and talk to the child in private, at which time he must be satisfied the child has been obedient, been given enough food and clothing and an adequate place to sleep. In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand, on the sixth day of June, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ninety-two. Signed, Sealed and Delivered in the presence of us.“ 4
Mr. Murray set the document on the table, handed Mr. Jacques a quill pen and put his index finger on a blank spot on the paper, Mr. Jacques marked it with an “X.”
Mary threw what little she owned into her old and battered red suitcase, now held together by a thick leather strap. Besides her best dress, the little pink and yellow flowered pinafore which she put on, she owned two dresses she had inherited at the orphanage. One was a faded grey colour and far too long on Mary. She had already been told numerous times, “You'll grow into it.” Why would she want to? She hated it. The other one was brown and white and although she didn't like the colour much, at least it fit her. Her winter coat, long since outgrown, had been left behind before her voyage to Canada. She had three pair of underwear, three undershirts, a pair of socks, shoes that were almost too short and one and a half flannel nighties. The half nightie which was too small for Mary now, had only one arm in it and the flannel was worn paper-thin. But it was her favourite. It had been a Christmas present from her parents a few years ago, the last Christmas they had together. Other than a now much-worn photograph, the nightgown was the only reminder that once she had been part of a family.
Mary held the dog-eared picture in her hand. She sat and looked at it a long time before carefully placing it underneath her clothes in the suitcase. A photograph, taken by a visiting friend, showed a tall, skinny dark-haired boy holding a chubby toddler on his lap. Of course, Mary had been too young at the time to remember any of the circumstances. Ma had told her about it much later. She could remember as though it were yesterday.
Mary climbed on Mama's lap when Emma finally fell asleep. It meant that she could spend a few minutes with her alone. Mama affectionately wrapped her arms around her daughter and squeezed her tightly.
“Mary, when you were born, John was so happy.” She let out a big sigh. “You were real tiny. Most were afraid to touch you, never mind hold you. Not John. He acted as if he knew you were special right from the beginning. And he was right. Why, he helped to care for you. It was almost as if you were his baby. Now you'll understand that picture better,” she said, kissing the top of her curly head tenderly. Mama loved telling that story over and over again as much as Mary loved to hear it.
Finally Mary packed a small rubber ball. Each child at the orphanage had been given one last Christmas and cautioned not to lose it. It was her only toy. She thought about the cloth rag doll she had treasured as a baby, and had given to her little sister Emma the day they parted company in the Montreal harbour. Despite her young age, she knew she must not dwell on painful reminders.
Mary shut her suitcase carefully. One latch worked and the strap helped close the other side. She always insisted on carrying it, even if someone offered to help her, for fear it would spill open. She picked the case up with ease; it was light. Mary walked gingerly down the stairs, as prepared as could be, speculating on what new venture might be in store for her.
What kind of person was Mr. Jacques? He had scarcely said a word. What was his family like? How long would it take to get there? Where would she be sleeping tonight?
By now some of the girls had quietly clustered around the hallway. Mary said goodbye to her friends. No-one cried. They were used to farewells by now. As she shook Mr. Murray's hand, he said, “I'll visit you next spring to see that things are working out. Goodbye, Mary.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Murray,” she replied politely and headed for the horse and buggy where Mr. Jacques was waiting. A man of few words, he did not say anything as he helped her into her seat. As they headed down the road, it was an interesting sight they made—horse and buggy and the silhouettes of two figures: one a tall, lean man wearing a hat and the other, a frail curly-headed little child.
As they drove out of Stratford, Mary sat bolt upright. Her mind began to race as her apprehension grew. What will this place look like? Will there be children? Will I share a room? How long will I stay? And most important, will they like me?
The two hour buggy ride to the Jacques farm on the outskirts of Innerkip seemed endless, with only one brief stop made to rest the horse. Mr. Jacques had been silent for the entire trip, speaking only to the horse as necessary. When they finally arrived, Mary was tired and anxious. It was nightfall and difficult to see what the place looked like. Except for a small lamp in the front window, the whole house was in darkness. No-one was there to greet her. One can imagine—a little fair-haired girl with the large frightened eyes, clutching her suitcase and climbing the narrow staircase in a strange house, following the tall silent man, not knowing what would happen next.
Mr. Jacques took Mary directly to her room, said it was time for bed and left abruptly. The room was a small alcove directly above the kitchen. There was a cot, a straw tick mattress, one thin grey blanket, a pillow and a tiny cupboard for her clothes. The sparseness was not a problem. Mary owned so little.
She undressed quickly and climbed into bed. She wasn't hungry even though all she had eaten that day was a bun and a piece of cheese that Mr. Jacques had given her during the trip. She was tired, her legs ached and she had a feeling of uneasiness. Just to be on the safe side, Mary got out of bed and knelt beside her cot. The only light coming into the room was from a slice of the faraway moon and it cast a foreboding yellow glow on the young child's profile.
Mary's voice was shaky. “Dear God,—I hope they will like me. I promise to be good. I want to go to school and have a real teacher.” She got up and started to get in bed, then faltered and dropped down on her knees again. “Amen,” she whispered. Mary had been taught not only to say her prayers but to say them properly, or they didn't really count.
“Some were children barely out of arms and were therefore adopted, but most—more than nine thousand—were past their fifth birthday and in this hard land were expected to earn their keep, tending barns, milking cows, making hay. Often they would rise before anyone in the house, before the first light of day, and they would work until nightfall.” 5
June 10, 1892, Friday
MARY WAS awakened suddenly in the early hours of the morning by four pair of eyes staring at her from the doorway of the loft.
“That's her,” whispered the smallest of the boys, pointing a finger in her direction. Mary turned her head away and lay cowering against the wall. She said nothing. When she looked again, they were gone. She got out of bed, dressed quickly and went cautiously down the stairs. She was curious but at the same time fearful of what lay ahead.
Mr. Jacques was at the kitchen sink. He turned and smiled, “Good mornin'.”
Then she heard a voice from the far corner of the room near the stove. It was a woman who looked much younger than Mr. Jacques. Seated in a bulky chair with a large wheel on either side, she was almost totally wrapped in a blanket even though it was a fine June morning.
“I don't know what time you're in the habit of rising, but here, you are to be the first one up, not the last.“ The woman spoke with a crisp tongue. Mary was stunned and speechless. Not only did the sharpness of tone catch her off guard, but she was curious about the unusual chair. Timidity kept her from asking.
“I'm Mrs. Jacques. I'm in charge. You're to call me Ma'am.” Turning slightly in her chair and motioning
