Duelling in a New World

by Ann Birch

  His sons don’t need to know about any of this, at least from him. No doubt the town gossips will spread the word soon enough. “I’d like to hear about your fox hunt,” he says now as he fastens his wool coat.

  It’s William who tells the tale of the fox taken in a bag out upon the bay and then set loose with the hounds unleashed to run it down, followed by the concourse of gentlemen on horseback and families in carioles and sleighs.

  “Hoicks! Hoicks!” Charles yells.

  Though he is glad to hear Charles’s enthusiasm, White has no idea what he’s talking about. William explains, “It’s what Mr. Jarvis and Sam yelled as we chased after Mr. Reynard. We yelled it, too.”

  “Hoicks! Hoicks! Hoicks!” Both boys are now screaming.

  “Off you go, Papa,” says Ellen, “before my dear little brothers blast your eardrums to bits. They’re worse than the cannons.”

  He walks out into his front yard. It’s a full moon, and the air is still. He looks back. Marianne, Ellen, and the boys stand in the lighted doorway waving.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  January 1799

  It is the evening of Queen Charlotte’s Birth Day Ball, and the Russells pick up the Whites in their sleigh for the short ride to Government House. The big white horse called Beau is in harness with a fine grey mare, and there is a black driver in livery whom Russell addresses as “Mundy.”

  “Quite a stylish rig, Russell,” White says.

  “Governor Simcoe insisted that I have a sleigh, a cariole, and a wagon. They go with the position of Administrator, he told me. Too bad, though, that I have still not been reimbursed by the Colonial Office, but I am in hopes that all will be settled when His Excellency returns to his post.”

  Not bloody likely you’ll ever see the Gov again. Or hear from the Colonial Office either. But he makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.

  The large room in Government House, where the legislature meets each summer, has been set up this evening as a dining room. Sideboards and tables are splendidly covered with hundreds of candles that catch the sparkle of the starched linen, the wine glasses, and the fine Coalport china. Menservants—White recognizes several soldiers from the garrison hired for the occasion—stand about awaiting instructions from the steward.

  Fashions inspired by the French Revolution seem to be the rage among the women of the town this year. Gone are the hoops and overskirts and huge hairstyles of yesteryear. Now the party gowns are sheer muslin gauze with low-cut necklines that show pretty bosoms to advantage. White stands for a moment at the doorway of the room admiring the offerings on display.

  He notices Betsy Small swanning about with Mrs. Elmsley. To be the bosom companion—there is surely a play on words here—of the wife of the Chief Justice is no doubt the crowning achievement of her sojourn in York. As she comes close to him, she pauses to point at something or other on the far side of the room. Then she sweeps in front of him, drawing up her skirts at the front to show off the slender ankles that are one of her main attractions and no doubt to remind him of what he has lost. For a moment, in spite of himself, he wants to take off her pink slippers and run his fingers up to the top of her elegant legs—and beyond.

  “Like the new fashions, do you, White?” a voice from behind him says, cutting through his reverie. Turning around, he sees Peter Russell’s cousin, William Willcocks, at his shoulder. He can feel the man’s warm, fetid breath on his cheek, and his remarks have been loud enough that Mrs. Small has turned her head to laugh.

  “You are looking mighty fine tonight, Mrs. White,” Willcocks says to Marianne. She dips a very proper curtsy and White feels satisfied the evening will go well. He hopes the Small woman has heard the compliment to his wife. He is pleased to note that Marianne can hold her own with La Belle Small. She does not have the woman’s slender feet, but her tiny waist and ample bosom are shown to advantage in the tight bodice of her new gown. He tries to put aside his concern about the expense of the silk which he allowed her to buy at auction at M’Dougal’s Tavern. That blow to his pocketbook was followed by the bill of the local German dressmaker who sews a fine seam—and no doubt feeds upon strawberries, sugar, and cream.

  “If only my cousin’s sister could rig herself out in something decent,” Willcocks continues, pointing at Miss Russell who is standing at the edge of the crowd, blessedly out of earshot. Her dress is a sombre grey with a high neck ruff, but she has added a pretty dark-red paisley shawl.

  “I believe Miss Russell looks very well,” White tells the man.

  “Balderdash and bunkum,” Willcocks replies, “she looks like a witch about to get on her broomstick.” He picks at his nose. “But it’s the money that counts, is it not? The woman has a small fortune in land grants her brother has given her, so I hear. I’d be interested in improving our acquaintance if it weren’t for the marital burden I already carry. But a good cholera epidemic might change everything.” He gives a snort of laughter and turns away to grab at a glass of shrub being passed by one of the soldiers.

  If only I could tell Russell about the filth this cousin of his spews forth. Can he not at least be polite to Miss Russell, knowing that his promotions to magistrate and postmaster and all his land grants have come to him through Russell’s influence?

  “Come, husband,” Marianne says, tugging at his sleeve. “I want to dance.”

  “Later. Right now, let’s get some of that food.”

  Russell knows how to order a good spread. No squirrels anywhere. There is excellent whitefish, a vegetable curry, pork roast and gravy, venison, mincemeat tart, cherries in syrup, and imported Stilton cheese.

  He heaps his plate again and again, trying not to hear Marianne’s repeated cries of “Oh please, let us go now and dance.”

  At last he lays down his plate and ushers her into the adjoining room where the musicians from the garrison are striking up a country dance. There he leaves her with Miss Russell while he departs for the card-room where he intends to indulge himself in hot Madeira and several rounds of whist.

  His partner is inevitably David Smith who will not dance because he is still in mourning for his wife. Although he wanted to avoid the man, he knows Smith is a canny player, and they manage to make five shillings each.

  He is about to embark on another round when he hears a fiddler in the music room strike up the familiar strains of “Ae fond kiss and then we sever.” For a moment he is transported back to a tavern in London where he sang the song to Marianne before leaving for Upper Canada. Though he had been glad to “sever” from her then, they had both cried. Perhaps it had been the wine they had drunk or the poignancy of the words . . .

  Those words are now lilting back into his ears. He moves to the door to listen, wondering who in this room possesses such a lovely voice.

  It is Marianne. She is standing in the middle of the little orchestra in her pretty gown, singing the words that made him cry all those years ago and which are having the same effect on him now. It’s not the wine this time—he is still sober—it’s the knowledge that perhaps they must again part if he is to survive in this world.

  The song ends. Marianne smiles, evidently happy with her success, and for a moment White is proud and happy, too. He goes towards her, takes her hand, and goes onto the dance floor as the orchestra sounds the opening chords of “Sir Roger de Coverley.”

  “I knew that you had a pleasant voice, my dear. But your performance tonight had a professional quality that I have not until now been aware of.”

  “Please, husband, spare me your condescension. When you left me alone with that jailer of a nanny, I had to do something or I would have gone barmy. Your sister arranged for me to have singing lessons with an Italian tenor from Covent Garden. And you do not need to harp on the expense. Your brother-in-law paid for it all.” She seems keen to start another squabble, so when the dance is over, he leaves her again with Miss Russell and returns to the whist table.

  There’s a supper at midnight, a tasty repast of
cold tongue, roast chicken, meat pies, and bonbons. Marianne is quiet. Her eyes are red. She picks at her food and leaves most of it on her plate. Probably tired.

  It’s past two o’clock when he and Marianne and the Russells come out the front door of Government House to find Mundy waiting for them, the sleigh firmly planted at the end of the walkway so they do not have to leap into snowdrifts like several other departing guests. There is a crescent moon over the lake, and the horses’ breaths mist into the fresh, cold air.

  As they pull the bearskins over themselves, Miss Russell says, “It was an elegant entertainment, dear Peter. I be mighty proud of you. And of you, too, Mrs. White. I did not know until this evening you had such a pretty voice. We must for certain arrange some evening entertainments at which you can give us a dollop or two more of your talent.”

  In his corner of the sleigh, White waits for Marianne to respond to the compliment. Instead from under the pile of bearskins comes the unmistakeable sound of sobbing.

  Russell and his sister seem embarrassed, and Russell breaks the moment with a comment about the evening’s breakages. “Four goblets and two Coalport plates,” he says, “replacement value ten shillings.”

  White makes a commiserating comment, and the moment’s awkwardness passes. The Russells drop them at their house before turning around to drive back to their own fine dwelling.

  Marianne and he have barely closed the door behind them when she pounds on his chest, face bright red and eyes streaming. “She called me Cinderella. S-s-said I should have stayed by the hearth and not come to the ball. And the other one laughed.”

  “Who? Who called you names? Who laughed?”

  “Mrs. S-S-Small,” she sobs. “And Mrs. Elm-Elm-sley thought it a fine joke.”

  Whatever is behind this little piece of cruelty from that bitch? I’ll deal with it when I can. At the moment, though, I haven’t the strength. “Go to bed, Marianne. Things look better in the morning.”

  He lies awake listening to her snuffles on the other side of the bed. Eventually she falls asleep, but when the morning sun finds its way through the window, he is still awake. Breakages indeed. Forget the goblets and the china and concentrate on the destructive tittle-tattle of these women. A passel of Lilliputians mired in petty concerns, that’s what they are. And he’s Gulliver, baffled and confounded by the small tyrannies, the wholly illogical issues that consume the denizens of this frozen little world.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The next morning, January 1799

  Mrs. Page serves up some strong scalding tea that helps to clear his head. He is thankful his sons have gone off to school and the room is quiet. She then takes three poached eggs and several sausages from the hearth and sets them upon a plate. “Thank you,” he manages to say. “This is an unusual bounty.”

  “One of Miss Russell’s servants sent them over early this morning while you were still abed.”

  Mrs. Page must once have been beautiful. Her eyes are bright blue, and there is a becoming flush on her cheeks from the fire. She always wears a spotless cotton gown covered with a capacious apron. But this morning her face is lined and tired. “You arise early, Mrs. Page. We must give you one day a week in which you can get up at leisure before beginning your chores.”

  She curtsies. “The mistress is not well this morning, sir?”

  “We did not get home from the ball until very late. She must be tired.”

  Ellen has just come into the kitchen. “I think it is more than that, Papa. I went in to see her just now and she is crying. She keeps sobbing about someone calling her Cinderella. Was it that nasty Mrs. Small?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh Papa, I think I know what it is all about. And Mrs. Page knows the story. So I might as well tell you here and now.”

  She pulls a copy of The Upper Gazette from the middle of the table, turns to page three, and points to an advertisement in the bottom right-hand corner. She reads aloud: “The merchant Abner Miles, King Street East, offers a generous price for household ashes of nine pence a bushel in exchange for merchandise.”

  Oh my God, now I know what’s coming.

  “Remember, Papa, how Mama wanted some new stockings for the Queen Charlotte Ball and you told her to darn her old ones?”

  He nods. Let it all come out, child, so that I can feel like the blackguard I am. And I will not tell you how your Mama sulked and refused to pick up her needle even though there was but one tiny hole to fix.

  “And then she got this idea of taking the ashes from the hearth and transporting them to Mr. Miles’s establishment. You were a big help with that task, Mrs. Page.”

  “We got three sacks full, did we not, Ellen?”

  “Yes, three sacks, three very full and very dirty sacks. And Mama, you, and I dragged them all the way to Abner’s store. It was a long haul, but everything turned out well. Mama got the prettiest silk stockings embroidered with leaves and pink flowers. Oh, Papa, you must have noticed how pretty they were.”

  Not really. I think my attention was wholly directed to her bosom. “I am happy that your mother got what she wanted, my dear. But I still do not understand this Cinderella business. Is it possible that Abner told the story about town?”

  Mrs. Page speaks up. “Do not blame the merchant, sir. We were on our way home rather sooty-faced, I fear, from our endeavours, and we met Mrs. Small coming down her front walk. And the mistress said, ‘Oh, Mrs. Small, see what I got for three sacks of ashes.’ And then she unrolled the paper and showed the woman her new embroidered stockings. I was proud of the mistress. She did not try to hide what we had done. In fact, she was not a whit embarrassed.”

  “I was so happy for Mama, so happy about those pretty stockings. But now that nasty woman has got her in a pickle. What are you going to do, Papa?”

  He covers his eyes and forehead with his right hand and tries to think. But now his head is pounding and no thought comes forth except . . . She will pay for this humiliation of my wife. Silly and careless as Marianne is, she does not deserve this sordid attack from a woman who is no better than a common prostitute. And I brought it on by nitpicking about the expense of new stockings.

  “Go outside now, Ellen, if you please, and see what my little ones are doing. I shall get the master some more tea.”

  When the door closes behind Ellen, Mrs. Page comes forward and takes a seat beside him. “If it will help you, sir, I have some news about Mrs. Small.”

  “Well?”

  “My brother has a friend in the one of the regiments at the garrison. A lieutenant he is, and there have been rumours about him and Mrs.—”

  “Let it be, Mrs. Page. I do not want to hear anything more.” I already know the woman is a whore, and by God, she will suffer if I can manage anything.

  He goes upstairs to find his wife red-faced and blotchy. “Dress yourself and come to breakfast, Marianne. Why do you concern yourself with the likes of Mrs. Small? Now you will understand why I wanted to have nothing to do with the woman. Miss Russell is one of the best women in this town, and she sees nothing in your behaviour to censure. In fact she has worried about your grief of last night. She sent over eggs and sausages for your breakfast. Come now, get dressed, and eat. You will feel better when you have a tasty meal.”

  He takes her hand and pulls her towards him, wrapping his arms around her. Then he reaches into his waistcoat pocket and extracts the five shillings he won at whist. “Go to Abner Miles’s store today and buy yourself a bonnet and something fashionable for that pretty waist of yours.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  April 1799

  For once, John White has an evening free of childish squabbles and marital nagging. The house is silent. Russell and his sister, bless them both, are giving the children supper and keeping them overnight. Miss Russell is showing Ellen a new embroidery stitch for a reticule they are making together. Russell and the boys are looking at insects under his new microscope. Russell, who has quite an interest in scientific experiments
, is a good influence on Charles and William. Charles has started talking more of late, so enthusiastic is he about the insect specimens he and his brother have collected on these hot spring days. They have also found some tadpoles, and Russell is helping them track the creatures’ metamorphosis into frogs.

  As for Marianne, she has gone to play whist at Mrs. Powell’s house. The judge’s wife will keep her in line. No gambling or indiscreet behaviour will take place under that formidable woman’s eye.

  So he is free to try on his new frock coat of blue velvet. He turns round and round in front of the pier glass, admiring the fit of the shoulders and the way the back hangs. He’s run up quite a tally with the tailor Otto, but the velvet collar and cannon buttons are worth it. His head looks so much better now that he has given up powdered wigs. And the lace cravat is perfect. Really, he cuts quite a figure. There’s the cost of this rig, of course, but he’s hopeful that his brother-in-law will be able to help him with a loan, though he hasn’t heard from Sam for far too long.

  Mrs. Page comes in with a cup of tea just as he is taking one last swing in front of the mirror. For a moment, he is embarrassed to have her discover him in self-admiration. But when she says, “Quite dashing, sir,” her voice is sincere and entirely free of irony. On impulse he offers her his arm, and the two of them break into a waltz in front of the pier glass. They spin round and round the room, happy together in the moment. Then she breaks away, curtsies, and leaves the room, her face flushed but smiling. A pleasant woman, and pretty, in her way. Somehow big breasts and tiny waists no longer attract me the way they once did.

  He puts on a loose silk gown and settles himself in his favourite armchair. These warm spring nights are lovely. For three weeks now, he has not had to light the fireplaces and thus he is no longer troubled by the cough that the stink of smoke brings on. He puts his feet up on the stool and plucks a book from the parcel that arrived this day. The waterways now being open, communication between York and the outer world is again possible.