by Ann Birch
A door opens, and his brother-in-law appears. “John,” he says, coming forward and grasping White’s hand. “Got your note this morning, and I’m sorry to hear our scheme with Rippon fizzled.” He glances at the secretary who appears to be hanging on each word. “Come in, come in, where we can talk privately.”
In the inner office, the door shut firmly against Wilkins, Sam puts his arm around White and pulls him close. “Don’t worry about Rippon, old man,” he says. “It was a stupid idea. You’re not meant to be a clergyman. You’re a barrister, and a damn good one, too. I’ve got a perfect idea for you.”
White feels the tears start behind his eyes. Why does he deserve a friend like this? He takes the armchair opposite Sam’s big mahogany desk.
Sam moves to the chair behind the desk and pulls out a folder from a top drawer. “It’s all here,” he says, “just what you want. My friend William Osgoode told me about it yesterday. John Graves Simcoe has just been made Lieutenant-Governor of Upper Canada. Simcoe has appointed Osgoode as Chief Justice, but he still needs an Attorney-General.” Sam pauses. His prominent eyebrows arch over his eyes, and he stares, it seems, directly into White’s soul. “You are it.”
“It?”
“Yes, old man, you will be the Attorney-General of the newly established Province of Upper Canada.” He takes a letter from the folder and pushes it across to Sam. “Read this. I wrote it this morning as soon as I got your note about Rippon.”
Lincoln’s Inn, September 8
My dear Osgoode:
This letter has two purposes. First, to offer my heartfelt congratulation on your appointment as Chief Justice to Upper Canada. Second, to entreat your intercession with Colonel John Graves Simcoe on behalf of my brother-in-law, John White, Esquire.
Mr. White is a person of liberal education and correct understanding. His character is without reproach. He is well established in his profession, having studied at the Inner Temple. He was admitted to the bar in 1785 and worked as an attorney in Jamaica before re-establishing himself in this city.
I know that Colonel Simcoe needs an Attorney-General to support his new government of the Province of Upper Canada. Let me heartily recommend Mr. White.
Yours faithfully,
Sam Shepherd
“It’s a fine letter,” White says, “offering me everything I could want.” He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face and eyes. He looks down at the letter again. “But I can’t do it.”
“You’re turning this down? I don’t believe it. It’s your big opportunity to start over.”
“It’s Marianne and the children. I can’t . . . take them with me to a new world. Why, Marianne can scarcely cope in this world. You know the woman. You know what she is—”
“I’ve thought about her, old man. My wife and I will keep an eye on her and the little ones. You will go to this new world alone. You will get yourself established. Your salary will be three hundred pounds a year, a substantial income in those dark forests beyond the sea. When you are ready, you will send for Marianne and your family.” Sam pauses. He stands up, reaches across the expanse of his desk and retrieves the letter. “Wilkins will make a copy of this. You will show it to Marianne and make clear to her what you intend.”
“Dammit, Sam, it’s crazy and wonderful what you do for me. But you don’t know everything about my wife. She has an opium habit. She goes out at night unsupervised. She—”
“I know what she is. But there is a solution. My old governess needs work. I’ve been paying her a pension in recognition of what she did for me when I was a youngster, but she feels guilt in accepting it. Now I’ll put it to her. Ask her to go to your quarters here in London, live in with your family, and keep an eye on everything.” Sam laughs, the white cravat at his neck bobbing up and down over his Adam’s apple. “Believe me, nothing untoward will go on while Nanny is in charge.”
White feels hope wash over him, wiping out his worries and drowning him in waves of happiness. He moves around the desk and embraces his friend.
* * *
Next morning, at breakfast, he hands Marianne a copy of the letter he read in Sam’s office. The mantel clock ticks, ticks, ticks while Marianne reads the letter, her mouth framing the words. At last, with a trembling hand, she sets it down beside her plate.
“You will take this position if it is offered, husband?”
“Yes.”
“But what are we to do, me and the little ones?” Marianne’s voice is shrill.
“You will stay here in England. There will be a stipend to live on, but not enough for suppers of sucking-pig and gooseberry pasty, or bottles of laudanum. My sister and Sam will keep an eye on you. And there will be a live-in governess for the children. If you can manage to behave yourself, I shall ask you and the children to join me in Upper Canada in a few years hence. Perhaps there we can make a new start.”
He throws down his napkin, stands up, and moves towards the door of the breakfast room. A plate crashes on the wall beside the oak-panelled portal, spattering egg on his coat and narrowly missing his head. He exits, holding his hands to his ears to shut out Marianne’s screeches.
Chapter Four
Gananoque, Upper Canada, June 1792
The batteau going up river from Ganonoque is not ready, so John White leaves his baggage on the wharf to be loaded later and sets out on foot for Kingston, accompanied by Chief Justice William Osgoode. In the long weeks they have spent together sailing from England, they have become good friends. White is glad to have Osgoode’s company on this overland trek, and if they “stick to their guns” (an expression he learned from a military man on board their vessel), they will arrive at Kingston in time for Colonel Simcoe’s swearing-in as Lieutenant-Governor of Upper Canada.
They have no compass, nor do they need one. “Walk westward, keeping the river on your left hand,” a logger told them. White has never seen such a blue sky or woodlands so green and thick. The air he breathes is scented with pine and a wildflower the natives call bunchberry. The broad river is dotted with at least a thousand islands, some of them no more than small lumps of granite with a pine tree or two sticking up among the rocks.
He’s a bachelor again—at least for awhile—and in a few years, when he is established at Niagara, the new capital of the province of Upper Canada, he will have his wife and children come out. Perhaps by then he will have a spacious stone residence—there is so much stone in this new country—and servants will be plentiful and cheap.
“I’ve never been happier,” he says to Osgoode. “In fact, I feel like one of Dionysius’s satyrs.”
“S..s..satyrs?”
“When I was in Jamaica, some fishermen brought up from the bottom of the sea a statue of a satyr. When they got the barnacles scraped off it, there it was, the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen: a nude male dancer in bronze with his hair thrown back, his arms flung wide, one leg kicking behind him, and his eyes, oh those eyes, they had such a crazy look of ecstasy.” He laughs at the memory, and then he makes an impromptu leap into the air.
Osgoode laughs with him. “Very good, White. And I know you’re cold s..s..sober too—unlike the s..s..satyr. But maybe it’s these insects that are making you dance?” He swats at one of the critters that have landed on his forehead.
“Mosquitoes they’re called, so an Indian told me.” These tiny, pestilent “buzzers” are, in fact, the only thing bothering White at the moment. Except for the heat. The noonday sun now tops the sky. He’d been a fool to buy all those new coats and breeches before he left England. The garment he has on now—a coat of superfine with a velvet collar and buttons—might be fine for tea with the Colonel and Mrs. Simcoe, but it is ridiculous in this weather. More important, he’s starting his new life with a tailor’s debt of sixty-seven pounds.
He looks over at Osgoode. His friend is wearing a jacket of fringed buckskin he got from an Indian woman on the wharf at Quebec in exchange for a linen handkerchief. While at times Osgoode seems not to know where to se
t his feet next, on other occasions he puts them firmly on the right path.
They stop for a pipe opposite a tiny island of granite a few yards off shore. It is hot on the rock where they sit, and the water beckons, reminding him of youthful summer days on the River Wye near Hereford. He stands up, strips off his fine jacket and breeches, his shirt and stockings. The wig he left in his baggage. In this new country, he intends to wear it for formal occasions only.
“Come on, Osgoode,” he yells, leaping into the water. It’s deliciously cold, and he strikes out at once for the island. He plunges his head and shoulders beneath the surface and swims with a school of trout, trying to keep pace with the stragglers. At Hereford, he was sixteen, alive with the exhilaration of youth, the certainty that everything was possible. And now at twice that age, the promise of success stirs him again. In a new life, in a new land, a man of intelligence and drive cannot but succeed.
He holds his breath to bursting, and when he surfaces, like a cormorant, he finds himself close to a square-cut rock that forms the first step of a granite staircase leading to the top of the tiny islet. Up, up he goes, reaching the pinnacle where he looks down on Osgoode standing in the water clinging to the rock on which they had smoked their pipes. “I can’t s..s..swim,” he calls, “I’ll hold on here.”
A man who can’t swim in a country of lakes and rivers? Surely that must be a metaphor for failure. I’m set to dive into whatever comes.
With a hoot of derision, he plunges downward into the crystalline depths.
Chapter Five
Kingston, July 1792
Eliza Russell settles herself for a nap on the sofa in the rented quarters her brother Peter has procured for them at Kingston. It’s a spacious stone house, owned by a rich merchant who is currently absent in Quebec, and staffed with eight servants who have placed themselves at her disposal. Kingston is a town of about fifty houses, a garrison, and a barracks, with only one mansion of stone. She feels mighty pleased to be in this mansion, the largest house in town, especially considering that Colonel Simcoe and his lady inhabit a small log dwelling near the barracks.
She, Peter, and Mary will be here for only a few days, of course, since they must move on to Niagara with the Colonel and Mrs. Simcoe, but solid ground is what she needs at the moment. Near eight weeks of rough weather and contrary winds on the Atlantic, followed by much to-ing and fro-ing in a batteau from Quebec to Kingston, have undone her.
Mary sits at the window, stroking the cat they brought with them from England and from which Mary declared she would never be separated. She’s a frail child, ten years old, bones not yet firmed up, and Eliza feels she would be the better for agoing out into the summer sunshine. Already Eliza worries about the Canadian winter ahead. One of the servants in this house has told her about the deaths of children in the cruel weather of December and January.
“Look at those violets,” she says to the girl, pointing to the open field behind the house. “I’ve never seen anything so grand and beautifully romantic in my life. And over that slope, just before you get into the woods, there are those wild strawberries. Please put that animal down now and go out and pick some for your Uncle Peter’s tea.”
“If there are any left. You must have noticed I’ve been gobbling them whenever you send me outside.” She sets the cat on the Pembroke table near the window, grabs a birch bark bucket—made by some Indians, so Eliza has heard—and runs out without another word. Eliza gets up from the sofa and snatches the cat away from the dish of bonbons it has already put its nose into.
She must get to her nap and then prepare for the to-dos of this afternoon and evening. She’s mighty glad to have a few minutes to herself. Mary has lately begun to pester her with questions about her parentage. Perhaps she feels adrift in this strange new world and needs to seek a secure place. Eliza has made up a convenient fiction about how her mother and father drowned at sea in a sailing vessel that broke into bits upon rocks, and how a sailor who survived the disaster delivered Mary, who was then a small babe, to her and Peter for raising.
“Really, Aunt Eliza?” Mary said this morning as she smacked the shell on her boiled egg. “How did the sailor know your address? And why would you take me in, since you say my parents were only ‘friends’ of yours? Weren’t there some other relatives who might have raised me?” And on and on she went, tearing at every detail Eliza fed her. Eliza knows she’s not a good liar, and it’s tiring having to spin out this silly tale, but she’s determined Mary must not learn the truth.
Now, looking again at the mantel clock, Eliza realizes she has no time for her nap. She must ready herself for the swearing-in ceremony. Her brother is to be Receiver-General in the new capital. It’s an illustrious position, and for him to be given it at the advanced age of almost sixty illustrates for her the kindness of Colonel Simcoe, who recommended him to the bigwigs in London. And the Colonel’s lady appears to be an agreeable woman, too, without the least pride or formality.
For certain, it seems to be a pleasant group of people surrounding the Colonel in this new land. On the long voyage from England, she enjoyed the company of the Attorney-General, Mr. White, a handsome man with a pleasing countenance, always cheerful and good tempered. She is grateful he did not put her to the blush by asking questions about Mary, saying merely that she reminded him so much of his own daughter, Ellen. She also likes the Chief Justice, Mr. Osgoode, who is friendly and unassuming. He’s not handsome like Mr. White, but he has an excellent fair complexion, and very blue eyes. His stammer endears him to her, putting her in mind of her friend Lizzie who lives in Harwich and whom she already misses so much.
She has still to meet the Jarvises, who are not yet arrived. They chose to sail from England in a separate vessel. From what she’s heard, they are Yankees who lived in London a short time only. Though they may indeed be loyal to His Majesty King George, they will undoubtedly have some low habits and unfortunate turns of speech.
The back door slams shut, and Mary appears suddenly in the withdrawing room. She thumps the bucket of strawberries down on the Pembroke table, so lately occupied by the cat. “There,” she says, “I hope that will be enough to fill Uncle Peter’s gut.” She laughs and adds, “Though I doubt a bowl of strawberries will serve to fill that gut.”
Eliza opens her mouth to protest the use of such vulgar language, but shuts it again as Mary produces from the pocket of her pinafore a bunch of violets. Thrusting them at her, Mary says, “And these are for you, Aunt Eliza. They are beautiful, and maybe you want to have a romance? So I thought you might like to have them.”
“Thank you, my dear. I shall wear them in the bodice of my costume for the swearing-in ceremony.”
How can she not adore this difficult but lovable child? She pulls Mary to her and plants a kiss on her pale, hot cheek.
* * *
Colonel Simcoe takes the oath of office at four o’clock in a small frame church called St. George’s. He is resplendent in the traditional scarlet and gold uniform of a British army colonel. Eliza is mighty pleased to be seated in the front pew of honour beside Mrs. Simcoe where she has an excellent view of her brother who stands on one side of the Colonel with Mr. Osgoode on the other side. Peter looks very well in his new double-breasted frock coat and stock, his breeches buckled below the knee to show his still well-shaped legs. She is glad she took his wig for cleaning, dear though the cost was, for it was alive with fleas.
The Chief Justice, his face very flushed, speaks many words, most of which she does not understand, but the gist of it seems to be that the Colonel, by laying his hand on the Bible and reciting some long-winded phrases, is now the Lieutenant-Governor of the Province of Upper Canada. She makes a mental note to remember to call him “Governor” from this moment.
Mr. Stuart, the minister, has just started his sermon when there is a clatter at the back of the church. Eliza tries not to look around, but when she sees the Governor’s lady turn sharply, she does the same.
It’s a man and a
woman, and they appear to take their seats without the least embarrassment. The Jarvises undoubtedly. They’ve been expected for more than a week. William Jarvis is to be the Secretary and Registrar of the province. Peter met him once in London and calls him “an indolent fool.” Since both husband and wife are Yankees born and bred, they undoubtedly feel free to flout the King’s protocols. As if to outdo the Governor, Mr. Jarvis is wearing a gaudy chain, some sort of office. What could it be? He has thrust his left leg out into the aisle. And now she notices also that around his left calf, he has tied a strange buckled dark-blue garter.
It may all become clear when the assembly meets in the Kingston Barracks for the supper which the Governor and his lady are giving this evening to honour the administrators of the new capital at Niagara. Meantime she must try to focus on the Reverend’s sermon.
Chapter Six
Kingston Barracks, July 1792
John White finds the Officers’ Mess stuffy, but perhaps it’s William Jarvis’s conversation that’s bringing on one of his headaches. There must be twenty-five people crammed into this tiny space, and it’s impossible to escape from the man and his drivel.
“You are not aware, sir, that Lord Dorchester himself appointed me the Grand Master of Ancient Masons? He came to our London house as we were in the throes of packing, and sat down among us, quite as if he were a comrade and not His Majesty’s illustrious ruler of Upper and Lower Canada. In deference to the Governor, I have not tonight worn my chain of office, but I thought this adornment was appropriate for the occasion.” Jarvis pats a huge gold pin on his left breast, its circle containing two triangles, one of them upside down. There’s a gold ball in the centre of it all. “These triangles, as you may know, symbolize—”