January 1799
Marianne comes into the withdrawing room and hands her husband a letter. “I have written to your sister,” she says. “Please affix a seal, and see that it gets overland to New York in time to catch a packet boat to England.”
She looks at the case clock. “I must see to my gown for tomorrow’s festivities. What a lark!” She laughs as she leaves the room.
She is in a merry mood for a change. Queen Charlotte’s Birth Day Ball is to be held tomorrow, and she looks forward to the excitement of an evening out. He has agreed to go. It will be held at Government House, and there will be no rent to which he must contribute for a room in a tavern. Subscription balls are à la mode here, and usually in addition to the rent, he must donate several bottles of wine and a cold dish or two to the festivities. But Peter Russell has told him that the cost of the ball tonight will be borne by the government.
He takes the letter Marianne has given him, folds it, and reaches for the wax. But he is curious to see what news she is sending to his sister. He unfolds the letter and reads it. The first two paragraphs are the usual inconsequential blatherings about her life here. Then he comes to the last paragraph.
Dear Elizabeth, I ask you to send by earliest post a fashionable bonnet and also whatever is most worn around the waist now.
The impertinence of the woman to think that there is money to spare for frippery! He throws the letter on the fire. He will say nothing to her. Packet boats go down regularly, especially in these winter months, and if she gets no answer, she will assume her letter is at the bottom of the sea.
He must at all costs avoid a quarrel which will bring on the headaches that plague him. Best he should go this night to the garrison and enjoy some rum punch. Perhaps he will be able to avoid David Smith, now Surveyor-General, who last night induced him to drink nearly a bottle of port and two bottles of porter. Smith’s beautiful, rich wife has recently died, and the man seeks him out for company and solace. At least that’s what I tell myself: that my drinking with Smith may be excused because the man needs my company.
Last night’s fit of indulgence was in part brought on by the sight of Justice Powell, large as life, telling a lewd joke at a table in the Mess. The judge seemed thoroughly cured of the shakes and sweats of his ague. He greeted White with warmth, explaining that Miss Russell’s bark remedy had been efficacious in promoting his recovery.
Soon after that piece of news, White went with Smith to the bar and drank away the rest of the evening.
But at least that wretched letter I almost sent lies in a pile of ashes. I have risen above the worst of the ignominy that besets me.
Ellen is in the hallway with his stock in her hand. She knit it for him for Christmas. “Pull it up over your nose, Papa, when the wind blows off the lake. See?” She puts it over her own neck and pulls it up to demonstrate.
He laughs and pinches her cheek. Miss Russell seems to like the child and has shown her how to knit. As he pulls it over his head and adjusts it around his chin, he feels the warmth of the lambs wool and the comfort of Ellen’s solicitude.
Marianne accosts him as he is donning his greatcoat. “Oh, husband, pray do not wear that powdered wig. Your hair is so abundant, and no fashionable man in London has worn such a wig for several years.”
She is always harping on London fashions. But he is glad to oblige her in this instance. The wig is itchy, and he will be relieved of the expense of having it cleaned weekly at the barber’s. As he takes it off, she wraps herself into the front of his greatcoat and snuggles against him.
Things should go well later if I can just keep myself sober enough to enjoy her warm body. “Do not go to bed too early, my dear,” he says, winking at her when he notices Ellen’s attention straying to the location of his gloves on the shelf of the wardrobe.
In the next minute, William and Charles have also come to the front door to see him off. He notices their wind-burned cheeks. “You have been out on the bay today, boys?” The Russells often take his sons out in their cariole on the ice, and they enjoy the wild rides behind Beau and the upsets into the snowbanks lining the icy path the settlers and the Indians have made.
“Not Mr. Russell today, Papa!” says William. “We went fox-hunting with Sam Jarvis and his papa. It was so much fun, wasn’t it, Charlie?”
Charles nods and smiles. Both the boys’ cheeks are round and red as apples.
Since Idiot Jarvis and his bitch of a wife have finally resettled themselves in York, they have sought “to bring new diversions to the inhabitants of this wretched place,” as Jarvis wrote in a letter to the editor of one of the town’s newspapers, Well, so be it. It’s none of his concern. He and the Jarvises scarcely speak since he now does most of Jarvis’s work and collects—at Russell’s insistence—half the fees that used to go to the lazy bugger.
His sons don’t need to know about any of this, at least from him. No doubt the town gossips will spread the word soon enough. “I’d like to hear about your fox hunt,” he says now as he fastens his wool coat.
It’s William who tells the tale of the fox taken in a bag out upon the bay and then set loose with the hounds unleashed to run it down, followed by the concourse of gentlemen on horseback and families in carioles and sleighs.
“Hoicks! Hoicks!” Charles yells.
Though he is glad to hear Charles’s enthusiasm, White has no idea what he’s talking about. William explains, “It’s what Mr. Jarvis and Sam yelled as we chased after Mr. Reynard. We yelled it, too.”
“Hoicks! Hoicks! Hoicks!” Both boys are now screaming.
“Off you go, Papa,” says Ellen, “before my dear little brothers blast your eardrums to bits. They’re worse than the cannons.”
He walks out into his front yard. It’s a full moon, and the air is still. He looks back. Marianne, Ellen, and the boys stand in the lighted doorway waving.