“Erneste Bergeron,” Hincks said as if he wereannouncing a witness to the court. “A wealthy farmer and landowner.Fifty years old. Newly rich, not a seigneur. Supplied the rebelswith money and food. Got his barn and crops burned for his pains.Addicted to Catholicism. Bright enough to realize his sons couldnot thrive in the old regime.”
“At age fifty, his opinions will be wellset,” Marc pointed out.
“Maurice Tremblay is certainly younger, inhis mid-thirties,” Robert said. “But he was an active rebel, aclose friend of Nelson, fought with him at St. Denis, and was latercaptured and imprisoned. Only Lord Durham’s amnesty saved him fromthe noose.”
“We won’t tell him that our interpreter herewas formerly a lieutenant in the British army and lauded everywhereEnglish is spoken as the Hero of St. Denis.”
Marc winced at Hincks’s reference to his pastexploits, his other life.
“According to LaFontaine,” Robert said moresoberly, “the poor fellow lost three fingers on his right handduring a skirmish. To put it bluntly, as Louis did, he hates theEnglish with a passion.”
“Why bring him along, then?” Marc asked, justas the sleigh swung left and entered the deep evergreen woods tothe north. Here, the rarely used trail was much rougher, despitethe cushion of snow over it, and the spruce boughs brushed rudelyagainst the sides of the vehicle.
“He’s intensely loyal to LaFontaine,” Robertsaid.
“Even though LaFontaine did not join thefighting?”
“Yes. As you know, Louis never stoppedputting forth the French case — before the parliamentary crisisbegan, and during the fractious debate in the Legislature whensupply was withheld and the ruinous stalemate ensued. Louis wasjailed by Governor Colborne as an instigator and supporter of therevolt. And he worked tirelessly to achieve clemency for thecaptured rebels, particularly during Lord Durham’s brief tenure.And in the past few months he has spoken publicly again and againabout the inequities of the Union Bill.”
“You think he realizes that revolutions arewon in the political back rooms as well as on the battlefield?”Marc said.
“We must hope that is so,” Robert said. “Formany of his Rouge party and their supporters are Tremblays: outcasts and pariahs in their own country. He will have to persuadethem that there is a future for them in the new order.”
“And the third associate?” Marc asked,as they struck a stray log somewhere under the snow and bouncedsideways.
“An interesting and quite different case,”Hincks said. “One Daniel Bérubé. A middle-aged Montreal merchant.In dry goods, if I recall correctly. Not your classic radical.Stayed neutral during the revolt. But realizes that the Bleuparty will be even more reactionary in the new joint parliament — which is not good for business.”
“It sounds like LaFontaine wants to add apractical voice to the mix,” Marc said.
“As long as the fellow isn’t so practical heloses sight of the larger principles animating our common cause,”Robert said. “Despite what our opponents think, we’ve never soughtan American-style republic — with all its unchecked excesses andobsession with material progress.”
Marc, who had observed some of these excessesfirsthand in a recent trip to New York City, nodded hisagreement.
“We’re here, gentlemen!” Old Henry calledout.
The sleigh had turned south and abruptly leftthe forest behind. Before them lay the cleared acres of Elmgrove,and as if to welcome them there, the snow suddenly ceased. In thecrisp, clear air they could see nearby several small sheds andbarns nestled in deep drifts. Farther on loomed the impressivesilhouette of Elmgrove’s manor-house with its soaring, snow-cappedchimney-pots, its steep gables, and several tall-windowed wings. Afaint runner-track wound its way among the sheds and eased aroundthe capacious stables, partially hidden by a grove of cedars — evidence that their French counterparts had, some time before,arrived here via the same strategic route.
“Go right on up to the circular drive infront of the manor,” Robert said to Old Henry, having to loosen oneof his scarves in order to swing his head far enough around tocatch his coachman’s attention. “Macaulay will be expecting usthere.”
When they pulled up to the porticoed entranceto Elmgrove, Garnet Macaulay was indeed waiting for them. Elegantlyturned out, as always, he stood on the swept stones of the porch,hatless and smiling, and called out to the arrivals, “Come rightin, gentlemen. Leave your luggage for the servants.”
Marc and Robert followed Hincks up the steps,stamping their feet to get some feeling back in them.
“It’s a damn sight warmer inside,” Macaulaysaid cheerfully. “And I daresay it’ll get even warmer beforeSaturday.”
After a brief exchange of greetings they wentinto a spacious foyer, where the butler stood anxiously — staringwith disapproval, it seemed, at his master’s unorthodox andneedlessly effusive manner of greeting his guests. “May I take thegentlemen’s coats and hats?” he said in tones so orotund and soEnglish that they might have been meant as caricature. “I’ll haveBragg take the luggage to the north wing, if that’s all right withyou, sir?”
“Of course, Chilton. Whatever you feel isnecessary,” Macaulay said, apparently flustered a bit by Chilton’sdirect question. Then he added, “But Struthers usually does theheavy lifting.”
“Mr. Struthers is the ostler and generalhandyman, sir. I’ve had him lay in sufficient wood for the extrafires we’ll need in the north wing, but I’ve instructed him not toenter the main section of the house with his muddy boots andodorous clothing.”
“Very good, Chilton. As you see fit.”
Chilton placed the hats and coats on thehall-tree with a pair of precise, long-fingered hands. “I’ll letthe snow drop off them, sir, before taking them down the hall tothe closet.”
Macaulay waved the arrivals towards a door atthe end of the wide hallway that bisected the main section of themanor. “We’ll have a quick drink in the billiard-room beforeChilton settles you into your quarters.”
“Mr. Chilton seems to have settledhimself in rather quickly,” Hincks remarked. “He can’t havebeen here long.”
“Not quite a week,” Macaulay said. “Hearrived here last Thursday and took over immediately.” Then, as ifhe had said something untoward, he added, “He’s come highlyrecommended from London, and is extremely efficient.”
“But he’s not Alfred Harkness,” Robert said,patting his friend on the shoulder.
“Alfred was one of a kind,” Macaulaysaid.
Alfred Harkness, who had served the familyfor over twenty years, had been diagnosed with stomach cancer earlyin October. He had insisted on carrying out his duties despite thepain and his impending death. Sadly, Macaulay had begun seeking areplacement, writing to friends and acquaintances here and inEngland. His efforts had brought him Graves Chilton, but no-onecould replace Alfred.
“Where are the Frenchmen?” Hincks said toMacaulay as they stepped into the billiard-room, unoccupied exceptfor a smartly dressed, handsome servant tending to the drinks-trayat the sideboard.
“They’re in their rooms, resting and reading.They’ll join us for luncheon at twelve o’clock, after which we’llrepair to the library to begin our deliberations.”
“I’ll have a small sherry,” Hincks said.
“Don’t bother with that, Bragg,” Macaulaysaid to the man who was about to set up a tray of drinks. “We’llhelp ourselves. Chilton wants you to deal with the luggageoutside.”
Very slowly, Bragg put down the decanter hewas holding. “But, sir — ” he said in a way that managed to be bothpleading and aggrieved.