Cover image for The Liars by Ida Linehan Young. Text near the top reads From the Bestselling Author of Being Mary Ro and The Promise. Three people are standing in a field, two adults, a man and a woman, and a female child, the adults are facing towards a house which sits in the distance, the girl is facing towards us and looking towards the ground.

Praise for Being Mary Ro

“A charming book.”

The Sudbury Star

“I cannot imagine anyone not enjoying Being Mary Ro. The material is suitable for mature young readers, contains small sketches (by Melissa Ashley Cromarty), and is an excellent first novel for Ms. Linehan Young.”

The Miramichi Reader

“We’re only halfway through the novel when Mary pulls the trigger. The strength and courage required to shoot the pistol is the same strength and courage that afterwards allows Mary to travel to . . . and pursue an independent career as a . . . I’m not telling. Find out for yourself. Read Being Mary Ro. It’s first-rate entertainment.”

The Telegram

Praise for The Promise

“A well-written story that many will want to read in one night . . . just because the plot is that good.”

Edwards Book Club

“Ida Linehan Young . . . evokes a time and a place and a strong female lead. She has also well-positioned this book to pilot into a follow-up. Her knowledge of, and research into, the processes pre-20th century household labour, or the state of the justice system after the 1892 fire, pay off.” — The Telegram

The Liars

Ida Linehan Young

Flanker Press Limited

St. John’s

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: The liars : a novel / Ida Linehan Young.

Names: Linehan Young, Ida, 1964- author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200199188 | Canadiana (ebook) 2020019920X | ISBN 9781771178013

(softcover) | ISBN 9781771178020 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781771178037 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781771178044 (PDF)

Classification: LCC PS8623.I54 L53 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

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all rights reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

Printed in Canada

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St. John’s, NL

Canada

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We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Industry and Innovation for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 157 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

Dedication

The local store was the heart of every outport community and kept the life in many over the years. Any time I refer to a store in any of my books, I model it after my own great experiences in the little community of North Harbour, St. Mary’s Bay. Although we had many shops and even a snack bar for a summer or two, in my lifetime in the community, for me the heartbeat of North Harbour was at Sebastian (1933–2012) and Josephine Walsh’s store—Seb and Jos(e) to everyone who darkened their door.

Seb grew up in North Harbour with my mother, who was just a month older than him. He worked for a time in Argentia and St. John’s before returning home to fish. He ran a small shop out of the pantry at their homestead with his sister, Margaret. He met and married Jos (Collins), a teacher from Freshwater, Placentia Bay. Jos took over the main duties associated with the shop in 1960 and became a strong female influence for many of our generation. Seb started fishing full-time, first in a little motorboat, then a bigger skiff, before getting his first longliner in 1970, the year the youngest of his seven children was born.

Jos settled into life in North Harbour, made many friends, and raised their family. She was the reason we could buy a bottle of cola, a bag of flour, felt and tar for the roof, fruit (plums, apples, oranges, and grapes at Christmas), toys, paper glue and scribblers, trendy clothes for school, shoes and rubber boots, panes of glass for the many shattered windows, sheets and blankets, turkey necks, bread, milk—you get the picture. If you could name it, Jos would stock it.

She made up the bill at the end of every month, because most of the community shopped there on credit. I’m sure there were many families, including our own, who carried a balance month over month, and year over year, but were never denied anything (including cash, if needed), no matter how much was owed. I’m sure, though it wasn’t spoken, there were many times we didn’t go hungry because of the generosity of the shopkeepers.

Nobody went there too early or left there too late. Sometimes it was standing room only, a multitude of conversations, laughter, raised voices, hushed whispers—but no matter what, it was always the place we wanted to be. Even a crowd of loud teenagers were welcome. I have very happy memories associated with the busyness of the “shop.”

As a sign of the times, more people had access to vehicles, roads were built and improved, people commuted, the community opened up, and the “shop” evolved. Alas, in 2003, after more than forty-three years in business, the shop closed, and Seb and Jos began their well-deserved retirement. People adapted, as people do, and the significance of the community shop was lost on the younger generation who aren’t as “enclosed” now as we were then.

However, fond memories flow of my first taste of Pepsi, my first candy, my first school shirt (it was a mosaic of pink and purple hues on a polyester print), my first homemade pizza, and so many more firsts that happened because of the “shop.”

Several years ago, I was privileged to speak at their fiftieth wedding anniversary. However, I didn’t have time to prepare and didn’t get a chance to tell them how grateful and thankful I am to have been reared up by a “shop” such as theirs.

I would like to formally recognize the influential strength and perseverance of two of the greatest shopkeepers—Seb and Jos Walsh—as well as their entire civic-minded family, who do so much for the community of North Harbour, always my hometown.

For family and friends who so fully support me. For Sam and Parker, who don’t know what that means yet but who lift me up with love.

For Georgette, who finds the most fascinating things for me to write about and who keeps me out of trouble or gets in trouble with me.

For my secret book club, who provide solid counsel for my plot.

For Clyde, who couldn’t wait!

Prologue

Newfoundland is a large island in the northwest Atlantic Ocean, off the east coast of Canada. During the late nineteenth century, the island was a Dominion of the British Empire (together with Canada, New Zealand, the Irish Free State, and Australia). Until it joined Canada as a province in 1949, it was self-governed and had its own currency and coinage, defence, anthem, postal service, and banking system.

In 1890, the population of the capital city of St. John’s was approximately 25,000, but the island’s huge coastline (9,600 kilometres) had an additional 50,000 inhabitants attracted by the productive cod fishery. These livyers were scattered throughout hundreds of tiny communities in coves and bays around the coast. Typical communities had between forty and 200 residents—by design, the numbers could sustain a reasonable inshore trap fishery.

Labrador, the continental part of Newfoundland, had an additional 7,886 kilometres of coastline and a settled population between 1,200 and 1,300. The Innu and Inuit peoples migrated seasonally between the coast and inland. They were referenced as Eskimow, Esquimeaux, Esquimoe, or Eskimo in journals and newspapers of that period.

Several year-round Moravian Missions were established to educate indigenous peoples in their native language. They were located in Nain, Hopedale, Hebron, Zoar, Ramah, Makkovik, and Killinek. The posts also attracted “white” settlers.

The population and marine traffic in Labrador dramatically increased between early spring and late fall when the coast was seasonally settled by “green fishermen” taking part in the Labrador fishery. “Floater fishermen” also fished the grounds. However, they returned to the island of Newfoundland to process their catch.

In the spring, merchants traded provisions for furs trapped over the winter. During the fishing season, the merchants’ ships collected dried salt cod, salmon, and fish oil in exchange for provisions. In Labrador, most of the commerce and trading was conducted between the fishermen and the Hudson’s Bay Company’s ships out of Montreal, or with the Moravian Missions, who bartered with Europe. On the island, cod was shipped to Britain, Canada, and the United States through Boston and New York.

After first snow, coastal settlements in Labrador were isolated and cut off until spring thaw. Residents survived on salt cod, farm animals, merchant provisions coming from Europe through the Moravian Missions (tea, flour, molasses, beans, etc.), as well as caribou, seals, and seabirds hunted during the winter and early spring.

Travel amongst settlements was rare. However, sleds led by dog teams were the most popular means of transportation during the long, harsh winters.

The Moravian missionaries tried to convert the Innu and Inuit to Christianity and attracted indigenous encampments near their posts during the winter. The indigenous were vulnerable to diseases introduced by European travellers who came to the Missions and by the enterprises involving those who were prosecuting the fishery.

Civil law was rarely practised, except for the most heinous of crimes. Those brought before the courts would generally be tried at Twillingate, Harbour Grace, St. John’s, or, on rare occasions, in Labrador. Executives at the Moravian Missions would sometimes act as justices for lesser crimes.

1

Somewhere near Nain, Labrador, 1880s

Hesitantly and with great care, she set the plate of hot stew on the old wooden table. His dark eyes leered at the spot where her outstretched arm had brushed his shoulder. She held her breath and slunk away. He looked to his supper. His arms tensed, and his knuckles whitened on the fork and knife he held upright on each side of the chipped dish.

“Why is the caribou burnt?” he said too quietly, his teeth gritted and jaw strained. “Why weren’t you paying attention?”

Her body flexed to run, but the air seemed to solidify around her and his stare held her fast. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I thought you liked it browned.”

“Browned, yes. But not burnt!” he roared. With deliberation and drawn-out movements, he laid the utensils down one by one as he stared at her. His muscular arms bulged and pulsed as he gripped the edge of the table.

Terror was a swollen river cresting upon her. “I’ll take it back,” she said, almost as if the words could save her. She could change the meat in the black iron pot with other pieces that were not as brown. That should satisfy him.

With one swoop of his big arm and the speed of a pouncing lynx, he cleared off the table, pushed back the chair, and landed a blow across her face that whipped her head back and split her lip. She didn’t see it coming to brace herself. She lost her footing, stumbled backward, and tripped over the second chair in the small two-roomed sod hut. Its leg twisted and broke under her, and she crumpled, tangled in the wood, against the unforgiving earthen wall.

Before she could recover, he grabbed a fistful of her dark hair and pulled her upright in front of him. She clutched the strands to relieve the pain in her scalp while using her arms, bent around her face, to protect herself. He struck her about the head twice more with his free hand before landing an elbow to her midsection, all the while cursing her stupidity and uselessness. He released her and she doubled over in pain, unable to catch her breath.

She scrambled away from him but became trapped against the dirt-packed wall near the shoddy stone fireplace. In the dimness of the room, she tried to make herself as small as possible under the protection of her arms and legs as he rained down his blows. Then he seized her hair once more and dragged her from the ramshackle shelter she knew as home.

Stumps, low bushes, and loose rocks on the rugged path tore at her bare heels, ankles, and calves as he stomped along. As much as she tried, she could neither stand nor right herself. He was going too fast. She clutched her hair to lessen the strain and struck out at him with her other fist. Her arm couldn’t reach far enough to land a blow. She screamed in agony as she tried to keep up, but there was no reprieve. It only angered him more.

She was dragged up across the headland to the edge of the cliff, where he stood her on the precipice of death once again. She thought, It must be two hundred feet down to the rocks. But after almost a year, this view didn’t intimidate her. She’d become accustomed to it. She thought back to how terrifying it had been the first time he’d hauled her to this bluff. That time she’d been sure he was going to fling her over. She’d flailed and screamed and begged and cried and said she was sorry, though for what she did not know. When he was sure she was sufficiently frightened, he took her back to the sod hut. He always took her back. He carried on with whatever he was doing, as if nothing had happened, reassured she was discontented in his cruel entrapment.

She didn’t quite know how to deal with the beatings. Sometimes she would fight back, and sometimes she would try to hide. There were times she held her tongue to the point she believed she’d forgotten how to speak. She silently spewed her hatred for him behind his back, and when she was alone, she would tell the trees or the grass or the birds how much she hated him. When she’d tried to leave, she’d gotten too cold, or too wet, or too hungry. The wilderness, her solitary friend, continuously betrayed her. She’d come to believe she deserved what he doled out.

He reminded her often that she should be grateful he was a good provider. But when he went fishing or hunting, she prayed he would not come home. She’d be left alone. She didn’t know if that would be harder, if women knew how to survive, but there were times she thought it couldn’t be as hard as things were now.

Ezra, the man born to a mean white fur trader and an Esquimeaux woman, had a reputation like that of his father. He had no care for the law nor his wife. His mother had been brutalized by his father, who ran off after she had disappeared. Ezra scrounged around from family to family for food and lodging in the settlement on the outskirts of the Moravian Mission in Nain. By the time he was thirteen years old, he was all but banished because of the cruelty he showed to both the children and animals in the village. He was given food when he was hungry but had learned to depend on his wits and hunting skills to make him an independent, anchorless sort with regard for nobody. His brutality was remarkable, and most people steered clear of the mean man he’d become. But unlike them, she didn’t have a say in steering clear.

In flights of fancy, she wondered if there was something different. For as long as she had memories, she was hiding or running away, all the while listening to the screams and pleadings. She understood that things were the same for her mother. She supposed it must be like that for all women. If it weren’t, then somebody would undoubtedly have helped her mother or would help her. But no one would interfere with a man’s business.

She often blamed herself for her mother’s death. She’d stood up to her father. She’d stood up to him for her, so he wouldn’t trade her at fifteen years of age for a quintal of fish and a bottle of cheap stilled whiskey. People were afraid of him, too. No one stopped her father. A man’s business.

And now, because she was Ezra’s wife, that same business was handed out to her.

The last time she went to the general store, she had heard the chatter inside, but when she entered, a hush fell over the entire place. Mr. Making motioned to her from behind the counter, and the others shuffled aside to let her pass. No matter who or how many were waiting to be served, or for what reason they were in the store, there was whispering and a knowing. No one wanted to be responsible for what would happen if she were delayed. A servant of hopelessness, she would have welcomed a delay, a kind word, or a smile. The beatings happened anyway, but her isolation would have been lessened and her desolate spirit lifted.

Now here she stood at the cliff, waiting to be dragged back to the house once he saw she was terrorized enough and remorseful enough for her failings as a wife. Her future was in his grasp, always in his harsh grasp. Just push me, she thought.

A fish hawk screamed from the overcast sky, its cry foretelling what was to come. Her throbbing face mellowed. Her breathing calmed. The sting from the cuts, scrapes, and scratches about her legs and feet eased. The soothing breeze tugged at the long black tresses ensnared in the drying blood on her temple and lips. The grass where she stood seemed to paint itself several shades greener and the water below several shades bluer. She looked down at the rocks and silently pondered the remnants of her miserable life, which smeared clouded pictures across her mind. Not one recollection was a good one. Not one made her smile.

The ocean, pulsating, mesmerizing, and soothing, summoned her as its frothed lips salivated and drummed on the rocky shore. Its voice was deep and turbulent and welcoming. She stopped fighting him.

Sensing the change in her, without care, he slung her over the edge. She didn’t look back. The fish hawk shrieked once more as its steep dive matched her own. The rocks welcomed her into their granite bosom. The sea devoured her.

Once the ocean was finished with her, the waves spat her ashore near Nain four days later. The community was riled and demanded action for the murder of the young woman. A few of the brothers from the Mission confronted Ezra, but there were no consequences for his actions. The good Christians of the settlement all gathered for a service. She was buried in the community graveyard. A scrap of wood carved with the name Ruth Taktos served to mark her final resting place.

Ezra watched from the trees on the hillside. There was a sombre yet harmonious chorus of voices in the chapel. When the people left, he did, too. He grinned—a man’s business.

2

Holyrood, Conception Bay

Present day, late spring, 1895

John MacDonald, his tall frame straight and stiff, gazed around Carroll’s crowded store in Holyrood. He could not shake the uneasiness he felt whenever he was amongst people. A consequence of hiding, he supposed. Always watchful, always waiting, expecting a mortal outcome that didn’t favour his own longevity.

He tended not to say much. Folks said he wasn’t a friendly sort. But when Beatrice was around, he was a different man. She was a salve on an open wound. She let him forget. Maybe she would be the distraction that would lead to his downfall, but because of her, he didn’t care. Without Beatrice, there would be too much remembering. That wasn’t always good for the soul, he allowed. Especially one like his.

His time with Beatrice was precious to him. He didn’t want her remembering “bad” things about the man she called her father. He was not entirely sure why, but for some reason, that mattered, especially if something were to change. He wanted her to be able to look back on her childhood as a pleasant one.

He knew what it was like to be somebody else’s rubbish—thrown out in the gutter to make his way in filth and squalor. Beatrice had been, too. But she wouldn’t know. She wouldn’t feel that shame, not as long as he could help it.

His eyes followed the young girl, Caddy, as she paraded from the mail desk to the store counter. He liked her. She couldn’t be any more than fourteen or fifteen, he reckoned. She had a way about her, a boldness for living, that didn’t sit too well with people.

She made a great fuss of opening the Harbour Grace Standard, cleared her throat, and waited for the chatter to cease. There was still one conversation going on, so she ahemed once again. Despite the gravity of the situation, he lowered his head and smiled into the collar of his jacket.

Then she started to read out the article titled “Prisoner Escapes.”

“About a quarter to eight o’clock last night, Police Inspector CARTY received a telegram from Brigus stating that the Eskimo charged with the murder of his son at Nain, Labrador, and who escaped at Scrammy, from custody, on board the SS Panther, had arrived at Harbour Main from HANNON, and that while being conveyed by the said HANNON from Harbour Main to Brigus, to be handed over to the police authorities there, he made his escape at Gasters, Salmon Cove. On receipt of this information, the Inspector immediately sent dispatches to the police in Holyrood, Brigus, Bay Roberts, and Harbour Grace, instructing them to leave nothing undone that would be likely to lead up to his apprehension. At eight o’clock, some of the horse police were sent from St. John’s in search of the fugitive, followed shortly after by a detachment on foot. Up to the time of our ongoing press, his recapture had not been effected.”

When she finished, she carefully folded the paper and laid it on the grey oilcloth covering the counter.

“I’ll be locking my door tonight,” said Mrs. Fewer. “Jim, I don’t know that you should go fishing till he’s caught.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Crawley. “A dangerous fellow like that, you don’t know what he could do.”

“The murderer could be watching us right now,” said Mrs. Hickey. “Good thing Charl is here to bring me home.”

“Seen the police go through today on the train,” said Mr. Quinlan.

“The ones on the horses will be about soon enough,” said Mr. Healey.

John made his way to the counter as the chatter continued and folks moved toward the door.

Caddy smiled. “What can I do for you, Mr. MacDonald?”

“You’re sure that’s yesterday’s paper, Caddy?” he asked. “Never heard anything today, did you?”

“A couple of officers are staying up to Veitch’s,” she said. “They were in here just before supper, and I heard them talking. He’s not been caught yet.” Caddy regarded him for a moment, searching his face. “You see anything?”

“No, no,” said John. “The missus is scared, that’s all. We’re out on that lane by ourselves.”

Caddy nodded, his explanation acceptable, at least so it seemed. “I’m glad we live across the way. Lots of people around. I didn’t tell Ma about it.”

“Good thing not to worry her,” John said. He tipped his hat and wished her a good night. Out in the fresh air, he kept his head down, eyes hooded beneath his cap, and made quick steps. He passed the train station and the hotel before heading up the hill toward home.

Alice would be anxiously waiting for news, and Beatrice would be ready for bed by the time he got there. He didn’t like to see Alice fretting about the situation. So much had changed between them. Yet somehow so much had stayed the same.

John had a job to get Alice to lie down that night. She was on the verge of hysteria before the sun rose and calmed her some.

John brought Beatrice to school and made a quick trip to Carroll’s for the mail. Though they had only recently begun to receive one letter at the end of each month, it was an excuse to find news. The trips made him vulnerable, but he wouldn’t see Alice suffering.

Back at the house, John had no different news for Alice. Her voice quivered and a shadow passed over her eyes as the situation sank in. Red-faced, she reached for the chair and crumpled there. He went to her side and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“You’re sure it was Ezra?”

“Yes,” he said.

She inhaled sharply. “What are we going to do now?” She hung her head and wept into her hands. John knelt in front of her and pushed some long black strands of hair behind her ears. The misery of worry had settled on her features.

Awkwardly, she eased into his embrace. Reflex made him stiffen before he could stop himself. He forced himself to relax. Her arms encircled him, and she cried into his shoulder. He slowly put his arms around her and held her.

“We do nothing. Nobody knows where we are. We left all that far away.”

“But he’s so close,” Alice said. “Harbour Main, it’s hardly a day’s walk.”

“He’ll get caught,” John said, his voice surer than his thoughts.

“What if he doesn’t? I’m scared, John. It’s not just us anymore. We have Beatrice to think of now.”

He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s time.” He gently eased her away. “I’ll go get her from the schoolhouse. Will you be all right?”

“Beatrice will always come first. I’ll be fine,” Alice said. She wiped her eyes with the tail of her skirt, then straightened her back. He admired her strength. She didn’t know it, but she kept him strong. She held him in the present as much as Beatrice did.

John felt her eyes on him. His tall, stout frame was hunched just a bit. His dark hair was thinning around the temples. He turned at the gate when he heard her voice.

“We must be watchful and ready.”

“I know,” he said. He turned once more toward the coast. John walked this two-mile route twice a day. He wasn’t as sure in his thinking about being found out since Beatrice started school. He was taking more and more chances of being recognized. He was almost daring somebody to recognize him. Maybe then it would be over. But the thought of something happening to her, especially because of him, was worse than the thought of being exposed. Today his step was quicker than most others, though, because of the threat to Alice.

If it weren’t for Beatrice, they would have stared at changing seasons through the window of the house. Even if staying hidden was probably best, both he and Alice wanted more for Beatrice. They wanted her to be schooled. She was their miracle in all this. Something John was sure that he didn’t deserve. The little girl had given them so much happiness despite their circumstances. In truth, it was the child who probably kept them both sane. It was the child who stopped the running. It was Beatrice who kept them together. She made them believe they were a family. Those were dangerous thoughts for a man like him.

School would soon be out for the summer, and they could stay in the isolation of their farm until the vegetables were ready for sale. It was one of the things they had to do to survive. That meant something different now. Living here, though self-exiled, seemed normal. That’s what he told himself when he remembered he had to do things he hadn’t imagined he would ever do—things that were wrong, according to the law—things that could turn Alice against him. But he would do them now if there was a threat to his family. He just didn’t want to have to do them again. He walked out of the tree-lined lane a short time later, high above the schoolhouse in the distance on the point of land jutting out into Holyrood harbour. The white church steeple glistened in the sun behind the small one-room school. Its bell tolled the beginning and end of the school day as well as the call to prayer on Sundays when the priest was visiting.

There was a lot of activity in the area in the last few months. The train brought people, people brought prosperity, and prosperity brought trouble. That was the part that worried him. He was uneasy about remaining here.

They hadn’t been thinking straight when they’d arrived here on the train. That was when Beatrice came into their lives. That was when they went from running to hiding.

“Good day, Mr. MacDonald.”

His thoughts were broken by a short, round woman. “Oh, Mrs. Byrne, I didn’t see you.”

“On your way to the school, I see.”

“Yes, it’s almost that time.”

“Indeed. I’m on my way to the church with the linens for Sunday. I’ll keep you company, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. But I’d be happy to drop them off if you have something better to do. After all, I’m going that way.”

Mrs. Byrne hesitated before agreeing to hand him the basket. She gave him instructions, then turned and went back the way she came. John was glad not to have to listen to her ramblings while he was so distracted. He made fast work of the extra chore and returned to the lime-washed wooden fence post near the gate leading to the schoolyard. This was where Beatrice would meet him.

He scanned the harbour, his daily musing. There was a multitude of small fishing boats along the shores and around the wharves. There were plenty of two- and three-masted schooners anchored off or coming and going. He wouldn’t be part of any of that commerce ever again.

In the distance, a crowd of people waited for the train on the wooden platform. They would be heading to the capital, St. John’s, or to some of the communities in between. He wouldn’t be part of any of that travel, either.

Most days, he and Beatrice were halfway back to their turnoff when the train passed. Beatrice sometimes tried to outrun it or asked him to stop and wave at the people, depending on her mood. She wouldn’t notice his bowed head as she was waving and giggling. She was a jolly child, for sure.

Construction had already begun on wharves and cribbing directly below him on the beach. Big logs came in on the train, and men pulled rocks from a nearby quarry in order to keep them in place. Holyrood would be a large port soon enough. Easy access to the train and deep waters were all the freight boats needed, and it was all here.

John put his foot on the rail of the fence, his elbow on his bent knee and his hand under his jaw as he watched the activity. He looked out at the boats once more. Sometimes he missed being part of that world, but some things were more important than company. When the church bell rang, the most important one ran toward him shouting “Daddy.” That was all he needed to sustain him—that and Alice.

John walked hand in hand with the blonde-haired child who put a touch of contentment in his world. He couldn’t believe she was seven. They guessed her age and had made up a birthday a few days after they got her. The name Beatrice had been sewn into some of her clothing. They didn’t change that. She gave them life just as sure as her mother had given birth to her and etched the words “This is Beatrice, she was loved” into the blanket that enwrapped her. Alice kept it until Christmas past, when she returned it to the mother who bore her.

In the beginning, he told himself that Beatrice and Alice were a means to an end. A hiding place of sorts. But over time, his cold heart had warmed to the little blonde-haired beauty who called him Daddy and the raven-haired woman she called Mommy. The three had become a family, at least in the eyes of the few who made their acquaintance.

Only he and Alice knew the truth. At least about Beatrice. He sometimes wondered if he really knew everything about Alice. Alice didn’t know about him. She hadn’t asked. His truth was a twisted mess. But somehow the child had made it okay. John couldn’t admit it, but he had grown to love Alice. He wouldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell her. She wouldn’t forgive him for his sins, and he wondered if he would ever care to forgive himself.

Beatrice chattered away as they listened to the sound of the train whistle in the distance. She skipped along the beach. This little child had changed him. He sometimes worried that she’d broken him, that he wouldn’t be able to do what needed to be done because of her. But because of her, he might be able to do it more easily. He might find out sooner than he’d thought because of the prison break in Salmon Cove. He would do what he had to do for Alice.

Just last summer, a man, Danol Cooper, had come. John remembered being surprised in the barn. He thought he’d finally been found out and was almost relieved. The uneasiness of always looking over his shoulder, always waiting, was a heavy burden and made him suspicious of things that weren’t always real. But when the man had stared at Beatrice, he knew it was about her and not him. Then he felt guilty for feeling relieved. He and Alice were going to run again. But Cooper had found where they were hiding and would probably have found them again if they had done so. That could have led to other truths being unearthed, and he couldn’t risk disclosure.

In the end, though the child had been left with them instead of being returned to her mother, John had ultimately chosen his own welfare over hers. Though the child was fixed in his heart and he wouldn’t change anything about that, he now carried another guilt. He had chosen himself over Beatrice. What kind of man did that make him?

He didn’t force himself to remember his past acts like he used to do. His new family eased the bitterness that had consumed him for so long, and Beatrice kept it from festering. Maybe he was satisfied that Lavinia’s justice had been served. The courts had failed, leaving him responsible for that judgment. There was no fairness in the consequences to himself. He was running ever since. Well, until Beatrice. Though in many ways he was still running, he was staying put in a situation that he was more than happy to live with. The one before this had been bleak and lonesome.

His mind wandered back to Alice’s predicament. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him that Ezra was so close. Maybe Alice was right. It couldn’t be a coincidence—he didn’t believe in them. Perhaps it was time to make a decision about Beatrice. Maybe he, too, was too easy to be found. He shook his head. This was about Alice and not about him.

But after having the opportunity to do the right thing for Beatrice and choosing his own well-being instead, he wondered if he’d really changed at all. Maybe he was a coward. Perhaps the selfish, lawless, street-living, good-for-nothing boy, and the bitter, murdering young man couldn’t be changed despite his efforts to believe otherwise. Just because he didn’t think about it like he used to didn’t make it untrue.

3

Beatrice smiled up at him as she skipped along. “What do you think, Daddy?”

“About what?”

“I just asked you. Do you think we can ever go on the train?”

“We’ll talk to your mother about that when we get home,” John replied.

“Really?” Beatrice’s voice rose in surprise. “Really, Daddy?”

“We’ll talk to your mother,” he repeated, attempting to sound stern. “Now, let’s beat that train to the road.” He quickened his step, in preparation of racing her. Beatrice squealed and ran ahead of him.

All the way back to the house she questioned him about where she could go. John warned her not to mention the train to her mother until he had a chance to talk to her about it.

Alice was waiting at the door when they returned. Beatrice hugged her and went in ahead of him. He brought her books and lunch pail and laid them on the table.

“Go change your clothes,” he said to Beatrice.

“Are you going to talk to Mommy?”

“Go and change out of your good clothes,” Alice said as she stared at John.

When Beatrice disappeared through the door on the opposite side of the kitchen, Alice grabbed John’s arm. “What is it?” Terror swam in her eyes.

“Sit down, Alice,” he said as he guided her to the chair. “I’ve been thinking on what you said about Ezra being so close. I don’t like it.”

Alice put her face in her palms and then massaged her scalp with her fingertips. When she finally looked up at him, she asked, “What do we do?”

“Hear me out, Alice.” John sat next to her and took her hand. “What if we sent Beatrice back to her mother?”

With a sharp intake of breath, Alice shook her head and pushed his hand away. “No. No. No.”

“Hear me out, Alice,” he repeated. He took her hand once more and squeezed it. “I don’t mean forever.”

She stared at the door through which her daughter had gone. Slowly, she squeezed his hand in return.

“What do you mean?”

“That Cooper fellow. He said that if he could do anything for us to let him know. The mother said the same thing in her letter. We just need to contact that lawyer in St. John’s.”

“But we could lose her, John. We can’t. At least I can’t lose her.”

“Now, Alice, that’s not fair.” John didn’t want to raise his voice to her, but he felt gut-punched from her words. Alice was hurting. “I love that little girl as much as you do. What do you think will happen if Ezra finds you here? If he finds Beatrice here?”

“Oh, John, I didn’t think of that. Oh God, John. You’re right, we have to get her out of here. Ezra could kill her.” Alice jumped from the chair, and he stopped her before she reached Beatrice’s door. Beatrice was singing some sort of children’s rhyme, her voice carrying through the thin walls.

Alice pulled from his grip, and he grabbed her again. “Alice, stop it. You’ll frighten her.” He held her in place until he saw calmness in her eyes. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

Alice nodded. “We have a lot to do.”

“We do,” said John.

They both turned when the door opened. “Did you ask her, Daddy?”

“He did,” Alice said.

“We are going on the train tomorrow,” John said.

Beatrice jumped up and down and squealed. “Where are we going?”

“Do you remember when there was a man here last year? He stayed for toutons?”

“Yes, he talked funny.”

“Don’t say that,” Alice said.

Beatrice looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

Alice looked at John.

“Let’s get some supper and then talk about it,” he said.

“Do you have lessons?” Alice asked.

Beatrice nodded and shuffled through her books. “What about Penny?”

“What about her?”

“She’s my best friend,” Beatrice said. “Can I tell her tomorrow?”

Alice and John looked at each other. John shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” he said.

Contents

Praise for Being Mary Ro

The Liars

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3