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СКАЧАТЬ it to me. Meanwhile, I shall get the invitations out.”

      “No invitations. The gentlemen of the town make the rounds of the best houses without formality.” He consulted his pocket watch and rose. “You are right, Anna. Any expenditure that will facilitate my appointment as Chancellor will be entirely worthwhile. I confess to the desire to leave my name in history books as the first Chancellor of Upper Canada.”

      “Amen to that. You shall be bound up in a book of jurisprudence. I say this from my heart.”

      “Have your little joke, my dear. But I take it as a compliment.” He paused as he put on his coat and top hat. “And I must tell you that you have evidently made a favourable impression on Sam Jarvis and his good wife. They have invited us for Christmas dinner. It may be diverting, though I hope we are not subjected to all those children. At any rate—with some reservations, mind you—I accepted.”

      From the front window, Anna watched Robert stride across the street on his way to the courtroom. It had been a satisfactory breakfast hour.

      She turned away from the window, laughing to herself. In the space of a mere three weeks in this outpost, she had become everything of which Mrs. Powell would approve. She would sit down now while the moment was fresh in her mind and write to Ottilie von Goethe. Her friend would be amused to hear of her metamorphosis into a, a—what would Ottilie call it?—eine biedere Hausfrau.

      But the inkwell was not on the table in her bedchamber. She pulled the bell for Mrs. Hawkins. The woman was there in an instant, wearing a clean apron and a modest, grey-striped dress. “Ink, if you please.”

      “Right away, ma’am. I be just this moment warming the inkwell on the hearth. I looked to it while you and the master was at breakfast. The ink was froze solid.”

      “Well done, Mrs. Hawkins, thank you.”

      “What is all this writing about, ma’am?”

      Anna was beginning to enjoy the Canadian servant, if Mrs. Hawkins could be considered typical of the serving classes. In England, they did what they were told without question. Here, they spoke up.

      “I’ve decided to write a book about Toronto. My title will be, I believe, Winter Studies in Upper Canada. ”

      “Oh, ma’am, there be so much to write on that subject. It will be a heavy book.”

      “So much? Really? I find very little so far to write about. But I do have an observation to make that I must set down as soon as you’ve warmed the ink. ‘One day of a Canadian winter is only distinguishable from another by the degrees of the thermometer’.”

      Mrs. Hawkins put a finger to her chin in the manner of Anna’s London editor. “Perhaps it be clever, ma’am. I do not set myself to judge. But it also be what every newcomer says of this country.”

      “Really?”

      “You must get out and about, ma’am. Watch the savages catch their fish from holes on the ice. Go to the falls at Niagara. Have a ride in one of them fancy cutters and a race on the lake. There be nothing like falling into a soft snowbank. You won’t be getting that thrill in one of them fine places you come from.”

      “I am going for a ride on the ice soon with Colonel Fitzgibbon. What do you think of that, Mrs. Hawkins?”

      The woman clapped her hands.

      “I hope not to be one of those stereotyped Englishwomen you speak of. I am making progress. Indeed, I have even got used to the smell of people.”

      “Smell, ma’am?” Mrs. Hawkins’s fingers touched her chin again.

      “I couldn’t figure it out at first. Now I know it’s from the layers of buffalo robes that everyone piles over themselves when they go out in their sleighs. There is also a ranker, wilder smell—especially from the officers at the garrison. The source of that one eluded me for a while. Now I have discovered it comes from the bearskins they prefer. But an assiduous washing down with lavender soap at the end of the day removes the stink, I’ve discovered.”

      Mrs. Hawkins left the room without further comment and returned in a minute with the inkwell, which she set down on Anna’s table without asking as she usually did, “Anything else, ma’am?”

      She did not close the door as she left—was it an intentional omission?—and Anna could hear her comment to her husband, “Just when I be getting to like her, she turns into Lady Snob.”

EIGHT

      By noon on Christmas Day, the drawing room at Hazelburn was filled to bursting with Sam, Mary, their eight children, and invited guests.

      “Into the breakfast room, everyone,” Sam announced over the din of voices.

      “For Bag and Stick!”

      “Bag and Stick!”

      It had been Mary’s idea to invite Jameson and his wife. “I think Mrs. Jameson may feel lonely in this new environment,” she’d said. “I didn’t like her much when I first met her, but she grows on one.” He’d agreed. It was always a good idea to keep in with the Attorney-General. And Dr. Widmer and his wife would probably enjoy meeting the much-talked-of authoress.

      But now Jameson looked quite put out by the shrieks from the children. “I think I’ll just have to be an old stick myself and decline, if no one minds.”

      “Not at all,” Sam said, pouring a glass of sherry for his guest and pointing him to a comfortable chair. He noticed that Mrs. Jameson had joined the young people in the breakfast room.

      “And I,” Sam’s mother added, “shall be an old bag and sit here in comfort by the fire and work on my embroidery. Please do not feel you must talk to me, Mr. Jameson. I shall be counting stitches.”

      “I decline as well,” Mrs. Powell said. “Instead of getting knocked about and putting my back out, Sam, I shall go belowstairs and instruct your cook on the heating of my bread sauce.”

      So without the two old bags and the old stick, Sam went into the breakfast room.

      The furniture had been pushed into corners, the china stowed safely away, and the centre of the room left bare for the game. Sam suspended a paper bag filled with sweets from a string tied to the chandelier. First he blindfolded his five oldest children and Mary. Then the rest of them: Mrs. Jameson, Dr. and Mrs. Widmer, and his sister-in-law, Eliza.

      “Everyone know the rules?”

      Everyone did.

      “And Caroline, Charlotte, Charlie and I will make sure that the players spin like dervishes until they are quite dizzy. That way no one can cheat.”

      Mrs. Jameson, as guest of honour, went first. She spun round and round and round. Then five-year-old Charlotte put a stick into her hand. She swung it towards the centre of the room, striking out three times as the rules permitted, but failing to hit the paper bag.

      “You’re out!” Charlie said. The lady retired to a corner of the room and took off her blindfold.

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