“Well, that’s better than nothing,” Marc said as kindly as he could.
“And I’ll be there like a—”
“I’m sure you will,” Marc said.
WHEN THE DUTY-CORPORAL USHERED HIM into the governor’s office, Marc was mildly surprised to find Sir Francis seated at his desk next to Willoughby, shoulder to shoulder and obviously putting the finishing touches on one of the speeches planned for the progress through the radical ridings of the London district. Sir Francis glanced up at Marc with his usual welcoming smile and impeccable manners, but Colin was so engrossed in his work that he seemed not to have realized anyone had entered the room. Sir Francis directed Marc to the chair usually reserved for Major Burns (prostrate, apparently, with a rheumatic attack), and the corporal slid another up behind his commander opposite Marc.
“I’ve asked Lieutenant Willoughby to work into the night if necessary to get the wording of my Brantford speech exactly right. Tomorrow being the Sabbath, we have only a few hours left to get everything perfected for our assault on the western ridings. And as you know, Marc, my success there is critical to the outcome of the election.”
“I believe so, sir.”
Willoughby’s constant scratching and blotting were an irritation, but Colin himself seemed oblivious to the conversation going on no more than ten feet from him. Not once did he look up to greet Marc, and Marc realized with a guilty start that he himself was both hurt and jealous. He wanted Colin to do well, but not well enough to supplant him. He felt that his protégé ought to show some gratitude or at least acknowledge that Marc had played a part in his rehabilitation.
“It is vitally important that we win seats in all regions of the province,” Sir Francis was saying. “Our triumph must not be in numbers alone. I want troublemakers like Mackenzie and Peter Perry and Marshall Spring Bidwell driven from the field.”
But not humiliated, Marc wanted to say.
“Young Hilliard is doing a splendid job in helping Willoughby with the security of those travelling with me—including my son. You have trained the ensign well, Marc.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ll also be pleased to know that I am taking along in the official party the receiver general, Mr. Maxwell, and Colonel Allan MacNab. I want not merely to show the flag but to flaunt it!”
Certainly the inclusion of MacNab would have that effect. MacNab was a high Tory, who had been instrumental in having Mackenzie expelled from the Assembly for the third time, in 1832. He was also a symbol of loyalty to the Crown and of the rise to wealth and power of the native- born. He had fought bravely as a militiaman in the War of 1812 and had become on his own merit a successful lawyer, legislator, merchant, and land speculator. The sight of him sitting beside Sir Francis in full regalia would undoubtedly raise hackles and tempers.
“About the investigation, sir,” Marc said diffidently.
“My word, yes. Of course, that is why you have come, isn’t it?”
When it seemed clear he was to make his report in Willoughby’s presence, Marc began. As was his custom, Sir Francis listened without interruption as Marc gave him chapter and verse of Cobb’s prodigious discoveries at Danby’s Crossing and elsewhere.
“Excellent work, Lieutenant. If all this information proves out, it appears we have identified the man who pulled the trigger and established that he was most probably a paid assassin. This corroborates the edited account I have already released to the public. And when we capture the blackguard, we’ll know who is really behind the murder, and why.”
“That is what I believe, too,” Marc said. “But it begs a more serious question. Should we set up a general hue and cry with a warrant issued and all military and police personnel given a description of the man—”
“What does he look like, by the way?”
“Constable Cobb did not relay that detail to me, sir, but I am sure he could at a minute’s notice.”
Sir Francis looked thoughtful for a moment. “I sense you do not wish to raise the alarm immediately?”
“If Cobb is right, sir, the odds are that Philo Rumsey has not gone back to Buffalo but is camping out in the bush. Why he would do so, except that his wife and children are still in Danby’s Crossing, we don’t know. But if the alarm is raised everywhere, he may well panic and cross the border—forever.”
“So we might be better off alerting our people along the border—at Fort George, Fort Erie, Fort Henry, and even Fort Malden—and leave it at that for now?”
“I believe that is the more prudent plan, in the circumstances. There is no likelihood of Rumsey assassinating anyone else, as he himself has no political motive.”
Sir Francis watched Willoughby’s quill- scratching for almost a minute. “All right, Lieutenant, we’ll do just that—for a few days at least. But you do realize that our decision is based on our acceptance of the evidence gathered by one lowly police constable.”
“I do, sir,” Marc said, keeping his own doubts to himself.
“It does seem amazing that this Cobb—who, I was told by Mr. Sturges, comes from a farm family near Woodstock—could have found out so much so quickly.”
“Well, he did fail in one respect, sir,” Marc said. And he gave the governor an account of Cobb’s misadventure with the letter courier.
“Well, that’s unfortunate. I was hoping to come face to face with Farmer’s Friend before setting off for the west,” Sir Francis said, then added, “Don’t you find it odd that Cobb could tease out so much useful information up at Danby’s and in the taverns of the town, and then allow himself to be led astray by some nondescript like Abner Clegg—in his own patrol area?”
“What are you suggesting, sir?”
“Only that these constables were not selected from former militia members, who might have brought some experience to the occupation. They were patronage appointments made by Toronto aldermen sympathetic to the Reform party and headed by a Reform mayor.”
“You think Cobb may have allowed his political views to influence his duty in this particular case? Because he owes his appointment to Mackenzie?”
“I am suggesting that it is a possibility.”
“In this business of the letters, you mean?”
Sir Francis sighed. “I hope to God it’s in this instance only.”
“I’ll do the job myself, then,” Marc said quickly, “next Friday morning. I’ll have the letter-writer’s name for you by Friday noon.”
“And with any luck you’ll have Rumsey in irons,” Sir Francis said warmly. Suddenly he clapped a hand on Marc’s shoulder and began leading him towards the door. “Now I have a much more pleasant assignment for you. The coachman I usually employ to drive my ward about town—and to keep a close watch on her—is ill today, and Angeline has her heart set on a shopping trip. I’ll have one of my grooms drive the team, but I would feel more at ease if you were to escort her. It will take less than an hour of your time.”
“I would be happy to do so,” Marc said, suppressing his chagrin as best he could.
At the door Marc turned around just far enough to catch Willoughby’s eye. Colin was smiling.
ANGELINE HARTLEY, THE GOVERNOR’S WARD, was petalled entirely in pink, from her floral hat to her frilled and beribboned frock to her dainty boots and the bloom of her parasol. Even her face shone pink with the first blush of womanhood—a state she wished, devoutly and often, to enter permanently. She was all of seventeen, and nothing set her heart aflutter as much as a young man in uniform. The image of Lieutenant Edwards—tunicked and tall and handsome—was not so breathtaking, however, as to strike her dumb. Quite the opposite. She babbled non- stop in Marc’s ear all the way down fashionable King Street. About what Marc was not able to decipher exactly, but, then, it was the passion and intensity of her girl-chatter that mattered most. When they passed Bay Street, Angeline stopped talking, sat upright (she had been teetering coquettishly towards her escort’s shoulder from time to time), arched her parasol jauntily, and with a glov
ed hand waved to the throng of onlookers she imagined must be watching in undisguised envy.
“Do stop here, Coachman!” Angeline called, and the young groom drew the open carriage to a halt. “This is one of the shops where I purchase my dresses and gowns,” she said to Marc, who had stepped down and offered her his hand. She held it as long as she dared, then moved across the boardwalk to Miss Adeline’s.
“I’ll wait for you here,” Marc said, touching the brim of his shako cap.
“I shan’t be long, Lieutenant,” Angeline burbled, then twirled prettily and entered the shop.
A minute or so later, the shop door opened, but it was not Angeline who emerged. It was Prudence Maxwell. And if Angeline was a spring flower, Prudence was a late- summer rose or gladiola. She had packed the overblown bloom of her flesh into a low- cut bodice and blinding- yellow skirt. All about her hung an air of over- lush ripeness. When she spotted Marc, she stopped abruptly and aimed a thick- lipped smile in his direction.
“Why, Lieutenant, how nice to see you once again.”
“Madam,” Marc said, bowing briefly.
“My, what onerous duties Sir Francis puts upon you!” she laughed. “How are your ears?”
Marc acknowledged the reference to Angeline with a slight smile. “They have survived, ma’am—so far.”
“Well, I do hope they last until next Saturday.”
Marc looked puzzled.
“Good gracious, doesn’t that old fuddy-duddy up at Government House tell you anything? The whole town is agog with the news, Lieutenant. We are holding a gala at Somerset House next Saturday evening—to welcome Sir Fuddy- Duddy home from the wars and celebrate the coming triumph in the elections. Every officer at the rank of ensign and above has been invited. Your invitation must be on your desk by now.”
“That is pleasant news indeed, and I must apologize for not noticing the invitation. But as you can see, I’ve been kept occupied away from my office.”
“Well, so long as you come,” she said, feigning a pout. “As hostess I have taken the liberty of placing your name first on my dance card. I trust you do not mind?”
“I would be honoured to have the first dance with the receiver general’s wife.”
“I’ll try to make it a waltz,” she said with a leer. “It’s so much more intimate than a galop or a reel, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure you dance well, whatever the form.”
She stared at him as if deciding how she should take this remark, then smiled and said in a more serious tone, “Have you discovered the name of my daughter’s secret lover yet?”
“I have one or two suspicions, ma’am, but no confirmation.”
“Could you throw me a hint? From the blush on Chastity’s cheek these days, I feel it may come too late.”
Marc replied quickly, almost priggishly, “I could not, madam, compromise the reputation of any of the good men under—”
Prudence frowned and then stepped onto the road, coming up close to Marc beside the carriage. “Jesus, fella,” she hissed, “you don’t need to spread that mannerly crap all over me. We ain’t in Mayfair.” A gust of perfume made Marc gasp, as she stretched up and kissed him on the chin, permitting him a frontal glimpse of her barely harnessed breasts.
“That’s for being a naughty boy,” she laughed, before turning towards her own carriage, which had just pulled up.
Marc watched her leave, annoyed, because, in spite of himself, he had been momentarily aroused.
Angeline came out of the dress shop, unaware of what had just taken place, though the teenaged groom was still gawking. Marc helped her aboard, and they moved off up the busy street. Angeline’s chatter about ribbons and furbelows and the hat she was planning to buy today was now pleasantly diverting. So much so that, as they began to slow down in front of the new millinery shop, Marc did not see or hear the pounding of hooves or the clatter of wooden wheels bouncing wildly until it was almost too late. The rear portion of the runaway vehicle skidded into the governor’s carriage and knocked it upwards and over with a jarring collision, pulling its horses to their knees. Marc just had time to grasp Angeline and follow the arc of the carriage as it careened and slammed onto the boardwalk with a murderous thump amid the squeal of terri fied animals. He hurled himself sideways and tumbled onto the road, landing in a pool of soft dirt, and breaking Angeline’s fall with his own body. Dazed but thinking hard, he peered down the street at the disappearing wagon and saw its driver—in overalls and a straw hat—hauling futilely on the reins and crying havoc. Then surprisingly, the “runaway” team veered neatly to the left down Bay Street, still racing but not without guidance. At least it seemed so to Marc as his head swam and his vision suddenly blurred. As he rolled over to check on Angeline, he saw Ensign Hilliard galloping across King Street towards them. Where had he come from? Had Hilliard been following him? Or following Angeline?
At this point, as a curious and concerned throng began to close in around them, Angeline tried to raise herself out of the only mud puddle on the street, sighed loudly, and sank back in a faint. Marc lunged in time to catch her firmly in his arms, at which her thick lashes opened to reveal pale- blue eyes with just the hint of a twinkle in them.
“Are you all right?” Hilliard panted as he knelt down beside them.
“No bones broken, Ensign. But don’t hang about here, get after that wagon!”
Hilliard jumped to the task and hurried away. Marc struggled to his feet with Angeline still limp in his arms. Several sturdy men had freed the horses and righted the carriage. Miraculously, it, too, was in one piece.
“Someone please fetch the lady a glass of water,” Marc said just as Angeline swooned again and he had to drop to one knee to catch her. This time she pulled his face down towards her and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The onlookers applauded.
“Would the lady like to come inside our shop and rest?” said a familiar voice. With Angeline still wrapped around him, Marc looked up to see who the proprietor of the millinery shop might be. There, standing over him with an expression of intense curiosity and amused concern, was the face that had haunted him night and day for the three long months of winter.
It was Beth Smallman.
“Fallen in love again?” she enquired.
NINE
Beth and an older woman—white- haired, sweet- faced—helped Angeline into the millinery shop. At the sight of her mud- splattered skirt, the girl began to weep. Then her whole body trembled, and she started to sob in earnest. The shop door closed resolutely, and the curious had to be content with watching Marc stagger to his feet, more dazed by the mysterious reappearance of Beth Smallman than by the accident.
“Where’s the driver?” Marc said, suddenly remembering the groom, who had been sitting on the bench at the front of the barouche.
“Here, sir,” the young man said, brushing off his livery. His face was pasty white. “I’m so sorry—”
“It was not you who struck the carriage,” Marc said reassuringly.
“But I saw it coming, sir, and my tongue went stiff as a plank. All I could do was jump and save myself.”
“And I’m happy that you did, son. There’s no need to wring your hands over it. I saw the runaway myself and just had time to latch on to Miss Hartley.”
“But the wagon’s ruined!” the lad despaired.
“Not entirely,” Marc said. Several burly men had arrived on the scene and were sorting out the tangle of harness and gear, while another stroked the noses of the frightened horses. Marc gave the collapsible leather roof a tug. “This rig won’t be keeping off any rain for a while, but I think the creature itself will live long enough to get us home.”
Someone came out of the dry- goods store with a pitcher of water and two glasses.
Controlling his own shakes as best he could, Marc was about to leave the groom sitting on the boardwalk with a drink in hand and a mothering woman at either shoulder when he saw Ensign Hilliard come trotting up King Street towards him. A
n even bigger crowd had now formed, and Hilliard had to force his mount through to Marc.
“Were you able to catch him up?” Marc asked.
“I caught up to the wagon, sir. And the horses, poor devils.”
“But no driver?”
“Someone saw him headed towards the docks, but I couldn’t find him. Nobody knew who he was.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Marc said, and the same thought lay unspoken between him and Hilliard: Was the “accident” deliberate? And if so, who was the target? “Most likely he saw my uniform and realized he had struck an officer, and then panicked and fled.”
Hilliard nodded but looked doubtful.
“But surely he’ll sneak back for his horses and vehicle,” Marc suggested.
“Ensign Parker was with me when we saw the collision, sir. We were on an errand for the governor. I’ll have Parker stand watch on the wagon until one of the city constables can take over. We’ll find the culprit, don’t worry.”
“Good idea, Ensign. But don’t you leave just yet.” With that Marc parted the crowd and entered the sanctuary of the millinery shop.
Inside, the older woman was brushing as much mud off Angeline’s skirt as she could while making soothing maternal noises. Beth was holding Angeline’s gloveless right wrist gently and rubbing it with some sharp-smelling unguent. The girl’s sobs had subsided, and she smiled adoringly at Marc through a scrim of grateful tears.
“She’s just shaken up,” Beth said. “And bruised her wrist a little.”
“I’m fine, really,” Angeline said, her eyes still fixed on Marc.
“Are you well enough to travel back to Government House?”
Angeline nodded angelically.
Marc then led her carefully back out onto the street, where few of the spectators seemed to have relinquished their place. Marc called Hilliard over.
Solemn Vows (Marc Edwards) Page 13
