Читать книгу Laurier in Love - Roy MacSkimming - Страница 10
ОглавлениеPulling out of the wedding cake of Bonaventure Station, the Canada Atlantic Express lurches violently. Shudders, stops, lunges. Zoë wonders if something is wrong. But having promised him she’ll accept everything as it comes, she remains silent.
They sit side by side at the head of the parlour car. Their chairs are upholstered in plush green velvet. Zoë feels enthroned, engulfed. She glances sideways. His eyes are serenely closed, head leaning back against the antimacassar. His long tapered fingers cover the back of her gloved hand. The grey top hat sits upturned on his lap, the matching gloves nestled inside. The demanding day is far from over. She doesn’t need to study his beautiful profile to read his thoughts.
Passing the grey unpainted homes of Montreal’s working class, the train settles into a steady, rolling motion. Zoë watches lines of laundry snapping in the hot breeze, dangerously close to ashes spewing from the engine. Party workers have attached festive red, white and blue bunting to the outside of their car. She watches it fluttering madly beyond the curtained windows.
The party has booked them a private car, added to the regular five o’clock train to Ottawa. They have it all to themselves—along with the entourage, of course. For now the swarm of hangers-on keeps a discreet distance. They number at least two dozen, several of whom have inserted themselves at the last moment, desperate to be seen and, even better, photographed with their leader on this historic day.
It will be like this from now on: perpetually surrounded by stout, bustling, self-important men. These black-suited eminences will form the carapace of her life, the soft shell she moves within. Some of them can be pleasant enough, even strenuously gallant toward her, but they too are always in a hurry, always bursting with the urgency of the moment, so anxious for Wilfrid’s consideration that they barely spare her a glance. In that respect they’re all the same, English and French alike.
The only one who behaves any differently is Joseph-Israël Tarte. He, at least, is aware of her as a human being. Blessed with a feline intelligence, Tarte treats her as a compatriot, an equal, deserving of more than gentlemanly respect. Also, he isn’t stout. As Wilfrid says, Tarte has always been the exception, ever since their school days together at Collège de L’Assomption. She’s begun to find Tarte’s stutter rather charming.
The heat inside the car is withering, and Zoë longs for the cool of evening. She feels another rivulet detach itself from her armpit, slither down her side, soak into the tight binding of her corset. She whispers into Wilfrid’s ear that she’s dying to remove her long kid gloves.
Without opening his eyes, he murmurs, “Of course, my dear, you must do exactly as you please.”
But she won’t. There isn’t a single other woman in the car, someone who would understand. In any case she feels a fierce pride in her stoic denial of her body. With this unremarked sacrifice, this powerful act, she begins her defense of their union, their citadel, their ultimate salvation, against the onslaught of the world.
It’s a defense Zoë has been conducting all her married life. Innumerable skirmishes have taken place, some frightening, some painful. The all-too-predictable onset of Wilfrid’s illnesses. The constant, hurtful gossip and innuendo about Émilie Lavergne. The merciless attacks of his enemies, who aren’t above libel, bribery, even violence. Not long ago one of Wilfrid’s supporters was kicked to death at a rally.
In Ontario they still accuse him of being soft on Riel, a sympathizer with treason. In Quebec they accuse him of speaking English better than French. Even her beloved Church denounces him, painting him as an apostate, an atheist (a “Barabbas,” one curé called him), and declaring it a sin to vote for him. But those challenges are nothing compared to this one. After all the years as Leader of the Opposition, they’re plunging into the fight of their lives, a war to the finish: the holding and using of power. Zoë has only a shadowy conception of what it will mean.
Wilfrid has tried to prepare her. A few days ago they were at home in Arthabaska, recovering from the campaign, celebrating her birthday. After lunch on the rear verandah, they walked across the broad lawn to Zoë’s garden, and out of habit she picked up the small shears and began pruning her luxuriant pink climbing rose. He asked her to stop for a moment, to sit on the double swing and hear something he had to say.
As they swung back and forth, sheltered from the sun by tall maples, he spoke in a resolutely prepared voice. There will be enormous sacrifices to make in this new life of theirs. The demands on her time and patience and generous heart, already great, will only multiply. Absolutely everyone in Ottawa will seek her ear, her help, her intervention with her husband. Society will be relentless in expecting her presence, most importantly the vice-regal court presided over by Lord and Lady Aberdeen—and thank God the Aberdeens are staunch supporters, kind and loyal friends to them both, ever ready to make lively conversation in French. But always and everywhere will be the English. Every English hostess and charity queen will be consumed with curiosity and envy, anxious for the opportunity to size up the Prime Minister’s wife, to invite her to be their guest of honour at luncheons and receptions and teas, where they will simultaneously show her off to their friends and try to reduce her to their level.
Zoë must never, Wilfrid told her, ever allow her doubts about her fluency in English, or her fear of her hostesses’ motives and pretensions, to stop her from accepting their invitations. She must always remember: she’s a far finer, more gracious lady than any of them. They will be fortunate to have her under their roofs. It is she, with her unassuming dignity and thoughtful kindness, who will set the tone for conducting oneself in the Ottawa of his new regime.
Zoë heard no mention of the sacrifices Wilfrid would be making, but she let that go. Face to face on the swing, he addressed her with reckless abandon, his sincerity spreading such a passionate flush over his pale features that fine beads of perspiration appeared on the irresistible curve of his upper lip. Zoë wasn’t sure she believed his claims on her behalf, but she loved him for making them. Remembering those reassurances now, she feels distinctly better, physically relieved, as he squeezes her hand, excuses himself and leaves her to join the men.
The entourage has been kept waiting nearly an hour. Impatient as they are, they’ve learned to respect Wilfrid’s insistence on the solitude he needs to rest, to reflect, to marshal his thoughts.
In addition to Tarte, with his lithe frame and pointed goatee and quick, glittering eyes, Sir Richard Cartwright is here, large and immovable, the primordial politician of old Ontario. Cart-wright’s walrus moustache always strikes Zoë as silly, yet she feels intimidated by his aggressive, hungry laugh. Frederick Borden’s mutton-chop sidewhiskers are equally flamboyant and ridiculous: around the married Borden, however, rumours of women fly constantly, only the Lord knows why. And there are others, all ambitious, all eager for a cabinet post, and several new MPs from Quebec and the Maritimes whose names she doesn’t know, and Mr. Murphy from McGill, the boyish president of the Federation of Young Liberal Clubs, self-consciously sporting a bowler hat.
The men cluster in groups around the big chairs, some sitting, some standing in the aisle, leaning down to hear and be heard above the clatter of the train. A few sip iced Tom Collinses brought by the Negro porter. They argue and swap gossip, coughing and spluttering through their cigar smoke, laughing uninhibitedly at their own jokes.
Zoë watches them spring comically to their feet as Wilfrid approaches up the patterned carpet. His gait is languid, adapted from long practice to the swaying of trains. With his height, he has to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the brass light fixtures suspended from the panelled ceiling. The last to rise in obeisance are Tarte and Cartwright: the one who attended school with him, the other who coveted his position. Of this group, only they, Zoë knows, can be certain of seats in the new cabinet.
The cabinet isn’t big enough to contain all Wilfrid’s key supporters from every province. This dilemma is costing him sleep now that the recounts are complete, his victory official, and Prime Minister Tupper finally, reluctantly, agreeing to resign. Meanwhile Wilfrid makes political small talk with those lucky or shrewd enough to have joined his victorious band preparing to take the capital.
Zoë picks up the newspaper Wilfrid was reading. It’s the Toronto Globe, devoutly Liberal. The front-page cartoon portrays the ghost of Sir John A. Macdonald in his Windsor uniform and ceremonial sword—the same uniform, she recalls, that the late Prime Minister wore in his coffin—patting a poorly drawn Wilfrid on the back. Macdonald is grinning eerily and saying, “No man could more worthily fill the great office I vacated.”
She finds it chilling.
She turns the page to an article reporting on the rebellion in Crete, where the people are throwing off centuries of Turkish rule, then sets the paper aside. She stares out the window. The landscape rushes by. Somewhere in that dense featureless bush, occasionally interrupted by small farms, is the Quebec–Ontario border. They might have crossed it already. She closes her eyes and lets her thoughts dwell on the morning just past.
They awakened in Montreal, in the familiar, pleasantly scented guest room of Wilfrid’s oldest and dearest friend, Laurent-Olivier David. They breakfasted well, surrounded by friends and supporters who dropped by to extend their congratulations. Everyone was in a celebratory mood after the official announcement of victory the day before.
Two messages arrived at the breakfast table in rapid succession. A telegram came from Lord Aberdeen, calling Wilfrid to Rideau Hall to be sworn in. And the Mayor of Montreal, having learned the Lauriers were passing through the city, sent a note saying two Royal Navy warships, HMS Intrepid and HMS Tartar, were docked in the harbour. A reception for the British officers was planned for noon, and the Mayor, apologizing for the short notice, would be deeply honoured by the Lauriers’ presence.
Wilfrid had been so looking forward to talking with Laurent-Olivier David in his friend’s library, one of his greatest pleasures, but knew where his duty lay. As he told the breakfast assembly, it was important to get off on the right foot. David telephoned for a carriage to take them to City Hall.
Driving to the reception, Zoë watched their former neighbourhood pass by, outwardly unchanged. In those stone houses of old Montreal she’d once supported herself, although barely, as a piano teacher. They drove quite near the Gauthiers’ home on rue St-Louis. She and Wilfrid, then a law student at McGill, had met and boarded and fallen in love there.
The courtship was long and initially inconclusive: the strangest wooing she’d ever known. At first Wilfrid watched her from afar, shyly joining the Gauthier family singsongs around the piano, casting hungry glances at her as she played. Eventually, since Dr. Gauthier’s sitting room was constantly full of visitors talking politics, they ventured outside to find time alone. On warm bright evenings he’d take her arm to promenade past the shops on Notre-Dame, or linger under the Lombardy poplars on the Champ de Mars when a regimental band was playing. He invited her to attend his McGill convocation, and she sat in Molson Hall beside his proud father and stepmother visiting from St-Lin and listened to him deliver the valedictory address. Speaking in French, he told the largely uncomprehending audience that Canada’s racial struggles were over: “There is now no other family than the human family, whatever the language they speak, or the altar at which they kneel.” She felt herself easily the luckiest girl in Montreal. She’d never heard the name Émilie Lavergne.
And they talked, always talked. She’d never forget the feverish, exciting rhythms of his conversation back then, his ecstatic engagement with everything he saw and heard and read, the insistent pressure of his hand on her upper arm. They grew frighteningly close. She believed they’d go on like that forever. Yet he never once asked for her hand in marriage. When he abruptly moved away to practise law in distant Arthabaska, she was devastated. His departure drained the light out of her life.
Wilfrid’s reason for leaving Montreal was the same reason he hadn’t proposed: he’d been coughing blood. One wintry afternoon he’d collapsed across his desk at his law office, bright red liquid erupting from his throat, ruining sheaves of legal documents. He was convinced he’d inherited the family curse. His mother, Marcelle, had died of consumption when he was seven, followed by his sister Malvina. “I fear I am carrying in my lungs,” he wrote Zoë from Arthabaska, “a germ of death that no power in the world can dislodge.” He refused to subject her to a marriage cut short by mortal illness, leaving her in poverty, perhaps with children to raise alone. His doctor had advised him to get out of smoke-filled Montreal as fast as he could. He was following doctor’s orders.
Yet Zoë didn’t care if he had consumption, at least not for her own sake: she’d marry him all the same, embrace wholeheartedly whatever time they had, however long or short. But it didn’t matter how she felt. He was gone.
From Arthabaska he continued writing impassioned letters proclaiming his love, but he was no longer present in her day-to-day life, and he didn’t invite her to come join him. Unlike Wilfrid, Zoë couldn’t live on emotions existing solely on paper, however beautifully expressed. Eventually she accepted a marriage proposal from Pierre Valois, a medical student, a good man, devoted to her. Still she cried herself to sleep every night over Wilfrid. She felt hopeless. Until Dr. Gauthier intervened.
Dr. Gauthier wasn’t only their landlord, he was a stern and affectionate father to them both, given to a brusque, old-fashioned imperiousness. He sent Wilfrid a telegram summoning him to Montreal “on a matter of urgent importance.” Arriving on the overnight train from Arthabaska, Wilfrid went straight to Dr. Gauthier’s consulting room, where he was ordered to strip off all his clothes. At the end of a lengthy examination, Dr. Gauthier matter-of-factly informed him he wasn’t suffering from consumption at all: his ailment was chronic bronchitis. It was a troublesome condition, requiring careful management, but it certainly wouldn’t kill him. In fact, Dr. Gauthier observed tartly, he’d probably outlive Zoë, the way she was carrying on lately. Her misery and tears were making the whole household miserable. And now, wasn’t it time he acted like a man?
Dr. Gauthier sent for Zoë, leaving her alone with Wilfrid in the consulting room. With bewildered relief they fell into each other’s arms. They were married that night, since Wilfrid had an important case to argue in court the next morning in Arthabaska. . . .
She was about to indulge in the maelstrom of emotion surrounding their instant wedding, but they’d arrived at City Hall. Madame Laurier descended the carriage on her husband’s arm, to be ushered inside and cheered by the overdressed crowd at the Mayor’s reception.
The guest of honour was a British vice-admiral named Erskine. Heavily bearded, with an astounding quantity of gold braid on his chest, he was accompanied by several officers in ceremonial uniform, all visibly deferring to him. The Royal Navy men stood together with the Mayor, punch glasses in hand, preparing to repel boarders. As Wilfrid and Zoë proceeded through the throng, accepting congratulations from all sides, shaking hands with old colleagues, it became obvious to Erskine that his distinguished presence was being upstaged. All eyes were on Wilfrid: his magnificent forehead, his thick, wavy chestnut hair silvering at the temples.
Introduced by the Mayor, Wilfrid shook the Vice-Admiral’s hand and asked a succession of questions displaying his knowledge of naval matters. He hadn’t prepared a speech for the occasion. When he did speak, he’d told Zoë in the carriage, he’d be very brief. Constitutionally, he still wasn’t Prime Minister.
The Mayor proposed a series of toasts to the Queen, her navy, her officers. Erskine made his reply. He stressed how much the British people and Her Majesty’s government counted on Canada’s loyalty. The Royal Navy patrolled the seven seas not only to defend Great Britain, he reminded everyone, but the entire Empire. He concluded heartily, if somewhat condescendingly, by congratulating Mr. Laurier on his accession to power in the Dominion.
In response Wilfrid kept his voice light and musical. The acoustics in the room were good, he didn’t need to declaim. He’d taken just three sips of champagne punch, one for each toast. Zoë had counted.
He now appreciated more than ever, Wilfrid said, the significance of Nelson’s words at the Battle of Trafalgar, “England expects every man to do his duty.” He himself would try his utmost to do his duty, by both Canada and the Empire. And if ever the occasion should arise when Britain must stand against the world in arms, she could always count on the support of the Canadian people.
Vice-Admiral Erskine beamed as he absorbed these fine imperial sentiments. Then Wilfrid delivered the coup de grace: the Canadian people were free, he said, and they were loyal—loyal because they were free.
It made a good start, he told her afterwards.
The train slows on its entry into Ottawa, and Zoë realizes she’s drifted off. They’ve enjoyed a good supper in the dining car: trout, boiled potatoes and asparagus, accompanied by a little Muscadet and a dessert of fresh strawberries with crème anglaise. Now the sun is setting. In the parlour car the atmosphere is still hot and close, acrid with cigar smoke. She hoists herself up in her chair and straightens her hat and notices Wilfrid is grinning.
“You shouldn’t stare at me like that,” she says. “I must look a fright.”
“My dear, you look rested and refreshed,” he replies. It’s a description that fits him better.
Up ahead, around a bend in the tracks, she sees the bridge over the Rideau Canal and the Canada Atlantic station on the far side, enveloped in long shadows. The porters open the doors to the evening. A sound of distant cheering enters from up the tracks, coming from the station.
Young Murphy approaches clutching his bowler. He’s excited. “There’s a huge crowd at the station, sir. The railway wired ahead to warn us.”
Wilfrid betrays his pleasure. “I’m surprised. Our arrival was supposed to be unannounced. I haven’t prepared a speech.”
“Somebody in Ottawa must have told your supporters, sir.”
“There will be no police escort,” Wilfrid observes.
Murphy beams. “No, sir. We’re your bodyguard tonight.”
The train comes to a halt, the entourage steps aside, the Lauriers emerge onto the rear platform, Wilfrid already waving. A great deep-throated roar goes up, followed by three cheers. Standing behind him, feeling the humid, sooty air caress her cheeks, Zoë watches faces in the crowd contort with happiness. The men in front press up against the train, pushed by the force of those behind. She feels marooned. Nobody appears to be in charge. She’s alarmed that neither the police nor the Liberal Party have made arrangements for the leader’s arrival.
Wilfrid raises his long arms high into the air, and gradually the mob settles down, except for a drunken cry of “Long live Laurier! To hell with Tupper!”
“My friends,” Wilfrid begins in his best platform voice, “my friends, mes chers amis, Madame Laurier and I thank you for coming out this evening to welcome us. I must tell you, I had no idea there was going to be such a grand reception. When I saw you massed at the station, I asked my colleagues on the train, ‘What city is this? Have we stopped at the wrong place?’ Because I well remember the day, not so many years ago, when there were precious few Liberals to be found in Ottawa. Clearly that sad situation is no more! I feel enormous pride in the fact that two Liberal candidates have been elected to represent you in my new government.”
As the cheering dies down, Wilfrid retains his triumphant smile and slips naturally into French. Ottawa, after all, is one-third French-speaking. He’s on his second sentence when a voice bawls out, “For God’s sake, speak English!”
Wilfrid stops in mid-sentence. Returning to English, he tells the voice, “I don’t know who you are. But I did not fight and win this election, nor have I laboured in politics all these years, to elevate one language, one race, over the other. Our Liberal victory is a shared victory. Our two peoples made it together. Our country is a shared country, which we also made together, and nothing and no one will stop me from speaking my mother tongue—especially in our nation’s capital.” Which he proceeds to do.
“Now,” he continues, “we have much ahead of us. His Excellency the Governor General has asked me to visit him at Rideau Hall without delay. Thank you! But by the same token, until I have seen His Excellency I am not yet your Prime Minister, and I may not speak as if I were. For now I will simply assure you that your loyalty is deeply gratifying. I will have more to tell all my good friends in the days to come. Madame Laurier and I will now try to reach our carriage, which I’m told is waiting to take us off for a good night’s rest. I wish you all a happy evening!”
Zoë hopes the mob will respond by applauding and melting away, but it has no such intention. It stays right where it is, swaying like a happy drunk on unsteady legs, hoping for more. The only sign of movement comes from the very back, where men who couldn’t hear properly are pressing forward for a better view.
Wilfrid turns to the troops behind him. With the physical courage of the young, Murphy leads several MPs in a charge over the railing and onto the platform. They clear a space for steps to be lowered, and Wilfrid descends first, then helps Zoë down. Forming a flying wedge like footballers, the escorts force a passage through the mob. Wilfrid takes her arm, patting it firmly, and together they plunge into the crowd.
Halfway to the station building, a fat man in a straw boater suddenly lunges to grab Wilfrid by the wrist. Zoë, who has schooled herself to think an outstretched arm never intends anything worse than a handshake, is frightened, then relieved as the man pumps Wilfrid’s hand. They push on through the station building and out onto Catherine Street. They enter the first of several open carriages. Other members of the entourage pile into the carriages behind, and they all pull away amid wild cheering. Even though Zoë is used to election mobs, something about this crowd has shaken her: something different, manic, uncontrolled. She seeks Wilfrid’s eyes for reassurance, but he’s turned away from her, still waving, still smiling his fixed, dreamy smile.
Dusk softens the capital’s raw streets as the carriage proceeds up Elgin. Mosquito hawks swoop high above the rooftops, releasing distant shrieks into the dimming air. The Russell House lies ahead at the corner of Sparks, another crowd lying in wait: hundreds massed outside the row of smart shops on the hotel’s ground floor.
This time the cheering is casual and good-natured. The carriage halts before the main entrance, and Wilfrid rises from his seat. Zoë watches his face bathed in electric light from the hotel façade. Wrought-iron balconies and striped awnings rise above him in tiers as he smiles and nods in all directions and finally, unable to resist appeals for a speech, delivers a shorter version of his remarks at the station. The people seem satisfied to have heard, however briefly, the famous silvery voice.
Arm in armthey enter the hotel, the only home they’ve known in Ottawa. The lobby is bedlam. She’s never seen it so packed. People swarm over the mosaic tile floor, jamming the grand staircase all the way up to the stained-glass window on the landing. Cigar smoke rolls out of the long bar off the lobby, propelled by raucous male laughter. Pastel nymphs frolic on the domed ceiling, oblivious to it all.
Men rush up to Wilfrid to grasp his hand. Zoë recognizes no one except Joseph-Israël Tarte, who has somehow got to the hotel ahead of them. He’s already holding forth at the base of one of the Corinthian columns, his stutter subdued, gesticulating with both arms, enjoying his celebrity as architect of victory in Quebec. Tarte’s strategy of open-air rallies, planted newspaper stories and bribery has been enormously successful, proving once again his favourite adage, “Elections are not won by prayers alone.” Of course Tarte remembers to pray, too.
It’s beginning to seem unlikely they’ll ever get to their room when a familiar face appears out of the crowd: bearded, attractive John Willison, editor of The Globe. Ever since Wilfrid’s difficult early days as party leader, when Willison headed the Young Men’s Liberal Club in Toronto, he’s been Wilfrid’s most loyal and influential supporter in English Canada. Willison greets them with a broad grin, bowing to Zoë, clasping both Wilfrid’s hands.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” Wilfrid’s voice rings full of pleasure.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Your thoroughly deserved moment of triumph!”
“I’m rather enjoying it. But I was thankful to escape the crowd at the station with my skin intact.”
Zoë knows how grateful Wilfrid feels for Willison’s friendship. But since it’s a political friendship, she wonders what Willison now expects in return. Men, even the most gentlemanly, always have a clear notion of their entitlements. Behind Willison she notices the inevitable presence of Alex “Silent” Smith, the party’s chief bagman for Ontario. Tall and taciturn, Smith exercises excessive influence over party affairs and always seems to hover in the background wherever Willison goes. He raises his homburg to Zoë.
The Russell’s owner, François-Xavier St-Jacques, tells Wilfrid of his very great delight at the election outcome. Zoë is sure St-Jacques would say the same thing to Tupper if the Conservatives had won, but she’s forced to revise her opinion when he tells her, in French, “Imagine, Madame, a Prime Minister from Quebec! I never thought I’d live to see the day!”
Their suite is ready, St-Jacques assures her, and she relishes the thought of undressing and lying down. But the longed-for moment will have to wait: Willison is coming upstairs with them, although thankfully without Silent Smith. Escorting them through the cheerfully inebriated crowd up the staircase, St-Jacques lets them into number sixty-five, reputedly the largest and best-appointed suite in the hotel.
Once the door shuts behind them, everything is blessedly calm. A bundle of letters and another of telegrams, both neatly tied with string, wait on the writing desk. Beside them, a stack of newspapers and a beaded silver pitcher of ice water. Wilfrid goes straight for the telegrams. Tearing them open, he reads them aloud one after the other to Zoë and Willison: congratulations from an assortment of loyal supporters and blatant office-seekers.
Finally he comes to the one he’s been waiting for. “Ah. Mowat is joining us.”
Willison probably knows this already, may even have exerted some influence on the Ontario Premier’s decision to enter the cabinet. Earlier in the campaign, Sir Oliver Mowat accepted a cabinet post in principle, but has been awaiting the official result before committing himself to resigning his office in Toronto.
“And to think Mowat was once Sir John A.’s law partner,” Wilfrid says.
“He’s expecting Justice,” Willison comments dryly, “and not expecting to have to get himself elected.”
“He’ll have Justice and a Senate seat to go with it. We’ll make Sir Oliver as comfortable as we possibly can.”
“Ottawa not being the most comfortable city to live in,” Willison adds, glancing sympathetically at Zoë.
Wilfrid telephones down to the front desk to dictate his reply to Mowat. Turning back to Willison and Zoë, he says, “Our team is nearly complete.” A note of wonderment enters his voice.
“Things come to you more easily,” Willison tells him, “now that you’re in power.”
Wilfrid looks intently at him. “Remember that speech I gave in Toronto years ago?”
“That one.”
“Mowat was against it, Cartwright was against it, and Edgar and Mulock, all our great Ontario Liberals opposed it. Too risky, they said, too dangerous. A French Catholic telling Tory Toronto about equality and harmony would lead to violence. The Orange Order didn’t want harmony—the Protestant Equal Rights Society didn’t want equality. There would be riots! But I went ahead anyway and faced them in that hall you rented. They tried to drown me out, and I sweated under my clothes, but I got my point across. I told them I’d fight bigotry and extremism in Quebec as hard as I’d fight it in Ontario.”
“It was a superb speech,” Willison says. “A speech for the ages.”
“And Premier Mowat was right there behind me on the platform, a man of our own party, with a secure hold on his province and a golden opportunity to stand up and endorse my views—but he said nothing. He did speak, as I recall, but said absolutely nothing. The next day he showered me with praise at our private luncheon, but nobody outside our inner circle ever heard him.”
Zoë has been listening as the pitch of Wilfrid’s emotion rises. She’s heard this outburst before, almost word for word, but only in the privacy of their bedroom.
“I remember what you told me at that lunch,” Willison says. “You leaned over and whispered, ‘Damn him! Why didn’t he say that last night?’”
Wilfrid sits back with a grin of satisfaction. “How things have changed. Now Sir Oliver Mowat is quite happy to join my cabinet.”
Zoë admits the porter with their luggage. The men sip ice water and discuss the civil service, and she hangs up suits and dresses in the big oak wardrobe, listening closely. Willison expects Wilfrid to do a thorough housecleaning to rid Ottawa of Tories, from deputy ministers on down. The Undersecretary of State, Joseph Pope, was once Sir John A. Macdonald’s personal secretary, for heaven’s sake: it won’t do. Wilfrid must be ruthless, must show people who think he’s too much of a gentleman to be Prime Minister how mistaken they are.
Wilfrid isn’t persuaded. Certain individuals may have to go, he concedes, but retirements should be on the basis of old age, and firings on the basis of incompetence, not politics. It’s only natural, after eighteen years of Conservative rule, that senior officials are tinged with Toryism. But those not irredeemably disloyal to the new government deserve a chance.
“Men change, particularly when it’s in their interests. We’ll see how they adapt. In the British tradition, civil servants serve the government of the day impartially. I believe in British traditions. The good ones, anyway.”
Willison is skeptical. “The civil servants may not be expecting your government to last. They’ll bide their time before reverting to their old ways.”
“Then we’ll tell them we intend to remain in power a very long time.”
They move on to the composition of the cabinet. It will contain no fewer than three provincial premiers: W.S. Fielding of Nova Scotia and A.G. Blair of New Brunswick, in addition to Mowat.
“You’ve done a masterful job of cabinet making,” Willison says. “It’s a college of experts, Wilfrid, a cabinet of all the talents.”
“A cabinet of all the talents. May I use that?”
They’re discussing the necessity of inserting Manitoba’s Clifford Sifton into cabinet as soon as possible, speculating on how his astringent personality will clash with the astringent Tarte, when there’s a sharp knock at the door. Zoë answers to a slim officer with a military moustache: Captain Sinclair, Lord Aberdeen’s aide-de-camp. Wilfrid knows him well from private audiences with the Aberdeens, in which Sinclair was a discreet and invariable presence. He bows and announces he’s come from His Excellency with a message for Mr. Laurier.
Willison excuses himself, and Captain Sinclair relaxes a little, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. “His Excellency told me I had better come in person, sir. We sent this morning’s message by telegram, because you and Madame Laurier were still in transit. But as His Excellency says, there is no substitute for the Queen’s messenger. He would like to see you at Rideau Hall at eleven in the morning.”
Wilfrid smiles gravely and inclines his head.
When Captain Sinclair leaves, Zoë is alone with her husband for the first time since early morning. Immediately he excuses himself to sit at his desk and sort his correspondence—in case any of the letters is urgent, he explains. Realizing he’s left her standing there, he turns back and asks if she’s seen the cartoon in The Globe.
She has. He asks if she’s read the caption. She hasn’t. He hands her the newspaper from the top of the pile.
Zoë sits on the bed and adjusts her bifocal pince-nez. Even with their help, she has to hold the paper close to the bedside lamp to make out the caption. It quotes The Times of London: “Mr. Laurier counts warm friends on both sides in politics. Many Conservatives will be found to echo the remark, once made with regard to him by Sir John Macdonald: ‘I can trust Laurier without the slightest fear. He is incapable of breaking his word even if he wished to.’”
“Do you think it’s true?” she asks.
“About my keeping my word?”
“Of course not. About the Conservatives feeling friendly toward you.”
“They may allow me a brief honeymoon, but it won’t last. Old Tupper is furious I blocked him from filling the Senate with cronies before he left office.”
“You can always blame Lord Aberdeen.”
“Not really. I expressly asked him to refuse assent to Tupper’s nominations.”
“I don’t like them comparing you to Macdonald.”
“But why? It’s a great compliment.”
“Look what being Prime Minister did to him.”
“What?”
“It killed him!”
Wilfrid laughs lightly. “My dear, Macdonald was twenty years older than I! And I haven’t been in better health in years.”
It’s true, considering he’s just been through a punishing election campaign: Wilfrid’s resilience is increasing with age. For the moment his bronchitis is in abeyance, although it always returns in winter.
“I already miss the children.” She’s referring to their dogs and cats in Arthabaska.
Wilfrid comes to sit beside her on the bed. He takes her hand in his and kisses it. “I know you do. But as soon as we can, we’ll find a house here—well, you’ll find us one—and we can bring all the children to come and live with us. A house with a pretty garden where they can be happy. Especially Mademoiselle Topsy.”
“It will be expensive.”
“Remember Mulock’s letter: there will be a trust fund. The party will look after everything. I know Silent Smith is too mixed up in it, but we’ll never need to worry about the bills again.”
“That was always the worst thing for you.” It pains her to recall the times Wilfrid tried to resign as leader: his desperate letters to the party president explaining the precariousness of their finances, how he no longer had time to practise law, how he lacked the private wealth to underwrite obligations on the party’s behalf. Even worse, he pleaded his personal inadequacy for the job: he actually felt unfit, a French Canadian in over his head in an English world. What if one of those resignation letters had succeeded? They wouldn’t be here now, they’d be back home where they belong. But would it be enough for him? Enough to stay home in Arthabaska with the old practice, the old friends, the old marriage?
Of course not. Anyone can see he’s infinitely happier now. Finally he feels the reins of power slipping into his hands. He vastly prefers power to being in opposition. When he lost the previous election to Macdonald five years ago, he erupted in expletives she’s never heard him use before or since.
“Besides,” he continues, “the Lavergnes will be moving their household here soon. You and Émilie will be able to reinvent a little of Arthabaska in Ottawa.”
Zoë feels her entire body tense, even as her mind fights to stay clear. “The Lavergnes? Both of them?”
“Of course. Now that Joseph is an MP—”
“Joseph has been an MP for years.”
“Yes, but now that he’s a member of Her Majesty’s government, he’ll need Émilie to help him entertain, and such. You know how it is.”
“Oh yes. I always have.” She feels the old, old anger begin to churn her stomach. And she thought she’d put it behind her long ago, locked away in its vault, along with the humiliation.
“Please, my dear, I thought you’d learned to appreciate Émilie’s friendship. You’ve said so yourself. It could get lonely for you here. Émilie will be good company in the long hours when I’m in Parliament.”
“So she’s coming for my benefit?”
Wilfrid kisses her cheek and squeezes her hand, kneads it slowly with his fingertips. “I have no illusions it’s going to be easy, being in power. This is an impossible country to govern. I’ll need a lot of help. I’ll have to be careful and patient and forbearing. I’ll need a strong cabinet, men I can trust. But I’ll have something Macdonald never had in all his long, long years in power, something I need more than anything: you.”
She lifts her gaze to those deep-set brown eyes flecked with yellow and green. They hold her fast.
