Solemn Vows (Marc Edwards)

by Don Gutteridge

  “Is Colin home?” Marc asked her.

  The Widow Standish leaned forward with both hands on her broomstick. “He was, Lieutenant. But he’s left—and in such a state!”

  “He’d not been drinking?”

  She sighed: “No, sir, I could not say he had. But he was unforgivably rude to me, he threw his clothes all over his room, and on his way out he give Maisie such a snub as left her sobbing for an hour in the laundry shed.”

  Marc was beginning to tire of defending the young man he had taken under his wing, but he said, “Colin’s had a frustrating week chaperoning the governor’s ward when he was promised better things. Then yesterday, as you’ve heard, he was part of the heroic troop that tracked down and shot Mr. Moncreiff’s killer. Now he has nothing before him but returning to his routine duties at Government House on Monday morning. And he tends to get upset over such disappointments—”

  “More like a little boy throwing a tantrum, I’d say.”

  “And I daresay you are right, Mrs. Standish.”

  AS HE BEGAN DRESSING for the gala, Marc realized that he had sleepwalked through the day’s events. His failure to live up to Beth’s expectations, Eliza’s rejection of his proposal (did she know more about him and Beth than he had supposed? Could she herself have arranged to leave because of what she knew?), his abject behaviour before a superior whose ethics (not to speak of his dubious sanity) he found repugnant, and his cowardly acquiescence in the whole sordid cover-up of the Rumsey affair—all these less than sterling actions had left him benumbed, devoid of passion and commitment.

  Even worse was the fact that both his superior officers and those he commanded viewed him as an exemplary soldier, and could not stop pouring praise in his direction. It had been his efforts, they had said repeatedly, that had pointed the finger at Rumsey on the very day of the murder, his strategy that had set up the spy system at Danby’s Crossing and the Tinker’s Dam, leading to Rumsey’s being spotted yesterday (Cobb was a mere cipher in all of this), his quick thinking and courage at the cabin that had spooked the fugitive and sent him scuttling to the docks, and his intuition that had forecast the precise pier to which the villain would flee. He might even be made a captain.

  It was little wonder, then, that Marc found he was unable to concern himself with Colin’s moods, perceived slights, and childish disappointments. Willoughby would just have to face the stern realities of being adult and conscionable like everybody else. After all, what had he to complain about compared to someone like Beth Smallman, who had lost a husband and a much-loved father-in-law in the same year, who had been left with a farm and a crippled brother to raise alone in the semi-wilderness? Or Eliza Dewart-Smythe, rich heiress that she was, who had been orphaned at three and raised by a succession of uncles more attached to the wine business than parenting, and who had been bitterly disappointed in love (had it been a fortune-hunter pretending to be a lover?) and had come two thousand miles to an outpost of civilization to learn a man’s business and compete in a man’s world? To hell with Willoughby! Let him take care of himself.

  On his way out, he gave Maisie a warm smile, and was rewarded when her face lit up and she blushed prettily.

  THE PROVINCIAL ARISTOCRACY was out in full force and gay panoply. Tory gentlemen and their wives from London, Brantford, Cobourg, and every place in between had come into the capital a day or two before the event and set themselves up in comfort at the best Toronto hotels and inns or had descended upon wary relatives with spacious abodes in town. In one way or another, all this had been part of Sir Francis Head’s strategy for the elite to take back the political powers of which they had been indignantly deprived in the elections of 1834 and upon which they had hereditary claim.

  Every carriage and horse-drawn vehicle in York County and beyond had been commandeered for the purpose of conveying the eighty-some guests to the magnificent residence of Mr. and Mrs. Ignatius Maxwell (and daughter) along a route that would give them the widest exposure for their ostentation and the least discomfort for their behinds. Most of them connived to promenade at least part of the way westwards along fashionable King Street, where the hoi polloi cheered and jeered them with equal vigour. And since more than a dozen handsome officers of the 24th Regiment of Foot had been included in the guest list and since such officers were necessarily resplendent in scarlet or green and gold with high, feathered shako caps, those with the most important carriages and the showiest horses contrived to pick up one or more of these trophies, adding both colour and sex appeal to their equipage.

  Marc chose to walk. He went down Peter Street to Front, where, dangling from a flagpole in front of the Toronto Hotel, was a crude effigy of Philo Rumsey, his neck well wrung by a hangman’s noose. They would, it appeared, be celebrating more than a patently successful electoral campaign tonight. For a block around Somerset House, the streets were bustling with stomping horses, beleaguered grooms and footmen, and of course gorgeously arrayed women and rigidly handsome gentlemen moving in stately file up the stone steps of the great neo-Gothic house. Sir Francis stood beside Prudence and Ignatius Maxwell on its lush portico and accepted fealty in the form of curtsy and bow from the guests. All this house needs is a moat, Marc thought uncharitably. He was surprised to see several moderate Reformers among the guests, including Robert Baldwin and Francis Hincks.

  As he made his way politely along the reception line, Prudence Maxwell leaned over to him and whispered, “I’ve put you down for the waltz later on, Lieutenant—when the party’s had a chance to warm up.”

  MARC WAS A NATURAL and, on most occasions, an enthusiastic dancer. He was glad this was so, for it enabled him to coast through the main part of the evening in a not-unpleasant, near-narcotic state. Riding the rhythms of the music (the orchestra in the ornate mezzanine of the enormous, tall-windowed ballroom was the best money could assemble) and tripping through the formal configurations of the set-piece dances, he was able to smile and utter brief, meaningless pleasantries as fingers touched and hips brushed and eyes locked—while his thoughts and feelings floated free in their own misery-laden ether. Indeed, it was only by reference to his dance card that he could be sure he had actually partnered Angeline Hartley, Chastity Maxwell, and half a dozen other belles whose names he was expected to remember. When he somewhat reluctantly went over to Prudence to fulfill his commitment to the waltz, he was surprised that she glided out onto the floor like a proper chatelaine, made light but coherent conversation, and barely looked him in the eye. Her own eyes, however, were beginning to sparkle like the Champagne fuelling them, and Marc hoped for her sake that she would make it through the evening with her hostess’s dignity intact.

  When the requisite and preordained dances were complete, the orchestra took a break, and the grand ladies and gentlemen repaired variously to the sweetmeats-and-Champagne tables or to the powder rooms tucked away behind a huge screen of intersecting Persian rugs. Within minutes, natural groupings had formed and were from time to time reformed as boredom or more avid passions took precedence.

  Without a lot of real interest, Marc stood well aside and observed the to-ing and fro-ing. He noticed that Willoughby (who had arrived late and scrupulously avoided him all evening) was paying much attention to Chastity Maxwell. Could Colin have been the officer secretly courting her? It was possible. Colin had definitely been seeing some woman or women in the past week or so: Mrs. Standish’s instincts in that regard were near infallible. Hilliard, who had arrived with Angeline, had danced with her at least three times and was now plying her recklessly with Champagne while the governor’s gaze was averted. Marc decided to keep his own watch on the couple. He liked Hilliard, who was as ambitious as he himself was, and did not wish to see him jeopardize his career so foolishly. Prudence Maxwell, tulip glass in hand, was chatting with Chief Justice Robinson and his sturdy wife, while her own husband was in a far corner, his mutton chops caressing the cleavage of a debutante from the hinterland. When the justice and his spouse took their leave, Prude
nce made a wobbly beeline for the drinks table.

  When the orchestra returned and struck up a lancers tune, those guests with youthful energies took up the challenge. Without the strictures of the dance card, men and women were free to partner as caprice propelled them. Liaisons or the promise of such were made, coyly retracted, then reinstated with a coquettish smile or an extra squeeze of hip or fingertip. Hilliard stuck close to Angeline (or she to him, it was hard to tell). Willoughby had disappeared but not, Marc was relieved to see, with Chastity—who was keeping a daughterly eye on her mother. For Prudence, still counting herself among the vigorous, had tottered into a square, tumbled against a startled ensign, and, in breaking her fall, had latched on to a part of him generally reserved for his own use. Chastity and another woman—whom Marc took to be Flora Moncreiff, her aunt—assisted Prudence towards the powder rooms, but she put up such a fuss that they had to be satisfied with sitting her down on a chair, where she slumped like a punched puppet. Ignatius Maxwell was nowhere in sight. Nor was the debutante.

  Marc wanted very much to leave all of this—the superficiality and the melodrama and the picayune rivalries. But he was genuinely concerned about Prudence, and Chastity too. God knows where Maxwell had spirited his young woman or what he was planning to do with her. Prudence was undoubtedly aware of her husband’s philandering, but the humiliation of his carrying on at a gala of which he was host and which the governor himself had sanctioned as a celebration of sorts could well prove too much. He expected her at any moment to start proclaiming her mate’s apostasy before the assembled pillars of the community. And with a voice like hers, the deafest dowager in the hall would soon know all.

  Fortunately, the frolic was almost over. The last dance had been announced. Marc took the opportunity to sidle over to Chastity and say quickly, “If you need any help with your mother, please call on me. I’ll stay till the end, if you like.”

  Chastity smiled gratefully. “Thank you. She’s almost asleep in her chair, thank God.” Marc moved a discreet distance away, and noticed that Chastity was looking anxiously around the ballroom for someone—her truant father, or Willoughby?

  The dance was now over, and the revellers began to make their way to the vestibule with its dazzling chandelier and majestic oaken doors. The commotion of footmen, grooms, and restless horses could be heard outside in the summer air. The butler, Jacques, and his conscripted underlings were busy sorting out wraps and hats and gloves, and bowing curtly at increasingly rapid intervals. Several of the regular servants had begun snuffing out the candles, and the big room began to darken by degrees. Looking weary and bored, Sir Francis stood on the porch and bade farewell to all and sundry. Marc hung back until he saw Chastity and her black-robed aunt lift the near-comatose Prudence towards the rear exit, which led to the women’s apartments beyond.

  He was just about to depart when Ignatius Maxwell clapped him on the shoulder and said heartily, “Do join the governor and me for a nightcap and a cigar, young man. We hear you are the toast of the town!”

  IF SIR FRANCIS WAS WORRIED about his eccentric behaviour yesterday evening, he showed no sign of it during the twenty minutes or so that he and Marc and Maxwell spent in casual conversation in the receiver general’s den in the wing of Somerset House reserved for his use—and any privacy he might require from time to time. Obviously, the governor still had full confidence in his aide-de-camp. Marc endured their compliments as best he could, taking refuge in the French brandy and a West Indian cigar.

  “And I must tell you, Ignatius—confidentially, of course—that I intend to make this young Turk here my military secretary as well as principal aide-de-camp. Poor old Burns will be ready for half-pay within the month. But Marc here—”

  Marc was on the verge of a protest—just how he might have worded it he would never know—when Sir Francis suddenly pitched forward in his chair. Maxwell caught him before he toppled to the floor.

  “It’s nothing, nothing,” the governor mumbled. “A bit too much Champagne and one too many cigars.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?” Maxwell said with some alarm.

  Marc’s alarm was as real as Maxwell’s but had more sinister sources: was this another attempt? Was the madman still loose and determined to have his way? Marc cursed himself for having been so caught up in his own personal problems that he had not bothered to keep a close eye on the very man whose safety was his foremost responsibility. How simple it would have been for an assassin to slip something poisonous into one of Sir Francis’s drinks amid the noise and bustle of the gala!

  They both bent over the stricken governor.

  “I’m just … very tired,” he said in a voice suddenly weak. He was also grey around the gills.

  Maxwell nodded at Marc and said to Sir Francis, “You’ll stay in my apartments tonight, Governor. I’ll ring for Jacques, and we’ll have you tucked in, in a wink. One of the officers can escort Angelina back to Government House.”

  Sir Francis made no protest, and Marc was relieved to see the colour returning to his cheeks. Fatigue, drink, and the exertions of the evening seemed to be the worst of it.

  “Would you mind informing the governor’s footman, Lieutenant, that his master will not be needing the carriage tonight?”

  Marc agreed, then quietly withdrew. He put on his jacket and shako cap, and made his way through a maze of hallways towards the ballroom. He had just stepped into it when he met a concerned man in livery, looking for Sir Francis. He seemed much relieved at the news Marc conveyed, and trotted out through the massive doors, still manned by two stout servants. Otherwise the vast space was empty, silent, and growing dark as the final few candles burned themselves out. Marc had taken just one step back towards Sir Francis—the governor’s safety was still his responsibility—when he heard Jacques’s voice behind him.

  “Excuse me, sir. Mrs. Maxwell’s in a bad way. I’ve been summoned to the master’s rooms. Would you mind just keeping an eye on her till I am able to get back to her?”

  “Where is Miss Maxwell?”

  “She has gone to her room, and my knock failed to rouse her, sir. I’m afraid she is fast asleep. And Mrs. Moncreiff has gone home with her daughters.”

  “Should I go for a doctor? Is she seriously ill?”

  Jacques actually blushed, then stared at his shoes as he said, barely above a whisper, “Not exactly, sir.”

  Dead drunk and about to stir up a ruckus of some sort, he might just as well have said. But the message was clear nonetheless, and Marc had no choice but to temporarily abandon Sir Francis and head in the direction Jacques indicated, while the butler made for the safer domain of the male Maxwell. The corridors were unlit, so Marc had to tiptoe along until he spotted a door partly ajar with a flickering light of some sort behind it. With a mixture of disgust and pity, he eased the door open and stepped inside.

  At first he could see little, as the only source of illumination seemed to be a candle-lamp on a small table set against the far wall. Cautiously he edged towards it.

  “Over this way, lover.” The voice was that of Prudence Maxwell, slightly slurred but showing little sign of physical distress.

  As Marc drew nearer, he noticed—with a start—that he was not in a sitting room or antechamber: he was in the lady’s boudoir. A canopied four-poster bed stood before him in vivid outline. In the pool of light splashed across it, he could see a rumpled, rose-embossed comforter, and the pale, rougeless face and sprawling coiffure of Prudence herself, who peered up at him with blurry-eyed curiosity.

  Marc started to backpedal: “Please excuse me, Mrs. Maxwell, I had no idea you were abed when Jacques asked me to look in.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Lieutenant,” Prudence breathed, and blinked sharply, as if that might somehow bring him more fully into focus. “You’ll do just fine.”

  “I’ll have Jacques wake one of the maids.”

  “Jacques has already done what he was told to do. Now be a good lad and come sit beside me. I’ve a dre
adful—”

  “Please don’t do anything you’ll regret in the morning.”

  “—itch. Way down here!” She threw back the comforter with a single sweep of her hand. “And I never regret anything in the morning.”

  Prudence Maxwell was as naked as Godiva, though the image she presented upon the silk sheets of her feather bed was more akin to a Rubens nude—all pink and plump and enticingly hollowed. Her prodigious breasts stared up at Marc with their stiff, blind eyelets.

  “Climb aboard, sailor. This brig needs her sails trimmed.”

  The second and a half that it took Marc to avert his gaze was all the time Prudence needed. She lunged halfway off the bed, braced her plummeting weight on one outstretched hand, caught her balance, and seized Marc by the left wrist. Thinking she was about to crash unaided onto the hardwood floor, he had sprung forward to assist her, and the combination of his leap and her seizing precipitated them both back onto the bed. Whereupon she began to tear at his clothes as if she were plucking a warm chicken. He felt his shirt ripping, but the more he tried to find a decent and workable purchase on his assailant, the more he inadvertently stirred her ardour by brief clutches of breast, hip, thigh, or buttock.

  “I’ve got to have you, you beautiful man!”

  “But think of your husband—”

  “I am thinking of the son of a bitch!”

  She had almost succeeded in trapping his thighs in a scissors hold when they heard a noise in the hall (the door was still ajar), as if someone heavy had just stumbled.

  “That’s him now!” Marc gasped as he attempted to pry her nearest thigh away from his pant leg without having the manoeuvre misinterpreted.

  “He never leaves his apartment,” she hissed and, to refocus her lover’s attention, made a grab for his privates. “He’s in there now screwing that little bitch from Brantford!”