Vital Secrets

by Don Gutteridge

  Even though Marc was keenly aware of where this argument might lead and could feel a chill slowly seizing him, he could not help but marvel at the eloquence and clearheadedness of this tiny, beautiful woman. Little wonder, then, that she had been such a disruptive force in last spring’s election. Nor was the irony of the present situation lost on him: the very qualities he loved most might ultimately drive them apart.

  “There’s lawlessness on both sides now. The secret meetings are no secret. I don’t know for sure but it’s a good guess that some of the treasonous talk is already more than that. You can’t imagine the terror I felt this winter, the endless nights as I sat beside Aaron coaxing him to breathe, praying like a sinner to any god who’d listen, and worrying myself sick that Winnifred—proud, loyal, law-abiding, churchgoing Winnifred—was miles away in some snowbound barn, cheering and clapping at some sermon of rage and desperation, and all them torches waving away no more than two feet from the nearest bale of hay.”

  Marc could think of nothing to say.

  “These gatherings are still going on, and sooner or later it’ll be the troops who’ll have to put a stop to them.” She glanced across at Marc’s tunic, and he was grateful that he had not worn his sword. “Do you know what my recurring nightmare has been?”

  “I think I can guess,” Marc murmured, and looked away.

  For a minute Marc thought she was not going to answer her own question, but finally she said in a hollow voice, “Winnifred and Thomas are running through the woods, being pursued by a dark shadow. Exhausted, Thomas turns around, steps in front of Winn, and faces his pursuer. It is you. You raise your musket, call out ‘I’m sorry!’ and fire. The noise wakes me up.” “Then I’ll rip this uniform off my back! I’ll buy out my commission—”

  With the tenderest of gestures, she reached over and placed a finger against his lips. “Oh, you dear, dear man. I knew you would say that, I knew you’d promise to fetch me the moon if I asked you to. You’re still a romantic, and it’s hard—oh, so hard—not to love that part of you. But think what you’re saying. You’re only twenty-seven years old, and already you’ve tried the law to please your uncle and quit it, and then chose the army—your boyhood dream—and here you are offering to throw that away to marry me. Then what? Help me sell ladies’ hats? Live off my inheritance like an English gentleman? Return to the law and hope you don’t hate it too much?”

  She paused to swallow the lump in her throat. “No, if we’re going to come together as man and wife, it’s got to be on equal terms: the burden of our love’s got to be parcelled out fairly. Surely you see that?”

  Marc summoned up all his courage and said as calmly as he could, “So, I can’t quit the army and you can’t marry an officer: you’re telling me, then, there is no hope for us.”

  Beth’s face brightened, filled suddenly with the gentle mockery Marc loved so much. “Not at all! Let me finish. I did have doubts, but now I believe there’s every hope. For a start, neither of us has any intention of un-loving the other, despite all that might divide us. And more recently, Aaron almost dying and Thomas’s horrible accident have taught me a lesson. Any of us could be carried away at any time. We should not deny ourselves love or happiness—not for politics or religion or want of the perfect moment. The madness that’s going on now can’t last much longer, and you have your duty and I have mine, but in the meantime …”

  “In the meantime, what?” Marc scarcely dared ask.

  “If you ask me to marry you,” Beth said with a slight tremor, “I’ll say yes.”

  Marc took a moment to find his voice, then a wide grin spread over his face. “Can I believe what I’ve just heard?”

  “Is that a proposal?” Beth countered, her blue eyes dancing.

  “It certainly is.”

  “Then yes, you can believe it, and yes, I accept.”

  Marc held her tightly while his mind raced.

  “Say when,” he demanded eagerly.

  “You must go back to your garrison—there is no question about that. And I must stay here for some time.”

  “With Aaron, of course.”

  “And with Winnifred. I promised that I would be with her through her confinement and see the babe safely into this world.”

  Marc stepped back, calculating. “That means September or October at the earliest.”

  “I know. But I think she needs watching over.”

  Marc did not need to ask why. “Then we’ll get married tomorrow and just live apart for a few months.”

  Beth thought about that for a bit. “I’d like it done proper,” she said, though he saw the indecision in her face and wished he were ruthless enough to take advantage of it. “I need to prepare Aaron. And I promised Aunt Catherine that, should I marry again, she would be my matron of honour.” So, marriage had not been a taboo topic at the King Street shop, Marc thought.

  She looked at him with a sudden, solemn intensity that brought him up short. “What’s important is that we declare our love openly and publicly. We are engaged, and you can shout it to the world if you like. You can even have the banns read by the archdeacon in that stodgy old church of yours. Our wedding will happen, if God chooses to let us live till October. Nothing else can prevent it.”

  Marc leaned over and gave her a kiss on the lips. “You shame me,” he said. “And I love you the better for it.”

  PART TWO

  OCTOBER 1837

  FIVE

  “I’m in love, Marc.”

  Marc put down his copy of the Constitution long enough to glance across at Ensign Roderick Hilliard, who was sitting on the edge of his cot in the spartan officers’ quarters they had shared now for seven months. Hilliard had served under Marc at Government House during the hectic days of the election a year ago last June. “Not again!” Marc exclaimed in mock surprise.

  “This is the real thing,” Hilliard said, leaning forward intently, as if to forestall Marc’s return to William Mackenzie’s seditious weekly “rag” in favour of matters of greater importance. “I know you have every reason to be skeptical, given my past history, but I have found the sweetest, most beautiful, most ethereal creature God ever created.”

  Last year Hilliard had made a play for Receiver-General Maxwell’s daughter, but when the minister discovered their affair, he threatened to emasculate the young ensign, then shipped his daughter off to Kingston to be properly married.

  “It’s hearing you use such language that keeps me skeptical,” Marc replied. “Do I not recall similar epithets employed to describe the goddesslike charms of one Chastity Maxwell?”

  Hilliard looked as if he had been skewered by an épée in a friendly duel. “That was uncalled for. You know I loved Chastity and made her an honourable offer of marriage.”

  But not before you had hopped into her bed, Marc thought uncharitably before relenting. “You’re right, Rick. I do apologize. And I have to admit she was well married and away before you decided to work your way through the debutante rosters of Toronto and the County of York.” Marc smiled broadly to let Rick know he was teasing.

  “Well, my stock went down considerably among respectable society when Sir Francis cashiered me.” He grinned the boyish grin he so often used to set a young woman’s bosom aflutter. “But I did try, nevertheless.”

  Marc had once thought Rick Hilliard to be too brash and overly ambitious to be a friend, until he realized that under the handsome exterior and sometimes impertinent manner lay a keen intelligence and a good heart. And since he, too, had been told that he was forward and ambitious, he could hardly hold these character flaws, if flaws they were, against Rick. When Hilliard followed Marc out of the governor’s retinue to the purgatory of the Fort York barracks, Marc had taken pity on him. Rick had actually hoped that he, and not a lackey like Barclay Spooner, would take over Marc’s position as aide-de-camp to Sir Francis. The two agreed to share quarters and so far Marc had not regretted it. Although not interested in politics or economic affairs (his father being a
very rich mine owner in Yorkshire), Hilliard was a lively and witty conversationalist and a born raconteur. Most significantly, Marc sensed that Hilliard would be a valuable officer on the field of battle, for there was mettle under that mantle of charm and bonhomie.

  “And who’s the lucky woman this time?”

  “Tessa Guildersleeve,” Hilliard announced. When Marc did not immediately respond, he added with a sudden burst, “Isn’t that just the most mellifluous-sounding name you’ve ever heard?”

  “Sounds Dutch to me.”

  Hilliard frowned briefly, uncertain as to how he ought to take this riposte. “Her father was a Knickerbocker from New York, but her mother was English,” he said, as if that explained all.

  “How did she get here?” Marc said helpfully, knowing that, since there was no way he could prevent the whole story from being told, he might as well hurry it along.

  “She’s with that acting troupe that came to town last Friday.”

  “Three days ago?”

  “I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve spent every spare moment for the past two days in her presence.”

  “Well, then, two entire days is certainly time enough, and here I thought you were ice-fishing off the island or supervising the road detail.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic.”

  “There’s every need. You’re telling me that you’re deeply, irrevocably in love with an actress from the United States who, if I’ve correctly read the handbills littering this garrison, is in town for precisely five more days?”

  “I thought you would understand,” Hilliard groused, crestfallen. “After all, you are a man very much in love yourself, and one who has suffered greatly for it.”

  “Perhaps it is because I do have some notion of what love is about that I ask such impertinent questions, Rick. But at the same time I would be a hypocrite to imply that one cannot fall in love at first sight.”

  Hilliard brightened at this admission. “I know what respectable people think of actresses, but they would be horribly mistaken in Tessa’s case.”

  “Well, then, you must tell me all about such an exceptional soul.”

  Hilliard’s expression went suddenly dreamy. “The Bowery Theatre Touring Company arrived here last Friday from Buffalo. Their engagement down there was cut short for some reason and the lady who runs the operation decided to come up here a few days early. They don’t open until tomorrow night at Frank’s Hotel, but Ogden Frank adores the theatre, and he’s put them up in the best rooms above his playhouse for the whole week. In return, they’ve agreed to assist some of the amateur players in town by letting them watch the professionals rehearse and get up fresh scenes and do proper elocution, and so on. Mrs. Annemarie Thedford is the company’s proprietor, a very famous actress from New York City and every inch a lady, and so generous with her time and advice.”

  “And Tessa is a member of this illustrious troupe?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s six of them in all, seven if you count the black fellow who does the heavy lifting. Tessa plays all the ingenue roles, like Ophelia and Miranda.”

  “And is she an ingenue?” Marc asked, knowing what Rick’s answer would be.

  “Yes, she’s brilliant. I watched her do Ophelia’s mad scene from Hamlet last Saturday afternoon. There wasn’t a dry eye in the audience. Even the old farts from the Shakespeare Club blubbered shamelessly. Afterwards she was very gracious, and we spent above an hour talking. She seemed very impressed that I had done amateur theatricals since I was a youngster. We hit it off immediately.”

  “So I gather. And of what age might this extraordinary ingenue be?”

  Hilliard seemed momentarily puzzled by the question, but said quite proudly, “Eighteen.”

  Marc sighed but said nothing.

  “What does age matter? I’m only twenty-five, and she’s a beautiful woman. And you wouldn’t believe the tragic story of her life.”

  “Oh?”

  “She was orphaned at fifteen when both her parents died of the cholera and she learned that all her father left her was debts. She was an only child, without relatives in America. But her parents had always loved the theatre, and she had been taken to plays and musicals since she was six.”

  “You found out a lot in a little more than an hour.”

  “Ah, but our own York Thespians were invited by Mrs. Thedford to put on scenes from our spring production of The Way of the World on Saturday evening just for her company. Imagine the pleasure we had in performing before true professionals! And how they did laugh. But best of all, Tessa was thoroughly taken with my Mirabell, and invited me up to her room for a nightcap, the most exquisite sherry I’ve ever tasted.”

  “And you returned for a further engagement yesterday?”

  “We couldn’t really do anything on the Sabbath, but with everybody else in the troupe off to see the sights of the city and take up dinner invitations from several of the more distinguished members of the York Thespians, Tessa and I were able to spend the entire day together. The only unpleasant bit was the dressing-down Tessa was given by Mrs. Thedford for not showing up at the Grange for tea, which, I’m embarrassed to say, I was the cause of. But I turned on the charm, and before I left all was once again sweetness and light.”

  “Thank God for charm.”

  “But to get back to Tessa’s life: as I said, she was alone and destitute—”

  “And loved the theatre.”

  “—and out of the blue Mrs. Thedford arrives at her house just as the bailiffs do, and spirits Tessa away to her Bowery Theatre, of which she is part owner. It turns out that Mrs. Thedford had been a friend of the Guildersleeves, and so more or less adopted Tessa on their behalf—then and there.”

  “Sounds suspiciously like those three-decker romance novels you find so enthralling.”

  “There’s more, of course. It soon becomes apparent that Tess has a knack for acting, and is gradually worked into plays requiring the ingenue role.”

  “What else?”

  “By the age of seventeen, she’s the talk of New York, and being pursued by every cad and roué in that nefarious town.”

  “So she and the company run off to—”

  “I know this all sounds incredibly romantic, Marc, but it happens to be fact. The reason the troupe is on the road is that the Bowery Playhouse burned down last spring, and as the new one won’t be ready until this coming January, Mrs. Thedford formed a touring company for this fall. They’ve been to Rochester and Buffalo, and from here they’re going on to Detroit and Chicago.”

  “And when they do?”

  Hilliard stared at the floor. “I haven’t been able to think about that,” he said gloomily.

  “The good news is you’ve got five more days to find out just how deep your love really goes. And believe me, Rick, that will prove to be a necessary part of the process.”

  A grateful smile lit up Hilliard’s face. “That’s true. And the reason I wanted to tell you all this is that we’ve been invited again to watch a rehearsal of some scenes from Shakespeare—things they’ve done before but not for some time. It’s a chance to see how they whip an act into top shape.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find it interesting, but—”

  “I want you to come with me. I want you to meet Tessa.”

  Marc was surprised, then touched, by Hilliard’s request. Of course, Rick did not know that Marc, too, had been briefly intoxicated by the acting scene in London five years ago. He merely wanted to show off his girl to—what?—his best friend.

  Thinking that Marc was about to demur, Hilliard said quickly, “Owen Jenkin is coming along, too. He’s been in musical hall revues in his youth, and I think he’s got the itch again. We’ll be the only three there, according to Tessa.”

  Marc and Major Jenkin had developed a firm friendship ever since their foraging trip last March, with the latter enjoying the role of confidant and avuncular guide. Since then, his fund of stories about the Peninsular War, the Duke of Wellington, and
Uncle Frederick had kept Marc entertained through the long, difficult months following his separation from Beth, who was still in Crawford’s Corners. Beth wrote to him faithfully every week—rambling, newsy letters about everything that was happening on the Goodall farm and in the township around them. Winnifred’s baby was overdue, but no one was worrying. Thomas’s hand had healed, though he was left with a dreadful scar.

  Some of the news was as alarming as it was tantalizingly vague. Organized gatherings of political resistance were undoubtedly being held, though, thank God, Beth had kept a close watch on the malcontents in her own household. Moreover, the situation in Lower Canada was deteriorating rapidly. Nonetheless, the wedding date had been set, as planned, for Sunday, October 22, now just thirteen days away. Aunt Catherine, who had expanded the millinery shop to include dressmaking, had had one of her new seamstresses make a bridal gown, which had been duly shipped to Cobourg, tried on, and declared perfect. Marc, Hilliard, Jenkin, and three other officers, including Colonel Margison, were planning to ride in state, as it were, to Cobourg two days before the ceremony, where they would provide colour, pomp, and revelry before, and most likely well after, the service at Beth’s father’s former church. And Aaron would be standing tall beside the other guests, his contribution to the reviving fortunes of the farm well appreciated.

  “I’d be honoured to join you and Major Jenkin this afternoon,” Marc said. “Maybe I’ll get the itch myself.”

  NORMALLY WHEN THEY WENT TO TOWN, officers and soldiers made the thirty-minute trek on foot. Just as often, after a hectic round of taverns and less savoury attractions, the more affluent would hire a trap or buggy to drive them back to the fort in comfort. But today Quartermaster Jenkin had arranged for horses to be provided, and he, Marc, and Hilliard rode in leisurely fashion eastward along Front Street in the cool sunshine of an early October day. They arrived at Frank’s Hotel, on the corner of West Market and Colborne, just after two o’clock.