Don Gutteridge - Bloody Relations

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“I think he’s managing quite nicely on his own,” Owen said. “The town Tories have worked themselves into a sweet sweat over a Whig and a probable Radical being sent here to tell them what’s needed to keep the peace. But look at them now: jigging like a flock of Kentuckians, and scraping and bowing like penitents before the pope.”

“He’s off to a good start anyway.”

“I feel like a pipe. Care to join me?”

Marc looked about for Beth. The dancers were forming up in groups of four pairs for an announced quadrille. He spotted a tiny white hand fluttering across the room near the alcove where Lord Durham’s party had been holding court for the past half-hour. It was Beth, about to step smartly into the opening steps of the quadrille. At her side, with an arm about her waist, stood the most notorious man in Spadina: Edward Gibbon Wakefield.

Beth smiled at her husband before being swept away.

“Let’s have that pipe, Owen.”

Marc followed Major Jenkin through an archway and along a broad hall that gave them access to the men’s smoker. The major was in full dress uniform, but seeing his friend in the regalia he had recently given up roused no feeling in Marc of regret or loss. He was at ease with his decision, at least for the moment. They found their way through the cigar and pipe smoke to a pair of leather chairs, lit up, and leaned back in perfect contentment.

“I’m afraid to say so, Marc,” Owen said at last, “but there are a good many men in this house tonight who would like to see Lord Durham’s mission fail and fail badly.”

“You’re right, but it’s a pity they can’t see that things can never be the same as they were before Mackenzie and Papineau. It’s not even a matter of who’s right or who’s wrong. The horse is out of the barn and galloping apace.”

“And we could use a new horse and a new barn, eh?”

A burst of rough male laughter erupted behind them. Marc turned towards its source. An open archway led to an adjacent room, the one set up for card playing.

Owen Jenkin chuckled. “Now there are four gentlemen sharing a laugh who otherwise might not give one another the time of day.”

“I don’t think I recognize any of them.”

“The chap with the paunch is Alasdair Hepburn, a big shot in the Commercial Bank. His whist partner, unlikely as it may seem, is Patrick O’Driscoll.”

“The grand panjandrum of the Orange Lodge here in the city?”

“The same. A muckraking zealot if there ever was one. Like oil and water, those two, I should think.”

“Who’s the fellow with the collar?”

“That’s the Reverend Temperance Finney, a Methodist ranter who should be burning his cards, not slapping them on the table.”

“And that’s not tea in his glass, I’ll wager.” Marc was enjoying himself immensely.

“His partner, the scrawny chap, is Samuel Harris, as lean and ascetic as Hepburn is paunchy and epicurean. He owns about a quarter of King Street.”

“Then he’d have something in common with the other Tories.”

“True: money, power, and privilege. Unfortunately for him, he’s Catholic.”

“Oh, dear.”

“With a French wife.”

“Maybe they’re playing for keeps.”

“Well, they look mighty chummy to me.”

At this point the orchestra let out a fresh blast of danceable noise, indicating yet another shift in tempo.

“I’d better get back there and rescue my girl,” Marc said.

When he re-entered the ballroom, Beth was nowhere to be found. He paced the periphery of the waltz, a European dance which pinioned couples together in an elegant but over-proximate contact. Beth could not waltz. At least he assumed she couldn’t.

“I can’t find her anywhere,” Marc said to Owen after they had gone halfway around the dance floor.

“She’s off in the powder room, I expect.”

“If it’s Mrs. Edwards you’re looking for,” said a feminine, cultured voice nearby, “she’s over there under the mezzanine, conversing with my nephew.”

Both men gulped hard, then snapped a pair of quick bows to Lady Durham, after which they stood speechless in the presence of Earl Grey’s daughter.

“Your wife, sir, is a delight, if you’ll permit me to say so.”

“By all means, Your Ladyship,” Marc managed to say.

“My nephew, my sister’s boy, Mr. Handford Ellice, has been standing beside your good wife for the past ten minutes-talking.”

“I hope she’s not monopolizing his time-”

Lady Durham laughed, a melodic ripple that would have done a diva proud. “Good gracious, no. You see, Handford is painfully shy and socially rather awkward. He refused to stand in the receiving line and spent the first hour of the party in our rooms, trying to drum up the courage to make a brief appearance, lest he suffer what he takes to be the wrath of his uncle. I believe we call that being forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.”

“Well, I’m pleased he has found someone to talk to.”

“Mrs. Edwards has a way with people,” Major Jenkin said with a smile.

“My word, gentlemen. Look, she’s leading him towards the dance floor!”

And she was. They passed by about twenty feet away, not aware they were being watched with some amazement. Marc got his first close look at Handford Ellice. The youth was slender and no more than five foot two in height. His hair was a light shade of brown, almost blond, his features compact but well formed. The most memorable aspects of his person were the pale eyebrows, alabaster complexion, and eyes so faintly blue that he might have been an albino. About him there was an ascetic, almost haunted look as he shuffled nervously behind Beth. The orchestra struck the opening chord for a minuet, Beth drew him gently by the hand and they stood erect and poised for the dance to begin.

Lady Durham remained at Marc’s side, staring in disbelief at what she was seeing. Although usually stiff and prone to embarrassing miscues, her nephew moved easily through the minuet, hardly ever taking his eyes off his partner. At times he approached gracefulness, his body caught up in the music and the blissful forgetting it can engender.

“I think you may have lost a partner for the evening,” Lady Durham said, then excused herself and hurried towards her husband, presumably to give him the happy news.

When the set was over, Beth reluctantly let go of Handford Ellice’s hand, and he bowed deeply before turning and stumbling towards his aunt.

“You’ve made a hit with Lady Durham,” Marc said when Beth came up to him and Owen, breathless and not a little excited.

“I didn’t even know who he was,” she said, “until he told me just at the end. I nearly fainted.”

“I think it was the young man who was near fainting,” Owen said.

“Perhaps he’ll get up enough courage to try again,” Marc said.

“I hope so. I spotted him hiding in a corner and just felt sorry for him. He’s got a stammer that comes and goes, so I just kept talking a lot of nonsense until it seemed to go away. I told him that dancing would help it even more.”

“Well, it certainly improved his confidence,” Marc said.

“I was afraid he’d keep on drinking. Apparently that’s how he copes with his shyness.”

“Has he been doing so tonight?” Owen asked, suddenly concerned.

“He’d had a few glasses of champagne, but you saw him dancing out there: he was far from drunk.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Well, he’s now under the watchful eye of his uncle,” Marc said, but even as he spoke, they saw Handford Ellice shake off his aunt’s hand, smile at her, and head in the direction of the smoker.

“So much for more dancing,” Owen said.

“Don’t worry, Owen dear,” Beth said. “He told me he’s been trying all night to get up the nerve to join the gentlemen playing whist. Seems he’s got a great passion for the game but is too bashful to get himself invited to sit in. I think I may have helped him along a little.”

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