by Ann Birch
“And how does Mrs. Jameson like her new abode?” Sam asked.
“She is used to the comforts of large drawing rooms in London, Paris, and Vienna. I fear there will be a period of adjustment. But why don’t you ask the lady herself?” He called to his wife, who had taken a chair near the fireplace. “Anna, come here. This gentleman would like to meet you.” Jameson stumbled to his feet to give his seat to his wife. In the process he set his punch glass on the Pembroke table, spilling some of its contents over the polished surface. The hovering waiter moved in to mop up the puddle with the napkin he had over his arm. “Better get some barley water into me,” Jameson said, as he suppressed a hiccough and walked off.
“I have met Mr. Jarvis before. And this is Mrs. Jarvis? I am happy to meet you.” As the lady stretched out her arm to greet them, Sam noticed how her dress sleeve was moulded to her slender arm and ended in a wide cuff that fell back to display a delicate wrist with a pretty pink topaz bracelet. She sat down on one side of him in the chair her husband had vacated, while Mary sat on the other.
Before Sam could say more, the room fell silent as Sir Francis raised his voice and launched into one of the familiar anecdotes about his career as a mining supervisor in South America. “...and as I may have told you before...”
“Yes indeed, many times,” Sam whispered into Mary’s ear. She gave him a dig in the ribs with her elbow, but from the corner of his eye, he noticed Mrs. Jameson’s smile.
“The natives there called me—”
“Galloping Head!” This epithet was shouted by Sir Francis’s son, the schoolboy Henry Head, who had somehow escaped from his studies and come unannounced into the drawing room. “Tell them about your wild ride from Buenos Aires, Papa!”
“And now shall we have twenty minutes of the inevitable?” Mrs. Jameson whispered, leaning towards Sam so that he could smell her lavender fragrance. He took another cup of rum punch from the waiter’s tray.
Sir Francis’s story went on and on, and the men were tipsy by the time the dinner gong sounded. Jameson weaved about as he made his way to the dining room, and Sam had to steady himself on the chair backs as he looked at the card which indicated his place at table.
It was a good spread: squash and apple soup, a fine roast turkey stuffed with oysters, a huge cured ham, roast potatoes, carrots, a cut-glass crystal bowl of peaches and pears in a heavy syrup, and excellent berry pie. Sam was glad of the food. He felt his head clearing as he ate. He had to stay sober if he were to make a favourable impression on Sir Francis. When was he to have his opportunity? So far the talk at the table had been of the state of the roads along the St. Lawrence River.
Henry Boulton, the man who had been Sam’s second in the duel, monopolized the conversation, as he always did. He had three topics: roads, politics and the price of wine. This night his theme seemed to be “My Late Visit to the Eastern Townships”. He waved his knife about as he complained of one of the bridges: “The planks were so loose, so rotten, and so crazy, that every moment I thought that my expensive new carriage and spirited thoroughbreds would fall through.”
“It would have been a great loss if you had fallen with them.” Sam hoped he’d made the remark in a neutral tone that no one at the table could take issue with. But Mary pressed her foot into his ankle.
The women remained silent for most of the meal. Then, over the berry pie, Mrs. Jameson spoke up. “As a newcomer to the town, I must ask your advice on what to read. There seem to be a great many newspapers, though from what I understand, there are very few books. But one must read something. I have perused the Toronto Patriot and cannot say that I enjoy its content. What do you think of the Constitution? Much livelier, if I can judge from the two copies I’ve read.”
There were groans about the table. Henry Boulton gave a loud belch and covered his mouth with his napkin. The ladies brought out their fans, and Mrs. John Beverley Robinson, wife of the Chief Justice, inhaled the vapours from her vinaigrette.
“I fear I have said something amiss,” Mrs. Jameson said, though she did not look at all contrite.
“Dear lady,” the Chief Justice replied, “you have been here only two days. You cannot know that the editor of this paper, William Lyon Mackenzie by name, is a viper and a demon. In the vile pages of his rag, he has abused everyone in this town, even my dear departed mother.”
“In the brief weeks I have held this post, Mackenzie has even seen fit to print the foulest rumours about me, His Majesty’s represenative,” the Governor said. “Believe this, I intend to do whatever is in my power to scotch the viper. And I will depend on each and every one of you, loyal servants of the Crown, to support my cause.”
“Hear! Hear!” The gentlemen beat their fists upon the table, and the ladies, at a signal from Mrs. Robinson, rose to take their tea in the drawing room.
Mrs. Jameson hovered in the archway, looking back at the dining table. “Perhaps I might stay for a few minutes to hear the discussion about this man? I know so little about the politics of the town.”
“By all means, Mrs. Jameson,” Sir Francis said. “Instead of ‘Shall we join the ladies?’ we now have a lady asking, ‘Shall I join the gents?’ Most unusual, but I say, ‘Welcome, dear lady’.” He pulled out a chair for her.
The manservant removed the cloth, leaving the mahogany surface bare. He passed cigars, and the gentlemen settled to their glasses of port, bowls of walnuts and wedges of Stilton cheese. As an afterthought, the man found a stick of barley sugar in one of the drawers in a small table and gave it to Mrs. Jameson.
Boulton slumped down into his chair, while Jameson’s glassy stare seemed locked with the protruberant eyes of King William, who looked down from his portrait above the sideboard.
In the brief lull that followed, Robinson spoke. “Has your lordship heard of Jarvis’s attack on the reptile?”
“I have heard something, to be sure. But I would most willingly hear it all again from your own lips, Jarvis.” Sir Francis pushed back his chair and stuck his tiny feet and short legs straight out in front of him.
Sam had expected to work in a word or two about the Indians, but the conversation had gone off on a tangent. Well, so be it. Wasn’t there a line somewhere for this moment? Ah yes, he had it. “The readiness is all.”
“It was almost ten years ago, sir, and the Colonial Advocate had printed the vilest slander against Governor Maitland—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Jarvis. The Colonial Advocate?”
Sam looked across the table at Mrs. Jameson. “That was the name of Mackenzie’s former paper, ma’am.” He turned his attention back to Sir Francis. “He didn’t stop with Governor Maitland. He attacked all the people whom the Governor appointed to the Legislative Council. ‘Obsequious, cringing, worshippers of power’ was what he called them. Indeed, sir, he implied that it was patronage, not merit, that prompted these appointments. In doing so, he struck at the very manhood of our society.”
“There wasn’t a decent household in this town that went uncontaminated by his pestilence,” Robinson said. Sam remembered Mackenzie’s snide revelation that Robinson’s mother had once kept a common ale-house.
“Continue, Jarvis,” Sir Francis said. “I am eager to hear it all.”
“Well, sir, in early June, 1826, I found myself the leader of a band of angry men heading towards Mackenzie’s print shop. We knew that he was away in Lewiston—getting an extension on his debts, no doubt—and that his foreman had left early for his daily binge at Simpson’s Hotel. We armed ourselves with clubs and sticks and pieces of cordwood, and we were united in a single purpose—”
“To destroy the demon’s presses!” This from Henry Boulton.
Fists thumped on the table.
“We smashed open the office door, pulled down the press, then went for the cabinets. We emptied the type cases and strewed them in the yard and garden. We kicked to bits a frame filled with type, ready no doubt for the printing of another piece of slander. We twisted and tossed aside the thin brass st
rips that held together the pieces of lead. Some of my friends even carried three or four of the type cases across the road and flung them into the bay.”
“Admirable, my dear Jarvis,” Sir Francis said.
“That day we were gods.” Sam smiled, remembering the exhilaration of the moment. Mrs. Jameson’s blue eyes locked with his. She did not smile.
“But this superhuman effort did not quell the rogue?” Sir Francis asked.
“He launched a civil suit which did not go well for me.”
“I’m not surprised,” the lady said.
What was that supposed to mean?
Sam continued. “The jury was a passel of low-born farmers and one Irish shopkeeper who sympathized with the scoundrel. They had the gall to tout the virtues of unrestrained freedom of speech.”
“But who was in the judge’s seat?” Sir Francis said. “Surely he could have spoken to the jury on your behalf?”
“I had the affliction of William Campbell, unfortunately the only member of the upper class whom Mackenzie had not slandered in his paper.”
“And?” Sir Francis pulled in his feet and sat upright in his chair.
“They brought in a verdict in Mackenzie’s favour, awarding him a settlement of six hundred and twenty-five pounds.”
Sir Francis sucked in his breath. “I cannot believe it.”
“Yes, it is true. And with this ridiculous boost to his coffers, he was able to pay off his debts, buy a new press and type cases, and put himself back in business.”
“The bastard!” Boulton shouted, knocking over his wineglass at the same time. “Whoops,” he added, “apologies to the lady.”
John Beverley Robinson spoke. “I must tell you, Sir Francis, that Jarvis had to mortgage a parcel of land to help pay the fine.” He stood up, placed a hand on the edge of the table to steady himself. “May I propose a toast, sir?”
“By all means, Robinson.”
“Then let us drink to Sam Jarvis for his heroic leadership in the attempt to quell Mackenzie and his press.” There was a clinking of glasses and a chorus of “To Sam” and “To Jarvis.” People always listened to Robinson. As Chief Justice, he got respect.
“And do I have the word of everyone here?” the Governor asked. “We will stay united in our resolve to oppose the scoundrel?”
The men staggered to their feet. “Down with Mackenzie!”
Boulton fell backwards, upsetting his chair.
“I shall join the ladies now,” Mrs. Jameson said, rising. “This has been most edifying. I thank you for including me.”
Her departure precipitated a flurry of activity. Jameson and Boulton went straight for the pisspot behind the screen. The butler set fresh decanters of port on the table. Sam drank his fill, confident that he had acquitted himself well.
At the end of the evening, as he and Mary took their leave at the front door, the Governor moved in close to him and said, “That was an impressive act you told me about this evening. I play fair, Jarvis. Merit must be rewarded.” He shook Sam’s hand and, taking the fur-lined coat from the footman, helped him into it.
“I do believe, my dearest husband, that you are on the Governor’s roster for promotions,” Mary said as they climbed into the phaeton. She took his hand and snuggled close to him.
Sam looked up at the stars in the quiet, clear night sky, and reviewed all the details he had not included in his heroic story, a story he had told so often that it had become more fiction than fact. He had not destroyed Mackenzie’s print shop out of any exalted sense of righting a wrong. He didn’t give a damn about Robinson’s mother. Or that Mackenzie had called Lady Sarah Maitland, the former governor’s wife, a “titled strumpet”.
No. The inciting words had been those applied to him. “A murderer,” Mackenzie had written. And said of his father-in-law, Chief Justice Powell, that his hands had “caressed a murderer”. Everyone had read those words. He had heard them spat at him oustide taverns in King Street.
He wanted to forget that Mackenzie’s small son had come downstairs from his grandmother’s room above the shop to try to stop the destruction. That one of the plunderers had struck the boy. That the child had stood there, helplessly listening to their curses against his father. That throughout the ransacking of the print shop, they could hear the boy’s sobs and the screams of the old woman upstairs. He hated to think of that part of it. He had not dared to tell Mary everything.
And the financial loss he suffered had not been quite as large as Robinson had implied, for Sir Peregrine Maitland had authorized the collection of money to help defray the huge fine. And Maitland had even rewarded him with the title of Deputy Secretary of Upper Canada, a useless position, true, but one that brought in a steady income. He remembered, too, that Mackenzie in the pages of his rag had called this sinecure “newly invented”.
He realized that his wife had said something to him. “Sorry, my dear.” He turned to her.
“I asked your opinion of Mrs. Jameson.”
“Courageous, I thought. It’s probably the first time in the history of the town that a woman has sat with the gentlemen over port and cigars.”
“Oh, Sam, surely she did not smoke—”
“No, but she took in the whole scene and stored it away in that head of hers. I wish you could have seen those blue eyes studying everyone around that table. There’s bound to be a chapter about this evening in one of her books.”
“Imagine bringing up the subject of newspapers at a dinner table. So unfeminine, I thought. But let’s forget about her. Let’s think about our future.”
FIVE
The next morning, the maidservant brought a cup of chamomile tea to Sam’s bedchamber. He drank it as he dressed, and his stomach felt better. It was that godawful port which the Governor served, perhaps in an effort to cut the costs of Government House.
As he passed the door of his daughters’ room, on his way to breakfast, he could hear Emily’s sobs and Miss Siddons’ calm, well-modulated voice. He stopped outside the closed door to listen. “There, there, child, dry your tears and let us plan something happy for this day. Shall we go along King Street and see what the merchants have in their windows for Christmas? Then we can compare prices and draw up a list of best buys for your Mama.”
The woman understood the need for diversion. Really, she was worth every penny of her wages. But still he could hear Emily’s sobs. What childish tragedy could have so rent his little girl’s heart?
He knocked on the door. Miss Siddons answered. Over her head, he could see Emily sitting on the bed. Her face was flushed and her eyes red.
“Papa, oh Papa, my lovely hens are...” More sobs.
“Emily’s pets have died, sir. A fox got into the chicken coop and killed them all. We found out from Cook when we went down for breakfast. The c-a-d-a-v-e-r-s are still in the henhouse, she said.”
Oh dear. Emily and her sisters went out every morning to collect eggs and to feed the hens. He sat down on the bed beside Emily and put his arms around her. “Let us go out to the coop and give them a decent burial. You may pick some of those pretty purple chrysanthemums from the conservatory to put on their graves. Or any of the other flowers there. Whatever you want, dear.”
“And perhaps we could read something appropriate for the occasion,” Miss Siddons said. She picked up a Bible from the top of the bureau. “Ellen and Charlotte and I will come along for the service. Let us all get our coats and mittens on.”
Sam went downstairs to get his coat and boots from the front hall. “We’re having a funeral service for the hens,” he called out to Mary, who was in the breakfast room. “Complete with passages from King James. Come along.”
She came into the hall. “Oh really, Sam. Do you not think it absurd—perhaps even sacrilegious—to read scripture over the carcass of a hen?”
“I don’t give a damn about sacrilege at the moment. Come or don’t come.”
He looked up the staircase as his daughters clattered down. Emily had stopped cryin
g, and Ellen was smiling. Miss Siddons followed close behind, holding tight to Charlotte’s hand. As Mary saw the funeral procession advance, she sighed and pulled her heavy coat off the hall tree.
In the conservatory, Emily selected some pink coneflowers, and they set off for the hencoop. It was beyond the stables, where Sam stopped to enlist the help of John, the coachman, who took down two spades from hooks on the wall. Then Sam emptied the contents of a pine toolbox onto the ground and put the box under his arm. On they went, over the bridge across the burn, past the now leafless hazelnut woods, and beyond the smoke shed. Finally, just as Charlotte was begging Sam to carry her, they reached the large brick henhouse.
They could see the fox’s bloody tracks in the fresh-fallen snow, and when they opened the door, they saw grey and white feathers and blood everywhere. Emily started to cry again as she looked at the carcasses. The few frightened pullets that had survived the massacre squawked on the roost.
“Pick out your favourite hens, darling,” Sam said, “and we shall put them into this box for separate burial.”
Emily walked about, looked at each dead hen, then picked up two bedraggled grey and white bodies. They were not much mutilated. Perhaps they had died of fright.
“Here they are, Papa. Happy and Merry.” She held them out to him, and he placed them gently, side by side, in the toolbox.
“I remember now. We got them last Christmas, did we not? And their names were Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. But how did you recognize them among the others, dear?”
“By their faces, of course, Papa.”
“Of course. I should have known that.”
Then Miss Siddons read from Psalm 84. “Yea, the sparrow hath found her an house, and Happy and Merry a nest where they may lay their eggs, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God.” Sam began to wish that his wife had stayed in the breakfast room.
“Amen,” they all chorused. Except for Mary.
John and Sam dug a trench in the floor of the henhouse. The ground had not frozen and they made short work of their task. Emily laid the toolbox in the grave, and the other two girls gathered up the remaining corpses and put them to rest in the earth. Miss Siddons gave the words of committal: “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection.”