Solemn Vows (19 page)

Beth blushed, her pale Irish skin showing every shade of embarrassment prompted by Marc’s declaration. Deliberately she picked up her cup and sipped at the cold tea. When she spoke again, her voice was eerily calm: “I also owe you a full explanation of why and how I got here.”

“Yes, I’ve been wondering what happened to your brother and to the farm,” Marc said, glad for the moment that the conversation had moved away from its more dangerous direction.

“I’m sure Erastus wrote you that he married Mary Huggan, and that Winnifred got married to Thomas Goodall.”

“A double wedding, yes,” he smiled.

Mary had been Hatch’s housemaid. Winnifred, his daughter, had taken a fancy to Goodall, their hired man. After his experiences in their township in January, Marc considered them all to be his friends.

“Well, the Hatch mill and farm was bound to be a bit crowded with both couples living there,” Beth continued. “And so when my aunt Catherine, my father’s sister, wrote me from Boston that she had a small inheritance, no living
relative nearby, and was looking to start up a ladies’ business of some kind, I made the biggest decision of my life. I suggested we set up a millinery shop here in Toronto, in father’s building, and run it together. She jumped at the chance. I leased the farm to Winnifred and her new husband—on condition that they let Aaron stay on and help out, like he has since we first moved there. They said yes.”

Aaron was Beth’s teenage brother, slow of speech and slightly crippled.

“Aaron’s very happy. I’ve been back to see him. And Mary’s expecting her baby in September.”

At this point Aunt Catherine Roberts poked a round, friendly face through the curtain and said, “Sorry to interrupt, Beth, but Mrs. Boulton wants to know when the black- widow bonnets are due in from New York.”

“Tell her sometime late next month,” Beth said. “Better still, pick an exact date and make sure to get her order in writing.”

Aunt Catherine grinned, and slipped back into the shop.

“You’ve become quite the businesswoman,” Marc said.

“And you’ve become quite the speech writer for a Tory- tinted Whig governor,” Beth retorted with unexpected bluntness.

A deep silence hung between them. What had to be said sooner or later had just been uttered. There was no taking it back.

Finally Marc said quietly, “Will you grant me an opportunity to try and explain?”

Beth said nothing. Her face was turned to one side—her expression implacable.

“Please. You owe me at least that. I’ve been to hell and back since we parted in January.”

“All right,” she said stiffly. “You talk, I’ll listen.” And she remained as she was, half- turned away from him, like a stern priest in a confessional.

“I have not relaxed my determination to see the grievances addressed that you and your neighbours showed me to be real and reversible. You don’t know just how far I’ve come in changing my views because you have only the slightest knowledge of how I was brought up to think and behave. My adoptive father was a landowner, and a good Tory. I absorbed his values and attitudes. My two years at the Inns of Court confirmed and deepened these views, as did my training at Sandhurst. Since my arrival here to serve Sir John Colborne a year ago last May, I have been surrounded by, and taken orders from, the pillars of this community, every one of them a Tory of some stripe or other. But after meeting you and seeing for myself what you suffered as a result of governmental negligence and obtuseness, I came to accept the legitimacy of your complaints. What I told you then about my change of heart was sincere, and is still so.”

Marc waited for a response. But none came. The bell
over the shop door jangled. Low voices in the next room discussed embroidery and veils.

“Why, then, you might ask, am I in the service of a governor bent on defeating the Reformers at the polls? First of all, I am a soldier, and as such I was commanded, against my will and better judgment, to become Sir Francis Head’s chief aide- de- camp. It took some time, but I slowly became convinced that his strategy of appealing to the moderate majority and of dampening down the extreme rhetoric on both sides was right. And this will be just the first step of a multi- step plan to correct, in good time, all the legitimate complaints.”

Beth turned her face to Marc and squeezed out a grim smile. “That sounds like one of the speeches he’s been giving on the hustings.”

“But don’t you see that his plan is at least worth a try? What has been gained since the Reformers took over the Assembly in ’34? Even with a Whig governor and a Whig colonial secretary, not one grievance has yet been addressed.”

“And you trust this Whig gentleman, this commissioner of the poor laws and glorified mine manager, to right all the wrongs?” The contempt in her voice shocked Marc.

“Yes, I do. He is under orders from Lord Glenelg to do so, and I believe in his sincerity.”

“You’ve seen such orders?”

Marc stiffened. He had gone a lot further than he had intended. That he was privy to some of the exchanges
between London and Toronto was a grave responsibility. His probity in that regard must be absolute: he had sworn a solemn oath.

“Well, the governor’s letters to the
Patriot
are not state secrets,” Beth said. “Did you have a hand in writing the one in today’s edition?”

“No, I did not,” Marc said sharply. The conversation was not going the way he had hoped.

“Are you helping him with the speeches for Woodstock and London?”

“As a matter of fact, no. Lieutenant Willoughby is. I’ve been assigned to investigate Councillor Moncreiff’s assassination. It seems the governor was impressed with my work in Cobourg and Crawford’s Corners in January.”

Beth flushed and said softly, “He should be. I’ll never forget what you did for me, or how you did it.”

“Then, please, let us at least be friends. Let me come and see you.”

“No, not for a while. At least, not till the election is over.”

“My God, Beth, what in hell does politics have to do with love?”

Beth sighed. “Politics has to do with everything.”

Marc stared past her out the window, struggling to control his anger.

“You say you’re investigating the murder of Mr. Moncreiff. That is a good and proper thing to do. He was a nice
man. He came in here with Mrs. Moncreiff to help her pick out an Easter hat. I liked them both. Most of our customers are Tories or sympathizers, and I do not hate them. In fact, I’ve come to like and respect many of them. But when I read the governor’s letter this morning, I knew why I could never be married to one of them.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“The governor suggests in so many fancy words that Mr. Moncreiff was shot by a hired killer from the States, in the pay of a disloyal citizen or citizens, and he doesn’t have to spell out which party they cleave to, does he? But he goes even further than that! He hints darkly that foreign influences are at work, and this isn’t likely to be the last violent act we’ll see. You know the rest of the argument.”

The rejoinder Marc had planned died on his lips. Was Sir Francis actually using the councillor’s murder so blatantly for political purposes? The foreign threat and necessity of unswerving loyalty to the Crown in times of crisis, etc.? Was this the theme the governor and Colin had been weaving into the speech Marc had seen them concocting?

“I had nothing to do with such tactics,” he said lamely. “I do not approve of stirring up irrational fears. I thought that’s precisely what we were attempting to prevent.”

“Then have a look at this poster some concerned citizen left on my doorstep this morning.” She handed Marc a rectangle of stiff paper. He read what was printed there.

Farmers!
BEWARE!
The enemies of the King and the People, of the constitution, and Sir Francis Head
ARE DAY AND NIGHT, SPREADING LIES.
They say Sir Francis Head is recalled—Sir Francis Head is not recalled, but is supported by the King and his ministers. They say tithes are to be claimed in Upper Canada—Tithes are NOT to be claimed in Upper Canada

FARMERS!
Believe not a word these Agitators say but think for yourselves and SUPPORT SIR FRANCIS HEAD, the friend of Constitutional Reform.

“This is the very type of rhetoric the governor is trying to avoid,” Marc said with not nearly the conviction he intended to convey. “He would not have approved this. Nor would I.”

Beth looked at him sadly, regretfully. “Then shouldn’t you do something about it?”

Marc got up. “I am a soldier, not a politician. I must do my duty.”

“As I must do mine—to honour the memory of my husband and his father, who both died because of politics.”

At the curtains, Marc said, “Do we not have a duty to love?”

“Yes,” she said. “That is what keeps us human.”

As they parted once again—with the gulf between them apparently wider—Marc was certain only that he loved her.

W
HEN
M
ARC ARRIVED AT
G
OVERNMENT
H
OUSE
—bruised, sore, crestfallen—he found Sir Francis agitated and incoherent. He was pacing up and down the lofty entrance hall, with Willoughby and Hilliard following warily and flinging words after him that were meant to mollify but were having the opposite effect. Had something gone wrong with plans for the journey on Monday? Or worse? Major Burns was looking on stolidly from a nearby doorway, either indifferent or too ill to intervene. It was the sight of Marc that brought Sir Francis to such an abrupt halt that Hilliard and Willoughby tottered right past him before stopping themselves.

“Ah, it’s you, Lieutenant—at last.”

“I came as quickly as I could—”

“You’re not hurt, I hope?” Sir Francis said, halfway between threat and concern.

“Not really, sir. Just a bruise or two.”

“Well, Angeline tells me you saved her life.” The governor’s panic at seeing his ward dishevelled, scraped, and weeping still showed in his face, as if he could not yet bring himself to believe she had not been seriously injured.

“Miss Hartley is recovering?”

“Yes, she seems to be, but I can’t tell whether she’s crying over her ruined dress or a bruised arm. She just repeats your name over and over.”

“Any sign of the blackguard?” Hilliard asked Marc.

“I’ll have the bugger horsewhipped and clapped in irons!” Sir Francis cried with such vigour that his eyes bulged. Marc realized with a sinking feeling that Hilliard had not been discreet in his account of the incident.

“It may well have been an unfortunate accident, sir,” Marc said. “A runaway wagon is not that uncommon, especially during the Saturday market.”

“I have a difficult time believing that,” Sir Francis said through clenched teeth, “after what I’ve been told by Hilliard and my ward and even the groom.”

“Ensign Parker has been posted to watch the horses in the event the driver returns for them. The constables will take things from there.”

“I want the man brought here! Is that understood, Lieutenant Edwards?”

“I’m sure that Cobb and Wilkie will get to the truth of the matter, sir.”

Sir Francis uttered a purging sigh. His anger slowly drained away. He put a hand on Marc’s shoulder. “You must forgive me, young man. I am overwrought. I’ve had a terrible shock, especially after what happened up at Danby’s. You deserve nothing but my gratitude and my deepest respect.
I should be more concerned for your hurts than for my own wounded pride.”

“It’s been a trying week, sir—for us all,” Marc said, wondering what the governor would say if he were to learn the nature of the hurt now burning its way through his aide-de-camp.

Willoughby and Hilliard looked as if they wanted to say something helpful but had chosen discretion over valour.

Sir Francis began pacing again. Everyone else stood where they were and watched anxiously. “I don’t give a damn for my own safety,” he said, picking up the shreds of his earlier anger. “I intend to walk tall into the lion’s den next week. I shall challenge any citizen to strike down the royal surrogate, if he dare. But to prey upon innocents like poor Moncreiff and now my ward, a mere chit of a girl, for whom I am solely responsible, and who has been most abominably abused. I will not have it, do you hear?”

Everyone in the far recesses of the building could hear.

“Perhaps I could find a couple of reliable corporals from the garrison to watch Miss Hartley while you are away,” Marc said, then bit his tongue as he saw Willoughby glowering at him: it was Colin who was now in charge of such matters.

“My God, Lieutenant, you’re right. I will be gone for four days, and Angeline will be here alone and unprotected.” The implications of this remark had just begun to sink in, for Sir Francis stopped in mid- step and glared at the nearest
Athenian pilaster as if he would, like Samson, bring it and the house crashing down.

Willoughby decided it was prudent to put his oar in. “Perhaps you could suggest, sir, that the young lady keep indoors for the duration. After all, it’s only until next Thursday.”

Sir Francis shifted his glare from the pilaster to Willoughby. “That, sir, is a preposterous suggestion!”

Willoughby’s head snapped back as if struck. But Marc was pleased to see that he held his ground. “But you wouldn’t willingly put her in danger?”

“I have absolutely no intention of putting my ward’s safety in jeopardy. But she has expressly conveyed to me her desire to shop for a gown suitable for the gala at Somerset House next Saturday, and on Tuesdays she always takes the carriage to Streetsville to visit a second cousin of hers of whom she is extremely fond, and on Wednesdays she goes riding in the College Park.”

“But surely, sir, these are extraordinary circumstances,” Willoughby tried again.

“Miss Hartley, provided she is fully recovered by Monday, will continue with her habitual routine. Is that clear to everyone?” The governor’s voice had the ring of royal prerogative in it. No one spoke. “Moreover, she shall be fully protected and armoured against the slightest interruption or irritation. Willoughby, you will choose two reliable men from the barracks to act as bodyguards. You yourself will
accompany Miss Hartley wherever she wishes to go, and I shall hold you personally responsible for her well-being as well as her safety.”