Desperate Acts

by Don Gutteridge

  Marc knew how difficult it was for Robert to make such a concession, given the total commitment he had made to resolving the current political impasse and ensuring the future viability of the province.

  “Thank you. I just pray it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Me, too. Brodie is a sterling young man, and no murderer.”

  Hincks was poring over the roster of Assembly members. “I think we could add Cecil Marshman to our moderates.”

  “He’s way off in Windsor, alas.”

  Hincks sat back, flashed his winning Irish smile, and said to Robert with a twinkle in his eye, “You know, of course, how the Governor is winning these conservatives over and mollifying the high Tories, don’t you?”

  Robert sighed. “I’m afraid I do. Without a doubt he’s been assuring them that if they vote for the union of the two provinces or refrain from gutting the bill with amendments, he will make certain that as long as he’s the vice-regent here, there will be no bending to the will of any future Reform majority in the Assembly and no infringement on his absolute right to choose his own cabinet.”

  “While assuring us that in practice, as time goes by, he will find himself doing the opposite,” Hincks added. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, why we’re going along with the charade and skulking about our own streets like saboteurs?”

  This brought a brief smile to Robert’s face. “We have no choice but to move one step at a time. The Union Bill is step one. At present we are a weak minority in the Assembly, eh? There’ll be no new election until after the union – which will come if Britain has its way, now or very soon – but we have no real power until then.”

  Hincks’ face lit up, and Marc observed with some awe how handsome and winning he really was when his heart and mind were fully engaged. “And what His Excellency doesn’t know, or isn’t admitting, is that after the union there’s every chance that Louis LaFontaine will bring his French rouge members into a coalition with us. Then we’ll see whether this or the next governor will have the courage to resist the inevitability of a home-grown, responsible cabinet-government.”

  “You’ve heard from Louis again?” Robert said, surprised.

  “I have. He’s hoping to come here to meet with us in February or March, after the Union Bill passes. In the meantime he is continuing to speak against the terms of the bill, as he must, given their inherent unfairness.”

  “That’s good news. And news we’ve got to keep under our hats.”

  Robert poured them each a brandy, and they toasted Louis LaFontaine.

  ***

  Sir Peregrine Shuttleworth and Lady Madeleine Shuttleworth knew how to impress the natives. The dining-room table – resplendent with gold-leaf candelabra, rococo serving-dishes, gleaming porcelain, and silverware too beautiful for use – groaned with “light supper fare”: roasted quail and partridge, glazed hams, stuffed rabbit, a thick-crusted game pie, smoked whitefish, steaming tureens of gravy and piquant sauces, and a tray of sweetbreads. All of which was to be washed down with chilled champagne and other exotic vintages. A white-jacketed servant anticipated every need and satisfied it with elegant dispatch. Seated at table, as honoured guests, were Cyrus and Clementine Crenshaw, Horace Fullarton, and Andrew Dutton. Sir Peregrine occupied the chair at the head of the table and did his best to play lord of the manor, but it was Lady Madeleine, at the foot of the table, who attracted the most attention, overt and otherwise.

  She was a striking woman in every respect. At thirty-six, she had maintained the willowy proportions of her youthful figure – merely by adding inches in equal measure to each of her maturing feminine curves. Two of the latter were audaciously displayed in a low-cut sateen gown of a shimmering green hue with a provocative yellow bow winking at its waist. Attempting to tame her flaming curls was a diamond tiara that glittered like a profane halo and framed her heart-shaped, delicately featured face. It was her brown eyes and milky skin, however, in contrast with the bushel of red hair that drew libidinous glances from the twice-widowed Andrew Dutton and the well-married Cyrus Crenshaw, and compelled Horace Fullarton to find less volatile objects to rest his gaze upon. Clemmy Crenshaw also found her gaze settling upon Lady Mad (as Sir P. fondly referred to her), though more in envy than in lust.

  Clemmy herself was a forty-five-year-old woman of ample proportions, which she unwisely tried to disguise with a garish frock two sizes too small for the package it was meant to encompass. Her plain brown hair had been steamed into rebellious ringlettes, which gave an effect not so much of feminine allure as of permanent fright. Her freckled complexion had been over-powdered and much-rouged, and her eyebrows startled into a double arch. The latter merely emphasized the hazel eyes, whose pupils seemed to bulge outward as if propelled by belladonna. “Oh, what a gorgeous table!” she had cried upon entering the dining-room – in a voice that tended to wobble from a trumpet to a screech. “It is positively mellifluent!”

  Before the meal, Sir P. (as all and sundry were urged to call the baronet in the spirit of camaraderie) had given his guests the royal tour of Oakwood Manor, commenting with amiable condescension upon its many glories, and once being so good as to mention the role that “Horace” had played in its design. Of the numerous, impoverished in-laws, there had been no sign: they not only inhabited their specially constructed wing, they were apparently sealed within it. The pièce de resistance, of course, had been the ballroom converted into a temporary theatre for the proposed production of scenes from Shakespeare’s Dream. “I think of this space as our Blackfriars,” Sir P. had quipped, alluding to the Bard’s own intimate, in-door playhouse.

  At the far end of the tall-windowed room, where at least one formal ball had been held for the worthiest of the worthies in the capital, a stage had been built – about two-feet high with a playing-surface about twenty-five by fifteen feet. There was no proscenium arch, but a right-angled, rectangular framework and curtains had been rigged up on either side to provide “wings” and a concealed area for those waiting off-stage for their entrance cue. At the back of the stage, the visitors noticed a man tacking canvas onto what looked like quilting-frames.

  “That’s Mullins, preparing the flats we’ll use,” said Sir P. helpfully. (Mullins was the Shuttleworth’s gardener and general handyman.)

  “We brought with us a steamer-trunk full of theatrical costumes and props,” Lady Mad added in her low, throaty voice, “but naturally we had to leave most of our flats and flies at home.”

  “We’re goin’ to have costumes?” Clemmy said.

  “The works,” Sir P. replied.

  “Our little nieces and nephew – four of them – have volunteered to play the fairies,” Lady Mad said. “But we’ll have to find someone locally to make them fairy outfits.”

  “There are a number of competent seamstresses and dressmakers in town,” said Dutton, brushing up against a puffed sleeve of green sateen.

  “I’d recommend Smallman’s,” Crenshaw said at the other sleeve. “Rose Halpenny is the best, Milady.”

  “You must try to call me Maddy, all of you,” Lady Mad said generously, “except of course when the servants are about.”

  “I shall try, Milady,” Crenshaw said.

  “Oh, I don’t see how I could,” Clemmy said. “It would seem too – too condescending.”

  “Still, you must try,” said Sir P. as he pointed out a cozy den adjacent to stage left, which would eventually serve as a dressing-room, discreetly partitioned, for both sexes. “Putting on a play brings its participants into close and familiar contact. There can be no standing on ceremony. That is why it is crucial to have only ladies and gentlemen in the cast.”

  This remark had caused Clemmy to blush with pleasure and her husband to smile inwardly at his good – and, he was certain, well-deserved – fortune.

  While Horace Fullarton immediately upon his arrival had started to tell Sir Peregrine about the events surrounding the arrest of the youngest member of their troupe, Sir Peregrine had silenced him, saying
that no serious talk was permitted till after the meal. True to his word, as the coffee was being served to his guests, groggy from food and drink, Sir P. held up his plump right hand and called for attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, in a moment we shall adjourn to the theatre to begin our first read-through of the scripts I gave you and the roles I assigned. My butler Chivers and his minions are setting up a table and chairs for that purpose. After our efforts, some light refreshment will be served. But before we initiate these delights, we must address an unexpected and pressing problem.”

  “Young Langford’s in jail, ya mean?” Clemmy brayed through her hiccoughs. She, like several others, had been waiting for a suitable opportunity to raise the question of Brodie’s absence without offending their host or in any way disrupting the atmosphere of congeniality and deference he had striven to create for them.

  “Putting it in the bluntest terms, yes,” said Sir P. “Though Horace assures me that it is all a terrible mistake and Brodie will soon be released.”

  “I heard he stabbed some tramp near Irishtown,” Clemmy said.

  “There was a wild rumour going around about a duel,” Dutton said, “but I paid no attention to it.”

  “Anyone know who the victim was or why Langford would be involved?” Crenshaw said.

  “Chivers told me his name was Durgens or Dougan – something like that,” said Lady Mad. “He didn’t mention Mr. Langford, though, and I’ve never heard of this Dougan.”

  Nor had anyone else, it seemed, for there was a long pause.

  “I’m sure nothing will come of it,” said Sir P., wiping his rubbery lips with a monogrammed napkin. “Surely any gentleman accosted on the street by a lowlife is entitled to retaliate in kind. If not, then there is little hope for this colony.”

  “I agree that young Brodie is certain to be released tomorrow morning,” Fullarton said, “but his lawyer, Mr. Edwards, told me, when I saw him earlier today, that Brodie felt – whatever the outcome of his arraignment before the magistrate – he must resign his membership in the Shakespeare Club.”

  “He must do nothing of the kind,” Dutton said rather primly.

  “Apparently he feels that this sordid episode, in which he gave into his anger and resorted to fisticuffs, would harm the reputation of the club and its respectable members.”

  “And he is adamant?” Sir P. said.

  “He is. And while I regret such a decision, I admire the courage and selflessness behind it.”

  “Then we are without a Demeter for our play!” Clemmy cried.

  “That would seem so,” Sir P. said, and peered down the table, now littered with the flotsam of the meal and its aftermath, at his lady hostess.

  “And you have no other handsome young gentleman about town who might step into his boots?” Lady Mad said with a helpless, beseeching look at the male members of the club, a gesture that made their hearts lurch.

  “I could twist Phineas Burke’s arm,” Dutton said. “His wife’s in the States this month and – ”

  “Only as a last resort, I think,” Sir P. said, picturing the wooden-faced stationer stumbling about Oberon’s magic realm. “For the nonce, may I suggest that you leave his replacement up to me. For this evening I am quite happy to read my part and young Langford’s as well.”

  “But, Milord, my Cyrus could take on Demeter’s part,” Clemmy said in a trembling, brave voice. “I don’t think it’s proper fer a gentleman who owns a candle factory an’ keeps three servants to be playin’ an ill-littered weaver with donkey ears stickin’ outta his head.”

  Sir P. registered shock – at the boldness of the interruption itself, at its being uttered by a female, at the impropriety of its sentiment, and at the outrageous malapropism in its predicate. But he recovered adroitly. “I did not realize, my dear Clementine, that Cyrus was dissatisfied with his assigned role.”

  Cyrus, of course, had been duly insulted at the assignment and had done his damnedest to mangle the part last night at the club. But in rehearsing his lines with the assistance of his wife this afternoon, he discovered that he had several intimate scenes with the Queen of the Fairies, and when he later laid eyes upon the handsome lady who would be playing Titania, all thoughts of rebellion had vanished. Unfortunately, he had expressed his feelings of outrage too forcefully to Clemmy before they had begun their rehearsal, and could not think now of a way to retract them.

  “It’s nothing to make a fuss over,” he said lamely.

  “But Cyrus’s daddy was a hero at the Battle of Moraviantown!” Clemmy carried on, taking such a deep breath that she almost popped her overtaxed stays.

  “So I gather,” Sir P. said. “Some sort of Waterloo over here, I’m told.”

  “There’s really no need to fuss,” Cyrus said, though he wasn’t sure whether his plea was aimed at his wife or the director.

  “Then why not let Mr. Crenshaw play Demetrius, Perry?” said Lady Mad. “It should be easier to find a weaver than a dashing lover.” And she darted a brown-eyed glance at the scion of Moraviantown’s martyr.

  Cyrus reddened, unsure whether he ought to be flattered at her intervention on his behalf or disappointed that she would so readily forgo the love scenes promised them in the script. He had no choice but to reply, “Thank you, Milady. I’d be honoured to play Demetrius, if you feel I am worthy of the role.”

  “Then that’s settled,” the lady said. “Sir P., you will seek out a suitable Bottom, I presume?”

  Sir P. did not look pleased at this prospect, but managed a flushed smile and said, “Perhaps I could approach Ogden Frank and ask whether one of his troupe would deign to join us – someone experienced in the comedic art.”

  “But that would risk our getting someone too – too common, would it not?” Dutton said, glancing at Lady Mad, who as Titania would have to bear the brunt of any such commonness. She acknowledged his concern with a dip of her tiny chin and a pretty blink of the bold, brown eyes. He was compelled to look down, and his look stayed there, somewhere in the region of her décolletage.

  “But that sort of person might prove to be eminently suitable for the role of Bottom the weaver,” Sir P. said smoothly. “And my lady is a supreme actress: I’ve seen her make more than one silk purse out of an ass’s ears.”

  He invited the guests to share in this witticism, and they obliged. Lady Mad was not amused.

  ***

  The actors reassembled in the ‘theatre’ at the temporary table set up by the Shuttleworth servants – after a fifteen-minute break in which the men repaired to the adjoining den-smoker and the ladies to the adjoining powder-room. Clemmy Crenshaw’s corsets had gone awry during her visit to the water-closet, and Lady Mad’s maid had to be sent for to assist in the ensuing readjustment. Lady Mad herself brought the distraught victim back into the theatre and graciously seated her.

  “A woman’s difficulty,” she smiled at the gentlemen. “All taken care of.”

  None of the gentlemen wishing further details about the matter, Sir P. called his actors to order. To his left sat Lizzie Wade, who had materialized without warning or notice from the sealed half of the manor. Sir P. introduced her and reminded the group that she would be playing Helena. She certainly looked the part of a teenaged inamorata: a sixteen-year-old nymph of a girl with silken tresses of a strawberry hue and a burgeoning figure nowhere near its final bloom. Lizzie dropped her blue eyes at the mention of her name.

  The first read-through of The Dream Sequence (as Sir P. now designated their production) was not an unalloyed success. The opening scene, where Oberon and Titania make their entrance and exchange barbs, went well enough. Horace Fullarton as Oberon delivered his lines not only with due attention to the verse and dramatic flow but with much spirited feeling. And Lady Mad as the proud and beautiful Titania returned his words in kind:

  Oberon: Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

  Titania: What, jealous, Oberon? [to fairies] Skip hence,

  I have forsworn his bed and company.


  Oberon: Tarry, rash woman, am I not thy lord?

  When Titania sweeps off with her train, Oberon and Puck take stage-centre. And here matters began to unravel. Sir P. delivered his lines as Puck in a voice threatening either to disintegrate or soar beyond falsetto. As a natural tenor, such an attempt by the baronet to sound youthful and puckish was hardly necessary.

  “Perhaps a little more from the diaphragm and less from the glottis,” Lady Mad suggested when one of Puck’s phrases had side-slipped into a squeak.

  Sir P. smiled daggers at her, but dropped his voice an octave – with better results. Still, when he declaimed “I’ll put a girdle round about the earth / In forty minutes,” no modulation of the voice could seduce an audience into believing that the plump-cheeked, thick-waisted gentleman with spindle-legs could achieve such a feat in forty days. No-one was impolite enough to say so, however.

  Crenshaw as Demetrius then got his chance as the dashing lover being importuned by the nubile Helena. He made a self-conscious effort to begin each speech slowly, but could not stop the gradual acceleration of his pace, which left him panting and bug-eyed, and the meaning to fend for itself. Lizzie, it turned out, was an accomplished reader and reciter of verse. And despite the overheated distractions of Demetrius, she managed a touching performance as the Athenian maiden in hopeless pursuit of a youth who claims to be in love with her friend Hermia. Her sole difficulty was a tendency to stammer whenever she became nervous (a state induced only when her Uncle Peregrine attempted to offer her needless directorial advice, which was, alas, quite often).

  From speed-reading and stammering, the rehearsal went downhill. Andrew Dutton continued his forensic, foghorn rendering of Lysander as he sets out to woo the skittish Hermia. Clemmy Crenshaw, who had been growing more anxious with each passing pentameter, was compelled to call upon her long-ago, finishing-school experience as a source of inspiration, and proceeded to pronounce the Bard’s iambic verse in a singsong fashion so exaggerated it might have served as accompaniment to a jig.