At the corner of Bay and Front, on the otherside of the street, stood the handsome, porticoed residence of Dr.William Warren Baldwin – physician, lawyer, architect, and agentleman of the most liberal propensities. The solid brickstructure served the Baldwin family as townhouse and attorney’schambers, and Dougherty never passed by without saying a quietprayer, to whatever god might happen to be listening, for Dr.Baldwin and for his son Robert. Since the trial and hisrehabilitation, Dougherty had spent a number of afternoons in thoselawyerly chambers and more than one stimulating evening in thefamily parlour adjoining them. Why, just last night, he had satbefore a warm fire upon a welcoming sofa trading witticisms andbons mots with Robert and his father, and with young MarcEdwards, their apprentice and articling clerk. Marc was the manmost responsible for the investigation and successful prosecutionthat had brought Counsellor Dougherty back from the livingdead.
The subject of the debate, as spirited andcompelling as any he had heard in the legislative chambers atAlbany, had of course been the contents and recommendations ofLord Durham’s Report, which had reached the colony fromEngland just two weeks ago. Young Edwards had met the infamous earlwhen His Excellency had visited Toronto last June on hisfact-finding mission following upon the rebellions in both Upperand Lower Canada. Child’s play they were, when compared with theglorious revolution of 1775, but Dougherty had been too polite tosay so. Besides, however miniscule its scale, the struggle of theordinary citizens of Upper Canada against the tyranny and arroganceof the local oligarchy – dubbed the Family Compact – was realenough. And blood had been shed, including that ofLieutenant Edwards, and families had been burned out or driven offtheir land. Moreover, the constitutional and governmental questionsthat had sparked the rebellions (and were still unresolved)provided an inexhaustible grist for the mill of any self-respectinglawyer, whatever his politics or country of origin.
Lord Durham had recommended that the Britishgovernment promote the union of Upper and Lower Canada, with aunited legislature and a parliamentary system modelled on “Britishprinciples.”. Robert Baldwin and his disciple Edwards were ecstaticwith this proposal, though their pleasure had been tempered by thefact that the current provincial parliament was dominated by theright-wingers. Dougherty’s contribution to their discussion hadbeen to point out that Lord Durham had initially considered thebest constitutional option to be a federal union ofall the provinces of British North America – a notion, hefelt obligated to remark, that echoed uncannily an arrangement thathad been worked out in a nation not too far distant from them..
Dougherty now directed his amble west alongFront Street, pleasantly assaulted by the maritime scents of fishfrom the shanties and stalls along the beach and from a mist-ladenbreeze from the broad bay. He was still chuckling reminiscently ashe approached York Street. Having got the attention of Baldwin andMarc, Dougherty had taken the opportunity to emphasize that thecritical issue for Upper Canada was the persistent and perniciouspresence of an “aristocracy” that was such in name only.Furthermore, any government based on “British principles” wasunworkable without the weight of tradition and authority as acounterbalance to an elected assembly. Having acknowledged thisproblem in 1775, Franklin and Jefferson had set about designing arepublican system with an ingenious set of checks andbalances. Unfortunately, the indisputable logic of this argumenthad been dismantled not by any counter-thrust, but rather by thesudden appearance of Diana Ramsay, the governess of Robert’schildren. One of the wee tots had a fever, and she thought that Mr.Baldwin ought to tend to her. And Mr. Baldwin had agreed, excusinghimself but not before reminding his guests that they had arrangedto attend the Saturday evening sitting of the Legislative Assembly.After which, young Marc Edwards had driven Dougherty home beforegoing on to Briar Cottage and his wife Beth, now nearing the end ofher “term.”
While disappointed in the abrupt conclusionto their discussion, Dougherty was otherwise pleased to have gottena clear-eyed look at Miss Ramsay, for it was she who had recentlycaught the fancy of his ward Brodie. It was obvious that her tidyfigure, dark curls and big black eyes would appeal to any young maninclined that way, but it was the frank intelligence in her faceand her self-possessed bearing – despite the anxiety of the moment- that appealed to Dougherty, and made him glad that Brodie wasbeginning to settle into life in a British colony after the glamourand promise of New York. They could never return there, not afterall that had happened, unjust as it had been – at least not as longas he himself lived, for both Brodie and Celia had sworn to standby him to the end. That such an end now seemed more distant was aprospect to be welcomed.
At York Street, even in the early-morningmist off the bay, the monstrous folly of Somerset House loomed, andaffronted. Its cupolas, belvederes, balconies, colonnade andportico had been expensively and haphazardly yoked together tocreate a residence that was part chateau, part castle and partMoroccan mosque. No doubt it suited the pretensions ofReceiver-General Ignatius Maxwell, one of the fauxaristocrats at the heart of the province’s political deadlock.Fortunately, as Dougherty swung north along Simcoe Street, with hisbreathing a touch more strained but holding up nicely, he was ableto cast a more favourable eye upon the parliament buildings thatfaced Front Street. Their handsome red-brick and simple butgraceful lines spoke well of both the practicality and the modestaspirations of a North American citizenry struggling to defineitself. They weren’t the White House or the Capitol – nothing couldor ever would be – but then again they weren’t a clone of their“betters” at Westminster. He was looking forward to the debatethere this evening.
At King Street once again, he walked easttowards Bay, increasing his pace slightly as he entered the homestretch of this daily race against the ravages of time andmortality. The displays in the shop windows held little appeal forhim, and thus he was able to concentrate on negotiating the wornand broken planks of the boardwalk. Only at the jeweller’s shop didhe pause long enough to note the time on the garish Englishpendulum clock that reared amongst the pocket watches, necklacesand other baubles in the bow window: 7:33 A.M. He was three minutesbehind schedule! More ambling and less meditation, he concluded -and moved on.
A few steps up Bay Street, he felt hisstomach rumble in anticipation of the breakfast that Celia wouldhave ready for him: sausages, eggs, flapjacks, maple syrup andsteaming black coffee – American style. But it was his ward Celia’ssmile he was looking forward to most of all.
***
“What do you mean, you’re gonna give up yer lawstudies?” Beth said, a little more forcefully than she hadintended, a touch of her southern twang just noticeable.
“I’m not giving them up, I’m merelypostponing them,” Marc replied in a most reasonable tone. “And youmustn’t go about upsetting yourself, not in your – ” Marc stopped,but half-a-phrase too late.