Bloody Relations Read online

  Marc had tried in vain to persuade her that this attitude was an inverted form of snobbishness and that if only she were to meet and get to know some of these women, she might change her mind. “I met most of them in my hat shop,” she’d reply, and no elaboration was deemed necessary. Marc also realized, but was too tactful to say, that Beth missed her brother and her neighbours, including the other Huggan sisters, from her days on the farm at Crawford’s Corners. All of them were now homesteading in the Iowa Territory, victims of the recent upheavals. She missed too the easygoing, unpretentious women of the Congregational church in Cobourg. As a compromise, but with scant conviction, they both now attended St. James on most Sundays.

  So, improbably but happily, Beth and Marc found themselves speeding along King Street in the July gloaming, en route to the splendours of Spadina House. Once Beth made up her mind that something had to be done, she accepted it with grace and executed it with a will. If her husband required a pretty wife to decorate his arm and send the hearts of hopeful dancing partners aflutter, then so be it. She would smile and chatter as lightly as could be expected in such frivolous circumstances and dance the midnight down. After all, the cause was critical. And it was partly her own.

  • • •

  CONSTABLE HORATIO COBB WAS IN A vile mood. And the fact that he had been put in such an uncharacteristic funk—being by his own admission a man of cherubic good cheer—had made him even more irritated at the world in general and at Constable Ewan Wilkie in particular. Wilkie had been inconsiderate enough to take to his bed on the one day in the year when every officer of the Crown, from pig warden to assistant sheriff, and every soldier and resuscitated militiaman had been pressed into service to protect and otherwise coddle the newly arrived earl of Durham. Cobb had spent the morning being elbowed and cursed by the citizens’ mob down at the Queen’s Wharf, frantic in their efforts to catch a glimpse of His Lordship’s haughty chin. Cobb’s capture of two pickpockets and a cutpurse had earned him a bruise on the left cheek and not a lick of thanks. After a mandated two-hour afternoon nap, the four regular constables and their chief were expected to return to their street patrols and remain there with utmost vigilance until the last carriage or ambulatory gentleman-drunks had found their way safely home from the governor’s gala at Spadina House. That is, unmolested by any thieves, rabble-rousers, or garlic-breathing gawkers who might be tempted to take advantage of the hubbub and inadvertence excited by the earl’s hospitality. As for Cobb and his fellow constables, it guaranteed them a long, foot-wearying night.

  Cobb’s regular patrol was the southeast sector, below King and east of Bay as far as the city limits beyond Parliament Street to the Don River. It was an area he knew well, having superintended it for the three years he had been a member of the newly formed Toronto constabulary. It included his own home and half a dozen congenial watering holes that supplied him with a steady flow of useful information from a cadre of thirsty snitches, along with the odd meat pie avec flagon. He knew every alley and service lane where a miscreant might hide or contemplate ambush. If a window curtain were out of place or a shop door abnormally ajar, he would spot it in a wink and spring into fearsome action. This in spite of his unspring-like shape, which placed a bit too much rotundity just above the centre of gravity. Like his fellow patrolmen, he had learned to navigate in the dark or the shadowy near-dark—there were feeble candle-lamps only along King Street for a few blocks—preferring to deploy his keen sense of hearing rather than use the cumbersome lantern recommended by the chief. What did one do with it when the right hand reached for the trusty, wooden truncheon: hold it up to give the thug a clearer target?

  But Cobb was not on Cobbian ground this evening, thanks to the perfidy of Wilkie. It was not that he had not covered for Wilkie before or that this area of town was totally unfamiliar. But given that the bigwigs’ ball was being held at Dr. Baldwin’s extravagance way out on the northwest edge of the city, Cobb’s own southeast patrol would have been as peaceful as a teetotaller’s picnic. So peaceful in fact that when Wilkie’s wife reported him sick at suppertime (he’d somehow managed to force down a roast-beef dinner before collapsing from the effort), Chief Sturges had reassigned Cobb to the stricken man’s area without a thought to the safety of the abandoned southeast sector.

  It was now early evening. Two or three carriages had already passed him, heading west along Newgate Street, their occupants sitting sedately as if in their Sunday pews. How different, Cobb mused, would be their demeanor on the return trip, when the broughams, barouches, and democrats departing Spadina would be abulge with the whooping and dishevelled or quietly inebriated representatives of Upper Canada’s upper crust. At the corner of Newgate and Yonge, with the lingering acidities of Barnett’s tannery prickling his nose, Cobb turned and plodded dutifully past Hospital Street towards the northern border of his patrol along Lot Street. The summer night was beautiful, with a cool breeze to waft away the mosquitoes and the pungent scent of fresh grass and the invisible and nameless wildflowers that sprang up wherever they were not discouraged. So welcoming was the evening that Cobb was in danger of forfeiting his aggrieved state. And this in spite of his aching feet and the throb of his bruised cheek and Wilkie’s apostasy. Moreover, and to his unacknowledged disappointment, there had been not a single pub disturbance or domestic contretemps or attempted theft the entire time he had been tramping about the northwest sector, almost spoiling for a fight.

  • • •

  “WHERE IN THE WORLD IS THIS palace?” Beth said as she glanced left and right and observed only raw forest.

  “We can’t be too far now,” Marc replied. The reins were slack in his right hand as the horse trotted at a leisurely pace along an ungravelled but well-worn path. “We’re starting to go uphill. No need to worry, there’s only one road in this part of the township.”

  Certainly the grand house of the Baldwin family had been set well away from any encroachment by the rapidly expanding city. The southern portion of this pathway, above Lot Street, had already been named Spadina Avenue, but here, beyond the city limits, the wilderness loomed as a reminder of its general hegemony in a vast province where there were still only a few hundred thousand inhabitants.

  “Ah, here we are!” Beth announced.

  The road had not only begun to rise, it swung sharply northwest and then straightened out to become a gravelled approach to the edifice on the hill a quarter of a mile ahead. There was just enough light at the edges of the sky for Marc and Beth to discern the white ribbon of road and the fact that the woods had been cleared away thirty feet or so on either side, with vague smudges here and there indicating that more domestic and compliant trees had already been planted. By the time Marc had urged the horse and gig up to the impressive parabola where a dozen fancy carriages and several covered coaches were debouching their passengers, the air had darkened, and two or three intrepid stars had peeped out along the southwestern horizon. Still, enough of the solstice glow of mid-July remained to throw the silhouette of Spadina House into stark relief. The effect was sudden and imposing: massive turret, belvedere, balustrade, and chimney pot in a tumble of intimidating shadow against the diffident gloaming behind it. At least the verandah, illuminated by powerful lanterns of varied hue and several torches set on the lawn below, was beckoning: its graceful stairs, carpeted for the occasion, were strewn with cut blossoms whose perfume rose upon the little breeze that had arrived, it seemed, just to perform this amiable service. Two members of the Horse Guards, borrowed from the Fort George contingent, stood resplendent and watchful at either side of the entrance.

  Marc’s gig had barely come to a halt before the bridle was grasped by a liveried postilion, who gave Marc a reassuring smile as he helped Beth step down.

  “We’re the only ones driving our own wagon,” Beth said, deliberately loud.

  “And I plumb fergot to bring the oats,” Marc replied with a straight face.

  A formidable receiving line awaited Marc and Beth in the
cavernous entrance hall. Marc had coached Beth in the protocol of a formal ball, but it was the curtsy that had seemed to give her the most difficulty. Even Charlene had picked it up almost instantly, then proceeded to tease her mistress until she teetered or tottered in a fit of self-mocking laughter. Marc advanced the opinion that Beth, otherwise agile and quick, was simply temperamentally predisposed to fail at such a deferential gesture of obeisance—an opinion that earned him a glare but produced results. “Anybody can fake humbleness,” Beth said after a hyperbolic dip. “And we’ll see plenty of examples at Spadina House.”

  Their preparation for the dancing had been a lot more pleasant. Beth was a natural dancer and had participated in many a reel and country jig. Whether the more sedate minuet or quadrille could constrain her tendency to kick up her heels (and her skirt) was still a moot question when their rehearsals ended late in the afternoon. Moreover, the ball gown, supplied and made over by Mrs. Halpenny, had not been finally fitted until after supper, and so had not been permitted a trial run on the dancer herself.

  At the head of the receiving line, a sturdy-looking gentleman with a serious expression that refused to cooperate with his smile greeted them. “I am Charles Buller, Lord Durham’s secretary, and this is my daughter, Emily.”

  Marc introduced Beth and then himself, watched Beth curtsy like an angel, and let himself be passed along according to the time-honoured ritual. Luckily the line was moving briskly. Almost all of the town’s elite had been invited, Tory and Reformer alike, and the guests were now pressing forward, up the front steps, fashionably late. Still, Marc was able to form a first impression of men whose names were legend in English Whig circles and who were now standing in Dr. William Baldwin’s vestibule. Charles Buller, of course, was much more than a secretary: he was a known confidant and adviser to the earl. Thomas Turton, who gave Marc a polite nod before making a lingering appraisal of Mrs. Edwards, was in charge of the earl’s legal affairs, but it was widely rumoured that he had been one of the copyists of the Great Reform Bill of 1832, sequestered in Lord Durham’s home for the two months it had taken the earl and his three cabinet colleagues to frame those historic changes in the electoral structure of British government.

  Both Marc and Beth had tried not to stare too rudely at the penultimate personage in the line, but it was difficult not to, as he was the most notorious of Lord Durham’s cronies. Edward Gibbon Wakefield did not look in the least Byronic, despite the fact that, as a callow youth, he had abducted an heiress and carried her off (whether the girl was willing or otherwise had not been finally decided by the court of public opinion), before being tracked down and imprisoned for his romantic excesses. Wakefield’s slim build, wispy blond hair, and tiny bespectacled eyes made him look more like a bank clerk than a Don Juan. At the present moment, as Marc well knew, Wakefield was the most knowledgeable Englishman in regard to colonial affairs. Whatever his amorous proclivities, his advice to Lord Durham during this critical period of assessment would be material and persuasive.

  Suddenly they were in the presence of Lord and Lady Durham, their hosts for the evening. (The Baldwins, as Reform leaders, had graciously declined to join the receiving line in order that no political bias be perceived in what was, after all, the Durhams’ gala.) Lady Durham was simply dressed, polite without condescension, and smiled genuinely, but she was unable to dispel the aura of legitimate gentry characteristic of her every gesture. Beside her, John George Lambton, the earl of Durham—Radical Jack—stood tall and imposing. Even at forty-six and after a life of constant travel and mental exertion as a landlord, mine owner, ambassador, and government minister, he was darkly handsome, with curly brown hair, thoughtful eyes alight with intelligence, and a Roman nose and sensuous lips that had set many a feminine breast aflutter. He took Beth’s gloved hand and kissed it, then turned his penetrating gaze upon Marc.

  “I trust your war wound is healing nicely, Lieutenant,” he said, and was already leaning towards Magistrate Thorpe and his wife when Marc halted momentarily in surprise at the remark and its evident solicitude.

  “Wakefield didn’t give you a second glance,” Marc said as he and Beth approached the ballroom and the valets who were waiting to pounce on top hat and stole. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or aggrieved.”

  “The night’s still young,” Beth teased, looking around expectantly.

  The ballroom before them was rapidly filling with the patricians of the city and their wives, daughters, and distant cousins from the townships. It was the largest domestic space Beth had ever seen, though Marc refrained from commenting that it was modest compared with its counterparts back home. Nonetheless, it was impressive and certainly worthy of the demi-royal personages who graced it this evening as host and hostess. Along the eastern wall, a bank of tall, elegant windows reflected the dazzle of a dozen gigantic candelabras. Opposite, a mezzanine held the twenty-piece orchestra—Toronto’s finest bolstered by half a dozen players accompanying the earl—which had just struck up a lively lancers. Through several arches below it lay the cloakrooms, powder rooms, a smoker, a billiard parlour, and a lounge set up for whist or piquet.

  The dancing began rather formally, for despite the short notice many of the guests had had time and foresight to secure dance cards and initiate the delicate process of filling them with names. As no program had been printed, a name opposite a number had to suffice. However, it was not long before the informality of local custom and its regrettable levelling effects began to hold sway. Brazen young Canadians barged into the protective ring of family circles to forcibly carry off the prettiest, mildly protesting member. Gentlemen of girth and standing permitted themselves to be seduced out of their dignity by giggling ingénues and an intoxicating beat. Beth and Marc waited for the minuet, easing into the pleasures of an evening that promised to be lively and prolonged. After all, it was July, the winter had been divisive and stressful, and now a sort of saviour had arrived in their midst, an Apollo come down from Olympus to restore calm and reason. When the orchestra was persuaded to strike up a Virginia reel, the room shook with the stamp of feet and the mêlée of sets being improvised or reconstituted. Dance cards were tossed aside when a caller, who materialized as if on cue, boomed out the steps and courtesies of the quintessential North American dance.

  Marc lost Beth in one of the scrums of partner switching. Sweating and thirsty, he made for the refreshment table, where he found a goblet of icy champagne and his good friend Owen Jenkin. They chatted briefly about the ceremonial arrival of Lord Durham that morning and agreed that His Lordship had no doubt calculated every gesture in the show of pomp and authority which they and five thousand others had witnessed. Any Englishman who could influence the czar of Russia as no one had before him, or leave the governor of New York awestruck in Fort Niagara, was a man who had greatness in his bones.

  “We must do everything we can to make his stay here purposeful and productive,” Marc said.

  “I think he’s managing quite nicely on his own,” Owen said. “The town Tories have worked themselves into a sweet sweat over a Whig and a probable Radical being sent here to tell them what’s needed to keep the peace. But look at them now: jigging like a flock of Kentuckians, and scraping and bowing like penitents before the pope.”

  “He’s off to a good start anyway.”

  “I feel like a pipe. Care to join me?”

  Marc looked about for Beth. The dancers were forming up in groups of four pairs for an announced quadrille. He spotted a tiny white hand fluttering across the room near the alcove where Lord Durham’s party had been holding court for the past half-hour. It was Beth, about to step smartly into the opening steps of the quadrille. At her side, with an arm about her waist, stood the most notorious man in Spadina: Edward Gibbon Wakefield.

  Beth smiled at her husband before being swept away.

  “Let’s have that pipe, Owen.”

  Marc followed Major Jenkin through an archway and along a broad hall that gave them access to the me
n’s smoker. The major was in full dress uniform, but seeing his friend in the regalia he had recently given up roused no feeling in Marc of regret or loss. He was at ease with his decision, at least for the moment. They found their way through the cigar and pipe smoke to a pair of leather chairs, lit up, and leaned back in perfect contentment.

  “I’m afraid to say so, Marc,” Owen said at last, “but there are a good many men in this house tonight who would like to see Lord Durham’s mission fail and fail badly.”

  “You’re right, but it’s a pity they can’t see that things can never be the same as they were before Mackenzie and Papineau. It’s not even a matter of who’s right or who’s wrong. The horse is out of the barn and galloping apace.”

  “And we could use a new horse and a new barn, eh?”

  A burst of rough male laughter erupted behind them. Marc turned towards its source. An open archway led to an adjacent room, the one set up for card playing.

  Owen Jenkin chuckled. “Now there are four gentlemen sharing a laugh who otherwise might not give one another the time of day.”

  “I don’t think I recognize any of them.”

  “The chap with the paunch is Alasdair Hepburn, a big shot in the Commercial Bank. His whist partner, unlikely as it may seem, is Patrick O’Driscoll.”

  “The grand panjandrum of the Orange Lodge here in the city?”

  “The same. A muckraking zealot if there ever was one. Like oil and water, those two, I should think.”