The Quintland Sisters(89)

“I want to be perfectly sure you understand your personal account,” he said. “This is the name of the institution where your account is currently held.” He poked with his pen. “This is the account number. A number of payments have come through since we last met. This is the current total.”

My eyes must have bulged out of my head. I managed to look up at Mr. Munro, but his face was blank. “Royalty deposits will continue to be made accordingly, but no one can withdraw funds without your signature, do you understand? Not M. Dionne, not Dr. Dafoe. This money is yours. You are the only one who can access these funds.”

I managed to stammer out my question. “But what about the fund for the quintuplets? Are they getting a share of the revenues? Do they have enough—?”

Mr. Munro snorted. “Fear not, my dear Emma. The quintuplets are getting their fair share. As for whether it’s ‘enough’—that’s the problem with money, isn’t it? No matter how much of it you manage to acquire, you will always feel the need to acquire more. This will no doubt be true even for the famous Dionne quintuplets, who have never seen a shop, or a bank, and wouldn’t have the first clue what to do if silver dollars started falling from the sky, which”—he snorted again—“in their case has more or less been happening since birth.”

He paused here to scratch at his mustache, blinking his eyes closed as he did so.

“Open your eyes, Emma,” he said, though his own remained shut. “There’s no shortage of money flowing in and out of Quintland, but, as best as I can tell, it’s brought more strife than it has stability.”

Mr. Munro inserted a pinkie finger into his ear and started rooting for something deeply buried. His eyes reappeared again through the dense thicket of eyebrow. “On that note, we’re all done with the audit at the nursery. George and I agree that everything tots up.”

I hadn’t spoken, but he sighed as if I’d asked something else he didn’t want to answer.

“Now Dionne is also asking for Dr. Dafoe’s private records,” he continued. “That’s not my concern, of course. I’m only involved in managing the money being paid the quintuplets. But—” He spread his hands wide and hunched his shoulders toward his ears.

“Surely Dr. Dafoe’s records will reflect the same thing?” I said. I was thinking, perhaps this is what has George working late into the night, trying to reconcile Dr. Dafoe’s accounts with those of the nursery as some sort of duplicate record.

But Mr. Munro shook his head. “No, my dear, not the same thing. Dionne is asking for payments made to Dr. Dafoe directly.” He saw my face and gestured at the framed photos and advertisements on the walls around us, the corn syrup ad I’d painted among them. Every square foot showed the girls since their infancy, pictured with everything from dental cream to automobiles to cod-liver oil, Dr. Dafoe sitting in their midst with his creased brow, his downturned mouth. Indeed, I realized, following Mr. Munro’s gaze, that a dozen of the advertisements, perhaps more, didn’t even include the girls—they just featured Dr. Dafoe. Advice for Mothers from the Doctor to the Famous Dionne Quintuplets.

My face must have registered a slow dawning of comprehension, because Mr. Munro started nodding. “You see what I’m saying. Direct payments. M. Dionne’s lawyer has requested a record of all payments made directly to Dr. Dafoe, quite apart from any paid into the quintuplet fund.”


May 8, 1939

A LETTER FROM Lewis inviting me to visit him in Montreal, and to pay for my ticket from Toronto after I’ve gone with the girls to meet the King and Queen. I’m not sure what to make of this. I would love to see Montreal, but to visit a man, in a different city? To have him pay for my ticket? I’m not sure what is implied in such an invitation. What would it say about me if I said yes? I admit, after the last few months and all the drama here, it’s very tempting. I would very much like to see Lewis Cartwright.

But I’m not sure what to think or how to respond.


May 9, 1939

I SPOKE WITH Ivy by telephone this afternoon using the private line in Dr. Dafoe’s office. Ivy had news: she’d bumped into Nurse de Kiriline on Yonge Street! Apparently the Captain never returned to nursing and still lives up North, on Pimisi Bay, but was in the city to see her editor—she’s become renowned for her nature writing. Ivy and the Captain ended up going for tea and talking about “the old days” at the nursery. All these years later, “Boss Number Two” confessed to Ivy the real reason for her abrupt departure: Dr. Dafoe had asked her to marry him! She had turned him down politely, but he persisted, she said, and in the end she had quit her post to escape his ardent advances. Ivy and I had a fit of giggles over this, because it’s simply impossible to imagine fuddy-duddy Dafoe in hot pursuit, although we could well remember how highly he thought of her. Still, I was very glad to hear the Captain was doing so well and had made such an interesting life for herself.

The real reason for my call to Ivy, of course, had been to ask her advice regarding Lewis’s offer to visit. What is meant by it, what might be his expectations or intentions, and what would it say about me if I went? Once we’d finished gossiping about Louise de Kiriline, I couldn’t bring myself to speak of Lewis. Ivy says she will come and meet me for a fleeting visit at the government offices in Toronto, where the Royals are to meet the Dionnes, but she has also suggested I come back to their home afterward, taking a few days’ leave for a proper visit. I hemmed and hawed but didn’t say yes or no either way. I know she can’t understand my indecision.