Mary Vance, turned, and looked at Mrs. Wylie. The woman was neatly dressed in a checked cotton dress, and her apron was spotless. Her hair was brownish gray and pulled into a tight, smooth bun with no hairpins. Her face was strong, and unlined, her eyes were blue, and cool.
Mary jumped into the worn cart, and tired brown horse began to pull it. Journey continued in silence. Then from a bend in the road over harbor settlement emerged. A church, and graveyard, a schoolhouse, houses with sloping roofs, a few stray dogs walking on the dusty road, finally a neat farmhouse with outbuildings peeked out from between the trees. Sun had set, and the courtyard was shrouded in darkness. Mrs. Wylie carefully got out of the cart, and said briskly, "I don't care what you might know, or think you know. I want to see your skills. Being from the city, you're bound to make mistakes, but I think you'll learn quickly by not making them. Church on Sundays, and school on weekdays, because I don't want it to be gossiped about here, that I don't give child opportunity to improve, its own opportunities, no matter how meager they are." Slow steps were heard in the yard, and the sharp smell of pipe tobacco was felt in the still evening, and a hoarse voice inquired, "Well, is this the child, then? Now, Mrs. Wylie, you have time to set traps so I don't have to."
Mary Vance, heard Mrs. Wylie snort a little bitterly, and she remarked "No, there won't be time, for I must teach this rag of a child the ways of the house. And you have always handled both the traps and the business of moonshine now and again, if there has been a need. The potato harvest seems to be good this year, so there are opportunities." The light of the lantern flickered, and Mary Vance saw a stooped figure wearing a tattered shirt and worn suspenders, and a furrowed face with watery drooping eyes. Mr. Wylie glanced in Mary Vance's direction, and said curtly, "it's getting late, put the child in her place. I'm going to close the gates, so that no wandering peddlers can come into my yard, like last week, to steal our chickens."
Mrs. Wylie grabbed Mary sharply by the arm, and in no time they were in the hall of the farmhouse. A striped rag rug was on the floor, and Mrs. Wylie nodded toward a small door with a large rusty key, and Mary Vance opened the door, the hinges creaking, crooked stairs were before her. Behind Mary, Mrs. Wylie's voice remarked, "You sleep over there. Come to the kitchen in the morning." Mary Vance nodded, under Mrs. Wylie's watchful eye, and slowly she climbed the tall stairs.
The space was a loft, and there were boxes in the corners, but a piece of the sky could be seen through the window, and something big white and shimmering, which seemed to split the surrounding darkness, like a brilliant ring. It was Lighthouse light. In one corner there was something white. A pallet on the floor, and sheets that had faded to gray and white, but they were spotless and not torn. Next to the pallet was a small bluish bench with a storm lantern and a water jug, as well as a tin mug and a plate with a piece of bread.
Sighing, Mary Vance folded her dress over the nearest drawer, and, leaning on her knees in her petticoat, she carefully ate less than half of the bread, hiding some inside the pillowcase, for it was possible that there were mice in this room, although so far there had been no rustling. Mary Vance casually glanced at her thin arms, one still had a white burn scar, and distant memories of violence, and screams seemed to echo in her subconscious, still. Resolutely, Mary looked at the window and quietly said "I'm tough, everyone says so, maybe is just careful, there are certainly worse places. But it's dran strange to be alone, again, Hopetown is in the past."
The dawn was barely blushing in the sky when Mary Vance slowly crept down. In the bright light, she looked around curiously. The farmhouse was neat, but a bit shabby, and the furniture was bumpy, but sturdy. Linen tablecloth on the table and beautiful porcelain dishes in the cupboard. And a large cross-stitch work dominated the wall. There were no cobwebs or fly droppings to be seen anywhere, not in the corners or on the large window panes. And the floorboards were so pale that Mary suspected they got a daily scrub every day. Soft footsteps were heard behind her, and Mary almost jumped in the air when she heard Mrs. Wylie's voice. "Into the kitchen, now. Mr. Wylie will soon be waiting for his breakfast. Surely you can cook breakfast without having to be watched, even though you're so young? I have to go check on the chickens, that will be your job starting tomorrow."
Mary nodded.
The kitchen was large and bright, and nowhere was there any indication of the kind of breakfast the Wylies usually had, porridge, or perhaps something else. Thoughtfully Mary took an oversized apron from the corner and began to work. Not before too long, the kitchen smelled like breakfast, freshly fried eggs, toasted bread, freshly churned butter, and a few slices of ham with slaw. Mary found herself enjoying cooking, never again would she have to eat Hopetown's cold gruel, which had been more of a paste than food.
There were footseps, as Mrs. Wylie looked intently at the steaming spread, and she said in a cold tone, "Girl, we eat porridge on weekdays, this kind of cooking is only for the Lord's Day, which is Sunday. "Mr. Wylie, the girl has made breakfast!"
A slight clatter, and exorcisms could be heard, from the back of the house, and soon the figure of Mr. Wylie was sitting at the end of the table, with red-rimmed eyes and with a trembling, gnarled hand, he was pouring coffee into a cup. Mary avoided his gaze, for at a glance she had recognized the shaking hangover that Mr. Wylie was in the grip of. , tasted the breakfast and said calmly, "Well, at least you know how to fry eggs, even if I would have done it in another way, but you shall learn." And half-carelessly Mrs. Wylie handed Mary a plate of toast. That evening Mary was resting on her pallet with throbbing, aching feet, for she had indeed scrubbed all the floors of the whole house, with a large, coarse root brush, three times.
Very quickly Mary Vance became accustomed to routines of Wylie house, and before she had time to turn twice it had already been half a year since she had arrived at the Wylie's. Half a year, continuous work, and no play at all. There was sound of harsh a commotion from downstairs, as Wylies were arguing there. Sometimes Mr. Wylie in his cups, swayed across the yard with a whip in his hand, and at those moments Mary slipped out of sight. There had been moments when Mary had felt a certain inner division, it was as if she had never left Nova Scotia, as here too was violence, bottles, and strict discipline. Mrs. Wylie was extremely demanding. At school she was often so tired that she dozed off, and the teacher scolded her as in front of the whole class. "Miss Vance, you haven't done your homework, again. What a lazy, undisiplinced lass you are."
A cold, cutting drizzle fell in great rivulets on the ground, and Mary, exhausted, leaned against the rusty gate of the cemetery. Something white appeared in the corner of her eye, and Mary froze in place. The white figure came slowly nearer, and with difficulty Mary folded her arms, and closed her eyes, for horrible forebodings of ghosts, creeping devils, and hanged children filled her mind. And then the darkness of the evening was pierced by a plaintive moo, and the pale figure was only old Sarah Crawford's cow, which had got free from its stall, and was munching on the grass in the graveyard. Immensely relieved and shivering with cold, Mary Vance ran towards the Wylie house.
When morning came, Mary had not improved, and the light stung her eyes as she struggled to stir the pot of porridge. Suddenly there was light everywhere and Mary felt very strange, somehow floating and foggy, and breathing was so very difficult..
From somewhere came a snappy, voice that said in a scolding tone " Double pneumonia, the girl might die from this, Mrs. Wylie. Of course, I have heard talk about your behavior towards this rag of a girl. It's not Christian at all, downright shameful, it is so. Put a bed for her in the kitchen side room, it's better than that rat hole you've been keeping her in. There is a hole in the roof through which it rains. When she gets better, bring her to me for a week. If you don't, I'll see to it that your side business goes out of business, and not one Crawford will do business with you."
And so it began. Old Crawford called Mary Vance over. In her cottage Mary Vance was allowed to enjoy a different life than constant toil. Once Old Crawford looked at Mary, who was trying to do her sums at the well scrubbed kitchen table and she said "Listen, girl, you're one of those people who can't be without work. You're extremely industrious by nature, and I think one day you'll meet people, who know how to appreciate you as you are, quirks and all. If your life at Wylie's gets too rough, run over here, and I'll teach you a little about herbs, for you have an unusually good and quick memory, and such skills are always in demand, but they are not discussed."
Seasons turned as they always do.
Mrs. Wylie grew gray, and Mr. Wylie had died of a morbid throat, after attending Charlottetown market, but in private Mary Vance pondered that it had been bottle that killed him. Mary Vance´s formerly pale face was now shuttered and wizened. She had by know much practical knowledge of grass cures and old herbal lore, in her active brain, and every spring she looked for herbs, which she dried in her loft in her little chest, which she had carved herself under supervision of Old Crawford.
And then, one day at the end of July, a sad message went from house to house. Old Crawford had died in her sleep. The funeral was quickly arranged, and every distant relative of Crawfords attended. Mary Vance leaned against the rusty gate of the cemetery. Mary noticed a man with dark hair, with few grey streaks that curled over his collar. He was talking for a long time with several Crawords. This man had neat clothes, and an open expression, and clean shaven face, and a very handsome pipe in his shirt pocket. A linen shirt in which every stitch was extremely skillfully made. And suddenly the Reverend's voice said softly, "Marshall Elliot, of Four Winds, what are you doing here. Did you tire of Cornelia's talkativeness, or did business bring you this way?" Mary Vance observed how others treated guest, as he appeared to be a remarkable man of particular vivid charm. And suddenly that man turned, and looked straight at Mary, and with a start Mary retreated into the shadows, and ran back towards Wylie's house, for she was already late, and lateness was not tolerated, at all.
It was August time. Mary was startled as Mrs Wylie's shout echoed across the yard, "girl, where are you!" Quickly, Mary glanced into the chest, and into a small bag containing some money that Mary had earned picking potatoes, last fall, when the Wylies had been in Charlottetown. There were also two dresses and one nightgown in there. All of Mary's Hopetown clothes had already been torn to shreds in her first year, and this was already her fourth. Mary Vance was now about 11 years old, or there about. The cry was repeated again, and quickly Mary descended the stairs, and came into the kitchen. sat in an armchair, and she said sharply, "Well, must I give you a little licking, so that you come when called?" Mary Vance shivered, and rubbed her bruised arms, and remembered all the sharp licking episodes, over the years, that first Mr. Wylie, and then Mrs. Wylie had given her. Mary straightened her posture and said bluntly, "No, Mam, but it's none of my business if you do. I can say I haven't done anything wrong, that's the darn truth."
Mrs. Wylie looked at the slight tanned girl standing before her, almost a child still, in a gray dress, and she said quietly, "I have made up my mind to sell my farm and animals and move near Charlottetown, I have relatives there. I will send you to my cousin. You remember her ?"
Mary remembered, and with difficulty she managed to keep a straight face. A couple of summers ago she was with Wylie's cousin and it was the longest two weeks ever. The cousin had been a thorn of the worst kind, whose pantry had been an abomination of desolation. Mrs. Wylie lazily waved her hand and she said in her commanding style, "Go sweep the stairs, and lock the chickens in their coops, and bring the eggs into the kitchen if there are any." Quickly, Mary did as she was told.
Early Thursday morning Mary Vance crept across quiet yard, and at the fork in the road she turned to look at that house where she had been treated worse than a dog found in the street, but no more. She was running away.
In her green house, near the Four Winds, Cornelia Bryant, as she had been, glanced over her teacup at Marshall Elliott, and said in her pointed style, "Well, you've been quiet ever since you went to Old Margaret Crawford's funeral at over harbor a couple of weeks ago. I've heard stories that the residents of Over Harbor are decent, but there are also rotten eggs among them." Marshall sighed, and said "Cornelia, wouldn't it be nice if we had a little helper here for you?"
Frowning, Cornelia said sharply, "I know how to manage my own household, without outsiders. Can you imagine that some rascal from Hopetown would come here and steal my grandmother's silver and even poison our wells. Surely Hopetown or similar establishments have also produced decent souls, as Anne dearie is proof of that but why do you really think Marshall Elliott?" Marshall Elliott, tapped his pipe on his palm and said in his quiet way, "I just thought maybe we could do some good?" Cornelia snorted, and looked at her kitchen sparkling in the sun, and her neat yard, which was in perfect order. A child here, an impossible thought. Recless moondreams, that what it was.
Mary Vance, feeling tired, bent down to drink water from the stream. A headache throbbed at her temples, and her little bundle had disappeared, somewhere, perhaps it had fallen into the woods when guard dogs had smelled her trail, there were dried blood on her skinny legs, from brambles. At the edge of a field there seemed to be a barn. And with difficulty Mary Vance climbed up there. She would just sleep a little, and then she would find a route to Charlottetown, there would definitely be work to be had there. Among the hay and grass, and the twittering of birds, Mary Vance fell into sleep of utter exhaustion.
In Glen Presbyterian Manse, Una Meredith glanced with longing dark blue eyes at the twinkling sea from the window. The August heat was shining, and the day would be beautiful. And maybe, something exciting might happen this week, or maybe this very day, something that Jerry and Faith always dreamed of.