‘Yes,’ said MacLea, thinking of that infernal ballad composed by a drunken militiaman the night after Queenston. ‘I wish they would stop.’
The others laughed. ‘And were you there also, Mr Murray?’ asked Dunne. He had a strong Lowland Scots accent.
‘I was right behind Captain MacLea,’ said Murray. ‘I reckoned that was the most sensible place to be, you see. If he got shot, then I would know it wasn’t safe to continue.’
They laughed again. ‘What brings you to York?’ someone asked.
MacLea shrugged. ‘The army is in winter quarters. There will be no more fighting until spring, so we decided to come up here and pass the winter in comfort.’
They knew nothing of his disgrace after Queenston, of course; General Sheaffe had kept that quiet, for fear of further offending the Canadians. Anyone asking after Captain MacLea’s whereabouts was told that he had taken up a new post defending the frontier.
‘We are glad of your company,’ said Selby. He turned and beckoned to a red-coated officer with a handsome middle-aged woman on his arm. ‘Major Givins! I believe you know Captain MacLea and Mr Murray? Come and join us.’
‘I know the captain well,’ said Givins, bowing. ‘Indeed, we were in action together not long ago, at Frenchman’s Creek. It is a pleasure to see you again, sir. May I present my wife Angelique?’
More bows and curtseys were exchanged. ‘Many congratulations on your promotion,’ MacLea said. ‘It is richly deserved, I am sure.’
Givins, the man who was using funds from the Indian Department to pay a double agent without his commanders’ permission, smiled. ‘Thank you. I am not sure about deserving it, but we must accept what rewards are given in life. Prideaux, has your daughter arrived? I am sure she would enjoy meeting Captain MacLea.’
‘Indeed she will,’ said Dunne. ‘She always has an eye for a… brave soldier, does she not?’
Selby shifted a little, leaning on his stick. ‘She and our house guest are following on,’ he said to MacLea, ignoring Dunne. ‘She will be here directly, I am certain.’
More people were arriving, and MacLea looked around the room. He saw Boydell by the nearest fireplace, in conversation with Robinson, and beyond them a tall man in a brown coat talking to a woman in a plain black gown, tall and straight-backed, with iron-grey hair. She turned her head a little, and he saw to his surprise that it was Rebecca Morningstar. Givins watched him, studying the expression on his face and saying nothing.
‘That lady,’ MacLea said to Selby. ‘Mrs Morningstar. Does she come frequently to York?’
Dunne drew an enamelled snuffbox from his sleeve, tapped out a pinch of snuff and inhaled it, sneezing.
‘Not often,’ said Selby. ‘She is the widow of a farmer in the Chippawa valley, and spends most of her time there. But the Mohawk leaders sometimes use her as an emissary. She has come to consult with the Executive Council regarding Mohawk lands and, I daresay, their continued participation in the war. Are you acquainted with the lady?’
‘We have both met her,’ said Alec Murray. ‘Who is that she is talking to?’
‘Ah, that is Mr John Fanning,’ said Dunne. ‘He comes from Niagara and Chippawa, and represents the Fourth Riding of Lincoln County in the Assembly. He is one of our most prominent citizens.’
The last was said with a distinct sneer. So Dunne doesn’t like Fanning, MacLea thought. Well, fair enough. I myself don’t like Dunne very much, not after his deliberate insult to Miss Selby.
‘Indeed,’ he said aloud. ‘I have heard his name mentioned. He owns a house here in York, does he not?’
‘Yes,’ said Selby, a little shortly. He did not volunteer further information. The circumstances of Magnus Fraser’s death must be common knowledge by now, but it was clear from Selby’s tone that he did not want to discuss the subject. Dunne opened his mouth as if to speak, but then saw the expression on Selby’s face and closed it again. MacLea watched Fanning and Rebecca Morningstar talking quietly and seriously, and remembered Boydell saying that Fanning had also traded with the Mohawks.
But by the looks on their faces, they were not talking about trade. My God, thought MacLea. How many secrets is this little town hiding?
* * *
‘It is good to see you again, Kanahstatsi,’ said John Fanning quietly.
‘And you also, Shawátis,’ said Rebecca Morningstar. No one else was near them, but even so they were speaking in Mohawk, which few in the room would understand. ‘I bring greetings from Adonwentishon. She remembers your old friendship, and hopes it remains strong.’
‘Adonwentishon has my full loyalty,’ said Fanning.
‘Does she? What of your loyalty to your own people, Shawátis?’
‘My loyalty is given to my friends,’ said Fanning. ‘And I know who my friends are.’
‘The murder of a British agent at your house. How did that come to pass?’
‘He got too close to the truth, I suppose,’ said Fanning. ‘He corrupted someone in the organisation, I do not know who or how, and this man promised to betray Polaris to him.’
‘The agent was killed to prevent the betrayal. But he was killed too soon, before the identity of the traitor could be discovered. You don’t yet know who it is, do you?’
‘No,’ said Fanning. ‘But I am working to find out.’
The woman nodded. ‘When you learn his identity, take no action, but come to me. I will consult with Adonwentishon, and we will decide what to do. I will remain in York until it is done.’
Fanning bowed a little. ‘I shall find him,’ he said. ‘You have my word.’
* * *
‘Elizabeth, my dear,’ said Prideaux Selby, a smile lighting up his lined face. ‘You have arrived at last, and you also, Madame Lafitte. Come and meet our guests.’
Madame Lafitte. Josephine. Here, in York.
Thoughts flitted through MacLea’s mind. What is she doing here? She never said she was coming to York. Is she in danger?
He turned. A pretty, fair-haired woman in her mid-twenties with artfully arranged hair and wearing a pink silk gown stood facing him. Behind her, in a high-necked gown of virtuous dark grey, was Josephine. He noticed that Givins was watching them both and forced himself to be calm.
‘My daughter Elizabeth,’ said Selby. ‘Captain John MacLea, Mr Murray.’
‘It is such a pleasure to meet you, sir,’ the younger woman exclaimed. ‘William has told me so much about you both. He will be delighted to hear that we have met.’
‘William?’ asked MacLea blankly.
‘Captain William Derenzy of the 41st,’ said Miss Selby. ‘He speaks very highly of you, sir.’
Derenzy, commander of the light company of the 41st Foot, had been one of the first redcoat officers to defy orders at Queenston, pulling his men out of the line and following MacLea’s charge towards the American positions. ‘He is a very gallant officer,’ said MacLea. ‘How do you come to know him, Miss Selby?’
‘Why, he is my fiancé,’ she said proudly. ‘We are to be married in February.’
MacLea bowed. ‘My congratulations,’ he said. ‘He is a fortunate man.’
‘And this is our guest Madame Lafitte,’ said Miss Selby. ‘She has come up from Niagara and is spending the winter with us.’
MacLea and Josephine looked at each other. She met his eyes levelly. Their affair in Niagara last summer had been kept secret; although rumours had begun to circulate amongst MacLea’s fellow officers, it was unlikely that these had reached as far as York. Only three people in this room knew the full story, Murray, Givins and Boydell, and the latter two could probably be relied upon to keep quiet. Murray, of course, would never betray a secret.
‘I have met Madame Lafitte,’ said Alec Murray, intervening. ‘It is a pleasure to see you again, madame.’
Josephine curtseyed. ‘And you, Mr Murray. I trust you are well? And Captain MacLea, we have met also, of course. I repaired your watch for you, remember?’
That was sensible; Niagara, li
ke York, was a small place and it would have looked odd if they had not crossed paths. ‘I remember it well,’ said MacLea. ‘I still owe you payment for that service, if I recall.’
‘You owe me nothing,’ said Josephine, and she smiled a smile that made his heart turn over in his chest. ‘I am very much looking forward to tonight’s concert. We have many amenities in Niagara, but good music is not one of them. I am told Herr Julius Kramer is playing tonight.’
‘He is,’ said Elijah Dunne. ‘Have you heard him play before, ma’am?’
‘No, but I know of him by repute. He is a very fine violinist. He has played with Papa Haydn, and with Beethoven and Salieri and many other musicians of note. I applaud whoever managed to persuade him to come to York and perform for us.’
‘That was Mrs Boydell,’ said Elizabeth Selby, smiling. ‘She knew Mr Kramer was in Montreal, and invited him to spend the winter here in York. He has promised to give a number of concerts, so we are truly fortunate.’
A handbell rang, demanding silence. The murmur of conversation died away, and Patience Boydell stepped into the centre of the room. The light from the chandeliers shone like a halo around her hair and shimmered off her gown like white flame.
‘Welcome, my friends,’ she said, smiling. ‘I had hoped that in the absence of General Sheaffe, Colonel Lawrence would say a few words tonight, but it would appear he has been detained.’
‘An evening without Colonel Lawrence,’ murmured Dunne. ‘Indeed a pleasure to be savoured.’
‘On behalf of the Loyal and Patriotic Society,’ Patience continued, ‘I thank you for coming tonight. In the fighting last summer and autumn, more than three hundred of our brave soldiers and militiamen were wounded, and many more were afflicted with sickness. Your donations will help alleviate the hardship they and their families face.’
A murmur ran around the room. Murray and MacLea glanced at each other. Both were thinking of their friend James Secord, still bedridden after being shot at the Battle of Queenston, and his wife Laura, left alone to care for him and their children.
‘We shall shortly have a concert of music,’ said Patience. ‘Our own little volunteer orchestra will perform, and we are greatly honoured by the presence of Mr Julius Kramer of Vienna, who will play works by Herr van Beethoven and Herr Mozart.’
Another murmur from the crowd, this time of appreciation. ‘On the side table there is a bowl for donations,’ Patience said. ‘Dig deep, my friends, I beg you. Help your countrymen who risked their lives to keep you safe. Captain MacLea, as our honoured guest, would you be so kind as to make the first donation?’
‘It would be my pleasure, ma’am,’ said MacLea, bowing. Every eye was on him as he walked to the side table. He took his notecase out of his uniform tunic, extracted and unfolded a five-pound note and placed it in the bowl, while a light ripple of applause ran around the room. Others followed, brandishing banknotes or coins, and a woman unhooked her gold earrings and dropped them in. Patience Boydell came up to MacLea, and on impulse seized his hands in her own.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said, her eyes a little damp. ‘Not just for your donation, but for your courage and valour, which inspire us all. You must stay safe, Captain MacLea. Canada needs men like you.’
Murray was still talking with Selby and Dunne. From the corner of his eye MacLea could see Josephine watching him, her face still. ‘I shall do my utmost, ma’am,’ he said lightly. ‘I believe we shall emerge from this war victorious, and I intend to live to enjoy the fruits of victory.’
‘May that day come soon,’ she said fervently. ‘I long for peace, Captain MacLea, so very much…’ For a moment her eyes were moist again, but then she collected herself. ‘Here come the musicians.’
There were eight musicians – oboe, flute, clarinet, two violinists, viola and cello, and a young woman in an ivory gown who took her seat at a harpsichord under one of the chandeliers to light applause. These were clearly the local players. After a brief, dramatic pause, Julius Kramer came through the door carrying another violin. He was a tall and distinguished-looking man with pale skin, a long, straight nose and fine dark eyes; his hair was streaked with grey, which gave him an air of both authority and elegance. He was dressed in black. The audience applauded more enthusiastically, and Kramer bowed and took up his position in front of the little orchestra.
‘We shall play Beethoven’s first Romance for Violin and Orchestra,’ he said, and nodded to the players to begin.
Growing up in the western highlands of Scotland, MacLea had heard a great deal of fiddle music, some slow and haunting like the mist that hung in the glens, some wild and brawling with life like the sea pounding on the shore. This was music of an altogether different sort: stately and measured, full of structure, and yet with a world of emotion inside the cage of notes, clamouring to make itself heard. He listened intently, trying to work out what story it was telling him. For a little while, at least, he forgot about Polaris and Givins and even Josephine, and let himself be absorbed in the music.
More pieces followed, some by composers he had heard of, others by ones unknown to him. The audience applauded each with rapture. At the end, Kramer laid down his violin and bowed deeply. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You are a wonderful audience. And so now we have a little surprise for you.’
He clapped his hands sharply. The ballroom door opened and two men came in carrying a small wooden table between them. James Givins moved up alongside MacLea. ‘Did you know she was here?’ he murmured.
MacLea turned and stared at him. ‘No. Did you?’
‘I did not know she was coming, if that is what you mean. She arrived unannounced and has made no attempt to contact me since she settled in at the Selby house. Why has she come to York, do you think?’
‘I have no idea,’ MacLea said.
Givins looked at him, and this time there was a dark edge of suspicion in his gaze. ‘No? You were closer to her than anyone. Does she no longer confide in you?’
Before MacLea could answer, Givins held up his hand. ‘Forgive me, I am prying. Your relationship with the lady is no concern of mine. As for her reasons for being here, I suppose she will tell us when she is ready.’ He glanced over at the table, which the two men were placing beside the harpsichord. ‘Now, what have we here? What is this contraption, do you suppose?’
The device on the table consisted of a series of glass bowls of varying sizes turned on their sides and pierced through horizontally by a single metal spoke. At one end of the spoke was a wheel, connected by a belt to a treadle on the floor. Kramer was bending over the device, testing the wheel to make certain it turned freely, working the treadle, rotating the spoke and causing the glass vessels to spin.
‘Is it a musical instrument?’ asked Givins. ‘If so, it is making no sound.’
‘It is a glass harmonica,’ said Josephine from behind them. Her voice made them both jump. MacLea wondered how long she had been there, and whether she had overheard their earlier conversation.
‘How is the sound made?’ asked Givins.
‘As you can see, working the treadle causes the bowls to spin, The musician wets his fingers and rubs them on the rim of each bowl to create the notes. Listen, and you will see what I mean.’
‘How do you know about this machine, ma’am?’ asked Givins.
‘My former employer, the astronomer Miss Caroline Herschel, explained the principle to me. She was also an accomplished musician.’
The room fell quiet again. Kramer took up his position behind the table and dipped his fingers into a glass of water before touching the spinning bowls. ‘This is the Adagio and Rondo of Herr Mozart,’ he said, and once again nodded to the musicians.
The music that followed was like nothing MacLea had ever heard. Flute and oboe, viola and cello played together, but they existed merely to frame the glass harmonica. From Kramer’s fingers as he touched the rims of the spinning bowls came more music, high and clear and pure as starlight, each note floating in the air before di
ssolving and giving way to the next. Then the rest of the instruments joined in again and the music, sweet and delicate as a spider’s web, began to plot its pattern. Looking around, MacLea saw varying reactions in the room. Some stood watching the instrument with open-mouthed fascination, but others looked uneasy. Rebecca Morningstar covered her ears with her hands.
Twelve minutes later, the music drew to an end. There was more applause, some of it vigorous, some more tentative. People crowded round to take a closer look at the glass harmonica, Patience Boydell foremost among them, while Kramer explained in more detail how the instrument worked. ‘I do not like this machine,’ said Rebecca Morningstar, her voice severe. ‘I believe it steals people’s souls.’
Kramer smiled. ‘Doubtless you are referring to the myths about the dangers of the instrument, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Dr Mesmer’s theory that it can be used to control the human life force, or that playing it can lead to madness. All nonsense. I have played this instrument for many years, and I can assure you that its music is beautiful but harmless.’
Somewhere outside the ballroom, a door slammed. A moment later a familiar booming voice could be heard demanding that someone take his cloak and bring him a glass of punch, at once, do you hear me, at once! MacLea’s heart sank. He had known this moment was inevitable as soon as he decided to go to York, but he was not relishing it.
A moment later the ballroom door opened and Colonel Hector Lawrence strode in, big and bulky in his uniform coat, his red face looking more than ever like a slab of raw beef. Small eyes glinted as he looked around the room. They rested briefly on MacLea and moved on. After a moment, his wife, a fair woman in a fine blue gown, came in behind him, her face a mixture of boredom and mutiny. She no longer even attempted to hide her dislike of him, MacLea thought.
Lawrence stopped for a moment to speak to Selby and Dunne, completely ignoring Alec Murray, who was standing with them. Then he turned and made his way across the room, heading directly towards MacLea. James Boydell was watching the colonel too, his eyes narrowed with anger. On a famous occasion last summer, when MacLea had challenged Lawrence to a duel, it had been Boydell who had stepped up along with Murray to act as his second, only for Lawrence to refuse flatly to meet him. A gentleman, MacLea, he had said, is only obliged to answer to another gentleman. And as must be quite clear to every person of taste, you most certainly are not a gentleman.
The Hunt for the North Star Page 12
