Duelling in a New World Page 17

  She pats his arm. “Consider, most of the time you will be reading, and the Chief Justice will have little chance to say anything. And you will be the better for seeing Mr. White and his wife, and I have also asked the Powells to come—”

  “Very well, I shall suffer Elmsley, if I must. But I trust you did not invite the Smalls? That I could not endure. Small’s airs in this new place are more than I can stand. Why, when I was coming across Berkeley Street just now, there was the man himself in front of that house of his with the pretentious name. He was standing at the front door in knee breeches, silk stockings, and silver-buckled shoes. ‘Come to supper,’ he says to me. ‘We have a good spread ready.’ Wanted to show off that new dining-table he keeps boasting about.”

  Peter’s breathing has become quite puffy, and Eliza seeks to divert him. “Your attire is spread out on your bed, brother, and your grizzle wig has just come back from the wigmaker.”

  “At great expense, no doubt.”

  Eliza pours him a tumbler of Irish whisky from Bushmills.

  “And where in tarnation did this come from?”

  “It arrived this very day on the schooner from Kingston. Do not ask me what it cost, brother. Just enjoy it.”

  He takes the tumbler and heads for his bedchamber to change his attire. As she watches him depart, she turns to Job who has observed and heard it all. “Get Jupiter to help him dress, will you? The lad must do something for the wages he receives.”

  Job goes out the back door to find the boy. He is as lazy as his mother Peggy, and he lurks in the stables or fishes down at the bay in order to keep from doing as he is bid.

  Eliza looks around the kitchen, searching for what she dreads. But Job, bless his kind heart, has made certain that there is not one feather of that passenger pigeon to be found anywhere.

  She takes a deep breath and looks at the mantel clock. Seven-thirty. This wretched day has near passed. Now she must ready herself for the bigwigs. But seeing some fresh cream in a bowl on the table, she thinks about a treat she still has time to make for Mr. White.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The same evening, September 1798

  White must acknowledge that Marianne is the best-looking woman in the withdrawing room. Her muslin gown criss-crossed with ribbons shows perhaps too much of her fine bosom, but she makes Mrs. Powell and Mrs. Elmsley look positively frumpy. Dear Miss Russell has tried to enhance her severe black gown with a necklace of agates, but her red-rimmed eyes bespeak some inner sorrow. With a pang, White remembers that this day marks an anniversary of Mary’s death. I must come over tomorrow with some fall flowers from my garden.

  Marianne’s shrill laugh over something Mrs. Elmsley has said grates on his ears. True, he enjoyed that fine bosom for a week or two when she first arrived in York. But now her silliness drives him mad. In sober moments, he faces the fact that he used to like silly women, especially pretty ones—as paramours, that is. Why did I make one of them a permanent part of my life?

  But tonight is a harmless way to give her the society she craves and keep her from plaguing him with her complaints. Miss Russell is a kind woman, warm-hearted and devoted to her brother. Mrs. Powell and Mrs. Elmsley are the crème de la crème of their muddy York world. Surely here in this withdrawing room Marianne can find society of irreproachable quality.

  And indeed, since they have come for the past two weeks to hear Russell read from Gulliver’s Travels, Marianne has appeared to take great delight in the adventures of Gulliver in Lilliput. She has laughed unaffectedly at the description of the Lilliputians taking Gulliver’s measurements with a rule of an inch in length, and at their protracted and bitter parliamentary wars over which end of the egg should be broken. She has even appeared to understand the satire of the Big Endians and the Little Endians.

  Now, at this, the third evening of reading, White relaxes in a comfortable armchair and waits for Russell to begin.

  “Tonight we shall start the voyage to Brobdingnag,” Russell announces. “It contains some of my favourite passages.” And mine, especially Swift’s description of the nursemaid’s monstrous breast and nipple.

  Then Marianne’s voice breaks into his reverie. “But surely, Mr. Russell, we have not finished all of Lilliput?”

  “Indeed, ma’am, we finished last Thursday.”

  “But you did not read one of the best parts, sir!”

  Russell’s face grows red. White watches the effort with which he plants a smile on his doughy face. “I assure you I did not miss a word.” He lays the book down on the table next his chair and rises to throw another log on the fire.

  While he is doing this, Marianne grabs up the volume and riffles through the pages. “Here it is,” she announces to the gathering, “Mr. Russell has forgotten to read us the passages about the fire at the Emperor’s palace.”

  Elmsley hooks his thumbs into his waistcoat and laughs. “Vir in mare excidit!”

  Russell has returned to his chair. “Confound it, Elmsley, speak the King’s English. Nescio de quo loqueris!”

  Good man, he has actually remembered the Latin phrase I gave him weeks ago when we first met Elmsley in the Niagara tavern. But White himself knows what Elmsley has just said. It’s “Man overboard!” And it exactly sums up the moment that is surely about to happen.

  Russell now stretches out his hand towards Marianne, no doubt expecting her to hand over the book. But she ignores the gesture. This is her chance to impress the Elmsleys, and she intends to make the most of it. She will show everyone, by God, that she too is a scholar.

  Keeping her finger in the open book, she continues. “It’s so funny. We must not miss it. The Lilliputian palace is ablaze. The little people are labouring mightily to put out the fire. But their pails are the size of a thimble and the flames are growing. So Gulliver, having drunk plentifully that evening, pisses upon the blaze and extinguishes it in seconds.”

  There is an intake of breath around the room. Only Elmsley laughs and repeats, “Didn’t I sum it up a minute ago? Vir in mare excidit!” Miss Russell, very red in the face, makes a hasty exit to the dining room. Powell, who seems to have picked up a fever during a trip to Boston, mops his brow. Mrs. Powell shakes her head and one of her tight little curls pops out from under the gold fillets that bind her hair. Mrs. Elmsley’s jaw is agape.

  “And does Gulliver receive any thanks for this act of kindness?” Marianne continues, never one to let well enough alone. “No indeed. The empress is upset because, you see”—here she erupts in giggles—“the Lilliputians have issued an edict stating that it is a capital offence to make water within the royal precincts.”

  In the silence that follows this sally, Elmsley asks, “Do tell us, dear madam, how came you to read the elevating incident you have just related?”

  “Why, it was my husband’s book,” she says, turning her head now and addressing him. “Mr. White, you recall the volume you were reading when you set sail for Canada? You left it behind in the withdrawing room, and I read it. And mightily amusing it was, I assure you.”

  “Let us go into the dining room now,” Miss Russell says, standing in the doorway. “Time for some victuals, and then my brother will begin his reading.”

  They follow her towards the platters of cheese and gingerbread which the maid Peggy has set out on the walnut table. “Rum punch for everyone,” Miss Russell says, “but for Mr. White, I have his special treat.” She gestures towards a small bowl. “Syllabub!”

  In the clatter of saucers and the clinking of glasses, the awkward moments in the withdrawing room dissipate. But White knows that the tea tables of York will be abuzz on the morrow.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  October 1798

  John White sits in his cramped office off the main room of the court house. He does not have a case to prosecute today, but he is here to write a letter to his brother-in-law Sam Shepherd, and he does not want Marianne to know what he is about. She might demand to read it, and there will be an item or two in it that
he must keep from her.

  * * *

  Yesterday he placed an order for shoes and boots with a new German immigrant, name of Brunshilde, who operates his business from a small room in his cabin in the bush far north of Queen Street. When the man took measurements, cut out the necessary pieces of leather, and told him the cost, White had yelled at him. “Outrageous. You are no better than a thief!”

  “Fine leather must be imported from Cordova,” the man said, with a shrug of his brawny shoulders. “Withdraw your order if you wish.”

  He had already spent an hour walking northward along a worn trail through the woods. An hour’s walk back home with nothing to show for his exertion seemed stupid. He capitulated. As he handed over the money, he looked over the man’s shoulders. Behind her husband, sitting at the kitchen table, the wife smirked.

  As White tramped back home through the woods, he knew it was time to confront the truth. He was bankrupt. He’d pulled out his handkerchief and mopped the tears from his eyes.

  On his way south, he met Russell, riding towards him on the fine white charger he keeps in the stable on his property. “Want to climb up, White?” he asked. “Beau can easily accommodate your weight. I’m just on my way to Kurt Brunshilde. With all the walking around I do in this new town, I badly need some good solid boots.”

  White recounted his tale of woe to his friend. “I grow angry,” he’d said, “when I think that six years of the prime of my life have been devoted to His Majesty’s service at an expense I can never hope to cover.”

  “Join the band, White. We wretched colonials are in hell. We work day and night, and the Brits in London don’t give a damn about paying us our stipends. You made the point long ago that I had no right to sit as a judge. But I have reappointed myself to the Court of King’s Bench because, as you know, I need the money. I’m administrator here, it’s up to me to make all the decisions, but my remuneration for all this extra work has not increased by one penny.”

  White made no response. He has heard Elmsley rail against Russell’s “damnable presumption” in setting himself up as a judge, and in theory he agrees with the Chief Justice. But he hates the arrogance of the man. Russell is his friend, and in this benighted country friends must stand by each other.

  And it was then that Russell offered him some interesting news. “Powell is bad with the ague,” he said. “Mrs. Powell was over to the house this morning to get some of the bark my sister keeps at the ready.”

  “How bad?” White had asked, his spirits suddenly lifting.

  “The man probably won’t last more than a week or two. Why don’t you write to that brother-in-law of yours and see what he can do for you?”

  “I’d better keep walking,” White had said, “and get the letter written this morning in time for the packet boat for New York.” Not one more word had they spoken, but they both understood the intent of the discussion.

  He had picked up his pace then, leaping over the rocks in his path, focusing on that ray of hope offered him by Powell’s possible demise.

  * * *

  Now White pulls a sheet of fine linen paper from the drawer of his desk. Powell, as puisne judge of the Court of King’s Bench, makes twice as much as White’s stipend, and he does not have to scrape pennies from private practice and allotment of land grants.

  He dips his quill into the inkwell, chews at the feathered end for a moment or two and then writes.

  My dear Sam:

  I write to you in great haste. Mr. Justice Powell is seriously ill. If there should be the misfortune of his death, I hope you will solicit his office for me as I understand the salary is seven hundred and fifty pounds per annum.

  I am forever out of pocket doing the King’s business. I cannot live in this place on four hundred pounds. Everything that makes life supportable here must be brought in from overseas. Just this morning, I paid a shoemaker seven pounds for shoes and boots.

  There are times when I feel hopeless, disappointed, and without prospect. My life is wretched, and yet there are people in this place who think my situation enviable.

  I received your letter a month ago, but I have not mentioned to Mrs. White your news about the death of her sister. The wilderness here has few charms for her, and I know that the sad tidings would only upset her further.

  Ever yours,

  John White

  He reads the letter, then rereads it. Folds it and seals it. Pulls it open and looks at it again.

  Whiny and despicable. I have come to this: that I hope a worthy man will die so that I can have his position and emolument.

  He seals up the letter again. Looks at his pocket watch. Time to get to the wharf and catch the attention of the crew of the packet boat.

  As he passes the pot-bellied stove, he sees the clerk has fired it up. He opens the front door of the stove, pauses for a moment, and looks at the burning coals within. Then he throws the letter on the coals and watches the flames leap up.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  January 1799

  Marianne comes into the withdrawing room and hands her husband a letter. “I have written to your sister,” she says. “Please affix a seal, and see that it gets overland to New York in time to catch a packet boat to England.”

  She looks at the case clock. “I must see to my gown for tomorrow’s festivities. What a lark!” She laughs as she leaves the room.

  She is in a merry mood for a change. Queen Charlotte’s Birth Day Ball is to be held tomorrow, and she looks forward to the excitement of an evening out. He has agreed to go. It will be held at Government House, and there will be no rent to which he must contribute for a room in a tavern. Subscription balls are à la mode here, and usually in addition to the rent, he must donate several bottles of wine and a cold dish or two to the festivities. But Peter Russell has told him that the cost of the ball tonight will be borne by the government.

  He takes the letter Marianne has given him, folds it, and reaches for the wax. But he is curious to see what news she is sending to his sister. He unfolds the letter and reads it. The first two paragraphs are the usual inconsequential blatherings about her life here. Then he comes to the last paragraph.

  Dear Elizabeth, I ask you to send by earliest post a fashionable bonnet and also whatever is most worn around the waist now.

  The impertinence of the woman to think that there is money to spare for frippery! He throws the letter on the fire. He will say nothing to her. Packet boats go down regularly, especially in these winter months, and if she gets no answer, she will assume her letter is at the bottom of the sea.

  He must at all costs avoid a quarrel which will bring on the headaches that plague him. Best he should go this night to the garrison and enjoy some rum punch. Perhaps he will be able to avoid David Smith, now Surveyor-General, who last night induced him to drink nearly a bottle of port and two bottles of porter. Smith’s beautiful, rich wife has recently died, and the man seeks him out for company and solace. At least that’s what I tell myself: that my drinking with Smith may be excused because the man needs my company.

  Last night’s fit of indulgence was in part brought on by the sight of Justice Powell, large as life, telling a lewd joke at a table in the Mess. The judge seemed thoroughly cured of the shakes and sweats of his ague. He greeted White with warmth, explaining that Miss Russell’s bark remedy had been efficacious in promoting his recovery.

  Soon after that piece of news, White went with Smith to the bar and drank away the rest of the evening.

  But at least that wretched letter I almost sent lies in a pile of ashes. I have risen above the worst of the ignominy that besets me.

  Ellen is in the hallway with his stock in her hand. She knit it for him for Christmas. “Pull it up over your nose, Papa, when the wind blows off the lake. See?” She puts it over her own neck and pulls it up to demonstrate.

  He laughs and pinches her cheek. Miss Russell seems to like the child and has shown her how to knit. As he pulls it over his head and adjusts it around his c
hin, he feels the warmth of the lambs wool and the comfort of Ellen’s solicitude.

  Marianne accosts him as he is donning his greatcoat. “Oh, husband, pray do not wear that powdered wig. Your hair is so abundant, and no fashionable man in London has worn such a wig for several years.”

  She is always harping on London fashions. But he is glad to oblige her in this instance. The wig is itchy, and he will be relieved of the expense of having it cleaned weekly at the barber’s. As he takes it off, she wraps herself into the front of his greatcoat and snuggles against him.

  Things should go well later if I can just keep myself sober enough to enjoy her warm body. “Do not go to bed too early, my dear,” he says, winking at her when he notices Ellen’s attention straying to the location of his gloves on the shelf of the wardrobe.

  In the next minute, William and Charles have also come to the front door to see him off. He notices their wind-burned cheeks. “You have been out on the bay today, boys?” The Russells often take his sons out in their cariole on the ice, and they enjoy the wild rides behind Beau and the upsets into the snowbanks lining the icy path the settlers and the Indians have made.

  “Not Mr. Russell today, Papa!” says William. “We went fox-hunting with Sam Jarvis and his papa. It was so much fun, wasn’t it, Charlie?”

  Charles nods and smiles. Both the boys’ cheeks are round and red as apples.

  Since Idiot Jarvis and his bitch of a wife have finally resettled themselves in York, they have sought “to bring new diversions to the inhabitants of this wretched place,” as Jarvis wrote in a letter to the editor of one of the town’s newspapers, Well, so be it. It’s none of his concern. He and the Jarvises scarcely speak since he now does most of Jarvis’s work and collects—at Russell’s insistence—half the fees that used to go to the lazy bugger.