ELIZABETH SHORTLAND HADN’T changed for dinner, just removed her chemisette. She had known her husband wouldn’t notice and known, too, that Dr Magrath would think of nothing else. She spun an ornate wooden box between her fingers as she waited for her husband to stop speaking. Fuelled by fine food and brandy, he seemed just as upset by the peace as he had been by the war. Head in hands, he squeezed his hair high above his forehead.
She fiddled with her place setting, flattening the lace cloth where it had ruffled over the mahogany table. She should engage in their conversation, of course – it was the hour for discourse and her participation had been hard won – but, tonight, she longed for her bed and her books. She stared at her husband, puffy-faced now and with a distinct list to starboard, and wondered what had happened to her dashing lieutenant. The man who, the month before they married, had captured an armed French brig from under the batteries of the Bay of Corréjou. She reached for her snuff.
‘I tell you this, George,’ spluttered the captain. ‘We have gained nothing. We have finished nothing. The treaty merely restores the status quo ante bellum. And for what, I ask you? We have lost countless ships, many thousands of men. For what, I say?’
George Magrath paused before offering a measured reply.
‘Canada is secure, sir. All the invasions of her border were defeated. And the blockades worked, did they not?’
Thomas Shortland poured himself another brandy then offered the bottle to his wife. She declined, and the Agent frowned.
‘You always say no these days, Elizabeth. You used to enjoy a Duret – will you not take a small one?’
‘I’m fine, Thomas, really. It gives me headaches,’ she said. ‘Has done for a while now.’
Shortland swiftly returned to his war arguments and Elizabeth marvelled again at his blindness. Her losing interest in alcohol had coincided precisely with the start of her affair, and the affair had coincided precisely with her and Magrath working together. But her husband saw nothing, understood nothing. As the men talked of Castlereagh’s troop levels, she unscrewed the top of her box and tapped out a small portion of snuff.
The action was enough to cause both men to look up. The Agent moved the conversation back to include his wife.
‘I hear there is an English boy in the new arrivals, Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Might he fight for us if we get him out of here?’
‘I would think not,’ she said. ‘He’s an American now, Thomas. Besides, the war is done and they all think they will be home soon.’ She pinched the ground tobacco on the back of her hand. ‘Dr Magrath and I met the crew of the Eagle this morning. Spirits were high – they believe their war to be over. None of them will want to fight any more. Except perhaps against us, here.’ She raised her hand to her nose and in two well-practised, sharp inhalations, the snuff was gone.
‘So’ – she snapped the box shut, immediately dabbing at her nose with a lilac handkerchief – ‘will Congress ratify the treaty, Thomas? Do they not want to be rid of this war, too?’
‘I have my doubts, Elizabeth, I really do.’
Shortland’s hair was now higher than ever. ‘What is stitched into all the flags in all the prisons here? What do you see written on the walls when you do your rounds, Dr Magrath?’
‘“Free trade and sailors’ rights” is the usual one,’ said the physician.
‘Precisely!’ cried Shortland. ‘They’ll get their trade, but there is nothing in Ghent about sailors’ rights, no mention of impressment. The first reason President Madison gave for the war was the Navy snatching Americans, forcing them to work on our ships. On this singular issue, the peace treaty is silent. I fear Congress may not ratify.’
There was silence in the dining room. The men lit pipes and Elizabeth took to spinning her wooden box between her fingers.
‘In which case, Thomas, I fear for the future,’ she said. ‘There is an easier humour in the blocks since the announcement. In spite of the cold and the sickness, you can hear them sing most days. They dance, too, sometimes. They seem to have hope once more.’
‘Piffle,’ said Shortland. ‘They dance and sing because they are drunk. That is the end of it.’
Dr Magrath eased his chair back and, clasping his stick, pushed his body upright.
‘If I may, Captain Shortland, I believe you are both correct. The gaiety is fuelled by alcohol, of course, but it may, in time, also fuel anger. And it will be us who are on the receiving end of that anger. Your militias may well come under extreme provocation. They need to be ready.’
Shortland gripped his pipe between his teeth, inhaled deeply then blew smoke at the chandelier. His lips pursed.
‘I have lost Major Joliffe to the palsy, as you know. I have two guard commanders who are doing their best. We are all doing our best. Your advice on military matters is always … an education.’ He got to his feet and marched from the room.
Magrath and Elizabeth stood and faced each other across the table. She smiled briefly then held up her hand for quiet. In the silence, they listened to him walk to his office and slam the door. She walked around the table and, as she drew alongside a bewildered Magrath, kissed him full on the mouth. He recoiled, pulling away and glancing at the open dining-room door.
‘Are you mad?’ he spluttered.
She waited for the shock to subside. ‘He’ll be some time,’ she whispered. ‘At least half a bottle’s worth.’
Magrath exhaled slowly. ‘My heartbeat is out of control, Elizabeth.’ He reached for his chair, needing its support. ‘How can you be so … so … daring?’ She put a finger to her lips, placed her legs either side of his and kissed him again. This time, she held him in place until they were both breathless.