Solemn Vows (Marc Edwards)

by Don Gutteridge

  “There is more, sir.”

  “Then spit it out, dammit!”

  The governor’s sudden anger shocked Marc, but he gritted his teeth and carried on with his duty. “This letter confirms what Rumsey’s rantings to his wife implied: that he was a paid killer, and that the one who engaged him appeared in disguise. What is more, he was seen by a witness to have given money to Rumsey, and that witness described the man as having the posture and bearing of a swell or a bigwig—by which we may infer that he meant a gentleman.”

  “Somebody in the government? Or the Family Compact? That’s … absurd. It has to have been some Reformer with the bearing of a gentleman.”

  “Perhaps, sir. But we must consider both possibilities. I hate to say it, even to think it, but we may well have a traitor amongst us. And we do not know but that he may try again.”

  Sir Francis stared at the letter as it lay on his desk before him. The truths that it bore were inescapable, and that reality had taken a cold grip upon him: anger, fear, confusion, indecision, brief bravado—all were clearly readable in his posture and expression.

  “Shall I leave you alone, sir?”

  “No, Marc, I think not.” A cunning, calculating look had come over his face. “You see, don’t you, that I cannot make this evidence public. I dare not tell even my most trusted allies in the Executive and Legislative councils. Such news would create panic on a grand scale—a traitor among the upper echelons of government or respectable society? The governor’s life in jeopardy and no way of dealing with it short of a witch hunt through the ranks of the social register? Or posting a regiment of troops around Government House?”

  “But would this news not stir up sympathy for you … and your cause?” Marc had intended to say “our” cause, but the thought had come out otherwise.

  “Maybe so, but the confusion and alarm among our own supporters would be disastrous. I’ve run the entire campaign around the notions of loyalty, lawfulness, and peaceful public order.”

  “What are you suggesting, sir?”

  Sir Francis rose and strode as bravely as he could to the window. With his back turned to Marc, he said with chilling calculation: “Only you and I know the contents of this troublesome letter.” The paper crackled in his grip.

  “That is why I waited so patiently to see you alone, sir.”

  “And once again your judgment was unerring, Marc. And so, if I were to destroy the evidence—as I am doing now—no one outside this room would know any different, would they?” Slowly and deliberately Sir Francis ripped Rumsey’s letter to pieces. They fluttered to the floor like dust off a dead moth’s wings.

  “But, sir, your life may be in danger—”

  “I do not really think so. Rumsey botched the initial attempt. He is now dead. The public will be fully satisfied that Councillor Moncreiff’s killer was himself justly killed. The momentum we have gained in the campaign is now self- evident, and the Moncreiff business—sad as it may be—has already worked to our advantage and will continue to do so. Why would anyone risk another attempt on my life so near to the election?” As he spoke, Sir Francis seemed to be trying to convince himself of what he was saying as much as he was Marc. A residual and persistent fear still lurked—like a bright, throbbing thorn—in the corner of each eye. “The political motive, you see, has been virtually eliminated. And since you and I know that it was not a lone madman who tried to kill me, but rather an intelligent if misguided gentleman, then it follows that I am in no imminent danger.”

  The governor’s gaze narrowed. “In fact, there will be nothing to stop us now—not Mackenzie, not Bidwell, not Perry, not the demagogues from the American republic, not even Farmer’s Friend and all his ilk.”

  Marc did not reply.

  “So you see, Marc, we cannot ever divulge what has just passed between us,” Sir Francis said quietly. “The Moncreiff affair is closed.”

  “You know you can count on me,” Marc said. “My loyalty to the King is absolute.” Well, almost absolute, he thought, even as he prayed that the governor’s obsession with the identity of Farmer’s Friend would be forgotten.

  “Yes, yes I can,” Sir Francis said, as he went over to his bookcase, fumbled with some books, and came up with a Bible. He slapped it on the desk, face up. “Put your hand on this Bible and swear a solemn oath that you will never reveal the contents of Rumsey’s letter to a living soul.” His eyes danced maniacally.

  “But, sir—”

  “Swear it! Now!”

  Marc did as he was told.

  THE SOLSTICE SUN HAD SUNK DOWN somewhere beyond Fort York, but there was still light in the sky: hazy, insubstantial, ghostly. Marc walked and walked. He had no idea where he was going or why. A day that should have been replete with triumph and satisfaction had turned into a nightmare whose images floated unmitigated before his mind’s eye—taunting and terrible: Beth’s face as he had turned and left her sitting in that cramped room, stunned and alone; the battered face of Margaret Rumsey and her pathetic plea for her worthless husband’s life; a hired killer shot to pieces by a soldier’s volley, just as Crazy Dan had been; the gloating visages of Hilliard and Willoughby; the half- mad stare of Governor Head, who was, it seemed, dangerously unstable.

  It had been a day that had begun with the wrenching argument at Beth’s over vows of love and duty, and it had ended with yet another vow that was just as compromised and conflicted as the others. For he had had more than enough time to march into the governor’s office and admit that he had done his duty by discovering who had written those telling and true letters on behalf of the voiceless citizens of the province, and then confess that he could not reveal the name because of a matter of honour that was more compelling than duty, a trust too solemn to be broken. In short, it came down to a choice between loyalties. But, of course, he had not done the honourable thing; he had taken the coward’s route and had been rewarded with the unforeseen possibility that the governor had lost interest in his vendetta against Farmer’s Friend. With luck, he would soon abandon it entirely—letting Marc wriggle off the hook like a pusillanimous worm.

  Of course, he could still crawl back to Beth in a week or so and boast that the governor had not forced the author’s name from his lips and never would, implying craftily that her lover had, with passing nobility, chosen her over his soldierly duty. But just minutes ago he had put his hand on the Holy Bible at the irrational behest of a man he no longer respected and had sworn yet another binding oath of allegiance—when he ought to have turned and marched from the room. So, even if he were now to go back to the crazed governor and openly refuse to betray Farmer’s Friend, it would be an act of supreme hypocrisy. He could not do it. His tongue would turn to stone.

  He walked on and let the last of the twilight settle around him, blurring the painful edges of everything before him. Only one thing was now certain: he could never look Beth Smallman in the face again.

  ELIZA OPENED THE FRONT DOOR before he reached the top step. She laughed softly. “I’ve been watching for you since supper.” The fragrance of night flowers hung about her as she reached down to him.

  They entered the unlit vestibule, and when she took his hand to lead him into her sitting room, he was so grateful he almost burst into tears. “Is your uncle at home?” he managed to ask.

  This time Eliza giggled, a rippling little- girl laugh that cut through Marc’s misery as a baby’s smile might mellow a cynic. “He’s taken the steamer to Kingston. We have the whole place and what’s left of the evening to ourselves.”

  He sat down on the sofa in what had become over the past few weeks their intimate room. She took a candelabrum off the mantel and brought it over to the table beside the sofa. “This is more comfortable than the settee in the parlour,” she said, sitting down and patting the cushion beside her. She was wearing a simple pale- linen dress over her chemise, and the flickering gleam of the candles caught the tender hollows of her neck and shoulders and highlighted the darkening surge of her unbound ha
ir. No stays reconfigured the sensual droop of her breasts.

  The light shone also upon Marc’s face.

  “My God, what’s happened? You look devastated.”

  “I am,” Marc said, and when she drew his head consolingly to her breast, he did not resist.

  “Then you must tell me why.”

  So he did. In rushed, incoherent phrases he poured out the day’s disappointments and humiliations, editing out only those portions sanctified by oath. Farmer’s Friend was “someone dear” but, in this version, resolutely male. The Moncreiff case had not been properly concluded, but, of course, it could only be hinted as to why. The sad episode at Danby’s Crossing could be fully exhumed and recounted, including even the chagrin at losing his horse and being patronized by a hostler.

  Eliza fetched the brandy decanter and poured them each two fingers. “Sip slowly, darling, you’ll singe your tonsils.” She ran her fingers through his hair with such casual caress that it seemed as natural as breathing.

  Marc looked up from his nestling place and said, “Will you marry me?”

  Eliza uttered a tiny laugh—half-nervous, half- amused. She pulled back so that his head came up and she could look at him directly. “You’ve only had one brandy.”

  “But I’m serious, darling.” It was the first time he had used the word in her presence. He took her hand formally in his and said, “I want you to be my wife. Now. As soon as we can arrange it.”

  Eliza looked at him with a solemn, almost wistful, expression on her face. “But I can’t,” she said softly. “Please, believe me, it’s not that I’m not genuinely fond of you. I am. The time we’ve shared these past weeks has been the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

  “Then, why? I don’t understand.”

  “Well, for one thing, there’s Beth Smallman.”

  Marc showed his amazement. “You know about her?”

  “Enough. This is a very small town.” She smiled as best she could and added, “And those candid descriptions of your exploits in Crawford’s Corners in January left little to the imagination.”

  “But that’s over,” Marc said, feeling foolish at having dropped to one knee. He got up awkwardly to sit beside her. “It’s finished.”

  “Perhaps. But I do wonder if such things are ever finished.” Her expression darkened. “The man I tried to leave, back in England, followed me here.”

  “He did? Why didn’t you tell me? Has he been bothering you?”

  She stroked his cheek in a decidedly motherly gesture. “He’s managed to keep his distance—so far. But I am more than a little afraid of him. He’s unstable, perhaps even mad, though he has tried to change his ways.”

  “You must tell me who he is!”

  “So you can play guardian?” she said, not unkindly.

  Marc sat back. “You won’t marry me, then?”

  “I don’t think I’ll marry anyone, so don’t feel sorry for yourself.”

  Marc reached for her hand. “It’s Uncle Sebastian, isn’t it?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll just—”

  “We’re going to New York,” Eliza said, not letting go of his hand.

  “I don’t follow—”

  “Uncle Sebastian is on his way to Montreal to meet Uncle Samuel and escort him and a shipment of port to Toronto. Uncle Samuel is going to take over the business here. Uncle Sebastian and I are moving to New York to set up shop there.”

  She let go of his hand. “It was Uncle Samuel who was supposed to go to New York, but Uncle Sebastian suddenly changed the plans. He says I may stay here if I wish …”

  “But?”

  She looked him square in the eye with a glance that conveyed pain and resignation in equal measure. “I won’t leave him,” she whispered. “He cannot do without me.”

  Marc was pretty certain why Sebastian Dewart-Smythe had altered their plans. “When do you leave?”

  “In a week or so. As soon as Uncle Samuel gets settled in.”

  Marc was numb. There was nothing to say.

  Eliza said, “But we don’t have to marry. You could come with us to New York. I could teach you the wine business. We could travel to the continent, to France, to Italy—” She stopped. She reached out again and ran her fingers down one side of his head and cupped them about the nape of his neck. She sighed. “That was foolish of me. I’m starting to sound like the little girl who wants to eat her cake and have the baker, too.”

  She knew, as he did, that he could not leave the army any more than she could leave Uncle Sebastian and the wine business she was born to.

  “This is good-bye, then?”

  “You could come again tomorrow. He’ll still be away.”

  “I’ve got to attend the gala at Somerset House,” Marc said, “and you’ve already refused to come with me.”

  “I’m sorry, but there may be someone there I don’t wish to meet.”

  “Oh, I see,” Marc said, not sure that he did. “Your rejected suitor?”

  She smiled cryptically. “So we’ve got only tonight to ourselves. I want you to do one thing for me, if you will,” she said with mock solemnity. “A sort of last request.”

  “Anything.”

  She pulled his face into the hollow between her breasts. “I want you to make love to me. Now.”

  And there in their intimate room, in the uncertainty of candlelight and its insubstantial shadow, Marc made love to the woman who had just refused to marry him. The discovery that she was not inexperienced in conjugal matters was, initially, somewhat disconcerting, but she left him scant opportunity to mull over such moral niceties.

  It was dawn before he found the will to leave.

  TWELVE

  On Saturdays Marc often went over to the garrison to take part in the morning parade, not because he had to—as aide-de-camp to the governor and attaché to Government House he was excused such routine manoeuvres—but because it made him feel more of a constituent part of the regular army. On this particular Saturday morning, he needed the tonic of military ritual and rigour more than ever. The prospect of filling the idle hours between breakfast and the gala at Somerset House in the evening with nothing but replays of the images and events that had happened since Thursday was intolerable. After the parade, Marc lunched with Colonel Margison and Quartermaster Jenkin in the officers’ mess, where talk of his heroic exploits in flushing out Philo Rumsey was both flattering and galling. At midafternoon, he made his way back to the boarding house, and there he found a note waiting for him, from Horatio Cobb.

  IN THE CROOKED ANCHOR, Cobb seemed uncharacteristically eager to tell Marc about Rumsey’s death at the pier near Turner’s brewery. He had barely touched the fried trout in front of him. “It was me that led the troops down there and told ’em where to hide in the grass so’s them ridiculous costumes wouldn’t show,” he was saying.

  “I know, and I’m sure you’ll receive due credit,” Marc said.

  Cobb was anxious to talk, but he was also eyeing Marc closely, as if sensing that there had been some sea change in his outwardly unflappable superior. “That don’t matter a pig’s arse,” he said and jabbed a fork into his plate. “So, like I was sayin’, after I talk them into skulkin’ down there like a pack of bird dogs, I start to sneak back up the embankment to see if I can spot Rumsey before he gets too close to all them pop-guns. I know it’s important to take Rumsey alive as he’s got a lot of talkin’ to do before we hang him, but, dammit-all, the bugger’d already outcircled me. The first thing I know, I turn to see him almost on the wharf and scuttlin’ fer a fishin’ boat with a little cabin on it. So I give out a holler, but the troop is already liftin’ out of the grass like flushed pheasants, and Rumsey of course sees ’em.”

  Cobb took a deep breath but did not raise his flagon. “I swear to God, Major, one of them crazy soldiers shoots before Rumsey can say shit or surrender. Naturally, he misses, but Rumsey ups and fires back, and I hear a mighty yelp an
d see one of the soldiers grab his leg and go down. Then there’s a roar like a ten-gun salute and the poor bastard flies backwards with the guts shot out of him before he hits the water.”

  Cobb now hoisted his flagon and drank greedily. “I ain’t ever seen anythin’ like it, and I hope to Christ I never do again.”

  Almost absently Marc said, “Any idea who fired that first shot?”

  Cobb picked up on the tone instantly. He looked at Marc for a long second before answering. “Could’ve been any one of ’em. They ain’t got a brain to divvy up amongst ’em.”

  “Rumsey’s dead,” Marc said. “And that’s all that seems to matter.”

  Cobb picked at the bones of his trout. “Well, it ain’t really none of my business, I suppose, but I recall you figured Rumsey couldn’t’ve been actin’ on his own. Don’t we have an instigator of some kind maybe runnin’ around loose somewheres? Or don’t that matter no more either?”

  “As far as the governor is concerned, the case is closed.”

  “And as far as you’re concerned?”

  “I do what the governor commands me to do.”

  Cobb flashed Marc an enigmatic grin. “Well, then, I best get back to my humble patrol.”

  Marc rose and held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Constable.”

  Cobb did not respond, but he watched Marc as he slowly made his way out of the tavern.

  MARC RETURNED TO MRS. STANDISH’S after eating supper at the officers’ mess, where all the talk was about the upcoming gala at Somerset House, the life-and-death decisions regarding dance cards and partners, the relative merits of one colonial beauty over another, and the irresistible allure of the British officer in his ceremonial accoutrements. There was much teasing of Ensign Rick Hilliard, who, having won inestimable favour in the governor’s eye during their trek through the western hustings, had been rewarded with the honour of escorting Angeline Hartley to the ball and dancing both the lancers and the galop with her. It was almost eight o’clock when Marc stepped onto the veranda and greeted his landlady, who was sweeping the dust of the day off her threshold.