A Preacher and His Wife

Chapter Eight

We saw land for a day and a half before we came across the first village. The term village was very generous, for all it meant was two houses, a church, and some sort of general store.

We passed several more of these small towns, the ship moving through a narrow straight where land was visible on both sides of us before we reached the place we were to disembark.

When my ticket was given to me, I had been told Quebec was a city, and perhaps by western standards it was, but to me, it looked very much like a small town. There could not have been more than three main roads.

The Scotsman came to stand beside me as I watched the little town in the distance. He laughed. "Ye'll be wanting te go further west I imagine."

Though his tone was smug, I sensed that he was actually attempting to be kind. I looked to him and he elaborated.

"This here's New France. It's not called than anymore, cause the Brits have taken it for themselves. Still, it'll be only Catholics and ye'll end up working in timber or trapping if ye stay here. Go west, Rupert's Land or beyond."

I had not expected such genuine decency from the man and felt somewhat moved. Mr. Ryan had told me something similar. He said the further west I went, the more Protestants I would find. But he warned me that not all Protestants were the same and that I should be sure to ask the townsfolk of the specifics of their faith before setting myself up to stay.

I nodded in thanks to the man and he handed me something. He looked quite embarrassed to have done this and when I looked at it, I found it to be a book. The Fair Jilt. I had never heard of it before.

"It's fer yer wife," the Scotsman explained. "I thought of givin' it to 'er meself, but then I thought that ye might not like that."

I was not sure whether I should be bothered by the idea of this.

"Believe it or not, it's written by a woman," he said, laughing. "When she starts to go mad, ye give it to 'er."

I decided I would be bothered by the gesture. Grace wasn't going to go mad.

The man laughed again. "Don't be offended, Mr. Moore. Everyone goes mad here for a time. A little thing like a silly story can be the difference between staying mad or coming back to yerself."

I could tell that the man was meaning kindness, only his words and tone weren't used to such a sentiment and so the desired effect was muddled. I was also somewhat uncomfortable to think of how or why the sailor came to be in possession of a story for women.

He answered my question though I had not asked it. "It belonged to me wife."

"Surely then, she will want it back?" A man should not be giving away his wife's things. I offered the book back a little angered.

"She's no need for it anymore," he explained. But still, I was bothered and held the book out to him. "She's long-dead Mr. Moore."

There was the smallest sadness in his voice and I found myself feeling guilty for judging the man's coarseness on the journey. I thought about what he had said, not just then and there, but earlier on the voyage as well. It seemed all along the man had been warning me.

"You don't think I should be bringing her here," I said finally.

The man laughed again. "She'll be more than fine Mr. Moore, it's you I'm worried fer. The book if fer when she gets sick an' tired of carrying ye and thinks of ditching ye in the woods."

When the ship came to the docks it took a long time for everyone to gather their things and get organized and say their goodbyes. Grace had our things ready long before they needed to be, and gave her time to Mrs. Murphy who had packs for each of the children to put in order.