Duelling in a New World

by Ann Birch

  He is laughing over the ballad of John Gilpin and his runaway horse when he hears a loud thumping on the front door. Opening it, he finds John Small, now a magistrate of the town, standing on the step. Behind Small is a strange little man in a mask. Small grabs this person by the shoulder and thrusts him through the doorway.

  “Look to your responsibilities, White,” he says in a loud and arrogant voice. “I have had a fine run-around with this little rowdy tonight. There should be a bloody rule against these damned shenanigans. If you weren’t the Attorney-General, I’d have laid charges.” And with that statement, Small marches down the front walk into the darkness.

  White gawks, open-mouthed, at the figure crouching on the carpet before him. Then he leans over and yanks the man to his feet, staring at the filthy masked face and dirty clothing. He’s wearing a broad straw hat, plain shirt, and leather breeches covered with a heavy fabric apron. Is he a butcher? Why is he here? White grabs the candle from the hall table and looks again. Not a butcher. His wife.

  “What is this, woman? You went out of here at seven o’clock dressed in your tea gown. You told me you were playing whist with Mrs. Powell. What has happened?”

  Stripped of her whimperings and excuses, her story boils down to this: she has lied to him about everything. The evening with Mrs. Powell was a clever piece of fiction. Though she went out the front door dressed in her tea gown, she went straight to a tavern where she met Peggy, Miss Russell’s maid, who was waiting with the butcher’s disguise. In a room in the tavern—her presence there no doubt observed by all and sundry—she changed from the respectable wife of the Attorney-General into a common butcher.

  “Why? Why?”

  “I wanted to have some fun, husband. You surely cannot think that I would have fun with that bullying harridan and her deck of cards?”

  He wants to slap her, but he breathes deeply and tries to keep control. “And what stupidity did your notion of fun lead you into?”

  “When I was ready in my butcher costume, I waited at the front door of the tavern. Then two carriages of men from the garrison—do not look so shocked, Mr. White, yes, from the garrison where you waste so many hours—picked me up and took me to a . . .”

  “A what, for God’s sake?”

  “A shivaree.”

  Lord, a shivaree. White knows all about shivarees: a cursed custom that came across the border with the United Empire Loyalists and the rest of those damned Yankee upstarts.

  “Old Mahoney, the butcher, died just after I arrived here, remember?”

  He does remember something about the man severing an artery during an encounter with his knife while he was cutting up a carcass. “But so what? Get to the point.”

  “His wife, she’s sixty-two, and this day she married Mahoney’s apprentice. He’s twenty-five. Wanted to have a second ‘go,’ I suppose.”

  Well, he can almost picture the next part. Shivarees always involve shenanigans by local louts who show up at a married couple’s house on their first night, banging pots and pans and demanding money or booze to go away and leave the honeymooners in peace.

  “It was a fine old ruckus, they made,” Marianne tells him, now in full flight as she recounts the details. “The men from the garrison put their uniforms on back to front and stuck feathers in their hair like the redskins. Oh it was funny what they did. They banged and banged with their drums and rang cowbells until the apprentice came to the door. ‘Give us money for whisky or we’ll stay here the whole night,’ they said. And he had to give in and hand over some coins to spend in the tavern.”

  “And what was your part in all this?”

  “Why . . . why . . . I was the ghost.”

  “The what?” But do I really want to know the worst? He remembers that sometimes, on these lamentable occasions, if it is a second marriage, the hoodlums bring along an open coffin in which lies a person dressed as the first spouse. Surely the woman, for all her stupidity, would not stoop to this?

  But of course she has. “When the young man opened the door, I stood up in the coffin and said I was old Mahoney come back to take revenge on their marriage.” And after a pause in which he wonders how he can face up to the shame of it all, she adds, “Oh husband, the look on his face . . . it was so funny.” A hiccough bursts from her, carrying with it the stench of cheap whisky.

  There’s more, I know: the hours afterwards in the tavern drinking with the garrison rowdies, the drunken carousing, the appearance on the scene of John Small, magistrate . . . But I can’t hear another word.

  “Get to bed, wife. I can stand no more.”

  “But nothing really happened that you must worry about. The children need not know, surely.”

  “The whole town will know by tomorrow, idiot woman. Do you think the soldiers at the garrison will keep it quiet? Or John Small, for that matter? Can you not imagine the joy his wife will feel to hear it all?” He puts his fingers on the bridge of his nose to stop the nosebleed he feels coming on. “This is the last straw.”

  Chapter Forty

  June 1799

  Eliza Russell scarce knows what to do with the unhappy children seated at her kitchen table. Job has put before them his fresh-baked apple spice cake and glasses of milk from their farm to the north of the town, but they have not touched anything.

  “We don’t want to go back to London,” Ellen is saying, “I want to stay here. I don’t know why Papa is so angry with Mama, but he says she must go, and she says she won’t go without us. What are we to do?”

  “I want to stay here, too,” William says. “We want to look at these wigglies under Mr. Russell’s microscope.” He points to a pail of strange swimming creatures he and his brother have brought with them this morning and set under the kitchen table. “Polliwogs,” he tells her they are called, and they gathered them from the swamp at the edge of the bay.

  “I hate London, I hate it, I hate it,” Charles shouts, pounding on the table and upsetting his glass of milk.

  “Lordy, Lordy, children, what am I to do?” Eliza says, as she wipes up the mess. “Have you talked to your Papa?”

  “Yes, and he won’t listen to anything we say.” Ellen puts her head down on the table and starts to cry.

  “Would things be the better if I spoke to your Papa?”

  “Oh, Miss Russell, would you?” The girl sits up and wipes her eyes.

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  Of a sudden, the three of them are up and flourishing. They drink their milk and eat their cake. William stirs the water in the pail with his hand, seeming to be pleased with the feel of the creatures on his fingers. “This one is getting little legs on it. Look, Miss Russell.”

  She can scarce keep herself from shrieking as he thrusts the thing towards her. But she manages a smile, mighty pleased that the children have stopped crying.

  “Come back tonight, and Mr. Russell will be here to look at them with you. And Ellen, you and I must get to that reticule and finish it. Sometime in the next day or two, I will ready myself and talk to your Papa.”

  As they troop out the back door, she wonders how she is to manage. Never come between a husband and wife. She learned that long ago when she complained to her father about her mother’s craziness, and he slammed her against a wall and broke her nose. Thank the Lord for dear Peter who took me away from all of it.

  * * *

  It’s two o’clock. Peter is late for dinner. Job has made a cream soup from the peas in their garden, and there’s beef brisket and the left-over apple spice cake. She’s hoping that while she and her brother are eating the cake, she will have an opportunity to hear his views on what Mr. White plans for his wife and children. Mrs. White is a hare-brain, but he chose the woman, doubtless for her breasts, not her brain. She gets herself into a pet thinking of the stupidity of men in this world, her brother being an exception. And yet she likes Mr. White. He has proved himself a good friend. She remembers his kindness to Mary, and to her, when she lost her darling child.

&nb
sp; She watches for her brother from the dining-room window while Job fusses to keep things hot on the kitchen hearth. At last, she sees him come through their fine gate. But he is not alone. Mr. White is with him. And for certain, there is something amiss. The two of them are leaning on each other, as if to walk down the path is too much for them. What in tarnation is wrong?

  She looks out again. Peter’s face is wet as if he has been crying. Mr. White’s face is pale, and he, who is always so dapper, has one button undone on his flap. That puts her to the blush. Lordy, what am I to do? She calls to Peggy, “See to the front door, woman.” Then she runs to the kitchen where Job has just taken a soup tureen from the shelf.

  “Job, Job, you must help me. Mr. White has come for dinner with your master. And he . . . he . . . has one button undone on his flap. You must find some way of telling him.”

  “I shall, ma’am.”

  Back into the hallway she goes to greet the men. “Good day, Mr. White. I am mighty pleased that you have come with my brother for dinner. Now sit you down. All is ready and waiting.”

  As the men go into the dining room, she sees Job do as he was bid. He whispers something in Mr. White’s ear, and a moment later, he has buttoned himself, thank the Lord. Now she must find what is wrong with the two of them.

  Job serves the soup from the tureen and goes to the kitchen. Eliza watches her brother lift a spoonful to his mouth, then set the spoon down with a clatter. Mr. White is staring into his bowl. He has not even picked up his spoon.

  “It be too hot, brother?”

  “It is undoubtedly fine soup, but I cannot eat, sister. I have had bad news this day from England.”

  “His Excellency has died?”

  Peter’s eyes fill with tears that spill down his cheeks onto his chin. He takes the napkin and mops his face.

  “It be bad, brother, but he has been ill. And though we must not seek comfort from a good man’s death, at least now you will be the better for it. You are now the Governor of Upper Canada, and a good thing it be for everyone.”

  There is utter silence. What is this to-do all about?

  Mr. White has such a furrow in his brow she fears he will soon have one of his nosebleeds. His voice, when he speaks, is so quiet that she leans forward to hear him.

  “Your brother, ma’am, is not, nor will be, Governor.”

  “Not Governor? What has happened, sir?”

  “Colonel Simcoe has not died, but he is not returning to Upper Canada. The Colonial Office has now made some British bastard—I do not regret my language—Governor. His name is Hunter. He will be arriving in August.”

  “But my brother—” She turns towards Peter. “You, my dear Peter, you have done all the work in this place for years. You have established roads in all directions, you have set new boundaries for the town, you have—”

  “All this and more, sister. But what do they care, those uppity Brits? We have seen Elmsley take the position my good friend here should have had. And now they send a simpleton who knows nothing about our world here—”

  “Whose chief qualification for the position is that he once put down an Irish rebellion by impaling the heads of three men on spikes over the door of a court house . . . Oh, Miss Russell, when I consider the disdain of His Majesty’s government for fair play, I want to rise up and say ‘To hell with it all.’ Life is unsupportable.”

  Eliza rings for Job. “Please remove the soup. Excellent it be, but we have no appetite. Bring in some rum punch.”

  The punch arrives, and she watches her brother and Mr. White fill their glasses. Then she rises, puts her arms around her brother’s shoulders and kisses his cheek. “Good day to you, Mr. White,” she adds, clasping her friend’s hand in hers. “We are all undone. I leave you to drink your punch. You be the better for it, I hope.”

  She stands in the hallway for a few minutes listening. Eventually she hears the murmur of voices. If they can talk to each other, friend to friend, perhaps there will be some solace for Peter. She herself will find ways to comfort him. Tonight in his bedchamber, she will hold him in her arms until he falls asleep.

  And she must somehow find a way to talk to Mr. White about his wife and children. This day is not the day. But soon, in spite of all that has come upon them, she must firm herself up and speak out.

  I be scarce ready for these trials and tribulations. But oh Lord, I commit myself to doing what I can.

  Chapter Forty-One

  August 1799

  For a moment John White has no idea where he is. Then he sees Mrs. Page standing by his bed, looking down at him. She has a pot of tea in her hand. He must have been asleep though there is light streaming through the window. He tries to sort it all out while she sets the teapot on the bureau and hands him a cloth which she has just soaked in water from the pitcher on the wash stand.

  “You will want to wipe the sweat from your face, sir. You were screaming, ‘I hate you, I hate you’ in a most fearsome manner, and I became alarmed and took the liberty of entering your bedchamber.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three in the afternoon. My girls are napping in our cabin, and your sons are at school. I was in the kitchen making some Scotch eggs for supper when I heard your screams.”

  “But why am I here in bed? Why am I not at the court house?”

  “You have been tired, sir, since you took the mistress and the children to Quebec. You have been falling asleep at all hours.”

  And now he remembers. What does one call a nightmare that comes in mid-afternoon?

  The quay at Quebec. Marianne and Ellen boarding the Triton for the trip back to England. Him standing on the wharf with William and Charles while Ellen shouts from the stern of the ship over the rustling of the wind in the rigging. “I hate you, Papa. I hate you.”

  He begins to cry.

  Mrs. Page pulls the rocking chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed. Then she sits down in it. “Please, Mr. White, I’m here to listen if you want to tell me anything. As I told you, there is no one in the house except us two. And I will repeat nothing of what you tell me.”

  “I am so bereft . . .”

  She waits for him to say more, her worn but pretty face turned towards him. And suddenly, it all spills out, the whole wretched sorry mess of the departure from his life, forever, of the wife he once loved and the daughter he still loves.

  “I had to get rid of my wife, or I might have done something violent. Dear Miss Russell wanted me to keep the children here in York. She offered to look after them while I took Mrs. White to Quebec to catch the sailing vessel for England. But my wife would not leave York without them, and so we all travelled to Quebec. I cannot put words to the horror of that trip, my children crying day and night, and Mrs. White cold and sullen through it all. At Quebec, I purchased four passages on the Triton and reminded her of the financial arrangements I had made. She was to have one hundred and fifty pounds a year, one half my designated salary as Attorney-General. I had told her this before, mind you, and she had agreed to it.

  “‘I cannot raise three children on that paltry amount,’ she told me as she was about to board the Triton. And right there on the quay, she grabbed Ellen and dragged her up the ramp. ‘Keep the boys,’ she told me, ‘and may a curse fall upon you.’”

  I will tell no one what she really said to me, the vile accusations she spat at me as she forced Ellen onto that ship. I can only pray the boys did not understand the venom of her words. They were so happy to stay with me that they may not have listened or cared. But Ellen must have understood what she said and perhaps she believed it.

  “Surely you cannot blame yourself for the mistress’s anger. She knew the terms. She was the one who agreed to those terms and then insisted on leaving your sons behind with you.”

  “Yes, but Ellen’s words are burned into my soul. ‘I hate you, Papa.’ Can a father ever forget that?”

  “She did not understand the ins and outs of it all.”

  “That
is perhaps true. But I shall never see my little girl again. Never can I explain to her how I love her, how I wanted her with me always, how if her mother had left her with Charles and William there on the quay, my life would be bearable with my children beside me, but now . . .” He starts to sob again.

  Mrs. Page gets up from the rocking chair, pours fresh water from the pitcher into the wash bowl, then holds it under his chin while he rinses the tears from his face.

  “Can I get you tea now, sir?”

  “No tea, thank you.”

  I don’t know how to tell her what I really need.

  Seconds pass while Mrs. Page opens the window and throws the water from the wash bowl down on the garden beneath the window. She turns back, sits down again in the rocking chair and says, “Shall I stay then?”

  “Please.” He reaches out with both hands in a gesture of entreaty and pulls her towards him. “Please.”

  She smiles. “We have perhaps half an hour, sir.” She goes to the bedroom door, slides the bolt into place and turns back. She takes off her shoes and, fully clothed, climbs into bed beside him.

  He turns towards her, and she moves close so that her body fits snug against his. Her skin smells of the lavender sachets she has put into every room of the house. Through her dress, he feels her breasts, small and firm, and though he has no strength left in him to do more than hold her close, the warmth of her sympathy invades his being and gives him, for a few moments at least, surcease of sorrow.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  September 1799

  Eliza Russell is for once looking forward to this day’s tea. Job has set a brass teakettle of boiling water beside the tea table in the withdrawing room and laid out some tiny sweet buns fresh from the bake oven. Her guests are expected at any moment. She will have only her brother and Mr. White with her today. Though perhaps Cousin Willcocks may show up, too. He surfaces from time to time like a drowning swimmer trying to take in air. He is now postmaster of York, her dear brother having procured this position for him not so many months ago. He has settled in York with his wife and daughters. She is fond of his daughters. And all would be right and proper, if only he would stop putting his hands on her when Peter is not looking.