Wishful Seeing

by Janet Kellough

  Martha wrinkled her nose in distaste. “James pays a little too much attention.”

  Ashby looked at her and grinned. “Is that the gentleman who came running the other day? He’s an admirer, is he?” He glanced at Thaddeus. “There’s rather a lot of that going around, isn’t there?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned, he isn’t,” Martha retorted.

  Thaddeus was relieved that Martha had not caught the inference. Ashby had obviously formed an opinion about why Thaddeus had been so anxious to find a lawyer for Ellen Howell. And if Ashby had reached that conclusion, who else had as well? Thaddeus felt quite ill, and wondered if he should curtail his visits to the Cobourg jail. But how could he leave Mrs. Howell sitting there friendless and alone? He had promised to return and read to her. He would have to make sure he was absolutely circumspect in all his dealings with her, that was all. His actions must give no weight to any speculation about his motives.

  To Thaddeus’s relief, Ashby quickly turned the conversation back to the investigation. “Fancy a little list-checking, Miss Martha?”

  “I’d be happy to. What would you like me to check?”

  “You said that George Howell travels a lot on business, is that right, Mr. Lewis?”

  “Yes.” And then he realized what Ashby was getting at. “Oh. His name would turn up on the passenger lists, wouldn’t it? And it would be interesting to see who else is there.”

  “Precisely. Maybe we can find a connection to Sherman.”

  If Howell had crossed the lake, his name would most certainly have been recorded, Thaddeus knew. Even back in ’47, when thousands of sick and starving Irish had flooded down the St. Lawrence and along the north shore of Lake Ontario, the steamer companies and immigration agents had recorded names and destinations. It had taken a great deal of subterfuge to get access to them, though.

  “I can subpoena the records for the last couple of years,” Ashby said. “Then perhaps Martha here would be good enough to go through them.”

  If it was going to be as easy as that, Thaddeus was grateful that the barrister was involved. He had access to far more useful tools than the average person.

  “What do you need me to do?” Thaddeus asked.

  “I’m convinced Ellen Howell is protecting someone. You’re a regular visitor at the gaol?”

  “He’s reading to her,” Martha said. “Jane Austen.”

  “Really?” The lawyer’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “How romantic. In between the chapters, see if you can find out what she knows.”

  “I can scarcely interrogate her,” Thaddeus protested. “I’m there as a friend.”

  “Well, ask her in a friendly manner. Be subtle.”

  Martha began to laugh. “Oh dear,” she said. “Have you read much Austen? It’s hardly material that lends itself to the topic of murder.”

  “Oh.” Ashby seemed a little taken aback. “No, I haven’t. Oh well, see what you can do.”

  “It would be nice to know the whereabouts of Jack Plews — the farmer who got bought out — on the day of the murder,” Thaddeus said, desperate to steer the conversation away from his activities at the gaol.

  “Yes. And whatever else you can find out about him as well.”

  “I’ll talk to Old Mrs. Gordon. She seems to know everything about everybody in Sully.”

  “Good.” And then Ashby froze for a moment, once again lost in thought. “You know, it would be nice if you could get close enough to the daughter to ask her a question or two about what her father was up to.”

  “I’ll try,” Thaddeus said. “But I’m not promising anything.”

  “Take Martha with you. Maybe that will help.”

  V

  Thaddeus had a great deal of difficulty sleeping that night. He would doze off, then come suddenly awake, his mind whirling with the details of the evening’s discussion. He would go over and over what they knew and what they suspected, what they needed to find out and what they might never know, but eventually, inevitably, his thoughts would come circling back to Ashby’s remarks. “Is he an admirer?” he’d asked of James Small. And then the sidelong look. “There’s a lot of that going around, isn’t there?” “How romantic,” he’d remarked when Martha mentioned what Thaddeus was reading to Ellen Howell.

  Was it romantic? Thaddeus had to admit that he wasn’t sure.

  It couldn’t be, he told himself. Ellen Howell was a married woman, and even though her husband had disappeared, leaving her in a mess of trouble, he was, still, in the eyes of God and man, her husband.

  Thaddeus had broken many commandments in his time. After his stint in the militia during Mr. Madison’s War of 1812, he had disregarded the Sabbath many times, preferring the comfort of a bottle of whiskey to the solace of God’s Word. He had once been drunk for a stretch of fifty-one days in a row. He had taken God’s name in vain with regularity. He had killed. It had been in war, of course, not a cold-blooded act, but it was killing all the same, a stealing away of another man’s life. He’d had no interest in anything but a dissolute life until he’d met Betsy. He had bargained with God so that he might have her.

  The one commandment he’d thought he would never break was that of coveting his neighbour’s wife. Why would he, when he already had the best wife, the most wondrous wife that a man could have? No one else had ever tempted him, although many had tried.

  After Betsy died, he had been in a state of deep mourning for a long time. He had withdrawn into himself and mumbled over his memories. Yes, he had prayed to God as well, but he’d known in his heart that death had been a kindness for Betsy, and believed that one who had been so true and so brave and so loving must surely have been welcomed into heaven. He had mourned for himself more than anything, and had emerged from the dark place he was in only when he was called upon to take some action. It had been his son, Luke, who had awakened him. Together they embarked upon an adventure that had nearly killed them both. Ironically, it had made Thaddeus feel alive again.

  But when all the excitement died down, he was left with one indisputable fact — he was lonely. Hints were dropped, after a suitable period of time, of course. He knew his family wondered if he would marry again. It was not so uncommon. He was only fifty-nine, after all, with only a few streaks of grey in his hair. Some people married two or three times in the course of their lives, after their spouses had been carried off by accident or illness. Thaddeus knew that there were any number of widows who eyed him speculatively whenever he walked into a meeting. None of them stirred his interest for a moment, and he ignored them all. He thought he would never want anyone after Betsy.

  Until he met Ellen Howell. And Ellen Howell was impossible.

  He would pray to God for guidance, except that he already knew what the answer would be. What God has joined together let no man put asunder. So many times he’d said these words to fresh young faces standing before him, believing it as he said it, trusting in the sacred sacrament that bound the pair together. And yet, and yet, he wanted to protest, what about the other promises made? To comfort, to honour, to keep in sickness and in health? George Howell had done none of these for his wife. To be faithful as long as you both shall live. There was the sting in the tail. He could not argue that dereliction of one part of the sacred vow allowed a disregard for the rest. Otherwise, he was no better than the Baptist minister who wanted to pick and choose his Bible verses.

  He must set his feelings aside and treat Ellen Howell as a friend. And even as he decided this, Thaddeus knew what his advice would have been to anyone else: remove the temptation and do not treat at all. But having set a certain train of events in motion, how could he abandon her now? He had to see it through. And then, one way or another, he would put Ellen Howell out of his mind.

  The next afternoon Thaddeus brushed down his coat, tucked his copy of Mansfield Park into his pocket, and set off for the Cobourg courthouse. In spite of h
is emotional turmoil of the night before, he found his spirits lifting the closer he got to the gaol. The simple fact was, he enjoyed the hours he spent with Ellen, even though they seldom talked much beyond a discussion of the book. She was good company, even in the odd circumstances of their meetings.

  The gaoler let him through, then settled himself in a chair that he had set halfway down the hallway. He looked at Thaddeus sheepishly. “I can’t help but hear some of what you’re reading. The sound echoes right down the hall. I thought I’d move a little closer so I can get it all.”

  “That’s fine,” Thaddeus said. “Are you enjoying the story?”

  “Well, now, I have to say I am, sort of, except for the parts I didn’t quite catch and some of the words I don’t understand. I can’t say as to how I’ve ever heard a story like that before.”

  “Me neither. But the lady likes it. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Clayton Palmer.”

  “Well, Mr. Palmer, I’ll endeavour to speak clearly, so you can be sure to hear it all.”

  “That would be a fine thing. The rest of the boys in the place want to hear you, too, but sometimes they miss a bit if your voice drops too low.”

  Thaddeus was suddenly alert. He hadn’t realized that everyone else in the cell block could hear him. And if they could hear him, they almost certainly could hear Ellen.

  She beamed when she saw his face in the doorway, as if she had persuaded herself that he wouldn’t come after all, and was surprised and delighted that he would show up as promised.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “In great need of diversion,” she said. “The closer it gets to the trial, the more slowly the time seems to go by.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep you entertained today. Unfor­tunately, I’m off on business again tomorrow.”

  He was rewarded by a look of disappointment. “Do you think we’ll finish the book before the trial?” she asked.

  “No. But you can always finish it yourself afterward.”

  “I doubt that will be possible. Mr. Ashby was here again this morning. He seems quite frustrated that I have no information that he can use to his advantage.”

  Thaddeus chose his next words carefully. “Whatever information you have will be used in your defence, you know. If you have any, you should vouchsafe it to him. It’s not for his advantage, but for yours.”

  She pursed her lips as she considered this. “No, I rather think the advantage is Mr. Ashby’s.” And then, before Thaddeus could say anything more, she went on. “In any event, I have none, so it’s rather a moot point, isn’t it? Are you going to read to me today or not?”

  She must know how well the sound carries in here, he thought. She can hear the others as well as they can hear her. He must remember to warn Ashby. In any event, there was no point in Thaddeus trying to shake loose any information — she would remain resolutely mum, especially with the keeper sitting just down the hall.

  He opened Mansfield Park and began to read.

  Up until that point in the book, Thaddeus had been quite scornful of the life it depicted. He found the characters shallow and astoundingly idle. None of them seemed to do much of anything except cater to their own pleasures, so he was somewhat surprised when the younger son, who was destined for the church, proclaimed that it was, in fact, his decision and desire to pursue this vocation, and that the appointment was not merely one of convenience. One of the young women challenged his declaration.

  Oh! No doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income readymade, to the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease — a want of all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing to do but to be slovenly and selfish — read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of life is to dine.

  Ellen began to laugh. “Oh, poor Mr. Lewis! So this is what people think of you!”

  “It’s not the same thing,” he protested. And then he realized that she was teasing him. “I never quarrelled with my wife.”

  “Ah, but more to the point, does she have a quarrel with you?”

  “She might have, once or twice, when I was being particularly disagreeable. Sadly, she’s no longer here to quarrel with.”

  Her face softened. “I am so sorry,” she said, “I didn’t know. Is it a recent loss?”

  “Six years ago now. I still miss her. It ambushes me at odd moments. She stood by me through some rather desperate times.”

  And then he realized what he had said. This woman’s husband was pointedly not standing by his spouse. He had run off and left her to face the consequences of what he had done. Thaddeus went on hurriedly to cover the awkwardness. “The life of a Methodist minister in Canada is very different from that of an Anglican clergyman in England, you know. There’s very little fine dining and not much ease. I always read newspapers, but watching the weather is something I do not for amusement but because I need to know whether or not I’ll be able to travel the next day.”

  “It’s not exactly a ready-made income, either, is it? I don’t believe such a thing exists in Canada.”

  “Not for many,” Thaddeus agreed. “Most of us are on our own.”

  And then he returned to reading about the vicissitudes of the landed gentry.

  When the gaoler called that their time was up, Thaddeus closed the book.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to come for the next few days,” he said, “but I should be back before the trial begins.” He needed a day to go to the Howells’ farm, and three days after that to cover his share of meetings.

  “I’m grateful for whatever time you can spare. I really don’t know how to thank you for all that you’ve done for me.”

  “It has been my pleasure,” Thaddeus said. He felt that he had never spoken truer words.

  Martha was thrilled to be going somewhere with her grand­father. She had grown up with tales of his adventures — of the places he had been and the people he had known, of how he had waded through snowdrifts and fast-running rivers, of how he had wrestled hecklers to the ground at camp meetings. He had told her many of these stories himself. But there were other stories, too, told only in hints by her grandmother but in far more detail by her father and her neighbours. These were darker and more concerned with murder and theft and nefarious deeds, and Thaddeus was a hero in every single one of them. She herself had been threatened by a murderer once, but she had been an infant at the time and remembered none of it. And here he was again, in the middle of an adventure, but this time she would march into danger by his side. Not that there would be any danger, she corrected herself. All they had to do was gain the confidence of a wary twelve-year-old, but still, it was a far cry from the constant drudgery of housework or the incessant drone of the classroom.

  “If you can find the girl, try to bring her here,” Ashby had said. “I’d surely like to talk to her before anyone else does, if only to make her understand that I represent her as well as her mother, and that she needn’t say a word if the constable decides to question her.”

  “Why would they? Everyone in the neighbourhood knows she’s still at the farm and no one’s asked her a question yet, as far as I know,” Thaddeus pointed out.

  “Let’s make sure we keep it that way.” And then Ashby said the most wonderful, most amazing thing: “Take Martha with you.”

  It was amazing on several counts. Amazing that he would suggest it. Amazing that her grandfather hadn’t objected. And amazing that she was no longer “Miss Renwell,” but had somehow become the more familiar, more intimate “Martha.”

  There had been discussion about just how, exactly, they were going to
go north. Martha had no experience with horses and Thaddeus was concerned that a novice rider would not last long over such rough roads.

  “Perhaps you could borrow the Small’s wagon?” she ventured finally, desperate that such an exciting opportunity might be slipping away in the details. “That way if we do manage to persuade the girl to come to Cobourg, we’ll have a way to get her here.”

  Ashby laughed. “Ah, Martha. Practical as always.”

  Thaddeus was dubious. “The only way that old wagon made it all the way to Cold Springs is because there were a passel of Small brothers to push it up the hills. We’d never make it on our own. I suspect the best thing is to hire the lightest rig and the steadiest horse I can. Then Martha can drive and I can push, if necessary.”

  “I’ll pack some food so we can have breakfast along the way,” Martha said quickly, before her grandfather could reconsider his decision.

  “Excellent idea. Don’t bring too much, though. I’d like to go to the Gordons first and they’re sure to want to feed us. I’m hoping I can persuade Leland to come to the Howell farm with us.” He turned to Ashby. “The girl knows him. It might make her a little more approachable.”

  Ashby was ticking items off the list he had written down. “I’ll get the steamship lists and have them delivered here. And I’ll see if I can light a fire under my friend who’s looking into land titles. Let me know as soon as you’re back. You know where to find me.”

  “Yes,” Thaddeus said. “In the saloon at the Globe Hotel.”

  Ashby appeared not to notice the dig, and continued scribbling things down on his list of things to do.

  Martha spent the morning fussing over what she should wear. After the excursion to the Cold Springs meeting, her Sunday-best dress had been stained and covered in dust and it had taken a great deal of sponging to get it clean again. She didn’t want to run the risk of further damage to it, but at the same time she wanted to look presentable for the Gordons — after all, they were supporters of the church and would be sure to remark on the appearance of their minister’s granddaughter, so it behooved her to put her best foot forward. On the other hand, if something exciting happened, she didn’t want to be sidelined by worry over whether or not she was going to get her dress dirty.