His master, however, had taken him aside andsuggested that if he were willing to go abroad immediately,references could be supplied and a position arranged somewhere inthe colonies. His master knew several prominent gentlemen inToronto, Upper Canada, for instance, and was willing to write thereon his behalf. What choice did he have? While he waited anxiouslyin a cold-water flat, wasting his precious savings on life’snecessities, inquiries were made and answers received. By the endof the first week in January, he was aboard a steamship bound forNew York.
“I’m on my way to become the butler in thehousehold of a Mr. Garnet Macaulay of Toronto,” Chilton said inresponse to Bracken’s question.
“Ah. . I’ve heard of the gentleman. Livesin Elmgrove. Fine manor house and old money: you’ll fit rightin.”
To Chilton’s mind that hardly seemedpossible, given what he’d seen so far of the manners and habits ofNorth Americans. After a two-week sea voyage in which he had rarelyraised his head above a chamber-pot, he had spent eight days in aNew York hotel shivering from a fever and exhaustion. And when hewas finally fit to travel, he found himself repelled by peopleprofessing to be ladies and gentlemen — on the street, indining-rooms, or crushed closely in coaches and sleighs. They wereloud, boastful, coarse-mannered, ignorant, and blithely unaware oftheir monstrous shortcomings.
However, Chilton had been bred to politeness,so he said to Bracken, “What line of business did you say you werein, sir?”
Bracken’s face lit up. “Furs!” he beamed.“Furs! The only business for a man of means and ambition toundertake in the Queen’s colonies. Let me tell you why, sir!” Therefollowed a flood of information about the glories and virtues ofthe mighty Hudson’s Bay Company, most of which succeeded inenthralling only the speaker himself. However, as consolation tothe listener, he brought out the flask and passed it freely backand forth between them. Chilton had sworn off liquor ten secondsafter being surprised by milady in her boudoir, and had managed todrink nothing but water and tea since. But that first medicinal sipof Bracken’s brandy had proved fatal. He drank greedily. What didit matter now anyway? He wouldn’t be arriving at Elmgrove untiltomorrow afternoon. He had a whole night in which to sober up andreconfirm his vow.
“Right now, believe it or not, sir,” Brackenwas saying, “I am on route to Toronto to discuss some veryimportant property transactions. Despite what you may have hearddown in the States, this colony is about to go places. We’re on themove. Any gentleman with a nose for business and a little politicalpull can make his fortune.” He chuckled and added, “Even butlers’vebeen known to get rich!”
At this point the coach began to slowdown.
“Are we in Cobourg?” Chilton asked, seeingonly snow and trees on either side.
“No, no. As I said, we stop to change horsesat The Pine Knot, a wayside inn where we can get a cup of tea and abiscuit, and where the best coach-horses in the province are kept.We’ll only be there about half an hour, but I guarantee you’ll notforget Mrs. Jiggins once you’ve met her!”
“Mrs. Jiggins?”
“She runs the inn, does the cooking, andcoddles her customers. And does most of the talking.” Bracken’scheeks blushed a deeper scarlet as he added, “A remarkable woman.Bessie’s got more tales than The Arabian Nights, andmost of ‘em are twice as naughty!”
Chilton was ready to believe almost anythingabout this outpost of civilization. “Surely she doesn’t see to thehorses as well?”
“Not that she couldn’t, mind you, but she hasBrutus to do that. Big fellow. Can’t say an ungarbled word inEnglish, but just give him a horse to talk to!”
Chilton shuddered, and glanced at the flaskin Bracken’s hand. But he himself had drained it not five minutesbefore.
The coach slowed further, lurched to theleft, and stopped. Without bothering to tuck in his silk scarf, theHudson’s Bay gentleman opened the coach door and stepped eagerlyonto the snow-packed clearing before a ramshackle, two-storey,half-log building that, to the English butler’s eye, might haddoubled as a hog-barn. But it was not The Pine Knot that held hisattention. Trundelling towards the coach at an alarming speed camea woman of generous girth and flamboyant attire, whose zeal towelcome weary travellers threatened to overtake her tiny pistoninglegs. A tatty raccoon coat, unencumbered by buttons, flapped outbehind her like a vulture’s wings, and left her tightly swaddledbosom to fend for itself against the winter chill. And no bonnet,by the look of it, had ever deigned to tame the wild spray of stifforange curls that haloed the round, pink, unpowdered face.
“My dear Bracken,” she boomed just as shesucceeded in decelerating and came to a nimble halt a foot in frontof him. “How delightful to see you once again,” she added with adainty leer. “The coffee’s hot and my scones, as you know, arealways warm.”
“Good to see you, too, Missus,” Bracken saidwith a blush, and before he could blush again he found himselfwrapped in Bessie’s arms — smothered in fur and squeezed perilouslybosom to bosom. Thus pinioned, he was rewarded with a long,luscious kiss — lip to lip.
By this time Graves Chilton had stepped,hesitantly, out of the coach, but had moved no step closer to theinn or the clenched couple. Out of the corner of his eye he noticeda shambling giant of a man come across the clearing to join thedriver beside the lead horse, who was stamping and fretting at theharness. The big fellow was distinguished only by a burn-scar thatdisfigured the entire right side of his face. The driver smiled andshook his hand, then stood back as the fellow leaned his cheekagainst that of the horse and began murmuring to it, his wordlessmumbo-jumbo instantly calming the beast.
When Chilton looked back towards the inn, hesaw — too late — that Bessie Jiggins had released Bracken and wasstarting to move towards him.
“And who’s this handsome devil?” shesaid, her blue eyes prancing in their pretty sockets.
“Mr. Graves Chilton, Bess — a gentleman’sgentleman, from England.”
As she launched herself in the butler’sdirection, she noted the scarf holding up his chin, and cried, “Gotyourself a toothache, have you? Well, Aunt Bessie’s got just thecure for that particular ailment!”
Just before the moment of impact, Chilton hadtime for one brief thought: perhaps he had made the right decisionafter all.
***
During the week before the secret conference was tobegin, Marc Edwards, Robert Baldwin and Francis Hincks keptthemselves busy in ways that would not raise the suspicions oftheir political opponents. They knew that the Tories and theGovernor’s people were watching their actions closely, for eventhough the act uniting the two provinces was not expected to passthe British Parliament until June or July, its adoption was nowcertain. Some time in the autumn of this year or early in 1841 anew order was going to be declared. What then? Whose politicalmight would prevail? Rebellion and its contentious aftermath inboth provinces had left all the traditional alliances shaky andvulnerable. Would the French Bleus stick to their ownconservative kind or throw their lot in with the radical FrenchRouges to forestall domination by les anglais? InUpper Canada, there were now conservatives who were uncomfortableat being labelled “High Tory,” and the rump group of these latterreactionaries was increasingly wary of being yoked to the OrangeOrder, whose propensity for violence and extreme measures indefense of the British monarchy were alien to true gentlemen.
And the Reformers, too, were hardly of onemind. Most of their radical members had participated in the faileduprising of 1837 with disastrous consequences. William LyonMackenzie, their political leader, had barely made his escape tothe United States, along with his cohorts, John Rolph, MarshallSpring Bidwell and other stalwarts. The military leaders, Matthewsand Lount, had been tried for treason and hanged, as had a dozenothers east and west of Toronto. Then, just as the furore andrecriminations were easing, the exiled insurrectionists, from bothprovinces, had attempted a number of armed incursions from theUnited States, aided by libertarian enthusiasts from that liberatednation. These so-called “patriots” had met an even grimmer fate: their military expeditions were met by fierce resistance, andquickly disabled. Dozens of “patriots,” Canadian and Americanalike, were captured, tried, and either hanged or shipped off toVan Dieman’s Land. All that remained of the Reform movement was ahandful of moderates still sitting in the Tory-dominated Assembly,and men like the Baldwins and Francis Hincks, who had held alooffrom the actual revolt while sympathizing with its aims. And whileRobert Baldwin’s commitment to responsible government had neverbeen questioned, some Reform supporters still saw him as a cowardwho had betrayed the cause in ‘thirty-seven, while the Toriescontinued to view him as a disciple of Radical Jack (as they haddubbed Lord Durham).