Chapter Forty-One

 

 

August 1799

For a moment John White has no idea where he is. Then he sees Mrs. Page standing by his bed, looking down at him. She has a pot of tea in her hand. He must have been asleep though there is light streaming through the window. He tries to sort it all out while she sets the teapot on the bureau and hands him a cloth which she has just soaked in water from the pitcher on the wash stand.

“You will want to wipe the sweat from your face, sir. You were screaming, ‘I hate you, I hate you’ in a most fearsome manner, and I became alarmed and took the liberty of entering your bedchamber.”

“What time is it?”

“Three in the afternoon. My girls are napping in our cabin, and your sons are at school. I was in the kitchen making some Scotch eggs for supper when I heard your screams.”

“But why am I here in bed? Why am I not at the court house?”

“You have been tired, sir, since you took the mistress and the children to Quebec. You have been falling asleep at all hours.”

And now he remembers. What does one call a nightmare that comes in mid-afternoon?

The quay at Quebec. Marianne and Ellen boarding the Triton for the trip back to England. Him standing on the wharf with William and Charles while Ellen shouts from the stern of the ship over the rustling of the wind in the rigging. “I hate you, Papa. I hate you.”

He begins to cry.

Mrs. Page pulls the rocking chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed. Then she sits down in it. “Please, Mr. White, I’m here to listen if you want to tell me anything. As I told you, there is no one in the house except us two. And I will repeat nothing of what you tell me.”

“I am so bereft . . .”

She waits for him to say more, her worn but pretty face turned towards him. And suddenly, it all spills out, the whole wretched sorry mess of the departure from his life, forever, of the wife he once loved and the daughter he still loves.

“I had to get rid of my wife, or I might have done something violent. Dear Miss Russell wanted me to keep the children here in York. She offered to look after them while I took Mrs. White to Quebec to catch the sailing vessel for England. But my wife would not leave York without them, and so we all travelled to Quebec. I cannot put words to the horror of that trip, my children crying day and night, and Mrs. White cold and sullen through it all. At Quebec, I purchased four passages on the Triton and reminded her of the financial arrangements I had made. She was to have one hundred and fifty pounds a year, one half my designated salary as Attorney-General. I had told her this before, mind you, and she had agreed to it.

“‘I cannot raise three children on that paltry amount,’ she told me as she was about to board the Triton. And right there on the quay, she grabbed Ellen and dragged her up the ramp. ‘Keep the boys,’ she told me, ‘and may a curse fall upon you.’”

I will tell no one what she really said to me, the vile accusations she spat at me as she forced Ellen onto that ship. I can only pray the boys did not understand the venom of her words. They were so happy to stay with me that they may not have listened or cared. But Ellen must have understood what she said and perhaps she believed it.

“Surely you cannot blame yourself for the mistress’s anger. She knew the terms. She was the one who agreed to those terms and then insisted on leaving your sons behind with you.”

“Yes, but Ellen’s words are burned into my soul. ‘I hate you, Papa.’ Can a father ever forget that?”

“She did not understand the ins and outs of it all.”

“That is perhaps true. But I shall never see my little girl again. Never can I explain to her how I love her, how I wanted her with me always, how if her mother had left her with Charles and William there on the quay, my life would be bearable with my children beside me, but now . . .” He starts to sob again.

Mrs. Page gets up from the rocking chair, pours fresh water from the pitcher into the wash bowl, then holds it under his chin while he rinses the tears from his face.

“Can I get you tea now, sir?”

“No tea, thank you.”

I don’t know how to tell her what I really need.

Seconds pass while Mrs. Page opens the window and throws the water from the wash bowl down on the garden beneath the window. She turns back, sits down again in the rocking chair and says, “Shall I stay then?”

“Please.” He reaches out with both hands in a gesture of entreaty and pulls her towards him. “Please.”

She smiles. “We have perhaps half an hour, sir.” She goes to the bedroom door, slides the bolt into place and turns back. She takes off her shoes and, fully clothed, climbs into bed beside him.

He turns towards her, and she moves close so that her body fits snug against his. Her skin smells of the lavender sachets she has put into every room of the house. Through her dress, he feels her breasts, small and firm, and though he has no strength left in him to do more than hold her close, the warmth of her sympathy invades his being and gives him, for a few moments at least, surcease of sorrow.