“You needn’t have taken a taxicab, Mr.Langford. The mare would’ve given you a good gallop down FrontStreet on a such a beautiful evening.”
Brodie smiled, still feeling awkward in hisrelations with his servants, even though he and Celia had beenraised amongst them in New York City. Being master of a householdat nineteen (well, almost twenty) was something that would takegetting used to, especially by one who had been brought up torevere the egalitarian ideals of the United States of America.
Celia was still up, reading a book in herstudy. Brodie poked his head in the doorway and said, “Time forbed, don’t you think?”
“I just wanted to finish this section. MissTyson is giving me a tutorial on French irregular verbs tomorrow.”Celia, as pale and blond as her brother, tried not to yawn as shesmiled up at Brodie, whose indulgence she felt guilty takingadvantage of, but did anyway.
Brodie was justifiably proud of Celia’sintellectual accomplishments and her rapid progress at Miss Tyson’sAcademy for Young Ladies under the active tutelage of itsheadmistress. While he had not yet broached the notion to her,Brodie had already visualized Celia operating her own academy someday soon, and indeed he had purchased this large house with itsseveral wings and a spacious park-lot with a view to that end.
“However, I think I’ll get up early and do itin the morning,” Celia said, setting the French grammar aside.
“A wise decision.”
“By the way, Mrs. Crockett gave me thisletter.” She drew an envelope out of the folds of her frock. “It’saddressed to you.”
“Who delivered it?” Brodie said,surprised.
“Mrs. Crockett found it slipped under theback door to the kitchen. She thought she saw a youngsterhightailing it around the barn.”
One of the many street-urchins paid to runerrands, Brodie thought. But why the secrecy? “I’d better have alook, then,” he said evenly.
He took the envelope from Celia. His name wasprinted in block capitals on the outside. It wasn’t sealed. Hepulled out the single sheet of ordinary writing-paper and read thecontents, printed also in crude upper-case.
LANGFORD:
I KNOW ALL ABOUT MISS RAMSAY’S DIRTY
SECRET – AND THE WORLD WILL KNOW TOO UNLESS
YOU BRING 5 1-POUND NOTES WRAPPED IN BUTCHERSPAPER
amp; LEAVE IT IN THE TRASH CAN NEAR THE BACK DOORTO
THE SAILORS ARMS – NEXT WENSDAY EVENING AT 9-30.BE
THERE OR ELSE.
“What’s wrong?” Celia said, getting up.
Brodie knew better than to try to keep thenote away from his sister. They had shared so much, happy andtragic, over the short span of their lives. He let her take itwhile he strove to compose himself.
“This is from an extortionist,” she said.
“It is. But there’s nothing to worry about,”he said not too convincingly. “Diana has no guilty secret she needsto hide from the world.”
“But it says – ”
“It’s some opportunist taking a wild stab atme where he thinks I’m most vulnerable. Remember, sis, that you andI are wealthy residents of this town, and natural targets for allsorts of schemes to get at our money. You wouldn’t believe theharebrained financial offers and business proposals that have beenpressed upon me since Uncle died last spring. And, I suspect, thatif Horace Fullarton were not known to be my employer and protector,I would have received much worse.”
“I didn’t know, Brodie. You should have toldme.”
The gentle rebuke hurt, but not nearly asmuch as the truth. His beloved – his all-but-betrothed – did have aterrible secret, one she had confided to him and thereby sealed thebond between them forever, even though she had confessed to himthinking that her revelation would destroy their relationship. Twoyears ago she had become pregnant with a child fathered by a youngFrench-speaking Montrealer who had pledged his troth, but shortlyafterwards found himself embroiled in the rebellion. At the Battleof St. Eustache he had been killed while defending the local churchfrom English firebrands. Diana’s brother, with whom she lived,arranged for her to go off to a cousin’s farm near Chambly,purportedly as governess to a nearby wealthy family. The baby girlwas born there in April of 1838, and after nursing it for twomonths, Diana left it in the care of her cousins and returned toher brother’s house. Her brother’s plan was to have the infantbrought to him as a foundling a month or so later, and adopted. Heand his wife had one child of their own, a ten-year-old son, butlonged for a daughter. Soon after the baby arrived and theelaborate deception was played out, Robert Baldwin’s request for agoverness came by letter, and the decision was made to send Dianato Toronto – for the best.
“But we will bring the baby into ourfamily as soon as we’re married,” Brodie had said gallantly.
Astonished that any young man would evenconsider her a suitable bride in the circumstances, Diana wasdriven to weeping, something she had determined not to do. ButBrodie himself had been the ward of a man who had been the victimof sustained scandalmongering, here and in New York, and, ofcourse, he was very much in love. “Oh, Brodie, you are such a dear,dear man. But we can’t.”
“What do you mean? Who will ever know?”
“My brother and sister-in-law have beenraising little Sarah now for almost a year-and-a-half. She istheir child. I could never ask them to give her up.”
And though they had returned to the matterseveral times since, Diana had remained adamant. However, whileeach of them knew that they must wait some time before announcingan engagement, its certainty was no longer in doubt.
Now this. Had someone actually got wind ofDiana’s secret? Surely not. It had to be a desperate and fecklessattempt at extortion.
“What will you do?” Celia said, handing thenote back to Brodie.
“This!” Brodie tore the letter to shreds.
“Good. And that’ll be the end of it?” Celiasmiled uncertainly.
“I promise. Don’t I always take care ofeverything?”
But the end of it, Brodie had alreadydecided, would take place next Wednesday evening at nine-thirty inthe alley behind The Sailor’s Arms.
***
Nestor Peck was weaving his way along WellingtonStreet, pleasantly inebriated, a state he prized above all others.Added to his sense of well-being was the fact that for the firsttime in years he had a fine wool coat to wrap around his shrunkentorso and a silk scarf to keep his wrinkled throat warm. A stiffbreeze had come up from the west just as he had left The Cock andBull, but the stars were still shining and the three-quarter moonwas gliding apace and lighting his homeward path, as if he hadordered up such luxuries himself. It was near midnight when heapproached the stone-cottage beside the chicken hatchery. It wasthe first genuine house he had occupied since he had drifted intoToronto a decade ago. Not that it would be considered so by thetown’s finer folk, for although it had once been a sturdy farmcottage with quarry-stone walls and a timbered roof, it had beenabandoned long before the city had reached out and encircled it. Inthe interim, its roof had rotted out in three places (now patched,thank you) and the glass in its windows disintegrated (now neatlycovered with oiled paper). Leather hinges now held the decrepitdoor almost vertical and a welcome-mat had been placed on the stepby the proud new lessee (the hatchery-man having claimedownership).
Nestor stumbled over his welcome-mat and fellagainst the door. It sprung open, propelling him into the main roomjust in time to see his cousin sweep something off the table intohis lap and make a haphazard effort to snuff the nearby candle.