Solemn Vows

by Don Gutteridge

  “Yes, sir,” Hilliard snapped, and leapt to Angeline’s side to assist her up into the jittery carriage.

  If Hilliard was infatuated with the governor’s ward, Marc thought, it was just as well he was heading off for Brantford and farther fields on Monday morning. For it was an infatuation that would do his career little good.

  “Are you not coming with us?” Angeline asked.

  “No, Miss. The groom will sit with you if you feel faint.”

  The groom was most pleased to accept this responsibility. “Where are you going, then?” Angeline said with a little pout that reassured Marc the girl was recovering rapidly.

  “I’m going back into the shop to see a woman about a hat,” Marc said.

  MARC SAT ACROSS FROM BATHSHEBA MCCRAE SMALLMAN in a sparsely furnished room that served as an office and temporary retreat at the rear of the shop—much as he had five months earlier sat in the simple sunshine of her farm kitchen in Crawford’s Corners. Now, as then, the sun poured lavishly through a south window and backlit the slim figure and copper hair of the woman he had been drawn to from the instant he saw her and heard her speak, like Cordelia, in a voice ever soft and low. Now, as then, she poured him a cup of tea and served him a scone with homemade huckle-berry jam—as if long months of separation and silence had not intervened.

  Marc could think of absolutely nothing to say other than to mumble a brief and garbled account of how he and Angeline happened to arrive entwined and dishevelled on her doorstep. She listened politely and observed him with the gentle skepticism that he so admired and out of which flowed her humour and her candour.

  When he paused sufficiently, she said almost solemnly, “I owe you an explanation, Marc.”

  “Not at all,” Marc said bravely. “You made me no promises.”

  “I didn’t open your letters,” she said.

  “Erastus wrote me back. He said he thought you just needed time.” Erastus Hatch was her neighbour, who had helped Marc during his first investigation into the mysterious death of Beth’s father- in- law, Joshua Smallman.

  “That is so. I’d lost a husband and then a man who was a father to me. I needed grieving time. But that’s not the real reason I didn’t open your letters.” She looked across at him until he raised his eyes and held on to her steady gaze. “I was afraid to.”

  “But after a while everybody stopped writing,” Marc said with just a touch of self-pity.

  “I am sorry for that: I asked them not to write.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I’d made arrangements to come here and start a new life. I didn’t want to complicate yours.”

  “You’ve been here since March?” Marc was astonished.

  Beth laughed. “Only since April, actually. Oh, I knew we would meet eventually. But you must believe me when I say I have not been deliberately secreting myself away from you.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “You and I do not exactly move in the same circles here in Toronto.”

  “But I’ve ridden right past this place a hundred times since April, and I’ve overheard women discussing the new bonnet shop more than once!”

  “But you haven’t had occasion to purchase one,” she said in her familiar half- teasing way.

  “Or, until today, to accompany a lady to do so.”

  “You didn’t notice, then, that this shop was next door to my father- in-law’s dry- goods store?”

  “My God, so it is!” Marc was delighted that his surprise once again brought a smile to her face. Joshua Smallman had operated a dry-goods establishment on King Street for many years. Since his own arrival here thirteen months ago, Marc had been in the store several times and had met the proprietor. Only now, though, did he remember that Beth—after protracted legal proceedings—had inherited his estate, including the dry-goods store adjacent.

  “This shop is part of the same building that Father owned,” Beth said, as if reading Marc’s thoughts. “We leased out the dry- goods section, set up for ourselves in the smaller space, and moved into the apartment above us.”

  “But you must have seen me,” Marc said.

  “Oh, yes, I did. Many times. Mostly from the shop window as you rode or marched on by.”

  “Yet you did not—”

  Beth’s reply was barely a whisper: “I wanted to. More than once.”

  “My God, why didn’t you? You must have known how I felt—feel—about you.”

  Beth looked down as if contemplating what she ought to say next, or how. Neither had touched their tea. “That has never been a problem, though I do hear you’ve been paying court to a beautiful and intelligent young heiress.”

  “But no one knows about—”

  “I’m afraid everybody does,” Beth said with a sad smile. “All the great ladies of the town pass through our doors here. And they’re mighty fond of their gossip.”

  “I see. Well, then, what they don’t know is that Eliza and I are just good friends. In fact, I like her for many of the same reasons I admire you.” Marc realized only as he spoke these last words that they were undeniably true. The principal difference seemed to be that Eliza elicited as much brotherly affection and respect as passion, while Beth evoked affection, respect, and something else he could not put into words.

  Beth blushed, her pale Irish skin showing every shade of embarrassment prompted by Marc’s declaration. Deliberately she picked up her cup and sipped at the cold tea. When she spoke again, her voice was eerily calm: “I also owe you a full explanation of why and how I got here.”

  “Yes, I’ve been wondering what happened to your brother and to the farm,” Marc said, glad for the moment that the conversation had moved away from its more dangerous direction.

  “I’m sure Erastus wrote you that he married Mary Huggan, and that Winnifred got married to Thomas Goodall.”

  “A double wedding, yes,” he smiled.

  Mary had been Hatch’s housemaid. Winnifred, his daughter, had taken a fancy to Goodall, their hired man. After his experiences in their township in January, Marc considered them all to be his friends.

  “Well, the Hatch mill and farm was bound to be a bit crowded with both couples living there,” Beth continued. “And so when my aunt Catherine, my father’s sister, wrote me from Boston that she had a small inheritance, no living relative nearby, and was looking to start up a ladies’ business of some kind, I made the biggest decision of my life. I suggested we set up a millinery shop here in Toronto, in father’s building, and run it together. She jumped at the chance. I leased the farm to Winnifred and her new husband—on condition that they let Aaron stay on and help out, like he has since we first moved there. They said yes.”

  Aaron was Beth’s teenage brother, slow of speech and slightly crippled.

  “Aaron’s very happy. I’ve been back to see him. And Mary’s expecting her baby in September.”

  At this point Aunt Catherine Roberts poked a round, friendly face through the curtain and said, “Sorry to interrupt, Beth, but Mrs. Boulton wants to know when the black- widow bonnets are due in from New York.”

  “Tell her sometime late next month,” Beth said. “Better still, pick an exact date and make sure to get her order in writing.”

  Aunt Catherine grinned, and slipped back into the shop.

  “You’ve become quite the businesswoman,” Marc said.

  “And you’ve become quite the speech writer for a Tory- tinted Whig governor,” Beth retorted with unexpected bluntness.

  A deep silence hung between them. What had to be said sooner or later had just been uttered. There was no taking it back.

  Finally Marc said quietly, “Will you grant me an opportunity to try and explain?”

  Beth said nothing. Her face was turned to one side—her expression implacable.

  “Please. You owe me at least that. I’ve been to hell and back since we parted in January.”

  “All right,” she said stiffly. “You talk, I’ll listen.” And she remained as she was, half- turne
d away from him, like a stern priest in a confessional.

  “I have not relaxed my determination to see the grievances addressed that you and your neighbours showed me to be real and reversible. You don’t know just how far I’ve come in changing my views because you have only the slightest knowledge of how I was brought up to think and behave. My adoptive father was a landowner, and a good Tory. I absorbed his values and attitudes. My two years at the Inns of Court confirmed and deepened these views, as did my training at Sandhurst. Since my arrival here to serve Sir John Colborne a year ago last May, I have been surrounded by, and taken orders from, the pillars of this community, every one of them a Tory of some stripe or other. But after meeting you and seeing for myself what you suffered as a result of governmental negligence and obtuseness, I came to accept the legitimacy of your complaints. What I told you then about my change of heart was sincere, and is still so.”

  Marc waited for a response. But none came. The bell over the shop door jangled. Low voices in the next room discussed embroidery and veils.

  “Why, then, you might ask, am I in the service of a governor bent on defeating the Reformers at the polls? First of all, I am a soldier, and as such I was commanded, against my will and better judgment, to become Sir Francis Head’s chief aide- de- camp. It took some time, but I slowly became convinced that his strategy of appealing to the moderate majority and of dampening down the extreme rhetoric on both sides was right. And this will be just the first step of a multi- step plan to correct, in good time, all the legitimate complaints.”

  Beth turned her face to Marc and squeezed out a grim smile. “That sounds like one of the speeches he’s been giving on the hustings.”

  “But don’t you see that his plan is at least worth a try? What has been gained since the Reformers took over the Assembly in ’34? Even with a Whig governor and a Whig colonial secretary, not one grievance has yet been addressed.”

  “And you trust this Whig gentleman, this commissioner of the poor laws and glorified mine manager, to right all the wrongs?” The contempt in her voice shocked Marc.

  “Yes, I do. He is under orders from Lord Glenelg to do so, and I believe in his sincerity.”

  “You’ve seen such orders?”

  Marc stiffened. He had gone a lot further than he had intended. That he was privy to some of the exchanges between London and Toronto was a grave responsibility. His probity in that regard must be absolute: he had sworn a solemn oath.

  “Well, the governor’s letters to the Patriot are not state secrets,” Beth said. “Did you have a hand in writing the one in today’s edition?”

  “No, I did not,” Marc said sharply. The conversation was not going the way he had hoped.

  “Are you helping him with the speeches for Woodstock and London?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. Lieutenant Willoughby is. I’ve been assigned to investigate Councillor Moncreiff’s assassination. It seems the governor was impressed with my work in Cobourg and Crawford’s Corners in January.”

  Beth flushed and said softly, “He should be. I’ll never forget what you did for me, or how you did it.”

  “Then, please, let us at least be friends. Let me come and see you.”

  “No, not for a while. At least, not till the election is over.”

  “My God, Beth, what in hell does politics have to do with love?”

  Beth sighed. “Politics has to do with everything.”

  Marc stared past her out the window, struggling to control his anger.

  “You say you’re investigating the murder of Mr. Moncreiff. That is a good and proper thing to do. He was a nice man. He came in here with Mrs. Moncreiff to help her pick out an Easter hat. I liked them both. Most of our customers are Tories or sympathizers, and I do not hate them. In fact, I’ve come to like and respect many of them. But when I read the governor’s letter this morning, I knew why I could never be married to one of them.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “The governor suggests in so many fancy words that Mr. Moncreiff was shot by a hired killer from the States, in the pay of a disloyal citizen or citizens, and he doesn’t have to spell out which party they cleave to, does he? But he goes even further than that! He hints darkly that foreign influences are at work, and this isn’t likely to be the last violent act we’ll see. You know the rest of the argument.”

  The rejoinder Marc had planned died on his lips. Was Sir Francis actually using the councillor’s murder so blatantly for political purposes? The foreign threat and necessity of unswerving loyalty to the Crown in times of crisis, etc.? Was this the theme the governor and Colin had been weaving into the speech Marc had seen them concocting?

  “I had nothing to do with such tactics,” he said lamely. “I do not approve of stirring up irrational fears. I thought that’s precisely what we were attempting to prevent.”

  “Then have a look at this poster some concerned citizen left on my doorstep this morning.” She handed Marc a rectangle of stiff paper. He read what was printed there.

  Farmers!

  BEWARE!

  The enemies of the King and the People, of the constitution, and Sir Francis Head ARE DAY AND NIGHT, SPREADING LIES.

  They say Sir Francis Head is recalled—Sir Francis Head is not recalled, but is supported by the King and his ministers. They say tithes are to be claimed in Upper Canada—Tithes are NOT to be claimed in Upper Canada

  FARMERS!

  Believe not a word these Agitators say but think for yourselves and SUPPORT SIR FRANCIS HEAD, the friend of Constitutional Reform.

  “This is the very type of rhetoric the governor is trying to avoid,” Marc said with not nearly the conviction he intended to convey. “He would not have approved this. Nor would I.”

  Beth looked at him sadly, regretfully. “Then shouldn’t you do something about it?”

  Marc got up. “I am a soldier, not a politician. I must do my duty.”

  “As I must do mine—to honour the memory of my husband and his father, who both died because of politics.”

  At the curtains, Marc said, “Do we not have a duty to love?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That is what keeps us human.”

  As they parted once again—with the gulf between them apparently wider—Marc was certain only that he loved her.

  WHEN MARC ARRIVED AT GOVERNMENT HOUSE—bruised, sore, crestfallen—he found Sir Francis agitated and incoherent. He was pacing up and down the lofty entrance hall, with Willoughby and Hilliard following warily and flinging words after him that were meant to mollify but were having the opposite effect. Had something gone wrong with plans for the journey on Monday? Or worse? Major Burns was looking on stolidly from a nearby doorway, either indifferent or too ill to intervene. It was the sight of Marc that brought Sir Francis to such an abrupt halt that Hilliard and Willoughby tottered right past him before stopping themselves.

  “Ah, it’s you, Lieutenant—at last.”

  “I came as quickly as I could—”

  “You’re not hurt, I hope?” Sir Francis said, halfway between threat and concern.

  “Not really, sir. Just a bruise or two.”

  “Well, Angeline tells me you saved her life.” The governor’s panic at seeing his ward dishevelled, scraped, and weeping still showed in his face, as if he could not yet bring himself to believe she had not been seriously injured.

  “Miss Hartley is recovering?”

  “Yes, she seems to be, but I can’t tell whether she’s crying over her ruined dress or a bruised arm. She just repeats your name over and over.”

  “Any sign of the blackguard?” Hilliard asked Marc.

  “I’ll have the bugger horsewhipped and clapped in irons!” Sir Francis cried with such vigour that his eyes bulged. Marc realized with a sinking feeling that Hilliard had not been discreet in his account of the incident.

  “It may well have been an unfortunate accident, sir,” Marc said. “A runaway wagon is not that uncommon, especially during the Satur
day market.”

  “I have a difficult time believing that,” Sir Francis said through clenched teeth, “after what I’ve been told by Hilliard and my ward and even the groom.”

  “Ensign Parker has been posted to watch the horses in the event the driver returns for them. The constables will take things from there.”

  “I want the man brought here! Is that understood, Lieutenant Edwards?”

  “I’m sure that Cobb and Wilkie will get to the truth of the matter, sir.”

  Sir Francis uttered a purging sigh. His anger slowly drained away. He put a hand on Marc’s shoulder. “You must forgive me, young man. I am overwrought. I’ve had a terrible shock, especially after what happened up at Danby’s. You deserve nothing but my gratitude and my deepest respect. I should be more concerned for your hurts than for my own wounded pride.”

  “It’s been a trying week, sir—for us all,” Marc said, wondering what the governor would say if he were to learn the nature of the hurt now burning its way through his aide-de-camp.

  Willoughby and Hilliard looked as if they wanted to say something helpful but had chosen discretion over valour.

  Sir Francis began pacing again. Everyone else stood where they were and watched anxiously. “I don’t give a damn for my own safety,” he said, picking up the shreds of his earlier anger. “I intend to walk tall into the lion’s den next week. I shall challenge any citizen to strike down the royal surrogate, if he dare. But to prey upon innocents like poor Moncreiff and now my ward, a mere chit of a girl, for whom I am solely responsible, and who has been most abominably abused. I will not have it, do you hear?”

  Everyone in the far recesses of the building could hear.

  “Perhaps I could find a couple of reliable corporals from the garrison to watch Miss Hartley while you are away,” Marc said, then bit his tongue as he saw Willoughby glowering at him: it was Colin who was now in charge of such matters.

  “My God, Lieutenant, you’re right. I will be gone for four days, and Angeline will be here alone and unprotected.” The implications of this remark had just begun to sink in, for Sir Francis stopped in mid- step and glared at the nearest Athenian pilaster as if he would, like Samson, bring it and the house crashing down.