Читать книгу Lily Fairchild - Don Gutteridge - Страница 14

The visit of Queen Victoria’s firstborn son to Her Majesty’s dominions in August and September of 1860 was the greatest public event yet in British North America’s fledgling existence. No fewer than four books were published to commemorate the events of the pretender’s ‘progress,’ one of them in Boston, no less. Newspapers everywhere devoted their column-inches to tracking every royal move and the public’s response. Even the Prince’s dance cards were faithfully reproduced as if they were imperishable poems.

The hour-by-hour sweep of H.R.H. through the County of Lambton on September 13 was likewise exhaustively recorded for posterity. The Royal Party and a regiment of well-wishers and hopefuls boarded the Great Western in London at 9:00 a.m. (The Prince’s special car, however, belonged to the Grand Trunk: the rival railways had declared a truce to demonstrate their unshakeable faith in the Empire.) At 11:00 a.m. they touched down in Sarnia where H.R.H. stepped from his mobile drawing room, flanked by railway moguls, hastily promoted lieutenant-colonels, and the young scion’s guardian, the unflappable Duke of Newcastle. The waiting scarlet carpet was variously reported to be either one hundred or three hundred yards in length, the latter being a local estimate. More than five thousand subjects were said to be gathered at the Great Western depot and wharf – almost the county’s total population. The succession of toasts and responses which followed managed to delay the schedule by almost an hour. The only speech worth the space given to it was that of Chief Kan-was-ga-shi, Great Bear of the North, one of the several hundred Ojibwas who had come down from the wilds of Manitoulin for the occasion:

Brother, Great Brother, the sky is beautiful. It was the wish of the Great Spirit that we should meet in this place. I hope the sky will continue to look fine, to give happiness to both the whites and to the Indians. You see the Indians who are around you. It is their earnest desire that you will always remember them.

It is not recorded whether any of those assembled caught the ironies either in the words themselves or the circumstances in which they were delivered.

After presenting the chiefs with silver medallions, the Prince led a cavalcade of carriages, mounted citizenry and rearguard foot-soldiers to the magnificent station-hotel of the Grand Trunk, showpiece of the new town-site already being referred to as Point Edward. Therein, the pooh-bahs received their luncheon and basked in the reflected glory and unabashed good humour of the young and future king. With no coaching whatsoever, the Prince proposed a toast to the “Prosperity of the Grand Trunk Railway.” Its regional vice-president, Dunbar Cruickshank, responded with unforced enthusiasm.

After the meal H.R.H. and a very select group of dignitaries boarded the Grand Trunk steamer Michiganand sailed up the St. Clair and onto Lake Huron. By 3:30 p.m. the Royal Cortege was back at the Great Western depot and entrained for London where the Prince gave a levee that same evening which outshone even the shameless extravagance of the one given at Toronto’s Osgoode Hall two nights earlier. The entire episode, emblazoned forever in local annals, had lasted a mere four-and-a-half hours.

Only Lily’s affection for the Templetons and her deep sense of gratitude towards them gave her the strength to submit to their fawning attentions. Certainly Mrs. Templeton had done her best with a sow’s ear. It was Bridie who’d insisted she come into stay with her benefactress for a full week before the event: “We’ll manage. Besides, you’ll have to get used to city ways all over,” she said. “Won’t be easy gettin’ them feet of yours into shoes again.”

Lily’s outfit had been made by Mrs. Templeton’s dressmaker “from the ground up this time”, complete with a parasol, white gloves and linen handkerchiefs.

“My word, Lily, what a figure you’ve got! Not even the farm can spoil you, though it’s tryin’,” said Mrs. Templeton, examining Lily’s calloused work hands.

Lily tolerated all the fuss, and tried to be joyful when His Worship whirled her about the parlour to the thump of the piano for old times’ sake. She knew how much they missed their daughters. From the maid she learned that both daughters had promised to come down from Toronto for the Prince’s visit but at the last minute received invitations, through their prominent husbands, to attend the Royal Ball at Osgoode. Lily understood the obligation placed upon her by the Templeton’s expectations, but she anticipated and hoped for more personal desires to be met.

When the royal train pulled into the station, Lily was standing beside Mrs. Templeton just behind the mayor and his officials. She had a clear view of the Prince as he approached them gingerly across the red carpet, his chaperone at his elbow, both of them aglitter in military regalia. The next rank brought the railroad bosses, among them the successor to Sir Oliver Steele (dead of a mysterious stroke), the fiercely ambitious Dunbar Cruickshank, and a recently appointed t vice-president of the Grand Trunk, Cap Dowling. Lily was not perturbed to see Lady Marigold Steele, the dark lady, at his elbow and out of her widow’s weeds for the occasion. Fanned out behind were several scarlet-coated regular officers and blue-clad militiamen. Tom Marshall was not among them.

By the conclusion of the luncheon, Lily was as puzzled as she was hurt. Why didn’t you come, Tom? she thought, listening to the last of the toasts. The talisman had surely pulsed as she held it; its augury was as clear as a proclamation. Was she mistaken?

“Great news, pet! I knew the Prince had his eye on you! We’ve been invited aboard the Michigan! And –” Mrs. Templeton lowered her voice theatrically, “that old snoop of a Duke isn’t coming.”

But Lily knew whom the royal glance had favoured whenever discretion permitted. Seated two chairs from her at the woman’s table, the dark lady occupied her own kind of throne.

Alice Templeton and Lily sat apart from the others on red-striped deck chairs letting the warm September breeze ruffle their parasols and watching their fellow passengers preen and promenade before the royal presence. The ladies coasted by like bevies of sea-birds looking for land. The men gathered for serious gossip around a ring of cigars. The Prince himself had changed into a smart blue tunic of only faintly military character with gilded epaulettes and splendid brass buttons. He stood on the foredeck of the ship like Nelson staring down the French, as the conversation of Cap Dowling and his party of monopolizers drifted insubstantially around him. Undaunted, the young ladies, made valiant by their finery, tacked and jibbed past the Commodore in hope that he might cast a mariner’s eye upon an unguarded throat, a careless ankle, a shameless coup d’oeil. The Prince hove to his duty.

Ahead of them Lily could see only a vague horizon of mixed blue, sky and water, as if the elements were permitted to blend their irreconcilable properties. Behind them and to the west the shoreline grew faint. She left off staring out at the water and turned back to catch Dowling engaged in an animated monologue with His Highness. A few feet away Lady Marigold, her luxuriant sensuality limned by a white hat and dress, observed his gestures with cunning impassivity. While the debutantes and duennas fought against dishevelling lake-breeze, Lady Marigold removed her hat and hair-pins and let the wind have its way. Lily remarked with some satisfaction that the Prince took every opportunity to glance over at the bereaved widow, though she gave no signal to either man.

Dowling suddenly turned away from the Royal Guest and came over to the Templeton clique. “His Highness has had a long day,” he proclaimed. He’s going to rest in his quarters.”

No one would have been terribly surprised if Cap had trailed His Royal Highness and joined him in his nap, but he did not. The Prince moved alone but briskly towards the cabin deck. There was a flutter and rearranging of plumage among the ladies, fresh cigars and configurations appeared amongst the men, and the ship – almost beyond landfall – circled and headed south-east towards civilization. Mrs. Templeton took the opportunity to excuse herself to the ladies facilities.

Lily stayed back to see if Lady Marigold would make her move, when someone touched her sleeve. She turned round to find the Prince’s valet: “His Highness would like to see you in his suite,” he said as if announcing supper. It took a few seconds for the import of the message to dawn. When it did, she glanced about, saw that Mayor Templeton was engaged and Mrs. Templeton nowhere in sight, and she made a decision.

She followed the valet’s trails to the royal rooms, actually the captain’s quarters hastily re-tailored in Detroit to fit the Royal Personage. When the man-servant opened a diminutive varnished door with brass knobs, Lily entered what would normally have served the skipper as office and sitting room. A large desk, brocade settee and purplish Queen Anne chair struck Lily’s eye immediately.

“This way, miss,” the valet said, using his usher’s voice.

Lily stepped through a second door and entered a small chamber. The Prince was seated on an undersized, embroidered chair before an escritoire. Smoky light poured through a porthole window, falling across a twin to the Prince’s chair. an oval Oriental rug, and a vermillion-and-white scrolled quilt which made no pretense of hiding the silk sheets beneath it. This was, incontestably, a bedroom.

Set up on the escritoire was a table cloth on which had been placed a silver bucket sprouting a bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses that would sing at the merest hint of a fingernail. A black cigar, cut but unlit, lurked in a gold ashtray.

“Please, come in,” said the Prince rising and extending his hand casually towards the unoccupied chair. “It’s Lily, is it not?”

Lily was so struck with the English orotundity of his voice, at once formal, distant and ingratiating, that she did not immediately reply. “Yes, Your Highness,” she said. Then: “Lily Fairchild.” As she said it, her father’s face came into view.

The Prince hesitated for a moment. “Please, sit down. Let me take your gloves and hat.”

Lily sat on the edge of the chair. When she peeled off her elbow-length gloves, she tried to keep her palms down. In removing her bonnet, she pulled out not only the hat-pin but the barrettes that held her hair in check. It tumbled forward. She heard the royal breath indrawn. She didn’t look up again until he said, “Will you join me in a glass of champagne?”

“Yes, please, Your –”

“Call me Albert,” he said. “My mother does.”

Lily laughed. “I don’t think I could,” she said.

“Please forgive my informality,” he said, referring, Lily assumed, to the fact that he had removed his tunic, vest, collar and ties, and was seated in evident comfort in his trousers and open shirt. “Uniforms, I’m afraid, offer more pleasure to the adulating crowds than to the objects of their worship.”

Lily smiled, quite aware that this was a quip used on many an occasion. Though his practised delivery disguised shyness, perhaps even uncertainty, she was sure she detected in his demeanour when she herself grew brave enough to look directly at him. He was popping the champagne cork efficiently, but when he came to pour, Lily saw his hand shake a little.

“Damn!” he said when the bubbly slopped over the glass, fizzing and exuberant. He was about to apologize for the damnwhen Lily’s giggle cut him off. He grinned boyishly, then stared at her, puzzled but powerfully attracted.

“What do we toast?” Lily said.

“Well, that Dowling fellow told me they’re going to name the village where the station is after me: Point Edward. In my honour.”

“Some honour, since it’s not even your first name,” Lily said risking boldness but lifting her glass.

He laughed in delight. “To Point Albert, regardless!” he said merrily.

They clinked glasses and drank deeply. The Prince, a bit hastily perhaps, filled the glasses again. Lily rose and took a step towards the door.

“Please don’t go,” he said. “I just wanted to talk,” he added. “I get so sick of all that polite chatter, all that hypocritical handshaking and endless palaver about the weather and the crops and the engines of progress, and –”

Lily made a decision before he could finish his sentence.

“Will you help me?” Lily asked quietly, lifting her arms slightly.

She took a step backwards and the Prince, summoning all eighteen and three quarters of his years to maintain his composure, began to unhook her dress. “Thank you,” she said when he had finished. She drew her arms out of the liberated sleeves, then let the vast folds descend gratefully over the layered crinolines. “Help me get these cages off,” she laughed, and he eagerly hoisted them over her head and let them clatter to the floor where they rolled away like lopsided tankards.

“I hope you don’t mind the informality, Your Highness,” she said, allowing him to take in her full-length muslin slip, stockings and camisole. The Prince was obviously unaccustomed to such unbridled beauty – the burned-flaxen hair irreconciled to ringlets, the rough-tender hands, the freckled buff of cheek, the flecked hazel-green eyes, the unawakened wonder of poised womanhood. He reached for the cigar. “Shall I open the window?” he offered.

“No, please. Smoke don’t bother me none. I like it.” He puffed and temporized, casting sideways glances in her direction, like a puritan at a peep show. Lily finished her champagne, and poured herself a third glass, emptying the bottle. The second the valet had touched her arm she had known what was expected of her. She had followed him in full knowledge.

She put down her empty glass, rose, and pulled the cigar from between the Prince’s teeth. She dropped it in its gold ash tray, the live end white-hot. Grasping the young man’s hands in her own, she lead him to the bed where she stretched languidly across the comforter.

Lily closed her eyes. Yes, she thought, it’s time to act, to make something happen, anything. She heard the rustle and clink of His Highness at the extreme edge of dishabillement. She reached down and drew her slip, then her camisole over her head, feeling the rush of air on her nakedness like a lover’s breath.

The Prince was arched over her, pale and trembling, his muscled alabaster flesh as vulnerable and as omnipotent as a Lancelot stripped of armour. Lily assessed the reticence and the lust in his eyes, and blessed them both.