Duelling in a New World Page 9

  Miss Russell blushes and stammers. “Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . I should come at another time? I see you are dressed to go out.”

  “Perhaps you should forget my last stupid remark and come inside now. We can talk at the table here, and you might like to sample some of Yvette’s stew.”

  “Am I holding you back from business with the Governor?”

  “He can wait. After all, he has kept us all waiting for his return for several months. But I do not wish to seem hard. He and Mrs. Simcoe have had a sad loss this winter with the death of their baby. There are many days when I think of my own little William and my separation from him . . . I grieve . . . though our separation is but temporary.”

  “Mrs. White and your children will join you soon then, sir?”

  “Perhaps. I can say no more at the moment.” He looks around the room. “This house, though adequate for my needs, is scarcely large enough for my wife and three children.”

  There is a long silence. White notices Miss Russell’s blush. Her breathing seems laboured, and her hands are trembling.

  “You are upset about something, ma’am. Can we talk?”

  “I believe you know Mrs. Small, sir?”

  “Yes, of course. One cannot help but know everyone who is in any way connected, however remotely, with the governance of this province.”

  He watches as Miss Russell takes a deep breath. “There are rumours about her, rumours about her, Mr. White, that perhaps . . . perhaps . . . you have not heard.”

  My God, is she about to confront me with my affair with the woman? Best to brazen it out. “I know little about her, though as you know, I have had several dinners with her and Small for which your brother was kind enough to lend me his horse. And without that damned nag I might never have met her.

  Miss Russell’s words come out in a rush. “People be telling me that she was once the mistress of Lord Berkeley of Berkeley Castle in Gloucestershire. He tired of her, and to get rid of her, he paid Mr. Small a mighty sum of money to take her off his hands.”

  “Ah.” So that explains her connection with Berkeley and Small’s grandiose life-style. “Why do you repeat this gossip to me, Miss Russell?”

  “Because . . . because . . . I wanted you to be wary of your to-ings and fro-ings with the woman. You have been a friend to me and—”

  “Unnecessary advice, ma’am. But undoubtedly well intentioned. I thank you.”

  He says no more, sure that anything he might say at this point would make everything worse. The silence deepens. At last, Miss Russell stands up. “I have bothered you with common gossip, sir. I apologize.” Her face grows alarmingly red. “But I am told the woman has procured black snakeroot from the Indians.” She pauses for a minute, then adds in a strangled voice. “You must know what that indicates.”

  “You might better have told this story to Richard Tickell. His liaisons with the lady were . . . well, I shall say no more. It’s only common gossip, as you call it.”

  Miss Russell departs, muttering more apologies.

  I think I pulled that one off well enough. But I am glad Miss Russell told me the rumours and that I got myself rid of the woman without contracting the clap. Black snakeroot, my God. I might have been accused of fathering a child if she had not aborted the foetus. A narrow escape all round. Time for celebration.

  He pours himself a glass of Yvette’s dandelion wine. Amazing how much I’m getting to like the swill. He finishes off a second glass, looks at his pocket watch, and decides it’s time to take off for Navy Hall. Just as he’s put the cork back in the bottle, there comes another knock at his front door.

  Dammit. Now I will be late for the Gov, and he doesn’t take excuses well.

  This time it’s his friend Osgoode standing there smiling at him. He looks as if he has rushed from somewhere. His face is flushed and the wig he always wears is askew, so that a tuft of his fair hair slips out over his ear.

  “Good day,” White says. “This is a pleasant surprise. Come in and join me in a glass of our favourite tipple. I was headed for Navy Hall, but the Gov will just have to wait. My conference with the Chief Justice will be sufficient excuse.” He holds the door wide open and motions his friend inside. “How was the circuit this time?”

  “S..s..same as ever, endless hours with my derrière on King’s Bench, listening to hapless victims defended by hopeless lawyers. Glad I am that you were not with me to hear the palaver those idiots s..s..spewed forth.”

  “By God, Osgoode, I swear I’ll get rid of the incompetents in the judiciary even if I have to kill them off one by one. But there’s surely a brighter day ahead. David Smith and two other men are studying law with me now, and perhaps by the time we do the circuit together again, things will be better.”

  Osgoode’s blue eyes cloud up. “Oh, my friend, there will be no more travels together. That’s why I rushed over here now, though I’m just off the batteau from Kingston. To tell you that I’ve been appointed Chief Justice of the Province of Lower Canada. I leave in thirty days for Montreal and Quebec.”

  For a moment White is speechless. Then he puts his arms around his friend’s shoulders. “Congratulations. I suppose that’s what I must say now. But it’s not what I feel. To tell the truth, I feel such a total loss. How am I to survive the dismal days ahead without your company?”

  “Let us s..s..sit down for a moment and think back to that s..s..sunny day—not all that many months ago—when you and I walked from Gananoque to Kingston. Then you told me you had never been happier—”

  “I remember. I felt like that bronze statue of the satyr—”

  “Free, ready for new adventures . . . What has happened, friend?”

  “So much. Penury because of my stipend that never arrives from the Colonial Office in spite of the Gov’s admonitions to the bastards . . . the broken judicial system in this place . . . the spiteful revenge that Jarvis and his wife took upon me . . . “ I can’t say a word to anyone about that wretched liaison with Mrs. Small.

  “All difficult to bear. But let us think now of happy things. I sent a note to the Governor recommending that you take my place as Chief Justice of Upper Canada. My pay comes through regularly, you know that, and in addition to increased wages, you will have the prestige of being the Great Poobah on King’s Bench. Think of it, man. Does it not s..s..seem grand?”

  More than I could ever have dreamed of. He clasps his friend’s hand. “How can I thank you?”

  “By turning yourself into Mr. S..S..Satyr again. That will be my recompense.” Osgoode stands up. “Come, let us walk together to Navy Hall.”

  Chapter Twenty

  June 1794

  Eliza Russell adds a diamond brooch pin to the front of her gown, looks at herself in the mirror over her bureau, and removes it. It calls attention to her skimpy bosom of which too much (too little, really) is visible in the new styles Mr. Hamilton peddles in his emporium. “Grecian” is the word he uses.

  She has not yet been able to find a lady’s maid to assist her in dressing, so she is thankful when Mary comes in to help her. “Your hair, Aunt,” the child says, “what are we to do about your hair?”

  Eliza sighs. “That bad, is it?”

  “No, Aunt. I have an idea. I’ll just pull it back from your forehead, and we’ll pin these plumes into it. Voilà!” She produces two enormous pink-dyed ostrich feathers which she has been hiding behind her.

  “Good heavens, child! Where did these come from?”

  “Mr. White. He left them with Job early this morning while you and I were in the shed churning butter.”

  “Why would he give us this gift?”

  “I think they’re for you, Aunt. He told Job he wanted to thank you for the advice you gave him. What was that all about?”

  “Oh, I gave him a bottle of Job’s yeast so that cook of his could bake him some decent bread.” So I wasn’t wrong about him and Mrs. Small. I’m mighty pleased I went over to warn him.

  Mary succeeds in a-fixing the plumes ont
o her head with pins. Then the child takes the diamond brooch pin from the dresser and clamps it at the front of her head at the bottom of the plumes. “Now, look at yourself in the mirror. You’re a swell. Mrs. Simcoe will be gobsmacked.”

  Eliza does as she is bid. The feathers and the pin do draw the eye upwards, away from her skimpy bosom. “You don’t think I resemble one of those herons in the swamp?”

  Mary considers, her small index finger on her chin. “Not really, they’re blue and you’re pink.” Her laugh transmutes into a cough. “I’ll go and sit on the stoop in the fresh air until the guests arrive.”

  The air is a bit smoky from the open hearth on which Job has been cooking since early morning. Fortunately the air is warm, so they will not have to light the fires in the withdrawing room or the dining room. The clock on the dining-room mantel strikes four. Almost time for her guests to arrive. She has planned a farewell meal for Mr. Osgoode who has been a pleasant friend to her and her brother since she first met him on the voyage from England with the Simcoes and Mr. White.

  Eliza surveys the table with pleasure. She has put a fine linen cloth upon it, and set six places with the Worcester floral china she ordered in from Mr. Hamilton. In the middle of the table is a sterling silver epergne, the crystal dishes filled with the wild strawberries she picked in the woods behind their grand new home. Though dear Peter has grumbled about the expense of today’s meal, she knows he will be mighty pleased when he sees the elegant effect.

  The guest of honour, Mr. Osgoode, arrives first, followed shortly thereafter by Mr. White. Eliza is always interested to see what Mr. White is wearing. She hopes she can encourage dear Peter to move into some new styles. This afternoon, her friend is mighty smart in his fancy formal silk suit with tight breeches. He’s wound his cravat twice around his neck and tied it in a neat knot under his chin. Mr. Osgoode is in his usual dining-out garb: a double-breasted frock coat, rather worn, of dark-blue wool.

  She has just poured them glasses of sherry when Peter comes into the withdrawing room to greet his guests. He pours sherry for himself and has started to sip it when Job announces the arrival of Governor Simcoe and his lady.

  The Governor seems to be in a pet. His hair is wild and his white waistcoat needs a tug-down. He starts to say something which Eliza can’t quite understand, and she notices Mrs. Simcoe put her hand on his arm and point to the table setting.

  “Look, my dear,” she says. “Has not Miss Russell accomplished wonders in the short time she has been in her new house? What a lovely farewell meal for Mr. Osgoode!”

  The Governor seems to recover himself. He adjusts his waistcoat and smooths back his hair. “Yes, ma’am,” he says to Eliza, “I look forward to what you will serve up on those fine plates.”

  But in spite of his efforts to be civil, Eliza sees he’s upset. She feels he would be the better for getting right to his food. She rings a small brass bell she brought with her from England, and Job appears with the beef stew and the chicken breasts with apples and sets them on the walnut sideboard where they can help themselves to what they want. There are some new green peas from her kitchen garden as well, and she surveys them complacently, knowing that they will be a tasty addition to the inevitable squash in a serving dish beside them.

  “I fear your farm has been sadly depleted in the preparation of this meal,” Mrs. Simcoe says, putting two large spoonfuls of peas onto her plate.

  “All for a good cause, ma’am,” Eliza says. “My chickens gave up their lives gladly. Mighty pleased they were to take their part in our farewell for Mr. Osgoode.”

  Job has poured the claret into everyone’s glasses and when all are seated, Peter stands to deliver a toast. Eliza has always liked his deep bass voice, and he uses it to good effect as he wishes Mr. Osgoode Godspeed. But as he winds up, he pauses a moment. “There was a line from the Book of Matthew I meant to look up, Osgoode, but I’ll have to wait until we adjourn after this fine meal my sister has prepared.” He looks towards the withdrawing room.

  Oh my, there will be a to-do when he opens that Bible and sees what I have planted between those pages.

  “Oh, Uncle Peter, I’ll be St. Matthew, if you will permit me,” Mary says from her seat between Mr. Osgoode and Mr. White.

  Peter frowns at first, perhaps upset to be thrown down by a girl of twelve. But he rallies and says, “Of course, my dear.”

  “Matthew 25: verse 21. ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. Thou hast been faithful over a few things. I will make thee ruler over many things.’”

  Everyone claps and glasses clink as they all repeat Matthew’s words as served up by little Mary. “Your niece is a credit to you and your sister, Mr. Russell,” Mrs. Simcoe says.

  Now Peter is smiling, mighty glad to take credit for the girl’s learning. And she’s freed me up from a set-to, thank the Lord.

  The meal proceeds. Everyone tucks into the chicken with apples, and Eliza realizes that her idea of beef stew was not a good one. Perhaps it’s because of the fish stew that everyone eats in this place: whitefish from the river with potatoes and carrots day in, day out, all year. Why would they want beef with potatoes and carrots when they dine out?

  Mrs. Simcoe, who’s seated at Eliza’s right, has taken a bite of stew, but now has shoved it to one side of her plate and is gobbling the chicken. The lady has a good appetite for a body so small. Withal she seems remarkably calm and cheerful, considering that she is still in mourning for the loss of her baby daughter. Eliza looks at the plain black dress she is wearing.

  Seeing the menfolk intent on some topic of conversation, Eliza reaches out her hand and touches the lady’s arm. “You are brave, ma’am. You put me to the blush.”

  “Why, Miss Russell?”

  “These silly pink plumes in my hair. As I readied myself for this evening, I never once thought of your situation, ma’am. Please forgive my excess.”

  Mrs. Simcoe smiles and pats Eliza’s hand. She is about to say something when there is a loud outburst from the other end of the table. “Damn, damn, damn Dorchester!”

  The Governor has just barked, and everyone must stop eating and listen. “He’s a fool. Ordered me to rebuild that fort on the Maumee River which we Brits abandoned at the end of our last war with the Yankees. I gave every excuse for not obeying orders. But at last I had to cave in. The nerve of the man!”

  I have not a clue what the Governor’s talking about. What can I say?

  Mrs. Simcoe leans over and speaks into her ear. “My husband tells me that it’s certain to stir up the Americans. Rebuilding a British fort on American territory! Imagine how we would feel if they came across the river into Upper Canada and built a fort right under our noses.”

  “There’ll be war unless the commander of the fort can manage to keep the peace. And here we are, a stone’s throw across the river from Fort Niagara. Which was supposed to be handed back to the Yankees in 1783. Yes, 1783!” The Governor throws his napkin onto the table. For a moment, Eliza wonders if he’s going to leave the room and go to Navy Hall to wait for the cannonade from the Yankee side.

  “War, Governor?” Mr. Osgoode says. “Then perhaps it’s good fortune that has called me to Lower Canada at this time.”

  “I’m sending my wife and the children to Quebec to be out of the fray,” Simcoe says, “and I intend to establish a new capital at York. This damned place is doomed.”

  Mr. White pushes his plate away, his stew untouched. “Sir, I have just spent my last penny on my new house. What’s to be done?”

  “Off to York with you, White. That must be obvious.”

  Oh that uppity man. To-ings and fro-ings whenever and wherever he orders.

  “We are to sell this place we have just built here on the commons, Excellency?” Peter asks. “You must know that I too have expended hundreds of pounds establishing myself and my sister and niece here in this commodious house.” His voice is loud.

  Eliza knows now that she must speak up. “There will be a to-do for certain, G
overnor, when your administration hears this. Mr. Smith has a fine house now, and Mr. Jarvis, too. Since we came to this place that God had forsaken, we have firmed up a respectable settlement worthy to be called the capital of this province.” As Eliza makes this statement, she feels herself put to the blush, but she cannot stop herself from speaking. “You, sir, may find yourself able to live in a canvas house, but we cannot.”

  Mary starts to cry. Her tears bring back the cough which plagues her constantly. She puts her napkin to her mouth and runs from the table.

  “My dear,” Mrs. Simcoe says, addressing her husband. “This news has upset everyone. Is it not possible to talk of something else?” In the silence that follows, broken only by the coughs from the bedchamber, she asks, “Perhaps, Mr. Russell, you did not hear the sad news about Mr. Tickell?”

  “Just today, ma’am, my sister and I heard from Job that Mr. Tickell had drowned. He got the news from those bumpkins that hover at Field’s Tavern.”

  “Drowned?” Mr. White says. “It’s only days ago that he avoided duelling with Jarvis, thanks to your intervention, Russell. Can this be true?”

  “Yes. He was on a batteau in Lake Erie. A gale carried the boat over the bounds of the lake into a swamp. He tried to wade through the swamp, as I understand it, but his strength gave out. A soldier from the batteau tried to help him, but he could only watch as Tickell disappeared into the slough.”

  “You will excuse my saying so, Russell, but I do not mourn his loss,” Mr. White replies, pulling his plate of stew towards him and taking a mouthful.

  “Regrettable, but insignificant indeed,” the Governor says. “We must focus on important issues. My duty now is to establish the new capital at York and keep my administration safe from the damned Yankees.” He picks up his glass, then drops it, spilling its contents down his waistcoat and onto the tablecloth. He utters a loud yelp, like one of those coyotes Eliza hears in the bush behind their dwelling.