Read Online A Sudden Sun by Trudy Morgan-Cole - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Trudy Morgan-Cole
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there were no secrets inthere, after all. Only things Lily had forgotten, things like the comb and brush that she had not deemed worth taking with her when she left home as a bride.
The key fitted the lock, the drawer slid open, and sure enough, it contained little except newspapers and clippings. Several copies of a paper called the Water Lily , with articles circled and words underlined. Clippings from the Telegram , the Herald , the Gazette —accounts of the Great Fire, accounts of attempts by the WCTU to pass a temperance law. Grace spread them all out on the bed, wondering if these were indeed her mother’s youthful papers. Handbills from meetings promoting Votes For Women? Grace read through one: In Newfoundland today a woman who manages her own business can have no vote, no voice in elections—yet the most incapable man in her employ may do so . And every word still sadly true in the year of our Lord 1919, she thought.
Had Lily once been a suffragist? She certainly had no sympathy for that cause now. Grace remembered her mother glancing at a newspaper article last year when women in Canada got the franchise. “They say it’s only for the wives and mothers of soldiers while the men are away at war, but of course they won’t give up power once they’ve had the taste of it,” Lily had said.
“It’s only to bring in conscription, my dear,” Reverend Collins had said. “The Union government knows they can count on the women who have men overseas to vote for it.”
“Well, they’ll reap the whirlwind,” Lily said.
There were invitations here too, and calling cards, and a handful of postcards. Grace looked through these as well, feeling slightly guilty at reading her mother’s private correspondence. But surely Lily would have destroyed or taken with her anything important, and most of the postcards were quite dull. She recognized the names on a few, her mother’s cousins in Wesleyville or Harbour Grace. Only two were interesting: one in looping, girlish handwriting that read,“ It’s a pickle and no mistake, but it needn’t be a tragedy. Come to me, darling, and we’ll puzzle out what to do. Won’t you? ” It was signed only “ A .”
A for Abigail, Grace wondered? If Grace were to visit with Mrs. Parker, become friendly and confiding, could Mrs. Parker tell her what sort of pickle Lily had been in, and whether they had ever puzzled it out together?
Grace realized, looking through the scattered papers, how very little she knew of her mother’s life—who her girlhood friends had been, what she had cared about, even what books she had read. Lily talked a great deal, but seldom about her own past. The other mysterious postcard showed a young man playing a guitar for a willowy young lady, her hair in a Gibson Girl sweep and a bustle accentuating her wasp waist. On the back was a scrawled and male-looking hand, quite different from the careful feminine writing that covered the other cards. Grace had to peer at it for a few minutes to piece it out.
L Dearest —. Sorry for everything. It is never too late
to change your mind. Or rather, soon it will be too
late—for you, that is. I put no address on the envelope
but you can find me at Mrs. Tulk’s boarding house,
642 President Street. Please come.
– D.
The letters resolved themselves into words. But the words made no sense at all.
Lily
CHAPTER SIX
A BIGAIL HAYWARD PARKER. Well, well.
Lily held the telegram between thumb and finger, reading it over. It was the third one she’d received in the past fortnight. The first had announced Abigail’s arrival in the capital city; the second asked if Lily might come to town so they could see one another again.
This one read:
DINED WITH YOUR FATHER AND WIFE STOP IMAGINE DAISY GILL MISTRESS OF YOUR FATHERS HOUSE BUT SHE RISES TO THE OCCASION STOP MET YOUR DAUGHTER STOP SPLENDID GIRL AND A FINE YOUNG SUITOR STOP WILL TAKE HER UNDER WING STOP
The key fitted the lock, the drawer slid open, and sure enough, it contained little except newspapers and clippings. Several copies of a paper called the Water Lily , with articles circled and words underlined. Clippings from the Telegram , the Herald , the Gazette —accounts of the Great Fire, accounts of attempts by the WCTU to pass a temperance law. Grace spread them all out on the bed, wondering if these were indeed her mother’s youthful papers. Handbills from meetings promoting Votes For Women? Grace read through one: In Newfoundland today a woman who manages her own business can have no vote, no voice in elections—yet the most incapable man in her employ may do so . And every word still sadly true in the year of our Lord 1919, she thought.
Had Lily once been a suffragist? She certainly had no sympathy for that cause now. Grace remembered her mother glancing at a newspaper article last year when women in Canada got the franchise. “They say it’s only for the wives and mothers of soldiers while the men are away at war, but of course they won’t give up power once they’ve had the taste of it,” Lily had said.
“It’s only to bring in conscription, my dear,” Reverend Collins had said. “The Union government knows they can count on the women who have men overseas to vote for it.”
“Well, they’ll reap the whirlwind,” Lily said.
There were invitations here too, and calling cards, and a handful of postcards. Grace looked through these as well, feeling slightly guilty at reading her mother’s private correspondence. But surely Lily would have destroyed or taken with her anything important, and most of the postcards were quite dull. She recognized the names on a few, her mother’s cousins in Wesleyville or Harbour Grace. Only two were interesting: one in looping, girlish handwriting that read,“ It’s a pickle and no mistake, but it needn’t be a tragedy. Come to me, darling, and we’ll puzzle out what to do. Won’t you? ” It was signed only “ A .”
A for Abigail, Grace wondered? If Grace were to visit with Mrs. Parker, become friendly and confiding, could Mrs. Parker tell her what sort of pickle Lily had been in, and whether they had ever puzzled it out together?
Grace realized, looking through the scattered papers, how very little she knew of her mother’s life—who her girlhood friends had been, what she had cared about, even what books she had read. Lily talked a great deal, but seldom about her own past. The other mysterious postcard showed a young man playing a guitar for a willowy young lady, her hair in a Gibson Girl sweep and a bustle accentuating her wasp waist. On the back was a scrawled and male-looking hand, quite different from the careful feminine writing that covered the other cards. Grace had to peer at it for a few minutes to piece it out.
L Dearest —. Sorry for everything. It is never too late
to change your mind. Or rather, soon it will be too
late—for you, that is. I put no address on the envelope
but you can find me at Mrs. Tulk’s boarding house,
642 President Street. Please come.
– D.
The letters resolved themselves into words. But the words made no sense at all.
Lily
CHAPTER SIX
A BIGAIL HAYWARD PARKER. Well, well.
Lily held the telegram between thumb and finger, reading it over. It was the third one she’d received in the past fortnight. The first had announced Abigail’s arrival in the capital city; the second asked if Lily might come to town so they could see one another again.
This one read:
DINED WITH YOUR FATHER AND WIFE STOP IMAGINE DAISY GILL MISTRESS OF YOUR FATHERS HOUSE BUT SHE RISES TO THE OCCASION STOP MET YOUR DAUGHTER STOP SPLENDID GIRL AND A FINE YOUNG SUITOR STOP WILL TAKE HER UNDER WING STOP
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