Still later, January 2, 1800
It is late afternoon when he arrives at the Russells’ grand house, feeling thankful he has not had to meet anyone familiar en route. The snow has fortunately kept most people indoors.
Miss Russell answers the front door herself. “Mr. White, you be a-coming just in time to enjoy some fine brandy shrub that Job has made. Dear Peter, as you may know, is absent today in Markham firming up some land grants that be gone awry.”
Well yes, I did know that. It’s the very reason I took this hour to call.
As they walk through the hallway to the warmth of the kitchen, he sees the servant Peggy sitting at the head of the dining-room table, hands folded. When she catches sight of them, she grabs the feather duster in front of her and makes a swooping motion with it across the top of the table. Miss Russell observes it all and sighs.
In the kitchen, White lets Job serve him the shrub in a glass. Its vinegar flavour is sharp but it does not overpower the cherry syrup and brandy, and he nods approval at the servant.
Remembering then the import of his visit, he adds, “I must speak to you alone for a few minutes, Miss Russell.”
Job leaves, closing the kitchen door that leads into the hallway. They are now safe from Peggy’s ears. White holds his drink up in front of him. “It is strange that I am enjoying this so much, Miss Russell. It may be my last glass of shrub.”
“What in tarnation are you saying?”
“I have agreed to fight a duel with John Small at daybreak tomorrow behind the Parliament Buildings. He has heard the gossip I spread at the subscription ball about his wife, and he intends to teach me a lesson, a serious lesson, perhaps with a bullet lodged in my heart.”
She, who seldom drinks liquor, now pours herself a large glass of shrub and takes it down at a gulp. “I am quite undone by this news, sir. You . . . you . . . have always spoke out against such stupidity. I know not what to do or say.” The shrub appears to come back up into her throat and she belches and wipes her face.
“Dear Miss Russell, I beg you will listen to me and try to understand. I am struggling myself to understand my motives for this stupidity, as you rightly call it. Perhaps if I can talk to you I can sort it out. I have no one but you who will listen, no one but you who can offer solace, you surely know that.”
She pushes the punch bowl of shrub away and folds her hands on her lap. “Forgive me, please. If you be the better for speaking, then speak.”
He scarcely knows where to begin. He cannot remember how much his friend knows. He sits in silence, trying to find a means of unravelling it all to her. He looks down at his glass of shrub, afraid to meet her gaze.
But her quiet voice gives him an opening. “For certain, Mr. Small knew the story of his wife’s amours long before he came to this new world. Did not the English lord pay him to take her away? For certain, it is not to defend her honour that he be issuing this challenge.”
“You are right, of course. But why, then, did he do it?”
“That be the question, sir.”
“Perhaps to make himself look honourable. ‘I love the name of honour more than I fear death.’ That was what he wrote on the challenge.”
“And all the big wigs in this place will be mighty impressed with a man who stands by his woman, no matter how much she has put him to the blush.”
“That’s it, of course. Whatever the outcome, there will be a trial and Mrs. Small’s liaisons, far and wide, will be the principal subject of that trial, but she will not signify. It will be he who will receive the accolades of an honourable man.”
“And you, Mr. White, you will bear the brunt of it. You will be the villain.”
“Yes. In telling that sordid gossip to Smith, I had hoped only to get back at the bitch for the nasty things she said to my wife. Now it seems I have played into Small’s hands, given him an opportunity to show himself as an honourable man.”
One more failure in this life of mine. One more reason to put an end to it all.
“I can scarce understand, sir, why you be saying ‘yes’ to this fight.”
“Because . . . because I . . . want to cross from Life into Death.” There, I’ve said the words that have been in my heart and soul for these last few hours.
He waits for her reproof, but she says nothing. The clock above the hearth mantel punctuates the silence with its relentless ticks. He stares at the dregs in his glass.
Then comes her gentle voice. “I understand, sir, how a body can wish for an end to this life. I too looked to cross that river after Mary died. I wanted to fly with her to a new world. But she left me behind. And gradual-like, I come to realize I must be a-staying here to look after my dear Peter.”
“Yes, your brother needs you. But I have no one . . .”
“Your little boys . . .”
“Yes, I worry about them. But I have started them on their path. They must go on without me. But I intend to leave this world in the right way so that they feel no guilt about my leaving them. Last night, as I sat on the sofa drinking myself stupid, I thought how easily I might end my life: a slash of an artery; an overdose from a medicine bottle; oh, a hundred ways there are to leave this world, to cross the river as you put it. And then came Macdonnell to the door with the challenge to the duel. I believe I have often said that duellists are the worst and most worthless of men upon this earth. But many people feel that duels are an honourable way to die. I want William and Charles to think that I ended my life . . . if not honourably, at least with courage and dignity.”
It is a long speech, and his voice breaks as he finishes. Miss Russell comes around the table to sit by him. He takes the second glass of brandy shrub that she pours for him. Now she puts her hand on his arm and speaks into his ear. “I shall say nothing to Peter. For certain he would try to stop things. Your secret be safe with me, sir.”
“I have done nothing to deserve a friend like you, Miss Russell.”
“You be keeping secrets for me all these long days and months, thank the Lord. For your friendship, dear Mr. White, I am ever grateful.”
He kisses her hand. Tears blind his eyes. He stumbles out the back door into the drifts of snow.