Governing Passion Page 5

  “But you are still the foremost politician in Quebec,” Marc said to LaFontaine.

  A small, appreciatory smile played at the corners of Louis’ mouth. “I am not without resources, or tactics.”

  “You have a plan to stop the bleeding?” Hincks said.

  “Yes. That’s why I brought along Gilles this morning.”

  Gagnon smiled broadly.

  “Gilles has come up with an idea we want to run past you.”

  Gagnon looked around the table and said in French, “My English is not good enough to express what I have to say today. Would Monsieur Edwards be kind enough to translate for me?”

  Marc nodded, and as Gagnon spoke and paused judiciously, Marc translated his remarks for Hincks and Robert, even though they could understand quite a bit of French if it was spoken slowly.

  “Since Louis has lost favour with some of our comrades in Quebec, we decided we needed another spokesman, someone with battlefield credentials and political weight. We identified Henri Thériault. He was wounded at the Battle of St. Eustache in ‘thirty-seven, trying to prevent the English militia from blowing up the church. He escaped to Montreal, where he was successfully hidden away from the troops in search of him. Before the rebellion, he was a member of the Assembly and a confederate of Nelson and Papineau. He now lives near Chateauguay on his family’s farm. I went to visit him last week. I laid before him our ambitious plan to make the union and the new Parliament work in our favour. He has great respect for Louis, but naturally hates the English. His own farm, near St. Eustache, was razed and his wife and children terrorized. But I put our case forcefully. I told him he did not have to love the English, that Monsieur Baldwin was a man of great character and fortitude and would help us move towards a kind of government that would have to carry out the true wishes of the people, including those in Quebec. We talked of reparations and moves to preserve the French language and education. He was quite taken with the details of the alliance that I conveyed to him.”

  “And he’s agreed to be our spokesman?” Hincks said in French.

  Gagnon sighed. “Alas, no.”

  “But we thought – ”

  “All is not hopeless,” Gagnon said. “It’s true that Neilson had also been in touch with Thériault, trying, like us, to get him to come out of his isolation and fight for Quebec. Even the bleu had approached him. You see how valuable he is thought to be as a spokesman for those who’ve suffered most from the failed rebellion. He is a charismatic speaker when he puts his mind to it.”

  “So he didn’t give you a flat ‘no’?” Robert said.

  “He said he was intrigued by our plans. But also said he is seriously considering Neilson’s offer of contesting a safe seat in the April election. He’s going to make up his mind whether to join him or us in the next week or so.”

  “Well,” Hincks said, “that’s almost good news.”

  “There’s more to come,” Louis said.

  Gagnon smiled again. “We have, as you English say, an ace up our sleeves. An ace that is right here in Kingston.”

  “What is that?” Robert said.

  “It’s a who, not a what,” Louis said. “Gilles learned by a lucky accident that there is in town a young man who has come here from Toronto to help his fiancée arrange their wedding in April. She’s a Kingston woman. His name is Christopher Pettigrew.”

  “Oh,” Marc said. “I’ve already met him. He’s staying here at this hotel, though he’s not here a lot. His fiancée takes up most of his time. But I liked him very much. He’s also an ardent supporter of the Reform party. We had a brief but interesting talk about politics. I think he’d like to help us.”

  “And we would like him to do just that,” Louis said. “You see, the person who hid out Henri Thériault when he was fleeing the English troops was none other than young Christopher Pettigrew.”

  There was amazement all around. Gilles Gagnon took up the tale. “I got this story from Thériault himself, who said there was only one Englishman he trusted – Christopher Pettigrew. Pettigrew was articling law in Montreal back in ‘thirty-seven. One night, after the rebellion had started, he heard a knock on his front door and opened it to find a bleeding and semi-conscious man on his doorstep. He helped the man inside and tended to his wounds as best he could, as Thériault ordered him not to fetch a doctor. Moments later, the redcoats arrived, but Pettigrew was able to convince them that the escapee had been there but had been turned away and fled farther into the city. Thériault stayed safely at Pettigrew’s place for three weeks. Pettigrew was bilingual and the men became friends. Pettigrew, as it turned out, was a Reform sympathizer and approved of the rebellion in both provinces.”

  “And this Pettigrew is staying right here?” Hincks said, much excited.

  “He is,” Marc said, “and wants to be helpful.”

  “How do you see him helping?” Robert asked Louis.

  “I’d like you people to make him familiar with our plans, and then ask him if he would write a personal letter to Thériault, endorsing them. His opinion may carry more weight than our own. We’ve got the man on the hook, now we need to reel him in. Certainly we don’t want him going over to the Ultra-Nationalists. That would be disastrous.”

  “Would you like me to approach Pettigrew?” Marc said.

  “That would be great, Marc,” Robert said. “Would you approach him and ask him if he would be willing to meet with us, say, tomorrow morning at this same hour?”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Marc said.

  Other routine business was then carried on, but the undercurrent of excitement roused by the Thériault-Pettigrew link continued apace. A half-hour later the meeting broke up, and Marc went looking for Christopher Pettigrew.

  ***

  Marc was told by the hotel manager that Mr. Pettigrew had gone to his fiancée’s home for the day and would not return until the supper hour. Marc thanked him and, having the rest of the day to wait, decided to take up an offer that had been made to him yesterday evening. Bert Campion, the architect who was supervising the conversion of the hospital to a legislature, had invited him to go along and inspect the progress of the work.

  At eleven o’clock the two men set out in Campion’s cutter. They drove to the western edge of the city, past its cold, limestone façades, and entered the forested countryside. The hospital, which had nearly been completed before being designated the site of the new Parliament, lay about a mile beyond the town on several cleared acres. As they came up to it, Marc was impressed by its overall size, but not so impressed by the bleak, two-storey face it directed at the world.

  “It’s what’s inside that counts,” Campion said amiably.

  They entered a large foyer that had just recently been finished.

  “I did what I could with this,” Campion said. “Come on and I’ll show you the Assembly chamber. It’s almost completed.”

  They swung to the left down a long corridor. From the right, Marc could hear hammers banging away and the whine of a saw.

  “The men are in there working on the Legislative Council chamber,” Campion pointed out as they came to a set of double doors – in pristine oak.

  “Through here.”

  They entered the Assembly chamber. Marc drew in his breath. The room was like finding a jewel in a garbage heap. It was spacious, airy, and redolent with several types of hardwood – on its floors, its banisters, its elegant rows of green-leathered chairs. Light flowed in from a set of high windows on the south-east wall.

  “Those windows gave me the most trouble,” Campion said.

  After the architect had finished pointing out a number of the chamber’s more august features – including an ornate speaker’s chair – the two men went back along the hall towards the sound of the hammering. They stepped into a room much smaller than the Assembly chamber and decidedly unfinished. The workmen, five of them, were in the process of putting up the lath on the brick walls, preparatory to plastering them as soon as the weather became warm e
nough. They moved past several piles of lath sticks, towards one of the workmen.

  “Don’t let me interrupt you,” Campion said to him. Then to Marc he said, “This is my foreman, Earl Dunham. Earl, this is Mr. Edwards.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Dunham said. Marc nodded.

  “How are they proceeding, Earl?” Campion asked.

  “Not as fast as they might, sir,” Dunham said, glancing over sharply at two of the workmen near one of the windows.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s mostly the Frenchies, sir. They keep pretendin’ they don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, but they understand every word. And I certainly don’t plan on speakin’ that garble they call French.”

  “You’ve got French workers here from Quebec?” Marc said, surprised.

  Campion sighed. “It was the Governor’s idea,” he explained. “All the workmen are from Lower Canada – I still can’t say Canada East – so Lord Sydenham thought that in the interests of demonstrating unity, we should have a certain quota of French-speaking men. The only proviso was that they speak some English.”

  “Which ain’t been met in the case of Jardin and LeMieux,” Denham said. “And I had to fire Jardin’s brother yesterday for talkin’ back to me – in English and French! “

  “Well, just do your best,” Campion said. “You did a great job on the other chamber.”

  “I’m also havin’ trouble with Manson,” Dunham said.

  “But he’s not French – ”

  “No, sir. But he’s never gotten over me bein’ made foreman instead of him.”

  Campion turned to Marc. “You see what I have to put up with?” he said. He turned back to Dunham. “We can’t afford any more delays. The election starts in a few weeks and this place has to be ready by late April. So, please sort out your workmen, whatever it takes. And try not to fire any more. There are no replacements.”

  “Yes, sir. And there is one more thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “We had a bundle of lath stolen again last night. We could be short if this keeps up.”

  “This has been going on for three nights,” Campion said to Marc. “The thief doesn’t take much, just enough for kindling for a day, I figure.”

  “Sounds like it might be youngsters,” Marc said.

  “That’s what I think.”

  “How do they get in?”

  “The front doors aren’t finished, and there is no lock on the chamber door.”

  “”I was thinkin’, sir,” Dunham said, cap in hand, “that I could come up here tonight and keep a watch. At least for the early part of the evenin’ when the thievin’ is most likely.”

  “It’s awfully cold out here,” Campion said, “but I think it’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll do it, then, sir. Now I must get back to work.”

  “There seems to be trouble in the workplace,” Marc observed as they headed for the door.

  “Dunham’s a first-rate lath man, but I’m not sure I should have made him foreman. He turned out to be passionately anti-French.”

  “Was he by any chance affected by the rebellion?”

  “Not really. He himself was in the militia. But that’s no doubt where he picked up his hatred of the French. It was contagious there.”

  “It’s contagious in a lot of places,” Marc said. “But perhaps when this legislature gets up and running, we can begin to do something about it.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  ***

  Christopher Pettigrew came to Marc’s room at seven o’clock that evening, having gotten Marc’s message. He was a tall, slim young man in his mid-twenties with a shock of blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

  “Come on in,” Marc said. “We talked briefly yesterday.”

  “I remember. You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, I did. It’s about politics, in which, I understand, you are not uninterested.”

  “You are correct. And I do know that you are a close friend of Robert Baldwin and Francis Hincks.”

  “And you are a supporter of the Reform party?”

  “Very much so.”

  Marc ushered Pettigrew over to an easy chair, and sat down opposite him. “I suppose you’ve heard the rumours about the alliance between the Reformers and the rouge?’’

  “Hasn’t everyone? I’ve seen Louis LaFontaine walking in the street.”

  “The secret is certainly out, but our opponents do not really believe we can pull it off – French and English in one united front. Especially only four years after a bloody rebellion.”

  “I’d like to help in any way I could.”

  Marc leaned forward. “You are known to be a friend of Henri Thériault.”

  Pettigrew was taken aback. “How did you know that?”

  “Gilles Gagnon, LaFontaine’s associate, interviewed him a few days ago in Chateauguay at his family’s farm. He heard the story of your rescuing Thériault from the man himself.”

  “Is Henri part of your alliance?”

  Marc smiled. “That is what we hope to achieve. And we do need your help in that regard.”

  Marc proceeded to tell Pettigrew about Thériault’s initial reluctance to join the alliance and his determination to come to a decision soon. What was needed was someone Thériault trusted amongst the English to reiterate the goals of the alliance and the details of their platform to the man in such a way as to render it credible and persuasive. Any additional personal pleas could be appended.

  “You want me to sit down and write Henri a letter?” Pettigrew said when Marc had finished.

  “That’s right. And attend a strategy meeting tomorrow morning. I’ve sketched out the material we want you to stress, and I’ll sit beside you and help out in any way I can. But the words must be yours and in your handwriting. Will you do it?”

  “I’m not a great letter writer, but I’ll try.”

  “Good man.”

  ***

  For the next hour Marc sat beside Christopher Pettigrew at the desk in his room and supervised the penning of a letter whose persuasiveness might determine the success or failure of the entire alliance movement. Pettigrew was diligent, as he said, but no letter writer. Marc was called upon to give advice at every point. But slowly the details came together, and Marc was able at last to suggest that he step aside and let Pettigrew write a personal note to his friend Henri.

  Pettigrew went at this aggressively, but about halfway through he paused and began nibbling at his pen.

  “What is it? Are you stuck?” Marc said from the other side of the room.

  “Oh, no, it’s going well, I think. It’s just that in writing this personal stuff to Henri, I was reminded of my sister, Christine.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, you see, I’ve been writing her every two or three days since I got here two weeks ago, and tonight was a time for me to write her again.”

  “Your sister’s in Toronto?”

  “Yes. And she’s my twin sister. We live together in a house in the north-east section of the city. We’ve lived on the estate all our lives. Both our parents are dead, so Christine and I have only each other. As twins we’ve always been close, and we’re even closer through necessity. We’ve never been apart – not in twenty-five years – except for the time four years ago when I was articling in Montreal.”

  “And your sister is missing you?”

  “Very much. She’ll be devastated if she doesn’t get a letter. So I’ll just finish this one up and then go back to my room and write one to her.”

  “Will you live in Toronto with your new bride?”

  “Oh, yes. I couldn’t leave Christine alone – ever.”

  “Has your sister met your fiancée?”

  “No, she hasn’t. And she has not taken to the wedding idea too well. I worry constantly about her. I may have to return to Toronto for a while, even though I’m committed to staying here until the wedding in April. I have business interests as well.” />
  “Well, Christopher, we would very much like you to remain here in Kingston if you possibly can.”

  “Do you need more letters?”

  “That is a distant possibility. Your first plea may not be enough. But it may bring him closer to our side. Further pleas may help materially, especially if Thériault replies to the first one.”

  “Well, I do hope to stay, Marc.”

  “First, let’s get this letter finished and in the mail.”

  The young man dipped his pen in the ink and began to write again.

  ***

  Three days later, Robert was waiting for Marc in the dining-room.

  “I’ve got some news that may spell trouble,” Robert said.

  “What’s happened?” Marc said. “Has Thériault replied?”

  “No. A body’s been found – out at the Parliament building.”

  FIVE

  Sarie Hickson made her way carefully through the snow-clogged alleys of Devil’s Acre. Her feet read the way as a blind person reads Braille. She was humming a merry tune to herself because tonight was an evening when she would be free of the brothel, of its smells and its animal cries and its dialogues of despair. Sure, she was still a prostitute and was going to continue that service when she reached her destination, but there would be much more than a mere groping in the candle-lit dark, and such a reward afterwards. And she would be called upon to use skills she had learned as a child in pageants and tableaux. Thinking of this, she unconsciously put her hand up to the big blond wig she was wearing and felt the swish of her long gown against the drifts beneath her. She was ready.

  She came out onto Jarvis Street, swung south to King, then east again to George. Here she soon found the house she was looking for. It was a brick mansion of two storeys with a portico in front and a set of elegant steps leading up to the front door. She did not use them, however. Instead she went around one side of the house along a well-worn path until she reached the tradesman’s entrance. She knew from past episodes that her lover would have liked her to have made a grand entrance into the foyer, but that discretion forestalled this regal gesture. She rapped discreetly on the door. Carswell, the butler, answered it, and without looking directly at her, waved her inside. She followed him down a winding hallway until they came to the master’s sitting-room. She entered and the door closed softly behind her. Secrecy, she knew, was paramount, and only Carswell among the servants knew what she was up to. The mistress of the house, as usual, was visiting her sister in Streetsville.