“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 notsure I should have made him foreman. He turned out to bepassionately anti-French.”
“Was he by any chance affected by therebellion?”
“Not really. He himself was in the militia.But that’s no doubt where he picked up his hatred of the French. Itwas contagious there.”
“It’s contagious in a lot of places,” Marcsaid. “But perhaps when this legislature gets up and running, wecan begin to do something about it.”
“Let’s hope so.”
***
Christopher Pettigrew came to Marc’s room at seveno’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 andpiercing blue eyes.
“Come on in,” Marc said. “We talked brieflyyesterday.”
“I remember. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, I did. It’s about politics, in which, Iunderstand, you are not uninterested.”
“You are correct. And I do know that you area close friend of Robert Baldwin and Francis Hincks.”
“And you are a supporter of the Reformparty?”
“Very much so.”
Marc ushered Pettigrew over to an easy chair,and sat down opposite him. “I suppose you’ve heard the rumoursabout the alliance between the Reformers and therouge?’’
“Hasn’t everyone? I’ve seen Louis LaFontainewalking in the street.”
“The secret is certainly out, but ouropponents do not really believe we can pull it off — French andEnglish in one united front. Especially only four years after abloody rebellion.”
“I’d like to help in any way I could.”
Marc leaned forward. “You are known to be afriend of Henri Thériault.”
Pettigrew was taken aback. “How did you knowthat?”
“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 manhimself.”
“Is Henri part of your alliance?”
Marc smiled. “That is what we hope toachieve. And we do need your help in that regard.”
Marc proceeded to tell Pettigrew aboutThériault’s initial reluctance to join the alliance and hisdetermination to come to a decision soon. What was needed wassomeone Thériault trusted amongst the English to reiterate thegoals of the alliance and the details of their platform to the manin such a way as to render it credible and persuasive. Anyadditional personal pleas could be appended.
“You want me to sit down and write Henri aletter?” Pettigrew said when Marc had finished.
“That’s right. And attend a strategy meetingtomorrow morning. I’ve sketched out the material we want you tostress, and I’ll sit beside you and help out in any way I can. Butthe words must be yours and in your handwriting. Will you doit?”
“I’m not a great letter writer, but I’lltry.”
“Good man.”
***
For the next hour Marc sat beside ChristopherPettigrew at the desk in his room and supervised the penning of aletter whose persuasiveness might determine the success or failureof the entire alliance movement. Pettigrew was diligent, as hesaid, but no letter writer. Marc was called upon to give advice atevery point. But slowly the details came together, and Marc wasable at last to suggest that he step aside and let Pettigrew writea personal note to his friend Henri.
Pettigrew went at this aggressively, butabout halfway through he paused and began nibbling at his pen.
“What is it? Are you stuck?” Marc said fromthe other side of the room.
“Oh, no, it’s going well, I think. It’s justthat in writing this personal stuff to Henri, I was reminded of mysister, Christine.”
“In what way?”
“Well, you see, I’ve been writing her everytwo or three days since I got here two weeks ago, and tonight was atime for me to write her again.”
“Your sister’s in Toronto?”
“Yes. And she’s my twin sister. We livetogether in a house in the north-east section of the city. We’velived on the estate all our lives. Both our parents are dead, soChristine and I have only each other. As twins we’ve always beenclose, and we’re even closer through necessity. We’ve never beenapart — not in twenty-five years — except for the time four yearsago when I was articling in Montreal.”
“And your sister is missing you?”
“Very much. She’ll be devastated if shedoesn’t get a letter. So I’ll just finish this one up and then goback to my room and write one to her.”
“Will you live in Toronto with your newbride?”
“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 thewedding idea too well. I worry constantly about her. I may have toreturn to Toronto for a while, even though I’m committed to stayinghere until the wedding in April. I have business interests aswell.”
“Well, Christopher, we would very much likeyou to remain here in Kingston if you possibly can.”
“Do you need more letters?”
“That is a distant possibility. Your firstplea may not be enough. But it may bring him closer to our side.Further pleas may help materially, especially if Thériault repliesto the first one.”
“Well, I do hope to stay, Marc.”
“First, let’s get this letter finished and inthe mail.”
The young man dipped his pen in the ink andbegan to write again.
***
Three days later, Robert was waiting for Marc in thedining-room.
“I’ve got some news that may spell trouble,”Robert said.
“What’s happened?” Marc said. “Has Thériaultreplied?”
“No. A body’s been found — out at theParliament building.”
FIVE
Sarie Hickson made her way carefully through thesnow-clogged alleys of Devil’s Acre. Her feet read the way as ablind person reads Braille. She was humming a merry tune to herselfbecause tonight was an evening when she would be free of thebrothel, of its smells and its animal cries and its dialogues ofdespair. Sure, she was still a prostitute and was going to continuethat service when she reached her destination, but there would bemuch more than a mere groping in the candle-lit dark, and such areward afterwards. And she would be called upon to use skills shehad learned as a child in pageants and tableaux. Thinking of this,she unconsciously put her hand up to the big blond wig she waswearing and felt the swish of her long gown against the driftsbeneath her. She was ready.
She came out onto Jarvis Street, swung southto King, then east again to George. Here she soon found the houseshe was looking for. It was a brick mansion of two storeys with aportico in front and a set of elegant steps leading up to the frontdoor. She did not use them, however. Instead she went around oneside of the house along a well-worn path until she reached thetradesman’s entrance. She knew from past episodes that her loverwould have liked her to have made a grand entrance into the foyer,but that discretion forestalled this regal gesture. She rappeddiscreetly on the door. Carswell, the butler, answered it, andwithout looking directly at her, waved her inside. She followed himdown a winding hallway until they came to the master’ssitting-room. She entered and the door closed softly behind her.Secrecy, she knew, was paramount, and only Carswell among theservants knew what she was up to. The mistress of the house, asusual, was visiting her sister in Streetsville.
“Come in, Madame La Marquise.”
The voice was orotund and excited. Sarielooked across the room, past the roaring fireplace and the silvercandelabrum on a polished mahogany table to where the gentlemanstood awaiting her arrival. And this was no ordinary gentleman, forhe had a crimson cloak trimmed with ermine drooped over hisshoulders and falling in folds around him to the carpet below. Uponhis head there glittered a jewel-encrusted crown — at least itappeared thus in the flickering light. The rest of him was attiredin an Elizabethan doublet and hose, with a conspicuouscod-piece.