Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

Brookner swallowed his disappointment, and said brightly, “What does the symbolism matter, eh? It’s the grit and valour of the man. And I am proud to have been able to offer you a seat in my chartered coach. My desire is to maintain a pace to Kingston suited entirely to your fitness to travel. Please introduce yourself to the others while I sort out our driver and the mess he’s making of our bags.” He spun on his heels like a drum-major and began barking instructions to Marc’s driver and then to the one already up on the coach. As he did so, Marc noted that he was tall, athletic, and fair-haired: a picture-postcard soldier.

Marc hobble-walked to the group on the boardwalk, who had been observing the scene before them without comment. He was delighted with the strength in his legs, and the little wobble to the left grew less noticeable as he found the appropriate pace and rhythm for it. A portly, soft-fleshed gentleman with round, uninquisitive eyes stepped forward with his hand out. He was attired, Marc noted with an inward chuckle, in a smart grey overcoat and fur helmet exactly like his own.

“Good morning, sir, and welcome,” the man enthused with a loose-lipped smile that rippled all the way to his jowls. The accent was flamboyantly English. “I am Ainslie Pritchard, wine merchant of London and Montreal, presently on my way to Toronto. Let me introduce you to these fine people who shall be accompanying us to Kingston and beyond.”

As Pritchard introduced them, Marc acknowledged each with a short bow.

“This is Mr. Percy Sedgewick, gentleman farmer from the Kingston area. And Mr. Charles Lambert, a solicitor from Cobourg on his way home. And, pardon me for addressing you last, madam, this is-”

“Adelaide Brookner,” the lady said in a flat, listless voice, as if she were hoping that by stating her name she would not be obligated to say more. Marc bowed, and gave her a quick, scrutinizing glance. She was all in black-her boots, the skirt beneath the black coat, the scarf at her throat, the fur cap, and the veil attached to it. Behind the latter, Marc could just discern a face with handsome, regular features, solemn blue eyes, and a wisp or two of tawny hair.

“A precious soul has recently passed from us,” said Percy Sedgewick beside her, the black armband on his grey coat now more meaningful. “We attended the funeral yesterday.”

“Please accept my condolences,” Marc said.

Sedgewick was short and stocky, made even more so by his standing beside Adelaide Brookner, who was very tall for a woman, probably five feet seven. But the raw-boned, weathered face signalled without doubt that this was a farmer, one who worked the plough and drove his own cattle.

“Thank you,” he said to Marc while unconsciously patting Adelaide’s mittened hand. “I do hope our sorrow doesn’t make the trip too uncomfortable.”

“I am afraid it is I who am likely to be the dull companion,” Marc said, “because I am destined to spend a good deal of the time asleep. I am still some way from recovering my former strength.”

“No need to apologize, sir,” Pritchard said affably. “We understand, don’t we, Lambert?”

Charles Lambert glanced up, took a second or so to absorb the question directed at him, then said in a guarded tone, “Yes.”

“Mr. Lambert is inordinately quiet for a solicitor,” Pritchard said with a sort of genial disapprobation, “but I expect he’ll open up once we get rolling.”

Marc looked to Lambert for a response, but the dark, sallow-skinned little man had turned his eyes away as if it were simply too much bother to enter the polite chatter or dignify its importance by contributing to it.

Randolph Brookner hallooed them towards the coach. The cutter had disappeared, all the luggage was stowed and tied down, the ostler was standing beside the lead horse ready to release it, and the coach-door had been swung open.

Marc turned to Adelaide Brookner. “It was very kind of you and your brother to agree to take along a semi-invalid.”

From under the veil came a voice that was richly alto yet tinged with some private and painful ambiguity. “Randolph insisted, as he usually does. And he is my husband, not my brother,” she said and, Marc thought, added as a near-inaudible aside, “alas.” But there was no way of assessing her expression behind the black wisp covering her face. She stepped hesitantly towards the carriage as if she were, as a lady, reluctant to accept the privilege of entering first.

“I am Mrs. Brookner’s brother,” Percy Sedgewick explained, watching his sister closely as she approached her husband, who was standing beside the open door as rigid and self-important as a brigadier-general taking salute. “But you are not the first to make that mistake, sir,” he added.

“Don’t you think we should let Lieutenant Edwards choose a comfortable seat after madam is settled?” Ainslie Pritichard asked, like a squire pointing out the obvious to those not blessed with his pedigree.

Captain Brookner bristled, produced a tight smile, and said, “Of course.” He clutched his wife’s left elbow to assist her up into the carriage. She flinched and uttered a tiny cry.

“She fell on the ice at Marion’s funeral yesterday,” her brother said to Marc, who was protesting any favouritism directed his way.

Adelaide settled herself not in the right rear seat, with the large window and a forward view, but in the left front seat just inside the door, where she would be riding backwards with only the slit of the door-window next to her.

Marc was chivvied in next and, desiring as restful journey as possible, chose the right front seat where he could ride backwards, doze at will, and not be overly tempted to acknowledge the view outside. Brookner stepped in next and, to Marc’s surprise, did not sit beside his wife. Instead, he folded his angular frame on the rear seat opposite Marc: the best one in the house, as it were. Their knees almost touched.

At the same time, Charles Lambert appeared to brush rudely past Sedgewick and Pritchard and squirrel himself across from Adelaide, who had tucked her skirt up and pulled the mourning veil firmly over her handsome features. That left only the two middle positions free. The very English wine merchant wriggled his bulk between Marc and Adelaide, and Sedgewick had no choice but to sit across from him. Seconds later, their driver gave a shout, cracked his whip, and the coach slipped smoothly away on its formidable runners. Before they had left the town behind, it began to snow.

Marc was grateful that a fresh snowfall would fill in any frozen ruts on the main road to Upper Canada and Cornwall, make any viewing of the scenery floating by improbable, and provide some muted light in the otherwise shadowy interior of the coach. He leaned back against the pillowed headrest and dozed peacefully, letting the sporadic conversation of the others drift past him.

“I was sorry we were interrupted in the dining-room last night, Captain, as I was most intrigued by your account of the rebellion in your province,” Ainslie Pritchard began. “As a man wholly devoted to the other kind of accounts-the ones in ledgers, I mean-I have ever been fascinated by those who live a life of action and high risk.”

“Runnin’ a hardware store in Kingston ain’t exactly Cyrano de Bergerac,” interjected Sedgewick.

“You are right to correct Mr. Pritchard’s misapprehension, Percy. There is some difference between myself as a mere militia officer and an officer of the British army like Lieutenant Edwards here.”

“But you have as splendid a uniform, a fine sword, and, I presume, a suitable steed to carry you into battle?”

“What happened near Kingston was hardly a battle, certainly not like those at St. Denis and St. Eustache. But there was danger, I must admit frankly. And the training we diligently carried out several times each year was, if I may be somewhat immodest, instrumental in the success of the Glengarrians.”