June 1799
Eliza Russell scarce knows what to do with the unhappy children seated at her kitchen table. Job has put before them his fresh-baked apple spice cake and glasses of milk from their farm to the north of the town, but they have not touched anything.
“We don’t want to go back to London,” Ellen is saying, “I want to stay here. I don’t know why Papa is so angry with Mama, but he says she must go, and she says she won’t go without us. What are we to do?”
“I want to stay here, too,” William says. “We want to look at these wigglies under Mr. Russell’s microscope.” He points to a pail of strange swimming creatures he and his brother have brought with them this morning and set under the kitchen table. “Polliwogs,” he tells her they are called, and they gathered them from the swamp at the edge of the bay.
“I hate London, I hate it, I hate it,” Charles shouts, pounding on the table and upsetting his glass of milk.
“Lordy, Lordy, children, what am I to do?” Eliza says, as she wipes up the mess. “Have you talked to your Papa?”
“Yes, and he won’t listen to anything we say.” Ellen puts her head down on the table and starts to cry.
“Would things be the better if I spoke to your Papa?”
“Oh, Miss Russell, would you?” The girl sits up and wipes her eyes.
“Let me see what I can do.”
Of a sudden, the three of them are up and flourishing. They drink their milk and eat their cake. William stirs the water in the pail with his hand, seeming to be pleased with the feel of the creatures on his fingers. “This one is getting little legs on it. Look, Miss Russell.”
She can scarce keep herself from shrieking as he thrusts the thing towards her. But she manages a smile, mighty pleased that the children have stopped crying.
“Come back tonight, and Mr. Russell will be here to look at them with you. And Ellen, you and I must get to that reticule and finish it. Sometime in the next day or two, I will ready myself and talk to your Papa.”
As they troop out the back door, she wonders how she is to manage. Never come between a husband and wife. She learned that long ago when she complained to her father about her mother’s craziness, and he slammed her against a wall and broke her nose. Thank the Lord for dear Peter who took me away from all of it.
* * *
It’s two o’clock. Peter is late for dinner. Job has made a cream soup from the peas in their garden, and there’s beef brisket and the left-over apple spice cake. She’s hoping that while she and her brother are eating the cake, she will have an opportunity to hear his views on what Mr. White plans for his wife and children. Mrs. White is a hare-brain, but he chose the woman, doubtless for her breasts, not her brain. She gets herself into a pet thinking of the stupidity of men in this world, her brother being an exception. And yet she likes Mr. White. He has proved himself a good friend. She remembers his kindness to Mary, and to her, when she lost her darling child.
She watches for her brother from the dining-room window while Job fusses to keep things hot on the kitchen hearth. At last, she sees him come through their fine gate. But he is not alone. Mr. White is with him. And for certain, there is something amiss. The two of them are leaning on each other, as if to walk down the path is too much for them. What in tarnation is wrong?
She looks out again. Peter’s face is wet as if he has been crying. Mr. White’s face is pale, and he, who is always so dapper, has one button undone on his flap. That puts her to the blush. Lordy, what am I to do? She calls to Peggy, “See to the front door, woman.” Then she runs to the kitchen where Job has just taken a soup tureen from the shelf.
“Job, Job, you must help me. Mr. White has come for dinner with your master. And he . . . he . . . has one button undone on his flap. You must find some way of telling him.”
“I shall, ma’am.”
Back into the hallway she goes to greet the men. “Good day, Mr. White. I am mighty pleased that you have come with my brother for dinner. Now sit you down. All is ready and waiting.”
As the men go into the dining room, she sees Job do as he was bid. He whispers something in Mr. White’s ear, and a moment later, he has buttoned himself, thank the Lord. Now she must find what is wrong with the two of them.
Job serves the soup from the tureen and goes to the kitchen. Eliza watches her brother lift a spoonful to his mouth, then set the spoon down with a clatter. Mr. White is staring into his bowl. He has not even picked up his spoon.
“It be too hot, brother?”
“It is undoubtedly fine soup, but I cannot eat, sister. I have had bad news this day from England.”
“His Excellency has died?”
Peter’s eyes fill with tears that spill down his cheeks onto his chin. He takes the napkin and mops his face.
“It be bad, brother, but he has been ill. And though we must not seek comfort from a good man’s death, at least now you will be the better for it. You are now the Governor of Upper Canada, and a good thing it be for everyone.”
There is utter silence. What is this to-do all about?
Mr. White has such a furrow in his brow she fears he will soon have one of his nosebleeds. His voice, when he speaks, is so quiet that she leans forward to hear him.
“Your brother, ma’am, is not, nor will be, Governor.”
“Not Governor? What has happened, sir?”
“Colonel Simcoe has not died, but he is not returning to Upper Canada. The Colonial Office has now made some British bastard—I do not regret my language—Governor. His name is Hunter. He will be arriving in August.”
“But my brother—” She turns towards Peter. “You, my dear Peter, you have done all the work in this place for years. You have established roads in all directions, you have set new boundaries for the town, you have—”
“All this and more, sister. But what do they care, those uppity Brits? We have seen Elmsley take the position my good friend here should have had. And now they send a simpleton who knows nothing about our world here—”
“Whose chief qualification for the position is that he once put down an Irish rebellion by impaling the heads of three men on spikes over the door of a court house . . . Oh, Miss Russell, when I consider the disdain of His Majesty’s government for fair play, I want to rise up and say ‘To hell with it all.’ Life is unsupportable.”
Eliza rings for Job. “Please remove the soup. Excellent it be, but we have no appetite. Bring in some rum punch.”
The punch arrives, and she watches her brother and Mr. White fill their glasses. Then she rises, puts her arms around her brother’s shoulders and kisses his cheek. “Good day to you, Mr. White,” she adds, clasping her friend’s hand in hers. “We are all undone. I leave you to drink your punch. You be the better for it, I hope.”
She stands in the hallway for a few minutes listening. Eventually she hears the murmur of voices. If they can talk to each other, friend to friend, perhaps there will be some solace for Peter. She herself will find ways to comfort him. Tonight in his bedchamber, she will hold him in her arms until he falls asleep.
And she must somehow find a way to talk to Mr. White about his wife and children. This day is not the day. But soon, in spite of all that has come upon them, she must firm herself up and speak out.
I be scarce ready for these trials and tribulations. But oh Lord, I commit myself to doing what I can.