The Widow's Demise Page 4

  It was Lionel Trueman. His face was purple with rage, as if he had spent some time stoking his anger.

  “I thought it was you who went in that door two hours ago,” he seethed.

  “What business is it of yours?” Macy said, coming up to the taller man.

  “The widow is mine,” Trueman said. “And I don’t appreciate people who meddle in my affairs.”

  “The widow belongs to herself,” Macy said. “But she does invite me here almost every afternoon. I’d hardly call that meddling.”

  “You are a fool if you think you can horn in my territory.”

  “I don’t consider it your territory.”

  “The lady was with me all morning.”

  “I spent the afternoon in her sewing-room!” Macy was becoming extremely upset at this upstart customs official.

  “You are only after her money. Everybody knows your shop is failing.”

  “Are you accusing me of being dishonourable in my intentions?” Macy blustered, getting red in the face himself.

  “I am.”

  “Those are fighting words.”

  “I meant them to be.” Trueman leaned forward and hovered over Macy, glaring at him.

  “You want to settle this matter once and for all?” Macy said.

  “If you’re suggesting a duel, I say bring it on. We’ll find out whose intentions are honourable.”

  “Pistols at twenty paces,” Macy snapped.

  “On the cricket grounds at seven o’clock,” Trueman said.

  Having said their peace, both men continued to glower silently at one another. If they regretted their haste, they were not prepared to show it. Just above them, at her sewing-room window, the Widow Delores watched the proceedings. There was a smile on her face.

  ***

  That evening the air was cool and refreshing. A harvest moon shone brightly. Deep shadows played across the lawn behind Rosewood. Into one of these stepped a dark figure. It moved stealthily across to the back stoop. There it paused momentarily, and then reached a gloved hand up and gently tapped on the door. It instantly opened to reveal a woman swathed in a crimson robe. She stretched out a hand and pulled the figure inside. The moon continued to shine.

  THREE

  Horace Macy was just thinking about preparing for bed when the knock came at his front door. He tucked in his shirt, hauled up his braces and went to answer it. There on his porch stood Constance Brown, his one-time fiancée. (They had been good friends even before the death of Macy’s wife.) She was short, slightly plump woman in her mid-thirties, with a mop of frizzled, ginger hair and blue eyes, and tonight she looked somewhat dishevelled.

  “Well, aren’t you gonna ask me in?” she said, staring him down.

  Macy recovered his aplomb enough to reply, “Of course. You are always welcome here.

  She stepped inside, and Macy moved back to accommodate her.

  “It’s just that you startled me, Constance. I wasn’t expecting anybody this time of night.”

  “I’m sorry for the lateness of the hour, but there are some things I just have to get off my chest.”

  “I hope this isn’t about the engagement.”

  “It is. And I’d like to sit down – if you don’t mind.”

  “But that’s all in the past,” Macy said, following Constance meekly into the living-room and watching her remove her coat and take a seat. He sat down beside her.

  “I thought you would have come to your senses by now,” she said, turning to look directly at him. He cringed.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean that woman, that’s what I mean.”

  “Delores?”

  “Of course, Delores. Who else have you been making a fool of yourself with?”

  “Now, Constance. I know we were engaged once, but I broke that off honourably – ”

  “We were more than engaged, and you threw me over for a fallen woman with bags of money.”

  “Delores’s money has nothing to do with it.”

  “You thought I was worth pursuing till my father went bankrupt.”

  “That’s not fair, Constance. I just decided that we were not meant for each other after all.”

  “After a three-month engagement?”

  “You know how sorry I was to have to break it off.”

  “How could I explain it to my friends? You left me in a terrible state.”

  “Better that than a lifetime of unhappiness.”

  “I consoled myself with the knowledge that you would soon tire of a woman who is faithless and unreliable, a woman of questionable virtue who would soon throw you over.”

  “Well, that hasn’t happened. I just spent a lovely afternoon with the lady.”

  “Some lady. I saw her this morning out riding with Lionel Trueman. And she was cozying up to him like some shameless hussy.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t stand a chance against someone like Trueman.”

  “Well, he may not be around much longer to challenge me,” Macy said with some pride.

  “And why is that?”

  “He and I are going to duel tomorrow morning.”

  Constance’s jaw dropped. “You’re crazier than I thought.”

  “The lady doesn’t think so.”

  “Well, then, you’re welcome to her.”

  Constance got up and put her coat on. “I see I shouldn’t have come here after all.”

  At the door she said, “That woman is wicked. Somebody should do something about her.”

  ***

  The sun rose on a clear, cool morning, except for a touch of ground mist that was soon burned off. Horace Macy and Lionel Trueman arrived with their seconds at the cricket grounds on the north-west edge of town. The grounds were surrounded by mature trees, which afforded the duellists a modest amount of cover for the clandestine, and illegal, activity. Each man had brought his own pistol, and the weapons were now being examined by the seconds. Macy had brought his clerk with him, and Trueman a close friend. The seconds pretended to scrutinize the weapons with an expert eye.

  “Everything seems in order,” said the clerk confidently.

  “I agree,” said the friend.

  “Each man will step off ten paces, then turn,” said the clerk. “When I drop the handkerchief, each man will fire.”

  “And may the best man win,” Macy said.

  “I trust you are prepared to die,” Trueman said. “And my honour will be satisfied.”

  “You are without honour,” Macy said.

  “Gentlemen,” said Trueman’s second, “do not restart the quarrel we are here to adjudicate.”

  “Ten paces each,” the clerk said.

  With their backs to each other and pistols cocked, the two duellists began to pace away from each other, counting the steps aloud. At ten they turned and held their pistols up. A handkerchief fluttered in the breeze.

  “That’s enough, gentlemen. Put the pistols down.”

  All eyes turned towards the new arrivals. It was Detective-Constable Cobb in plain clothes and a uniformed Constable Ewan Wilkie.

  “This isn’t what you think,” said the clerk, dropping the handkerchief.

  “How do you know what I’m thinkin’,” Cobb said, coming up to him but keeping a wary eye on Lionel Trueman’s pistol. “But I know a duel when I see one.”

  “Why can’t you mind your own business and leave us be?” Trueman said.

  “Illegal duellin’ is my business,” Cobb said. “And if you don’t want me to haul you off to jail, you’ll put that pistol away right now.”

  By this time Wilkie had reached Trueman, and he took the man’s pistol and fired it into the air.

  “Do the same with yours,” Cobb ordered Macy. “And don’t go killin’ no birds.”

  Macy, looking scared, shot his pistol off harmlessly.

  “Now get over here all of you. I got somethin’ to say,” Cobb barked.

  Macy and Trueman joined the seconds in the
middle of the grounds.

  “I’m gonna pretend I caught you two havin’ target practice,” Cobb said, “if you’ll swear off this foolishness fer good. If I’d’ve been a minute later, I’d be chargin’ one of you with murder. One dead and one to be hanged. Is that what you thought you were up to?”

  “How did you find out about it?” Macy asked.

  “Your clerk got to boastin’ about it in the pub last night, too close to one of my snitches. And lucky fer you he did.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Trueman said. “You’re not a gentleman.”

  “And damn glad I ain’t,” Cobb said, ushering the gentlemen off the cricket grounds.

  ***

  When they reached Queen Street, Trueman and Macy found themselves walking side by side.

  “That was a close call,” Macy said.

  “Cobb was probably right. One of us would have been dead and the other a candidate for the gallows,” Trueman said.

  “Leaving the lady with neither of us,” Macy said.

  “And she is seeing both of us, isn’t she?”

  “I thought her intentions were all on my side.”

  “I thought the same. She led me to believe so.” Trueman stopped walking.

  “She is leading both of us on, isn’t she?” Macy said.

  “I believe so.”

  “And who’s to say there are not others we know nothing of?”

  “You could be right. Have we both been fools?”

  “We’ve both been fools,” Macy said bitterly.

  “She almost got us killed,” Trueman said.

  “Is it just a game with her?”

  “Are we nothing but her pawns?”

  “The woman has no conscience.”

  “She’s using her money and standing in the community to make fools of men.”

  “Somebody ought to put a stop to her little games.”

  “Yes, and quickly.”

  “Well, I’m through with her,” Macy said emphatically. “Money or no money.”

  Trueman nodded his agreement, and the two men continued walking together, who just moments before had been prepared to shoot one another.

  ***

  The hustings, as usual, had been erected in front of Danby’s Inn, the area as a whole known as Danby’s Crossing. It was a mile north of the city and a quarter mile east of Yonge Street. The inn was an elaborate two-storey affair with a wide verandah in front. Completing the square were a general store and livery stables opposite Danby’s, and on the eastern side a smithy and a harness-maker. The inn boasted an elegant foyer and a bustling tavern.

  While Louis Fontaine, Gilles Gagnon, Francis Hincks and Robert Baldwin rode up to the crossing in a brougham, Marc came along behind on a sturdy mount he had hired from Frank’s Livery in Toronto. Just in case there was any trouble, he wanted to be mobile. Not that they were expecting any, since they had received assurances from Humphrey Cardiff that all would be peaceful. Besides, the nomination meeting included the candidates from both the Reform and Conservative parties, and the crowd therefore would contain supporters from both sides. It was in everybody’s interest to have an orderly set of nominations. The meeting was to start at two o’clock.

  It was just after one when the brougham drew up to the hitching-post in front of Danby’s Inn. Already the space before the hustings was beginning to fill up. People, farmers and their wives mostly, had driven, ridden or walked many miles through the bush to be here. Not all of them would be voters – certainly not the women – but all were interested in what the various speakers would have to say. These were tumultuous times in the history of the province. An armed revolt had taken place not four years before – over deeply set grievances that could not be addressed under a system of government where all the power lay with the governor and his appointed minions. The Rebellion, here and in Quebec as well, had settled little definitively, except to prompt the British government to experiment with some fundamental changes to its fractious colony. These included uniting the two provinces into one (or two halves) with a single Parliament. The grievances had not yet been dealt with, and responsible, cabinet government had only been partly achieved. Moreover, it remained to be seen whether these grievances – the Clergy Reserves question, the flawed banking system, the blatant patronage and de facto rule of the Family Compact elite, and the stagnated economy – would be helped or hindered by tossing French and English into the same stew-pot. Certainly, the alliance of LaFontaine’s rouge and Baldwin’s Reform was a positive start. But of course it could only succeed if they could get Louis elected to the Legislative Assembly. Robert Baldwin had taken the fourth riding of York by two hundred votes last April. He had high hopes that Louis’ campaign in the same riding would be a cakewalk.

  Danby himself was on the verandah to greet them.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” he said. “Do come into the lounge and take a glass of Champagne.”

  “You go ahead,” Marc said to Robert. “I’m going into the tavern to test the lay of the land.”

  “All right, Marc. A good idea.”

  “Your counterparts have already arrived,” Danby said.

  “Well, then, “ Hincks said. “Let’s go in and say hello.”

  Marc hitched up his horse and walked down the verandah to the tavern entrance. Taking a deep breath, he went in. The place was jammed. It was all smoke and loud voices, punctuated by the clink of glasses and thump of flagons on the bar and tables. The clientele was mostly farmers, and they were getting primed for the nominations. Marc went up to the bar and ordered an ale. When it came, he hunched over it, anonymous, and listened hard. Snatches of conversation floated by.

  “I’m no Tory, but I’ll be damned if I’ll vote for a Frenchman. I don’t give a damn that he’s a pal of Robert Baldwin.”

  “Frenchmen are all the same. You can’t trust ‘em.”

  “I heard what they did to their English neighbours in Quebec.”

  “Yeah. They burned barns and hay-stacks.”

  “I even heard they cut the tails off horses and cows.”

  “And the poor buggers couldn’t swat the flies off of them and went crazy and drowned themselves.”

  “They couldn’t beat the English army so they took it out on their English friends.”

  “But the soldiers torched their churches, remember.”

  “Because they hid out the rebels in them and used them to store arms and ammunition.”

  “The priests were on their side all the way.”

  “Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.”

  “And I’ll bet the Pope was in on it, too.”

  “But the French had the same grievances we did.”

  “They never had it so good. Looked after by the Church from cradle to grave.”

  “What about this LaFontaine? I heard he was too much of a coward to fight.”

  “That’s right. He never lifted a finger.”

  “But he was on their side, eh? He used his lawyer’s savvy to get the rebels out of jail after the Rebellion was over.”

  “And he went around making speeches against the union bill.”

  “Does he know what side he’s on?”

  “Why should we trust him?”

  “But I’ve always voted Reform. And Baldwin says we got to get the man elected – for our own good.”

  “Well, I may decide not to vote at all.”

  “I still say we got to draw the line at Frenchies. Let LaFontaine find a riding in Quebec to elect him. What are we to think of a guy who gets defeated in his own county?”

  “But I heard there were goons and dirty tricks in Terrebonne.”

  “There’s always goons and dirty tricks. It goes with the territory.”

  “I say we give a good listen to the speeches today. Baldwin and Hincks are gonna nominate LaFontaine. Let’s see if they can make a Frenchman into somebody we can vote for.”

  “Yeah. We been Reformers all our lives.”

  Marc moved to the other end of the
bar where another group sat around to tables pulled together. He sipped on his ale.

  “Surely they could’ve found somebody better than Dingman.”

  “Well, his wife is well-connected, eh?”

  “With Baldwin backin’ the Frenchie, we’re facin’ an uphill fight.”

  “The man’s a Papist. That’s all we need to know about him.”

  “Dingman needs to remind people of that every chance he can.”

  “And wait’ll they hear the French are askin’ for reparations because of the Rebellion.”

  “Imagine the nerve of rebels, of traitors, asking for money because they got their barns burned during the fighting.”

  “And I hear that Baldwin is backin’ a plan to have the capital moved from Kingston to Montreal. To Quebec!”

  “Baldwin’s sold his soul to the Devil, that’s for sure.”

  “And they want to blab away in French in the Assembly. They’ll ruin the English language.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got to back ol’ Dingman, come what may.”

  Marc finished his ale. He walked back out into the September sunshine. It was going to be a spirited nomination.

  ***

  Humphrey Cardiff found his daughter in her sewing-room. Delores gave a start when he came in because he rarely entered her private space.

  “What is it, father? Is everything all right?”

  “I just had a most unusual conversation with Perkins,” Cardiff said.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “He arrived on the doorstep, cap in hand. He claims you sacked him yesterday.”

  She looked him in the eye and said, “Yes. That’s right.”

  “But why? He’s a perfectly good footman and general dogsbody.”

  “I have recently found him untrustworthy.”

  “Untrustworthy? How, pray tell?”

  “The man has been spying on me and telling tales out of school. It’s that simple and I won’t have it.”

  “But the fellow is married and his wife is expecting a child.”

  “That’s not my concern, I’m afraid. I have to run this household as I see fit.”

  “But really, my dear – ”

  “When I came back to Rosewood, you promised I would be mistress of the household, did you not?”