Outcasts of River Falls Read online

  If it weren’t that Imogene lived in a boarding house and had limited means, Kathryn would not be here in this cobbled-together town now. Instead, she’d be back home, living with Imogene in Toronto, planning how best to acquire the lofty status of Lady Lawyer. For, most wonderful of all, Imogene was friends with Miss Clara Brett Martin, a true trailblazer and Kathryn’s idol. Miss Martin was the first woman to be admitted as a barrister and solicitor to the Law Society of Upper Canada. In fact, she was the first female lawyer in the whole of the British Empire and Kathryn desperately wanted to be the second.

  She dreamed and planned on following in her idol’s illustrious footsteps. Clara Brett Martin, this modern-thinking lady, this courageous proponent of women’s rights, was a worthy and courageous role model indeed. (Somewhere in the back of Kathryn’s mind, she could hear stirring music being played: surely it was a Souza march...) Miss Martin had not given up in the face of overwhelming odds, or let the rantings of some bearded old fellows, smelling of stale tobacco and brandy, prevent her from achieving her dream and Kathryn could do, nay, would do, no less. She would look upon this side trip out west as at most, a minor setback, her first hurdle on the road to glorious success.

  It was then that she noticed a faded photograph standing proudly on the fireplace mantle. Her attention refocused as she moved closer. Kathryn was surprised to see her father smiling out at her as he stood with his arm casually slung around a girl’s shoulders. The girl had to be Aunt Belle. They were both much younger and appeared to be on a picnic. Behind them was a gaggle of strangers. Leaning in, Kathryn peered more closely.

  “That’s your papa and me at a box social and behind us is your grandmother, Josephte Tourond. The rest are aunts, uncles and cousins you’ve never met.”

  Startled, Kathryn jumped, taking an involuntary step back.

  Her aunt continued, a note of regret in her voice. “It’s a problem that Patrice decided to hide his past. What it means is that we should talk about the way your life will be now. I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.” She went to the stove and busied herself stoking the firebox, then ladled water from the reservoir into a large black kettle before setting it on one of the lids.

  “Who’s Patrice?” Kathryn asked, still studying the photo.

  “Your father, Katy. He went by Patrick when he moved down east, thought it sounded more English...and more white.” She jammed another log into the stove. “We’ll have tea and then I want to tell you a story.”

  The light was failing and Kathryn hoped her aunt had more than feeble candles. She spotted several coal-oil lamps placed around the cabin. “Shall I light the lamps?”

  “Yes, please, and would you mind putting a match to the wood I’ve laid? It’s going to rain tonight and that means the temperature will fall. It will be chilly.”

  Kathryn glanced down at her beautiful dress, then at the stone fireplace. “You want me to light the fire? I’m not really attired for it.”

  Her aunt appraised her niece’s fine clothes, then went to one of the kitchen cupboards and opened the door. Hanging on the back was a long pinafore apron which she held out to Kathryn. “That should help. I would suggest you put away that frilly rig and find yourself something more practical.”

  With a supreme effort, Kathryn held her tongue as she yanked the ugly apron down over her head before stomping to the fireplace. Her aunt was proving somewhat of a trial.

  Lighting the kindling soon turned into a challenge. At first, Kathryn stood back and threw lit matches at the wood. This didn’t work at all. The matches simply went out. Edging closer, she held the tiny flame to the broken branches, which resulted in smoke and burnt fingers. She decided something more combustible was needed, something that would catch fire immediately.

  Eyeing the tidy room, Kathryn spied a newspaper on the table between the chairs. She grabbed it and scanned the date: over a week old. Perfect! Balling it up, she stuffed the newspaper under the wood. Holding a match to the paper, she was rewarded as it caught with a whoosh.

  Smiling, she watched the bright flames curl fiery fingers around the twigs which finally gave in and flared to life. By the time her aunt brought the tea, there was a cheery blaze in the hearth and Kathryn felt quite pleased with herself.

  “Here we are. Have a seat, Katy.” Her aunt set the tray down on the table between the chairs, then turned about as though seeking something. “Did you see my newspaper?”

  Kathryn slumped into the chair. Lighting wood was hard work. “Yes, I used it to start the fire.”

  Her aunt stopped. “You what?”

  “The ridiculous kindling wouldn’t burn. I needed something that would. The paper was a week old anyway.” She fanned her sweaty brow.

  Slowly and thoughtfully, her aunt reached out to pour the tea. “I think we should have that talk now as things in River Falls are quite different from what you are used to. First, that paper may have been a week old to some, but it was brand new to me. I acquired it when one of the ladies I sew for was going to throw it out. I know back in Toronto, newspapers are common. Out here, they’re a special treat.”

  The way she emphasized the word here, made Kathryn wonder what was so special about this shanty town she’d landed in. From what she’d seen, they were truly backwoods and rustic. For goodness sake – these people used outhouses!

  “Katy, your father was a very good and reasonable man, except he wanted more than he could have at home. While he was growing up, his dream was to become rich, get noticed. The problem was something stopped him, something he had no control over.” She picked up her cup. “He was born Métis.”

  There was that word again. Kathryn raised her chin, rather bravely, she thought. “I don’t believe that. My father wasn’t like you. His skin was light and his hair blonde, like mine.”

  Her aunt took a deep breath. “The Métis are a mixed-blood people. We are part Indian and part European. In our family’s case, we have French roots which go back to your great-great-grandfather who came to Canada in search of furs. He sold these valuable pelts to the North West Company and then the Hudson’s Bay. As time went on, he fell in love with an Indian woman and they married. Their children were the first Métis in our family. What this means is that we can have either Indian or European characteristics or a mix of both. Patrice had French roots, true, but he was only half French; the other half was Cree and that meant many doors were closed to him. He couldn’t stand this and so he ‘passed’ for full-blooded white.”

  All of this was news to Kathryn, a revelation, one she didn’t want to be true. Her former friends at school thought there was something tainted about being of mixed blood. She’d read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, clandestinely with certain other novels and penny dreadfuls not approved of by the nuns, and she’d heard how the Negroes and mulattos of the United States were treated. It was terrible and that wasn’t for her. She liked being white, completely white. And she had enough grief in her life, so much, in fact, that she could be the lead character in a Greek play. In all decency and humanity, her aunt should stop talking this nonsense – but there was a detail unanswered that piqued Kathryn’s curiosity.

  “Thank you for the history lesson, Aunt Belle, but you haven’t explained how the Métis ended up, well, where they are now.”

  “You mean living in the fringes of society – unwashed and unwanted?” Her aunt’s eyebrow rose rather wryly. “After the loss at Batoche, we were branded renegades. The Métis had no choice, my dear. With no place to call home, they were forced to live on the road allowances, the land adjacent to the roads which is owned by the government. Kathryn, we are known as the Road Allowance People.”

  Kathryn felt the earth tilt on its axis. “You’re outcasts! You live in the ditches? Impossible!” She thought of her life at the private boarding school and of her large home with Mrs. Maples, the cook, and their gardener, Old Sam, who tended the lawns and flower beds. She missed her father terribly and wished with all her heart he were here with her. If only she could fall i
nto a deep sleep to be awakened at some future time when a prince’s kiss would save her from all this.

  “Sadly, this is true.” Her aunt went on. “We have lived on the road allowances for years, and I believe we will continue to live on them for many more. We have families that must be raised and it is preferable to moving around in tents and wagons like gypsies.”

  Faced with this latest blow, Kathryn was appalled...again. “But I’m not like you. I’m not one of you, you... Ditch People.” Her voice rose. This wasn’t happening to her, it couldn’t be. “I’m no vagabond squatter. There must be a mistake.”

  “No, my dearest. There is no mistake. You will stay with me and I will do my very best to provide a decent life. I will care for you, as though you were my own daughter.” Her lips quivered a tiny bit. “It is all I have to offer, and yet it also everything I have to give.”

  Kathryn shook her head defiantly. “I won’t stay. I don’t belong here. I must return to Toronto as soon as possible.”

  First she’d lost her only living parent, her beloved papa, which was almost too much to bear; then she discovered she was not what she had been raised to believe she was, the daughter of an English mother and a father... Well, now that she thought about it, her papa had been rather vague about his roots. She was a mixed-blood Métis and she had to face the prospect of being one of these Ditch People, these outcasts!

  And the tragedies didn’t stop at that. There was the envelope she had wrested from Sister Bernadette’s hand – Kathryn knew what it contained: a few crumpled bills, her entire inheritance. The lawyers had made sure she wasn’t burdened with any debt; unfortunately, there had been virtually nothing left after the dust settled. Life was so unfair. To have all this dropped on her frail and delicate shoulders....

  Slumping under the unjust weigh of her misfortunes, she closed her eyes and imagined her future, filled with dirt and despair. If it would do any good, she would have fallen to weeping.

  A bright and radiant image of her idol, Clara Brett Martin, shone in her mind.

  Clara Brett Martin would not simply sit and let misfortune overtake her, no, she would fight back! Setting her cup down so firmly that it rattled in the pretty flowered saucer, Kathryn cleared her throat. “This is all unacceptable. I want to go home now.” She covered her eyes with the back of her hand to dramatically emphasise her point. “This is a nightmare I shan’t bear!”

  Her aunt sipped her tea and then calmly put down the china cup and stood. “You’re tired after your long day. You should sleep and we’ll talk more in the morning.”

  After all her aunt’s brutal revelations, the mention of sleep immediately flooded Kathryn with exhaustion. It had been an arduous four-day trip and she’d been on the train since early that morning, not to mention how her bones ached from the savage cart ride and hauling that back breaking trunk. Sleep, deep and numbing, erasing all her cares, would be wonderful.

  “My room is up there,” her aunt pointed and it was then that Kathryn saw what she had taken for the shadowed ceiling of the kitchen was actually the floor of a small loft. It faced out over the living room and was open except for a log rail across the front edge. Tucked away at the back of the tiny open room, she saw a bed and dresser, a chair and a washstand.

  “Then, where do I...”

  Kathryn’s words trailed off as Aunt Belle motioned across the room, toward a darkened corner near the fireplace. “It’s not built yet, but soon you’ll have a bedroom of your very own right over here.” She stood and moved behind the ornate, high-backed sofa.

  Kathryn followed and saw a narrow white iron bedstead in an intricate butterfly pattern, a tiny side table with a lamp and a low chiffonier, all of which she had failed to notice before.

  “You can put your things in the dresser and the beautiful bed has a real mattress. Everything’s new from the Eaton’s catalogue.” Her aunt smoothed the patchwork spread. “I made the quilt myself. I hope you like the pattern – double wedding ring, an old favourite of mine.”

  Kathryn felt her spirits sink even lower. “I’m going to sleep in the middle of the room?”

  Aunt Belle’s forehead furrowed. “It’s hardly the middle of the room, dear, and I’ve arranged for work to be done. You must realise it’s not easy, Katy. My friends, who will help for free and donate the materials needed at no charge, must feed their families first and make a living before they take time from their very long day to build you a private room.”

  Her aunt’s tone was chastising; then she rubbed the back of her neck as though in pain. “I’m sorry. All this must be a shock for you and we’re both tired.” She shared a small smile. “I’ll see what I can do about speeding up your room. Until then, we’ll have to make do.”

  Together they dragged the heavy trunk over near the wall of the imaginary room and while Kathryn sat despondently on the bed, her aunt brought a glass of warm milk before kissing her on the cheek. “Good night, Katydid. I’m very glad you’ve come to stay.”

  Kathryn fumed. First Katy and now Katydid! She was being addressed as a stick insect! How could this be happening? She felt like she’d sinned and this was her penance. Sister Bernadette must be laughing all the way back to Toronto!

  Her gaze alighted on the steamer trunk. There was no way she would unpack her things. She wasn’t going to stay that long. This was not her home and never would be. Somehow she had to find the forty-two dollars to pay her passage back to her old life, her real life.

  Setting the glass down on the small bedside table, Kathryn threw open the trunk lid, and lovingly lifted out her most precious possessions – her wonderful books. With great care, she arranged them neatly side by side on the plank floor; their spines aligned like a row of colourful soldiers. She knew a magical secret about books. They could free you from the darkest dungeon. While she was imprisoned here, she would escape into their pages and live in a kingdom of dreams.

  There were wondrous stories of knights who slew dragons for fair maidens, and heroes who vanquished monsters to save damsels in distress. These tales of chivalry were Kathryn’s favourite and she loved the idea of a brave knight riding in to the rescue. That’s what she needed, a white knight who could carry her away from this hovel to a castle with turrets and fancy dress balls and...

  But that was only in fairy stories. You couldn’t hire a white knight like you could a cook or a gardener.

  Kathryn grabbed her nightdress and then remembered that the bathroom was somewhere out there, in the dark. She groaned. “Aunt Belle, I need to use the... lavatory. Where exactly is it?” She could hear the trepidation in her voice, then reasoned that who in their right mind wouldn’t be fearful of the unknown horrors that waited in the dark of the outhouse.

  Her aunt pointed out the window. “Down the path through the pines. You should take a lantern, Katy. We wouldn’t want you falling in, now would we?”

  Kathryn peered into the stygian blackness and swallowed. “Impossible!”

  Chapter 3

  Through the Looking Glass

  The next morning, Kathryn’s nose was assaulted by the most delicious smells – fresh biscuits, bacon and... She inhaled deeply. Was that hot maple syrup? And where there was maple syrup, there were pancakes. She positively adored pancakes. Sitting up, she felt disoriented and it took her a second to remember where she was and then, with a terrible rush, she remembered what she was.

  She was Métis.

  She was one of the Road Allowance People, one of the outcasts.

  Kathryn flopped back down and pulled the feather quilt over her head, shutting out the light, shutting out the world.

  “Katy, time to get up, ma chère, breakfast is nearly ready.”

  Her aunt’s voice was annoyingly happy. Kathryn dragged herself out of bed, and, pulling on her coat against the early morning chill, headed for the dreaded pine privy. What was there to be so chipper about?

  Washed and dressed in her least pretty skirt and blouse, Kathryn sat at the table and reached for the stur
dy teapot.

  “Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?” Her aunt asked, placing a plate on the table. It held two meagre rashers of bacon.

  “Umm, yes, I guess so.” Kathryn searched for the pancakes.

  “That’s good, now eat up because we have work to do and you’ll need your strength.”

  She passed Kathryn a basket of strange-looking bread.

  “Li gallette... bannock... It’s like biscuits, Katy, and quite nice with a cup of tea.”

  Kathryn squinted at a bottle marked Li Siiroo di Pisaandlii.

  “That’s dandelion syrup.” Her aunt answered before Kathryn could ask.

  “Ah, I thought I smelled maple...” Kathryn prompted.

  Her aunt laughed. “Why, yes you did, and of course, we need something to pour the syrup over.”

  She went to the stove and returned with a plate containing the thinnest pancakes Kathryn had ever seen. They were pitiful. You could practically see through them!

  “What kind of pancakes are those?” she asked with a hint of disdain. How sad. This new aunt of hers couldn’t even cook pancakes correctly!

  “Not pancakes, no, nothing so ordinary. These, Katy,” Aunt Belle went on, “are my famous crêpes du matin and we have fresh cream and preserves to stuff them with.”

  Kathryn watched as her aunt took one of the paper-thin pastries, ladled in wild strawberry jam and a liberal slathering of thick cream, and then rolled the whole thing up into a cornucopia of divine delights. Over this, she sloshed the warm maple syrup.

  “Impossible!” Kathryn’s mouth watered as she reached for the crepes.

  Full to bursting after what had to be the most delicious breakfast of all time, Kathryn was eyeing the fireside chairs for a comfortable haven in which to read, when her aunt stood in front of her brandishing the dreaded apron again.

  “You wash up while I prepare the clay.”

  Kathryn couldn’t comprehend the meaning of the outstretched apron. “Wash up? I washed before coming to breakfast.”