Pearls in the Snow

By Patricia Josefchak

Pearls in the Snow is a prequel to Angel on Her Knees and Keys of the Hollow, paralyzing blizzards hit the Algoma and Southern Ontario regions in the winter of 1942-43 and Grace’s parents and sister find their lives and the fortune of their family threatened aboard a snowbound CPR train.

Meanwhile, Grace,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burnstown Publishing House
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772571424

Book preview

Chapter 1

Grace looked out the window into the swirling white of the snowstorm. It was snowing hard. It sounded like the bitter, icy stings of a driving rain against the windowpane.

But there was something out there — something unmoving — a fuzzy silhouette within the tumultuous clouds of snow. Grace strained to see through the snow that clouded her vision just beyond the glass. It was out in the snow-covered front gardens — near the snowman that the neighbour’s children had made just yesterday. She rubbed the pane with her sleeve, hoping to clear the view. She looked again; the shadowy figure was gone.

Grace was thankful that her parents kept the cellar well stocked. Already they’d had the worst snows and coldest temperatures in decades, and winter had only just begun. The snows just didn’t seem to want to stop. The almanac had been right so far. It was the winter of 1942–43, and paralyzing blizzards were hitting the Algoma and Southern Ontario regions. And the world was caught up in the fight for its life in another Great War.

Grace was snug in the small cottage. She was almost eighteen years old. She was alone, and, except for the howl of the wind and the rush of snow against the windows, it was quiet. A fire burned brightly. Candles glowed warmly. The power was out.

It was early evening and already dark. The snow had stopped falling and was caught up now in the waves and currents of wind. She could see the swirling clouds rise and fall on the gusty breath. Somewhere the clouds were beginning to clear as the light of the moon occasionally made the snow twinkle like stars. The storm was breaking, or at least letting up.

Again something appeared shadowy and undefined in the peekaboo light of the rising moon. It was hard to see through all the blowing snow. In the next moment, the moon’s light was shuttered by a cloud, and the distance fell into darkness again. A moment later it cleared once more, but there was nothing there.

Shadows loomed large and eerie in the fluid moonlight. Stark branches from the towering trees waved long, gnarly fingers across the grounds. Puffs of snow snorted from unseen nostrils — and the landscape changed as the drifts came and went in the frigid gusts.

Grace pulled her heavy pale pink woollen shawl closer around her shoulders. It covered a dark grey woollen dress, under which she had additional layers of undergarments. She wore thick felt slippers and socks. She wasn’t cold, but she felt a chill like a cold breath on her neck. She wished now that she hadn’t chosen to pin her long hair at the nape of her neck. Her neck was exposed and now she felt chilled. She looked around expecting to see an open door or window. Instead she saw nothing; rather, she sensed that something cold had just come into her parlour.

Grace’s parents had been expected back earlier in the day from a trip of several days’ duration to collect her sister, Edith, from college. Local phone lines had gone down earlier and a trainman from the local station, Flower Station, had trudged through the storm to tell her that the train would be a couple of hours late. Mr. and Mrs. Shade, who had remained on the premises while her parents were away, had already left, anticipating that they would arrive soon. Grace could manage easily by herself for a couple more hours.

The smell of bread baking distracted her from the chill. She had kept the wood stove stoked, anticipating her parents’ return. A kettle of stew stayed hot, and now bread that she had prepared earlier in the day was ready to be dropped onto the cooling racks. She loved the smell of fresh bread. In the winter it was as welcome as the first fragrance of flowers in the springtime.

Her shawl slid from the back of the kitchen chair and dropped to the floor. Burt, the cat, watched her approach, but remained curled, unmoving, close to the stove. He was a long-haired, dark cat with golden eyes. Tom that he was, he remained aloof and territorial.

The kitchen was at the back of the cottage, facing the grounds stretching into a wooded hollow; below, in a small clearing, was a pond, now ice. Even the garden angel was hidden beneath a snowy blanket.

Grace pulled open the heavy door to the oven and used thick cloths to pull out the pans. The hot bread toppled out from the pans onto the counter with dull, aromatic thuds.

Burt’s ears perked. Then he raised his head, suddenly alert. Grace noticed. It wasn’t the sound or smell of the bread that had his attention. He got up, without the ritual lazy stretch of unconcern, and followed the source of his curiosity. Burt was too well fed to be moved by a mouse. Grace followed.

Chapter 2

Grace’s parents had travelled to collect her sister Edith, away at school, and bring her home for the holidays. It was a trek, first by small local train to Toronto, then from Toronto to Montreal via the CPR’s transcontinental train. Edith was enrolled in a young women’s academy under the tutelage of some fine Canadian and international artists. Edith had a passion for art; a passion that she was trying to cultivate through education. Her parents had provided encouragement, even though they had been more than hesitant to let her live so far away from home.

What do you think, William? Do you think the snow will let up?

Ellen was an elegant woman with short, wavy hair, in the style of the day. It was slightly grey but still mostly brown. And though in her late forties, she had slender lines and a willowy posture. She was not easily flustered and though she had strong opinions, she didn’t impose them on her family or acquaintances. Her opinions were hers and she needed a very good reason to share them. They were like a currency and they had value.

William Adams sat straight in the cushioned, straight-backed chair in their drawing room on the train.

I think, Ellen, that the snow will end when it does — till then I think it’ll be a slow ride home. In fact, the car seems to be getting chilly. It wouldn’t surprise me if the pipes were beginning to ice up.

Ellen pursed her lips, pinching the expression of impatience that had already creased her face. Sometimes William’s ability to make the obvious, obvious really annoyed her.

Edith, sitting in a drawing room chair by the window, stared out at the snow, clouds of snow shaken into the air by the force of the train’s rolling along the rails and ploughing through the drifts that crossed the rails and filled the tracks. Patterns of frost began to collect as the train slowly made its way through the storm. She pulled her shawl closer to her neck and let her fingers be drawn into the fur muff sitting on her lap. She suddenly felt a chill, like someone had just touched her neck with an icy finger.

William sat stiffly as if protocol demanded that, even in the confines of this private drawing room, he needed to be concerned with posture. He had read the newspaper front to back and had marked certain articles of note. The war had begun in September 1939, and already they were into the third deadly and brutal winter. The war