January 1799
It is the evening of Queen Charlotte’s Birth Day Ball, and the Russells pick up the Whites in their sleigh for the short ride to Government House. The big white horse called Beau is in harness with a fine grey mare, and there is a black driver in livery whom Russell addresses as “Mundy.”
“Quite a stylish rig, Russell,” White says.
“Governor Simcoe insisted that I have a sleigh, a cariole, and a wagon. They go with the position of Administrator, he told me. Too bad, though, that I have still not been reimbursed by the Colonial Office, but I am in hopes that all will be settled when His Excellency returns to his post.”
Not bloody likely you’ll ever see the Gov again. Or hear from the Colonial Office either. But he makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.
The large room in Government House, where the legislature meets each summer, has been set up this evening as a dining room. Sideboards and tables are splendidly covered with hundreds of candles that catch the sparkle of the starched linen, the wine glasses, and the fine Coalport china. Menservants—White recognizes several soldiers from the garrison hired for the occasion—stand about awaiting instructions from the steward.
Fashions inspired by the French Revolution seem to be the rage among the women of the town this year. Gone are the hoops and overskirts and huge hairstyles of yesteryear. Now the party gowns are sheer muslin gauze with low-cut necklines that show pretty bosoms to advantage. White stands for a moment at the doorway of the room admiring the offerings on display.
He notices Betsy Small swanning about with Mrs. Elmsley. To be the bosom companion—there is surely a play on words here—of the wife of the Chief Justice is no doubt the crowning achievement of her sojourn in York. As she comes close to him, she pauses to point at something or other on the far side of the room. Then she sweeps in front of him, drawing up her skirts at the front to show off the slender ankles that are one of her main attractions and no doubt to remind him of what he has lost. For a moment, in spite of himself, he wants to take off her pink slippers and run his fingers up to the top of her elegant legs—and beyond.
“Like the new fashions, do you, White?” a voice from behind him says, cutting through his reverie. Turning around, he sees Peter Russell’s cousin, William Willcocks, at his shoulder. He can feel the man’s warm, fetid breath on his cheek, and his remarks have been loud enough that Mrs. Small has turned her head to laugh.
“You are looking mighty fine tonight, Mrs. White,” Willcocks says to Marianne. She dips a very proper curtsy and White feels satisfied the evening will go well. He hopes the Small woman has heard the compliment to his wife. He is pleased to note that Marianne can hold her own with La Belle Small. She does not have the woman’s slender feet, but her tiny waist and ample bosom are shown to advantage in the tight bodice of her new gown. He tries to put aside his concern about the expense of the silk which he allowed her to buy at auction at M’Dougal’s Tavern. That blow to his pocketbook was followed by the bill of the local German dressmaker who sews a fine seam—and no doubt feeds upon strawberries, sugar, and cream.
“If only my cousin’s sister could rig herself out in something decent,” Willcocks continues, pointing at Miss Russell who is standing at the edge of the crowd, blessedly out of earshot. Her dress is a sombre grey with a high neck ruff, but she has added a pretty dark-red paisley shawl.
“I believe Miss Russell looks very well,” White tells the man.
“Balderdash and bunkum,” Willcocks replies, “she looks like a witch about to get on her broomstick.” He picks at his nose. “But it’s the money that counts, is it not? The woman has a small fortune in land grants her brother has given her, so I hear. I’d be interested in improving our acquaintance if it weren’t for the marital burden I already carry. But a good cholera epidemic might change everything.” He gives a snort of laughter and turns away to grab at a glass of shrub being passed by one of the soldiers.
If only I could tell Russell about the filth this cousin of his spews forth. Can he not at least be polite to Miss Russell, knowing that his promotions to magistrate and postmaster and all his land grants have come to him through Russell’s influence?
“Come, husband,” Marianne says, tugging at his sleeve. “I want to dance.”
“Later. Right now, let’s get some of that food.”
Russell knows how to order a good spread. No squirrels anywhere. There is excellent whitefish, a vegetable curry, pork roast and gravy, venison, mincemeat tart, cherries in syrup, and imported Stilton cheese.
He heaps his plate again and again, trying not to hear Marianne’s repeated cries of “Oh please, let us go now and dance.”
At last he lays down his plate and ushers her into the adjoining room where the musicians from the garrison are striking up a country dance. There he leaves her with Miss Russell while he departs for the card-room where he intends to indulge himself in hot Madeira and several rounds of whist.
His partner is inevitably David Smith who will not dance because he is still in mourning for his wife. Although he wanted to avoid the man, he knows Smith is a canny player, and they manage to make five shillings each.
He is about to embark on another round when he hears a fiddler in the music room strike up the familiar strains of “Ae fond kiss and then we sever.” For a moment he is transported back to a tavern in London where he sang the song to Marianne before leaving for Upper Canada. Though he had been glad to “sever” from her then, they had both cried. Perhaps it had been the wine they had drunk or the poignancy of the words . . .
Those words are now lilting back into his ears. He moves to the door to listen, wondering who in this room possesses such a lovely voice.
It is Marianne. She is standing in the middle of the little orchestra in her pretty gown, singing the words that made him cry all those years ago and which are having the same effect on him now. It’s not the wine this time—he is still sober—it’s the knowledge that perhaps they must again part if he is to survive in this world.
The song ends. Marianne smiles, evidently happy with her success, and for a moment White is proud and happy, too. He goes towards her, takes her hand, and goes onto the dance floor as the orchestra sounds the opening chords of “Sir Roger de Coverley.”
“I knew that you had a pleasant voice, my dear. But your performance tonight had a professional quality that I have not until now been aware of.”
“Please, husband, spare me your condescension. When you left me alone with that jailer of a nanny, I had to do something or I would have gone barmy. Your sister arranged for me to have singing lessons with an Italian tenor from Covent Garden. And you do not need to harp on the expense. Your brother-in-law paid for it all.” She seems keen to start another squabble, so when the dance is over, he leaves her again with Miss Russell and returns to the whist table.
There’s a supper at midnight, a tasty repast of cold tongue, roast chicken, meat pies, and bonbons. Marianne is quiet. Her eyes are red. She picks at her food and leaves most of it on her plate. Probably tired.
It’s past two o’clock when he and Marianne and the Russells come out the front door of Government House to find Mundy waiting for them, the sleigh firmly planted at the end of the walkway so they do not have to leap into snowdrifts like several other departing guests. There is a crescent moon over the lake, and the horses’ breaths mist into the fresh, cold air.
As they pull the bearskins over themselves, Miss Russell says, “It was an elegant entertainment, dear Peter. I be mighty proud of you. And of you, too, Mrs. White. I did not know until this evening you had such a pretty voice. We must for certain arrange some evening entertainments at which you can give us a dollop or two more of your talent.”
In his corner of the sleigh, White waits for Marianne to respond to the compliment. Instead from under the pile of bearskins comes the unmistakeable sound of sobbing.
Russell and his sister seem embarrassed, and Russell breaks the moment with a comment about the evening’s breakages. “Four goblets and two Coalport plates,” he says, “replacement value ten shillings.”
White makes a commiserating comment, and the moment’s awkwardness passes. The Russells drop them at their house before turning around to drive back to their own fine dwelling.
Marianne and he have barely closed the door behind them when she pounds on his chest, face bright red and eyes streaming. “She called me Cinderella. S-s-said I should have stayed by the hearth and not come to the ball. And the other one laughed.”
“Who? Who called you names? Who laughed?”
“Mrs. S-S-Small,” she sobs. “And Mrs. Elm-Elm-sley thought it a fine joke.”
Whatever is behind this little piece of cruelty from that bitch? I’ll deal with it when I can. At the moment, though, I haven’t the strength. “Go to bed, Marianne. Things look better in the morning.”
He lies awake listening to her snuffles on the other side of the bed. Eventually she falls asleep, but when the morning sun finds its way through the window, he is still awake. Breakages indeed. Forget the goblets and the china and concentrate on the destructive tittle-tattle of these women. A passel of Lilliputians mired in petty concerns, that’s what they are. And he’s Gulliver, baffled and confounded by the small tyrannies, the wholly illogical issues that consume the denizens of this frozen little world.