Bloody Relations

by Don Gutteridge

  PRAISE FOR DON GUTTERIDGE’S MARC EDWARDS SERIES

  “He mixes real with historical characters . . . in clever ways.”

  —Margaret Cannon, The Globe and Mail

  “As Edwards discovers the complexities, subtleties, and brutalities of Upper Canada, so do we.”

  —Joan Barfoot, The London Free Press

  “Don Gutteridge has taken up his quill and written a riveting yarn of 1830s Upper Canada, steeped in conspiracy and political intrigue. Gutteridge is not only a master of this historical period, he writes like a veritable visitor from it. Canadian history has never been more gripping and enlightening. The story burns, the pages turn, and the reader learns. Fans of Bernard Cornwell and Patrick O’Brian will love Don Gutteridge and his Marc Edwards mysteries.”

  —Terry Fallis, author of The Best Laid Plans

  “Don Gutteridge has created a fascinating cast of historically accurate characters as he follows a trail of murder and political intrigue with a bit of romance thrown in. Great mystery, great history, and a terrific read.”

  —David Cruise and Alison Griffiths, authors of Vancouver

  “Gutteridge weaves his tale perfectly, with believable characters and perfect scene-setting.”

  —The Globe and Mail

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  For Gene Burdenuk, friend and longtime supporter

  PROLOGUE

  It is July 1838. The provinces of Upper and Lower Canada have suffered through two rebellions, both summarily put down. Although there is peace, it is an uneasy calm that hangs over both colonies. The grievances that fomented revolt remain unresolved, principally the oppression of the mass of farmers at the hands of legislatures that are tipped in favour of the established order. For more than a decade, reform movements in both provinces have tried unsuccessfully to introduce more democratic, less authoritarian forms of governance. The mother country has at last woken up to the issues and is taking steps to alleviate the situation. A new governor, Sir George Arthur, is appointed for Upper Canada, replacing Sir Francis Bond Head. More important, Lord Durham, a Whig sympathizer, is named head of a commission of inquiry and temporary governor of both colonies, tasked with finding a possible solution for the troubled provinces. In July of 1838, he visits Quebec City, Montreal, Niagara, and finally Toronto, consulting with dozens of locals from every level of society. Months later he will make a report that will forever alter the nature of the Canadas.

  ONE

  Briar Cottage

  11 Sherbourne Street

  Toronto, Upper Canada

  July 17, 1838

  Dear Uncle Frederick:

  I was happy to hear that you’ve almost wound up Uncle Jabez’s affairs and the settling of his estate. No doubt you are looking forward to your return to France and the bosom of your family. That they are all healthy and thriving must provide you with some consolation during this period of mourning for your brother.

  As you know from my previous letters, a number of which likely arrived simultaneously in April—the mails here are as unreliable as the roads—my life since last October when the troubles began has been both hectic and harrowing. Thus it is only in the past two months, since my marriage to Beth, that I have had time to reflect on what now seems “my other life” in England and the role that Uncle Jabez played in it. I miss him more each day, and have long ago forgiven him for his faults, as he was kind enough to overlook or indulge mine. His generous annuity on my behalf is more than I deserve. I wish to thank you for arranging its transfer to my bank here in Toronto. As you know, Beth inherited money and property from Joshua Smallman, her father-in-law, so we are well situated financially.

  That being so, you may wonder at our purchasing a “cottage” here in town rather than a “residence,” or even having one built to our specifications and fancy. In fact, Briar Cottage suits us both just fine. For the moment there is only Beth, me, and Charlene Huggan, a young woman whose sisters have gone off to homestead in the Iowa Territory. Charlene is our “housekeeper” (the local term for an all-purpose female servant). Should our ménage expand, as I devoutly hope it will, we shall add additional rooms on the back of the house. We have better than half an acre of land, minuscule by the standards of the English gentry, but that is sufficient for a considerable vegetable garden and a coop full of chickens. There is a small barn as well, which will shelter a carriage horse before summer.

  You will be surprised to hear that Beth looks after the garden herself (she ran a farm on her own after her first husband died), with occasional assistance from a “hired man” (another localism) and her own husband. The latter, however, has been branded “hopeless” by his employer, who seems at a loss to explain how he could wield a sabre and dodge bullets (well, most of them) and yet be utterly inept with sickle and hoe.

  You asked again about my war wound, and I am pleased to report that I have fully recovered. My stamina and physical strength are returned to their former “glory” and my limp is slight and barely noticeable. (It seems to worsen only when I am in need of an infusion of sympathy.) And thanks to the law books you were so thoughtful as to send, I have been exercising my mind once more. As you know only too well, I abandoned the solicitor’s inns for the life of a soldier with your timely assistance, and have never regretted doing so even though, for reasons I outlined in my last letter, I felt compelled to resign my commission. A life of petty, if profitable, conveyancing was not for me. However, the notion of becoming a barrister someday has its attractions. At any rate, the thought of such a career and the necessity of burrowing deep into the tomes of jurisprudence are enough to keep me out of trouble for the time being.

  It is mid-afternoon on a July Monday as I write this. Just a few hours ago, one of the more memorable and happy events of the year took place, and I am eager to describe it to you while it is fresh in my mind. Down at the Queen’s Wharf this morning, more than a thousand citizens of every political stripe gathered to witness the arrival, from his stopover in Niagara, of Lord Durham, governor of all the British North American provinces, special envoy of Prime Minister Melbourne, and the man chosen by the Whig government to broker a lasting peace among the warring factions of Upper and Lower Canada.

  The pomp and panoply were worthy of a monarch’s progress through his dominions. I have seen nothing more splendid or exquisitely intimidating at Hyde Park or more festive and convivial at Brighton racecourse! In front of the early-morning crowd at the wharf and behind them on the open ground above Front Street were arranged the colourful ranks of the King’s Dragoon Guards and the 43rd Foot (force-marched up from Fort George at Niagara) as well as our own 23rd from Fort York. The immaculate tents of the dragoons, who had bivouacked along the bay and the spit to the west, fluttered in an approving breeze.

  Then, about ten o’clock, a blast of trumpets behind us proclaimed the sighting of sails beyond the southeast shore of the peninsula-cum-island that acts as a buffer for our beautiful bay. A huge hurrah went up. Even our most skeptical Tories are overawed by the “divinity that doth hedge” someone who’s hobnobbed with kings and czars. The schooner ferrying His Lordship then weighed anchor some leagues offshore. After an agonizing and well-judged pause, a longboat was lowered, soon to be joined by others from ships we couldn’t quite see, and the flash of oars in perfect unison left the throng momentarily stunned. They spoke to us humbled onlookers of the might and relentless precision of the British Empire.

&nb
sp; As the band struck up a martial air behind us, the longboats came silently and with deliberate ease towards the end of the wharf, where an honour guard flanked Lieutenant-Governor Sir George Arthur and his liveried minions. When the leading longboat drew near, the oars flipped up as one and stilled. In the middle of the boat, a tall and majestic figure rose gracefully into view and posed for posterity. Neither it nor the impeccably dressed oarsmen moved again as the demi-royal craft floated on its own glamour towards the tip of the quay and, while the crowd held its breath, nudged the pier as softly and meticulously as a caress. Then the air reverberated with the thunder of a twenty-one-gun salute, during which Lord Durham put first one foot then the other upon Toronto soil, before extending a hand to Lady Durham and drawing her up beside him. I thought of Caesar putting a Roman toe upon the simple shingle of ancient Britain.

  The effect of this gesture upon the Upper Canadian populace was, I am certain, a calculated one. Lord Durham—the man you know as Radical Jack at home—is in the eyes of the Tory Compact here a thoroughgoing Whig. They know about, and are appalled by, his “coddling” of the miners who toil for him in Durham, his permitting them to form workers’ associations, and his dastardly role in designing and carrying through the Great Reform Bill six years ago. They also keenly disapprove of his dismissal of the Tory Council in Quebec, his lenient treatment of the French rebels, and his even-handed attempts to sort out the various claims of grievance. Hence His Lordship seems to realize that a little pomp and ceremony and a reminder that he is after all a peer and a member of the “real” Privy Council will go some way towards cowing the local gentry and petty aristocracy. Indeed, the first affair of state will not take place at Government House but rather at one of our native “palaces,” Spadina House. Nor will it be a business meeting. At nine this evening, Lord and Lady Durham will play host to the town’s elite at the Governor’s Ball—gourmandizing and dancing till the wee hours! More on this in the next letter. Till then, I remain,

  Your devoted nephew,

  Marc

  P.S. The only discordant note at this morning’s extravaganza, for me, was the appearance at Lady Durham’s side of a young gentleman who flinched at every cannon shot and bugle blast. My heart went out to him. When I asked who he might be, a man beside me said, “That’s Lady Durham’s nephew, Handford Ellice, and a burden he’s been to her ever since they come here.” Unfortunately for the curious, no more was said, but I subsequently learned that he is the son of the commercial adventurer Edward Ellice, a man with his own bold interests in our fair colony. Strange that his offspring should appear so timid.

  TWO

  A few hours later, in the household of Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Edwards, Charlene Huggan, the maid and all-purpose servant, was giggling so heartily she could barely remove the last of the pins from the hem of her mistress’s gown without damage to herself or the lady in question.

  “If you don’t stop teasing the girl, we won’t get to Spadina before midnight, at which time—according to the brothers Grimm—we all turn into pumpkins.” Marc did not seem displeased that both women turned at this witticism to notice how resplendent he looked in his top hat and tails. He did half a pirouette, just in case.

  Beth fixed him with that blue-eyed stare of hers. “Am I Cinderella or one of the ugly stepsisters?”

  Charlene giggled again, and spat pins in several directions.

  “With that look, you could pass for the heartless stepmother.”

  “Don’t she do the dress proud, sir?” Charlene stood back and gave Beth and her ball gown a worshipful scrutiny. “And missus thinkin’ she couldn’t put herself beside any of them ladies up at Spadina!”

  “The only genuine lady up there will be Lord Durham’s wife, who was born a lady and whose father was prime minister of the United Kingdom.” Marc leaned back and surveyed Beth like a tailor approving a perfect seam. “The rest of them, Charlene—and you mustn’t ever forget this—are just ordinary women dressed up as titled ladies and hoping to pass as such. And their husbands likewise.”

  “As ladies?” Charlene’s eyes danced impishly and she gave Beth a conspiratorial glance.

  “As pretend gentlemen,” Marc said patiently. “And Mrs. Edwards, as usual, will be herself in that company and, for all that, will be thought a true lady.”

  “Why don’t you try flatterin’ me?” Beth asked with a cautious peek in the mirror that Charlene had set against the nearest wall.

  “If I didn’t know better, darling, I’d accuse you of carelessly droppin’ yer g’s.”

  Charlene, who could have stood and listened to this conjugal banter all evening, was rudely brought back to her duty by the sound of a carriage drawing up outside the house. “It’s here!” she cried, and raced to the window.

  Marc went over to Beth and placed a woollen shawl across her bare shoulders. “I’m glad you decided to come after all,” he said with sudden seriousness.

  “So am I,” she said. “I know how much it means to you to meet Lord Durham.”

  “I truly believe he is the only person in Christendom who can save this dominion and begin to salve the wounds that have been inflicted.”

  “Even though he’s a Whig,” Beth said, smiling.

  Marc smiled back. “I’ve come a long way, haven’t I?”

  Beth squeezed his arm, and they walked briskly towards the hired gig outside their front gate. Only Beth noticed that as her husband moved like the born gentleman he was to the waiting vehicle, there was still a perceptible limp in the left leg—a memento of the personal injury he had suffered in the civil turmoil of the past nine months.

  When the invitation to the ball at Spadina had arrived five days before (Durham’s advance men had been busy orchestrating his tour through the Upper Province), Beth had simply refused to take it seriously. “It has to be a mistake,” she informed Marc when he got back home from his afternoon walk. “We don’t hobnob with the Family Compact—or any other compact.” Marc noted that their surname had been spelled correctly and the messenger from Government House knew perfectly well where Sherbourne Street was. Indeed, most of the town knew exactly where the “hero of St. Denis” had taken up residence with his bride in the middle of May, even though he no longer graced the thoroughfares of the capital in his officer’s uniform with its glittering sabre and the green-feathered shako of the 23rd Regiment of Foot. “Invalided out” was the story in circulation, despite Marc’s futile attempts to scotch it: he had bought out his commission as a gentleman was obliged to do and had abandoned his military career without regret and with good reason, in his view. Soon after, he and Beth had purchased the substantial stone cottage on Sherbourne Street, near the outskirts of the town proper, complete with barn and extensive garden.

  Marc’s assumption that the invitation was the work of Colonel Margison, the kindly commanding officer who had attended Marc and Beth’s wedding in full regalia, was borne out the following day. But Beth’s initial no was as unshakeable as it was succinct. Marc gently reminded her that she would not be alone or unbefriended at the gala. Major Owen Jenkin, their best man and faithful ally, would be in attendance alongside the colonel and several other officers whom she had met at the wedding breakfast and taken up willingly as dancing partners afterwards. Among the local ladies there would be perhaps a dozen whom she knew from her days as co-proprietress of the millinery shop on King Street, an enterprise Beth and her aunt Catherine had expanded to include dressmaking, utilizing the designs and sewing talent of Mrs. Rose Halpenny. Alas, the Rebellion and its fallout had caused its closure, and Aunt Catherine had returned to her native United States.

  “I’ll wager that a third of the gowns up there will be products of your own enterprise,” Marc had declared, a tad too effusively.

  “And I’m sure the good ladies of Torytown will be happy to see their dressmaker do-si-doing with their hubbies,” Beth had shot back, silencing him.

  A day later he tried another tack. After luncheon with Major Jenkin at the mess i
n Fort York (his first trip back since his discharge), Marc informed Beth that the principal reason for the colonel’s encouraging Marc’s attendance at the ball was to have him meet and, with luck, talk to Lord Durham.

  “What in ever for?” was Beth’s disingenuous response.

  Marc plunged ahead. “Lord Durham is in Toronto for four days only. Colonel Margison feels that he should meet a broadly representative group of citizens and be exposed to a wide spectrum of opinion. In fact, the governor himself has asked that this be so. The colonel has put forward my name as someone to be consulted, and feels that if Lord Durham has an opportunity to meet me, even informally at the gala, he might decide to include me in his official consultations.”

  “I don’t suppose yer ‘wide spectrum’ includes citizens who drop their g’s or who aren’t the right sex to vote.”

  “This is serious business,” Marc said, miffed.

  “Don’t pout; I know it is. And I know you’ve got a lot more sense to talk than most of those Tories with half a brain and twice the prejudice. So go on up there by yourself. Talk sense. You don’t need a dancing partner to distract you.”

  Marc knew when he was defeated and when to keep his counsel. To his surprise, though, that night as they were getting into bed, Beth announced quietly that she would go. They both knew the real reason behind her initial reluctance, and thus he appreciated the courage her acceptance entailed. Beth was as bright and politically astute as any gentleman likely to be found fawning over Lord Durham. She had operated a farm in the rural districts where the folly of government policies were keenly felt, then helped to found a successful business in the heart of Toronto’s commercial district. Marc could not help appreciating too that she was more naturally beautiful than any of the overdressed and cosmetically improved chatelaines of the town, their native accents no less flat-vowelled or uninflected than her own. But she was most comfortable in her own home and especially in her garden, where she had spent her days since late May preparing the neglected soil and planting spring vegetables. In the house she worked alongside Charlene, whom she thought of more as a favoured niece than a servant. She had no desire to mix with her so-called betters, abashed by the notion that she might be mistaken for one of them.