Don Gutteridge - The Widow's Demise

September 1841

“Hold still, please, Mrs. Edwards, or I’m gonnastick you with the needle.”

This warning was delivered by Etta Hogg, thelive-in, all-purpose servant at Briar Cottage.

“It’s only a small tear,” Beth Edwards said,twisting about to get a frontal image from the mirror that Marc hadset up in the parlour to aid the fitting of the ball gown.“Nobody’ll notice.”

“You don’t sound all that enthusiastic,” Marcsaid from his chair by the fireplace.

“You know what I think of fancy-dress balls,”Beth said. “Ouch!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Edwards, but I did warnyou.”

“Please, call me Beth, as I’ve asked you adozen times.”

“Yes, Mrs. Edwards.”

“Remember that we’re doing this for charity,”Marc said. “Look on it as a personal sacrifice or a form ofpenance.”

“I know the proceeds all go to the HospitalFund,” Beth said, “or else I wouldn’t’ve agreed to go.”

Each couple at the Charity Ball at Rosewood,Humphrey Cardiff’s palatial home on Front Street, had to contributeto the Hospital Fund, an annual rite that drew the largest crowd ofthe season. Old money and new, the established and the hopeful -all attended the Attorney-General’s extravaganza.

“Just a lot of stuffed shirts and ladies inevenin’ gowns they have to be squeezed into,” Beth said, onlyhalf-seriously. “A lot of old Tories, too.”

“Robert and Francis will be there,” Marcpointed out reasonably.

Robert was Robert Baldwin, a leadingReformer, colleague and good friend of the Edwards. Francis wasFrancis Hincks, another political associate and editor of theleft-wing paper, the Constitution .

“Then we’ll have people to talk to,” Bethsaid, nodding her thanks to Etta, who had finished her repairwork.

“And Louis will be there, too, remember.”

Louis LaFontaine was the leader of the rouge party, the Reform group in Quebec, who had joined inan alliance with their Canada West counterparts. He had beendefeated in the Quebec riding of Terrebonne in the April elections,but was about to run in a by-election in the fourth riding of York.Robert Baldwin had won seats in both that riding and one in theeastern part of the province. He had conveniently resigned the Yorkconstituency in order to make way for Louis’ second attempt atsecuring a seat in the new united Parliament that had opened inKingston in May.

“And his shadow, too,” Beth said,laughing.

“Yes, I’m sure Gilles will be there.”

Gilles Gagnon was Louis’ secretary andconstant companion. They had come to Toronto from Montreal a weekago to prepare for the nomination meeting and the subsequentby-election. They were staying with Robert at Baldwin House on BayStreet.

“There’s gonna be a shortage of ladies,” Bethsaid.

“Then you’ll get to dance the whole nightthrough,” Marc said.

“As long as you don’t get to talkin’politics.”

“No politics,” Marc said. “Not a singleword.”

“Oh, don’t you look lovely,” Etta enthused asBeth twirled in front of the mirror.

“I look like a farm girl in a duchess’sdress,” Beth said.

“There’s many a duchess who would like tolook like you,” Marc said.

Beth smiled, accepting the compliment.

“Now I gotta see to the little ones,” Ettasaid, and started for the hall and the children’s bedroom, whereone-and-a-half-year-old Marcus Junior and two-and-a-half-year-oldMaggie were supposed to be asleep. She paused at the window andsaid, “Donald has the horse and buggy ready for you.”

Donald Meigs was a neighbour lad who cameonce or twice a day to cut wood, haul water and take care of theEdwards’ horse. Beth herself insisted on taking care of her garden,despite spending three days a week at Smallman’s , her ladiesdress shop and seamstress’s business on King Street near Bay. Shewas a farm girl at heart, having run a farm by herself for severalyears down near Cobourg.

“Well, I guess we can’t put it off anylonger,” Marc said, getting up and placing a shawl around Beth’sbare shoulders. It was cool but pleasant September evening.

Beth leaned back against him. “Let’s go anddo some dancin’,” she said.

***

Rosewood was a pretentious, two-storey mansion onFront Street, two doors west of Bishop Strachan’s ‘palace’ andfacing the picturesque bay. Its façade was marked by fourpseudo-Doric columns, and its tall, narrow windows and soaringchimney-pots reminded its residents of medieval Gothic. Not to beoutdone, the tiled roof was framed by a gingerbread fringereminiscent of an earlier rococo era. The broad street in front ofthe edifice was alive with arriving coaches and less ornatevehicles. Grooms and footmen scurried about looking after thehorses and assisted begowned ladies down from their precariousperches. It was a quarter to nine on a dusky September evening, andthe air was cool and refreshing. A sympathetic moon was justarising in the south-east, somewhere over the lake.

Marc and Beth arrived in their buggy amidstthe mêlée. Marc steered the horse towards an anxious-lookinggroom.

“I’ll take that, sir,” the groom said, takingnote that the gentleman himself was driving the vehicle in lieu ofa proper driver and footman.

Marc handed him the reins, hopped down, andwent around to the other side of the buggy to help Beth alight.Beth took his hand, made sure her gown was free of impediments andstepped down onto the street.

“It looks like the whole town is here,” Bethsaid.

“Pretty near, I’d say,” Marc said. “Shall wemake our way through the crush and see how all these folks aregoing to fit into Rosewood?”

They joined the line forming at the elegantfront door, and soon found themselves in a spacious foyer with aninlaid marble floor and a magnificent chandelier reflected in it. Ashort receiving line was set up at the entrance to theballroom.

“I’m eager to meet our hostess,” Bethwhispered to Marc. “I’ve heard so much about her.”

Delores Cardiff-Jones, daughter and onlychild of Humphrey Cardiff, the Attorney-General, was much talkedabout in polite, and impolite, circles. She had married a glamorousmajor stationed at Fort York, a man of dashing mien and a privatefortune, who had suffered the luxury of a romantic death: he hadbeen shot dead in a duel fought over a weighty question of honour(cheating at cards) – leaving Delores a very rich widow. However,the lady did not set herself up in her own establishment; shedutifully moved back into her father’s house, and since there wasno other woman on the premises (her mother having died severalyears before), she became the de facto mistress of Rosewood.Once there, she proceeded to entertain often and lavishly, fanningthe breezes of local gossip from time to time. Rumour had it thatshe was much pursued matrimonially.

Marc shook hands with Humphrey Cardiff andintroduced Beth to him.

“Pleased to meet you,” Cardiff said with abrief bow. He was a portly gentleman of average height with afierce pair of mutton chops and heavy eyebrows. His brown eyes anddirect stare looked as if they would be more comfortable in acourtroom than a parlour, but he smiled as best he could with histhick lips. “And this is my daughter, Mrs. DeloresCardiff-Jones.”

“Good evening,” Delores said, extending hergloved hand to be kissed by Marc. “So you’re the soldier I’ve heardso much about,” she said to Marc. Beth stared at her. She wascertainly a prepossessing woman, in her late twenties perhaps, butof a beauty that had little to do with age. She was tall withregularly defined features and a glorious upsweep of rich, darkbrown hair. Her eyes were pale hazel, almost transparent, and theysparkled with intelligence and an unsettling candour.