Émilie winces at Wilfrid’s impiety. “I’m sure he’ll be pursuing the law. Like you and Joseph.”
“At Laval, I suppose?”
She nods.
Wilfrid sighs in frustration. “Sometimes Armand’s contempt for the English amuses me, but—”
“He’s young, Wilfrid. Give him time.”
“I know—he’s in a rebellious phase. But if he’d cultivate his English, he could take law at McGill and he’d be far better off. The priests at the Séminaire put the most ridiculous notions into his head. They want to erect a little French-only stockade on the banks of the St. Lawrence. Well, it’s 1896, and that’s no longer possible!”
Émilie sits, waiting for the rest.
“Armand needs to understand: if he spoke English as fluently as French, it would advance his prospects immeasurably. Not only that, such a passionate French Canadian needs English if he’s going to achieve anything for his people. I do wish you’d exercise your influence over him, my dear. It’s still not too late.”
Émilie wills herself to stay calm. She has her own anxieties about Armand, her own nagging fears, fragile hopes for his future. “Of course, of course, I agree with you. I’ll do my best to persuade him. But you know as well as I, he’s headstrong. It would do him a world of good to see you again, to hear all this from you in person. You know how he looks up to you.”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“How can you doubt it?”
In her agitation Émilie abandons the settee for the roses, rearranging them absentmindedly. Wilfrid goes and sits in her place, staring moodily off to the side. This isn’t the way she imagined their reunion. And all because he insists on dwelling on the children. “Please, Wilfrid, let’s discuss something else.”
He looks up sharply. “What could be more important than the young man?”
“Well, if you want more influence over him, he needs to see you more often! If Joseph and I were to move our household to Ottawa, Armand could be here every school holiday, every Christmas, all summer long—”
“Here we are again. Am I to arrange this too?”
“There’s one thing you could arrange, and it wouldn’t be so difficult.”
“My dear Émilie, as knowledgeable as you are about the world, you greatly exaggerate my powers—”
“The bench.”
He smiles in a way she doesn’t especially like. “You want me to appoint my law partner to the Supreme Court.”
“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Although I’m sure in time Joseph would make an excellent candidate.”
“And I’m sure you realize I must tend to some other matters first.”
“No doubt. But the sooner Joseph can earn something more than his pitiful parliamentary salary, the sooner we can move to Ottawa.” She forges ahead, trying to ignore his impatient frown. “Once there was a time when you wanted that, Wilfrid, you wanted me near you more than anything. In your letters—”
“Yes, and I want it still. Clearly this hotel room is too small for both of you.” He smiles again, but warmly.
She looks closely at him, verifying his sincerity. Unable to help herself, she returns to the settee, reaching for him with both arms. Wilfrid pulls her to him, and for a moment she treasures the rasp of his cheek against hers, the beloved friction. His hand brushes her bare throat and drops languorously to her left breast. She stares at the contrast between the pale flesh of his fingers and the pale sheen of the silk. She feels shocked: not by the intimacy, which she craves, but because it’s been so long.
He pulls his hand away. “I’ll speak to some people about a judgeship,” he says, startled. “You need to be here. I need you to be here.”
She feels the entire surface of her skin flush under his gaze. “So you haven’t forgotten the distant violin?”
“Never.”
For an instant she sees a familiar gleam of desire creep over his features: the outer form of his longing for her, his love made visible. But the suggestion fades, and she wonders if she only glimpsed a memory. Banishing her doubts, she raises his hand in both of hers, presses it between moist palms, presses it to her heart.
They remain seated, drinking the iced lemonade Émilie ordered up for three o’clock. She asks Wilfrid about his cabinet meeting. Evidently Tarte and Cartwright are already crossing swords, full of mutual mistrust. Only Fielding and Mowat are behaving like statesmen. She tells Wilfrid he’ll have to be the statesman. He replies that his election victory seems to have inspired everyone but him: he keeps feeling a surprising, irreducible sadness. He doesn’t understand it, but he’s heard of this happening to other politicians, discovering in victory more bitterness than joy.
She finds his ambivalence disappointing. Although she wants to pursue the matter, she can see he’s wilting, exhausted from the heat. She feels tired herself, enervated from the excitement of being alone together after so long. Hoping a change of scene will revive them, she suggests a walk down in the streets.
“You know I adore strolling with you. But things are different now. I can’t simply walk outside anytime I wish.”
“Really? The company you keep must be restricted?”
“No, no, I just have to be prudent. My movements are watched far more closely now. You have no idea how the gossips scrutinize me. Every gesture, every expression is examined for political portents.”
“You never cared about the gossips before. We used to have such lovely walks in Ottawa. Remember that pretty courtyard? It was so enchanting.”
“This town positively dines on gossip. And with a new government coming in, everyone’s nervous. There’s great anxiety, a fear of losing prestige and position and privilege and all that. Not everyone wishes us well.”
“What of it? You were elected by the people, not the gossips.”
“Still, I can’t present our enemies with a weapon to use against me. It’s too early in the game.”
Émilie shrinks from him against the end of the settee, feeling the oak armrest digging into her spine. “I’ve never thought of myself as a weapon.” He smiles to disarm her, but she won’t be put off. “Does this mean we can no longer be seen together?”
“There will be other ways. Other occasions. Just not strolling along Elgin Street à deux on a sleepy summer afternoon. People expect me to be hard at work on matters of state! This isn’t Arthabaska, my dear.”
Émilie feels her spirits sinking, but Wilfrid rouses himself, leaning confidingly toward her. “I’ve been rereading your letters. I do that from time to time. They’re absolute gems, you know. I’ve always thought you should take up writing, you have such a flair for it. You have the sparkling mind and charming style of a Madame de Staël, a Madame de Sévigné—and your perceptions of people are just as acute.”
“Stop it, Wilfrid.”
He grins. “You always say that. You call me a flatterer and say you have no literary gifts, but you know I’m right. No need for false modesty. Your writing is like your conversation, gliding in delightful arabesques—”
“Enough!”
“If you allowed your pen free rein, there would be no limit to what you could do.”
She