Samuel Shepherd practises law at Lincoln’s Inn in the tree-lined inner sanctum of the Inns of Court. As John White climbs the wide walnut staircase to the second floor where Shepherd has his offices, he is forced to contrast his brother-in-law’s success as a barrister with his own abysmal failure. Damnit, my marks at law school were as good as Sam’s. He remembers being lauded for his “elegant and precise” writing.
But Sam has been blessed with good fortune. For one thing, he made a sensible marriage. He didn’t allow himself to be smitten by a beautiful face and a bounteous bosom. And then, too, he has been fortunate in having captured the praise of Lord Mansfield, former Lord Speaker of the House of Commons. Sometimes it’s who you know that makes the difference between success and failure in this world.
Sam’s secretary, a pompous old gent named Wilkins who rules the roost in the outer office, makes White sit and wait. It’s a comfortable chair, yes, but it faces six engraved copperplate prints of Hogarth’s “Marriage-à-la-mode” on the walnut-panelled wall opposite. While the pictures do not exactly reflect the specific messes of his and Marianne’s marriage, they sum up its unhappiness all too well. White feels his head begin to pound.
A door opens, and his brother-in-law appears. “John,” he says, coming forward and grasping White’s hand. “Got your note this morning, and I’m sorry to hear our scheme with Rippon fizzled.” He glances at the secretary who appears to be hanging on each word. “Come in, come in, where we can talk privately.”
In the inner office, the door shut firmly against Wilkins, Sam puts his arm around White and pulls him close. “Don’t worry about Rippon, old man,” he says. “It was a stupid idea. You’re not meant to be a clergyman. You’re a barrister, and a damn good one, too. I’ve got a perfect idea for you.”
White feels the tears start behind his eyes. Why does he deserve a friend like this? He takes the armchair opposite Sam’s big mahogany desk.
Sam moves to the chair behind the desk and pulls out a folder from a top drawer. “It’s all here,” he says, “just what you want. My friend William Osgoode told me about it yesterday. John Graves Simcoe has just been made Lieutenant-Governor of Upper Canada. Simcoe has appointed Osgoode as Chief Justice, but he still needs an Attorney-General.” Sam pauses. His prominent eyebrows arch over his eyes, and he stares, it seems, directly into White’s soul. “You are it.”
“It?”
“Yes, old man, you will be the Attorney-General of the newly established Province of Upper Canada.” He takes a letter from the folder and pushes it across to Sam. “Read this. I wrote it this morning as soon as I got your note about Rippon.”
Lincoln’s Inn, September 8
My dear Osgoode:
This letter has two purposes. First, to offer my heartfelt congratulation on your appointment as Chief Justice to Upper Canada. Second, to entreat your intercession with Colonel John Graves Simcoe on behalf of my brother-in-law, John White, Esquire.
Mr. White is a person of liberal education and correct understanding. His character is without reproach. He is well established in his profession, having studied at the Inner Temple. He was admitted to the bar in 1785 and worked as an attorney in Jamaica before re-establishing himself in this city.
I know that Colonel Simcoe needs an Attorney-General to support his new government of the Province of Upper Canada. Let me heartily recommend Mr. White.
Yours faithfully,
Sam Shepherd
“It’s a fine letter,” White says, “offering me everything I could want.” He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face and eyes. He looks down at the letter again. “But I can’t do it.”
“You’re turning this down? I don’t believe it. It’s your big opportunity to start over.”
“It’s Marianne and the children. I can’t . . . take them with me to a new world. Why, Marianne can scarcely cope in this world. You know the woman. You know what she is—”
“I’ve thought about her, old man. My wife and I will keep an eye on her and the little ones. You will go to this new world alone. You will get yourself established. Your salary will be three hundred pounds a year, a substantial income in those dark forests beyond the sea. When you are ready, you will send for Marianne and your family.” Sam pauses. He stands up, reaches across the expanse of his desk and retrieves the letter. “Wilkins will make a copy of this. You will show it to Marianne and make clear to her what you intend.”
“Dammit, Sam, it’s crazy and wonderful what you do for me. But you don’t know everything about my wife. She has an opium habit. She goes out at night unsupervised. She—”
“I know what she is. But there is a solution. My old governess needs work. I’ve been paying her a pension in recognition of what she did for me when I was a youngster, but she feels guilt in accepting it. Now I’ll put it to her. Ask her to go to your quarters here in London, live in with your family, and keep an eye on everything.” Sam laughs, the white cravat at his neck bobbing up and down over his Adam’s apple. “Believe me, nothing untoward will go on while Nanny is in charge.”
White feels hope wash over him, wiping out his worries and drowning him in waves of happiness. He moves around the desk and embraces his friend.
* * *
Next morning, at breakfast, he hands Marianne a copy of the letter he read in Sam’s office. The mantel clock ticks, ticks, ticks while Marianne reads the letter, her mouth framing the words. At last, with a trembling hand, she sets it down beside her plate.
“You will take this position if it is offered, husband?”
“Yes.”
“But what are we to do, me and the little ones?” Marianne’s voice is shrill.
“You will stay here in England. There will be a stipend to live on, but not enough for suppers of sucking-pig and gooseberry pasty, or bottles of laudanum. My sister and Sam will keep an eye on you. And there will be a live-in governess for the children. If you can manage to behave yourself, I shall ask you and the children to join me in Upper Canada in a few years hence. Perhaps there we can make a new start.”
He throws down his napkin, stands up, and moves towards the door of the breakfast room. A plate crashes on the wall beside the oak-panelled portal, spattering egg on his coat and narrowly missing his head. He exits, holding his hands to his ears to shut out Marianne’s screeches.