“But we survived that war, didn’t we?”Fullarton said, his banker’s instinct for propriety and equanimitytaking hold. “And we have welcomed into our midst thousands of menand women from the Republic and made them loyal subjects of theQueen. And Willie Mackenzie was a disaffected Scot, not a rabiddemocrat from the United States.”
“I trust, Cyrus, that you and the LegislativeCouncil will fight against the pernicious tide of Durham fever?”Dutton said, unconscious of both his non-sequitur and the mixedmetaphor.
Crenshaw smiled his gratitude for thequestion and the opportunity it bestowed. “There will be no unionbetween our province and the French traitors of Quebec as long as Iam a member of the Council and have a voice to speak for the livingand the dead.” And it was clear that the dead included oneparticular hero of the War of 1812.
A chorus of “here-here’s” greeted this boldproclamation.
“And it should be noted also,” retiredattorney Dutton added when the hubbub had subsided, “that UpperCanada is very much a place where a humble farmer’s son can risethough the social ranks and make his mark.” He looked benignly atCyrus Crenshaw, inviting assent but drawing from that self-madecandle-maker only a grudging quarter-smile.
Brodie was happy to see the elderly lawyerenjoying himself, for he had heard from Horace Fullarton the sadstory of the fellow’s life. His first wife, Felicity, the love ofhis life, had died tragically three years after their wedding.Dutton had been almost forty by then, having married late.Felicity, it seemed, was a fragile and anxious young woman who hadsuffered two miscarriages. A decision was taken for the couple tosail to her home in Scotland, where it was hoped the bracing airand the comfort of relatives would restore her health. But during astopover in Montreal, Felicity caught a fever and died. Duttonburied her there and came back home to Toronto. Five years later hemarried his housekeeper, and then watched in anguish as shesuccumbed to puerperal fever. Their son was stillborn.
The discussion continued for another twentyminutes without once veering close to the originating topic. Almosteveryone had his say and a portion of his neighbour’s as well -except for Sir Peregrine, who wished he had brought his gavel withhim.
It wasn’t exactly a gavel, but the arrival ofGillian Budge and Etta Hogg laden with trays of food and drink hadthe same effect as one. All serious talk ceased, and the members ofthe club moved quickly back across the room to the “lounge” area,where the women were laying the trolleys there with dozens ofpastries and bottles of white wine. From a large hamper, Ettaremoved a decanter of brandy and a box of cigars. The gentlemensettled in without ceremony, and suffered themselves to be servedby the fairer sex. Several pairs of eyes lingered upon the pleasingcurves of the elder of that gender, but were averted speedilywhenever Gillian swung her own gaze in their direction. Mrs. Budge,not yet forty, was still a handsome woman – an ageing butconscientious sprite. However, she brooked no funny business, ofword, deed or glance. That she owned The Sailor’s Arms lock, stockand barrel (having inherited it from a wise father who had entailedit to discourage gold-digging suitors) was a fact she was eager tobroadcast, and those who crossed her soon found themselves outsidelooking in.
Etta was another matter. Her supple figure,not yet in full bloom, and her fair-haired allure drew many alecherous glance. Moreover, such appreciative attention was usuallygreeted with a coquettish swish of pink tresses and a shy smile,but only when her employer was looking the other way. This evening,however, Etta appeared pale and distracted, the consequence, Brodieknew, of her run-in with the blackguard in the taproom and theviolent reaction of Tobias Budge.
When the women had finished and departed, themen helped themselves to the various pastries, washed them downwith chilled wine, and then moved on to the cigars and brandy,feeling no doubt the supreme satisfaction of having theirworthiness recognized and indulged. Just as the comfortable buzz ofconversation was winding down and several members were thinkingabout trying to rise out of their chairs with some dignity, SirPeregrine surprised everyone by calling for their immediate andsolemn attention.
“Gentlemen,” he began, after giving the stubof his cigar a lubricious lick, “as you know, our theme for nextWednesday is ‘What does Shakespeare tell us about love in hisincomparable comedy, A Midsummer Night’s Dream?’ We shall ofcourse devote the main segment of our meeting to a full discussionof that question, and I urge you to reread the play and chooseappropriate illustrative excerpts. Thereafter, however, I shouldlike to devote some quarter-hours to a dramatic reading ofpre-selected passages – en rôle.”
This final phrase was delivered with adaintily trilled French “r” and a delicious shiver of the baronet’sjowls.
“You mean in role as in acting?” saidchemist Michaels.
“In the sense that I am calling for dramaticprojection – of voice and gesture – yes. What I am proposing isthat such a session, where we try out our voices and talents invarious parts from the play, be a prelude to a fully stagedversion.”
Seven cigars ceased moving, as if their fieryends had been summarily and simultaneously snuffed.
“You’re not talking about putting on aShakespeare play?” Dr. Pogue said, aghast. “On a stage?”
Sir Peregrine smiled in a way that was bothpatronizing and indulgent. “I am, good sirs.”
“But that’s the sort of nonsense OgdenFrank’s thespians get up to at the Regency – not the sort of thinga gentleman aspires to,” said Phineas Burke, a grocer’s son turnedstationer and aspiring gentleman.
“I heartily concur,” Sir Peregrine saidsmartly. “Mr. Frank allows anyone at all to join his patheticlittle troupe, even ordinary artisans with more schooling than isgood for them.”
“And women of every sort,” Michaelsadded, feeling he had no need to elaborate.
“But there are women’s roles inMidsummer Night’s Dream,” Cyrus Crenshaw pointed out,looking to the baronet for help.
“Indeed there are. And we shall have ladiesto play them.”
“I don’t understand,” Andrew Dutton said.
“Let me expatiate fully, then,” Sir Peregrinesaid. “Back in London, Lady Madeleine and I belonged to adelightful clique of ladies and gentlemen who included among theiramusements and diversions dramatic evenings in which playlets,pantomimes and tableaux were de rigueur. The audience wascomposed entirely of personages from our own social class in what Imight term a ‘salon setting.’ We set up a proper stage in adrawing-room, donned full costume, and presented. We wereamateurs in the purest sense, acting out the Bard and lesser lightsfor the sheer pleasure of it all and performing solely for thedelectation and warm-hearted approval of our friends andacquaintances. And let me assure you, the quality of our effortswas not strained. We rehearsed to a fault, until our work wasfaultless.”
If any of the members had ever doubted thewisdom of making Sir Peregrine Shuttleworth their chairman andcheerleader, this description of civilized behaviour among thegentry of the mother country and the possibility of re-creating itin one of her colonies scotched all skepticism and naysaying. TheShakespeeare Club had existed for more than four years in Toronto,but its success had been intermittent, the low point having beenreached last winter when it had all but disbanded. Sir Peregrine,with the same zeal he had used to complete Oakwood Manor andorganize his needy in-laws, had re-formed and revitalized the club,and given it fresh prestige and new purpose.