Ravenscraig Read online

  RAVENSCRAIG

  by

  Sandi Krawchenko Altner

  A Franklin and Gallagher Book

  Winner of the

  Carol Shields Winnipeg Book Award 2012

  PRAISE FOR RAVENSCRAIG

  I was one of the judges for the Carol Shields award. I just wanted to (finally!) say what a beautiful book you wrote. So compelling, a pleasure to read, and so meticulously researched! It was well-deserving of the prize. Mazel tov!

  ~Sidura Ludwig, author of Holding My Breath, Toronto

  Wonderful...Welcome to Downton Abbey and Upstairs Downstairs with a Winnipeg twist.

  ~Ron Robinson, Winnipeg Free Press

  This book is amazing in its depiction of late 1800s and early 1900s Winnipeg. The city was a hotbed of immigration and this book accurately depicts the history and immigration of a Jewish family from the "old country" to Winnipeg. The other side of the coin is the depiction of a wealthy family becoming one of the movers and shakers in the rapidly growing city. Throw in a tie to the Titanic sinking of 1912 and you have an amazing read. The dichotomy between the poor and the wealthy along with the rapid expansion of a city that is the Chicago of the North gives you an insight into what makes the modern city the ethnic melting pot that it is today. Fascinating and educational as well as entertaining.

  ~Shell Beckwith, Amazon 5 Star Review

  “Superb. It is a book that almost seems to have been written specifically for me, referring to landmarks that have meaning to me, involving Jewish immigrants who resemble what my great-grandparents were like, and reflecting the attitude and hope that I have in life. Ravenscraig will be to Manitoba what Anne of Green Gables is to Prince Edward Island.”

  ~Louis Kessler, past president of the Jewish Heritage Centre of Western Canada

  I absolutely love this book. Ravenscraig is captivating story with wonderful characters. I couldn’t put it down.

  ~Mutsumi Takahashi, CTV News Anchor, Montreal

  Ravenscraig provides a fascinating insight into early Jewish migration.

  ~Bernie Bellan, Winnipeg Jewish Post and News

  See the book trailer for Ravenscraig

  http://altnersandi.com/ravenscraig-book-trailer/

  Copyright 2011

  by Sandi Krawchenko Altner

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Editon

  Published August, 2012 in the United States by Franklin and Gallagher, LLC

  Boca Raton, Florida.

  ISBN-10: 0988224909 (E-book)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9882249-0-2

  Photo credits:

  Linotype machine by Scientific American, published August 9, 1890

  Model: Katiana Krawchenko, photographed by Sandi K. Altner

  Author photo by Bob Altner

  Originally published by Heartland Associates, Inc., Winnipeg, Canada, November, 2011

  Formatted for Kindle by Teri Kojetin, The Ebook Editor http://www.ebook-editor.com/

  This is a work of fiction based on historical events. Characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information visit the author’s blog at: http://altnersandi.com/

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR RAVENSCRAIG

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Grateful Acknowledgement to

  dedication

  Dedication:

  For my mother, Mary Krawchenko, the family historian, who keeps exact records of the most unimaginable things. Mom is my hero.

  And for my father, Carl Krawchenko, whose memory is a blessing. Dad knew every back lane in Winnipeg and had the best stories. He loved machines and would have been especially taken with the Linotype.

  Together, with love and strength, our parents, Carl and Mary, raised the five of us children: Margaret, Chris, Kathy, Joey, and me, to know the value of working hard and the importance of remembering where we came from.

  Chapter One

  Ravenscraig Hall

  May 21, 1895

  In the end, it was the magnificence of the library at Ravenscraig Hall that persuaded Rupert Willows to purchase the house, despite the ghastly exterior of the mansion. The library was as luxurious as the front of the house was hideous. He wanted this home and he was determined to have it. But first, he would indulge in just a bit more tortuous play with the squirming realtor. He had thought the man would be a little more challenging, but he was amused, all the same.

  The estate agent, Percival Wright, slack-jawed and sweating, was quite shaken by the unexpected exchange with his client. He removed his spectacles and sat quietly mopping his brow as Mr. Willows inspected the library. What an afternoon this had turned out to be. How utterly naïve he had been in his assessment of the man.

  As he concentrated on calming himself, the realtor’s mind traced the events that had brought him to this moment of intense embarrassment. It had all started in the most mundane fashion.

  His introduction to Mr. Willows had come in the form of a letter, hand-delivered to his office. The stationery was of high quality and the penmanship neat, vigorous and cultured. The writer’s name was unfamiliar, but that was nothing unusual. Wright assumed Mr. Willows was new to town, one among the horde of tycoons, investors and tradesmen flocking west to make or increase their fortunes in the booming economy. The man had an impressive style. It was obvious that this Mr. Willows had a great deal of experience in the business world and was highly educated. A no nonsense captain of industry, Wright assumed, older and very accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  The letter clearly stated the writer’s interest in the potential purchase of Ravenscraig Hall. It also contained a list of specific conditions under which he would come
to see the house. These had initially inclined Wright to refuse the request outright. On the surface, it was a straightforward business matter, but the timing posed an exceedingly awkward situation.

  Ravenscraig was not yet on the market. The owner, Dr. Alexander McDonnelly, had just been laid to rest a few days earlier. Approaching his widow to show the property to a prospective buyer so soon after the funeral would be in the worst possible form. It couldn’t be done, Wright had thought as he carefully re-read the letter. The accidental death of the respected doctor had been a great tragedy. No. To push his grieving widow, even to discuss selling at this time, would be seen as indelicate at best and unspeakably callous at worst. He had sighed with disappointment as he dipped his pen to form a response. But then instead of writing, he found himself grappling with temptation.

  Wright, meek and polite, saw himself as a moral person, forever waiting for his turn at a lucky break. Alas, while ambitious men climbed the rungs of success, he seemed to always be the one steadying the ladder, boosting the others upward. Thinking about it irritated him.

  Now, he was faced with a most disturbing dilemma. Providence had brought him a chance at a very substantial commission. Was an opportunity like this not the very reason he had come to Canada? Why should Percival Wright not be allowed to profit when everyone else seemed to be moving ahead?

  Willows must certainly know about the death. It was all over the newspapers. He may have even been at the funeral for the beloved doctor. Such a large affair, it was. Everyone who was anyone seemed to be in attendance. Wright had heard the whispers of the graveside gossips. How terribly unfortunate that the old couple had lived in the house a mere three months before the doctor’s death. Surely the widow would not want to stay there. The murmured words played repeatedly in his mind and emboldened his flirtation with greed.

  He knew the agent’s fee on the sale would be tremendous and he knew, too, that if turned down, Mr. Willows would quickly find someone of lesser character to step in and collect the windfall. Wright had stared out his window, mulling it over, and before long the answer slipped neatly into his consciousness. It really wasn’t a matter of greed at all. Above everything, Percival Wright was a good and decent man. It was his duty to look out for poor Mrs. McDonnelly to be sure that she got every penny that a professional agent could possibly squeeze out of a buyer for her benefit.

  Committed to the considerable trouble he would face in order to make the arrangements, Wright had dashed off his response, stating his agreement to Mr. Willows’ requirements that the property would be cleared of all servants, that their meeting would consist of just the two of them, and that whatever business they might conduct would be kept strictly confidential. With a shiver of excitement, he sent the note off with the message boy.

  Then came the horrible visit to the widow. Wright had had no choice, really, but to risk offending her. With pious solemnity, he had carried his hat in his hand and slipped his calling card into the butler’s silver tray.

  He still smarted from the shame he felt at her tears. Mrs. McDonnelly had been so dreadfully stubborn in her determination not to leave her home during her time of mourning. Broken and pitiful, she had whimpered that she found Mr. Wright utterly shameless and unkind in coming to speak business with her under the pretense of a bereavement call.

  She had left him no option, really, but to frighten her. Perhaps he had exaggerated the financial burden of Ravenscraig just a tad, and it may not have been entirely necessary to give her the impression she would land in a poorhouse without her husband to pay the upkeep of the mansion, but he was sure it would all come out right in the end if he could just bring her a buyer. He would release her from Ravenscraig and she would live comfortably for the rest of her life in a much more affordable home. It was a pity that she had taken his words so hard, but truly, it couldn’t be helped. He had to get her out for Mr. Willows to visit, and he simply didn’t have the time to do it with finesse.

  So much work had gone into making these arrangements that by the time he had arrived at Ravenscraig for the meeting, Percival Wright was obsessed with thoughts about the potential sale. He had calculated the commission to the penny and created a list of all of the things he would do and buy with his hard-earned money.

  So it was that he readied himself with particular care for his appointment with Mr. Willows. Dressed in his best suit and carrying his fine new walking stick, he had arrived by taxi two hours early to be certain everything was in order.

  Ravenscraig, imposing and palatial, was located in Winnipeg’s fashionable new neighborhood, Armstrong’s Point. The area had only become available for development in recent years but already it was among the city’s most sought after residential locations. Nature had created an ideal setting for discriminating buyers in search of a distinctive address within a short distance of the city’s business center. The point was a peninsula, naturally formed by a sweeping horseshoe bend in the Assiniboine River. Large enough to accommodate one hundred estates, yet small enough to remain forever exclusive with its gated points of entry, it resembled a private park; a lush, green playground filled with birds and rabbits and winding riding trails that connected one mansion to the next. Wright adored the area with its luxurious homes and picturesque carriage houses. It reminded him of the English countryside.

  On the day of the meeting, he had used the extra time to familiarize himself with the layout of the property and to plan his tour. The house was every bit as grand as any in the city and he could imagine how impressed Mr. Willows would be. They would start in the elegant breakfast room and proceed to the dining room, then the drawing room and the conservatory before viewing the upper floors. He would save walking the grounds for last.

  Wright had made his way down to the riverside to inspect the gardens. He looked out over the water and practiced his greeting aloud. He needed to be at his very best performance. Mr. Willows had clearly wanted to be first in line to see the property. Perhaps he was ready to make an offer this very day.

  Wright checked his pocket watch; he still had twenty-five minutes before their appointment. Then, the sound of a carriage arriving sent him hurrying along to the front of the house where he was stunned to see that Mr. Willows had driven himself to Ravenscraig. Good heavens. To have a fine carriage and no chauffeur was simply déclassé. It was all quite shocking. No gentleman of any recognized standing would consider doing such a thing.

  “I require the strictest privacy,” Mr. Willows had offered in place of a greeting as he bounded out of the rig. “We will start with the coach house, stable and gardens. Then, when we enter the house, I wish to first go below stairs to inspect the servants’ quarters and the kitchen before touring the main rooms.”

  Wright was simultaneously offended and captivated by the man’s raw power. Tall and strikingly handsome, Rupert Willows’ posture and movement suggested a prowling, exotic animal. His eyes shone with success and confidence, but there was no humor in them. Wright found it impossible to read his background in his bearing. His accent was English but with a hint of something unusual, something that he couldn’t place. Even more surprising, he was much younger than Wright had thought he would be, appearing to be in his late thirties. Despite this, Willows bore the signs Wright most wanted to see. He seemed to be very wealthy.

  The agent thrust his hand forward and started selling. “Well, hello, Mr. Willows. I’m so very glad to make your acquaintance. This is quite an amazing property, I assure you, and it is my great pleasure to be able to show it to you. Are you new to Winnipeg?”

  Willows stopped and stared at him in silence. Immediately, Wright realized that his prattling on about the many features of the house and the neighborhood would only serve to annoy his client. Willows was certainly not a man interested in small talk.

  They set off on the tour of the property with very little conversation, which left Wright somewhat flustered and confused as to how to behave. Other than the initial tour instructions, Mr. Willows’ only remark ha
d been that the perennials were well-chosen and that the gardens were surprisingly well advanced for a property so recently constructed. The man was quite odd, indeed.

  Wright responded to this discomfiting silence by speaking in quiet tones and offering information that was straightforward and to the point. There was no reaction. Nothing. Not even a polite nod. In his twenty years of selling real estate, Percival Wright had never had a client like Rupert Willows. A response would come, he reckoned, only when the man had something to say.

  Their tour moved well into an hour and as Wright surreptitiously studied Willows, his optimism for a sale began to slip away.

  Willows had the air of the American moneyed-class, yet showed no signs of Ivy League snobbery. He was an enigma, or perhaps nothing more than a poseur. Wright suddenly got it. Willows must be a Toronto man. Yes. He was a Toronto man who had adopted the style of a risk-taking Westerner and pretended a taste for fashionable clothing. New money. That was it. Willows was a voyeur using a real estate man to get a peek at how the wealthy furnish their homes, perhaps so that he might copy it in inexpensive imitation.