B reakfast was over, Hugh was enjoying a final cup of coffee, and Sophia, dawdling over her tea, stifled a yawn by smothering it delicately with her lace-edged handkerchief.

Even so, Hugh noticed. “Tired, my dear?” he asked, with a smile. Their previous day had been a long one; the lacrosse game had been just the beginning.

Not ordinarily given to the festivities that marked an age when the rich grew richer while the poor became poorer, but having committed himself to the game, Hugh had good-naturedly devoted the remainder of the day to his wife.

They had joined the rest of the “posh” crowd—a new word coined to fit the times—in the mindless sort of thing they did every afternoon between 3:00 and 6:00: parading up and down King Street with no other intention than to gossip and strut the latest fashions. Hugh despised it, and even Sophia admitted that, once indulged in and experienced, she could see no practical reason to continue.

Then there had been the dash for home and the changing of clothes for dinner at the Miltons’ large and garish mansion. But it boasted the new tin bathtub and the hot water that was just now making its appearance in a few homes. Heatherstone, of course, had both, but neither its master or mistress was crass enough to make mention of it.

And what a dinner it had been, keeping them seated for three hours followed by coffee and a boring piano recital by one of the Milton daughters. Ten courses the Milton servants had served, if Hugh’s memory served him correctly, peaking with a huge stuffed boar’s head and concluding with rare and exotic fruit, imported cheese, and fancy glacés. Hugh’s four-button cut-away, tailored to fit without a wrinkle to be seen, was snug and uncomfortable. Sophia, he was certain, was breathing with difficulty in the prized new corset with its Coraline stays.

Sunday stretched before the Galloways, an attractive alternative with the quiet peace and comfort of a home they enjoyed and a rather rare opportunity to be together.

“I noticed you were having quite a conversation with that scarlet-coated individual across the table from you,” Sophia prompted.

“North West Mounted Police uniform; quite attractive, I’d say, certainly eye-catching. Their motto, by the way, is ‘Maintain the Right.’ Seems fitting.”

“I do trust they are in evidence where Angus and Mary have gone.”

“Well,” Hugh said, half humorously, “mounted means horseback, and police means enforcer of the law, so I assume North West refers to the Alberta and Saskatchewan territories.”

“I suppose so,” Sophia said dubiously. “We’ll just have to wait and hear what news comes from this . . . Bliss, is it? At any rate, this enforcer seemed to keep everyone at that end of the table spellbound.”

“Fascinating, the account of their activities, like nothing we’ve ever heard of, that’s certain. The force was formed in the first place to eliminate the whiskey forts in the territories. Indians, of course, can’t abide whiskey but crave it. Unscrupulous men made and traded it to them at these forts through small openings or wickets. An Indian would hand over his buffalo robe and receive in return a cup of whiskey. A full quart would cost him his pony.”

“Gracious!”

“Listen to the recipe for this firewater; if I remember what this man Dillard said, a bottle of Jamaica ginger, a quart of molasses, and a handful of red pepper were added to a quart of whiskey. When this was heated, it lived up to its name.”

“Gracious!”

This interesting exchange of conversation was interrupted by the timid voice of Tessie, helper in the nursery.

“Mrs. Hugh—”

“Yes, what is it, Tessie?”

“It’s the baby, Mum. Miss Margaret. She’s—”

“What, Tessie? She’s what?” Alarm had crept into Sophia’s voice. Instinctively she stood to her feet. Hugh peered over the top of his paper.

“She’s sick, Mum.”

Something like panic rose in Sophia’s motherly bosom. About to run unceremoniously from the room and her husband’s presence, she caught Hugh’s level look.

“Excuse me, Hugh,” she said, pausing in flight.

“Of course, my dear,” he said pleasantly.