Thus it was that on a crisp, cold morning overseen by a cloudless sky, rare in winter or other months in imperial London, John Alexander Macdonald set out on an invigorating promenade from the Westminster Palace Hotel. It was a walk that was destined to alter forever his nearly full life.
At six feet four inches, Macdonald was an imposing figure as he strode forth, the beaver collar of his black greatcoat snug against his freshly laundered, stiff wing-collar and four-in-hand cravat that encircled his neck like a tight but not uncomfortable vice. His tall grey stovepipe hat sat almost squarely on the mounds of bush reddish-brown hair that almost covered his ears. Pearl-grey gloves covered the fingers that were, like his body, long, thin, and knobby. His right hand encircled the loop of his stylish wooden walking stick, which he occasionally tapped against his polished boot or held against his narrow-legged, striped-grey trousers.
Stimulated by the cold air filling his lungs, his mind and body were feeling well and content after his hearty breakfast of kippers and toast. Macdonald walked a brisk pace, his eyes first gazing on the spires of Westminster Abbey, the majestic resting place of countless British heroes. He went north along Prince’s Street to Birdcage Walk, the west along it toward what was for him the true centre of the British Empire, Buckingham Palace, the residence of reigning monarch, the beloved widow Queen, Victoria. Standing across from the Palace at the entrance to the broad, tree-lined Mall, Macdonald watched the company of red-coated, busby-capped soldiers of Her Majesty’s Grenadier Guards as they completed the intricate manoeuvres of the elaborate ceremony of the Changing of the Guard. As he stood mesmerized by the royal scene, John A. wondered if he would ever have the privilege of entering those magnificent iron gates to be presented to Her Imperial Majesty. Ah, he thought, that would be a grand experience, but not likely to come to pass.
Then he was off again moving smartly north across Green Park toward Piccadilly Street, his cane tapping out a quick rhythm on the gravel path. When he reached that famous thoroughfare he found it teeming with horse-drawn carriages, wagons, and trams. The broad sidewalks were filled with pedestrians bundled up against the frigid air. White plumes of breath flowed from their reddened faces like vanishing ribbons as they walked. Turning east on Piccadilly, John A. headed for his favourite shops in the Burlington Arcade.
Slowly he worked his way northerly through the Arcade gazing intently into the shop windows, which presented a treasure trove of objects he could never find in Kingston or Toronto, let alone Ottawa — gold and diamond jewellery, china, vases, and artifacts from the exotic Far East, amazing clocks, timepieces in all manner of exquisite designs.
He paused in front of Beauchamps, the shop that stocked shirts that actually fitted his slender torso and gangling arms. He went in and bought four shirts and eight winged collars. He could wear the collars with a cravat or with his lawyer’s tabs when he appeared gowned in court as the Attorney General.
Well pleased and feeling extravagantly expansive, he left Beauchamps to retrace his steps toward Piccadilly. Something had caught his eye in a jewellery shop window. Yes, there is was. In he went, priced his find, purchased it, and immediately placed his first diamond stickpin high on his carefully tied cravat. He admired the diamond, preening himself ever so slightly in front of the jeweller’s mirror. He wouldn’t do up his fur collar now, at least not until the freezing air forced him to.
Leaving the jewellery shop, he went north again through the Arcade and turned left on Burlington Gardens to take a leisurely stroll down Bond to Piccadilly, inspecting the shops windows on the way. Then he’d go down St. James Street past St. James Palace, across The Mall, and make his way back to the hotel in time for luncheon before his meeting with Hewitt at two.
Holding his package of shirts and collars in his left hand and swinging his walking stick with the other, he turned the corner onto Bond Street. As he did so he almost ran into two elegantly dressed women, both of whom stopped in their tracks, their eyes wide open in surprise.
“John A.! Of all people.”
“Theodora Bernard, as I live and breathe!” Macdonald, too, was surprised, pleasantly so. “And Agnes. How wonderful to see you both.”
Agnes Bernard laughed. Looking at her mother, then back at the smiling John A., she said, “Hewitt told us you’d just arrived, but we never expected to see you here on Bond Street. How delightful!”
Theodora added: “You look wonderful, John A., so handsome. And obviously you’re well. How long has it been since we’ve seen you?”
As Macdonald answered Theodora, his eyes were fixed on Agnes’s face. It was a different look that Agnes caught immediately. “It’s nigh on two years, I expect. Yes, two years. All of us change in that length of time and you two have certainly changed.”
Gallantly he turned to the mother, saying, “You have grown even more beautiful, dear Theodora. Your time in London has touched you lightly.”
She smiled. “John A., you haven’t changed, you flatterer.”
“And as for you, dear Agnes, I scarcely recognized you. You’ve blossomed most attractively. Most attractively, I must say.”
Agnes could feel the blush rising in her face.
John A. thought it was a face that showed strong character, an angular face with a shapely nose, sparkling mischievous eyes, pearl-like teeth, a wide, perfectly lipped mouth, dark hair coiffed neatly back under her round muskrat fur hat. Macdonald felt he had never seen Agnes before, even though he had laid eyes on her many times in Canada.
Agnes was made apprehensive by John A.’s scrutiny, but his attention did not displease her. Not by any means. In fact she decided to let him know his overt interest was discreetly welcome.
“You must come and have tea with us, soon,” she said, smiling warmly.
“I’d love to, but I’m afraid …” He hesitated.
Theodora said, “I know what it is. Your conference starts tomorrow, so tea will be out of the question. You meet through teatime, do you not?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why not come to dinner?”
“Tonight?” Agnes added. “We’re just two blocks or so from here. Hewitt told us he’s meeting with you this afternoon — he can bring you afterward.”
John A.’s ruddy face was shining with pleasure. “Wonderful, I was going to dine with some of my colleagues — Cartier and Galt. You know them. But I’d much rather be with the ladies Bernard. Much.”
With that said, they parted and went their separate ways. As the ladies Bernard walked on arm in arm toward their Grosvenor Street flat, Theodora said, “I saw the way John A. was looking at you, my dear.”
Agnes merely nodded.
“And you did not give any sign of discouragement, did you?”
Eyes down slightly and deep in thought, Agnes shook her head. “No, Mother.”
Theodora pressed on. “You know, my dear, he’s so much older than you are — twenty-two years. And we both know how he gets … ill with too much drinking.”
“Yes, Mother, I know all that! For heaven’s sake, we’ve only just met the poor man again and all he’s done is make some flirting eyes with me. He hasn’t asked me to go to bed with him, let alone marry him.”
“He’ll do both, mark my words!” Theodora was certain she knew what was going on in John A.’s widower’s mind.
“And if he did, Mother, I’m not at all sure I could cope with that illness of his.” Agnes was silent for a moment. “But he is a splendid man, is he not? The finest man in Canada — the ablest, I should say.”
Theodora chuckled, then wrinkled her nose as the wind of a passing, prancing ebony young horse caught both of them full