Don Gutteridge: Unholy Alliance

Toronto, Upper Canada: 1840

The blizzard that howled across the icy expanse ofLake Ontario and struck the defenceless city broadside on thisparticular midwinter evening was little noticed by the fivegentlemen seated in the drawing-room of the Bishop’s palace onFront Street. After all, supper had been lavish, as usual, and morethan satisfying, especially so since not one of the prelate’sguests felt himself to be less than deserving of the great man’slargesse. Friday evening was secular night at John Strachan’spalatial residence, an opportunity for men of worth and promise tocongregate, sup well, gossip idly, and then move on to discuss thepressing political issues of these turbulent times. Though theguest-list varied from week to week, those attending invariablyshared a number of beliefs and convictions. That all were adherentsof the Church of England was a given, and whether that fact wasinstrumental in shaping the rest of their character or not, theywere, to a man, High Tory in their politics, conservative in theirmorals and demeanour, terribly sensitive to distinctions of raceand class, and inclined towards capitalist enterprise. And no lessimportantly, they were susceptible to a good cigar and a finesherry.

Enjoying the latter post-prandialrefreshments, while the wind scoured and screeched against thered-brick walls and mullioned windows, were Ignatius Maxwell,receiver-general of Upper Canada and judge-designate; EzraMichaels, local chemist; Ivor Winthrop, furrier and landspeculator; Carson James, a non-practising barrister with a veryrich wife; and their host, John Strachan, the recently elevatedBishop of Toronto.

“That was one superb dinner, Bishop,” Jamessaid, inhaling deeply, “and, if I may say so, was meticulouslypresented. I don’t know where you find such well-mannered andproperly trained servants, but they are most impressive.”

“Worth their weight in gold,” Michaels added,reaching for the sherry. “We’ve had three maids and two houseboyssince September.”

“You’d think with so many people out of workand begging for employment, that they’d be happy to do an honestday’s work without complaining or demanding higher wages,” Winthropsaid solemnly.

“Or dropping the crystal,” Maxwell said witha chuckle.

“I take no credit for my servants’performance,” Strachan said in the deep, authoritative voice thathad made his sermons at St. James justly renowned. “It is Mrs.Strachan alone who manages my household, with thrift and a goodheart.”

“I take it you’ve all heard about poorMacaulay?” James said.

Several murmurs followed this remark, butMichaels, looking puzzled, said, “You mean his wife going off toKingston to see her specialist?”

“I did hear that,” James said, “but I wasreferring to what happened to his butler before Christmas.”

“Ah, yes,” Michaels said, flushing slightly.“Alfred Harkness had been with the Macaulays for over twenty years,hadn’t he?”

“Cancer. Out of the blue,” Maxwell said.“Mercifully, he didn’t suffer long.”

“It is not given to us to know when it is weare to meet our Maker,” the Bishop intoned. “For which mercy weshould be eternally grateful,” he added.

“Even with all his money, Macaulaywon’t find it easy to replace Alfred Harkness,” James said with acertain degree of satisfaction.

“The fellow was a gem,” Michaels sighed.

For a few moments the assembled worthiesstared into their sherry, contemplating the virtues of the lateAlfred Harkness.

It was Receiver-General Maxwell who broke thesilence. “It’s still a puzzle to me how a chap like GarnetMacaulay, with his father’s fortune in hand and a splendid estatelike Elmgrove, should have thrown his lot in with the Reformers.Old Sidney would turn over in his grave if he could see what aradical his son has become.”

“But I’ve felt the same all these years aboutDr. Baldwin and his intransigent son,” Strachan said forcefully.“They sit in their pew before me Sunday after Sunday, professing tobe loyal Anglicans, and then do everything in their power outsideof church to destroy the foundations upon which it stands byspreading the infections of liberalism and democracy amongstus.”

“Well, they are Irish, after all,” Maxwellsaid with another chuckle. “That often explains theinexplicable.”

“True,” James said, not chuckling. “But theMacaulays were as English as Cheshire cheese, weren’t they?”

Ivor Winthrop, who had been following theconversation closely but not contributing, suddenly said, “Englishor Irish, the man’s already solved his butler problem.”

This remark, apparently incontrovertible,left the others without a reply. Finally, the Bishop said, “Youmean he’s already replaced Harkness?”

Winthrop, lantern-jawed with bold black eyesthat rarely came to rest in their bony sockets, smiled and said,“I’m sure he has.”

“Then you’ve got a sharper ear on the rumourmill than any of us,” Michaels said, impressed despite himself. “Mylad delivered some medicine to Elmgrove a few days ago, and therewas no sign of a butler.”

Pleased with the attention he’d garnered,Winthrop said slowly, “Quite so. You see, my sources tell me thatthe new butler has not yet arrived, but is most assuredly on hisway here.”

As it was now clear that Winthrop intended tokeep them dangling, James happily fed him his next cue: “On his wayfrom where?”

“England,” Winthrop said, and leaned over tothe trolley near the blazing hearth to refill his sherry glass.

“Garnet Macaulay is importing a butler allthe way from England?” the Bishop said in a tone so accusatory thatthe bloodhound dozing by the coal-scuttle flinched.

“At this time of year?” Maxwell said,incredulous.

“Some stranger he hasn’t even met?” Michaelssaid, more incredulous still.

“What in the world is he trying to prove?”James said.

“I’m told the fellow is already on his wayoverland from New York City,” Winthrop said, glancing at Michaels.“The roads are as passable as they ever get — with the winter we’vehad.”

“But a sea voyage in February?” saidMichaels, ever practical and not a little awed.

“And just how did you come by thisinformation?” Strachan inquired, visibly irritated that such asingular event should be unfolding among the better class withouthis knowledge or consent.

“My brother’s butler, in Cobourg,” Winthropsaid, but not before he had taken a measured sip of his sherry. “Itseems these chaps have some sort of fraternity. Whatever the case,news of Macaulay’s efforts has reached as far as Cobourg.”

But not, the glower on Strachan’s facesuggested, as far as the bishop’s palace, seventy miles closer.

“Know anything about him?” James asked.

“Not much. Macaulay has numerous relativesback home, so I assume he got a recommendation from one ofthem.”

“Some snooty cast-off,” Michaels said.

Maxwell was heard to chuckle again as hesaid, “Believe it or not, I understand that Alfred’s youngerbrother, Giles, thought he might be offered the post.”

“Macaulay’s coachman?” Michaels said, amazed.“A mere stableman? You can’t be serious. The fellow’s a boor. Eventhe pigs out there keep clear of him.”

“Well, I’m told he took the ideaseriously,” Maxwell said.

The Bishop cleared his throat. “You see,gentlemen, what comes of too much social levelling — stable handsaspiring to be butlers and valets. What next?”

The deluge apparently, for a deep,chastening silence settled on the company, during which there washeard only the wheeze of cigars and the silky slither of sherryover lip and tongue.