.” Hettie silently obeyed, her posture stiff. “I don’t want to quarrel with you,” he said. “I’m nervous, too. At this point, I’m just as much a stranger to them as you. I left for a reason. I’m coming back for a reason, but it might ultimately be a sentimental mistake.” “And how are we to know?” “Good question.” “That doesn’t instill confidence,” she said, wrenching her hands. “I’m sorry.” He put his hand on hers. “I know it doesn’t. I don’t know what else to say.” What have I gotten myself into? She pursed her lips. “What should I wear tonight?” “I’ll help you find something my mother will find acceptable.” “Wonderful.” She smiled. I’m being dressed by my husband. What have I

gotten myself into?

THE LONG DRIVEWAY RAN from the main road, wound through rows upon rows of grapevines, and ended at the Taylor’s grand house, which was built in the style of an aristocrat’s English country home. A handful of workers tended to the crop, their backs hunched as they examined the tender fruit, while an occasional outbuilding interrupted the scene. As the taxi rounded the final curve, the house became visible, shadowed by a clump of trees. The taxi halted, and Alfred was the first to exit. He extended his hand to Hettie, and she stepped out just as two oddly familiar looking men appeared from the side of the house. “Look what the cat dragged in,” one of them said, venom in his voice. “Nice to see you again, Nathaniel,” Alfred said. “Mother said you were coming, but I didn’t believe it,” the other brother said. Alfred shrugged. “I couldn’t stay away permanently, Jacob.” “Yes, you could have. It’s been 30 years.” “Thirty-one.” “Always a stickler for accuracy.” Jacob scowled at Hettie. “So you finally knocked one up and was forced to get married.” Hettie felt her temperature rise. Her husband’s posture did not change, and she couldn’t tell whether there was truth in Jacob’s statement or not. Was she the last in a long line of lovers? Alfred did tell her, when they were courting, that he had had girlfriends, but she never inquired what that specifically meant. “It’s not like that,” Alfred said, his voice level. “How is it then, Alfred?” Jacob said, coming closer. Alfred put his arm around Hettie’s shoulders. “She’s my wife, and I love her.” “We’ll see about that.”

Hettie dug her heel in the dirt, feeling less like a wife and more like an object. She wanted to scream, to defend her honor. Alfred instructed her to say as little as possible, so she wouldn’t cause any trouble, but he hadn’t said anything about what to do if others started the trouble. “Well, boys,” Alfred said. “I think it’s about time you go home.” “That’s right,” Nathaniel said. “Mommy and Daddy are waiting inside.” The brothers snickered and continued down the driveway. Hettie watched them and did not move until Alfred urged her toward the house. When they approached, a butler opened the door. After Hettie’s eyes adjusted to the change in light, she marveled that the English manor house theme continued indoors. Tapestries hung from the vestibule ceiling, and swords decorated the wood walls. A suit of armor stood near the threshold to the adjacent room. For a moment, Hettie envisioned she was back in England, London fog descending, but the fantasy was broken as quickly as it came. “I always hated that thing,” Alfred said while Hettie ired the armor. “Still do.” He offered her his arm, and they proceeded to the parlor where the butler introduced an elderly couple as Luella and Mackenzie Taylor. After pleasantries, which were exchanged with an air of extreme formality, Luella said, “I’ve arranged for dinner to be served immediately, so we can get this over with as quickly as possible, and you may leave. Just as Alfred wants it.” “I missed you, too, Mother,” Alfred said. “Humpt,” Mackenzie said and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Shall we proceed?” The septuagenarians silently led the way. The couple followed, Hettie’s stomach in knots. She still could not read Alfred’s emotions He had that uncanny talent all soldiers have of shutting off emotions when heading into battle, so it was as if he wasn’t feeling anything at all. It was a talent she envied.

The table was set for a full nine-course dinner. Yes, by all means, why let a war stand in the way of opulence? she thought at the realization that this was Luella’s version of a quick meal. Hettie acknowledge the footman who stood near the dining room table, and Alfred squeezed his arm tightly around her hand. Right, we cannot acknowledge servants exist. She corrected her posture and focused straight ahead. Once the family was seated, the footman silently served hors d’oeuvres. Hettie grabbed a utensil. A second later, Alfred tapped his finger on a different fork sitting on his napkin. She looked at him blankly. “He’s trying to tell you that you’re using the wrong fork,” Luella said as if speaking to a child or an unruly pet. Hettie swapped the forks but didn’t respond or make eye . “I’m going to be honest,” Mackenzie said, his voice gravely and deep. “I’m not happy with this entire situation. You come home, Alfred, after decades, and you bring an uncultured Irishwoman into this house.” “I’m not Irish,” Hettie said, finally looking up. “You know how I feel about papists, Alfred.” “I’m not a papist,” Hettie said. “I’m a Scottish-English Presbyterian.” Luella said, “With a name like Stewart, you sound like a papist, not an Orangeman.” “My surname is not Stewart.” “What then?” Mackenzie said. “First, you tell us you’re not Irish then you tell us you’re not a papist. Now, your name is incorrect.” “Yes. It’s not Stewart. It’s Steward.” “Ah,” Luella said, her face brightening, “like an estate steward. Like a servant.” Hettie said nothing, her cheeks flushing.

“Her father was a professor,” Alfred said. “A professor,” Luella said as if professor was a vulgar profession. “Yes, a professor and later a heaster.” “Humpt,” Mackenzie said. “Maybe he’s the professor who encouraged you to enjoy life instead of returning home to work on your legacy.” Alfred pointed his fork at his father. “Yes, why would I want to enjoy life unless someone planted the idea into my head? You know when I had the best time? When I was nearly killed in Europe fighting for this country. Fleas, rats, mud, bullets, landmines and hand grenades are hysterically fun.” “Don’t act so sanctimonious. We know you aren’t patriotic. You were carousing and sinning.” “I don’t even know where to begin with that.” “Because it’s true.” “Because it’s idiotic.” “I know who you are, and you dragged this young woman – uncultured or not – into it. Her life is ruined now because of you.” “I don’t think my child,” Alfred waved his hand toward Hettie, “our child, is the ruination of anything.” “Good Lord, Alfred, your brothers are grandfathers.” “I’ve had a late start.” Mackenzie shook his head in disgust. Hettie, barely able to breathe, thought she saw the old man roll his eyes. Luella turned to Hettie. “I hear your family multiplies like rabbits. You’ll kill poor Alfred if you think you can do that here. He’ll be 70 before you’re through.” “Here?”

“You will be taking the guest house, won’t you?” Hettie fixed her gaze on Alfred and tried to beg him with her eyes to reject the offer. Don’t accept. Don’t accept. “Yes, Mother, we’d be happy to,” Alfred said. I told you not to! Luella seemed pleased. Hettie gagged.

HETTIE TURNED THE LOCK until it clicked then climbed into the empty bathtub and folded her knees under her chin. What have I done? she thought as the tears came. What have I done? I should never have answered his letters let alone let him touch me. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’d be in Barrie where it’s safe. She wiped her cheeks on the back of her tanned wrist. Why did I let myself get some color? I should be as pale as those walking corpses at the grand house. Blood sucking vampires. Only farm hands and street urchins tan. She gasped when there was a knock at the door and, in an attempt to stifle her sobs, stuffed her wrist into her mouth, tasting the salty tears on her skin. “Hettie, are you all right?” Alfred said through the door. After a minute, she spoke slowly to steady her quivering voice. “I’m fine.” “You’re not ill? You ran to the bathroom so quickly.” “No, not ill. I— I miss Freddie,” she said, saying the first thing that popped into her head. “Freddie?” “Yes. The sibling your mother said it was unnatural for me to love so much. That Freddie.” Alfred said nothing for a moment then jiggled the doorknob. “Is that what this is all about? Open the door.” “How will that help?” “You can’t stay in there forever. We share that bathroom with everyone else on this floor.” Damn it. He’s right. She climbed out of the tub and unlocked the door. Alfred

stood in the corridor, arms folded across his chest. “I tried to warn you,” he said. “You should have been more forthright with your information.” “Would you have believed me?” She made a growl noise in her throat and walked past him. “Hettie?” “Why did you accept the guest house?” she said without stopping or looking back. “Financial reasons. We can’t keep renting this room. We’ll never afford our own house if we do.” “There are other places to rent.” “Exactly. To rent. The guest house is free, but it will be temporary and it will allow us time to save some money.” “You must promise me,” she said, walking back to him and pointing her finger into his chest, “that it will be very temporary.” He nodded. “Yes, of course.” Hettie wrinkled her brow, not quite believing him, but the urge to continue arguing was overcome by the desire to lie down and rest her aching back and feet. She entered their room and closed the door, leaving a bewildered Alfred alone in the hallway.

Chapter 8

The view out of every window was as bland and boring as it was stagnant. Nothing ever changed. It was always grapevines interrupted in three places by a random tree. Hettie sighed. Alfred was gone for the day, having begun his new position with the family business, and Hettie was alone with her thoughts. Being stuck home alone reminded her of the days before the war when she was at wits end doing housework while Geoffrey worked. In those days, she missed having a job of her own, but this was ten times worse. Yes, the house was nicer, but now she didn’t have even housework to occupy her time. They treat me like an invalid. I’m just having a baby. I’ll have less freedom after it arrives. Are they too stupid to know that? Of course. Hired help raised their children. Hettie turned away from the window, chastising herself for expecting something different to happen this time as opposed to the dozens of other times she took a gander outside. She sat in one of the parlor chairs and propped up her feet. At least she was permitted books. It’s a wonder Mr. and Mrs. Taylor don’t think I’ll exhaust my feeble feminine mind by reading. She laughed, grabbed Jane Eyre off the end table and began reading, but it was difficult concentrating. Not only did the baby keep moving, but it was hot and no breeze came through the window. “Little one, please, you have no room for summersaults.” Hettie groaned before pinching her nose and feeling her blood pressure rise. Maybe I’d feel better if you were Geoffrey’s, the way you were supposed to be. Life had other plans. Life is cruel.

She threw her book forcefully to the floor. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way!” And now I’ve made it worse because I can’t bend down to pick that up. The doorbell rang just as tears stung her eyes. When she answered the door, a

servant from the grand house stood on the porch, looking as miserable as Hettie felt. “I believe this belongs to you,” he said. He had his arms folded behind his back. Hettie squinted. What belonged to her? A woman stepped out from behind the footman. “I promised you I’d come,” she said. “Bessie!” Hettie ran out of the house and threw her arms around her friend. “I’m so happy to see you.” “And I you.” “You came at a good time. I needed—” Hettie noticed the servant was still there and censored herself. “You are dismissed,” she said to him. Hettie quickly ushered Bessie inside and slammed the door. “It feels so strange around here at times. Why did I have to dismiss him? Couldn’t he leave on his own? The housekeepers my family employed were never standoffish. We had an easy relationship. I’m not even supposed to know these people’s names. All this formality makes my head hurt. And did he call you a ‘this’?” “It’s beautiful here,” Bessie said. “Much nicer than Mrs. Walsh’s.” Clearly, Bessie was so enamored with the house, she hadn’t heard much of what was said. Hettie pursed her lips. “It looks like the 1880s never ended. I think my mother would walk in here and think she was transported to her youth.” Hettie grimaced. I miss Mother. “I’ll show you upstairs.” Hettie led Bessie to the back of the house and up a narrow staircase to the second floor. “This is your room. I’m sorry it’s not larger,” Hettie said, entering a chamber that was smaller than the one at Mrs. Walsh’s but more lushly decorated. She hugged Bessie. “I sure missed you.”

“What’s wrong?” Bessie said, whatever spell the house cast upon her broken. “Everything.” Hettie sat on the bed and pulled on Bessie’s hand until she ed her. “We could be here for hours. There is so much to tell you, but not now. Alfred will be home soon.” “Has it been that horrible?” “I have no one here I can talk to, no friends, no family. It’s lonely, and that makes it difficult to control my wandering thoughts.” “I’m so very sorry. I have Mrs. Walsh and my work, but it isn’t the same as having Nathan.” Hettie squeezed Bessie, recognizing she had no right to complain when Bessie had no one to call her own. “Actions have consequences,” Hettie said. “It’s all my fault.” “What is?” Hettie heard the backdoor’s distinctive squeak screeching like an alarm. “Too late now. I’ll tell you later.” “Hettie!” Alfred’s voice echoed up the stairs. Bessie opened her mouth, but Hettie held up her hand. “Not one word about anything,” Hettie said. Bessie nodded. “Okay.” “Alfred thinks I’m as pleased as punch.” “Anyone with eyes can see that you are not.” “Pleased as punch.” Hettie stood and went into the corridor. “Upstairs, dear!” Hettie tried to take a deep breath but was unable. Oh, when is this going to end?

THAT NIGHT, THE MATTRESS felt like a bed of pinecones. To add to the aggravation, Alfred was crowding her out of the bed, and the urge was there to give him a swift kick in the shins. Hettie rolled over as best she could and faced the wall. Geoffrey never hogged the bed. He knew how to share. But a spoiled wretch doesn’t learn how to share. Hettie pushed herself out of bed with a grunt and made her way downstairs. She switched on the library light and began rummaging through the writing desk. The result was repeated sneezes from the dust that peppered the desktop, but eventually she found what she was seeking – a notepad with a floral border Ida had given her for her latest birthday – and took it to the kitchen table. In the still of night, the pen’s nib made a louder than usual scratching sound, and she bristled.

MY DEAREST GEOFFREY, Oh, how I miss you. I cannot understand why God saw fit to take you from me. You waited so patiently for me to finish my schooling and work a year before we married, and then the war came. Our happiness was interrupted. This baby should be yours. That is how it was always planned. By rights that’s how it should be. You are the love of my life. You are the one I am meant to be with. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be in Barrie with you, with our family, not these people from hell. I miss you so much. Why are you not here? We had everything planned. We envisioned life far into the future, and my children were yours. I understand I am not innocent and have done things I should not, but why be punished so? When I was a child, in my imaginative play, you were my husband. In those days, I didn’t know what that meant exactly. All I knew was from Mother and Father, that they sat on opposite ends of the dining room table and ordered us children about. My dolls were our children, and I named them. I still what they were called. Lulu and Nettie. Those were my favorite names at the time, and because there are no boy dolls, we had two daughters. Mabel would become irritated with me because she had a different imaginary husband each time. She couldn’t understand why I picked you, but I knew we were destined to be together. I know you felt it, too. I saw it in your eyes when we were older. The way you looked at me, I melted. I was always honoured to see you and be with you, and when you made me your wife, you made me the happiest woman. Until I wasn’t. I’m very sorry I longed for work and independence. I’m the cause of all of this. Had I not been so eager, you may not have been so keen to enlist. I should not have been so encouraging. I should have done more to make you stay, and had you stayed everything would be all right now. This baby would be yours as it was supposed to be. Now I can barely see because of my tears, the never-ending stream of tears.

I miss you. Why did you have to leave? Why?

Forever your loving wife. Hettie

Hettie held up the letter, and the baby stirred. Hettie’s hand began to shake. What if Alfred finds this? The row it would cause. She stood, hand trembling so badly the paper was flapping. I’ll destroy it. Calm down. Her hand steadied as she turned the stove’s knob and the gas flame shot up with a crackle. Carefully, she inserted the corner of the letter into the flame and watched the paper burn. When the fire reached her fingers, she threw the uncharred corner into a cast iron pan in the sink. There. Alfred’ll never know. Hettie doused what was left of the fire with water. May the smoke take my words to heaven. She turned off the kitchen light and returned upstairs.

THE PAIN. “You’re almost there, Hettie,” a voice said. “You can do it.” The pain was indescribable to anyone who had not previously experienced it. She had been given ether, but still could not focus on anything other than the pain. Was this how the casualty clearing station’s patients, those poor wounded soldiers, felt when they were dying? When they were disemboweled by a bayonet? When dum-dum bullets ripped through their limbs? When shrapnel sliced into their skin? Often patients screamed in agony as she was about to do. But her scream did not come. Instead what emerged was a strange cross between a whimper and a groan. Women grin and bear it, Mother says, because the Bible dictates they must. Never mind biology, evolution. But who has time to contemplate science when her body is exhausted and near the point of defeat? “Hettie, breathe. Breathe.” Hettie’s eyes rolled back before focusing on the voice. Bessie was the confident professional, decisive. That once was Hettie. Before Alfred’s violation. No, not violation. His conquest. No, his— The baby should have been Geoffrey’s. It should have been. When she had children, they were supposed to be Geoffrey’s. That was the plan. That was always the plan. “Hettie, you did it. You did it. It’s a boy.” A baby’s bawl pierced the darkness, and before Hettie could realize what was happening, the squirming newborn was placed on her heaving chest. Bessie’s assistant, a midwife-in-training they hired in town, was doing something between Hettie’s legs that she could not describe, but she was too weak to protest.

“No, not yet,” Bessie said to someone standing in the hallway. “Give us a few more minutes.” When would the infernal beast stop crying? No, Hettie, that’s a good thing. It means life. Life? How could it mean life when blood signifies death? The assistant whisked the placenta away. Hettie caught a glimpse of it, then her eyelids fluttered involuntarily and her eyes rolled back in her head. Geoffrey! Geoffrey didn’t make it to surgery. He faltered from blood loss and chlorine burnt lungs. The infant shrieked, but in her drug-clouded mind, she was back at the casualty clearing station listening to a patient call out in pain. Hettie tried to sit. She was needed in the OR. “No, no, no, Hettie, you must stay put,” Bessie said. “You’re in no condition to get up. Plus the baby.” The assistant was standing behind Bessie, saying something Hettie could not hear yet alone comprehend, but her hand motions indicated she was referring to nursing. Hettie stared at her chest in horror, disgusted by the idea of breastfeeding a baby she didn’t even want. The screaming! The patients need taken care of. She couldn’t lie here. The patients... Her eyes rolled again, and she fainted.

SOMETIME LATER, AFTER the fog from the anesthetic lifted, Hettie shifted her sore body and inspected the baby’s tiny face while he slept, swaddled, in a cradle beside the bed. The door creaked open, and Alfred entered. “Where is he? Where is my boy?” Beaming from ear to ear, he peered into the cradle. “I never thought this day would happen, you know. People have children, naturally, but not me. I wasn’t going to marry or be tied down, and then I met you, and here I am nearly 50, and I’m a newlywed with a baby.” He stopped speaking and turned his attention to Hettie. “I’m sorry. I’m babbling. How are you feeling?” “I’m tired,” she said, “and Bessie won’t let me get out of bed.” “I told you,” Bessie said from her chair on the other side of the room. “New mothers aren’t permitted to get out of bed for a week.” “In the hospital maybe, but I refuse to stay bedridden in my own,” she paused, “home.” Bessie wrinkled her nose. “You are stubborn.” “Incorrigible, Mother says.” “Well,” Alfred said to Bessie, “someone’s back to normal.” Hettie folded her arms. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I survived the Great War, fleas, rats, mud, sleep deprivation, cold, heat. I don’t want to be bedridden.” The baby stirred, garnering everyone’s attention. Bessie excused herself so the new parents could be alone, and Alfred picked up the swaddled bundle as if it might break. “You won’t hurt him,” Hettie said. Alfred barely moved. “He’s so tiny and fragile.”

“His neck and head need ed, yes, but he’s no more fragile than any other person.” “And we both know how fragile the human body can be.” Alfred sat, and the pair exchanged a glance heavy in the knowledge of what war does to men. The recollection was emotionally challenging and, after a moment, Hettie cleared her throat. Alfred silently focused on the baby, and she knew he was contemplating how every man who died in the war once started off as a helpless creature squirming in his father’s arms. “It suits you,” Hettie said. “What does?” “Fatherhood.” He seemed pleased and continued examining his son’s face, peeking only briefly at Hettie when he said, “I really don’t know what I’m doing. I invent things as I go along.” “What do you mean?” “Being a husband. I have no idea what to do. My parents— Well, among the wealthy, spouses have separate bedrooms and don’t even necessarily like one another. Each plays a role. He is the businessman, the politician, the rule maker, while she is the hostess, mother and homemaker. I’m doing the best I can.” She nodded, not quite knowing how to respond, and he continued, “What I am trying to say is I have no teachers or people I can look upon for guidance. I’m learning as I go. But I want you to know that I want to do a better job of it than my parents did.” Hettie’s hands fidgeted in her lap. “I appreciate you talking to me.” “I know I may not be the husband you want, but I hope I am the husband you need.” “Alfred,” she said, wondering if he overheard her at some point talking to herself, “why are you telling me this?”

“Because you need to know.” She swallowed and knew she should say something nice, but nothing came to mind. “I’m tired.” “I should let you rest when you have the opportunity,” he said, rising to his feet. Alfred returned the baby back to the cradle and left. Hettie smiled and leaned into her pile of pillows.

“THESE PEOPLE ARE AWFUL,” Hettie said after Alfred left to spend the night at the grand house. Bessie, who was nodding off in her chair, jotted upright. “Was that what you were trying to tell me the day I arrived?” “Yes. I don’t know how I can live with them. This building isn’t far enough away from them. We need a home of our own. In town.” “What are you going to do?” Bessie said, her voice low and drowsy. Hettie shrugged. “I don’t know.” “Surely there must be something you can do to persuade him, to put the idea into his head.” “I’m not sure how to make subtle hints about moving.” Bessie snugged back into her blanket and turned off the nightstand lamp. “You’re clever. You’ll think of something.” “I hope so,” Hettie said. “I can’t go on like this.”

Chapter 9

“W hy do we need a nanny ? Mother never had a nanny, and there are eight of us.” Alfred continued reading his newspaper as if Hettie’s question was of no significance. “It’s the way things are done.” “The way things are done.” Hettie folded her arms and glowered at her husband as the baby, now two weeks old, began to wail. “Okay then, educate me because apparently I don’t know how a household works.” “You don’t know how one works. At least not among the upper class.” She furrowed her brow and snatched the newspaper from his unsuspecting hands. “I thought you didn’t care about your class’ conventions.” “I don’t. But they will blame you for any mischief, any speaking out of turn.” “They will blame me? Who? Your parents? Unbelievable.” “We live here now. We’re on the Taylor estate.” “No, no.” Hettie wagged her finger. “Don’t say ridiculously stupid statements like that. I am not one of them. I will never be one of them. You never wanted to be one of them either.” “Hettie.” Alfred tried to say more, but she threw the newspaper onto the kitchen table and left the room.

THE SUBJECT OF A NANNY was officially off limits in Hettie’s mind, and for days she spoke to Alfred only when it was unavoidable. If he wanted to act like an aristocrat, she would treat him like a caricature of one. Not that it really mattered. When she said she would never be one of them, following nonsensical rules like a sheep follows the herd, she meant it. Lucretia, Ida, Mabel and Alice arrived in Niagara-on-the-Lake earlier in the day to meet Simon Geoffrey and lavish him with attention. This is what motherhood is supposed to look like, Hettie told herself as the women ed the baby around and practically smothered him in kisses. It was comforting knowing that once Mabel and Alice had their babies, Simon would have cousins his own age, cousins who wouldn’t judge him based on his ancestry or his parents’ house. After Simon had his fill of kisses and was put down for a nap, the adults proceeded to the kitchen. “A mixed berry pie, perfect for a summer’s evening,” Lucretia said, pouring a large basket of berries she purchased in Barrie before boarding the train into a bowl. “Yes, that would be fine,” Hettie said. “It’s been ages since we did something like this together.” For decades, Mother employed a housekeeper and it was rare for the sisters to cook or bake together except for holidays or others special occasions. Hettie took the pie pan down from the cupboard then leaned against the counter and smiled. I’m so glad they are here. I cannot it to them how much, but I am. Her sisters unpacked a canvas bag of baking supplies. Alice pulled out a cloth apron, a crimson red apron, the color of dried blood. As Hettie watched, Alice donned the apron, and it resembled a surgeon’s after a particularly difficult case involving a nicked artery. Hettie’s eyes narrowed. “Alice.”

Alice paid no attention, simply continued yammering with Ida about the best recipe. “Alice, take it off,” Hettie said, feeling the warmth of blood splatter on her neck. A sharp knife in hand, Alice began slicing strawberries, pink juice dripping on the butcher block, but in Hettie’s mind, it was not berries and juice, it was amputated fingers and blood. “Take it off! For Christ’s sake, Alice, take it off!” Hettie, her breath rapid and shallow, did not wait for a response. She ran past a bewildered Alice and out the backdoor. The last thing she wanted was for the family to gawk at her through the window, so she rounded the corner. She intended to run as far as possible, but her hyperventilating ended her escape not long after it began. Stopping, she bent over, hands on her knees. “Well, that was quite a show,” a male voice said. “Did you see a ghost?” Hettie straightened her posture. The late afternoon sun obscured her view, and squinting, she turned toward the direction of the voice. A man, dressed in white from his hat to his tro leg hems, was standing near the cobblestone walkway that connected the guest house’s front and back yards. “Freddie!” Hettie threw herself into his awaiting arms and rested her head on his shoulder. She immediately felt calmer. “This is the best surprise I’ve ever had. I’m so glad you’re home. I missed you so much.” “I missed you, too.” He caressed her hair. “What gave you such a fright?” “Alice.” “Alice? Well, she’s always been a miniature version of Mother, but nothing you can’t handle.” “No, not Alice herself. Alice’s apron. It’s red, exactly like dried blood. It

reminded me of the CCS. I felt like I was back there again. I couldn’t bear the sight of it.” “Let’s go inside. I simply must see this offending apron and dispatch it.” Hettie pulled herself away from him and nodded. A few moments later, the siblings entered the kitchen. Hettie’s heart again raced at the sight of the crimson garment, and Freddie’s nostrils flared. “Alice,” he said, “for God’s sake, take that apron off.” Their sister scrunched her nose. “What do the two of you have against my lovely apron?” “Lovely is relative. It’s the color of a dirty surgeon’s apron. Dried blood, Alice.” She took a step backward, her mouth agape, but relented and substituted Hettie’s apron for her own. “Well,” Lucretia said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, “it’s good to be here together. We’re missing the other boys, of course, and Adelaide is at school, but the majority of my children are here.” “Please don’t get sentimental, Mother. It doesn’t suit you. And don’t make me bake any pies.” Freddie looked back and forth. “Where is this nephew of mine?” “He’s upstairs sleeping,” Hettie said, “but you can have a peek.” Hettie linked hands with her brother and led him out of the kitchen and up the servants’ staircase. “How long have you been back, Freddie?” Hettie said when they were about half way up. “A couple of days.” Hettie stopped and turned to face him, her happiness replaced with a cloud of confusion. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Don’t be cross. I wanted to surprise you.” He smiled. “And I succeeded.” Hettie frowned. “I still would have liked to have known your demob came through.” “I think a letter would have made it here after I did.” She folded her arms. “A telegram then. I would have come meet you.” “Where? In Halifax?” “Why not?” He laughed. “Are you happy?” Hettie turned away from him, focusing her gaze on the top of the stairs. “That’s a weighty conversation to be had in a stairwell.” “Upstairs then.” She did not respond, and they proceeded silently to the nursery where Simon slept in his cradle. Freddie ran a finger across the baby’s cheek. “He’s a big fellow for being born early.” “Always a joker,” she said, unsure if her tone betrayed her lie. After a moment, he said quietly, “Are you happy? You’re smiling but your eyes are sorrowful.” “After all we’ve seen, Freddie, how can they not be sorrowful?” “If that be the case, why weren’t they sorrowful the last time I saw you?” “Its—” Hettie leaned against the windowsill and made eye with the only person in her family whom she wasn’t embarrassed to tell the truth. “This new family of mine is not a family. I thought I was lonely when I married Geoffrey, but I didn’t know what loneliness really was until I came here.” He folded his arms. “I didn’t know you were lonely after you married

Geoffrey.” “I hid it well. I didn’t want him to know.” Freddie took a few steps toward her. “Come back to Barrie. People of this class frequently live separately from their spouses.” Wouldn’t that be nice? If only. “You can’t just swoop in and rescue me all the time. Really, you’re too overprotective of me.” He smirked. “That’s my job.” She laughed uneasily. “How long can you stay?” “Just until Mother and our sisters go home. I have a job waiting for me.” Hettie nodded, ing the police service had kept his position open during his absence. “You could come back to Barrie with me,” he said, stepping closer. She shook her head. “I haven’t even been married a year. Am I to give up already?” “I don’t know. Think of it this way. During the war, when you decided to stay for the duration, the duration was four years. With this, the duration could be 30.” “Well, I must at least try,” she said, attempting to convince herself more than Freddie. He nodded. “If there is one thing this war taught me, it’s that you can’t dwell on the past or dream of a future. You can only concentrate on the present. So let Alice teach you to drive, go shopping with Mabel and Ida, and argue over trivial things with Mother.” “And what shall I do with you?” “Oh, we’ll get into some sort of mischief.” He winked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I still can’t believe you are here,” she said, her smile genuine this time. He beamed in return and held out his arms. “Well, I’m not a phantom. I’m real. Pinch me.” She pushed herself off the windowsill, strode over to him and pinched his cheek. He yelped. “Hey, you asked for it,” she said. “Yes, I did.” He tried to swat her, but she was too quick and ran from the room, giggling, with him in hot pursuit.

THE SWEET AROMA OF berry pie wafted in the air both inside the house and outside the kitchen window and door. It mingled with another scent, Hettie’s favorite food, Sheppard’s pie, that was baking for dinner. Hettie and Freddie were in the kitchen initially to inspect the progress of that night’s meal, but their “inspection” quickly descended into a facetious argument about favorite foods and who Mother missed the most during the war. “You’re such a prat.” “Grandmother would call me a zounderkite,” he said, referencing Victorian slang for an idiot. “She would not.” “She would.” Impulsively, Hettie grabbed some flour out of the sack that sat on the counter, tossed it at him, and laughed at his newly powder-white face. Freddie, however, got his revenge and hit her in the chin with a handful, and the taste of unbaked flour shocked her silent. She swallowed the horribleness before again bursting into laughter and throwing another fistful at him. “Oh, good Lord,” Lucretia said when the ruckus caught her attention from the adjacent sitting room. “You’re acting like children, and here you are both nearly 30 years old.” The siblings stopped, flour painting their clothing and sticking to their skin and hair. “We still have a few years yet,” Hettie said, pushing back loose strands of hair. Lucretia’s hands were on her hips. “You’re both older than 25, so you’re nearly 30, and had best act like it.” The sisters entered the room behind their mother, and Alice rolled her eyes. Ida and Mabel tried to look stern and mature, but burst into laughter that quickly spread everyone else.

“I don’t know what is funnier,” Alice said, “how you look or Mother calling you 30 years old.” In response, Hettie threw flour on Alice. Alice wagged a finger. “Hey, watch it, or I’ll put my blood apron back on.” Alfred entered the house just as Alice stuck her hand in the flour sack. “This is wonderful to hear,” he said, smiling. “There hasn’t been joy in a while.” Hettie gasped when she saw him, her expression suddenly serious, and she stepped behind Freddie. “We were finishing up,” she said. “We got carried away.” Hettie quickly retreated from the room, and Alfred frowned.

Chapter 10

No one was left to lift Hettie’s spirits or engage her in conversation. Bessie returned to Halifax shortly after the birth, and the Stewards went back to Barrie after a couple of days. No one was left, except for the staff who made her uneasy and a newborn who was oblivious to the world. Mrs. Norris, Mother and Father’s longtime housekeeper, was always kind and pleasant. The Taylors’ staff was prim and proper, avoiding eye and silently hugging the wall whenever Hettie or Alfred ed, never changing expression. Simon was no better company, either sleeping, eating or needing a diaper change. He was too young to have a personality, and Alfred won out in of a nanny, so none of it mattered anyway. Children were to be seen and not heard and even then, apparently, only according to a schedule. It left Hettie with very little to do. After all, unlike wealthy women, she had no dinner parties to plan or social clubs to head. There were occasional letters to write and the even rarer phone call. She considered volunteering at the nearest hospital but had no idea where it was yet alone how to travel there. The only other options were reading or a walk. She settled on a walk. No one would notice or care she was gone, so she donned a hat and left, taking the path that led to the grand house. It wound through row after row of waist high grapevines, ripe fruit hanging thickly off each. Not wanting to speak to anyone, she noted the grape pickers’ locations and planned how to avoid them. The birds, oblivious to her loneliness, sang. Periodically, Hettie stopped and closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her face and color her cheeks. Whenever she thought of Geoffrey standing on the shore of Kempenfelt Bay doing the very same on a hot summer day, she told herself it was time to move on. Alfred paced in the distance, his white suit in stark contrast to the dark green leaves. He was within earshot of several employees, all of whom were hunched over picking fruit. “Hurry up,” his voice carried on the wind, “you lazy sons of bitches. This isn’t a playground. The fucking Huns are going to kill us all if you don’t pick up the

pace. Who the fuck do you think you are, you bloody sots?” Face beet red, Alfred continued shouting. Hettie’s blood pressure rose with every expletive. Jacob rushed toward his brother. “For Christ’s sake, Alfred, you’re not in the army anymore. You can’t speak to them like that.” Hettie attempted to unseen, but Nathaniel appeared on the path. “Now you really see the man you married,” he said. “Stupidest thing you ever did.” She said nothing, pushed past him and quickened her pace. When she reached the grand house, Mrs. Taylor was sitting on the porch, fanning herself. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything?” Luella said when she saw Hettie. “You don’t interfere with men and business. Oh, I swear my son married an idiot.” Hettie ignored the comment, biting her lip to keep herself from indulging in the family’s mean-spiritedness. Once out of Luella’s sight, she ran, not knowing or caring where her feet took her. Eventually, she found herself along the main road and slowed to a walk; she’d either end up in town or out in the middle of nowhere, and both options were preferable to the estate. Even the Great War was preferable. I am an idiot. I should never have married him. She sobbed. Whom am I kidding? I had no choice. Blinded by tears, Hettie stumbled. She stopped for a moment, but only long enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks so she could see where she was going. I wish Geoffrey were still alive. If he were, I wouldn’t be in this mess. The Bartlettes are kind and wonderful. Even crazy Mrs. Bartlette was loving in her own way. Geoffrey never yelled. As much as Hettie struggled in the early days of their marriage, she never worried Geoffrey would raise his voice and randomly scream. He was stable, familiar and safe. But wasn’t that what was so appealing about Alfred? He was a bit of a mystery, unfamiliar and... Unsafe?

She stopped to catch her breath. So many tears. When did she become so soft? She gasped for several minutes then continued her trek. Geoffrey should have never volunteered. Conscription didn’t go into effect until ’18. He might have been okay. He might have been spared. I should have tried harder to stop him. “This is all my fault.” She crossed the lane to walk under the shade of the sprawling maple trees. Her tears dissipated, but her eyes were sensitive to light and, squinting, she pulled her hat low. A crow took flight, cawing. Startled, she stopped and took stock of her surroundings. “Where am I?” The road was the same both ahead and behind her for as far as she could see. She swallowed so hard it hurt. “I’ve messed up again. I’m nowhere close to Niagara-on-the-Lake.” Tears began flowing. Oh, oh, I would have never made it through the war if I were constantly crying like this. She wiped them away and turned around, heading back the way she came.

A car rumbled down the road, jostled by the dirt roadway’s bumps and divots. The driver honked the horn before slowing the vehicle to a stop. All the windows were open, and Hettie could see Alfred inside, his forehead plastered with sweat and stray strands of hair. “Get in the car, Hettie.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I should do.” “What do you mean? Get in the car.” Hettie obeyed, her body trembling as Alfred made a U-turn. “If you want to go to town,” Alfred said, “ask me, and I’ll take you or arrange a ride.” “Yeah. Next time,” she said slowly, focusing on her thumbnails as she folded her hands in her lap. “Hettie, are you all right? You look frazzled.” “I— I am— Alfred, why were you shouting at your workers?” “When?” “Earlier. Not long ago. I heard you and saw you, Alfred, screaming and cursing. Your brother had to stop you.” Alfred’s knuckles went white as he clenched the steering wheel. “I sometimes forget where I am. Something triggers it – a sound or a smell – and I think I’m back in Europe again. I think I am with the troops.” She lifted her head. “And you spoke to your troops like that?” “I shouted orders. Troops in training are often screamed at. It’s part of the process of breaking them down, of making them a unit instead of individuals.” “Does this happen often?” she said, purposefully keeping her voice even. “You thinking you’re in the war.”

“It happens from time to time.” Hettie licked her dry lips and returned her focus on her fingernails. “Why— Why does it happen?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I only know I have triggers.” They fell silent. The only thing that could be heard was the purr of the engine and the squeak of the chassis as the car traveled the uneven road, bouncing the couple up and down on the seat. “I think I should go spend some time in Barrie,” Hettie said after a particularly hard bump. “Pardon?” Alfred took his eyes off the road to scrutinize her, a quizzical expression on his face, and the car began veering to the left. “Alfred, watch where you’re going!” He straightened the vehicle, barely avoiding hitting a tree, but for a split second Hettie wished the car had crashed, ending it all. “Why do you need to go to Barrie? Because of what I shared with you?” Hettie swallowed and shook her head. “Of course not. I’m a new mother. I need my grandmother and mother. And my sisters. I need their expertise, so I can learn. Lord knows I won’t get that from your mother.” He laughed, but it sounded insincere. “No, you’ll be lucky to get a hello out of her.” “So you see why I must go?” “Are you certain you must?” “Alfred,” she said, somehow sounding confident and self-assured, “you act as if I’m asking to go cross country. I’m not even going across the province. I won’t be hardly farther than Toronto.” He fell silent, and she didn’t know whether this was a good or bad sign. She

either would go with his blessing or run away, but the former would cause less problems. “Yes, it might do you some good,” he said at last. “You’ve been melancholy lately. When your family was here, you were happier.” “Thank you. I appreciate it, Alfred.” Hettie smiled. Finally, a means of escape, if only temporarily.

Chapter 11

Hettie heard a strange man’s voice echoing from the library and pressed her ear to the door. “The aero plane would swoop down over the falls,” the strangers said, “giving customers a thrill I can assure you, before bringing them safely back to the ground. The size of the aircraft, of course, limits the number of engers.” “A fleet of a half dozen planes might solve it,” Alfred said, his voice not as prominent as the stranger’s. “An airship would be better, but it also isn’t perfect. Carries more engers but it doesn’t deliver the thrill. Plus, there is the issue of storage.” “Yes, I’ve thought of that. It’s not feasible at this time. There aren’t any nearby hangars, and the expense of building one would offset any potential profit for years.” “How would you like to proceed, sir?” “I’d like to try the ride myself before doing anything.” Upon hearing this, Hettie burst through the door. The startled stranger jumped backward, papers flying out of his hand and all over the table. Alfred, who sat on the side of the table facing the door, stared agape. “Didn’t you get enough thrills in the war, Alfred?” she said, color rising in her cheeks. “You’re going to make me a widow again.” “Darling, you worry too much,” he said, recovering. To the man, he said, “May I present to you Mrs. Taylor.” “A pleasure,” the man said, smiling. “My, aren’t you a feisty one?” Hettie felt her cheeks burning. Was the stranger degrading her or aroused by her behavior? Either way she wanted him gone. “Who is this?” “This is Mr. Roe,” Alfred said, “a potential business partner.”

“Yes, I gathered as much. You want to take an airplane ride over Niagara Falls. Have you forgotten the life expectancy of pilots?” “You can’t compare a leisure trip to being shot at by Huns.” “And you don’t think it’s equally dangerous flying over a raging torrent?” Alfred’s face now matched Hettie’s crimson complexion, but his tone remained steady. “I trust Mr. Roe is an excellent pilot.” “He’s the pilot?” Roe was a large man who barely fit between the arms of his chair. He leered at her. Yes, it was more arousal than degradation, Hettie could tell now. “And how do you know?” she said. “Have you watched him fly?” Alfred stood and walked around the table. “We will discuss this another time.” She shook her head, taking a step backward as he came toward her. “I leave for Barrie in a few hours.” “We will discuss it at a later time.” Alfred pushed Hettie back to the open door. “Don’t interrupt me again when I’m having a meeting. It isn’t your place.” A vein throbbed in her forehead. “My place?” He forced her out into the corridor and slammed the door. She stood, nose inches from the dark mahogany as if expecting him to open the barrier again and continue the argument. The gull of him. How dare him? She raised her hand to knock but was interrupted by a voice, this time coming from behind her. “Mrs. Taylor, the baby and I are packed and ready to go,” the nanny said. “Do you need any assistance?” Yes, I need a club to beat my stupid husband about the head. “No, I’m quite all right.” She growled slightly in her throat then made her way toward the stairs. I am so relieved I will be in Barrie by the end of the day, she thought, then shivered.

How ironic that statement is.

After Geoffrey’s death, the last thing she wanted to do was go home to her parents’ house but today – today it brought solace.

FREDDIE EXTENDED HIS hand to his sister. “Take a walk with me.” Hettie sighed, her head aching. “Freddie, it’s been a long day. You can’t even imagine.” “Come.” He wiggled his fingers. “You need air.” It was difficult saying “no” to her closest sibling, despite being comfortable on the sitting room sofa, and she knew there was no resistance. Hettie glanced at Lucretia and Benjamin – neither of them seemed to mind – and slipped back on her shoes. “Just a short walk. I don’t think my feet could bear any more.” Freddie nodded and joggled his hand at her until she took it. He pulled her to her feet, and she again sighed, this time wishing she had more energy. A cool evening breeze hit their faces the moment they stepped onto the front porch, and Freddie, with a smile, offered her his arm. They descended the steps and sauntered toward St. Vincent Street. A child played on the sidewalk in front of the neighbor’s house, jumping rope in time to a song, and it reminded Hettie of those bygone days of childhood innocence. As the siblings grew closer, the song could be heard: I had a little bird, And its name was Enza. I opened the window And in-flu-enza. Hettie tighten her jaw, trying to keep memories of the Spanish flu pandemic at bay. Freddie, who had sickened just as she and Maeve had, didn’t seem to notice the song’s lyrics. The girl stopped jumping and curtsied. “Good evening, Mr. Steward.”

“Good evening, Hannah,” Freddie said, stooping to her level. “You look lovely today.” “Thank you.” She smiled and hung her head slightly before eying Hettie suspiciously. “May I present to you my sister, Mrs. Taylor,” he said, returning to his full stature. “How do you do?” the girl said and shook Hettie’s hand. Hettie smiled, but Hannah, despite her politeness, was transfixed on Freddie. “You have such a pretty bow,” Freddie said of her old-fashioned accessory, and the girl beamed. “Enjoy your jump roping. We’d best be on our way.” “It was quite a pleasure to see you again,” Hannah said, and Hettie could tell the girl was trying to sound grownup. “Likewise.” The siblings strolled away, and when they were out of earshot, Hettie said, “Now, I’ve seen and heard it all. You were flirting with a child. What is she? Six?” “Eight. She’s the daughter of the new neighbors. They moved in during the war.” “She’s sweet on you.” Freddie looked back. “Is she?” “Yes, it’s a clear as day,” Hettie said, also glancing back. Hannah was still watching them or, probably more precisely, watching Freddie. He did not respond, and the siblings continued in silence for several minutes, walking past homes that reminded Hettie of their youth. “I knew you weren’t happy,” Freddie eventually said, “but you refused to it it.”

Hettie glanced at him and placed her free hand across her stomach. “It’s not easy to it such a thing.” “But you know you can. You can tell me anything.” She squeezed his arm with her other hand and focused on the horizon. “Pride gets in the way.” “Yes, but it shouldn’t.” “Easier said than done.” Hettie bit her lip. “I married a stranger. I only knew him through our correspondence and a few meetings.” “Has he shown you a different side of himself?” She pulled away from him and crossed both arms on her stomach. “I suppose, at times, but so have I. During the war, I very much had a ‘seize the day’ attitude. Then I came back to Canada, and I feel as if, as if, I am still Geoffrey’s wife, yet I am not.” Freddie was silent. Hettie examined his face and felt he was pondering this. Otherwise, why was it taking him so long respond? “We are who we once were,” he said finally “yet we are not.” Feeling suddenly cold, she relinked arms with him. “I simply want to be normal again.” He tilted his head toward hers. “What’s normal? It certainly has never been being part of this family.” Hettie laughed and warmth returned to her body. “Maybe so, but we’ve done all right.” “Yes, we have.” Hettie smiled. “We should be grateful then.” “Ha.” Freddie laughed. “I’m so happy you’re home. You’re the only one who understands.”

“I feel exactly the same way.”

ADELAIDE WAS BACK IN Toronto for the fall term and the other Steward sisters were married. Now that Hettie had the girls’ old bedroom to herself it felt cavernous, the exact opposite of how it felt during their childhoods. Every sound seemed to echo. The hardwood floors creaked where they never did before. The sun set long ago, and the old rafters popped in the cooling air. A mournful owl hooted from its perch in a backyard tree, sounding more like a ghost than an animal. “Whoooo. Whoooo.” The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and Hettie jumped out of bed to switch back on the overhead light. Why must Adelaide be back at school? Because she loves what’s she’s doing, that’s why. You were that way once. ? She took a deep breath and wondered how the baby and nanny were doing in the guest bedroom. Just fine, I would imagine seeing as it’s the former nursery. And they are used to sleeping alone, whereas I am not. Maybe a book from Benjamin’s study would calm her nerves and lull her to sleep. Her palms clammy, she turned the doorknob. “Hettie?” a voice said in the dark the moment she entered the corridor. Now thoroughly convinced the house was haunted, she yelped. “Sssh. If you wake Mother, we’ll never hear the end of it,” Freddie said. “Couldn’t sleep? The house so quiet, it’s loud?” She let out a deep breath. “How did you know?” “It’s that way for me every night.” “How do you bear it?” “Can’t say I do. Come in.” Freddie opened his bedroom door and stepped aside. Hettie now had access to the boys’ room, something that was strictly forbidden when they were children.

She peeked her head around the doorframe, not knowing what to expect, and saw an ordinary bedroom. The only difference between it and the girls’ room was it contained three beds instead of five and a masculine dressing table instead of a feminine vanity. “How long haven’t you been able to sleep?” she said. “Since I came home. There’s always been someone in the room. This is the first time I’ve ever slept alone, and it’s unnerving.” “I never did either,” she said, the hairs on her neck still on alert. “It gives me too much time with my thoughts.” Freddie glanced over the beds. “You can sleep in Tommy’s bed tonight, and tomorrow I’ll sleep in Mabel’s and so on. What do you think? Good plan?” She didn’t immediately answer and when she did, her voice was low. “That might help, yes.” He turned off the light, and the siblings crawled into their respective beds. Freddie reached over and took Hettie’s her hand. “Do you sometimes think you’re still over there? Hearing the wounded and dying?” “Yes,” she said, tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. His hand was shaking. “And then you realize you were one of the lucky ones because you made it home to Ontario where you belong?” “This is exactly where I belong,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “I understand. This war changed us all, Hettie. We’ve all lost something. Some of us lost our lives. The rest of us lost our souls.” “Time. Time heals all wounds, Mother says.” His voice was barely louder than a whisper. “She does say that. Time will tell, Hettie, but please do try to bring back my beloved sister. I miss her. Even if that means giving up on Niagara-on-the-Lake and coming home for good. Do you understand?”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her in the dark. “I understand. You’re always a comfort to me.” “Except when we’re quarrelling.” She laughed despite her tears. “Even then. Sleep well, Freddie.” “I will try. I’m not sure I know what that means anymore.” “Nor do I, but brave new world.” “Mother and her damn Shakespeare. I should go about quoting ‘In Flanders Fields.’ See how she likes it.” Hettie agreed and closed her eyes. Soon Freddie’s hand stopped trembling, the room fell quiet, and the siblings drifted to sleep.

Chapter 12

“I t’s nice to see you , my dear,” Rose said, resting her teacup on the table, “but I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.” “It was rather spontaneous,” Hettie said. “I really could benefit from the wisdom of the women who have entered motherhood before me.” The old lady smiled, evidently pleased to have been consulted. “Well, if 80 years has given me anything, it’s experience.” Hettie swallowed. Now that the pleasantries were over, she had her chance to steer the conversation in the direction she wanted it to go. “Grandmother, I was wondering if you could enlighten me on something. What is the secret of a good marriage?” “You must obey, dear,” Rose said, not taking any time to consider the question. “Obey?” Hettie could not imagine Rose, a woman who helped settle slaves in Canada after they arrived via the Underground Railroad, obey anything but her own conscience. “Yes, it causes for a harmonious marriage. You need not obey, however, if you already are in agreement.” Hettie resisted the urge to shake her head or furrow her brow. “Agreement?” “I find it worrisome you are married, yet I must explain myself. Especially when you are on your second husband. I only had one.” Hettie took a sip of tea then squeezed her lips together. “Sadly, I must accept that I know nothing, or else I wouldn’t be here.” Rose sighed. “If you believe that, then you’ve learned nothing from observing your parents.” Hettie suppressed a sigh of her own. Benjamin and Lucretia hardly had a typical marriage. Mother was opinionated and outspoken, and Father let her be that way. If anything, they set the wrong example while the Taylors set no example at all. She blinked rapidly. Rose was patiently awaiting a response. Hettie

needed to say something. “But what if you can’t obey because you don’t agree, and you don’t at all feel like you are your husband’s property because you’re a feeling, thinking person, but you’re strangers, and it’s problematic and—” “Dear, you’re babbling.” “Yes, Grandmother.” Hettie hung her head. Rose refilled their teacups. “All is not lost, dear. You have three married sisters, countless cousins. Perhaps you should speak to someone your own age.” Hettie took a sip, not knowing why she hadn’t thought of that herself. “Yes, I think I will.” “Excellent.” Hettie smiled before taking yet another sip. “Now that that is settled,” Rose said, “I do hope you will come and visit me again. At my age, there’s no telling how much time is left.” Hettie shook her head. “Grandmother, don’t speak that way.” Rose waved her hand dismissively. “Why not? It’s true.” “Because I don’t like hearing it.” “Life is nothing but a series of losses. That’s why you must enjoy the times in between. Savor life during the good times to help you through the bad times. Do you understand what I am telling you?” Hettie nodded, lips parted and tongue rubbing the scar on the inside of her lip that was the consequence of her constant biting. “Yes, I believe so.” Rose smiled. “Good. I’ll have your aunt bring in some cookies. Wouldn’t that be nice?” “Oh, yes. I love Aunt Orna’s housekeeper’s cookies. May I take one for Freddie?”

Rose bobbed her heard. “Luckily, it’s just the two of you in the house right now, or else I’d be supplying the entire family as if it were Christmas.” Just the two of us? As if I’ve moved back in. “Thank you, Grandmother.” When the tray was brought in, Hettie wrapped the largest cookie in her handkerchief and carefully placed it in her purse. “I’m glad I stopped by today,” she said. “Because you acquired a cookie for your brother?” “No, don’t be silly.” Hettie laughed. “You really helped me today, Grandmother, and I’m grateful.”

Chapter 13

“I wish we could do this more often,” Ida said, a twinkle in her eyes. “So do I,” Hettie said, leaning back on the Morrises’ sofa as if it were her own. Mabel, her mouth full of sandwich, mumbled in agreement. “I can’t wait until this baby is born,” she said after swallowing. “I want to feel like myself again. Hettie, you look wonderful.” “Thank you. I needed this. I have no one in Niagara-on-the-Lake to talk to.” “You have your in-laws, don’t you?” Mabel said. “Mean spirited lot. I haven’t even met Alfred’s brothers’ wives and children. I suppose I’m not good enough for them.” “Oh, I don’t think—” “I do,” Hettie said more forcefully than she intended. “I realize I’m married to a stranger. I knew him from letters and a few meetings, nothing more. I was consumed by the fragility of life, the excitement of it all, and I should have thought more with my head.” Ida said, “I don’t think many people do think with their heads during a courtship. Then they discover things about the other person they don’t like. Don’t you agree, Mabel?” Mabel nodded, her face expressionless. “So I asked Grandmother this, and I’d like your opinions,” Hettie said. “What is the secret to a happy marriage?” Neither Ida nor Mabel spoke. They glanced at one another and then their sister. “Well, I ask,” Hettie said, wondering if the question was somehow confusing, “because you are very happy.” “I’m not happy,” Ida said at last. “I was once but not now.” Ida and Mabel again exchanged glances.

Mabel said, “I’m not either.” Hettie gasped before she could stop herself. “But you both said nothing in your letters, gave no indication whatsoever.” “It’s not the sort of thing one writes about in a letter,” Ida said. “I’m not sure I’d tell you to your face either. It’s embarrassing.” Hettie sat forward. “So you tell me you’re not happy, but you won’t satisfy my curiosity with details? You’ll make me worry about you instead?” Ida bit her lip. “I didn’t say that, merely that it’s embarrassing and I wouldn’t have told you had you not asked.” Mabel put her hand on Ida’s knee. “What is it?” Ida stiffened. “My little sisters are ganging up on me.” “Not all of them,” Hettie said. “I can call over Alice and ring Adelaide.” “Do you want me to tell you or not?” Ida said, wringing her hands. Hettie and Mabel nodded. Ida focused on her shoes, her voice trembling. “James has become a cocaine fiend.” Mabel and Hettie laughed but stopped when they realized Ida was serious. “When did this happen?” Hettie said, putting her arm around Ida’s shoulders. “Two years ago. He had a tooth pulled and was prescribed it for pain relief. He misused it, and it took hold of him.” “Surely, the prescription long ago expired.” “It has, but his cousin is a druggist who asks no questions.” “How has James remained a functioning member of society?” “So long as he keeps himself satisfied, he manages, but when it starts to wear

off... he behaves strangely.” “How does he behave?” “Enough questions, Hettie. I’m sure as a nurse you already know the answers. As I said, it’s embarrassing.” Hettie hung her head and squeezed her sister. “I’m so sorry, Ida. I can’t imagine how difficult that must be.” Ida said “thank you” and took a sip of tea. Apparently, that was the end of the conversation. Hettie narrowed her eyes. “Ida, he hasn’t hurt you, has he?” Ida shook her head, her eyes wide with surprise. “No, no, other than my pride and our relationship. He is a different man now. Cares more for the cocaine than anything.” Hettie turned her attention to Mabel. “What about you?” “No, James hasn’t hurt me,” Mabel said with a forced laugh. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Why are you unhappy?” “I want a divorce,” Mabel said with a sigh. Hettie blinked but contained her surprise. “You say that so casually, as if it were that easy.” Mabel shrugged. “It isn’t that easy, but I’m casual because I’ve resigned myself to it. Gardner is a selfish, obnoxious, unfeeling fool.” “Honey, we’ve all known that for years.” “Why didn’t anyone warn me?” Mabel hid her face with her hands. Ida and Hettie exchanged a glance. “We thought you knew, too, and was forgiving of his faults,” Hettie said.

“I— No!” Mabel lifted her head, eyes wild. “They say love is blind. Well, it is. All Gardner loves is his engineering projects.” Mabel looked on the verge of tears, and Ida rubbed her sister’s back. “What will you do?” “I don’t know. I think I’m stuck. I’ll have three young children. He would probably get custody of them – if I could get a divorce at all – and I have no means of ing myself.” Hettie swallowed, feeling emotions she couldn’t quite identify. That could so easily be her in a few months’ time if things continued on as they were. “Shall we change the subject?” “Yes, let’s.” Her face reddening, Mabel took another bite of sandwich. “The person you should really ask your question to, Hettie,” Ida said, “is Dorothea. Both she and Maeve were quite happy, not a façade, so our brothers are doing something right.” “I wonder what that is,” Hettie said, feeling queasy. “I don’t know, but the women who marry into the family seem to have better luck. I’ll be curious to see who Freddie marries.” Mabel swallowed and said, “Mother says he’s getting mysterious letters from .” Hettie, who was sipping her tea, nearly choked. “He’s what?” Mabel shrugged. “He’s in correspondence with someone in . Mother says he’s been very secretive about it. I’m guessing you know nothing about it.” Hettie shook her head. “No, he’s said nothing.” Why? Why has he said nothing? “Perhaps he’ll tell you if you ask him. He won’t tell Mother a thing, and we’d all like to know.” “I might be able to, if I can somehow slip it into conversation.”

“You’ll find a way, I’m sure,” Mabel said before finishing her sandwich. Oh, I certainly will, Hettie thought. He said I can tell him anything. Well, he’ll give me answers.

Chapter 14

Hettie returned to her parents’ house, which was eerily quiet compared to the home of her youth, and sighed as she removed her gloves and tossed them onto the parlor stand. The stand was where each day’s mail was sorted into piles by recipient, and her gloves grazed Freddie’s pile. I wonder if he has any mystery mail today , she thought as her temperature rose. The fact he was receiving mystery letters disturbed her the same as an argument. Why, she did not know. She removed her hat and was about to toss it aside, too, when the staircase creaked. “Mrs. Taylor,” the nanny said, carrying the baby, “I’m about to take Simon out for a walk in the pram.” “Oh.” Hettie outstretched her arms. “I’ll feed him before you go.” “No need, Mrs. Taylor. I just gave him a bottle.” Hettie’s hands dropped to her sides. Why did the affluent have such an aversion to feeding their own children? Or being with them, for that matter. She had other pressing matters today, however, and would ponder the topic another time. “Who is home?” she said. “Your parents and brother, ma’am.” Her forehead throbbed. “Where is my brother?” “In the sitting room, I believe,” the nanny said, adjusting Simon’s bonnet. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Hettie kissed Simon before entering the sitting room. Freddie read Call of the Wild, feet propped on a hassock and a glass of ginger beer on the table beside his chair. His head craned upward when he heard her. “How was your visit with Ida and Mabel?” he said, grinning. She did not return the smile. “Enlightening.”

He inserted a bookmark into his novel and closed the book. “What was so enlightening about it?” “Oh, let’s just say I learned some things. Including something about you.” Freddie leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “About me?” “Mabel says Mother told her you’ve received letters from that you won’t reveal the contents of.” “Both Mother and Mabel need to mind their own business,” he said, his tone suddenly bitter. Since when has this family minded its own business? “Please, Freddie, will you tell me about them?” “Fine, but upstairs.” Hettie followed him to the boy’s bedroom and watched as he pulled a stack of envelopes tied together with string from their hiding place. “You hide your letters in Walter’s old mattress?” she said. “I can’t risk Mother or the housekeeper finding them. Their interrogations would be worse than yours.” Hettie crossed her arms. “My interrogation?” “Sit or I won’t continue.” He pointed to the bed. Hettie sat, and Freddie spread the letters between them. “Do you ,” he said, “when you were demobbed and I told you I had things to take care of? Well, that’s what these letters are. I needed to start the process in person. I’m looking for my girlfriend sca. She fled in terror during the war, and she took our child with her.” Hettie shook her head. “Oh, Freddie, what did you do?” “Don’t judge me, Hettie.” He shook his finger. “I can do the arithmetic. Simon wasn’t born early. That was the secret you wanted to tell me privately at the

Armistice party but didn’t have the opportunity.” “How do you that? You were drunk.” He tapped his temple. “I everything.” She rolled her eyes. “All right. You win,” she said, her voice softening. “How long have you known?” “About your baby or mine?” “Don’t be cheeky. Yours, of course.” “Since the Somme. I’m sorry I kept it from you, but privacy was at a and censors read our letters, and I didn’t want anyone knowing who shouldn’t. sca left in 1917. She was pregnant at the time. I tried to stop her, but she was so frightened. Of so many things. The war was getting to be too much.” Hettie quickly scanned the letters. “These are in French. I can’t read them. What will you do if you find her?” “I have responsibilities, and I plan to live up to them.” She nodded, a lump forming in her throat as she thought about her latest visit to Maeve’s grave a few days earlier. “How do you know sca is still alive? Between the war and the influenza—” “I’m well aware, but I can’t think like that. I have to keep trying.” They both fell silent, and Freddie gathered the papers. Hettie folded her hands in her lap and focused on her fingernails. “Freddie.” They briefly made eye . “What would Mother think about her two middle children throwing caution to the wind and having relations before marriage?” he said, returning the letters to their hiding place. “Why does it matter what Mother would think? There was a war on. At any moment we could have been dead.”

“No, that is the excuse we tell ourselves to justify our scandalous behavior. What would Mother truly think?” “On one hand, horrified, because how dare we break the rules again?” Hettie inhaled sharply then added, “But on the other hand, Mabel wants a divorce, and Ida is married to a cocaine fiend, so it might be the least of her worries.” He finished fixing the bedclothes and stared at her. “What? No wonder your afternoon was enlightening. Maybe I should stop having James handle my s at the bank.” “She says he’s fine until the drug wears off, so I think your savings are safe.” “See, Hettie, we all have problems. Us most of all.” Freddie laughed and collapsed on his bed before growing serious again. “I had that dream again. The one where the crater is filled with bodies. It doesn’t even startle me anymore. I wake up, roll over and fall back asleep. I don’t like sleeping anymore, yet I wish for unconscious.” “I heard you stirring last night.” Hettie laid on the bed next to him and followed his gaze to the ceiling light. “I still imagine blood dripping and seeping in places where there never was blood. Every time Simon cries, I think it’s a soldier. When he needs a diaper change, I am reminded of when the dying evacuate their bowels and bladder. When will this end? And when will I stop mourning Geoffrey as if he died yesterday?” “I don’t know. When you find out, let me know. I’ll mark it on the calendar.” Hettie closed her eyes but immediately opened them again. “We could not experience these emotions during the war.” “Of course not. It would have been debilitating.” “So I think an explanation lies there.” “Could be. There are some people who don’t like us experiencing them now either. We’re supposed to continue on as if nothing ever happened.” “I can’t do that,” she said, repeatedly pulling her wedding ring on and off her finger. “I wish I could stay here with you forever.”

“I’m sure you’ll be infinitely happier than Ida and Mabel once you decide what to do about the Taylor lot.” “Ugh. I thought Mother was bad. She’s a bloody sweetheart.” Freddie laughed, taking Hettie’s hand. “War changes perspectives.” “With the Taylors it certainly is war, and I’m trying to stay in the reserve trench.”

Chapter 15

“I haven’t gone up there in ages, but you are free to stay for as long as you like.” Hettie smiled and squeezed Mrs. Bartlette’s hand. “Thank you, Mama. I truly appreciate it.” “It’s always a pleasure to see you, my dear.” Her former mother-in-law exhibited the same conditions she had since her husband died in 1906: fragility of spirit and body wrapped in mourning dress. Mrs. Bartlette was a reminder of everything that could go wrong in the grieving process. It could become a permanent fixture of one’s personality, a possibility Hettie resisted. Endless mourning should not be the inevitable, she told herself. Mrs. Bartlette slipped her bony fingers out of Hettie’s grasp. “Your boxes are marked with an X. I’ll be downstairs when you’re finished.” Hettie cracked open the attic door and peered inside. Sunlight from the window made the dust particles floating on the air glisten like snowflakes, and a dust snow had accumulated on every surface. One pile of containers, however, had less dust on it than the rest, and Hettie assumed those were her boxes. It was humbling to see the remainder of her and Geoffrey’s household neatly packed into a few modest-sized pasteboard boxes. Their furniture, in Hettie’s absence, was sold and the profits put into a bank for her postwar . That money, legally, belonged to Alfred now, but he knew nothing about it, and she had every intention of keeping it that way. She opened one of the boxes marked with an X. It contained a tea set along with several other china pieces that the Taylors probably would consider poor quality because they came from a department store. To hell with their opinions. These boxes were going to Niagara-on-the-Lake, and she was going to use her things from her home. She opened the next box. It was full of cookware. By the sixth box, only miscellaneous items – candleholders, books, a vase, a set of picture frames, an inkwell – were left. Every item would go. Hettie pushed the boxes to the top of the stairs then wiped the dust from her hands. The entire task had taken probably no more than 10 minutes, but Mrs. Bartlette said to take as much time as she necessary. Why not explore?

She started with a metal rack that contained a woman’s coat several decades out of style, some men’s suits that were probably Mr. Bartlette’s and a white dress. Hettie pulled out the gown, which reeked from the sack of mothballs that hung beside it, and smiled with recognition. My wedding dress. She held the dress up to her torso and spun in a circle, the fabric swishing. When she married Alfred, she didn’t have a special frock, nor he a fine suit. Their ceremony lacked in style but was full of function. In other words, dull and unromantic. Without giving it a second thought, Hettie stepped out of her dress and put on the wedding gown. In 1914, she hated this dress. It was more Mother’s style than hers, respectable but not fashion forward. She felt like the dress was strangling her, but today it brought back pleasant memories. She giggled as she tried to make out her reflection in the windowpanes. Under no circumstances could this dress be sent to Niagara-on-the-Lake. She ripped off a piece of lace and tucked it inside one of the boxes. She would make a sachet, and Alfred would be none the wiser. Once back in her street clothes, curiosity drew Hettie to the rest of the attic’s contents. She opened a steamer trunk and discovered it was full of toys, probably the only toys the Bartlette children ever owned. Hettie beamed as she pulled out a wooden lion on wheels. The pull cord long gone, the lion’s yellow paint was still vivid. Setting it down, she next pulled out Maeve’s doll. Hettie and her sisters enjoyed dolls with china hands and faces, but this was a ragdoll, possibly homemade, with yarn hair. There were jacks, blocks, tiny soldiers wearing red coats. She shut the trunk and moved on to a hatbox that contained not hats but Maeve’s wide ribbons from when gigantic hair bows were the height of girls’ fashion. Ugh, I don’t miss these, Hettie thought, shaking her mobbed hair. A satchel contained papers. They were mostly newspaper clippings of no longer important events, but buried at the bottom of the case was a stack of death certificates. Hettie read several before realization struck her that they were for Mrs. Bartlette’s dead children. Most of the children had been stillborn or premature, but not all. Two died early in life of fever and two... “Infants born prematurely,” the record read under cause of death. Under

secondary causes, it stated, “Mother went into early labour after Father threw her to ground and kicked her repeatedly.” Twins. Hettie dropped the papers then stared at them in disbelief as they fluttered to the floor. He beat them to death. Geoffrey’s siblings. All of them. As if hiding evidence of a crime, Hettie gathered all the sheets and shoved them back into the satchel under the worthless clippings. Feeling ill, she ran down the stairs.

WHEN HETTIE APPROACHED the sitting room, Lucretia looked up from a novel. “Did you find what you needed at Mrs. Bartlette’s?” “Oh, yes, I found what I needed,” Hettie said, voice low, then lingered in the doorway, waiting for her mother to notice. “Good.” Lucretia continued reading. “Is there—” “Mother, I found something, and I need to know the truth.” Lucretia sighed. “Why must you chronically interrupt me? What is so important?” “What did Mr. Bartlette do to Mrs. Bartlette?” Lucretia focused on her book. “I never saw anything with my own eyes.” “She’s your bosom friend. You must have known something. Geoffrey said his father blamed his mother for all the family’s problems. Then today I found the babies’ death certificates.” “Sit down.” Lucretia closed her book and placed it on her lap, folding her hands on it. Hettie sat beside her on the sofa and mirrored her by folding her own hands. “Please don’t try to protect my sensibilities. I know bits and pieces of the story. I would like to know the entirety.” “My dear, you know just as well as I that it is legal – and perhaps even socially acceptable – to beat one’s wife. The taboo is when the bruises show. I never saw any bruises, but Mr. Bartlette had a temper.” “We all have tempers, but we don’t go about hitting people.” “I don’t mean the typical ‘insult me, I get angry’ temper. He grew angry too quickly and over things that wouldn’t anger most people.” Hettie bit her scarred lip. “Did he also get angry at the children?”

“Yes, but Amelia sheltered them as best she could. That made him angrier.” Hettie imagined Geoffrey as a boy cowering in fear from his irate father. She swallowed. “You can’t say how often these events occurred?” Lucretia shook her head. “No.” “Okay. How many children were there if you count the ones that didn’t survive?” Lucretia shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t count. At least 20.” Hettie’s back stiffened. “Twenty! Twenty pregnancies?” “I don’t know how she’s still alive, honestly. That’s double how many your grandmother had.” “Poor Mrs. Bartlette.” Hettie hung her head. “Now she’s down to three.” “You can see now why she believes she is cursed.” “I— I wish I knew more.” “I know quite enough.” Lucretia opened her book, signaling the conversation was over. Hettie sighed before standing. Freddie was still at work; she would share this with him once he came home. She exited the sitting room, intent on going upstairs to talk to Simon, when Benjamin called her into his study. Benjamin also had open a book, and Hettie wondered how long her parents lived the life of leisure that permitted them to read at any time of day. “You took care of what you needed?” Benjamin said. “Yes. I found out what I needed and what I didn’t,” Hettie said, her chest tightening. He wrinkled his brow. “What you didn’t?” “I learned some disturbing information about the Bartlettes.”

“Ah.” Benjamin didn’t sound surprised. “I’m grateful for how you treat Mother and that you taught my brothers to treat women respectfully.” “Thank you, but I actually called you in here for a reason other than the Bartlettes. Hettie, it’s time for you to go home.” Hettie turned pale. “I am home.” “I don’t mean Barrie. I mean your husband’s home. I won’t turn you out on the street, but if you stay here much longer, your problems will become insurmountable.” Hettie said nothing, eyeing her father with unblinking lids. How did he know the real reason she was here? “Do you understand what I am telling you?” he said. “Y, yes, Father.” “You’ve faced much more frightening events than whatever is going on in Niagara-on-the-Lake. You are strong. You can find a solution.” “Thank you, Father.” She nodded. “You have given me much to consider.” Hettie forced a smile then hastily left the room and retreated up the back staircase.

Chapter 16

The Taylor estate, Hettie learned, was dubbed Sunnyside, a name wholly inaccurate to describe a place so devoid of warmth. The taxi had mere yards to go before reaching the guest house. Hettie’s throat was dry, mouth sticky. She dug through her purse for a piece of horehound candy but apparently had already eaten the last one and cursed under her breath. Simon stirred, cooing. The nanny made an asinine comment about how this indicated he was happy to be home, but Hettie, having no patience for ignorance, ignored her. At the sight of Alfred standing on the porch, Hettie wrung her hands. Why had he sent a taxi to pick them up at the train station instead of doing it himself? What could have kept him so busy he couldn’t be troubled with his wife and child? His stupid aeroplane project? Alfred descended the porch steps and when the cab stopped, opened the vehicle’s door. “Welcome home,” he said, sounding sincere. “Thank you,” she said, biting her lip and reminding herself of the old adage If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. Hettie walked silently ahead of Alfred, trying to to hold her head high until they entered the house. She immediately spotted her boxes in the corner of the foyer. “Those arrived yesterday,” he said, noticing her eyeing the packages. “Yes. I sent them. Many of my things were still in Barrie,” she said, although he hadn’t expressed any curiosity about the boxes’ contents. “I wanted them before they ended up donated to charity.” “So you’ll take care of them then?” She nodded. “In the morning.”

“Good.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “How was your visit?” “Enlightening.” “Care to elaborate?” She removed her gloves and smacked them on her palm. “Not really.” “All right. Your choice. Change soon. We’re having dinner at the grand house.” Hettie grimaced. For once, just once, I’d love him to say we’re having dinner in town. “I’m going to go lie down.” Alfred was about to respond when she turned and headed for the stairs. She had just moved from the reserve trench to the frontlines, and it was almost time to go over the top.

WHY WERE JACOB AND Nathaniel never subjected to these dinners? Oh, wait, I know why. It’s because they didn’t leave home. These dinners were Alfred’s punishment for disobeying his parents. No, not punishment, torture. Torture by in-laws should be forbidden in the Geneva Convention. Mackenzie and Luella, sour as ever, sat on opposite ends of what felt like a mile long table. They were not paying the least bit of attention to one another. Hettie and Alfred also barely acknowledged each other, and silence prevailed much of the meal. If this was a fair representation of what marriage in the upper classes was like, Hettie longed for destitution. Near the end of the fifth course, a footman handed Alfred an envelope. He took the message off the tray, read it then placed his napkin on the table. “I’ll be back shortly. Excuse me.” The moment Alfred left the room, Hettie felt a chill as if someone had just opened a window to let in the cold October breeze. Mackenzie set down his knife and fork. “We had been hoping you wouldn’t return.” Here it is, Hettie thought, imagining an officer blowing his whistle and shouting to his men to go up and over. “Excuse me.” “You heard him,” Luella said. “Don’t play dumb.” “She’s not playing,” Mackenzie said. “How else do you explain her belief that she could have a marriage with our son?” “Yes, you are definitely correct. It’s the stupidity of the lower classes.” “Do you often speak about people as if they are not in the room?” Hettie said. “They have smaller brains, I believe, and this impedes their thinking,” Mackenzie said, ignoring her. “A phrenologist said so.” Luella nodded. “Yes, very few women are worthy of our son. She must have

high breeding, old money, someone who understands our ways, someone who doesn’t expect something as trivial as happiness.” Alfred returned to the dining room, and his parents fell silent. “I’m sorry for the interruption,” he said. “I had a phone call.” Hettie wanted details but refrained from asking lest she be labeled a troublemaker overstepping her boundaries. Luella’s nostrils flared. “It couldn’t wait?” Alfred shook his head. “No, it was from BC. Did I miss anything?” “Nothing at all.” “Good.” Alfred picked up his fork and continued his meal, blissfully unaware of his parents’ comments. I’m going to get to the bottom of it eventually, Hettie thought, but for now I just need to survive this dinner.

HETTIE’S FEET CLOMPED up the stairs with increasing intensity. When she reached the upper floor, she rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. It didn’t take long for the tears to flow. In an attempt to stifle her sobs, she bent her head low over the sink and turned on the tap. Why did she come back? She never would be considered part of the family. But with people so cruel, why would she want to be one of them? They will never see me for me. She straightened her back and examined herself in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, eyelids swollen and nose running. It would be obvious to Alfred she was crying. Maybe he should know. Maybe he’d do something about it if he did. But whom am I kidding? He’ll take his family’s side. They are blood, after all. He’ll never take my side. She slumped to the floor. I’m going to be miserable for the rest of my life.

Chapter 17

The sight of the naked and skeletal trees reaching skyward reminded Hettie of the trees in and Belgium, stripped clean by battle. Transfixed by the grotesque representations of death, she stood at the dining room window, and a shiver ran down her spine. Winter was coming and if it was anything like earlier in the year, her preoccupation with death would return. She could feel it already, the creeping cold, the darkness. “Hettie, are you going to sit?” Alfred’s voice snapped her from her thoughts, and she turned. Waiting at the breakfast table, Alfred hadn’t even cracked open his poached egg, and it was growing cold. “Yes. Sorry.” She sat, all appetite lost, and picked up her spoon with one hand and her toast with the other. “I’m sure you’ve been looking at the calendar,” Alfred said, “and saw the date. Will you be going into town with me for the Armistice Day commemorations?” The closer they approached the anniversary, the more Hettie thought of Geoffrey, and the more she thought of Geoffrey, the more she balled. The luxury of hiding herself whenever she needed a good sob wouldn’t be available on Armistice Day, and she would be unable to contain herself. “I’m going to spend the day with Freddie.” “With Freddie? You just returned from Barrie not that long ago.” “So? Is Freddie to be punished forever because his birthday falls on November 11th? It was his birthday for 24 years before it became this sacred day.” Alfred stared at her blankly for a moment. “I had wanted to go into town with my wife.”

“You can take your wife into town any time. My brother has a birthday once a year.” “Armistice Day is once a year. This is the first anniversary.” “You say that as if I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to celebrate four years of death, have you thought of that? Freddie was born in 1893. Eighteen hundred and ninety-three was simple. It was calm. There was nothing to worry about.” “Of course there was nothing to worry about; you were one year old.” Hettie clanged her spoon against her poached eggcup. “You know damn well what I meant.” “No, you’re right. It was a different time. Before the war and the flu, before airplanes and dreadnaughts, before trenches.” “Before casualty clearing stations, dum dum bullets, chlorine gas and mustard gas.” “Before the South African War and my army enlistment.” “Before we ruined our lives.” “Have I ruined you?” Alfred said, his voice barely audible. There was so much Hettie wanted to say. She wanted to tell him his family crushed her spirit, made her hate her life, that she despised them and wanted nothing to do with them. She wanted to tell him she yearned for Barrie, that she wished her first husband were alive so she wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. She wanted to tell him how lonely she felt, so truly alone. But she couldn’t. “No,” she said, “I ruined myself.” His eyes were piercing, demanding the truth. “How?” “The war. I shouldn’t have gone.” “You love nursing. I couldn’t imagine you doing anything else.”

“Loved nursing. Past tense. Now I just want normalcy.” “What does that mean?” “See, that’s the problem. I don’t know. But I should have expected that.” He broke eye , glancing at his cold breakfast before again focusing on her. “Fair enough. How long will you be in Barrie?” “Only for the birthday. I’ll go in the morning and return the next day.” “That’s good.” They fell into silence, and Hettie wanted nothing more than to escape.

HETTIE TOOK A QUICK whiff of the flower she held gingerly between two fingers. Its scent reminded her of summer, and this put a crooked smile on her pale, tear stained face. As she moved through the cemetery, her fingers occasionally brushing against ice-cold marble, her melancholy intensified. With a deep breath, her chest began to heave, abdominal muscles aching as her corset reigned them in. Blinded by tears, her feet somehow knew which direction to travel, and she collapsed onto her knees when she reached her destination. It took a few moments to regain her composure, then she placed the flower at the foot of Geoffrey’s memorial stone. “For you, my sweet. It isn’t a poppy, but it’s all I could get. Today is Armistice Day. Many cities are commemorating the day with ceremonies. I won’t go to any because of Freddie.” Hettie stood, unable to bear the cold seeping into her skin. “Sorry, Maeve,” she said to her sister-in-law’s gravestone, “I haven’t got one for you today. I only came into town for Freddie’s birthday. I must return to Niagara-on-the-Lake tomorrow. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Winter is coming and visiting the cemetery won’t be easy.” The thought of snowdrifts was as overpowering as the thought of death itself. If it were a particularly bad winter, the tops of the gravestones would be covered. How would Geoffrey know she loved him if she couldn’t visit for months? Hettie’s throat tightened. Maybe this is how it began with Mrs. Bartlette? This inability to let go. But how could Hettie let go when she was unable to mourn properly at the casualty clearing station? And weren’t the disagreements with Alfred enabling this inability to let go? “I need help, Geoffrey. Life once seemed so simple. Now, it’s anything but. I want things to be simple again.” The tears began yet anew, but this time they weren’t tears for the dead; they were tears of sorrow at the thought of her miserable future.

WHEN HETTIE RETURNED to the Steward house, she heard her siblings’ voices mingling with her parents’. Had they arrived for the birthday dinner already? She quickly glanced at herself in the parlor mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and her skirt dirty, but there was no time to make herself presentable. Her sister’s reflection appeared behind her. “Hettie, what are you doing just standing there?” “Ida. I was thinking of something. You know what it’s like having a baby in the house. Tiredness makes one forgetful.” Always fashion forward, Ida looked like she stepped out a magazine, while Hettie felt as elegant as a pauper. “It’ll get better, I promise,” Ida said, outstretched her arms toward Hettie for a hug. “Come. Everyone is here except for Adelaide. We’ll see her at Christmas.” “Lovely. And the birthday boy?” “Ready and waiting.” Hettie followed Ida into the sitting room where the rest of the family gathered. “Geez, Hettie, you look like hell,” Freddie said, jumping up. “Please don’t use that language,” Lucretia said, answering for her daughter. “Oh, she heard worse overseas, probably coming out of her own mouth.” Freddie gave Hettie a kiss on each cheek before again sitting. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed that, despite his jovial mood, lack of sleep and his secret search were weighing on him. Mabel embraced Hettie while Alice smiled and waved, both sisters looking visibly further along in their pregnancies than when she last saw them. Walter grinned and told her it was great to see her. Tommy merely said hello.

Hettie acknowledged James, Gardner and Dorothea. Dorothea was the only person Hettie cared to see now that she knew James was an addict and Gardner loved bridges more than Mabel. “I when Freddie was born,” Benjamin said as Hettie took a seat beside him. “Aunt Sadie took Hettie and Mabel. I was at work, and Ida and Walter were at school. He came quickly. Your mother was laboring in the morning and by evening – baby.” “Father has been trying to embarrass me all day,” Freddie said to his siblings. “You call it embarrassment. I call it fond memories. I missed your last four birthdays.” Freddie shrugged. “I’m missing cake. When is dinner?” “Any time, now that Hettie is here.” The party moved into the dining room. Hettie lingered briefly wondering if Freddie had any news from . The outcome would make for either a great birthday or a dismal one. They took the same seats around the table they occupied before the war. Hettie sat across from Freddie and ed all the times as children they kicked each other under the table. Benjamin clanged a spoon against his water glass. “Before we begin dinner, a toast.” He raised his glass. “A toast to my middle son whom I am quite proud, and I am happy he is home.” Freddie’s cheeks colored, and Hettie wondered if Father would be so proud if he knew the entire story. “I have something to say.” Hettie heard the words come out of her mouth as if someone else said them, and Freddie’s expression darkened. She raised her glass and realized she actually had nothing to say and would need to think quickly. “Freddie, my dear brother, I’ve known you for nearly the entirety of my life. You were my partner in mischief as children, and I value our friendship now as adults. I wish you a wonderful birthday.”

Freddie kicked her. She glared at him, and he winked. Lucretia cleared her throat. “Now, I would like to say something.” “Oh, please,” Freddie said, “I don’t think I can take another toast.” “Let me speak. My son, I am grateful to have you home alive and well. It could have been much worse, and I am grateful.” “Thank you. It’s nice knowing you care so much. I’m grateful for my family. Now can we have cake?” “No,” Lucretia said. “Dessert is the final course.” “I survive 26 years, and I still don’t get to break the etiquette rules?” “Freddie, don’t ruin the gracious mood.” He didn’t answer, but instead looked at Hettie and rolled his eyes. She smiled. Yes, this is what family is supposed to be like.

Chapter 18

“T hey’re here,” Hettie said as giddy as a child at Christmas. She hopped off the window seat and ran to the front door, bying Alfred who sat at the kitchen table and the nanny who was stacking blocks with Simon in the parlor. She stopped in the foyer to quickly adjust her dress and hair before pulling on her shawl and dashing onto the porch. “Charlotte! Dr. Fitzpatrick! Welcome.” Charlotte waved enthusiastically. “Hettie, hello.” Hettie ran down the stairs, arms extended. The two women embraced before Hettie held her friend at arms length, not quite believing she was really there. Charlotte’s hair hung in a braid peaking like a tail from under her hat, and she wore a walking suit more appropriate, color wise, for summer with stylish brown shoes. Hettie had never seen Charlotte dressed this way, and she thought her friend appeared causal and confident. “Good day to you,” Dr. Fitzpatrick said in his Irish brogue as he shook Hettie’s hand. “So wonderful to have you. Won’t you come inside where it’s warmer?” The trio entered a house filled with the sounds of a fussy baby. Simon was propped against the hassock, his round face turning red, and Hettie could tell he was on the verge of wailing. “That would be my son, Simon Geoffrey,” she said, picking up the baby and bounced him on her hip. “He’s growing like a weed, but he’s still tiny.” Charlotte rubbed the baby’s back, oohing and awing over him. Hettie led her visitors to the kitchen. “Alfred, darling, you Miss Gates and Dr. Fitzpatrick.” “Yes, of course.” Alfred slowly stood and shook their hands before again taking his seat.

Behind them, the housekeeper deposited the luggage on the floor with a thud, and Hettie frowned. The housekeeper was a “gift” from Luella who began working before Hettie returned from Barrie in October. Hettie surmised the woman was more spy than employee. “Please put those in the guest room, Mrs. Turner.” The housekeeper rolled her eyes – or at least Hettie thought she saw an eye roll – before picking up the luggage and leaving the room. “We have exciting news,” Charlotte said, her voice rising. “We’re getting married.” Charlotte pulled off her left glove and showed Hettie the ring. “We found it in an English antique shop.” “Congratulations,” Hettie said, switching Simon to the other hip so the baby’s head would block her view of Alfred. “I’m happy for you.” “Tell her what else,” Fitzpatrick said. “We’re going to BC to start a medical clinic. We’ll go where the need is the greatest, but more than likely Vancouver.” “You’re staying in nursing?” Hettie said. Charlotte’s eyes were shining. “Oh, yes, why would I not?” “Oh, I don’t know. Everything we’ve seen. I used to love nursing,” Hettie paused and saw Alfred look up, “but I couldn’t go back.” “Yes, you could,” Charlotte said. “There are many types of nurses. The influenza is still making the rounds. Bessie attended to babies at her first hospital job. There will always be babies.” Hettie looked blankly at Charlotte. How could she go back to nursing at an ordinary hospital when she was accustomed to bullet wounds and amputations? She couldn’t even step foot in a hospital without thinking of blood and dying patients. Charlotte hadn’t stopped working and, therefore, hadn’t had time to reflect on the war.

“What will you do in your clinic?” Hettie said, trying not to sound grim. “No specialty,” Fitzpatrick said. “Simply provide assistance where it is needed, probably to the impoverished.” Hettie forced a smile. “That sounds like a wonderful endeavor. Shall we go sit in the parlor?” When they returned to the parlor, both the nanny and the blocks were gone. Hettie sat on the sofa, Simon on her lap, with Alfred beside them. Charlotte and Fitzpatrick took the armchairs and related to them everything that happened after Hettie and Bessie left Europe. The couple traveled with the troops to Berlin for occupation duty before tending to disfigured patients at hospitals in Britain. After becoming engaged and being demobilized in July, they began traveling. Their first stop after returning to Canada was Halifax to see Bessie, who was again working at Victoria General Hospital while continuing to help Mrs. Walsh. “How did Bessie seem?” Hettie said. “Not melancholy, I hope.” “No, not melancholy,” Charlotte said, “but not sunshine either. Perhaps a bit like you.” Alfred glanced at Hettie but said nothing. “That’s what concerns me,” Hettie said. “Once her grief is overcome, she will be fine,” Fitzpatrick said. “But if she is working at the hospital,” Hettie said, “she can’t be living with Mrs. Walsh. The hospital is on the other side of the city. She’s alone again. This time in the city.” “Better with purpose in the big city than aimless in a small town.” Exactly how Hettie felt! Was that particular comment aimed at her? She inhaled, her breath making a sharp noise. If Charlotte knew her feelings, then certainly Fitzpatrick did as well. Charlotte updated Hettie on the other of Casualty Clearing Station 100. Most had remained in medicine, although two of the nurses married.

Hettie listened patiently, reminded of her own plan to open a clinic after the war to help morphine addicts. She hadn’t gone so far as to commit her plan to paper, but it was more than a ing fancy. Instead, here she was, lost and worthless, with a child and a second husband – neither of which were part of any plan. She forced a smile. “I’m sure you’re tired from your travels. I should show you your rooms.” Hettie stood and ed Simon to his father before turning on her heel. Fitzpatrick said he’d be along shortly. “I hope our presence here helps you,” Charlotte said after the friends reached the stairs. Hettie crossed her arms and leaned against the stairwell. “It’ll give me an excuse to go to town and take a trip to the falls.” Charlotte smiled. “We will be happy to go with you.” “Even if it is November, I can get out of the house. This house is maddening. I was a housewife in 1914, but I wasn’t constantly in the house. I didn’t enjoy housekeeping, but I didn’t realize till now how much freedom I had.” “You’ll have freedom this week,” Charlotte said, rubbing Hettie’s arm. “You’ll have us to blame.” Hettie shook her head. “No. To thank.” “Maybe things will change.” “They won’t change until Alfred opens his eyes.” Charlotte took Hettie’s hand. “What would it take for that to happen?” Hettie shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

LUELLA SENT AN INCOMPETENT hack. Mrs. Turner was incapable of performing even the simplest tasks. She served their meal lukewarm and on the everyday plates, not the Sunday china as Hettie instructed. If Hettie truly was mistress of her own house, she would have hired her own employees, but everyone knew she was mistress of nothing, not even her own emotions. Charlotte and Fitzpatrick had been overseas for so long, any taste of civilian life was sufficient. They didn’t seem to mind how their food was served, but Hettie’s eyelid was twitching. “You have a very lovely home,” Charlotte said to Alfred while they enjoyed dessert, a chocolate cake Hettie baked herself to ensure it wasn’t dry. “I hear it belongs to your family, Mr. Taylor.” “Oh, yes, we’ve owned this property for a couple of generations now. My grandfather and great-grandfather were investors during the Industrial Revolution and dabbled in a variety of industries.” Alfred continued speaking, his face bright, but Hettie had ceased listening. They “dabbled” in industry? He says this like the average person might occasionally pursue a hobby. “That’s interesting,” Charlotte said. “My family owns acreage also. We dabble in wheat. Dr. Fitzpatrick’s family dabbled with medicine in Belfast, and Hettie’s family in education.” “Oh, yes,” Hettie said. “My parents haven’t taught since the ’80s, but Adelaide will get her teaching certificate in ’21.” “Nonetheless,” Charlotte said, “if Adelaide marries and has children, one of them may carry on the tradition.” “That’s possible. Adelaide is the only one of us who has yet to have a child.” Hettie swallowed hard then quickly added, “And Freddie, of course.” “Would you ever want a house of your own, Mr. Taylor?” Charlotte said. “I haven’t given it much thought. For the first time in a while, I’m comfortable

with my life. Isn’t that right, Hettie?” He hadn’t given it much thought? He promised her they’d have a home of their own. Alfred was eyeing her, but she avoided eye and set down her fork. “I hear Simon crying. You’ll have to excuse me.” Hettie hastily left the room, but stopped around the corner to eavesdrop on the dining room conversation. “I don’t know what to do with her,” Alfred said. “I’m at a loss.” “Quite honestly, Hettie is miserable,” Charlotte said. “Your family treats her abysmally, yet you say nothing. You promised her a home, yet now you say you are happy. Hettie is accustomed to being near friends and family, yet here she is alone. She can’t go on like this.” Hettie held her breath, waiting for Alfred’s response. Why wasn’t he answering? “How do you know this?” he said finally. “Everyone knows. She writes me. She writes Bessie, her sisters, her brother. You must resolve this before she leaves one day for Barrie and never comes back.” Tears rolled down Hettie’s flushed cheeks, and she ran upstairs before she gasped and gave away her location.

THE FLOOR SQUEAKED. Inhaling sharply, Hettie lifted her head, prepared for an argument, but she saw not Alfred but Charlotte. “There you are,” Charlotte said. “Are you all right?” “I have been better,” Hettie said, curled up on the fainting sofa under the corridor window. Charlotte rubbed Hettie’s back. “I hope you won’t be cross, but after you left the room I tried to open Alfred’s eyes.” “Did you?” Hettie said, hoping her surprise didn’t sound obviously faked. “Yes. I spoke frankly and told him you might leave because you are terribly unhappy.” “I served in the Canadian Army Medical Corps. But does that make me brave enough to leave? Probably not. No one else could. Do you know, two of my sisters are in unhappy marriages – one is married to a drug fiend and one is married to a man who loves his job more than her – yet they won’t leave.” “It’s not easy to leave. You and I have a profession to fall back on. The majority of women do not.” Hettie sat and wiped her eyes. “What did Alfred say?” “He seemed surprised. I believe he does truly love you, but I also feel he has no idea how to be a good husband.” “Do you think my father knew? He was a bachelor who was more comfortable around books than women.” “I’m sure it was difficult, but your father had his father’s behavior as a guide. Your husband has his father, and that’s a poor model to follow.” Hettie pursed her lips. “Alfred is doomed.” Charlotte took her friend’s hand. “I don’t think he’s a lost cause yet. If he

listened to anything I said, if he takes it to heart, he’ll make some change that you’ll recognize. If he does that, you’ll need to allow him the opportunity to learn and become a better person.” “But can he?” Charlotte squeezed her hand. “I don’t think you would have fallen in love with him if you didn’t believe he could. Consider how you met.” Hettie sighed, ing how Alfred insulted her at their first meeting. She had been angry with him for months but ultimately decided to give him a chance. “I’ll consider if and when I see a change,” Hettie said. “You and Dr. Fitzpatrick have such an easy relationship. I’m jealous.” “Don’t be jealous. I hope for your sake Alfred did listen. I don’t like seeing you unhappy, and I would feel better going to Vancouver with the knowledge you’re living a good life.” Hettie laid her head on Charlotte’s shoulder. “You’re a true bosom friend.” “As are you.” “It’s a shame Vancouver is a 10-day trip away. I’ll need your consul, and you’ll be so far.” “We’ll have the telephone,” Charlotte said, again squeezing Hettie’s hand. “You’ll have to keep me updated on everything. Now, let’s go downstairs before the men grow suspicious.”

Chapter 19

Charlotte and Fitzpatrick stayed for precious few days. The days spent sightseeing and discussing medicine and good wartime memories once again were replaced by empty hours of cheerless company and monochrome. Hettie buttoned her walking suit’s jacket and avoided looking in the mirror. There was no need. She could feel the bags under her eyes from yet another night of sleep lost to worry. She swallowed, throat dry, and left the bedroom to retrieve her coat from the rack by the front door. “Are you ready to go?” Alfred said when she entered the foyer. She briefly made eye and stifled what she really wanted to say. No, I’m not ready. I don’t want to go. I never want to see those people again. “Yes.” “Good. Let’s go.” He held the door for her, and she followed him out into the cold. They walked in silence, the crunching snow making a sound akin to crackers snapping in half. During the war, inclement weather often stopped battles. What would stop the War of the Taylors?” When they approached the mansion, light shining from the windows glistened on the snow. It would have been beautiful were it not her in-laws’ house. This fact alone made it grotesque. For a reason Hettie was not privy, Nathanial, Jacob and their wives also were attending this dinner. Hettie greeted them politely, leery of attempts at conversation that went beyond the weather. The gong rang, its vibrations reverberating in her chest. Hettie took her seat into the dining room, bracing herself for what shortly would spout out of Luella and Mackenzie’s mouths. Unable to force herself to take a bite of her hors d’oeuvre, Hettie moved the quail egg in aspic around her plate with her fork.

“So,” Mackenzie said, “I’m surprised you’re here.” Oh, not this again. “What do you mean?” Hettie said. “Well, you’re constantly going back and forth to– Where is it? Boomie?” “Barrie. My hometown is Barrie.” “She’s hoping for a Christmas gift,” Luella said to Mackenzie, “but she’s not getting one.” To Hettie she said, “Why are you dressed like that? I know no one raised your properly, so you could not possibly know better, but a walking suit is not appropriate for dinner. If you’re cold, your husband should drive you instead of making you walk.” Hettie shifted her gaze from the quail egg to Alfred’s reddening face. “All right, that’s enough,” he said, his voice transformed into his commanding officer tone. “I let this go much too long. You need to stop speaking to my wife this way.” “You married beneath you,” Luella said. “No, Mother, I did not. She is a better person than I am. I was a fool to think I could become a member of this family again after all these years. At least I can say I tried, but you’ve reminded me repeatedly of why I left. You and Father are miserable people.” Luella’s eyes were wide. “Your military years have corrupted you.” “No, it showed me a life beyond this place, a different life.” Alfred stood. “Hettie, let’s go.” Hettie obeyed so quickly she nearly knocked over her chair. Mackenzie said, “Now hold on a minute, boy. You can’t speak to your mother that way.” “I haven’t been a boy for decades. And I said we are leaving.”

Alfred offered Hettie his arm, which she gladly accepted, and they left the dining room with smiles on their faces.

THEIR FEET FOLLOWED a nearly identical path to the one they took not 30 minutes prior. Breaking the silence, Alfred said, “I’m sorry, Hettie, that I was not the man you needed me to be. I should have done this much earlier, and I aim to be a better person in the future. If you forgive me.” Hettie swallowed, her heart beating increasingly faster. “I’m happy to hear you say that. I can forgive you, but I cannot forget. It will take time to feel comfortable again.” “I’m learning as I go. Do you recall, during the war, I told you I had ruined everything I ever touched except for my career and our relationship? Well, I realize now I may have ruined our relationship, too. As you can see, I don’t have people who taught me what a functional marriage should be like.” “That’s for certain. My parents were better teachers, but I don’t know any more than you do about how to make a marriage successful. I may have been married before, but we were apart more than we were together.” “I still love you, Hettie. That hasn’t changed. It wasn’t simply some wartime flight of fancy. I hope your feelings are unshaken as well.” He stopped walking and met her gaze. She inhaled, cold air stinging her cheeks. “I still want to be with you,” she said, voice wavering. “I still love you.” Alfred kissed her, a deep kiss reminiscent of the early days of their relationship. When their lips parted, Hettie shivered, and he took her hand. “It’s too late to start dinner now,” he said, “and it’ll take me awhile to hitch the horses to the sleigh.” She shook her head. “We can have bread and canned soup.” Alfred laughed. “And eat in the kitchen like the servants do.”

“LET’S GO SPEND A WEEKEND in Niagara Falls for our first anniversary,” Alfred said during their “servants’ dinner” in the kitchen. Hettie choked on her bread and patted her chest. “Our anniversary already ed.” “Not that long ago. It’ll be a fresh start for our second year of marriage after a difficult adjustment year.” She took another bite of bread and chewed carefully. The falls brought to mind a jumble of emotions. There was anger over Alfred’s business proposition earlier in the year, joy from Charlotte and Fitzpatrick’s recent visit, and sadness. Geoffrey, excluding the war, never had an opportunity to travel, and there was a patient at the casualty clearing station who flirted with her and teased that they would travel to the falls together. “So what do you say?” Alfred said, his eyes pleading. “It’ll be like when we went to the French inn in ’17.” They made love for the first time in that inn. For Hettie, widowed two years at that point, it had been a new beginning. Perhaps an anniversary trip could be another new beginning. “All right.” She smiled. “Let’s go before it gets too cold and snowy to make the trip.” Alfred glanced at the window. “I forgot what Canadian winters are like.” “We’ll be fine so long as there isn’t a blizzard. You do those, don’t you?” He ignored the comment and beamed. “Wonderful. I’ll make the plans. A trip will give you something to look forward to.” “Hum, yes.” She smirked. Getting away from my in-laws permanently is what I would really love to look forward to.

Chapter 20

“W ho thought my first Christmas back in Canada would be like this?” Hettie said, forgetting not to talk to herself with someone else present in the room. “Did you say something, ma’am?” Hettie briefly made eye with the nanny before returning her focus to the Eaton catalogue on her lap, pencil and a notepad with figures scribbled over it on the sofa beside her. “No, nothing of any importance.” Hettie could no longer what a baby might want – it had been 19 years since Adelaide was that age – and she flipped idly through the catalogue’s pages of toys: trains, tops, soldiers, tin cars. Such a wealth of choices, but most appropriate only for older children. No, I won’t ask for help. I can do this. She examined her son. What does Simon do? Not much at the moment. He can barely sit. He has no idea what a train is or any of these other things. Okay. What will he do? Stand, walk and— That’s it. He’ll get teeth. I’ll buy him something to chew on. The catalogue had several teething toys. She selected the one with the nicest handle and noted the price on her notepad. Then she added a teddy bear and some clothing. Maybe a rocking horse when his first birthday rolls around.

Simon’s shopping finished, she moved onto the next people on her list: her parents and siblings. But again, what did they need or want? She settled on a broach for each of her sisters and a necklace for Mother. Father would receive a book, as would each niece and nephew. Her brothers had varied personalities, so their gifts necessitated more thought. For Walter, she selected a pair of riding gloves, for Tommy a beautiful fountain pen and for Freddie a wristwatch similar to the ones the soldiers wore. She would purchase candy in town to give the servants on Boxing Day. That left only Alfred on her list. Hettie observed the room. They owned no Christmas ornaments. Her parents’ collection contained one glass ornament for every year of marriage and for each child, but Hettie didn’t have the patience to wait years to build her collection. No, she would order a dozen balls.

“Do you need something, ma’am,” the nanny said. “No, not at all.” My family would be nice.

Hettie shifted her gaze and took in the dismal landscape. She was back in Canada, yet there would be no caroling or snowball fights like the Christmases of her youth, no afternoons making popcorn strings and crocheting snowflake ornaments with her sisters. That’s what happens when you get married. Everything changes. A moment later, Alfred rounded the bend in the walkway and entered the front door. “Hettie, where are you?” “I’m here,” she said, rushing to the foyer. He took her coat off the hook. “Bundle up. I have something to show you.” “What?” “It’s a surprise.” “How long will it take?” “A while.” She shook her head. “Then I can’t go. I must finish my Christmas order or it won’t make it into the evening post.” “Finish quickly, and I’ll drive you to the post office.” Returning to the parlor, she neatly wrote out her order, added the total to a blank check Alfred had given her earlier in the day and sealed everything in a preaddressed envelope. His gift would remain unpurchased for a while longer, but that was fine. She had no ideas.

“WELL, THIS IS IT,” he said, stopping the sleigh. “This is the surprise.” Hettie scooted closer to Alfred under the fur lap blanket, wishing she prepared better for the weather. Bobbed hair rendered hatpins useless, and this hat kept her about warm as her hair did. “What is?” she said, her wind chapped cheeks burning. An open field undisguisable from every other unremarkable field extended along both sides of the snow covered road. “This.” Alfred pointed to their right. She squinted. “You’re going to have to be more specific.” “This plot of land is ours.” “Ours?” Hettie scrunched her nose. “What do you mean?” “I mean exactly that. You’ve wanted a home of our own, and I’ll build you one. We’ll visit the architect over the winter and break ground in the spring. And because it’ll be a new home, it’ll truly be our own. What’s more, you’ll be close enough to walk to town, so you can make friends or volunteer.” “I—” Hettie’s mouth hung open. Alfred chuckled. “I’ve shocked you speechless. That’s a change.” Hettie’s eyes began to water. “I don’t believe it.” “Oh, it’s true. It’s a holiday gift to our marriage.” She nodded, unable to comprehend that they were leaving the Taylor estate for a home of their own. “After all,” he said, “our marriage needs a common goal. And I know this home is important to you.” “Yes, a home. Not just a house, a home.”

“Somewhere we can start anew, like newlyweds should.” She laughed. “We’re not newlyweds anymore.” “Maybe not, but our first year of marriage was practice. This is for real now.” He kissed her. Surprised, she pulled back and laughed. “Thank you.” “Are you happy?” he said, eyes sparkling. “Yes.” She kissed his cheek. “How close to town?” “I’ll show you. I promised you a trip to the post office.” Alfred commanded the horses to go, and the sleigh glided toward Niagara-onthe-Lake. Alfred needed a Christmas gift, but now she had an idea. She would buy him something for the house. Perhaps a clock for the mantel, symbolic of the time ahead.

Chapter 21

Hettie smiled, surveying the parlor’s mess. Wrapping paper and boxes littered the furniture and floor, and a bow hung draped over a lamp as if placed there on purpose. Luella never would allow such disorder in her house, but Hettie found the clutter refreshing. It meant relaxation and throwing the rules of decorum to the wind, exactly as Alfred said he once enjoyed doing. Today was the final day of 1919, and she would need to clean before Alfred’s friends from town arrived for the New Year’s party. A good first impression was vital. This would be her first time meeting these friends and their wives, but if Alfred still had something in common with them, perhaps they would become a common fixture at the Taylor home. Hettie sighed from the excitement and fear of knowing they soon might have a social life. She wanted friendships of her own, however, not superficial companionship with Alfred’s friends’ wives. All in good time, Hettie. The telephone rang in the kitchen, and she heard Mrs. Turner answer. A short while later, the housekeeper informed Hettie the call was for her. Hettie strolled into the kitchen and took the receiver. “Hello.” “Alive,” a male voice said. “What are you talking about, Freddie?” “Who have I been trying to find?” “Whom?” Then it struck her. “Oh!” “Veronique.” “That’s a pretty name, I guess.” He sighed. “What do you mean ‘I guess’?” “Wouldn’t be my first choice. What is her surname?” “Citron.”

“Her name is lemon?” “And you said you didn’t know French.” Hettie laughed and shook her head. “I have a niece named lemon? Doesn’t matter. I’m happy for you. I know finding her was not easy. Is her mother still living?” “Yes, both are fine.” He paused. “I don’t have much time. I wanted to call you and tell you. I also wanted to ask you if I could occasionally send care packages from your address. I don’t want Mother and Father knowing about this.” “Yes, of course. I’m happy to help.” “Great.” Freddie fell silent as a door opened in the Steward home. “Adelaide is here,” he said. “Oh,” Hettie heard a female voice say in the background. “Is that Hettie? May I say hello?” Freddie must have handed Adelaide the receiver because a second later her voice magnified. “Hello, Hettie. I’m just back from visiting friends. There never seems to be enough time when I’m home from school.” “Oh, I those days. The time es quickly. I hope you are enjoying yourself.” “I am, except for all the teas Mother keeps dragging me to.” Hettie laughed. “She can be a bother.” “Okay. I’ll give you back to Freddie. Goodbye.” Adelaide handed the receiver back to Freddie. “Thanks again, Hettie,” he said. “I’ll talk to you soon.” He hung up, and Hettie smiled.

THE PARTY WENT BETTER than Hettie could have imagined. Alfred’s friends were the complete opposite of his parents, and they celebrated long after midnight. When she opened her eyes in morning, her buoyant mood lingered, and she beamed. Alfred, who had drank excessively despite prohibition, slept soundly. She listened for a moment to his nose whistling like a harmonica before sitting and bounding out of bed. The hardwood felt cold as ice, and she quickly tiptoed over it and, kneeling on the windowsill, threw open the curtains. Outside was the same bleak landscape that greeted her yesterday and the day before yesterday and dozens of days before that. However, there was one key difference. Today was 1920. She spent her entire adult life in the 1910s, turning 18 in May 1910, the same month the Edwardian era ended. A little more than two weeks before her birthday, King George V celebrated his coronation, becoming the third monarch whose reign she lived under. This was the same number as her mother and grandmother, all three born under Queen Victoria’s reign. In 1911, the nasty federal election put the Conservatives in power, much to Father’s chagrin. Ah, the carefree days of youth and her days at the Toronto General Hospital School of Nursing. During her second year, Titanic sank and along with it society’s trust in technology. The height of fashion was long hair worn pinned up under ridiculously large hats decorated with feathers, bows or dead birds. Floor-length hemlines and skirts often were so narrow a woman could barely walk. Hettie would not miss hobble skirts and doubted any else would either. In 1917, there was an even nastier election, and the Conscription Crisis. Women won the right to suffrage, although legally they still were not people. Geoffrey and Maeve were dead, and along with them the promise their lives contained.

Gone was the Great War. Its guns were silent, its gas canisters contained. No longer were people dying from landmines, snipers or air raids. No one was developing gangrene or requiring reconstructive surgery or needing fake limbs. The Treaty of Versailles was signed, and everyone hoped the Great War was the War to End all Wars. It was 1920, and with the dawn of the new decade came the promise of a cheery future. “What are you doing?” Alfred’s groggy voice said. “Seeing what the weather is doing,” she said, not wanting to tell him she was reflecting on the decade’s demise. He stretched and patted the mattress next to him. “Come back to bed.” She smiled, again crossing the frigid floor and crawling back into bed. “I think the boiler might be out.” “I may have forgotten to shovel the coal before bed. I can’t one way or another.” She pulled the quilt to her chin. “Yes, you weren’t feeling any pain.” “I am now, but I’ll take care of it later.” “The pain or the coal?” “Don’t get cheeky. I won’t let it get cold enough for the pipes to freeze.” “Oh, that’s a relief.” She snuggled close, feeling the warmth emanating from his body, and closed her eyes. “Alfred?” “Hum?” “Happy New Year.” “Same to you, sweetie.” He kissed her forehead then fell back to sleep.

Steam hissed through the radiators and the house was once again warm, although breakfast that morning was late. Mrs. Turner was in a bad mood, grumbling first about the boiler being out, then about how it was too late for breakfast but too early for lunch. Hettie only smiled, comforted by the knowledge she’d get her revenge. Once we have our own house, I will hire the staff.

Hettie took no effort in her appearance other than to don her slippers and dressing gown, a heavy robe layered on top. She cracked open her poached egg and dipped in a corner of bread. “Do you have plans for the day?” Alfred had managed to dress himself, though informally, and did the same with his bread. “I won’t really have plans until spring,” he said from his seat across the table. “That is if I still have a job. I’m not sure, honestly, after what happened with my parents. They haven’t sacked me, but they’re not speaking to me either. If not, it isn’t the end of the world financially. I’ll find work elsewhere.” “You wouldn’t go back to the permanent force, would you?” Alfred looked up from his breakfast, the dullness in his eyes betraying the fact he still had a hangover. “I was good at it. I was damn good at it. But no, that part of my life is finished. Why? Do you think I should?” She shook her head. “No. You’ve done your duty. And besides with the League of Nations in place, future service will be unnecessary.” “Thank God for that.” She smiled. “I may look over the floorplans we requested. If you’d like to me.” He smiled back before placing his forehead in his hand. “I would love to do that.” He paused. “I think we’re on the right track after our detour, don’t you?” She nodded. “Yes, I think so, too.” They interlaced fingers and smiled, gazing into each other’s eyes.

The phone rang, and Hettie flinched. “We’re popular this week.” “What do you mean?” “Freddie rang yesterday.” He squeezed her fingers. “If he wasn’t your brother, I’d be jealous.” “I think you are anyway,” she said and laughed. Alfred opened his mouth to protest when Mrs. Turner announced the call was for Hettie. “Seems you’re the popular one,” Alfred said. Hettie wagged a finger then unlaced her other hand from his and answered the telephone. Mabel’s voice greeted her through the earpiece. “I have good news.” “Do you?” Hettie heard her nephews playing in the background and wondered if the latest edition arrived early. “Gardner is going to Europe. To help rebuild his beloved bridges, among other things.” “For how long?” “Months for all I know.” “But he’ll miss the baby being born.” “The bridges are more important. If he doesn’t care he’ll miss it, then why should I?” “Do you mean it?” Mabel laughed. “I’m very happy. I said it was good news, ?” Hettie imagined her sister’s eyes twinkling. This wasn’t the divorce Mabel wanted, but it was a separation.

“I’m happy for you.” They spoke for several more minutes before hanging up. Hettie leaned against the wall and sighed. She and Alfred were working on their marriage, Freddie found his daughter, and now Mabel would be separated from Gardner. Only Ida still needed her troubles ironed out. But it, too, may be resolved. It’s a brand new decade. Anything is possible.

THANK YOU FOR READING Adjustment Year! I truly appreciate you taking the time. If you enjoyed reading it or discovered it valuable in any way, why not let the world know? Other readers use reviews to find books that match their interests. In addition, I would appreciate it. I read each review and incorporate the to improve my writing. Thanks again, and I look forward to reading your review. Sincerely, Melina Druga www.melinadruga.com P.S. If you’re interested in ing my review team, please visit www.melinadruga.com .

A Sneak Peek at A Journey of Hope

Available January 2022 1829 Fredericton, New Brunswick, British North America The heat of the flames warmed Claire Appleton’s hypothermic cheeks when she bent forward to stir the Dutch oven. The pot’s wire bail handle hung suspended above the roaring fire by a large metal hook, and the cookware swung slightly as the ladle moved through the contents and sent the pungent odor of onion and cabbage soup through the one-room cabin. Claire closed her eyes, ing vaguely what the summer sun feels like on bare skin, and smiled. Elsewhere in the shack, icicles hung from the ceiling, but by the fireplace, it was pleasant. Or at least the side of the body facing the fireplace was pleasant. Claire’s rear protruded into the room as she bent forward, and it was quite cold. She hung the ladle, corrected her posture and pulled her shawl tighter around her upper body. Despite it being January, she began to hum “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” It was one of few songs she knew by heart, and although humming indicated she was happy, she wasn’t nearly happy enough to sing. That occurred rarely in her nearly 19 years on this earth. Mid-way through “To save poor souls from Satan's power,” a gust of frigid air compelled the flames to dance. The slam of the shanty’s only egress, a door cracked in multiple places, quickly followed. Claire dropped the cover onto the Dutch oven. “Goodness, Harold, you startled me so badly I could’ve jumped in the fire and lit my skirts ablaze.” Her husband remained silent until he unwrapped his gray wool muffler from his face and hung it, along with his moose-hide coat and hat, on their peg near the door. The shedding of outerwear revealed a man who was of typical height, five foot five inches, with a slim build that appeared even slimmer in his threadbare clothing. “I have something to show you, Claire,” he said, eyes sparkling with an

excitement she had not witnessed since their son’s birth. She shoved her hands into her apron pockets in an attempt to conceal her apprehension. “What are you so overwrought about?” “Overwrought?” He shook his head, a clump of snow falling off his shoulderlength hair and landed with a splat on the dirt floor. “No, I’m as happy as a bear who’s found a beehive.” Harold dug into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a paper that crinkled when he unfolded it on the table and smoothed out the wrinkles. All apprehension faded, Claire came closer tingly with curiosity, but what she saw made her furrow her brow. On the yellow-tinged paper was a crude map of British North America, copied somewhat badly from its original source. Still, she recognized it from her grandfather’s map that she memorized years ago as a child. There was New Brunswick, their home colony, looking like a misshapen square. There were two dots on the misshapen square. One was Fredericton, mere miles from them, the colonial capital and the location of College of New Brunswick, the first English-speaking institute of higher learning in the colonies. The second dot was Saint John, the colonies’ first city, with a staggering population of more than 35,000. Dangling off the misshapen square was a elongated beanshaped island that represented Nova Scotia. It was decorated with one dot – Halifax. A huge swath of land running from the Atlantic Ocean to the Ottawa River was Lower Canada with its dots representing Montreal, Quebec, TroisRivières and Wright’s Town. Finally, the western most colony, Upper Canada, ran from the Ottawa River to nearly the western edge of Lake Superior. Dots represented Bytown, Kingston and York. “It’s a map of the colonies,” Harold said. “I know what it is,” she said, placing a hand on her hip and jutting out her elbow. “Why do you have it?” He smiled, almost mischievously. “I came across Emery Jones outside the church. He gave it to me.” Jones, a fur trader, and Harold had been acquainted since they were boys. In recent years, Harold only saw Jones once a year when he ventured back to Fredericton from Rupert’s Land where he was employed by the monopoly that

resulted from the merger of Hudson's Bay Company and North West Company of Montreal. Jones, as far as she knew, had no need for a map. “Why did he give it to you?” “Isn’t it obvious?” The furrow in her brow deepened. No, it wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t obvious at all. “There’s opportunity out west,” Harold said when she didn’t respond.

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Also by Melina Druga

A Tale of Two Nations 1914 1915 1916 1917 1918 A Tale of Two Nations: Canada, U.S. and WWI

Enterprising Women Enterprising Women: Practical Advice for First Time Entrepreneurs Enterprising Women: A Practical Guide to Starting Your First Business

WWI Trilogy Angel of Mercy (Coming Soon) Those Left Behind (Coming Soon) Adjustment Year (Coming Soon)

Standalone

Heinous: Forgotten Murders From the 1910s

Watch for more at Melina Druga’s site.

About the Author

Melina Druga is a multi-genre author with a lifelong love of history, books and the English language. She pens historical fiction and nonfiction. Druga writes about the past because although school history classes may have been boring, the past was not. Her era of expertise, and obsession, is 1890-1920 with a particular focus on the Great War and how it affected the lives of ordinary people. Druga’s other interests and hobbies include listening to music, yoga, photography, astronomy, travel and healthy eating. Read more at Melina Druga’s site.

About the Publisher

Sun Up Press publishes both fiction and nonfiction titles.