Later that afternoon, when Edie was downstairs, Maud was alone in Southview rereading the love poem in Mother’s Commonplace Book. She was suddenly overcome with the desire to know the truth about her parents’ relationship. After her pleasant afternoon with Father, she knew he would be open to sharing this with her. He had to be.
She had made her way to the top of the steps when she heard Mamma say, “I think it is inappropriate for you to call a girl of almost sixteen ‘Maudie.’?”
“It is only a term of endearment, Mary Ann,” Father said, keeping his voice low. “I don’t know why this matters to you.”
“I’m concerned for you—for us,” she said. “People are paying attention to you, to see how you conduct yourself with your family, how your family behaves. It is important that we put forth a good impression.”
Maud slid onto the top step, the book falling against her chest.
“I think Maudie behaves quite well for a girl her age,” he said.
At least Father was defending her.
“Most girls her age don’t put on airs like she does,” Mamma said.
What did she mean, “airs”? Who was Mamma but a small-town Ontario girl?
“What were her grandparents teaching her out there on that island?” her stepmother went on. “Given why she’s come to us, I think this is our opportunity to show her what is appropriate.”
Opportunity. This time it felt as though the word was working against her. Here was yet another woman who wanted to tell her what to do.
Maud heard her Father kiss Mamma. “Please don’t worry, particularly in your condition.” He paused. “We don’t want any complications.”
Maud cradled the Commonplace Book in her lap, tears falling against the pages.
“Then allow me the latitude I need to handle her properly,” Mamma said. “This is woman’s work.”
Handle her? Was she some horse Father had asked her new mother to break in?
Father sighed. “Very well, I will stop calling her ‘Maudie.’?”
Her heart felt stretched to the point of breaking. She had felt this way only once before, when her grandparents had found her journal. Mamma wanted to mold her, train her—into what Maud wasn’t sure. Would she go through her things? Should she go west with Grandpa and then back to Cavendish? Would anyone take her in?
Maud held the book tight against her chest. Hearing Mamma—and Father’s response—it was clear that Mother’s Commonplace Book wasn’t safe. Maud had to keep it hidden.
Outside the Southview window, thick gray clouds hung low, almost reaching the green fields. There was a crash of thunder, and a sudden pounding of rain splattered on the roof. It felt as if she was being battered, as if the rain was a punishment for her crimes against Nate, against her grandparents, and against her mother’s memory.
Despite the fact that it was so many miles from the Island, Prince Albert was turning out to be much like Cavendish: no one was going to stand up for her here, not even her father could defend her against her stepmother. And in some ways, Prince Albert was worse. Maud was now in a place where she had no history, where no one cared if she was a Macneill or a Montgomery—although her Mamma obviously cared what others thought. Maud was dependent upon the whims of anyone who decided it was their duty to take her in.
Opening up her trunk, she buried her mother’s book underneath her clothes, books, and pieces of the crazy quilt she had yet to sew. Only when it was safe would she finally ask Father her long-cherished questions.
In the meantime, Maud would make things right for Father—and for herself. She wouldn’t complain; she’d be the dutiful daughter and show that woman she was wrong about her, that she didn’t “put on airs.” And she would do so well in school that Father would pay for her to go to college. She would never be dependent upon the likes of Mamma.
No, she was not Maud’s Mamma; her behavior certainly didn’t deserve that title. Maud would be respectful and cordial to her stepmother in public—even call her Mamma—but she would be Mrs. Montgomery in Maud’s private journal, as if she were a stranger who had no power over her. And she would keep a separate, more public journal. One that would only contain musings about the weather and silly anecdotes about school, when she started. Because the truth was more dreadful. Mary Ann McRae Montgomery was the supreme monarch of this little castle in the west, and Maud her subject. Maud had no more power here than she’d had in Cavendish.
CHAPTER THREE
During those first two weeks in Prince Albert, Maud had such an attack of homesickness that she almost wrote her grandparents begging them to take her back. Every night she would check the table in the hall where Father left the mail, but there was nothing. It didn’t help that they were having a particularly bad rainy season. It seemed to add to her despair.
She tried returning to the rhythm of writing in the morning. Her piece of verse, “On Cape LeForce,” was almost ready to send to the Charlottetown Patriot and, while that prospect helped a little, it was still difficult to concentrate.
One evening, she and Edie went hazelnutting on the bluffs along the riverbank, which had a splendid view of the poplar trees and the water. Across the way, some of the Indian women and girls were picking Saskatoon berries, talking. Maud admired the soft, musical language they were speaking. Seeing them together reminded Maud of when she and her friends would pick berries together back home for pies. The thought of it reminded her of the last time she picked blueberries, and Nate.
Pushing the memory aside, she looked over at Edie, who seemed like a nice enough girl. Quiet, but good humored. And they did share a room. Perhaps they could be friends? Maud had never made friends with someone she hadn’t known practically her whole life and didn’t quite know where to start.
“Where do your people come from?” Maud asked.
Edie stopped picking hazelnuts and her shoulders tensed. “Why do you ask?”
Had she offended the girl? Maud had heard her grandmother ask such questions to people who were from away. This way, she said, one could gauge where in Scotland or England they came from.
“I’m sorry, Edie,” she said in a voice she reserved for her elders. “I was only making conversation. Given that we are spending so much time together, I thought it would be good to get to know one another.”
Edie’s shoulders dropped. “I see.” She tossed one of the hazelnuts into the basket. “My family lives in Battleford.” Maud took note that Edie didn’t go into a lot of detail about who her family was, or where they came from. She wanted to ask, but she thought it would be rude. She also knew what it was like to have a story you didn’t wish to tell.
“Most of my family is back in Prince Edward Island,” Maud said, searching for something else to say.
“Do you like it here?”
Maud gazed over the river. Two of the little girls were sitting close together, clearly telling secrets. Her mind wandered to the empty table in the hall. “I miss my friends. Pensie and Mollie, especially. They’re my bosom friends.” She also missed Nate, but she was certainly not going to mention him.