A/N:I was forced to remove the Charlottetown suffragists from the story when I discovered that there is very little evidence of any women's suffrage agitation on PEI during this time period. Next time I will do my research before posting! Sorry, everyone.

Sunday, December 6, 1903

It's absurd to lie to oneself, isn't it?

Here I'd gone around for weeks expecting Father to invite me to Vancouver for Christmas, and of course he isn't about to do any such thing. Well, why on earth would he? The Chinless C.B.'s people are locally prominent and, one can only assume, would prefer not to be reminded that Kenneth Blake has a daughter nearly the age of their darling. When I suggested as much to Uncle Henry, he bellowed at me to bite my tongue and show respect, etc., which is reason enough to believe my guess is correct.

Dear Father's letter oozes on about "circumstances" and "deepest regrets" as though I were one of his esteemed former business partners; sends pin-money with which to "pick out my own best gifts," which is all for the best; I'm sure I'd just as soon have a new waist and stockings than listen to him rehearse his campaign speeches at me all Christmas anyway.

Well, I have my waists- three of them, lush and greeny-pleated and satiny-brown and delectable, in deep, dense colors that make my eyes look bright and clear as stars- and a whole flurry of ribbons for my hair, which is, against all odds, looking almost pretty these days- and silk stockings and what will be, in another day or two, the longest, richest skirt I have ever owned- for Kenneth Blake is nothing if not generous, let it be said, and poor old Isabella Brownell Blake has rather better taste for others than for herself. We were bundled off to Charlottetown to spend Father's money along with poor Lila, who glowered and looked as if she were about to cry the whole time, and May, whom I heckled into coming so I wouldn't be alone, though she hasn't any money of her own and clumsily insulted Aunt Iz when the latter attempted to give her a hair ribbon and a pair of gloves. The poor thing actuallyspoke the phrase "I don't want your charitygloves." Dear May. I am really going to have to have a talk with her- only she never listens!

Charlottetown was bright and cold and full of huddling hurrying people, and when the public lights were switched on over Holman's at dusk, I felt as though I could happily disappear into that luminous evening mist and never so much as think of Shrewsbury H.S. for the rest of my mortal life. If only, if only!

Now the snow is falling again.