by Ann Birch
How would Mary handle this? Sam wondered. He listened as she showed the savvy he so often admired. “Dear Anna,” she replied. “Someone once said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. And I commend you for choosing a colour that shows to perfection your beautiful complexion.”
“Allow me to take a liberty,” Anna continued, leaning over and taking the band of rose-coloured bows, buttons and tassels into her small white fingers. “I love what you have achieved with this accent.” She pointed now to her own band of black grosgrain with the beaded butterflies. “What is your opinion of what I have done with this feature of the gown?”
“Quite lovely, I assure you.”
Catastrophe averted, Sam bowed to the Jamesons and took his wife by the hand. He found her a chair where she could watch the dancing. “Hold the fort, my dear. I’ll be back in a minute.” He needed to find a pisspot. He knew from previous occasions that there was one in a small chamber down a narrow hall near the games room where the older men often gathered to play billiards.
Having done the necessary, he emerged, and almost ran into Jameson and Markland on their way into the chamber. Markland’s hand was caressing—yes, that was the word for it—Jameson’s sleeve.
They sprang apart at Sam’s appearance. Markland spoke first, pointing to a greasy smear on the sleeve where his hand had been. “Jameson just got a blob of wax on his sleeve from the candelabra, and I was suggesting spirit of turpentine. What do you think, Jarvis?”
“Should do the trick,” Sam replied then made his escape back into the main hallway and the ballroom. It could be true—perhaps Markland was simply giving advice on the candlewax—but he doubted it. The way they had jumped apart, the dismay on their faces when he had emerged suddenly from the room: those things suggested something quite different. They had clearly expected to have a few minutes alone over the pisspots. And now he understood what Anna had meant when she had asked him not to make facile assumptions about her marriage.
There was a commotion in the ballroom when he returned. He could see Dr. Widmer in the middle of the floor and a crowd gathered around him. Mary, however, was still seated where he’d left her, and Anna was beside her. “What’s happened?” he asked.
“One of Emma Robinson’s daughters was dancing at such a clip that she slammed into another dancer and cut the girl’s arm with her bracelet. There was a loud scream and some spurting blood, and as you see, Dr. Widmer is looking after things.”
“Quite the diversion,” Anna said. “Robert took the opportunity to go and play billiards in the games room.”
In a few minutes, the musicians began to tune their instruments. Anna looked at her dance card. “I see you have written your name on my card,” she said to Sam. “Shall we join the line?”
“Here’s Colonel Fitzgibbon for me,” Mary said, and the four of them moved to the floor as the musicians struck up a galop.
“I don’t remember putting my name on your card,” Sam said, grinning at Anna in the few seconds before they leapt down the lineup of dancers. And then they had no more time to talk until they both stood gasping against one of the windowsills. On the far side of the room, Sam could see his wife and Fitz mopping their brows.
“I noticed your husband with Markland a few minutes ago.”
“Ah, yes.” She paused and looked straight into his face. “I knew his exit for the billiard room was merely an excuse.”
“I am truly sorry,” he said, not knowing quite what line to take.
“Don’t be. It’s something I’ve known about for a while, and I’m reconciled to it. After I make my journey into the wilds of Upper Canada this summer, I shall return to Europe and take up my own life again. It is a good life. I have many friends there. I need nobody’s pity.”
“You promised to join me on Manitoulin Island, do you remember that?”
“I always keep my word.”
“I hold you to it.” He took her hand and led her across the room to Mary and the Colonel.
“Supper downstairs,” the master of ceremonies announced.
“Gives them time to make sure all the blood is cleaned up,” Sam said to the Colonel, who was still panting from the dance.
Anna took Fitz’s arm. “Would you agree, dear sirs, that the Battle of the Sexes is less gory than, say, the Battle of Beaver Dams?”
Sam and his friend laughed. “As deadly, perhaps, but certainly less bloody,” Sam said. He looked about the ballroom. “I do not see your husband anywhere, Mrs. Jameson. Will you join Mary and me and the Colonel and Mrs. Fitzgibbon for supper? All this exercise has no doubt given us an appetite.”
Supper was downstairs in the dining room. Damask tablecloths covered the sideboards and tables, and a hundred beeswax candles caught the sparkle of the starched linen, wineglasses and blue-and-gold china. Menservants—again Sam recognized men from the garrison, hired for the occasion—stood about awaiting directions from the steward.
“A good spread, better than the usual fare,” Sam whispered to Mary. He always liked to compare the vice-regal meals with his own suppers at Hazelburn.
“Sir Francis needed a wife to set it up,” Mary agreed. “You will no doubt find an improvement in the quality of the wine.”
It was the custom at these events for the gentlemen to hold back while the ladies ate. So the Colonel seated his “little girl”, as he called her, at a comfortable table near the buffet, and Sam placed Mary and Mrs. Jameson beside her. The women seemed in perfect amity. He was relieved that the crisis of the matching ballgowns had passed, and now that he thought about it, it seemed actually amusing that the two women in his life should pick the same dress.
He and the Colonel looked over the offerings on the sideboard, then heaped the plates with cold tongue, roast chicken and meat pie. “I only hope there will be something left over when we finish feeding the ladies,” Fitz said.
As Sam passed the food over Anna’s left shoulder, he noticed the startling whiteness of her skin against the oakleaf bronze of her gown. For a second or two he paused. He wanted to put out his hand and touch her shoulder; it would be so soft...
“Please watch what you’re about, Sam,” Mary said. “There’s such a tilt to that plate. Everything is about to slide off.”
He came to his senses, set the food down in front of Anna and went to get another plate for Mary.
While the ladies ate, the men hovered, allowing themselves only a glass of wine from the server’s tray. “Much better,” Fitz said as he took a sip. “Remember how we used to joke about the discount Sir Francis got for relieving the vintner of his dregs?”
By the time the ladies had eaten the mince tarts and cherries in syrup, Sam and his friend were ready to fill their own stomachs. There was still plenty of food—the servants kept replenishing the platters—and now the men from the games room had joined the diners, and the room was crowded. The noise level rose.
They had just loaded their plates with food—some excellent whitefish had been added to the selection—when Jameson and Markland approached the sideboard. “Where’s my wife?” Jameson asked. A bit the worse for drink, Sam thought.
“Fitz and I gave her and our wives supper. She couldn’t find you, and though the lady made no complaint, mind you, she needed an escort. Why didn’t you tell her where she could find you?”
“’Scuse me, no offence intended. I thank you for your attention to her, sir.” He turned to Markland. “Better get some food into us.” Sam watched as Jameson put a large chunk of chicken onto his plate and waved away the servant who offered wine. Then Sam, the Chancellor and the Colonel sat down with the ladies while Markland moved off to join Henry Boulton and some of the other men at another table.
Sam had barely tucked into his meat pie when he saw the Governor approach their table. “May I sit down?” he asked, pulling out a chair. Everyone rose in deference to the honour bestowed upon them, and waited while he seated himself.
“I am happy to sit among you, for it gives me an opportun
ity to hear your comments on the achievements of Parliament in this last session.”
“Very commendable,” Sam said.
“Extraordinary,” echoed Jameson.
Sir Francis cleared his throat. In this tiny town, Sam said to himself, there lives a teeny tiny man with a position too big for his tiny brain, and now we shall have to listen to a tiny speech.
“I am proud of what Parliament has accomplished in this session, and I am happy to say that as the leader of this society, I have been the prime mover of important changes that will benefit all and sundry, from the distinguished gathering in this gilded chamber down to the lowliest savage in our far-flung forests.” The Gov paused, patted his curls, and continued. “Drunkenness has been the curse of this country, and now the Act which imposes an additional duty on licences to vend liquor will put an end to degradation.”
He puffed out his little chest, like a pouter pigeon, and waited for the response that came, rather weakly, “Bravo! Bravo!”
He had more to say, had even cleared his throat again, when from down the table came Anna’s voice. “Please excuse me, Sir Francis, but as one who attended the proroguing of Parliament last month—albeit from the gallery—and heard the reading of this Act, may I be permitted to make a comment?”
“Of course, dear lady. I am always glad to hear an opinion from the distaff.” He beamed upon her.
“The Act on which you pride yourself will do very little good in the present state of society here.”
Sam heard a murmur of voices from behind. Anna’s voice, though soft, had undoubtedly reached the next table. She continued. “The Act will do nothing to make criminal the wretched practices by which certain merchants in this town cheat the Indians. Nor will it raise the price of liquor enough to deter drunkenness among the general population. You might as well try to dam up a flood with a bundle of reeds, or douse a fire with a cup of water, as attempt to put down drunkenness and vice by such trifling measures as that Act you passed.”
Mrs. Widmer’s giggle punctuated this remark, along with a buzz of voices like a hundred wasps whose hive had been knocked down. “My god,” Fitz whispered in Sam’s ear, “listen to that. Never before in the history of this town has a woman dared to say ‘boo’ to the Governor.”
With a barely perceptible pause, Anna swept on. “I suppose, however, that anything which is attempted here is better than nothing. But I do wish that you had made an attempt during this session of Parliament to address the plight of the insane.”
“The insane, Mrs. Jameson? What have we to do with the insane?” Sir Francis’s hands clenched. He made little punching motions.
“At present these unfortunate persons either wander about uncared for, or are shut up in jails. In the dungeon of our town jail, for example, female lunatics are locked up in cages. Their confinement is severe beyond that of the most hardened criminal. I know one of them. She lost a beloved husband and a small child within one week this winter. The affliction of grief struck her down. What did she do to deserve—”
“I must ask you to say no more, madam. This is neither the time nor the place... Please, Chancellor Jameson...” Sir Francis nodded at Jameson, who rose and went over to his wife.
“Anna, we will go home now. Kindly excuse us, sir.” Jameson bowed, and Anna pushed back her chair and got up.
“I thank you and Lady Head for a fine evening, Sir Francis,” she said. “If I have upset you by talking politics—a topic unfitting for a lady—I apologize. I fear I have upset my husband, and I must apologize to him as well. He is one of your staunchest supporters, Sir Francis.”
In a moment they had gone. The Governor turned to Mary. “Dear lady, what an embarrassing interlude.” His face very red, he rose and moved on to another table where, no doubt, he hoped for a warmer reception.
“Anna is a fine woman in many respects, Sam,” Mary said as they drove back to Hazelburn. “I think of the lovely way she handled that embarrassment of our identical dresses. But I cannot think what prompted such an outburst this evening. It was most unfeminine.”
“She was right in everything she said, you know. She’s heard about Crimshaw’s dealings with the Indians.”
“So that is why she would not buy her dress material from him. I wondered about that.”
“She hit the mark with that comment on the insane, too. When I was in prison, I remember not being able to sleep because of their incessant howling. And that was in 1817, and now, twenty years later, nothing has changed.”
“You think she was right to speak up?”
“Brave, certainly, and I think she deserved more support from the rest of us. But I sat there like Sir Francis’s spaniel, said nothing but ‘woof woof ’ and wagged my tail.”
“We are all so dependent on the Governor’s goodwill, Sam. You thought of me and the children, and I love you for that. Anna has no dependents. Mama told me that she even makes enough money from her writing to support herself. So her rules are not our rules.”
As the horses clattered on through the fresh night air, Sam thought over Anna’s outburst. It was almost as if she had wanted to embarrass her husband, though she made it clear her opinions were not his. Aloud he said, “You’re right. She makes her own rules. For that reason, I admire her, but she scares me.” He couldn’t say anything more to Mary. But he had plenty to think about. What if Anna had orchestrated this evening’s outburst in order to free herself from Jameson? If that was the case, what would happen on Manitoulin? What would she expect?
He must have sighed. Mary patted his hand. “Dear Sam, you are tired. It’s been quite an evening. We both need a good, uninterrupted night’s sleep.”
In our separate beds, was the unspoken completion to that sentence. Well, so be it, thought Sam. Anna will undoubtedly be alone in her bedchamber too. Is she thinking of her escape from her husband? Looking forward to seeing me in the privacy of the northern wilderness?
“I can hardly wait,” he said aloud. And remembered, just in time, to add a yawn.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Anna was thankful for the carriage ride home, for Robert would be unable to say anything to her in front of the coachman. She had a quarter hour to compose herself and think about the coming battle.
At last, in the privacy of their own drawing room, he pulled her around to face him. “Are you happy now that you have made a fool and a laughingstock of yourself in front of Sir Francis and everyone else who matters in this town?”
“There were truths that needed to be stated. I have longed to speak out. My only regret is that you interrupted me before I had a chance to remind Sir Francis that William Lyon Mackenzie petitioned the government in 1829 for the establishment of a lunatic asylum. I heard all about it from the jailer. Mackenzie must have some good points after all. Perhaps I’ll write a letter to—”
“Stop right now. You will say nothing more, Anna. You will leave Toronto, take that damnable wilderness trip you keep nattering about, then return to Europe as soon as it can be arranged. I want nothing more to do with you.” He went to the sideboard in the dining room and poured the contents of the whiskey decanter into a glass.
“Nor I with you, Robert. But if I leave, I must have the guarantee of an income. Only a short time ago, you refused me an annual stipend of three hundred pounds.”
Robert whacked his glass on the sideboard with such force that its contents splashed across the polished surface. “You have it.”
“And I must, of course, have some sort of formal document drawn up.”
“I’ll see Robinson tomorrow.”
Anna glimpsed her reflection in the mirror over the sideboard. She composed her features into a smile of gratitude. Inside herself, however, she felt her heart thudding with excitement.
Anna’s room was a mess. On top of her books and manuscript on the writing table lay the letter from Ottilie; on a chair, the strange vessel that her friend had sent in a separate packet; and piled on the bed, the assorted clothing and necessaries that were t
o go into a small trunk. Anna picked up Ottilie’s letter and rubbed her cheek against the beautiful linen paper on which her friend always wrote. Yes, there was still a faint hint of her wild rose fragrance. For a moment, nostalgia surged through her as she thought of coffee and Viennese pastry and laughter with Ottilie on her tiny balcony overlooking Schönbrunn Castle. Then she reread the letter for perhaps the tenth time.
Vienna, April 2
Dear, dear Anna:
I intended to send this missive via a graceful little passenger pigeon I have trained for the purpose, but since your letter reached me today—after a mere six weeks—I have decided to entrust it to the mailboat.
You tell me about your plans for summer rambles in the northern wilderness. I hope you will receive this letter and the packaged gift before you venture far from the meager amenities that Toronto has offered you. You may find yourself in a canoe in the middle of a bottomless lake. Or trapped in a wigwam whose only furnishings are scalps. Then you will take my gift from your portmanteau and say, “Enfin!”
Even utilitarian objects like this one should be beautiful, and when I saw it at the Sèvres porcelain factory, I thought, “Expensive, yes, but of service in moments of dire necessity.” So here it is. One cannot say, “Enjoy it.” Ma per l’occasione...!
Dearest friend, how I envy you! To soar free as an eagle over lake and hilltop—sans enfants, sans mari—quelle aventure!And if you should be swamped in a bog or eaten up by a bear or scalped by a savage—what a magnificent shuffling off of these mortal coils! I shall immortalize you in a poem. What think you of “La Mort d’Anna”?
Besides the training of my darling pigeon, I have been much engaged in the care and nurturing of my newest amour—Gustav Kühne. He is a writer of bad historical novels, as you undoubtedly know, but as a lover... ! Sono malata d’amore, veramente!
How I long to hear from you again, dearest Anna! Write to me from one of those beautiful lakes over which you will soon travel avec tes voyageurs basanés. Don’t forget to pack your sponges!