by Mel Bossa
“You need to attend Lucie’s debutante ball, Honoré. Do you understand? A young man of your age can’t deny his body’s…demands. And if you don’t want to engage in a public courtship, then I can arrange for some other type of female company.” Gédéon clears his throat, watching him from the other end of the long table. “There are certain ladies that would be more than happy to spend time with you, for the right price.”
The very idea of entertaining a courtesan seems ludicrous.
No, he needs to confront his uncle, once and for all. He sits up straight. “That dog is evil. It isn’t of this world. I was fine that night, until I saw it there in the park. Where does it come from? Is it a hound of hell, as Maggie says?”
Gédéon slaps the table, shaking the silverware. “In God’s name! Don’t start talking like that again. Once you allow those thoughts to enter your mind, they’ll spoil it faster than the sun spoils milk, and at your age the descent into madness happens quicker than at any other age.” He lowers his voice. “Please…there’s nothing truly wrong with you. Doctor Beaufort says that you need only take interest in our businesses and cultivate friendships or travel. I know we’ve kept you quite sheltered, but we can change that now. We can begin tomorrow. Tonight, if you like.”
“No.” He stands abruptly and pushes his heavy chair back. “I’m going to ask Fredeline for a plate and eat in my bedroom, Uncle. And I don’t want to travel or cultivate friendships, because I’m alone. Always alone, even when the house is filled with people. I’ve never been myself with anyone.”
Except with McGauran. In his company, his heart blooms.
Gédéon gives him a penetrating look. “That part of yourself you try to hide is no secret to anyone who spends more than five minutes with you. But if you don’t publicly announce it, they will tolerate it. Don’t you understand that by now? You have status and the Latendresse name to guard you from ruin. Even a woman, your wife, could accept it, if you were to provide her with a beautiful home and happy children. All you need to do, is be discreet.” He sighs. “Now I’ve spoken as frankly as I could on the matter, and we won’t speak of it ever again.”
For a moment, Honoré doesn’t know how he feels about his uncle’s words. Revealed? Insulted? He clutches the seat of the chair. “That part of myself you speak of so lightly, is my very heart. My soul. Discretion is not something I can use when it comes to such things.”
“Honoré, I know what’s it’s like to ruin yourself over someone who seems so important at the time, but in youth we rarely use wisdom or—”
“How do you know? What is the secret you keep so fiercely?”
Gédéon slowly picks up his wine glass and drinks. “Nonsense.”
“What did you do, Uncle, that has you so scared?”
“I’m not scared.” Gédéon sets his glass down. “I’m cautious.”
Honoré waits for more, but when his uncle doesn’t speak, he finally steps back. “Good night then. I’m sorry if I ruined your appetite.”
“You haven’t ruined anything yet.”
“Yet?” That word hurts, but he tries to contain his emotions. “Is that so?”
Gédéon won’t look at him. He stares off into space with a grim expression. “Good night,” he mutters. “Please, get out of my sight, before I say something I’ll regret.”
Chapter 9: Indiscretions
McGauran has never seen the inside of prison cell, but if he gets caught trespassing on the Latendresse’s property, he’ll be spending the night at the Hotel Payette, the city jail. Another Irishman picked up. Another fine to pay.
He walks with his back against the lower part of the house and soon reaches the side door. What should be the servant’s quarters. Now, if his luck holds out, Maggie or Bernard will open the door. If not, he’ll make a dash for Drolet Street and disappear.
Suddenly, he realizes how reckless this is. What right does he have to be so bold? Honoré is from a wealthy and respected family. His surname alone means something in the city. How can he, a man of no means, show up at the Latendresse home uninvited again?
Coming to his senses, McGauran carefully moves away from the door, retracing his steps back to the street, but when he hears the door opening behind him, he stops and presses up against the wall. In a shaft of light, Maggie is banging the head of a straw broom against the steps, her gaze shifting nervously from side to side. She freezes up and the white of her eyes grow in the dark. “Who’s there?”
He has to speak or she’ll scream for help and alert the rest of the household. “It’s me…Mac.” He steps into the shaft of light the door has thrown over the dark cobblestone path. “From Saint-Anne’s.”
She clutches the broom handle. “You were here the other day, weren’t you? I saw you in the study with Monsieur Latendresse.”
He steps a little closer. “How have you been?”
Maggie shrugs and tucks a loose strand of her hair into her bonnet. “They treat me proper here. I have no complaints.”
Hesitating, McGauran peeks over her shoulder, into the lighted kitchen. “It’s a nice home. Lots of nice things in there.”
She narrows her eyes. “Ah, that’s why you’ve been taking piano lessons? Oh, you’re just like the rest of the boys in the parish, always looking to steal, for a fast way out of—”
“I’m no thief. Latendresse hired me. You can even ask him yourself.”
“Who are you talking to?” An older woman comes to the door, her dark skin contrasting with the white of her housemaid dress. She moves to stand in front of Maggie. “You’re on private property and we’re armed with plenty of pistols, boy.”
“Don’t shoot me. Let me explain.” He gives her his most charming smile. “I’m a friend of Honoré. I swear, I think he’ll be happy to see me.”
She puckers her lips and eyes him over. “If that’s the truth, then why aren’t you knocking on the front door like a proper gentleman instead of scaring this sweet girl half to death?”
Something tells him that frankness will serve him best with her. “I’m not supposed to come back here. Gédéon thinks I’m beneath his nephew. And maybe he’s right…”
She frowns, obviously a little surprised at his honesty.
“Would you tell Honoré that I’m here? That’s all I ask. I won’t make a peep.”
“He was here with Monsieur Latendresse the other day,” Maggie whispers into the woman’s ear. “They were drinking champagne together in the main parlor.”
“Is that so?” The woman exhales noisily. “Fine. Wait right here.” She scrutinizes his face for a moment longer and then leaves. “Maggie, come inside,” she calls out.
But Maggie stays in the door, still holding the broom, watching him with eager eyes. “So you’re going to the shanties then?”
He can barely stand still. Will Honoré come to the door? “Uh, yeah,” he says, looking over her shoulder again.
“I bet Liza Brogan’s gonna be broken hearted over you leaving for so long.”
Finally, he looks at her. She’s all grown up and he shouldn’t be alone with her like this. “Go back inside before someone sees you out here talking with me. It isn’t proper.”
Maggie flinches, but obeys. “You’re still full of yourself, Mac O’Dowd,” she grumbles, stepping inside the house. “You never followed any rules.”
After she’s left him, he waits with his hands inside his coat pockets, trying not to pace. A few seconds pass and he hears Honoré’s voice in the kitchen. His heart starts dancing inside his chest.
Then Honoré appears in the open door, wearing a pale gray tailcoat that suits him beautifully. “Well, hello there, Mr. O’Dowd. Quelle belle surprise.”
McGauran catches the scent of Honoré’s perfume in the air and the smell excites every one of his senses. “I didn’t think anything through,” he says, taking a small step forward. “I just got out of my house and walked here.”
“How long did it take you?”
“Under forty minutes,” he
says, proudly. “I walk fast.”
Crossing his arms, Honoré leans his shoulder on the doorway, gazing at him. “You worked all day, too.” The pale blue silk of his ascot tie catches his eyes. “You must be exhausted.”
McGauran hooks his thumbs into his trousers, not sure of where to go from here. “I’m all right,” he says in a low voice, holding Honoré’s stare. He notices that Honoré is a little paler than usual. Even from where he stands, he can see shadows under his eyes. “Are you all right?”
Honoré hesitates a little. “I’m much better now that you’re here.” He glances over his shoulder. “But I can’t invite you in. My uncle is in a terrible mood.”
“Well, maybe I should go then. I don’t want to cause you any grief.”
“Oh, no, no! Just wait in the carré, please, by the corner there.” Honoré rushes into the house. “It’s a black carriage with a golden L on the cabin!” he shouts, from inside. “Promise to be there!”
“I promise!” McGauran shouts back with a grin. He’s never been one to take orders, but he’s happy to obey Honoré’s command.
Chapter 10: A Kiss in a Black Carriage
Sitting comfortably in the cabin, McGauran stares through the glass pane. With his face half hidden behind the black velveteen curtain, he watches the street in awe. He’s never ridden in such an elegant and luxurious coach. Honoré calls it a Clarence carriage. A Growler. It’s sleek and black and the cabin is completely enclosed. Even in his tattered jacket and stitched up boots, he feels superior, safe, unseen. Nothing can harm or touch him in this carriage. It’s the most privacy he’s ever had in his life and now he understands how easily a man can look down at the common folk in the street when he’s riding inside such a car. The coachman sits up front on the perch, dressed in black, discreet and polite, obeying Honoré’s every whim. He’s an older man with a face like a gargoyle. His name is Durocher.
The horses are the finest McGauran has ever seen, black of course, and their coats shine like the rain puddles they splash in across the wide avenue. The animals have had plenty of rest today, Honoré assures him, and they’re fit to trot for long hours yet. Dusk and Shadow could go all night, if that’s what McGauran decides.
He can’t help smiling at the thought. Such leisure. Such freedom and control. It’s almost too much to take in all at once. He looks down at the crystal glass in his hand. The best brandy he’s ever tasted. They have a whole bottle of it in the cabin. Glasses and blankets and embroidered pillows, too. The comfort eases his weary muscles and he leans back against the plush gray velvet seat, sipping his drink. He could get used to this.
At his side, Honoré is quiet. He hasn’t disturbed his thoughts and McGauran appreciates his company all the more. They’ve exchanged a few words here and there, rarely breaking the easy silence during the long ride across town.
They sit close, shoulder to shoulder, and suddenly, he realizes he’s been too captivated by the carriage ride to fully allow himself to feel the presence of Honoré so near him. Now McGauran feels the weight of Honoré’s body on the padded bench, the way he slides in close every time the wheels hit a lump in the road. The whiteness of Honoré’s fine hands catch his attention and he longs to enclose his fingers inside his again. But he has no right to touch him. To steal his innocence.
Honoré speaks of friendship and of Greek love. He keeps praising Whitman and Wilde, but clearly doesn’t understand the danger of physically consuming such love. Abstinence is easier than control.
McGauran remembers the way that young jobber had led him far out into the woods that bright December morning two years ago, at the lumber shanty. They’d hurried away from the tracks. Everything had happened so fast. Too fast. The cold had been no match against the heat of their inexperienced and wild caresses. He’d spilled his seed inside the man’s hand, yearning to kiss him, but never having the courage to try.
Then he remembers the shame. That long sleepless night following their passionate encounter. The way the young man had avoided his eyes from that day on. He’d promised himself he’d never give in to that need again. It hurt too much to sate it and then go without. Resistance takes its toll.
“Is there an oracle at the bottom of your glass?” Honoré’s sweet voice calls him out of his troubled thoughts.
McGauran twirls the glass and then drains the brandy in one deep swallow. It feels nice going down his throat. “If there was, what would you want it to be?” he asks, glancing over at Honoré.
“I don’t know…”
“But the world is yours.”
“No, because to truly live in my world would mean forsaking everyone I love and who loves me. It would mean disappointing my father and my uncle.”
“Your father?” He doesn’t remember seeing or hearing him.
“Yes, my father. He’s been confined to a chair in a room upstairs. He hasn’t spoken in seventeen years.”
He wonders which is worse. A dead father or this? “What happened to him?”
“No one understands. He’s been examined by many doctors. I was three years old when they found him that way, in his bed. The year before, my mother had fallen down the stairs and left this world. They say perhaps…he was too heartbroken to live, and yet, he remains alive.” Honoré’s voice quivers. “I like to think that perhaps, well, perhaps, part of him stays for me.”
McGauran too, has lost many people. His father. Sister. Brother. He doesn’t know one single man or woman who hasn’t grieved a loved one in the last years. Where he comes from, most children don’t live to be four years old, but in spite of all the grief he’s witnessed, Honoré’s story still moves him. His soft words touch something raw inside him. “I’m sorry…” he says, covering Honoré’s hand with his.
Honoré looks down at their hands and then into his eyes again. “Tell me about your mother. You seem so fond of her.”
“My mother? Well, I admire her. She’s kept her dignity through it all.”
“Dignity. Such a fragile thing to hold onto, and yet, it’s the only thing that can make us strong, I suppose.”
McGauran likes the way Honoré speaks. “What did Bernard mean by nervous condition?” He regrets being so forthright. Should he have asked?
“He told you that? Oh, no, it’s nothing. I try to work. To compose a few lines. I just—I can’t seem to write anymore. Every night, I sit at my desk, under the light of a candle, and though the words are inside me, ripe, ripe as ever, I can’t seem to pluck them, and it tortures me, McGauran. You see, I’ve lost the channel I’d worked so hard to dig, and I’m dried up before my golden ship has even had a chance to sail.”
“You’re saying you could write before and now you can’t?”
“I have sheets and sheets of paper filled with prose. I was getting quite good at it, too. I was going to submit a poem to La Bibliothèque à cinq sous or even Le Monde Illustré, but then a few months ago, I lost it all.”
“The sheets?”
“No…the talent. The inspiration. My little spark of genius.” Honoré pauses. “And then,” he says, at length, “I have these…episodes. I can’t explain them. I wasn’t such a fearful boy growing up. I used to have courage. But in the last months, I’ve begun—” He stops.
“What?” McGauran insists, softly.
“I see that dog. Do you remember it?
“Yes, of course.”
“I think it’s attached to me in some way. And…I have these episodes. I become very confused. I imagine things.”
“What things?”
Honoré won’t look at him. “I see my mother sometimes. In the hallway. I—I feel very sad and lost then and sometimes there’s snow in the house and all my plants are dead.”
“It could be something in your blood. A poison.”
“They’ve bled me many times. They’ve given me injections and ice baths.”
“What? Ice baths?” He can barely stand the thought. All Honoré needs is fresh air, friendship, and freedom. If he took him away from her
e, he could restore his strength. When Honoré gives him a long look full of pain, McGauran leans in closer. “Tell me. You can tell me anything.”
“Can I truly?”
“Yes, Honoré,” he whispers. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I think what people say is true. I think my family is hexed. And that perhaps I’m cursed.”
“No, no, not you. No way.”
“But I am, McGauran. I feel it. And no matter how good and decent I try to be, something dark is always calling my name and it speaks to me in such a tender and sweet voice. I don’t think I’ll have the strength to resist it much longer.”
Resistance. That’s something he knows. The carriage slows down and stops.
“Oh, what now?” Honoré opens the side door and sticks his head out. “Pourquoi cet arrêt?”
The man answers back in French, speaking too quickly for McGauran to follow. His own French is rudimentary.
“Ah, grosse tête de cochon.” Glancing at his pocket watch, Honoré says a few more sharp French words to the coachman, and slowly, rocking a little, the carriage takes off again.
“Is everything all right?”
“He’s very loyal to Bernard. They all are. And Bernard ordered him to accompany me back to the house by ten o’clock. But first, we’ll take you to your home.”
“No, no, no. I don’t want you to see where I live. No.”
“Do you think me so shallow? I’ve been through Griffintown before. I know where you’re from.”
“Why would you go there? It’s full of sickness and misery. All I ever want, is to leave that place.”
“Because I wanted to see your world, as you’ve seen a little of mine.”
McGauran can’t help smiling. “Fine…Just drop me off near Hay Market Square. Or close to the New City Gas building.”
“Oh, I know the place.” Honoré gives Durocher the command and leans back in the seat. “Look, Saint-Patrick’s Cathedral. Wasn’t that Father’s McGauran’s parish?”