The same evening, September 1798
White must acknowledge that Marianne is the best-looking woman in the withdrawing room. Her muslin gown criss-crossed with ribbons shows perhaps too much of her fine bosom, but she makes Mrs. Powell and Mrs. Elmsley look positively frumpy. Dear Miss Russell has tried to enhance her severe black gown with a necklace of agates, but her red-rimmed eyes bespeak some inner sorrow. With a pang, White remembers that this day marks an anniversary of Mary’s death. I must come over tomorrow with some fall flowers from my garden.
Marianne’s shrill laugh over something Mrs. Elmsley has said grates on his ears. True, he enjoyed that fine bosom for a week or two when she first arrived in York. But now her silliness drives him mad. In sober moments, he faces the fact that he used to like silly women, especially pretty ones—as paramours, that is. Why did I make one of them a permanent part of my life?
But tonight is a harmless way to give her the society she craves and keep her from plaguing him with her complaints. Miss Russell is a kind woman, warm-hearted and devoted to her brother. Mrs. Powell and Mrs. Elmsley are the crème de la crème of their muddy York world. Surely here in this withdrawing room Marianne can find society of irreproachable quality.
And indeed, since they have come for the past two weeks to hear Russell read from Gulliver’s Travels, Marianne has appeared to take great delight in the adventures of Gulliver in Lilliput. She has laughed unaffectedly at the description of the Lilliputians taking Gulliver’s measurements with a rule of an inch in length, and at their protracted and bitter parliamentary wars over which end of the egg should be broken. She has even appeared to understand the satire of the Big Endians and the Little Endians.
Now, at this, the third evening of reading, White relaxes in a comfortable armchair and waits for Russell to begin.
“Tonight we shall start the voyage to Brobdingnag,” Russell announces. “It contains some of my favourite passages.” And mine, especially Swift’s description of the nursemaid’s monstrous breast and nipple.
Then Marianne’s voice breaks into his reverie. “But surely, Mr. Russell, we have not finished all of Lilliput?”
“Indeed, ma’am, we finished last Thursday.”
“But you did not read one of the best parts, sir!”
Russell’s face grows red. White watches the effort with which he plants a smile on his doughy face. “I assure you I did not miss a word.” He lays the book down on the table next his chair and rises to throw another log on the fire.
While he is doing this, Marianne grabs up the volume and riffles through the pages. “Here it is,” she announces to the gathering, “Mr. Russell has forgotten to read us the passages about the fire at the Emperor’s palace.”
Elmsley hooks his thumbs into his waistcoat and laughs. “Vir in mare excidit!”
Russell has returned to his chair. “Confound it, Elmsley, speak the King’s English. Nescio de quo loqueris!”
Good man, he has actually remembered the Latin phrase I gave him weeks ago when we first met Elmsley in the Niagara tavern. But White himself knows what Elmsley has just said. It’s “Man overboard!” And it exactly sums up the moment that is surely about to happen.
Russell now stretches out his hand towards Marianne, no doubt expecting her to hand over the book. But she ignores the gesture. This is her chance to impress the Elmsleys, and she intends to make the most of it. She will show everyone, by God, that she too is a scholar.
Keeping her finger in the open book, she continues. “It’s so funny. We must not miss it. The Lilliputian palace is ablaze. The little people are labouring mightily to put out the fire. But their pails are the size of a thimble and the flames are growing. So Gulliver, having drunk plentifully that evening, pisses upon the blaze and extinguishes it in seconds.”
There is an intake of breath around the room. Only Elmsley laughs and repeats, “Didn’t I sum it up a minute ago? Vir in mare excidit!” Miss Russell, very red in the face, makes a hasty exit to the dining room. Powell, who seems to have picked up a fever during a trip to Boston, mops his brow. Mrs. Powell shakes her head and one of her tight little curls pops out from under the gold fillets that bind her hair. Mrs. Elmsley’s jaw is agape.
“And does Gulliver receive any thanks for this act of kindness?” Marianne continues, never one to let well enough alone. “No indeed. The empress is upset because, you see”—here she erupts in giggles—“the Lilliputians have issued an edict stating that it is a capital offence to make water within the royal precincts.”
In the silence that follows this sally, Elmsley asks, “Do tell us, dear madam, how came you to read the elevating incident you have just related?”
“Why, it was my husband’s book,” she says, turning her head now and addressing him. “Mr. White, you recall the volume you were reading when you set sail for Canada? You left it behind in the withdrawing room, and I read it. And mightily amusing it was, I assure you.”
“Let us go into the dining room now,” Miss Russell says, standing in the doorway. “Time for some victuals, and then my brother will begin his reading.”
They follow her towards the platters of cheese and gingerbread which the maid Peggy has set out on the walnut table. “Rum punch for everyone,” Miss Russell says, “but for Mr. White, I have his special treat.” She gestures towards a small bowl. “Syllabub!”
In the clatter of saucers and the clinking of glasses, the awkward moments in the withdrawing room dissipate. But White knows that the tea tables of York will be abuzz on the morrow.