Finding the North Star

Chapter 2 LEAVING

Becky slipped a hand beneath the pillow next to her. Mary, not long out of bed had left a little patch of warmth. They often shared the bed together when Mary couldn't be bothered making up the kitchen cot for herself, and Becky let her hand linger a moment before sitting up on her knees and peering out of the small slit of a window. Thin spears of rain cut through the autumn mist and pattered on the sloped roof inches above her head. She turned away from the greyness of the outside world to her room, wanting to wrap herself up in its familiarity as if it were a blanket – and forget.

Her bedroom was a loft space tucked up above a cottage that was in the middle of a row of worker's cottages. A metal chimney pipe from the kitchen stove below snaked its way up from floor to ceiling giving her a little heat in the winter when the fire was kept lit all night. In one corner under the sloped beams was a sea chest where Becky's seasonal clothes were stored, and on it was a little box in which she kept her ribbons. The corners of the bird's eye maple box were neatly dove-tailed; it was the first thing her father had made in their new country and he had given it to Becky's mother that same Christmas.

On a chest of drawers sat an old photograph of Becky and her mother taken in England, before they left for Canada, the year 1859 written neatly across one corner under the photographer's stamp. Becky was reaching up with a pudgy baby finger to touch her mother's face which was slightly blurred as she had turned and the camera failed to catch a clear image. Another sharper and more recent photo was of Mary, her father and herself. They were standing in front of a pretty garden that was not a real garden but a studio drop cloth, and all three were smiling after enjoying a day out at the fair.

But all this looked wrong today, as if she had stepped outside of her life and was merely observing it – like looking through a mirror into a familiar room. All her things – even her old doll lying next to her, its frozen expression of mock surprise stuck on its china face – were strange and out of place.

She flipped the doll face down and started to get off the bed then drawn by the clatter of hooves below turned back to the window. The carriage and horses belonged to her father's employer Mr. Stevenson, a man of importance who was building some fine property in Kingston and who hired from across the Empire. He had trusted Becky's father enough to have him work on all his projects, most recently as a foreman and was known as a kind and generous man.

She slid off the bed as Kip began to bark and hurriedly peeled off yesterday's clothes. Clean ones were laid out including a black dress that did not belong to her. Mary must have borrowed it. If Becky were given the choice she would not be wearing black at all. She would put on the green velvet, the one she wore last Christmas for the first time — the one her dad bought her.

This dress fitted a little tightly under the arms. She looked down at her flat chest. It wasn't tight there thank goodness. Becky dreaded what was going to happen to her body.

"Becky . . ." Mary called from the bottom of the stairs. "Come down, you have a visitor."

Becky finished tying the bow on her pinafore thinking that perhaps Mr. Stevenson had come to say a few words. But it was his wife, Mrs. Stevenson who sat stiff and straight by the sputtering stove.

She bobbed a polite curtsy to the older woman who acknowledged it with a faint nod.

"Good morning Rebecca. I wanted to talk to you before the funeral." Mrs. Stevenson hitched up her large bosom, sitting straighter than ever, and locked her hands beneath it. "You see my dear, I am concerned for your future."