Midnight, January 2, 1800
John White settles himself at his desk in the withdrawing room and writes a note to Peter Russell.
My dear Russell:
Being obliged to meet John Small tomorrow, and in the event of my demise, I implore your protection for my sons. Until the means can be found of returning William and Charles to my brother-in-law in England, may I entreat you and your sister to take them into your household and watch over them.
I beg you also to give support to Mrs. Page and her two little girls. Mrs. Page is an admirable housekeeper who can, I hope, find employment with you. She and her daughters live at present in a cabin at the back of my park lot, and this accommodation, if given over to her, would ensure her privacy and yours.
I can give no excuse for my part in this reprehensible affair with Small. I need merely to say that I have always nourished for you and your dear sister the deepest affection. Without your support, I should not have been able to endure these recent months. I do not fear death. It comes as a release from my woes.
Your friend,
John White
He folds the page and seals it, leaving it in plain view on his desk. If by chance he does not return to this room tomorrow, someone will find the missive and deliver it.
Darkness has swallowed the house. He takes the candle from his desk and tiptoes down the hallway to the children’s bedchamber. Since his illness, William seems to have become a much older boy. He no longer wants the trundle bed, and he has moved into Charles’s bed. It’s a narrow space, but the two of them have worked it out harmoniously. Although Charles has said nothing openly, White sees that his small brother’s near-death has awakened in the lad a tender concern for his well-being. They sleep on their sides, one body tucked into the other. He leans over them, careful not to kick the large pail of water beside the bed. It contains a fish they caught yesterday from a hole in the ice of the lake. They intend to show it to Russell and get him to explain how it breathes.
For a moment he stands there, smiling down at their smooth faces, pink from their adventures on the bay. He has procured three hundred acres for each for them, and perhaps one day—when this wretched little town grows into a metropolis—the land will have value. May they always care for each other. May they grow up happy and prosperous and find peace in their married lives and families. And dearest Ellen . . .
Of Marianne and Ellen, he has heard nothing since that dreadful day in Quebec. They have gone from his life. Will they care if he dies tomorrow? The question is not one he can bear to contemplate. At any rate, they have acreage here that may bring them money. When they first came to York, he acquired for Ellen two hundred acres, and for Marianne, one thousand.
It now remains only to say goodbye to Susannah. He has waited until the dead of night, hoping that she will be asleep and that he will not have to confront her anger and tears. From the back door of his house, he follows the trail beaten through the snowdrifts to her cabin in the wooded area at the rear of his park lot. An owl hoots from a nearby pine tree.
There is no sound as he enters the small timber structure that Berczy built for her when she and her girls joined their household. It has only one room, but it seems warm and cosy tonight, and the embers are still glowing in the hearth.
In a shadowy corner of the room, separated from the main space by a blanket hung from the rafters, he finds, as he had hoped, Susannah sound asleep in her bed. One small daughter sleeps with her, and the other lies in a trundle bed beside them. Their deep breathing, gentle snores, and the crackling of the embers are the only sounds he hears.
Glad is he not to have to disturb their peaceful slumbers. On the table in the centre of the room, he places his gold pocket watch, two signet rings, and a note saying goodbye. Even that bastard Abner Miles will surely give her a few pounds for the gold, enough to keep her and her daughters for several months.
Having heard both Peter and Eliza Russell’s complaints about their servant Peggy, and having seen the slattern’s ways himself, he is confident that his friends will welcome Susannah and offer her a position in their house.
Back in his own bedchamber, he puts on his nightshirt and tries to settle. But he cannot sleep. It is now only a few hours until daybreak. He gets up from his bed, dons a new frock coat, walks downstairs to the withdrawing room, stirs the fire in the hearth, and sits down in an armchair to wait.