Marta didn’t know what to say.

Lady Daisy laughed. “Millicent would be appalled to hear me speak so bluntly, but if I don’t, you may go on for another five years before you come to your senses.” Lady Daisy folded her hands. “If you want to marry and have children, go to an English colony where there are more men than women. In a place like Canada, a man will see the value of a good woman and not care whether the blood in her veins is blue or red. These are things I have said to my daughter, but she won’t listen. She still dreams of meeting Mr. Darcy.” She shook her head. “Be wise, Marta. Don’t wait. Go down to Liverpool and buy passage on the first ship heading for Canada.”

“And what if my ship hits an iceberg?”

“We’ll pray that doesn’t happen. But if it does, you climb into a life raft and start rowing.”

Marta laughed. She felt exhilarated and afraid at the same time. Canada! She had never even thought of going there. She’d always thought she would return to Switzerland. “I’ll leave at the end of the month.”

“Good for you.” Lady Daisy looked ready to cry. “I’ll miss you terribly, of course, but it’s for the best.” She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes and nose. “A pity Millicent hasn’t the sense to do it.”

11

1912


Four days passed in abject misery, but gradually, Marta gained her sea legs and felt well enough to leave her bunk in steerage, venturing onto the deck of the SS Laurentic. Her first sight of the vast open sea with waves catching the sunlight filled her with terror. The ship that had appeared so enormous in Liverpool now seemed small and vulnerable as it steamed west toward Canada.

She thought of the Titanic, so much bigger than this humble vessel, and how it had gone to the bottom of the ocean. The owners of the Titanic had bragged that the ship was invincible, unsinkable. Who in his right mind would make such a boast? It flew in the face of God, like the foolish people who built the tower of Babel, thinking they could climb to heaven on their own achievements.

Marta gazed over the rail, passengers lined up on both sides of her like seagulls on a pier. The air felt cold enough to freeze her lungs. She was afloat on a cork bobbing on the surface of a vast sea with bottomless depths. Would this ship come near any icebergs? She had read that what was seen on the surface was a mere fraction of the danger hidden below.

Stomach queasy, Marta closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see the rise and fall of the horizon. She didn’t want to go back inside to her bunk. The accommodations had turned out to be far worse than she had expected. The cacophony of voices speaking German, Hungarian, Greek, and Italian made her head ache. People fresh off farms and from small villages submitted with docile ignorance to being treated like cattle, but Marta minded greatly. If two hundred people had paid passage in steerage, then two hundred people should have a place to sit and eat and not have to find space on the floor or the windblown deck. Rather than be served, a “captain” was chosen to fetch the food for eight to ten others. And then, each passenger was required to wash his own “gear”-the tin saucepan, dipper, fork, and spoon she had found on her bunk the day she boarded the ship.

She breathed in the salt air. Despite her attempts to keep clean, her shirtwaist smelled faintly of vomit. If it rained, she might just take out a bar of soap and wash right here on the deck, clothes on!

The ship surged up and dipped down, making her stomach roll. She clenched her teeth, refusing to be sick again. Her clothes hung on her. She couldn’t go forever on so little food and still have her health when she arrived in Montreal. After spending an hour waiting to use one of the washbasins so she could clean her gear and then finding it in such fetid condition, she had almost lost the cold porridge she had managed to get down that morning. She lost her temper instead. Shoving her way through a group of Croatians and Dalmatians, she marched to the gangway, intending to take her complaints to the captain himself. A master-at-arms blocked her way. She shouted at him to move aside. He shoved her back. Sneering, he told her she could write a letter to management and mail it when she arrived in Canada.

At least the boiling anger helped her forget the misery of mal de mer.

Now, clutching the rail, Marta prayed God would keep her on her feet and keep what little food she’d eaten in her stomach. Please, Lord Jesus, bring us safely across the Atlantic.

She cast any thought of ever getting on another ship into the undulating sea. She would never see Switzerland again. Tears streaked her cheeks at the realization.

By the time the ship entered the Saint Lawrence Seaway, Marta felt rested and eager to find her way around Montreal. Handing over her papers, she spoke French to the officer. He gave her directions to the International Quarter. Shouldering her pack, she took a trolley and walked to the Swiss Consulate. The clerk added her name to the employment register and gave her directions to an immigration home for girls. Marta purchased a newspaper the next morning and began looking for employment opportunities on her own. She bought a map of Montreal and began a systematic exploration of the city. She spoke to proprietors and left applications, and she found a part-time position in a garment shop in downtown Montreal a few blocks from the Orpheum Theatre.

Expanding her exploration, she came across a large house for sale on Union Street near the railroad. When she knocked, no one answered. She peered in the dirty windows and saw an empty parlor. She wrote down the property agent’s information and then walked up and down the street, knocking on doors and asking neighbors about the house. It had been a boardinghouse for women, and not the sort of women who would be welcome in any decent home. Railroad men came and went. The roof had been replaced four years ago, and the house had solid foundations as far as anyone knew. A woman had been murdered in one of the bedrooms. The house shut down shortly afterward and had stood vacant for eighteen months.

Marta went to the Records Office and learned the name of the property owner, who now lived in Tadoussac. She spent Saturday walking and thinking. Excitement welled up inside her at the thought of her goal being within reach. On Sunday, she went to church and prayed God would open the way for her to buy the house on Union Street. The next morning, she went to the property agent’s office just down the street from the garment shop and made an appointment with Monsieur Sherbrooke to see the inside of the house later that afternoon. He seemed dubious of her intent and said he had little time to satisfy someone’s idle curiosity. Marta assured him she had the resources to make an offer, if the house turned out to be what she wanted.

She hired a ride to Union Street and found Monsieur Sherbrooke waiting at the front door. As soon as he ushered her in, Marta thought of Mama. She had been the first one to believe in her. “You have set your heart on a mountaintop, Marta, but I have seen you climb. You will use everything you are learning to good purpose. I know this. I have faith in you, and I have faith in God to take you wherever He wills.” She had laughed and cupped Marta’s face. “Maybe you will run a shop or manage a hotel in Interlaken.”

Monsieur Sherbrooke began talking. Marta ignored him as she walked through the large parlor, dining room, and kitchen with a sizable pantry with empty shelves. She pointed out the rat droppings to Monsieur Sherbrooke.

“Shall we go upstairs?” He walked back toward the entry hall and stairs.

Marta ignored his lead and headed down the hallway behind the stairs. “There should be a room back here.”

He came quickly down the stairs. “Just a storage room, mademoiselle.”

Marta opened the door to the room that would share a common wall with the parlor. She gasped at the red, green, and yellow chinoiserie wallpaper covering all four walls. Monsieur Sherbrooke stepped quickly around her. “The servant’s quarters.”

With private bath? She looked in at the pink, green, and black tiled walls and floor, claw-foot tub, and water closet. “Whoever owned this house must have treated his servants very well.”

He stood in the middle of the room, pointing out the brass wall sconces and elegant gaslight hanging above.

Marta looked at the floor. “What is that stain you’re standing on?”

“Water.” He stepped aside. “But as you can see, there’s no serious damage.”

Marta shuddered inwardly.

Monsieur Sherbrooke headed for the door. “There are four bedrooms on the second floor and two more on the third.”

Marta followed him, walking around inside each room, opening and closing windows. The two bedrooms on the third floor were very small, with slanted ceilings and dormer windows, and in winter they would be very cold.

Monsieur Sherbrooke ushered her downstairs. “It’s a wonderful house, with a good location near the railroad and well worth the price.”

Marta gave Monsieur Sherbrooke a dubious look. “It needs considerable work.” She enumerated the costs she would have to bear in making repairs and getting the house ready for habitation before making her offer, considerably lower than the asking price.

“Mademoiselle!” He sighed in exasperation. “You cannot expect me to take such an offer seriously!”

“Indeed, I do, monsieur. Furthermore, you have a moral obligation to inform Monsieur Charpentier of my offer.”

His eyes flickered and then narrowed as he looked her over from head to foot, reconsidering her. “Do I understand you correctly, mademoiselle, that you know the owner, Monsieur Charpentier?”