Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

Marc could think of nothing to say.

“These gatherings are still going on, and sooner or later it’ll be the troops who’ll have to put a stop to them.” She glanced across at Marc’s tunic, and he was grateful that he had not worn his sword. “Do you know what my recurring nightmare has been?”

“I think I can guess,” Marc murmured, and looked away.

For a minute Marc thought she was not going to answer her own question, but finally she said in a hollow voice, “Winnifred and Thomas are running through the woods, being pursued by a dark shadow. Exhausted, Thomas turns around, steps in front of Winn, and faces his pursuer. It is you. You raise your musket, call out ‘I’m sorry!’ and fire. The noise wakes me up.” “Then I’ll rip this uniform off my back! I’ll buy out my commission-”

With the tenderest of gestures, she reached over and placed a finger against his lips. “Oh, you dear, dear man. I knew you would say that, I knew you’d promise to fetch me the moon if I asked you to. You’re still a romantic, and it’s hard-oh, so hard-not to love that part of you. But think what you’re saying. You’re only twenty-seven years old, and already you’ve tried the law to please your uncle and quit it, and then chose the army-your boyhood dream-and here you are offering to throw that away to marry me. Then what? Help me sell ladies’ hats? Live off my inheritance like an English gentleman? Return to the law and hope you don’t hate it too much?”

She paused to swallow the lump in her throat. “No, if we’re going to come together as man and wife, it’s got to be on equal terms: the burden of our love’s got to be parcelled out fairly. Surely you see that?”

Marc summoned up all his courage and said as calmly as he could, “So, I can’t quit the army and you can’t marry an officer: you’re telling me, then, there is no hope for us.”

Beth’s face brightened, filled suddenly with the gentle mockery Marc loved so much. “Not at all! Let me finish. I did have doubts, but now I believe there’s every hope. For a start, neither of us has any intention of un-loving the other, despite all that might divide us. And more recently, Aaron almost dying and Thomas’s horrible accident have taught me a lesson. Any of us could be carried away at any time. We should not deny ourselves love or happiness-not for politics or religion or want of the perfect moment. The madness that’s going on now can’t last much longer, and you have your duty and I have mine, but in the meantime …”

“In the meantime, what?” Marc scarcely dared ask.

“If you ask me to marry you,” Beth said with a slight tremor, “I’ll say yes.”

Marc took a moment to find his voice, then a wide grin spread over his face. “Can I believe what I’ve just heard?”

“Is that a proposal?” Beth countered, her blue eyes dancing.

“It certainly is.”

“Then yes, you can believe it, and yes, I accept.”

Marc held her tightly while his mind raced.

“Say when,” he demanded eagerly.

“You must go back to your garrison-there is no question about that. And I must stay here for some time.”

“With Aaron, of course.”

“And with Winnifred. I promised that I would be with her through her confinement and see the babe safely into this world.”

Marc stepped back, calculating. “That means September or October at the earliest.”

“I know. But I think she needs watching over.”

Marc did not need to ask why. “Then we’ll get married tomorrow and just live apart for a few months.”

Beth thought about that for a bit. “I’d like it done proper,” she said, though he saw the indecision in her face and wished he were ruthless enough to take advantage of it. “I need to prepare Aaron. And I promised Aunt Catherine that, should I marry again, she would be my matron of honour.” So, marriage had not been a taboo topic at the King Street shop, Marc thought.

She looked at him with a sudden, solemn intensity that brought him up short. “What’s important is that we declare our love openly and publicly. We are engaged, and you can shout it to the world if you like. You can even have the banns read by the archdeacon in that stodgy old church of yours. Our wedding will happen, if God chooses to let us live till October. Nothing else can prevent it.”

Marc leaned over and gave her a kiss on the lips. “You shame me,” he said. “And I love you the better for it.”

“I’m in love, Marc.”

Marc put down his copy of the Constitution long enough to glance across at Ensign Roderick Hilliard, who was sitting on the edge of his cot in the spartan officers’ quarters they had shared now for seven months. Hilliard had served under Marc at Government House during the hectic days of the election a year ago last June. “Not again!” Marc exclaimed in mock surprise.

“This is the real thing,” Hilliard said, leaning forward intently, as if to forestall Marc’s return to William Mackenzie’s seditious weekly “rag” in favour of matters of greater importance. “I know you have every reason to be skeptical, given my past history, but I have found the sweetest, most beautiful, most ethereal creature God ever created.”

Last year Hilliard had made a play for Receiver-General Maxwell’s daughter, but when the minister discovered their affair, he threatened to emasculate the young ensign, then shipped his daughter off to Kingston to be properly married.

“It’s hearing you use such language that keeps me skeptical,” Marc replied. “Do I not recall similar epithets employed to describe the goddesslike charms of one Chastity Maxwell?”

Hilliard looked as if he had been skewered by an épée in a friendly duel. “That was uncalled for. You know I loved Chastity and made her an honourable offer of marriage.”

But not before you had hopped into her bed, Marc thought uncharitably before relenting. “You’re right, Rick. I do apologize. And I have to admit she was well married and away before you decided to work your way through the debutante rosters of Toronto and the County of York.” Marc smiled broadly to let Rick know he was teasing.

“Well, my stock went down considerably among respectable society when Sir Francis cashiered me.” He grinned the boyish grin he so often used to set a young woman’s bosom aflutter. “But I did try, nevertheless.”

Marc had once thought Rick Hilliard to be too brash and overly ambitious to be a friend, until he realized that under the handsome exterior and sometimes impertinent manner lay a keen intelligence and a good heart. And since he, too, had been told that he was forward and ambitious, he could hardly hold these character flaws, if flaws they were, against Rick. When Hilliard followed Marc out of the governor’s retinue to the purgatory of the Fort York barracks, Marc had taken pity on him. Rick had actually hoped that he, and not a lackey like Barclay Spooner, would take over Marc’s position as aide-de-camp to Sir Francis. The two agreed to share quarters and so far Marc had not regretted it. Although not interested in politics or economic affairs (his father being a very rich mine owner in Yorkshire), Hilliard was a lively and witty conversationalist and a born raconteur. Most significantly, Marc sensed that Hilliard would be a valuable officer on the field of battle, for there was mettle under that mantle of charm and bonhomie.

“And who’s the lucky woman this time?”

“Tessa Guildersleeve,” Hilliard announced. When Marc did not immediately respond, he added with a sudden burst, “Isn’t that just the most mellifluous-sounding name you’ve ever heard?”