Renwell was delighted when her grandfather wrote and asked if she could come to Cobourg to keep house for him. He’d taken an appointment on the Hope Circuit, he said, but had an assistant and so would not be absent for any long stretches of time. The letter went on:
As it happens, my assistant’s family lives next door, and will be on hand should any emergency arise while I’m away. Mrs. Small has agreed to see to the heavy laundry, and Mr. Small will keep the kitchen supplied with kindling, so even though it’s rather a large house, Martha wouldn’t be obliged to do anything that she doesn’t already do at the hotel. If you could spare her, it would be a great help to me, as I believe I have already amply demonstrated that I’m hopeless at housekeeping.
Her father was dubious about the proposal.
“You’re only fifteen,” he said. “And you’d be on your own while he’s off down the road somewhere. Are you sure you want to do this?”
She was sure. For one thing, she missed her grandfather. She had lived with Thaddeus and Betsy from the time she was a baby. For most of her childhood, Thaddeus had been close by — he had not preached after her grandmother grew so sick — and Martha was used to taking her problems to him, to discussing the things that puzzled her and the subjects that she wanted to know more about. It was only after Betsy died that Thaddeus had returned to his old life of riding circuits for the Methodist Episcopal Church, and even then she sensed that he had gone reluctantly. He had promised her once, when she was very little, that he would never be far away, and when he left for Yonge Street he had assured her that it was a temporary posting. But then he had accepted this new appointment. She had been profoundly disappointed when she heard about his decision, but now it appeared that he hadn’t forgotten her after all.
It wasn’t that she was unhappy in Wellington. She loved her father and adored her stepmother, but now that she was finished with school, she was finding her days long and not a little boring. There was the constant round of cooking and cleaning and changing of linens attendant on the keeping of a hotel, of course, and she tried to make herself as useful as she could. But under her stepmother Sophie’s hand, the Temperance House Hotel was superbly organized. Every day Martha would complete her assigned tasks in short order and then start looking for ways to keep herself busy.
She spent hours walking the shore of Lake Ontario, picking her way over the rough stones and marvelling at the things that washed up on them: driftwood; pieces of ship’s tackle and lengths of rope; broken crockery; occasionally an apple or an orange, rotting and sodden from its time in the water. When the weather was too inclement for her to spend time outside, she would read. Newspapers were stacked up in the parlour for the convenience of the hotel guests, and she would go through these from front to back. Occasionally, one of the guests would leave behind a book. Martha would read it before her father had a chance to mail it back to its owner. Sometimes there was no forwarding address for the person whose book they thought it was, and these relics she kept, to reread when there was nothing else.
She envied the boys she had shared a classroom with. Most of them hadn’t even completed the basic education offered at the village school, but left at eleven or twelve or thirteen, some of them to help their fathers farm, but others because they found employment at the mill or on one of the ships that carried goods and passengers back and forth along the lake. She understood that these occupations were not open to her. They required physical strength and a fortitude that she was told she didn’t have, although she felt herself to be nearly as strong as any of the boys, and just as ready for a challenge.
Some of the girls left early, too, either because they were needed at home or to work as hired help on one of the local farms until they were old enough to get married and have families of their own. It seemed that women were destined to cook and sew and clean, even if they did it as a business and not just on behalf of their own families — Sophie in the kitchen at the hotel; Meribeth Scully, the seamstress at the dry goods store; Mrs. Crawford, who ran a boarding house near the harbour.
Martha wanted something more. She just didn’t know what it might be. But of one thing she was sure: she stood a far better chance of finding it if she went with Thaddeus than if she stayed home. It wouldn’t quite be the same kind of adventure as sailing on a ship or working at a mill — it would be more cooking and cleaning when you got right down to it — but the unexpected seemed to happen to her grandfather wherever he went, and if Martha lived with him she could be a part of whatever thrilling circumstance came his way.
Thaddeus was in a fine mood as he trotted his horse home toward Cobourg, elated not only by the success of the camp meeting and anticipation of the forthcoming debate, but by the unfamiliar wad of extra money in his pocket. As soon as the meeting ended — “one of the most successful in recent memory,” as everyone agreed — he and Small worked their way through their regular schedule of appointments, not only to further introduce Thaddeus to the Methodist meetings, but to let everyone know that the coming Sunday’s service would offer something special. “You would do well to come,” Thaddeus told them with a sly smile. “It should be most entertaining.”
They all seemed to agree. The news of his confrontation with the Baptist minister had travelled ahead of him, and there were numerous requests for extra meetings, as well as a wedding and two funerals for people who, as far as he knew, had not been members of the Methodist Episcopal Church during their lifetimes. But the families wanted the best for their loved ones, and were willing to pay for it. And pay for it they did, in a motley collection of currency. The Province of Canada was making efforts to standardize its money, but the legislation had yet to be decreed. In the meantime, everyone was anxious to get rid of any currency that might not be accepted after the law passed. An easy way to dispose of it was to throw it into the collection plate. Thaddeus wasn’t particularly worried by the number of American coins and Halifax shillings he had been given. There were plenty of Canadian changemaker banknotes, as well, and, in spite of what the government wanted, he fully expected that foreign currency would continue to circulate the way it always had.
He was in a mood to celebrate, just a little. The collection money went, of course, to the church’s central conference, but any extras — the fees for baptisms and weddings and funerals — was his. Or rather, in the case of the wedding, Martha’s, he supposed. Traditionally, wedding fees had always been handed to the minister’s wife to use as she saw fit. He saw no reason why Martha, as his housekeeper, wouldn’t qualify for the same consideration. He had no need of anything for himself, but there was enough extra money in his pocket that he decided to request a luxury. A chicken dinner. Roast chicken with floury dumplings like Sophie made on special occasions at the hotel. He’d ask Martha about it when she arrived that afternoon.
When Martha stepped from the steamer to the dock, Thaddeus realized that she had grown at least an inch since he’d last seen her, and that she had put her hair up in an arrangement that made her look far older than fifteen.
She was a pretty enough girl, who looked remarkably like her mother had at the same age, but it was the way she carried herself, he realized, that turned young men’s heads and drew old men’s smiles as they walked down the pier toward town. She was so assured. He hoped that he wasn’t about to be faced with a stream of would-be beaus to chase off the doorstep, but as they walked through town arm in arm, he realized that Martha gave none of the gawkers any encouragement. This was a relief, since the problem of male admirers hadn’t occurred to him when he’d asked her to come.
While they waited for her trunk to arrive, he gave her a tour of the house. She immediately made some practical suggestions to streamline her tasks, pointing out, for example, that the kitchen table should be moved over by the window.
“It’s smack dab in the path between the stove and the pantry,” she said. “You have to walk around it all the time. Besides, the sunlight will pour in through that window in the morning. Breakfast will be more cheerful if we’re sitting there.”
