“I know, I know, Bragg. But we allhave to adjust to the ways of the new man, eh, and to the fact ofour still being short-handed.”
Bragg glowered and sighed, but did as he wasbid.
Macaulay heaved a sigh of his own. “Perhapswhen Elizabeth gets back from Kingston next week, things will startrunning smoothly again.”
“Have you heard how she’s faring?” Robertsaid, always concerned about the health of spouses, especiallysince his own Elizabeth had died suddenly four years before,leaving him with two sons and two daughters to raise on hisown.
“Got a letter three days ago. The cure seemsto be working.”
The four men sipped their sherry and chattedinconsequentially for the next ten minutes, mostly about thearrangements and schedule for the coming three days. GarnetMacaulay was quite happy to leave the substantive talk to hiscolleagues while he played gracious host. Marc, who had not been toElmgrove before, took the opportunity to admire the billiard-room.At the far end sat a regulation-size billiard-table and a cue-rack,with plush leather chairs, trimmed in Kendall green, nearby, wherethe players could rest between turns at the table. On the outsidewall, a splendid fireplace with side-panels and a mantel of Italianmarble graced the middle portion of the room, naturally illuminatedby sunlight through a pair of tall windows. At the near end, wherethey now lounged in comfortable easy-chairs, a baize-toppedcard-table sat in one corner, waiting for clients.
“Your rooms are ready now,” Chilton announcedfrom the doorway. “If you like, I’ll take you thereimmediately.”
This latter remark had more of an imperativering to it than Macaulay might have wished, but he said mildly,“That would suit, Chilton. We’re finished here.”
Chilton bowed stiffly and stood backdeferentially, waiting for the gentlemen to make their move. Behindhim in the hallway, there came a loud clatter and a stifled oath,followed by the sound of glass breaking. Chilton wheeled as if he’dbeen ambushed and cried sharply, “You clumsy fool! Look what you’vedone! That breakage will come out of your wages.”
Marc was the first one out into the hall,arriving in time to see Austin Bragg struggling to his feet, withchunks of a crystal goblet in each hand. What had begun as a lookof dismay on his face was already turning into one of seething,ill-concealed rage.
“It wasn’t me that left these bootshere!” he snapped at Chilton.
Chilton glared back at him, but there seemedlittle anger in him as he said with quiet menace, “Fetch Priscillato help clear up this mess. We’ll discuss the matter later,after the gentlemen have been tended to.” With that hewheeled around to face Marc and the others, and beamed them arueful smile. “My apologies for this mishap. It shan’t happenagain. Now, if you’ll be good enough to follow me.”
Marc, Robert and Hincks turned to do so, butMacaulay stayed behind, bending over Bragg and murmuring somethingin his ear. Meanwhile Marc took a moment to scrutinize the strangenew butler leading them down the hall towards a rotunda at the farend. Graves Chilton was a trim and neatly efficient specimen inevery respect but one. He moved like a cat — part prowl, partprance; his morning coat and striped trousers seemed to have beencut specifically for the form and articulation of their occupant; aneat red moustache accented his thin, serviceable lips withmilitary precision; the eyes were a deep blue and ready to dart inany emotional direction that might be demanded of them. But therewas nothing he could do about his hair, an intemperate burst oforange stalks that the poor devil had pomaded and brushed andcurry-combed to no avaiclass="underline" it sprouted wherever it pleased. Marcsmiled to himself. Chilton might well prove to be officious andinsufferable, but he would run a tight ship.
And for the next three momentous days thatwould suit them all just fine.
THREE
When Chilton ushered the French guests into thedining-room for luncheon, Marc got his first look atLouis-Hippolyte LaFontaine. And it was difficult not to keep onlooking. As Marc had been forewarned, LaFontaine did bear astriking resemblance to pictures he had seen of the EmperorNapoleon. His dark hair was parted in the Napoleonic style, hisbearing was regal, and as he stood watching Macaulay introduce theothers, the fingers of his right hand slipped automatically underthe lapel of his jacket. But he was much taller than the Emperor,above average even, and he showed no signs of that great man’srestless energy. Given the fellow’s reputation as a radical moverand shaker in the turbulent politics of Quebec, Marc had expectedsomeone fiery of temperament, a man of passionate gestures. Butthis Louis LaFontaine was a calm presence in the room: his blackeyes were full of stilled but watchful intensity. His voice, inheavily accented English, was deep but otherwise unremarkable.
So taken with the leader of the FrenchRouge was Marc that he was well into the main course of themeal before he even thought about studying the other threeFrenchman. Garnet Macaulay, as their host, had sat at the head ofthe table and insisted that LaFontaine sit opposite him at theother end. Marc, Robert and Hincks were placed on his left, withBergeron, Tremblay and Bérubé on his right. In a sometimesconfusing but always earnest manner, the two groups managed, inboth limited English and French, to carry on a polite patter, as ifthis were merely a social occasion in which new neighbours stroveto get to know one another. As stilted as it was, and downrightawkward during those moments when Marc had to be called upon for aquick translation, the effort being put forth by each side had tobe gratifying. Certainly it boded well for the seriousdeliberations to follow.
The only exception to this calculatedbonhomie, as Marc began to notice, was Maurice Tremblay. He satopposite Marc, but never once looked directly at him. Instead, hisgaze, dark and disturbed, was fixed upon LaFontaine, except when itswung down the table to fix itself upon Macaulay. And when it did,the man’s face was twisted into what Marc could only construe ascontempt. Tremblay himself was a small man, sallow-skinned andhollow-eyed with a mop of unbrushed hair on his head, like a badwig. He was slim, but wiry and well-muscled. He carried his forkuncertainly in his left hand, and only when he raised his napkin tohis lips with both hands did he reveal the two-fingered remains ofthe right one. During the entire meal he spoke not a single word ineither tongue.
As Robert had suggested, Garnet Macaulayproved to be a wise choice as host. He kept the conversation goingby making innocuous remarks on the weather, the parlous state ofthe roads, the financial foibles of their neighbours to the south,and the pleasures of racing horses (his passion). LaFontaine didnot initiate any topics of his own and made no attempt to extend atopic, but he was studiously polite in responding to questions orcalls for his opinion. Daniel Bérubé, on the other hand, wasvoluble (more so in French than English) and more than eager tohold up his end of the conversation. He was also a physicalpresence at the table, a large, plump, pink-cheeked fellowsomewhere in his mid-forties with a gleaming bald head interruptedonly by two stooks of black hair over his ears. He had tiny browneyes set in huge, fleshy sockets and a nose that looked as if ithad been borrowed from a moose. His voice was a confident bray thatmade Tremblay, seated beside him, wince. Several times Bérubéattempted to direct the talk towards dry goods and urbanmerchandising, with limited success (though Marc did recall thatLaFontaine himself owned a block of stores in downtown Montreal inaddition to his being a lawyer and politician). Bérubé seemed anodd choice for the French delegation, Marc thought, and Tremblay’spuzzled glances at LaFontaine indicated he felt much the sameway.
Erneste Bergeron, the fourth member of theFrench contingent, spoke very little, perhaps because he spokelittle English (though it was clear that he understood a greatdeal) or perhaps because he, like LaFontaine, was reserved bynature. He was a handsome, slightly balding fellow of fifty years,with placid, hazel eyes in which kindness and tolerance weresuffused with an abiding sadness. Indeed, his whole countenanceseemed to droop, and he appeared to find it difficult to smile atpoints where his patrician manners dictated that he ought to. Foralthough Bergeron was not a true patrician — a grand seigneur ormember of the ancient landed aristocracy of Quebec — he had madehimself an extensive and influential landowner. He was also adevout Roman Catholic, according to Robert.