The Bishop's Pawn

by Don Gutteridge

  ***

  “What do you mean, you’re gonna give up yer law studies?” Beth said, a little more forcefully than she had intended, a touch of her southern twang just noticeable.

  “I’m not giving them up, I’m merely postponing them,” Marc replied in a most reasonable tone. “And you mustn’t go about upsetting yourself, not in your – ” Marc stopped, but half-a-phrase too late.

  “Not in my ‘condition,’ eh?” The blue eyes he loved so dearly blazed with indignation, and just a hint of amusement. “I’ve told you a dozen times, I haven’t got the dropsy or gallopin’ consumption. There’s a healthy, protestin’ babe in here.” At which point she rubbed a lascivious palm across her nine-month belly. “An’ if she can somehow hear us squabblin’, she ain’t likely to pay much attention – bein’ unfamiliar with the Queen’s English.”

  “She?”

  Beth smiled, then grew serious again. “Can’t Robert Baldwin carry the Reform cause without the aid of his apprentice?” she said, leaning back in the big padded chair she had appropriated when her ‘condition’ cried out for its comforts.

  “I thought you of all people would be keen to have me join the campaign to promote Lord Durham’s recommendations for a united parliament and responsible government.”

  “And I am, darlin’, really. Jess an’ his father and I battled the Family Compact an’ stood up fer the Reform party as hard as anybody in this province – and at such a cost.”

  Marc wanted to warn Beth not to dwell on her past tragedies – the sudden and brutal deaths of her first husband and her beloved father-in-law – given her condition, but restrained himself in time. Instead he said, “You realize as clearly as anyone that we have an uphill fight in the Assembly to get a bill passed that will encourage the Melbourne government in London to implement the earl’s key proposals. Pressure must come from the countryside, from the farmers and tradesmen and shopkeepers. It must be a groundswell so powerful and sustained that even the Tory-dominated legislature will take notice and do their duty!”

  “You ain’t on the platform yet,” Beth said with a twinkle. “But I gather that Robert has plans fer erectin’ as many as he can construct an’ get away with.”

  “More than that,” Marc said, warming to the topic, and grateful that his wife and companion was not only beautiful – in her freckled, Irish way – but intelligent and passionate about her adopted province. “Robert and his committee have developed a master plan.”

  Just then Charlene Huggan, their all-purpose servant, popped into the archway between living-room and kitchen. “Is it okay, Beth, if I slip next door fer a few minutes? I’ll be back before Mr. Edwards leaves fer the evenin’.”

  “You c’n bring Jasper back with you, if you like,” Beth said. “I promised him a rematch.”

  Jasper Hogg lived next door, when he wasn’t parked in the Edwards’ parlour. The young carpenter, whose principal work was intermittent at best, did all the heavy labour about Briar Cottage: chopping and lugging wood, fetching water for the cistern and stove, and tending to the needs of the horse. Which allowed Marc to spend all his time studying for the Bar – up at Osgoode Hall and in the legal chambers of Baldwin and Sullivan.

  Charlene headed for the back door.

  It was just after supper on Saturday. Marc was preparing to leave in order to join Robert Baldwin and Doubtful Dick for a stroll to the legislature and the scheduled session of the Assembly. Beth, who had been teaching Jasper and Charlene to play chess over the winter months, now routinely pitted herself against the pair of them, who used the frequent consultations over their next move as a kind of not-so-subtle lovers’ byplay. She would have pleasant company until he got home.

  “So what’s this master plan, then?” Beth said, returning to the topic at hand.

  “Robert and his associates are going to stump every township between Cornwall and Sandwich,” Marc said. “They’re also planning to organize Durham Clubs in every region to continue the debate long after the platform rhetoric has faded.”

  “You figure on stumpin’ alongside of Robert?” Beth said, eyeing her husband closely.

  Marc grinned. “Don’t worry, love. I don’t intend to be absent for the birth of our son.”

  “She’ll be pleased about that when I tell her.”

  Marc began to pull his boots on. “What Robert has asked me to do is to help him write a series of pamphlets that will flesh out the arguments being made in the Assembly and from the podiums across the province, and to compose broadsides that will highlight our principal points. He expects this work will be ongoing, as our tactics may have to be adjusted to any sudden change in the Tories’ counter-arguments or misrepresentation of our views.”

  Beth shifted slightly to ease a cramp in her left leg. “That is somethin’ you’ll be able to do well. And, if you’d like, I’d be happy to help out.”

  Marc smiled to acknowledge this indirect reference to her proven ability to frame effective political tracts, drawing upon her past experience as a farm-owner who had suffered from several of the thoughtless land policies of the right-wing governments that had controlled the province since its inception more than forty-five years ago.

  “You could be of real help, love,” Marc said slowly, “but since you do insist that you’ll be going back to the shop as soon as you’re able, and with our son to occupy the rest of your time, I don’t see how you could manage it.”

  Beth wanted to object, but had to admit that Marc could be right. She had succeeded in getting down to her business – Smallman’s Fashion Emporium for Ladies (the newly minted name of her expanded shop on King Street between Bay and Yonge) – three days a week up until the beginning of March. By then she had discovered that she had been too tired and grumpy to be of use, in either the retail shop or the adjoining dressmaking enterprise. Moreover, Rose Halpenny was quite capable of supervising the latter, and Bertha Bethune was her mainstay among the frocks and bonnets, and gentrified customers who frequented the place. Her current plan was to take the baby and Charlene with her to Smallman’s as often as she could after the birth. “Maybe I’ll give up chess or one of them other sports we enjoy late in the evenin’,” she said to Marc with a straight face.

  “The supreme sacrifice, eh?”

  Beth peered down at her swollen belly. “I think this is the supreme sacrifice,” she said.

  Marc nodded, then reached for his overcoat. He glanced towards the kitchen.

  “You don’t haveta wait fer Charlene an’ Jasper,” Beth said, shifting her body once again. “Me an’ the babe’ll behave ourselves till they come.”

  “All right. I am eager to pick up Dick and Robert and get to the chamber before the fireworks begin. I think our skeptical Yankee will be suitably impressed by the quality of the debate, even if none of his own stunning, republican logic is deployed by either side.”

  “You’re referrin’ to the arrival of Mowbray McDowell?”

  “That’s right. He was spotted this morning on the verandah of his townhouse, and we fully expect he will lead off the debate this evening for the Tories.”

  “I’d like to be there,” Beth said wistfully.

  Marc leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “They say he’s the best speaker they’ve ever had, better than Justice Robinson or Sweet William Draper.”

  “How come, if he was returned in the Kingston by-election last September, he hasn’t shown up till now?”

  Marc explained that McDowell had leased a townhouse on George Street just north of Newgate in time for the October opening of the legislature, and had even moved his wife and servants there, but his father, a prominent importer of wines and tobacco, had suffered a stroke. McDowell had stayed behind in Kingston in expectation of his father’s imminent demise, foregoing the golden opportunity to make his parliamentary debut at the beginning of the session when the gallery was packed and public attention high. And to make matters worse, McDowell senior had lingered on, to the great inconvenience of his son, un
til Christmas day, when he had passed wordlessly into the beyond. By then the Assembly had been prorogued, and its reopening had been purposefully delayed until the arrival of the earl’s Report in the first week of March. A premature spring, however – with rain-squalls and local flooding – had made so many roads impassable that the new session had not got underway until the previous Monday. Poor Mowbray, stuck in Kingston consoling his mother and winding up his father’s affairs, had found himself unable to travel to Toronto by steamer (too much ice, still) or get there overland. The first mail-packet from the east to brave the break-up had reached the Queen’s Wharf only on Thursday: McDowell had apparently been aboard.

  “He’ll be rarin’ to go,” Beth said, struggling to her feet.

  “I’ll give you a précis, word by bloated word,” Marc said, reaching for the latch. “That’s a promise.”

  Beth waddled over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you think it’s wise fer Dick to make an appearance in that company?” she said with a concerned look.

  “I don’t see why not, love. He goes for his constitutional every morning, and is greeted by a dozen or more passers-by every day.”

  “I know that. But those are the ordinary folk who respect him fer what he did back in January at the Court House fer young Billy McNair an’ Dolly. But accordin’ to what Rose Halpenny told me yesterday when she come here to make her weekly report, the so-called respectable ladies who gossip away to her in the shop like she was a statue or a mute, are still spreadin’ ugly stories about Dick’s life in New York.”

  “Oh, I realize that malicious tales about why Dick had to leave New York aren’t ever going to stop, no matter what the man does. You can’t reform a blue-blooded bigot. But, believe me, the Benchers at Osgoode Hall have been looking into Dick’s record back home – remember that he was not disbarred there – and when they are compelled to admit him to the Bar at the Osgoode hearing next week, that particular cloud will no longer hang over his head.”

  “He won’t tell you what happened back there?”

  “No. Besides the fact that he considers it to be a wholly personal matter, he also says that he has to weigh the effects of any disclosure upon Celia and Brodie. He worships those two.”

  “But ain’t the rumours worse?”

  “Apparently he doesn’t think so.”

  “I’m thinkin’ of what Rose told me, though. The worst stories they’re spreadin’ are about what they say he gets up to with his wards in that little cottage of theirs.”

  Marc stared at Beth. His fingers let go of the door-latch. “I thought that brand of nonsense had stopped.”

  “With the earl’s proposals stirrin’ up anti-Americanism an’ fear of aliens with ‘republic’ stamped on their foreheads, they’ve started up worse than ever. Rose said her minister at the Baptist church last Sunday preached a sermon about the sins of Sodom an’ Gomorrah an’ the iniquities of the flesh – with pointed reference to ‘unnatural acts’ committed by ‘strangers in our midst’.”

  “You’re not telling me that respectable matrons are chatting in Smallman’s about that sort of transgression?” That Beth herself was aware of its nature, he had long since accepted.

  “They find there’s a suitable quote from the Bible to cover any sin, however unspeakable.”

  “Well, don’t worry about Dick tonight. I’ll be right beside him the whole time.”

  Beth smiled and held the door open for her husband. “I hope you ain’t forgettin’ you don’t carry a sword any more.”

  Marc kissed her again, patted his dilatory son in his cosy abode, and left.

  Beth watched him until he vanished in the gathering dusk.

  ***

  At about the same time that Marc was setting out for Baldwin House, two close-cloaked gentlemen were descending from one of Toronto’s three taxicabs onto the boardwalk in front of the spanking-new, three-storey American Hotel on Bay below Lot Street. While the cabbie fumbled with their leather grips, the gentlemen walked with a weary but nonetheless confident step into the brightly lit foyer. They were looking neither left nor right, as if it were the world’s responsibility to look at them. The night-manager, appraising the cut of their cloth and the shine of their boots with his practiced eye, bustled across the Persian carpet to greet them.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to The American Hotel. Though you have arrived late in the day, we do have accommodation that you will undoubtedly find first-class.”

  “After the journey we’ve had over the past eight days, that will be a most welcome sight,” said the first gentleman as he handed his cloak over to the minion who had miraculously materialized at his elbow.

  “You’ve just got off the mail-packet from Newark, then?”

  “We have, sir,” said the second gentleman, “after a miserable day on the coach that got us there from – ”

  “Buffalo?” the night-manager smiled.

  “That’s right, but – ”

  “I can pick out a Buffalo vowel in a crowded room, sir.”

  Neither gentleman smiled in appreciation of the fellow’s talent or the accuracy of his detection, but perhaps they were merely too weary to tend to their manners. For it was obvious that these were proper and prosperous arrivals, whatever their origins. Each man was of middle height, impeccably suited, and boasted the comfortable belly and pink cheeks that suggested a life spent largely behind a desk. Both were fair, slightly balding, and green-eyed. They might have been cousins.

  Sensing that polite chatter was likely to annoy more than ingratiate, the night-manager went about the business of directing the porter to take care of the luggage (scant, considering the aforementioned eight-day journey), while he motioned for his distinguished guests to sign in. He took note of what they wrote down in his register:

  Joseph Brenner, New York City

  Lawrence Tallman, New York City

  “So you’ve come all the way from New York at this time of year?” he said, unable to resist a further comment.

  “Alas, we have done so,” Joseph Brenner said with a curious mixture of rue and Yankee pluck. “But we have important business here that could not be postponed.”

  “Ah, I see. Then we shall make certain that you are made as comfortable and relaxed as modern conveniences and American-style hospitality allow.”

  As the strangers turned to ascend the stairs to their chambers, Lawrence Tallman paused and said to their host, who had trailed them at a discreet distance, “There is one thing, besides supper, that you might provide for us, if you can.”

  “Please, sir. Just name it.”

  “While we are here, we would like to pay a social call upon a former acquaintance of ours, who we understand is now residing in your city.”

  “I know all the respectable people in Toronto, sir.”

  “Good. Then you may know where we can find a retired barrister, a Mr. Richard Dougherty.”

  The night-manager’s eyes brightened, then, slowly, lost their lustre. “I’m afraid I do,” he said at last.

  TWO

  Dougherty and Robert Baldwin were waiting for Marc on the porch of Baldwin House, having dined together and shared a decanter of port and several cigars. They greeted Marc warmly, and the trio set off at a leisurely pace for the legislature two blocks away. The sun had set, but a hazy light lingered on the glassy surface of the bay to their left, and the deep chill of a late-March night was still hours away.

  “Do you really think this McDowell chap can draw the fractious Tory supporters together to form a united front?” Marc was saying.

  “Some of the Reformers have been suggesting that to me,” Robert said, stepping around a mud puddle.

  “It’s hard to believe that mere rhetoric, however lofty, can paper over the divisions we’ve seen in the conservative camp lately,” Marc said. “I suspect it’s just fear of the possibility.”

  “Nor ought you to forget that fine speech-making contributed mightily to the success of the revolution in the United States,�
�� Dougherty said. “Though I suspect this McDowell fellow is no Patrick Henry or Daniel Webster.”

  “What do we know about this wunderkind McDowell anyway?” Marc said to Robert.

  “Francis Hincks tells me that he’s the scion of a wealthy merchant family in Kingston. An only child, and a bit of a ripper in his youth, if the gossip is anywhere close to accurate. Articled law in Montreal, but was taken into the family’s import business, more to keep him under Papa’s thumb, they say, than to augment the McDowell fortunes.”

  “Sounds like an American style success story so far,” Dougherty said as he weaved his way around a patch of suspicious-looking ooze and had to be steadied by Marc’s hand on his shoulder.

  “The tale gets more British, quite quickly,” Robert Baldwin smiled, and Marc was pleased to see that his mentor and friend had regained not only his quiet humour but also much of his former enthusiasm for politics and the quest for a truly responsible, locally controlled government. The sudden death of his wife had left him with four healthy children but a hollowed-out heart.

  “You mean the bugger settled down and became respectable?” Dougherty said.

  “I’m afraid so. Married a patrician lady picked out by his father. Took a keen interest in wines and tobaccos. Travelled abroad. Made money.”

  “Christ,” Dougherty chuckled, “even American presidents have resisted all attempts to civilize them. Andrew Jackson arrived at the White House with a lead ball in his head, and behaved accordingly.”

  “I suspect it was McDowell’s father who suggested politics,” Robert said. “The family money and the Tory landslide back in thirty-six made it easy for young Mowbray to take the by-election last September. His emergence on the hustings there as a gifted orator came as a surprise to everyone.”

  “But Papa’s stroke kept him from pleasuring our ears until now,” Dougherty said. “I do hope I won’t have to rush home and torch my copy of the preamble to the American Constitution.”