Mary wiped her face with her lace handkerchief. He watched as she struggled to smile. “Oh, Sam, do you think she will want to stay with the gentlemen for port and cigars when we have a supper party?”
“Undoubtedly. I expect they will be greatly enlightened by her views on the Wigs.”
He rose, leaned over her shoulders, and put his face against her cheek. “We shall say no more about discharging Miss Siddons.”
Mary took his new fur-lined greatcoat from the wardrobe and draped it over his shoulders. It was a fine piece of tailoring, and in it he felt like a millionaire, perhaps John Jacob Astor or one of those other New York men he read about in the American newspapers that arrived at his office downtown. “Clothes make the man,” his mother had often said when she’d urged his father to spend more and more on outward trifles, and it was a proverb Sam found himself remembering too often these days when he looked at his tailor’s account.
He and Mary went out the front door onto the wide verandah and down to the phaeton which had drawn up to the steps. John, the coachman, whipped up the horses, and they slipped down the long gravel driveway past the lawns and gardens now covered in snow. Pretty they were as they gleamed in the moonlight, but lovelier by far in summer and fall.
Government House, located at King and Simcoe Streets, was a two-storey frame house in the Georgian style with shutters and an attractive portico. Not as handsome as his own house, though, Sam noted.
John pulled the horses to a halt. “Elmsley House, sir.”
“Government House, man. Why do you persist in calling it Elmsley House?”
The house had once belonged to Chief Justice Elmsley, who had also owned the farm and field north of the town where Sam had killed John Ridout. He still could not bear to hear the name.
The footman in the front hall took their coats, and they entered the drawing room. The new Lieutenant-Governor came forward to greet them. “Welcome, Jarvis, and welcome to your good wife.” He gave a nod in Mary’s direction and called to a hired waiter whom Sam recognized as a corporal from the garrison. “Have some rum punch.”
Sir Francis gestured towards two vacant chairs. As Sam went to sit down, he noticed the Governor standing on his tiptoes to look at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. What did the man find to admire? Certainly not the beaky nose or tiny figure. Perhaps it was his large head of luxurious curls? Any girl would be proud of them, Sam reflected, as he turned to talk to the Attorney-General, Robert Jameson, who perched on the beechwood settee beside Sam’s chair. Here was a man whom the mirror would declare “fairest of all”.
“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.
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