fell on the bed, my whole body shaking. I closed my eyes and took long deep breaths. When I opened them again, everything had changed.
The room was cold, even though flames flickered in the small fireplace. I pulled the covers over my head and curled into a tight ball.
What was happening to me?
I lay there for a while, heart pounding. Soon suffocated by the heat of my own body, I peeked over the top of my comforter.
The fire still fluttered in the open fireplace. The small shelves on either side of it were filled with rocks, piecesof wood, and books. The room looked cozy … peaceful. I sat up slowly. An ancient woman wrapped in shawls sat on a bizarre chair, with moose antlers for arms, in front of the fire. She turned her head and looked right at me. My panic subsided when I saw her sweet smile. She pointed at the small table. On it lay a book. I recognized Beatrice Alexander’s journal.
7
BEATRICE
S
omething happened in school that has deeply alarmed me
.
My students were already there, looking like the bright-eyed birds we call
kîhkwîsiw,
in their gray woolen dresses and white pinafores. I greeted them and was untying my bonnet while they chanted, “Good morning, Miss Alexander!” Once I put on my “Miss Alexander” face, I can often ignore the shadows
.
Two students have recently arrived from an officer’s home at York Factory. Another five will be coming in the spring. Only last week, Miss Cameron asked if I would be interested in taking on the post of full-time teacher. Her assistant, the frog-eyed Miss Stiles who keeps one bulging eye permanently on her watch pin, is forever complaining about too much work and too little time. Will teaching and fussing about time like Miss Stiles be enough to keep the shadows at bay? I don’t know
.
I looked at my girls and sighed. Their thick hair, usually glistening with grease and strung with ribbon, was now carefully washed and brushed. Only moccasins were allowed in the school for warmth in winter, as long as the trimmings
didn’t go beyond simple bead rosettes. Most of these girls would be married before they are my age
.
“Have you all learned your parts?” I asked. “At church on Christmas Eve, we must show everyone what fine singers we have in our school!”
They all nodded eagerly, except for one near the piano. I didn’t recognize this pale girl, with her soft pile of dark red hair. Was she a new pupil that Miss Cameron forgot to tell me about? Although red hair in this half-Scottish community appears now and again, she didn’t look like a mixed-blood child. She stared at me, bewildered. Something about her was oddly familiar and made me uneasy
.
I was about to ask her name when Miss Cameron walked through the door wearing a gray taffeta dress, her chestnut hair bound tightly to her head as always. She is a slim plain woman, just past thirty years, but her skin and eyes are lovely
.
“You made it, my dear. So much snow. How is your grandmother?”
“Her croup is a little better today, thank you, Headmistress,” I said
.
She put her hand on my arm. “I’m glad.” Then she turned to the girls. “Good morning, ladies!” They curtsied and spoke their greeting as one
.
Suddenly I realized the red-haired girl was no longer in the room – neither seated nor standing
.
“Did anyone see where the new girl went?” I asked
.
The pupils looked around. One said, “What new girl, Miss?”
The floor tipped under my feet. Miss Cameron grasped my arm firmly. “Miss Alexander … Beatrice … what is it?”
“I didn’t eat breakfast. I-I’m a little light-headed. I thought a new girl was arriving for lessons today.”
“Come to my office when this class is over,” she said in a low voice. “Cook will leave you scones and a pot of tea. You must not neglect your health, Beatrice.”
“I have to go straight to the library,” I said. “My watercolor class is preparing seasonal greetings for their families, which must be ready for
The room was cold, even though flames flickered in the small fireplace. I pulled the covers over my head and curled into a tight ball.
What was happening to me?
I lay there for a while, heart pounding. Soon suffocated by the heat of my own body, I peeked over the top of my comforter.
The fire still fluttered in the open fireplace. The small shelves on either side of it were filled with rocks, piecesof wood, and books. The room looked cozy … peaceful. I sat up slowly. An ancient woman wrapped in shawls sat on a bizarre chair, with moose antlers for arms, in front of the fire. She turned her head and looked right at me. My panic subsided when I saw her sweet smile. She pointed at the small table. On it lay a book. I recognized Beatrice Alexander’s journal.
7
BEATRICE
S
omething happened in school that has deeply alarmed me
.
My students were already there, looking like the bright-eyed birds we call
kîhkwîsiw,
in their gray woolen dresses and white pinafores. I greeted them and was untying my bonnet while they chanted, “Good morning, Miss Alexander!” Once I put on my “Miss Alexander” face, I can often ignore the shadows
.
Two students have recently arrived from an officer’s home at York Factory. Another five will be coming in the spring. Only last week, Miss Cameron asked if I would be interested in taking on the post of full-time teacher. Her assistant, the frog-eyed Miss Stiles who keeps one bulging eye permanently on her watch pin, is forever complaining about too much work and too little time. Will teaching and fussing about time like Miss Stiles be enough to keep the shadows at bay? I don’t know
.
I looked at my girls and sighed. Their thick hair, usually glistening with grease and strung with ribbon, was now carefully washed and brushed. Only moccasins were allowed in the school for warmth in winter, as long as the trimmings
didn’t go beyond simple bead rosettes. Most of these girls would be married before they are my age
.
“Have you all learned your parts?” I asked. “At church on Christmas Eve, we must show everyone what fine singers we have in our school!”
They all nodded eagerly, except for one near the piano. I didn’t recognize this pale girl, with her soft pile of dark red hair. Was she a new pupil that Miss Cameron forgot to tell me about? Although red hair in this half-Scottish community appears now and again, she didn’t look like a mixed-blood child. She stared at me, bewildered. Something about her was oddly familiar and made me uneasy
.
I was about to ask her name when Miss Cameron walked through the door wearing a gray taffeta dress, her chestnut hair bound tightly to her head as always. She is a slim plain woman, just past thirty years, but her skin and eyes are lovely
.
“You made it, my dear. So much snow. How is your grandmother?”
“Her croup is a little better today, thank you, Headmistress,” I said
.
She put her hand on my arm. “I’m glad.” Then she turned to the girls. “Good morning, ladies!” They curtsied and spoke their greeting as one
.
Suddenly I realized the red-haired girl was no longer in the room – neither seated nor standing
.
“Did anyone see where the new girl went?” I asked
.
The pupils looked around. One said, “What new girl, Miss?”
The floor tipped under my feet. Miss Cameron grasped my arm firmly. “Miss Alexander … Beatrice … what is it?”
“I didn’t eat breakfast. I-I’m a little light-headed. I thought a new girl was arriving for lessons today.”
“Come to my office when this class is over,” she said in a low voice. “Cook will leave you scones and a pot of tea. You must not neglect your health, Beatrice.”
“I have to go straight to the library,” I said. “My watercolor class is preparing seasonal greetings for their families, which must be ready for
Similar Books
