New Sensibilities—Musings, History, and a Short Story

Once again, my time has been taken up in organising, packing, and clearing out my mother-in-law’s apartment after her move to a seniors’ residence. The task, while coming to a necessary end (her lease expires at the end of June) is all-consuming, leaving precious little time for writing or editing. It does, however, leave plenty of time for introspection and musing.

Each box, each drawer, contains a wealth of objects, some useless and destined for the garbage pile (how many rusty nails are in that place?), others quite precious. A photograph of my husband’s grandmother as a child. An old army officer’s sword. A collection of Hummel figurines dating to the 1940s. And family documents going back well over a century.

My husband’s family has been in that part of Canada since the late 1700s, long before Canada was a country. There are deeds of purchase for farms, quit-claims for properties, birth notices and obituaries. There are streets with the family name, records of the family’s prominent role in local government, and even an old family ghost. Every family needs one of those, after all!

While I was there, I stayed in tiny village near Niagara Falls called Queenston. The community there dates to the 1780s, and I wandered past buildings that stood while Jane Austen was writing her masterpieces. As an Austen-lover and history buff, this had me thinking.

What if…?

And the what if that stuck in my head is this. Here’s a short musing on how one tale, at least, might have been different if another option had been offered. We imagine the year to be 1818, a wee bit later than in Austen’s novel, and the Dashwood sisters are in desperate need of a new home. But rather than Barton Cottage in Devonshire, they choose a much further destination.

Sense, Sensibility, and the New World

A vignette by Riana Everly

Elinor Dashwood struggled to contain her dismay.

These last few months had been dreadful. First, losing her beloved father and being sent from the only home she had known by her unfeeling sister-in-law, Fanny. Then, having to convince her mother and sisters, all ruled more by their sensibilities than by calm logic, of the need to accept the generous offer of a cottage on the estate of a distant cousin. Then, further, packing up their few personal belongings and travelling for far too many weeks, first on a tossing and heaving wooden ship that plied the rough waters of the North Atlantic and then the endless rivers and lakes of the New World, only to reach this.

This.

A musty stone cottage on the edge of a small, half-abandonned town on the edge of a river in the middle of the wilderness.

Whatever had she done?

“Upper Canada? You cannot be serious,” her mother had blurted when first Elinor had presented the offer.

At nineteen, Elinor was far too young to handle the intricacies of relocating her remaining family, but that onus fell to her, nonetheless. It had been she who had written to Mr George Hamilton, whom she thought still in Scotland, if he knew of any place that would fit their reduced income, little expecting a response. But, nearly six months later, a response arrived.

The letter, written in despair, had travelled first to the family’s former residence in Botlon, near Edinburgh, and thence to their current abode, where Mr Hamilton had penned his reply, which much await whatever conveyances there were to carry it back to England. But in his reply, that gentleman offered not only his condolences on the sad loss of Mr Henry Dashwood, father to Elinor and her two younger sisters, but also the use of a cottage on his estates.

It is small and of no grand bearing, he had written, but it is solid and adequately appointed, and has rooms enough for your esteemed mother and yourselves, with a parlour and sitting room and a kitchen on the ground floor. If you wish to take it, I request only the occasional visit to my own young daughters, so they might learn the manners and deportment of a well-bred Englishwoman.

With the very few pounds left to them after their half-brother had denied them almost all assistance, it was an offer Elinor could not afford to refuse.

And thus, she had gazed back into her mother’s alarmed eyes and insisted that yes, she was indeed serious, and that the four bereaved Dashwood ladies must make preparations for a most momentous move.

That had been three months ago.

Now Elinor struggled to banish the tears from her eyes. The small boat from Niagara had deposited them upon the shores of the massive river, tying up to some planks of wood that could not quite be called a pier.

“Destroyed in the war,” the captain had mumbled, waving an arm vaguely in the direction of some wrecked buildings a short way off. “Cart will be here soon for your trunks.”

That cart, when it came, was driven by a man who said not a word to them, but who shooed them onto the seat behind him, before hefting their belongings onto the back, and forcing the two tired draft horses up the hill to their new home.

It was a compact stone cottage, barely within sight of a larger house just visible through a thick curtain of trees, the open door showing an interior empty and cold. There was nothing else.

“No!” Marianne cried. Her lovely brown eyes were red, her normally translucent skin blotchy from the wind and the excesses of her emotions. She was everything that a distraught seventeen-year-old should be, exacerbated by the demands of a too-romantic sensibility. At the moment, Elinor both understood her completely, and wished her to the devil.

“Where is everyone? Is there no town here, no society? We shall shrivel up, as much from lack of worthwhile company as from lack of food. Oh, cursed be the day that we agreed to this! Whatever will become of us?” Marianne’s words became wails.

Next to her, Margaret, only fourteen and quite dazed by the entire venture, stood silent, whilst their mother softly began to weep.

“Can it be this? Surely not…” she moaned.

Elinor struggled anew to keep her own tears at bay. She was the strong one. She must lead by example.  She took a deep breath and tried to sound cheerful.

“We will be well. Mr Hamilton said the town is recovering from the war, homes and shops are being rebuilt. It cannot be as desolate as it appears. We must have faith!”

But she little believed the words that came from her own mouth.

Above her, the grey skies began leaking droplets of rain.

Elinor pushed the front door further open and stepped inside. It was, at least, dry. But wait… Whilst the cottage had appeared abandoned at first glance, she now saw, through a doorway, the flickering light of a merry fire. The window to that room opened onto the back of the cottage, rather than the front; that was why they had not seen the light from outside. The room was not large but was comfortable, furnished with a mismatched collection of furniture that nevertheless made a pleasant collection. The pale blue sofa did not quite go with the dark red cushions or the yellow-upholstered armchairs that flanked the fireplace. Nor did the faded carpet that covered most, but not all, of the pale pine floor set off the pea-green walls. But it was somehow comforting. And now, it was home.

No sooner had Elinor let out a sigh of relief than a new voice sounded from outside.

“I say, are you there? You are, you are! Welcome, dear cousins!”

It was a man’s voice, deep and sonorous, his accent not quite English, but with a tinge of something Scottish, and it sounded like music to Elinor’s ears. In a moment, the owner of that voice charged into the room, a broad smile on his face.

“Well, well! You are the Dashwoods. George Hamilton, your cousin, at your service.” He swooped into an elaborate bow that brought a welcome smile to Elinor’s face. “Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the pier. I was not sure what day you might arrive, be it yesterday, today, or tomorrow. We thought today, Maria and myself, but nobody sent word from Niagara, and I was needed to oversee matters out at the farm. But look, here you are, and a handsome set of faces like yours I’ve never seen, except on my Maria. I brought you some food, apples from the orchard, and bread and cheeses, and I’ll have a cook made available to you, and a girl to clean. But enough of that. You’ll come to dine at the house tonight. Maria and the children are longing to meet you. Welcome, dear cousins!”

And suddenly, Elinor decided that perhaps this great move to the New World might not have been such a dreadful idea, after all.

***

Historical note: George Hamilton (1788-1836) was a real person. He was the son of one of the founders of Queenston, judge Robert Hamilton (1753-1809), and a member of a powerful and prosperous family, after whom several towns and cities are named, including St Catharines (named after Robert’s wife) and Hamilton. You can find out more about George Hamilton here.

Queenston was a bustling community before the War of 1812. The town suffered considerable damage during the war, but by 1820, it had a population of about 500 people, with the houses, shops, factories, taverns, distilleries, and such, that a town of that era could be expected to boast. It it currently a community in the larger area of Niagara-on-the-Lake, near Niagara Falls, Ontario.

All photographs by Riana Everly, 2024