The Ever Open Door

By Julie Band

What would you do if you lost everything? Money, reputation, status? It is a question Rachel Gilmore may soon have to face.
The year is 1888 and England’s economy has been hard hit. Liverpool’s slums are overrun with those hoping to immigrate to Canada’s brighter shores. Sadly, many never leave, falling instead into a cycle of abject poverty.
It is a harsh reality that Rachel, the daughter of a prominent ship owner, knows only from a safe distance. Forced to volunteer in a Children’s Sheltering Home by her ‘do-gooder’ stepmother, she is a sympathetic, but detached observer of the poor and their plight; that is, until her father is gravely injured in a suspicious dockside accident. In a race to keep his company out of the hands of greedy creditors, Rachel becomes ensnared in a sinister plot that leads her deep into the seedier sides of Liverpool and threatens her life.
Faced with peril at every turn, the young Rachel must choose: will she fight, flee or succumb.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Band
• Release date: Jul 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777187323

Julie Band

The Ever Open Door is Julie Band’s first novel. It was inspired by her grandfather’s emigration from England to Canada as a child with the Barnardo’s Homes. Julie is a former management consultant with a Bachelor of Environmental Science and an MBA. She lives in Ottawa with her husband and children. Her other works include publication with the Stittsville Writing Group Anthology.

Book preview

A Novel

Julie Band

Copyright © 2020 Julie Band

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-7771873-0-9 (softcover). ISBN 978-1-7771873-1-6 (EPUB)

This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Drew Gravelle

In memory of my Dad,

whose light still guides me today.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Party Crasher

Takeover Attempt

A Harsh Scotch

By Surreptitious Means

Family Heirlooms

An Unexpected Guest

The Docks

The Liverpool Sheltering Home

Madeline’s House

In the Woods

Social Obligations

The Dinner Party

An Emotional Plea

It Is Never Desirable To Fall in Class

Scotland Road

Three Spheres

Grace and Courage

Barty’s Posse

Odd Bedfellows

Blood Money

Come to Nothing

Loss of Faith

Rumour and Conjecture

In the Family Way

Cost Recovery

Party Dresses

The Prodigal Son

Shell Game

An Opportunity Seized

Exposed

A Great Loss

Taking Liberties

Miss Blanche’s House

Merde, Merde, Merde!

Bullies

A Change of Luck?

Repercussions

An Unwelcome Understanding

Primped

A Strange Resemblance

A Twist of Events

Playing Sick

A Botched Escape

Practicalities

The Rookeries

Entering the System

Information Gathering

The Break Out

The Best Laid Schemes of Mice and Men Gang Aft Agley

Will’s Story

Myrtle Street

Good-bye

London

Her Majesty’s Hospital

Stepney Causeway

Barnardo

The Girl’s Garden City

The Proposal

The Sarnian

About the Author

Acknowledgements

The writing of this book took place over many, many years. I am so thankful to have this opportunity to acknowledge the people and events which inspired me to write it and to take a moment to appreciate how blessed I am.

First and foremost, I would like to thank my father who taught me to have a vision, to believe in myself and to believe in those around me to help make it happen. In that vein, I would like to thank my gracious husband who encouraged me to write and pursue my dreams of becoming a better writer. As an English major, he was generous with his skill and knowledge, all the while encouraging me through my struggle to find and develop my own unique style and voice. The endless hours of editing you put in are appreciated more than you’ll ever know.

Thank you to my daughter, Sarah, and my mother-in-law, Peggy, for eagerly volunteering as Beta readers and giving your honest feedback to make this a stronger piece. To Rory, Doug and Sarah, thank you for eagerly supporting me and never complaining about the time I was taking away from you to create this. I could not have done this without you. I love you all with all my heart.

How lucky I was to find the Stittsville Writing Group. Thank you to everyone there for being the most supportive and non-judgmental group to learn to write with. The generosity of spirit and the willingness to share are a marker of everyone in the group, but a special thanks to John Egan, the founder of the group, and RJ Partington for sharing their knowledge of publishing and pointing me in the right direction to get started.

Thanks to the amazing editing skills of historical fiction editor, Jenny Quinlan. Your insightful and excellent suggestions allowed me to learn so much and polish this manuscript to allow me to publish it.

I also appreciate the opportunity I had to work with the talented graphic designer Drew Gravelle, who created the book cover for the Ever Open Door and turned my concept into reality.

The Ever Open Door was partially inspired by the Barnardo Homes for disadvantaged children, of which, my grandfather was one. Thank you to my Uncle, John Teasell, who shared his research and knowledge of my grandfather’s time with the home and his immigration to Canada.

Thank you to Dr. Barnardo and his homes for providing inspiration for this story. Many may disagree with the practice of child emigration, and I admit I am one of them, but during a period in history when the majority thought children in the slums to be defective or ‘born bad’, I find it remarkable that he saw them as worthy and deserving of hope and nurturing like any other child.

Last but not least, thank you to my courageous Grandfather, John Teasell. I came along in a time of your life when you were very ill and could barely talk or walk. With me, you never let your light dim and you had all the patience in the world to just let me sit with you. You radiated love and you taught me the beauty of just being. You taught me the value of being seen.

The Ever Open Door

Liverpool, England, Spring 1888

Party Crasher

Istood tall as my stepmother’s name was announced. I wanted the audience to know that I was proud of the woman who had raised me. My father, dashing in formal attire, smiled encouragingly as I made my way up to the small stage.

My stepmother was one of many receiving Liverpool’s Citizen Award for their charitable contributions. She was a midwife who practiced in the slums of the city; although, no one ever mentioned she was a midwife—it would be unseemly. They merely remarked on her compassionate work amongst the needy.

Accepting the award on behalf of Mrs. Gilmore is her daughter, Miss Rachel Gilmore, the handsome master of ceremonies announced when I reached the top of the stairs. Regrettably, my stepmother could not accept the award herself. Philanthropy had its price; unfortunately, she had paid with her health.

The master of ceremonies shook my hand, congratulated me and enthusiastically said a few kind words. I knew him. His name was Thomas Finch. He was young, rich and an exuberant do-gooder who had an enthusiastic affection for my Scottish stepmother.

I looked down into the audience to find my father proudly watching. I was filled with excitement. I had never attended such an elegant and grown-up affair before. I was only fourteen, but my father had refused to stand in my stepmother’s place. He’d said the honor belonged to one of her two daughters. In truth, I think he wished to avoid being on stage with Mr. Finch, whom he found tiresome. As I was the eldest and had, on occasion, accompanied my stepmother to a birth, the privilege had fallen to me.

Thank you, Miss Gilmore, Mr. Finch said when he had finished his speech. I smiled brightly. I had done it: I had accepted the award without looking awkward or half-witted. I returned carefully to my seat, intent not to stumble, half listening to Mr. Finch announce the next recipient: an acquaintance of my stepmother’s, Mrs. Birt, who was being recognised for organising child emigration parties for the poor to Canada.

…

I told you they would all be a bunch of self-congratulating blowhards, my father said when the ceremony was over. He smiled down at me, and a devilish glint lit his eyes as he stroked his dark moustache. He was in a light mood this evening. Something I had not seen in many months.

I think it’s all lovely, I disagreed, gazing around the ornate reception room of St. George’s Hall. The beautifully appointed hall, the sparkling chandeliers and the elegantly dressed men and women dazzled me. At fourteen, I felt inadequate in my girlish dress, which only came to mid-calf instead of sweeping the floor.

Mrs. Birt, the woman who had accepted the award after me, approached us.

Mr. Gilmore, Miss Gilmore, she greeted us with a warm smile. How you’ve grown, she said, looking at me. She is the spitting image of you, she said to my father and patted my cheek.

My father and I raised our eyebrows at one another. My father was tall, elegant and dark. I was gangly, fair and had strawberry-blond hair. Our only similarities were in our height and our eyes—a cool green-blue.

Thank you, Mrs. Birt, my father said politely and smiled. Mrs. Birt had an easy, friendly manner about her, and I knew my father liked her. He also appreciated the fact that she had taken the time to correspond with my stepmother during her illness.

Miss Gilmore, your mother has sung your praises to me in her letters. She says that you are quite accomplished with accounts, she said, surprising me. Why would my stepmother tell her such a thing?

Accounts? Um, yes, I suppose . . . I have been helping with our household accounts while she has been ill, I answered reluctantly. I was good with numbers.

And your father’s business accounts, by what she has told me? she said. I stiffened and stole a look at my father. He was equally rigid.

To keep his business costs down, I helped with my father’s books, but this was not a topic that we discussed outside our home. Many would see it as unfitting for a woman, a young woman at that, to perform such work. The fact that my father had allowed it would be seen by some as confirmation of a faltering business: a man so desperate to cut costs he had allowed his own daughter to help keep accounts.

As you know our organisation is expanding—a sign of the great need for our service. We are understaffed and could use someone to help with the books, Mrs. Birt said. Your mother has kindly offered your services—once a week on Saturdays.

I sputtered, and my mouth fell open. My weekdays were already filled with studies and chores, and I had no desire to give up my free Saturdays.

I am sorry, I don’t think that will be possible, my father interjected somewhat curtly.

Don’t be silly, Mr. Gilmore. It is all arranged, Mrs. Birt practically sang the last words. You can come by tomorrow for a short tour, she continued, looking at me, and to get acquainted with some of the staff. Come by in the morning—say, ten—as I have a large emigration party going out late afternoon. And then I expect to see you every Saturday after that. She took a quick breath and smiled. Now if you’ll excuse me, I promised Mrs. Brown that I would chat with her before she leaves. Do pass on my congratulations to Mrs. Gilmore, she called back as she left us standing there, mouths slightly ajar.

Well, my opinion has been neatly dismissed, my father said with a touch of mirth. He turned to me, getting more serious. I will talk with your mother, Rachel. You do not have to do this.

I shrugged, resigned.

It sounds like she needs the help. I was used to this sort of thing—my stepmother volunteering me for a good cause. She felt service was important, and past experience told me there would be little my father could say to sway her from that opinion. Our Lord served, and so must I, I remarked with mock piety.

My father gave me a conflicted look. Sympathy for my position and disapproval for poking fun at my stepmother. He shook his head.

Still, as much as I like Mrs. Birt, I don’t agree with her organisation.

Why ever not? They send children to Canada for a better life, I said, truly curious as to his protest.

My father frowned. And how would you like to find yourself, Rachel, without kin or country, shipped off to some strange place, an indentured servant for your youth.

It was better than the alternative, I thought. I had seen destitute children in the slums: it was a miserable existence. Better to be removed from that reality than to become woven into its fabric. I kept my opinion to myself and merely shrugged, trying to diffuse the situation. There was little sense in imagining such a plight for me. Such fates were reserved for the downtrodden and the poor.

I looked away and watched Mrs. Birt disappear into the crowd. In her wake, a red-faced man maneuvered around her and made his way purposefully towards us. He held his hand up in a sort of wave.

Is that not Mr. Fletcher? I asked, pulling my father’s sleeve. Did he receive an award this evening as well? Mr. Fletcher was my father’s attorney and friend. As far as I knew, he was not predisposed to charitable activities.

My father frowned and followed my gaze.

Gerald, he said in surprise. It was then that I noticed that the man was not as finely dressed as rest of the gentlemen in the room. He was puffing hard to regain his breath.

Robert. He nodded and shook my father’s hand with true affection.

Imagine seeing you here. How are you this evening? my father asked.

Mr. Fletcher eyed me and gave me a quick smile before dismissing my presence.

Bored, and it’s your fault.

My fault? My father frowned.

I’m here tonight on account of you. Adelaide said I could find you here. I had to sit through that last bit of dratted ceremony. Adelaide was our maid.

You were looking for me? my father asked.

Mr. Fletcher nodded. I’m afraid there has been a development that will affect your firm—it’s serious. I could not wait: we need to talk.

A development? Should I send for Humphrey? Humphrey Clark was my father’s business partner. They owned a shipping firm together, Gilmore & Son, a firm founded by my grandfather.

Mr. Fletcher nodded again.

I grew cold; the glow of the evening ebbed away. Worry replaced excitement. What could be so urgent to have my father’s attorney scouring the town for him? The fact that Mr. Fletcher had come in person for my father meant the news was dire. I felt sick.

Unfortunately of late, any news involving my father’s firm seemed dire. It was struggling; the depressed economy over the last decade had not been kind to shipping, and as my father’s company was small, it suffered more than others. People simply had less money to spend, and in turn, the demand for goods decreased. The result was too many ships or excess tonnage, and many hulls lay empty with nothing to move between ports. Freight rates fell as firms chased what little business there was. Rates were at an all-time low now, and firms struggled to realise a profit. My father’s company was no different. To make things worse, he was burdened with an antiquated fleet he had inherited from my grandfather. He had borrowed heavily to bring it up to date, his newer ships still in the shipyard. The fact that my stepmother had become ill in the last year had not helped matters, dividing my father’s focus.

My father made a face at Mr. Fletcher’s news, but he did not seem vexed. In a calm haste, he gathered our things, said his good-byes and ushered me out the grand doors of St. George’s Hall into the cool night, with Mr. Fletcher by our side. Once we had crossed the building’s expansive plateau to the street, a lad was dispatched to send word to Humphrey Clark, summoning him to our house.

My father’s cool exterior may have placated some people, but I knew him too well. He was unflappable even in the face of a crisis, and the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach was not assuaged.

Takeover Attempt

Usually, the rocking of a moving coach would put me to sleep at such a late hour, but I could feel the tension in the air. I was sure the only thing silencing Mr. Fletcher at the moment was my presence. He was eager to talk openly to my father; I could see it in his eyes and in his posture.

I placed my head on my father’s shoulder, feigning exhaustion from the evening. My father put his hand over mine, where it was settled in the crook of his arm.

Out with it, Gerald. You look as though you may explode, my father said.

I would not want to bore the young lass with talk of business, he said, eyeing me uncomfortably across the coach.

I gave him a weak, tired smile.

Rachel is too exhausted to pay attention, I can assure you. If this matter is as urgent as you suggest, perhaps you should speak. Whether my father believed his words, I could not be sure, but he often talked business around me—more than he should.

Gerald looked hesitant. I would hate to alarm the girl.

Mr. Fletcher, you needn’t worry about me, I encouraged, I never understand a word of it—business talk, that is. If there is something you need to tell Father, please feel free. This, I knew, my father would never believe. He thought me quite clever for a girl. I could feel him squeeze my hand. I was not sure if it was in gratitude or disapproval.

I let my eyes look heavy for Mr. Fletcher. Thus placated, he divulged his news.

Robert, Barnes wants his money out now, Gerald started. I’ve heard a nasty rumour tonight that he is going to serve you notice as early as tomorrow. I knew that Mr. Barnes, another prominent shipping owner, was an investor in my father’s business. I looked up at my father to gauge his reaction.

He raised a dark eyebrow. Why?

You’re in a shrinking industry, freight rates are at an all-time low, steam is the new standard and your ships are old. Take any of those reasons—he is concerned about his investment.

My father shook his head. All those reasons were there last week, last month, last year, he said flatly.

What does it matter? Robert, this is serious. Your investors are jittery; if you’re unable to cover your debts, it may shatter what little confidence they have.

My father sighed. Gerald, there are few firms that can cover their debts right now.

Mr. Fletcher leaned forward in his seat. May I remind you that Liverpool Bank is on the verge of calling their loan too. If they do, you can be sure all the others will as well. You have to pay Barnes. You need to send the right message—instil confidence—or this could ruin you.

My heart thumped nervously. I had a basic understanding of how my father’s company worked. He had secured loans against his current fleet. The calling of those loans would ruin him. I clutched his arm firmly but worked hard to keep my face composed and disinterested.

Point taken, my father said, but that is what he is hoping for, isn’t it? For this to ruin me?

Mr. Fletcher frowned.

If Barnes has caught wind that Gilmore & Son is floundering, that the bank is threatening to call their loan . . . he may wish to tip us over the edge. He has an interest in causing our demise. If my ships are seized, you know they will be sold swiftly and at rock-bottom prices. Barnes could pick up my fleet for a fraction of its cost.

I looked out the window at the passing lights to try and calm myself. My father’s investors could not be allowed to call their loans. He would be bankrupt and his fleet seized. No ships: no income. My stomach churned.

Do you have any ships in port? Mr. Fletcher asked, a light tone in his voice.

The Avonlea is due in at any moment. Why?

Perhaps you could sail her to her next destination. Your creditors can’t serve you if you’re not here. His voice was full of humour, but there was a tinge of seriousness as well. My father laughed, a sound that soothed me greatly. Perhaps Mr. Fletcher was being overly anxious.

Little good it will do me. My turn-around times are good, but not that good. She won’t be ready to sail again for another few weeks, and moreover, I plan to sell her. I’ll just have to use the money to pay Barnes. If he is satiated, perhaps the others will sit tight.

It won’t be enough, even if you get a good price, Mr. Fletcher protested.

My father looked out the window.

Then I’ll just have to sell something else.

Robert, forgive me for saying this, but you’ve got nothing left to sell.

My father turned back and looked pointedly at Mr. Fletcher. I have Janet’s properties. I haven’t wanted to do it, but I’ve revisited the notion of selling them. This shocked me. My stepmother owned two homes in the Queen’s Dock area. She rented out the various floors at a reasonable rate to families in need. The sale of them would be a significant blow to her.

Is she in agreement? Mr. Fletcher asked, surprise on his face.

My father nodded. I have a buyer. I just need you to complete the deal.

Robert, I can’t say I agree with this.

My father gave him a level look.

Fine, Mr. Fletcher acquiesced. Go ahead, sell them, but don’t direct the money into a failing firm. Your partner has sat complacently by, investing nothing while you are bled dry; let Humphrey commit more of his funds.

It’s my father’s shipping company, not Humphrey’s, my father said. And I’m not worried about its success. I’ll admit that Janet’s illness has been a distraction, but she is recovering now. I know this business inside out—there is no one better. I can squeeze a profit out of the leakiest of boats—I’ve had to. This downturn can’t last forever. Now that my attention is with the firm, the company will be thriving within the year.

I hope you’re right, Robert.

I am, my father said with conviction.

We rode in silence the rest of the way home. My father’s optimism for the future had calmed me enough to allow me to become drowsy. When we finally arrived at our four-story Georgian home, located in a comfortable, upper-class neighborhood of Liverpool, I emerged groggily from the coach. My father went ahead without me, uncharacteristically neglecting to offer me a hand down or lead me up the short walk.

I followed him and Mr. Fletcher to the house. Once inside, my father immediately called to Adelaide.

Ah, ye found him, she said to Mr. Fletcher when she appeared. He nodded. I sensed our loyal Adelaide was not happy that he had disturbed my father’s evening.

My father quickly told her of the impromptu meeting and asked her to prepare refreshments. Can Jeannine help you? he asked as he slipped off his coat. Adelaide took it and Mr. Fletcher’s.

Jeannine was our young maid-of-all-work and Adelaide’s only help these days.

Adelaide shook her gray head. She’s visiting her aunt for the evening—the woman is ill. Remember? she said in her usual Scottish burr. My father nodded.

Rachel, you will help Adelaide before you retire for the evening.

I nodded. Satisfied, my father shooed us both off to the kitchen and headed to his office with Mr. Fletcher.

…

What’s this aboot? Adelaide asked as she waddled ahead of me down the hall. Normally, Sunday evenings were her own.

Business meeting, I answered. I reached past her and pushed the door to the kitchen open. Adelaide huffed and entered the kitchen. I followed.

It’s nae time of night tae be conducting business, and certainly no’ on a Sunday. She tsked under her breath. One of our oldest and dearest servants, Adelaide shared a closeness with my family that was unconventional. Far from being deferential, she was opinionated. Nor did she follow the idiom of seen but not heard. She was vocal, bossy and at times cantankerous, but she was also loyal, loving and supportive.

I shrugged and sat down on a wooden stool, putting my head down on the counter.

Ye poor thing. Adelaide put a strong, calloused hand on my forehead and checked for fever. Nae doubt ye’re exhausted. Off tae fancy parties at your age, she muttered disapprovingly to herself as she took her hand away. I’ll fetch ye some laudanum.

It was hardly a party, I said irritably. And I don’t want laudanum. It gives me nightmares.

Seems ye’re already having those. Emily told me ye’ve been thrashing aboot in your sleep with bad dreams, Adelaide said with a nod.

I felt a flash of anger towards my younger sister. Traitor! How could she tell Adelaide?

I’m only worried about Mother, I said.

Is that so? Adelaide said, watching me from under her lashes as she assembled the tray for my father. Make use of yourself and put some water on for tea, she ordered.

I nodded and rose to get the copper tea kettle.

How did the evening turn from parties tae business for your father? Adelaide asked over her shoulder.

Mr. Fletcher had some bad news concerning the firm, I said vaguely. I hope it’s not serious.

Hmm, she murmured. Weel, no’ tae worry. I am sure it’s nothing your father canna handle.

I know. But I wish there was more that I could do to help. I tried to put ill thoughts out of my head.

Ye help plenty wi’ your stepmother, Adelaide said dismissively.

I heard the doorbell ring.

That will be Mr. Clark. I’ll get the door, I said wearily.

Nae need, I hear your father answering it. Sure enough, I could hear my father’s quick footsteps on the stairs. Instead, fetch me the tray of spirits from the dining room, Adelaide ordered. Bring it here and I’ll give ye the tea tae take up tae your father as weel. Adelaide busily put some cold pudding on a platter.

I nodded again and did as she asked. Everyone always did.

A Harsh Scotch

The dining room was bathed in moonlight. It streamed through the window and danced off the gilded mirror and candlesticks, allowing me to see well enough. I did not bother with the gaslights.

My father kept his good scotch in a fine crystal decanter in the corner of the room. I fetched three glasses from the ornate buffet and placed them on a tray with the decanter. I felt grown-up, entrusted with my stepmother’s crystal.

I ran my finger over the decanter, admiring its beauty.

The drink is the devil, I could hear my stodgy neighbour, Mrs. Woods, say in my head.

A strict abolitionist, she often remonstrated against the easy access to alcohol in our society. A curious smile curled my lips. I reached for a fourth glass and poured out the tiniest amount of liquor. I took a whiff, as I had seen my father do before. My nostrils were instantly filled with a woody, honey-like aroma and the sting of alcohol. I dipped my pinkie into the amber liquid and sampled a drop. Strangely, I could detect the flavour of watercress and something else I could not identify. Anxious for a better taste, I raised the heavy glass and took a sip. I could taste nothing. All my senses registered was a strong burning sensation, and I swallowed quickly to be rid of the fireball: a tactical mistake. My throat, surprised by the fiery onslaught, rebelled. Sputtering into my handkerchief, I wrinkled my nose and put the glass down. Nasty stuff! Mrs. Woods had a point.

Rachel Louise Gilmore, a voice reprimanded me from the back of the room. I jumped and whirled around in fright, covering my mouth to stifle a scream. In the shadows, I could make out a slight blond man sitting in the gloom at the end of the table. He held a crystal tumbler of scotch himself.

Uncle Alfred! You scared me. I let out my breath.

Uncle Alfred was my stepmother’s brother and a constant presence in our house and thorn in my side. He would love nothing better than to tattle on me and have me punished. I looked down at the tumbler in my hand and hastily put it down on the silver tray behind me.

An evil smile curled his lips. He tutted under his breath. Rachel, what would your parents say if they were to discover that their perfect, innocent little angel was raiding the liquor cabinet . . . so to speak, he said in a Scottish accent less pronounced than Adelaide’s.

Kill me, I thought. There was no use pleading with Alfred to keep my confidence; it would only make the telling more enjoyable for him.

I wondered what he was doing in our dining room, drinking in the dark. My stepmother would not approve.

I could say the same of you, I challenged.

Alfred looked taken aback and raised his brow, a gesture he usually made before starting off on a tirade. I could not afford him the time.

Uncle Alfred, not now. Father has an urgent meeting, and I’m to fetch this to him. I picked up the tray purposefully.

Meeting? Urgent?

I nodded and started to leave. Alfred jumped up to block my way.

Wi’ whom?

Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Clark. Did you not hear the door?

On a Sunday? Regarding what? Alfred ignored my question.

Business, I believe.

Nae doubt business. What are they meeting about, lass?

Alfred was family and worked in my father’s business. I did not think there was any harm in telling him the truth. Besides, Alfred constantly made me feel like an outsider in my own family; I relished the idea of demonstrating that I knew more than he about what was going on.

One of the investors wants his money. Father will have to find a way to pay him.

Alfred made a face. Wi’ what? he said more to himself than me.

He is selling the Avonlea when it arrives in port, I answered. Alfred looked stunned that I had spoken; he had not been expecting an answer.

He’s a fool, he spat. It’ll nae be enough.

"He is