Governing Passion (7 page)

“Which ain’t been met in the case of Jardin
and LeMieux,” Denham said. “And I had to fire Jardin’s brother
yesterday for talkin’ back to me – in English
and
French!
“

“Well, just do your best,” Campion said. “You
did a great job on the other chamber.”

“I’m also havin’ trouble with Manson,” Dunham
said.

“But he’s not French – ”

“No, sir. But he’s never gotten over me bein’
made foreman instead of him.”

Campion turned to Marc. “You see what I have
to put up with?” he said. He turned back to Dunham. “We can’t
afford any more delays. The election starts in a few weeks and this
place has to be ready by late April. So, please sort out your
workmen, whatever it takes. And try not to fire any more. There are
no replacements.”

“Yes, sir. And there is one more thing.”

“And what is that?”

“We had a bundle of lath stolen again last
night. We could be short if this keeps up.”

“This has been going on for three nights,”
Campion said to Marc. “The thief doesn’t take much, just enough for
kindling for a day, I figure.”

“Sounds like it might be youngsters,” Marc
said.

“That’s what I think.”

“How do they get in?”

“The front doors aren’t finished, and there
is no lock on the chamber door.”

“”I was thinkin’, sir,” Dunham said, cap in
hand, “that I could come up here tonight and keep a watch. At least
for the early part of the evenin’ when the thievin’ is most
likely.”

“It’s awfully cold out here,” Campion said,
“but I think it’s a good idea.”

“I’ll do it, then, sir. Now I must get back
to work.”

“There seems to be trouble in the workplace,”
Marc observed as they headed for the door.

“Dunham’s a first-rate lath man, but I’m not
sure I should have made him foreman. He turned out to be
passionately anti-French.”

“Was he by any chance affected by the
rebellion?”

“Not really. He himself was in the militia.
But that’s no doubt where he picked up his hatred of the French. It
was contagious there.”

“It’s contagious in a lot of places,” Marc
said. “But perhaps when this legislature gets up and running, we
can begin to do something about it.”

“Let’s hope so.”

***

Christopher Pettigrew came to Marc’s room at seven
o’clock that evening, having gotten Marc’s message. He was a tall,
slim young man in his mid-twenties with a shock of blond hair and
piercing blue eyes.

“Come on in,” Marc said. “We talked briefly
yesterday.”

“I remember. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did. It’s about politics, in which, I
understand, you are not uninterested.”

“You are correct. And I do know that you are
a close friend of Robert Baldwin and Francis Hincks.”

“And you are a supporter of the Reform
party?”

“Very much so.”

Marc ushered Pettigrew over to an easy chair,
and sat down opposite him. “I suppose you’ve heard the rumours
about the alliance between the Reformers and the
rouge
?’’

“Hasn’t everyone? I’ve seen Louis LaFontaine
walking in the street.”

“The secret is certainly out, but our
opponents do not really believe we can pull it off – French and
English in one united front. Especially only four years after a
bloody rebellion.”

“I’d like to help in any way I could.”

Marc leaned forward. “You are known to be a
friend of Henri Thériault.”

Pettigrew was taken aback. “How did you know
that?”

“Gilles Gagnon, LaFontaine’s associate,
interviewed him a few days ago in Chateauguay at his family’s farm.
He heard the story of your rescuing Thériault from the man
himself.”

“Is Henri part of your alliance?”

Marc smiled. “That is what we hope to
achieve. And we do need your help in that regard.”

Marc proceeded to tell Pettigrew about
Thériault’s initial reluctance to join the alliance and his
determination to come to a decision soon. What was needed was
someone Thériault trusted amongst the English to reiterate the
goals of the alliance and the details of their platform to the man
in such a way as to render it credible and persuasive. Any
additional personal pleas could be appended.

“You want me to sit down and write Henri a
letter?” Pettigrew said when Marc had finished.

“That’s right. And attend a strategy meeting
tomorrow morning. I’ve sketched out the material we want you to
stress, and I’ll sit beside you and help out in any way I can. But
the words must be yours and in your handwriting. Will you do
it?”

“I’m not a great letter writer, but I’ll
try.”

“Good man.”

***

For the next hour Marc sat beside Christopher
Pettigrew at the desk in his room and supervised the penning of a
letter whose persuasiveness might determine the success or failure
of the entire alliance movement. Pettigrew was diligent, as he
said, but no letter writer. Marc was called upon to give advice at
every point. But slowly the details came together, and Marc was
able at last to suggest that he step aside and let Pettigrew write
a personal note to his friend Henri.

Pettigrew went at this aggressively, but
about halfway through he paused and began nibbling at his pen.

“What is it? Are you stuck?” Marc said from
the other side of the room.

“Oh, no, it’s going well, I think. It’s just
that in writing this personal stuff to Henri, I was reminded of my
sister, Christine.”

“In what way?”

“Well, you see, I’ve been writing her every
two or three days since I got here two weeks ago, and tonight was a
time for me to write her again.”

“Your sister’s in Toronto?”

“Yes. And she’s my twin sister. We live
together in a house in the north-east section of the city. We’ve
lived on the estate all our lives. Both our parents are dead, so
Christine and I have only each other. As twins we’ve always been
close, and we’re even closer through necessity. We’ve never been
apart – not in twenty-five years – except for the time four years
ago when I was articling in Montreal.”

“And your sister is missing you?”

“Very much. She’ll be devastated if she
doesn’t get a letter. So I’ll just finish this one up and then go
back to my room and write one to her.”

“Will you live in Toronto with your new
bride?”

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t leave Christine alone –
ever.”

“Has your sister met your fiancée?”

“No, she hasn’t. And she has not taken to the
wedding idea too well. I worry constantly about her. I may have to
return to Toronto for a while, even though I’m committed to staying
here until the wedding in April. I have business interests as
well.”

“Well, Christopher, we would very much like
you to remain here in Kingston if you possibly can.”

“Do you need more letters?”

“That is a distant possibility. Your first
plea may not be enough. But it may bring him closer to our side.
Further pleas may help materially, especially if Thériault replies
to the first one.”

“Well, I do hope to stay, Marc.”

“First, let’s get this letter finished and in
the mail.”

The young man dipped his pen in the ink and
began to write again.

***

Three days later, Robert was waiting for Marc in the
dining-room.

“I’ve got some news that may spell trouble,”
Robert said.

“What’s happened?” Marc said. “Has Thériault
replied?”

“No. A body’s been found – out at the
Parliament building.”

FIVE

Sarie Hickson made her way carefully through the
snow-clogged alleys of Devil’s Acre. Her feet read the way as a
blind person reads Braille. She was humming a merry tune to herself
because tonight was an evening when she would be free of the
brothel, of its smells and its animal cries and its dialogues of
despair. Sure, she was still a prostitute and was going to continue
that service when she reached her destination, but there would be
much more than a mere groping in the candle-lit dark, and such a
reward afterwards. And she would be called upon to use skills she
had learned as a child in pageants and tableaux. Thinking of this,
she unconsciously put her hand up to the big blond wig she was
wearing and felt the swish of her long gown against the drifts
beneath her. She was ready.

She came out onto Jarvis Street, swung south
to King, then east again to George. Here she soon found the house
she was looking for. It was a brick mansion of two storeys with a
portico in front and a set of elegant steps leading up to the front
door. She did not use them, however. Instead she went around one
side of the house along a well-worn path until she reached the
tradesman’s entrance. She knew from past episodes that her lover
would have liked her to have made a grand entrance into the foyer,
but that discretion forestalled this regal gesture. She rapped
discreetly on the door. Carswell, the butler, answered it, and
without looking directly at her, waved her inside. She followed him
down a winding hallway until they came to the master’s
sitting-room. She entered and the door closed softly behind her.
Secrecy, she knew, was paramount, and only Carswell among the
servants knew what she was up to. The mistress of the house, as
usual, was visiting her sister in Streetsville.

“Come in, Madame La Marquise.”

The voice was orotund and excited. Sarie
looked across the room, past the roaring fireplace and the silver
candelabrum on a polished mahogany table to where the gentleman
stood awaiting her arrival. And this was no ordinary gentleman, for
he had a crimson cloak trimmed with ermine drooped over his
shoulders and falling in folds around him to the carpet below. Upon
his head there glittered a jewel-encrusted crown – at least it
appeared thus in the flickering light. The rest of him was attired
in an Elizabethan doublet and hose, with a conspicuous
cod-piece.

“Please remove your cloak, Your Highness,”
the royal gentleman commanded.

Sarie smiled. “Yes, my dear Louis.” She
removed her coat to reveal the full splendour of her evening dress,
fluffed and ruched and cut low to reveal two-thirds of her bosom. A
string of fake pearls – courtesy of King Louis – graced her neck,
and upon her head sat a glorious blond wig.

“Madame de Pompadour, how thoughtful of you
to grace the royal presence,” intoned Gardiner Clough, smiling as
Madame de Pompadour curtsied before him.

“My wish is your command, Your Highness.”

“And you know what the king wishes of you
tonight, don’t you?”

The Marquise de Pompadour began pulling the
gown away from her breasts. “To be ravished by royalty, Your
Highness.”

The king jerked his cod-piece aside and moved
– in not too kingly a fashion – towards her . . .

Later they play-acted a scene they had
performed several times in the past. In bed (the folds of a rug),
after spirited love-making, they nibbled at fruit and Louis told
her of the many battles he had fought in and the many soldiers he
had dispatched to Heaven or Hell. Then he pulled out a sheet of
paper and read one or more proclamations, glorifying his power,
while his mistress stroked his penis and lavished epithets of
praise upon him. Sarie was particularly proud of this part of the
performance, never missing a cue and feeling quite cosy and safe
from the various terrors of the world outside.

“Would you like me to read a proclamation?”
she said this evening, deciding to improvise a bit in order to
prolong the performance.

“As you wish, my love.” Clough handed her the
paper he was holding.

Recalling a speech he had given last week –
Sarie had a great memory – she mouthed the ringing words of a
proclamation ordering out the troops to quell a riot in the streets
of Paris.

Suddenly, Clough snatched the paper away from
her. “I hope you didn’t look at the name at the top of that paper!”
he said sharply.

“Oh, no, sir, I didn’t,” Sarie said. But she
had. She couldn’t help it. The paper he had decided to use had his
letterhead on it: Gardiner Clough, Esquire. Part of the arrangement
that Clough had with Madame LaFrance was that Sarie would know him
only as Sir Lancelot. She had been given directions to his house,
but told nothing else. Nor did she want to know. Five shillings for
half a night’s work was not to be sneezed at. But she had seen his
name and was afraid it showed on her face.

But Clough said evenly enough, “All right,
Sarie. I believe you. You’re a good girl.”

“What will we do next week?” she asked.

“Robin Hood and Maid Marion.”

Sarie left happily with the coins in her coat
pocket. She made her way back to the Jarvis Street entrance to
Devil’s Acre. She had one more alley to negotiate when she heard
the thump of footsteps, heavily, behind her. She turned just in
time to see the blade of a knife aimed at her throat.

***

There was a small crowd around the body when Cobb
arrived. He had to nudge his way towards it and Dr. Withers,
kneeling beside it.

“Throat slashed, just like the first one,”
Withers said.

The body was lying face down, but the girl’s
face was turned to the right, as if jerked that way by the slash of
the blade that killed her. The snow, freshly fallen the previous
evening, was soaked with her blood.

“A God-awful way to die,” Withers said.

“Who found her?”

“A woman named Nell from Madame LaFrance’s
brothel, she said. She’s standing right behind you.”

“I recognize this face,” Cobb said, turning
towards Nell. “She worked with you at the brothel.”

“It’s Sarie Hickson. Oh, God, poor Sarie.”
Nell let her tears flow again.

“What time did you find her?”

“About an hour ago. She was supposed to be
home by midnight, but when she didn’t come in, we figured she’d
stayed over at her customer’s place. When she didn’t come for
breakfast, we began to get worried. So Madame LaFrance asked us to
go out searching for her. We soon found her. Our house is just
beyond this alley.” She let out a sob. “She almost made it.”