House of Rougeaux

by Jenny Jaeckel

  Guillaume hurried to wake Ross, and sent him running to fetch Dr. Laurent, who lived only a few streets away. Jonty he told to go next door for Aunt Josephine. The girls, Eleanor and Melody, woke from the commotion and met Guillaume in the hall, clinging to his sides. Mercifully, little Dax still slept.

  Dr. Laurent arrived with Ross and Guillaume led him to the bedroom to examine Bess. Josie had gathered the children in the girls’ room to wait, until at last Guillaume came for them. The doctor explained that Elizabeth’s heart had stopped, and that she was gone. The girls flung themselves at their mother’s feet, sobbing, the boys knelt by the bed, and Guillaume gathered all of them in his arms, all of Bess’ children, except for Dax, who was downstairs with Josephine, until things quieted down.

  Guillaume was overcome with a dreadful, hollow weightlessness, as if the earth had stopped turning and he had nothing but his two arms to keep his family from flying away. A long, long river of tears cut a path through the night, until the sky paled, and the bleak dawn broke, unwanted, outside the window.

  Whereas Maman’s passing brought a deep but quiet grief, the sudden loss of Elizabeth ruptured the fabric of their lives. The web of the family drew closer together during this dark season. Josephine moved into Guillaume’s home to take charge of Dax, now just two years old, and to help support the other children who, though much older, were still in need of care. Josephine and Guillaume’s three older sisters visited daily, and Albert and Genevieve took over the apartment next door, above the saddlery.

  Guillaume went through the tasks of each day crushed with the weight of Bess’ absence. When he dressed each morning it confused him greatly that she wasn’t behind him doing the same. When he went downstairs and she wasn’t in the kitchen he had the impulse to look for her in the backyard. He was two people, the one that knew Bess was gone and grieved for her, and the one that couldn’t yet make sense of it. But at the end of each day, when he said goodnight to the children, he did what he knew she would have wanted. He told them that she loved them, and that she was watching over, and because he believed it they did too. Thus they survived the longest and coldest winter of their lives.

  When summer rolled around again, the pain of loss had become a small measure less immediate. Guillaume tended to his work and his children, and to Bess’ memory. Dax, now three, learned he had the power to make the family laugh, and enlivened the household with his antics, and Josephine provided the anchor needed by all. Soon it was time for the journey to Québec City and Guillaume brought along Ross, who was fifteen now and most likely to take over the saddlery one day. Albert was a railroad man, and Jonty would surely follow him there. Eleanor and Melody, children just yesterday, were already becoming young women in their own right. It was almost with surprise that Guillaume remembered the Englishman. Their meeting only one year ago seemed as distant as a foreign shore.

  * * *

  Close to another year passed, and then it was April. The snow gave way rapidly to green budding things. The handful of fruit trees in the garden began to bring forth their delicate blossoms. Guillaume still deeply missed Bess, and Maman, but there were rare days when his remembrance of them came briefly and gently.

  One late night he woke, restless, but not from grief. He rose from bed and opened the window, letting in the spring air that struck his bare skin, making him shiver. He thought of the Englishman, and, filled with an unexpected sense of possibility, lit a candle and drew a cedar box out from beneath the bed. Under a pile of odd receipts and papers the calling card was still there, edged in gold ink, bearing the name and address.

  Carrying the candlestick, he stepped over to his writing desk. He sat with his steel pen and inkwell, staring at the paper for some time not knowing what to write. At last he began.

  Dear Sir,

  Perhaps you may remember me, a saddler from Montréal, as we met nearly two years ago at the guesthouse LeBlanc in Québec City. Sadly, my dear wife Elizabeth passed away not long thereafter. In any case, I enjoyed making your acquaintance. This coming July 19th I will again be in Québec City on business, staying at the same lodgings.

  Sincerely,

  G. Rougeaux

  Guillaume had written letters only rarely, but even had he a lifetime of experience with correspondence, this would have been awkward. He blotted the ink and folded the letter carefully, then he addressed an envelope. He felt as if he were stepping off a precipice, and his heart beat wildly. Francis Hathaway might have moved away, might have died, might not remember him or wish to. It was beyond ridiculous. When morning came he hurried to the post office, before he could change his mind.

  Days became weeks, became one month, then two, and still no reply. Guillaume chided himself for the vanity of sending the letter at all. He was a father, a grandfather now, no less, with all manner of responsibility for his family and community. What had he hoped to gain? It was folly. He saw that now.

  And so he put the matter away, just as he had so long ago with Emmet Clarkson. The end of June approached and Guillaume made his preparations for Québec City just as he always did. Ross would not accompany him this time. Josephine had all the children engaged in renewing the interior whitewash of the entire house, and so when the day arrived Guillaume was again alone.

  Guillaume sighed and smiled as he gazed through the window of the train car at the passing landscape. How time marched on. Dax was four years old, a little man who thought himself very big indeed now that he was an uncle. Albert and Genevieve had had their first child, a robust creature they called Elodie. Dax was allowed to hold the baby in Elizabeth’s old rocking chair, provided he did not squirm out from under her. If he rocked a little too fast the baby let out her funny laugh that surprised them all by sounding like an old man’s. How Bess would have liked to see all that.

  The gentle jostling over the tracks made him sleepy. He dozed more easily now than he ever used to. Perhaps this would be his last trip to Québec City. What with the goods available these days in Montreal, the expense of the trip was really no longer justified. Quality studs and buckles and the like could be found for lesser prices right at home.

  * * *

  Guillaume arrived at the guesthouse and rang the bell at the street door. He knew from his last visit that the place was under new ownership, and that the new owners honored Madame LeBlanc’s custom regarding colored guests. Madame LeBlanc, aging too, had gone to live elsewhere with a son and daughter-in-law. Madame Fournier, the new proprietress, ushered Guillaume into the small foyer and up the old stairs. Her brisk step rustled the indigo skirts of her dress, as they followed the stairs up to the second floor where the kitchen, dining room and proprietor’s quarters were located. The proprietress produced his room key from a desk drawer, and Guillaume went up another flight of stairs to room number four.

  He unlocked the door and set his old leather valise on the floor beside the bed. The valise, which he used on every trip, was a wedding gift, crafted by his father. It sported a set of brass buckles purchased long ago right in this very city. Québec was the city of his father’s birth and his mother’s youth. Guillaume kept the leather of the valise oiled and wrapped in paper between uses, and it was still in excellent condition.

  Guillaume looked about the room. The furniture was all still the same, the bedstead, chair and small bureau, but a new enamel pitcher and basin had replaced the old. The Fourniers had also invested in new linens, heavier scrubbing, and curtains more in line with the current fashion, giving the place an air of refreshment. It was just past five o’clock in the afternoon. Madame Fournier said that supper would be served at seven, and that she hoped he liked mutton stew. After washing up he removed his shoes and lay down on the bed. He rested an arm across his eyes, and let out a long breath.

  * * *

  Madame Fournier, it turned out, was a good cook. The stew was fragrant and satisfying and served with a rich black bread. The handful of guests were polite and the conversation was pleasant, though Guillaume did not feel parti
cularly here nor there. He let his thoughts drift as if they were children, leading him away from the adults’ table. An hour or so later, the supper dishes cleared, Madame Fournier returned to the dining room with a teapot and tray of cups.

  Voices of the guests and the clatter of the tea things on the table muffled the sound of the doorbell from downstairs. Madame Fournier straightened.

  “Was that the bell?” she asked, looking toward the stairs. All fell silent a moment and the second ring came through clearly. “Ah!” she said, wiping her hands over her apron and heading out. “That will be Monsieur Hathaway.”

  Guillaume snapped awake. Had he heard right?

  Already there were two sets of footsteps on the creaking stairs. Guillaume stood.

  The dining room door pushed open, Madame Fournier followed by another figure, both foreign and familiar. It was Hathaway, after all.

  Guillaume was speechless.

  Madame Fournier introduced the Englishman around the room, and he nodded politely. And then the blue eyes under their heavy black brows, turned toward him. Hathaway held out his hand.

  “Monsieur Rougeaux,” he said, “I’m glad to see you.”

  Guillaume knew not whether his feet still touched the floor. He reached out, and the two men shook hands.

  “Mr. Hathaway,” he said.

  Francis Hathaway settled into a chair opposite Guillaume. The guests took their tea. Guillaume looked upon the Englishman when he dared. He had the same lean features, the salt and pepper hair was a bit longer and perhaps had a touch more of the salt. Now and then their eyes met and Hathaway smiled.

  Another hour or two passed, and the other guests retired, and then Guillaume and Hathaway were alone. It was dark outside now, and rain ticked lightly against the window pane. The Englishman spoke.

  “I was very pleased to get your letter,” he said, explaining he had been away in Ottawa until just last week. Given the rate at which letters traveled, there was no time to reply. He had only been able to reserve his place at the guesthouse by chance, since an associate of his was journeying just then from Toronto to Québec City, and carried the message for him.

  “And I am terribly sorry about your wife,” he added gently. “You must miss her very much.”

  “I and the children,” said Guillaume.

  Hathaway nodded.

  “Have you a family?” asked Guillaume. They had spoken of many things in their first meeting, but not this. No, Hathaway did not. He had a married brother near to him in Toronto, but the rest were back in England.

  “We are so different then,” said Guillaume. He could not imagine existing outside of his large family, living so untethered.

  “Are we?” Hathaway ventured. Guillaume didn’t know. He smiled.

  “Why did you come?” he asked.

  “Why did you?”

  An unbearable longing welled up in Guillaume’s chest.

  “I wanted to meet you again,” he said simply.

  “And here we are,” the Englishman said.

  * * *

  Their first kiss broke his heart. In a capsule of darkness and silence, they stood together inside the Englishman’s locked door. Hathaway gripped the edges of Guillaume’s vest, near the collar, pulling him close. Countless times Guillaume had invoked the image of Emmet Clarkson, or some other man, when he had been with Bess, and now the sheer reality of it was almost too much to bear.

  Hathaway led him to the bed and drew him down so they sat side by side. He discerned Guillaume’s shaking hands, held them gently, and then brought them to the buttons at the front of his waistcoat.

  “Help me with these, won’t you?” he whispered.

  Guillaume obliged, grateful to have some direction, especially when his brain seemed to be on fire, and his only prayer was that he would live until morning, and not expire before this thing, this extraordinary thing, could be done.

  * * *

  When the line of sky beyond the curtains went from black to deep blue Guillaume pulled away and found his clothing. Listening to Hathaway’s light, even snoring, he crept from the room to his own down the hallway.

  He awoke in his own bed to the sound of the breakfast bell. Eight o’clock, so much later than he ever slept. Down in the dining room some of the guests from the previous night were present, some had left early to continue their journeys in different directions. Francis Hathaway was among those not present, and Guillaume was relieved. He was a stranger to himself. It took all of his concentration to eat, nearly forgetting in which hand he was used to holding the knife and in which the fork.

  When Guillaume emerged from the guesthouse, the bright sky dazzled his eyes. The rain-washed streets, thick with life, lay decorated in blue mirrors. Somehow Guillaume managed to attend to his purchases and return to the station, where he boarded his train, and finally sank into a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  Josephine sensed the change in him at once, but left him alone. The activities of the household carried on as usual. It was a peaceful summer, business was good, and the children were growing up. Ross took over the deliveries from the saddlery and little Dax spent hours in the shop, hammering at scraps of leather and chattering to his father about what kind of saddles he was making. A lightness buoyed Guillaume, even at the weary end of the day. The colors of the roses that grew at the front of the house, the ones Elizabeth had planted before Albert was born, seemed richer than before.

  One month later, in August, a letter came from Toronto.

  It read,

  My Dear Monsieur Rougeaux,

  I wish to inform you that I shall be in Ottawa on business the first half of October, staying at the Sherbourne Inn. I believe there are some opportunities in saddlery in this city that may interest you, should you like to discuss them in person.

  Yours sincerely,

  F. Hathaway

  Guillaume read it several times over and then tucked it into the pocket of his vest, overwhelmed with a sudden turmoil. Certainly he had thought they might possibly meet again, but every time the thought arose he pushed it aside. It was one thing to allow himself one night, a night outside of his real life, that would never be repeated. It would be quite another thing to pursue knowing this man.

  He kept the letter with him all the next week, taking it out to read again here and there, as if this time he would discover an answer in its short lines. At times he imagined going to Ottawa, the touch of Hathaway’s hands, the sound of his voice. But then reason would come and throw a heavy curtain down over the visions, covering them with the old sadness and resignation.

  One evening Guillaume sat in the parlor after supper with Josephine. The girls had taken Dax out to play in the street and the other boys had gone to visit a neighbor. Josephine sat by the open window in Elizabeth’s rocking chair, leaning forward to use the last of the evening sunlight for her sewing. There was never a lack of hems and breeches to mend.

  “What’s troubling you, Guille?” Josephine never wasted time on preamble. Guillaume shook his head, rubbed his tired eyes, and then took Hathaway’s letter from his pocket and handed it to her. She traced her fingers over the ink and around the edges of the paper. “F. Hathaway,” she said, musing. “A friend?”

  “Could be,” he said.

  “If you wish it?”

  Guillaume cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. Josie laid her mending aside and looked at him a long time.

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “It’s not for a man to do,” he said at last. “Not what an honorable man does.”

  “Why do you say so?” Josephine’s voice was low and steady.

  “Papa,” he said, “was the best kind of man. Can you say he wasn’t the best kind of man?”

  “And you must be like him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, Guille,” she said, “yes, Papa was of the best kind, but there isn’t only one kind of good man.”

  “I know that.”

  “No, I don’t think yo
u do.”

  Guillaume coughed. He swallowed. He rubbed his eyes again and his fingers came away wet. “Maybe I don’t know anything,” he allowed. He covered his face with his hands. Josie came and put her arms around him.

  “My brave brother,” she said, “let your heart live. Let it be as the Holy One made it.”

  They sat in silence awhile, and then Guillaume said that if he could no longer justify his annual journey east to Québec City, neither did it make sense to be going away again so soon, this time west to Ottawa.

  “It need not make sense,” Josie smiled. She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead, just as she did with the children.

  Guillaume penned a new letter:

  Dear Mr. Hathaway,

  I should be glad to discuss the opportunities you mention, and shall make my travel plans for early in the month of October. I thank you for your invitation.

  Sincerely,

  G. Rougeaux

  The long days of August came and went, and then September opened with a chill. The children readied their books for school, the roses in front faded, dropping brown petals, and Guillaume wore his woolen shirt in the shop, buttoned to the neck. Each night he snuffed out the candle thinking he was one more day closer to October. And then, all at once it was the 3rd, and Guillaume, leather valise in hand, found himself boarding a train for Ottawa.

  The inn was not far from the station, somewhat grander than the guesthouse in Québec City, but still a modest place; it was near to a park on the Ottawa River. He asked for Mr. Hathaway at the reception desk. The clerk replied in a chilly tone that Mr. Hathaway had gone out that morning and did not say when he was expected back. It was however nearing the supper hour and the clerk stated, “You may wait for him here.” Two upright chairs stood against the wall opposite the desk, on either side of a tin umbrella stand.