Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

“And we’ve got policemen patrolling our streets,” Rick said, as if he himself were native-born and a major contributor to local improvements.

As they were getting up to leave, Mrs. Thedford said, “I hope you all plan to come to the farce tonight, as guests of the company. And, of course, you’re welcome to join us in the hotel for supper.”

“Thank you. I wouldn’t miss either for the world,” Jenkin said with a brief bow.

“I’ll be here every night this week,” Rick said with an artful glance at Tessa, who had sat through the polite chatter without saying a word, though she and Mrs. Thedford had exchanged cryptic looks, and the latter had given Rick what could only be described as critical scrutiny.

Tessa beamed him a conspiratorial smile, then turned to determine its effect upon Mrs. Thedford. But that lady’s gaze rested on Marc.

“And how about you, Mr. Edwards?”

“I must decline, ma’am. I am engaged to dine with my fiancée’s aunt this evening.”

“Ah, I understand.” Mrs. Thedford’s eyebrows rose in interest. “But you’ll come later in the week, to the Shakespeare, perhaps?”

“Yes, I will,” he said, and realized with a start that he meant it.

Rick accompanied Marc back through the gloomy theatre to the front doors. “Isn’t Tessa just the most darling thing you’ve ever set eyes upon?” he asked imploringly.

“You’ve got quite a girl there, Rick,” Marc replied, and left it at that.

Catherine Roberts was Beth’s aunt, her mother’s sister, who had grown up with the McCrae family in Pennsylvania. After Beth’s mother died, her grieving father had taken his children to a new Congregational ministry in Cobourg. Aunt Catherine married and went to live in New England, where her affection for things English had taken root. So much so that when she herself was widowed just two years ago, she had readily accepted Beth’s offer to come to this British colony and invest jointly in their millinery shop on fashionable King Street. Ever since his engagement to Beth had been announced (“proclaimed” would be a more accurate description), Marc had arranged to have supper with Aunt Catherine on the second Monday of each month.

“Right on time, Marc.” She smiled as she led him through the shop towards the stairs that would take them to her apartment above. “It must be the military in you.”

“Or the lawyer,” Marc said. He loved to watch the soft gray eyes light up in their bemused way behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. Like Beth, she was a diminutive woman with an Irish complexion and sunny disposition. Without ostentation, she always dressed and carried herself with a spare dignity that impressed her wealthy customers and helped to account for the success of the enterprise-that, plus her Yankee business acumen.

“What’s going on in the back room?” Marc asked at the sound of strange voices.

“I’ve had to hire a pair of extra girls,” she said, “to handle the dress-making side of the shop. It’s doing very well for us, and the girls do like to talk while they’re sewing.”

“That’s not a girl’s voice.”

“Oh, that’s George. He’s just come in the back door. He’s been away every time you’ve come for supper-not deliberately, you understand.”

“I find you incapable of subterfuge.”

“George, stop teasing my girls and come in here for a minute!”

As the giggling died down behind him, there emerged from the door to the workroom a man of twenty-five or so, of medium build, with a baby-faced handsomeness that would appeal to a certain breed of undiscriminating young woman. His dark eyes were still dancing with the charm he had just loosed on the seamstresses. But when he spied Marc, he stopped in his tracks, and glowered at him with undisguised disdain.

“George Revere, wipe that frown off your face and shake hands with Lieutenant Marc Edwards.” There was an edge of authority in Aunt Catherine’s voice that Marc had not heard before.

George Revere glanced at his aunt-slyly? fearfully? — and dredged up a smile. “Pleased ta meet ya,” he said with a noticeable New York accent. His handshake was limp.

“George, as you know, has come up from the States to help me here until Beth comes back. After which he hopes to be in business for himself.”

“Sorry, Auntie, but I gotta meet someone in a few minutes.”

Aunt Catherine gave him a knowing nod, then added, “But not before you take that costume on up to the Regency Theatre and pick up the others we’ve promised to mend.”

George Revere muttered something rebellious under his breath, wheeled, and ran out the back way.

“Thank God he’s not a blood nephew,” his aunt said.

By six-thirty they had finished supper, and while one of the girls from the shop came upstairs to clear away the dishes, Marc and Aunt Catherine repaired to the sitting-room, where a low fire was keeping the early-evening chill at bay. Usually, they sat comfortably here for several hours, conversing when they felt like it, sipping a sherry or not, reading or reading aloud, whatever the mood of one or the other dictated.

“George is a good lad at heart,” Aunt Catherine said suddenly. “But I’m afraid he has it in for anybody in a British uniform.”

“Oh?”

“His maternal grandparents had their plantation and home burned to the ground by the English army in the War of Independence. And, like a good republican, he’s taken up the resentment with the zeal of a convert.”

“What’s he doing up here, then?”

“Ah-he only hates the English when they’re in tunics.” She smiled wryly. “And I think he feels that Upper Canadians will soon come to their senses, throw off their shackles, and join the Union.”

Aunt Catherine was fiddling with something in the pocket of her apron, and when she caught Marc noticing it, she stopped abruptly. “But he’s got a head for business, and if he settles down and proves himself, Beth and I plan to buy into a haberdashery down the street on his behalf.”

“What is that you’re toying with?” Marc asked, more amused than irritated.

Aunt Catherine looked suddenly solemn. “I went to the post office at noon and saw a letter there for you from Beth.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, let’s open it and read the good news together.”

“I–I wasn’t sure it would be good news and so, very selfishly, I decided to wait till we’d finished our supper.”

Marc smiled assurance, and took the letter from her trembling hand. He began reading it aloud, editing only those parts obviously intended for his eyes only. As was her custom, Beth wrote her weekly missive in installments as things happened around her or came into her mind. Hence the first two pages were detailed accounts of the harvest (healthy yields, ruinous prices), Aaron’s improving health, Winnifred’s brave front in respect to the baby’s being overdue, Thomas’s occasional stints on annual road-duty, the fancies and foibles of the unmarried Huggan girls, and so on. At the top of page three came the news they were both hoping for: Winnifred was delivered of a baby girl, mother and child having come through their mutual ordeal in fine shape.

“Wonderful!” Aunt Catherine cried. “And that means all the plans we made for the wedding are actually going to happen! It’s hard to believe.”

Marc seconded that.

“Is there more?”

“Yes. The babe’s been named Mary, and Beth says, ‘When Winn told me that she and Thomas had called the girl Mary, after his late mother, I burst into tears, and quite alarmed Thomas. Then, without thinking, I told them about the story you related to me last March in Cobourg about the Aunt Mary who died before you were born and whose sudden death so upset your uncle Jabez that he could never speak about her in public or private again. I hope you don’t mind me telling that bit of family history, for I consider it part of our history now. Anyways, the Ladies Aid of the church are now moving straight ahead on the details of the ceremony a week from next Sunday. I expect you and Auntie will be getting more than one letter a week from now until that wondrous day. All my love, Beth.’”