Don Gutteridge - Unholy Alliance

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Mrs. Blodgett lived up to her reputation (andaugmented it) by offering the delegates a feast fit for a king(should he be a gourmet). The quail and leek soup, the rabbit stewsimmered in claret, the whipped turnip and potato, the perfectlyroasted venison, and the delicate meringues were merely thehighlights of a multi-course meal, enhanced throughout by winesfrom Macaulay’s renowned cellar. The service, too, was prompt andprofessional, though Marc noticed once again an undercurrent oftension between Chilton and his assistants, Austin Bragg andPriscilla Finch.

Following the meal, it was agreed thatdelegates were free to use the rest of the evening as they saw fit.The billiard and games room offered them a chance to relax; thefront parlour (or drawing-room) was a comfortable place to sit witha brandy and cigar while taking in the winter scenery through theFrench doors; and the library would be conducive to anyone whowished to make notes on the day’s proceedings or read quietly. And,of course, there was the attraction of a long, warm bath.

Marc was pleased to see Hincks and Bérubéhead into the billiard-room and pick up a cue. Robert went into thelibrary with a notepad. Bergeron, who said he had slept littlesince his arrival on Monday evening, decided to take advantage ofthe bath and retire early. Macaulay promised that Tillie from thekitchen would bring a tisane up to his room within the hour.Tremblay bolted up the marble stairs without a parting word.LaFontaine looked ruefully after him, apologized to their host,thanked him courteously for the supper, and then excused himself,explaining that he had some reading to do in the privacy of hischamber. Marc was as disappointed as Macaulay was, for he too hadbeen hoping that the French leader would join them in the parlourfor a brandy and some casual conversation. Truth be told, they werehoping that LaFontaine might let his guard down just enough toreveal some part at least of the inner man. His forthright andcourageous actions in the political arena over the past three yearsspoke volumes about him, but if Robert and his Reform party were tothrow their fate into his hands, they surely needed to know moreabout what he really felt and believed. Only a few weeksago, for example, he had publicly denounced the Union Act and itsunjust terms. At the same time he continued to be vocal in hiscriticism of those French leaders who had taken the violent routeto reform — even while staking his own political future upon thesupport of scarred freedom-fighters like young Tremblay. Was thereno buried rage in the man? No understandable contempt for thehypocrisies of the British?

“You’ll smoke a pipe in the parlour, won’tyou?” Macaulay said to Marc in the hallway outside thedining-room.

“I’d be delighted,” Marc said, “though a longwalk would be more in order after that enormous supper.”

“Snow’s too deep, even though it stoppedbefore noon. But in the morning, if you like, we’ll put on some bigboots and have a go. Bergeron has expressed an interest in seeingmy racehorses.”

“You’re on,” Marc said as they approached thedoor to the front parlour on the left, directly across from thelibrary. Just beyond it was the foyer and the butler’s office. Itsdoor was ajar, and Marc could see Graves Chilton seated at anelegant davenport, poring over some papers.

“Alfred used to keep my household accounts,”explained Macaulay, “and Chilton has offered to do the same, forwhich I’m extremely grateful. Chilton seems a bit unctuous, andoverly firm with the staff perhaps, but he’s very, verycompetent.”

They entered the parlour and sat down incomfortable chairs near the French doors. Beyond the verandah thatlay just outside them the bright moonlight danced crystalline onthe rolling, unblemished landscape of snow, rimmed by a dozen bluespruce, their lower branches pillowed in drifts. The two men satcompanionably for half an hour, consciously avoiding theafternoon’s events and smoking their pipes with slow satisfaction.Macaulay began to talk about his collection of rare books and hisinterest in Britain’s latest writing sensation, novelist CharlesDickens.

“My Beth is a great admirer of his,” Marcsaid.

“Well, then, Marc, tell her I have his newwork, Nicholas Nickleby , just arrived from New York. I’vegot it beside my bed. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll give itto you to take home to her when you go.”

“That’s awfully good of you, Garnet, butthere’s no hurry — ”

“I’ve also got a Shakespeare folio you mightwant to browse through while you’re here. It’s only a valuablefacsimile but — ”

“I’d love to see it,” Marc said.

They left the parlour and walked slowly downthe central hall towards the rotunda and the northwest wing. Thelibrary was now dark, but as they passed the billiard-room theyheard the glassy click of billiard balls and a whoop of triumphfrom Daniel Bérubé.

“Hincks and Bérubé are getting along well,”Macaulay said.

“I wonder if LaFontaine plays whist orpiquet.”

“I should think poker would be his game.”

They were crossing the tiled rotunda towardsthe master bedroom at the near end of the northwest wing when theywere stopped in their tracks by a loud crash, as of crockerybreaking, followed by a high, female cry.

“My God!” Macaulay said. “What was that?”

“It came from the servants quarters,” Marcsaid.

“We’d better have a look,” Macaulay said, butMarc had already wheeled and made for the door to the northeastwing.

“Straight ahead and down the steps,” Macaulayshouted. “It has to be in the kitchen!”

The servants wing was entered through anarrow hallway and down four steps. Marc noticed to his left, inpassing, what appeared to be a pantry or storeroom. Just past it,an even narrower hallway opened at right angles, but he plungedstraight ahead and found himself abruptly in Elmgrove’skitchen.

In the middle of a very large, low-ceilingedroom — ringed by metal sinks, polished wooden benches, thick-leggedtables, racks of cooking pots and utensils, and an enormouswoodstove — sat Mrs. Blodgett on the floor amid the remains of ashattered crockery pot. Her round blue eyes in her plump pink facelooked permanently startled, as if any attempt to relax theirrigidity might unleash the frustration, pain and pure chagrin thatlay penned up behind them. She was struggling to slide her short,bare legs far enough under her so that she could lever her bulkupwards with the splayed fingers of both hands, but the slimycontents of the pot were rendering this effort futile.

“ Please , Mrs. Blodgett, let me helpyou up,” pleaded the skinny young woman pawing at her right elbow.“You’ll do yerself some damage!”

“Leave off, Tillie! You’ll disrupt myarthritis!”

“It’s yer arthritis that got you downthere!”

“Don’t get snippy with me, missy, I — ooh.”At this elongated sigh Mrs. Blodgett sat fully upright and graspedher right elbow with her left hand.

“Come and help me get her up,” Macaulay said,brushing by Marc and moving to the stricken cook. “It’s all right,Mrs. B., the gentleman and I will get you into your chair.”

“Oh, Mister Mac, I didn’t want you to see melike this! I’m such a stupid old woman, I — ”

“No need to apologize,” Macaulay said as heand Marc gently raised her to her feet. “Tillie, fetch a towel sowe can wipe the wet off your mistress’s legs.”

While Tillie scooted over to a nearbytowel-rack, Marc and Macaulay helped Mrs. Blodgett into a paddedrocking-chair in one corner of the room. Macaulay, ever thegentleman, introduced Marc to his cook and handed her his silkhandkerchief. Her bosom rose and fell beneath her spattered apron.As she rubbed her hands together in agitation, Marc noticed theugly nodes of arthritis on every joint — swollen and painful.