Sowing Poison (3 page)

“People need a place to stay where they won't be accosted by drunks,” Daniel had said. “Someplace that's respectable enough for a lady to stay. Clean beds, good food, quiet rooms. You'll see — it will be appreciated by the more
discerning
customer.”

But temperance was not a particularly popular concept with the majority of people in the Province of Canada, and so far only one customer had proved discerning enough to appreciate the quiet rooms — a Mr. Gilmour, who had been with them now for more than a week. This gentleman neatly fit Daniel's notion of what a desirable guest should look like, for he wore a fine tweed chesterfield coat over a brown suit of superior cloth, topped with one of the tall hats that had lately come into fashion. He further accessorized his elegant costume with an orange silk cravat tied into a wide bow at his throat and a matching handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. He carried a gold pocket watch, which he consulted frequently. He did not, however, state his business in Wellington, although Daniel had done his best to find out.

“I ask him every morning if he's going out and he always says yes,” Daniel reported to Lewis. “I ask him every evening if he's had a satisfactory day, and the answer is the same, but he never elaborates any further. It's very puzzling.”

“You shouldn't be so curious,” Lewis told his brother-in-law. “People don't want their innkeeper poking around in their business.”

“I'm not poking, I'm just being polite. You know, expressing an interest in my customers.”

“Well, they won't thank you for it, you know. Just serve up their food and keep your questions to yourself. You don't want to drive him away.”

Lewis thought that Daniel would be less curious about the mysterious Mr. Gilmour if he had a few more guests to look after. But until that happened, the slow traffic at the hotel promised ample opportunity for Lewis to indulge in tea and papers, and with the search for the missing Nate Elliott disbanded, he had only to wait until their solitary guest departed for the afternoon, before he made for the dining room with his steaming cup and a sigh of contentment.

As he spread the newspapers across the table, he noted that the front page of the new Toronto paper,
The Globe
, was full of the consequences of the recent election. Responsible government had seemed such a fine idea back in 1839 when Lord Durham had suggested that the two Canadian colonies be united into one province, but no one had given much thought to the actual mechanics of making it work. Over the intervening five years it had become apparent that neither Upper nor Lower Canada — or Canada West and Canada East, as they were now called — could dominate the provincial assembly. They needed to cooperate, and to a certain extent they did, but no one had defined their responsibilities nor delineated their powers. The assembly had limped along until the arrival the previous year of Sir Charles Metcalfe as governor general, a man who seemed to assume that being a governor meant that he should govern, and that allowing a recently rebellious population to make decisions for themselves was a ludicrous proposition. In spite of this, he had initially attempted compromise with his upstart assembly, going so far as to agree that the rebels of 1837 should be granted amnesty and allowed to return home; but he would make no further concessions to the notion of the province controlling its own affairs.

The entire assembly had resigned in protest over Governor Metcalfe's insistence on controlling government appointments. The Province of Canada had responsible government in name only, it seemed, as Metcalfe had simply carried on without these elected representatives until he was sure enough of his ground to call for a new vote. He had trotted out the old bogeyman of “British loyalty” as a campaign platform. Any further handing over of responsibilities to the assembly was, according to Metcalfe, tantamount to disloyalty to the Crown.

His strategy had worked, especially in Protestant Canada West, but Lewis had been surprised by some of the people who had supported it. Egerton Ryerson, self-appointed Methodist spokesman and editor of
The Christian Guardian
, had written in defence of the governor, to howls of outrage and general vilification by those who supported reform. Lewis read that Ryerson had now been appointed superintendant of education for Canada West, and wondered if that had been the price put on his support. Lewis had never liked Ryerson, and there were many Methodists, himself included, who often found themselves in disagreement with the man's opinions. Shaking his head over the chronic chaos of government affairs, he abandoned
The Globe
and turned instead to the inside pages of the
Cobourg Star
.

These were more entertaining by far. One article reported on the recent international cricket match between the United States and the Province of Canada, which took place at the St. George's Cricket Club in New York. Due to bad weather the match had been extended to three days of play. Lewis read with pleasure that “the British Empire's Canadian Province” had emerged victorious by a margin of twenty-three runs. Another item detailed some of the many wonders that had been unveiled at the Paris Industrial Exhibition, including a new musical instrument called the baritone saxophone. Its inventor, a Belgian man by the name of Adolphe Sax, intended the new apparatus “to fill the gap between the loud woodwinds and the more adaptable brass instruments” according to the article. Lewis hadn't realized that such a gap existed, never having heard an orchestra, only a few of the military bands that accompanied British troops in Canada.

He then became absorbed in an article about General Tom Thumb, a wonder of nature who was featured with Barnum's American Museum. A perfectly formed child, who at the age of five stood only twenty-five inches high and weighed only fifteen pounds, Tom could sing, dance, and impersonate Napoleon Bonaparte, apparently. His act, along with the Feejee Mermaid, was drawing huge crowds as the exhibit travelled across the United States.

Wonder or freak, Lewis wasn't sure, but in any event his enjoyment of the article was interrupted and he never did get the chance to return to it. A horse and wagon had pulled up in front of the hotel and he watched through the window as a seemingly endless number of trunks and cases were pulled down from it. It appeared that Temperance House was about to acquire its second customer.

Lewis knew that Susannah was in the kitchen dicing vegetables for the evening's stew and he had seen Daniel disappear upstairs sometime earlier, so he supposed it was up to him to greet their new guest. Lewis sighed and took one last hasty sip of his tea, folded the newspapers into a neat pile, and walked out onto the verandah just as the carter handed down a striking woman who was dressed in a fashion that signalled her origins; her finely cut cloak spoke of the city and shops, of the latest fashion and of clothing made with the greatest attention to detail. She wore a hat that fit snugly to her head, with a small brim and ribbons that matched the satin loop on the muff she carried. It was quite unlike the flowered and feathered headwear that Canadian women generally wore when they dressed up. This woman wore no cap under her hat either; instead, her face was framed on each side by long curls that dangled down to her chin. She was quite unlike anything Lewis had ever seen.

“How do you do, ma'am,” he said as she looked up at him. “Could I be of assistance?”

She smiled, an action that gave her heart-shaped face a distinctly cat-like appearance.

“How do you do. I wonder if I might take a room — a very private room, please.” Her voice was high-pitched, almost shrill, with a telltale twang that spoke of somewhere in the south of the American republic. It grated on Lewis's ears and he found himself hoping that he wouldn't have to listen to it for long.

“Of course,” he said. “Please come in and I'll fetch the innkeeper.”

The bell on the front door jangled as he opened it for her. Daniel must have heard it and came running down the stairs, wiping his hands on the filthy apron he had tied around his waist after breakfast and had neglected to remove. However, when he saw the woman, he hastily tore it off.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, beaming at her. “Are you looking for a room, miss? We have a pleasant one on the ground floor. It has a view of the street and there are two beds in it.”

“I should prefer a second- or third-floor room if that is possible,” she said. “Horatio must be away from the awful dust that is thrown up from the street.”

Lewis hadn't noticed the small, pale boy who had entered behind the woman. He must have been hidden amongst the trunks and hatboxes that the carter had stacked beside the wagon. Whatever dust had been in the streets of Wellington had long since dissolved into a muddy mess with the cold rains of autumn, but perhaps this woman from away was unfamiliar with the usual state of the streets in Canada in the fall.

“And I must insist that it be well-curtained,” she went on. “Poor Horatio needs a great deal of rest and I must be able to draw the curtains against the light if he's sleeping, poor lamb. And is there a sitting room attached? If not, could I ask you to also furnish a good table and a few chairs?”

Lewis knew that he should go and help the poor carter, but he was mildly intrigued by the woman's requests, and so he remained standing in the hall to see how his brother-in-law would respond.

“That's no problem, ma'am,” Daniel said with barely a moment's hesitation. “We can prepare rooms to your specification if you give us but half an hour. Perhaps you would like to take tea in the dining room while we make it ready?” He shot Lewis a glance, as if to tell him to get busy with the luggage, and then he almost bowed as he showed the woman the way to the dining room. “And of course we'll ensure that the rooms are adjoining, although I must inform you that there will be an extra charge for it.”

“That would be lovely,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Thank you.”

Daniel reappeared gleefully a short time later, just as Lewis set the last of the luggage down in the hall.

“I was able to charge that woman more for two rooms than we normally get in a month for the whole lot,” he said in a low voice. “She didn't bat an eye when I told her how much it would be.”

“Who is she?” Lewis asked.

“She's Nathan Elliot's wife. She says her first name is Clementine. I don't recall ever meeting a Clementine before, but then she's American, and they do have strange ways, don't they?”

As a veteran of both the War of 1812 and the more recent Patriot Hunter invasions, Lewis had to agree. Still, he wondered why Nathan Elliott's wife and, presumably, his son, would choose to stay at a hotel instead of at the Elliott farm.

“I wonder why she didn't come with her husband in the first place,” Lewis said as they carried a large trunk up the stairs.

“Hiram Elliott wasn't expected to last nearly this long,” Daniel replied. “I expect Nate thought he could just skip up here, pay his last respects, collect his inheritance, and then skip back home again. Apparently, it's the first time he's been to visit his father in twenty years. I hear it was always Reuben who danced to the old man's tune.”

“Well, everyone must be regretting the visit now,” Lewis remarked. “Poor woman. It's a desperate reason for a visit.”

Susannah was busy in the kitchen making the tea that had been promised and was unable to supervise the preparation of the rooms, so she had given Daniel strict instructions about what needed to be done.

“Apparently, we need to turn the bed,” Daniel said as they stood in the large front room he had chosen for their guest.

“Why?” Lewis asked. “No one's slept in it for weeks.” But he took one side of the floppy feather mattress and helped Daniel flip it over.

Fresh linens were necessary, as well, apparently, and after a struggle the two men managed to make the bed adequately, although the coverlet refused to hang straight.

“Should I find some extra blankets?” Daniel asked. “They won't be used to the cold nights.”

“Do it later,” Lewis said. “We've got to move the beds out of the other room and find a table and some chairs to move into it. And there are still bags and boxes that need to be brought up.”

They went through the connecting door between the front bedroom and the smaller one beside it. The latter held two small beds. They moved one of them into the big room for the boy. The other they heaved out into the hall for the time being. They then brought up a small table and some chairs from the dining room. When they had finished, Daniel surveyed their handiwork.

“Well, I don't expect it's what she's used to, but it's the best we can do on short notice.”

Lewis carried the rest of the luggage up the stairs while Daniel went to inform their new patron that her accommodation had been prepared. There were three heavy valises and a number of bandboxes, besides the trunk he and Daniel had already deposited in the bedroom. Rather a lot of luggage for what Lewis assumed would be a fairly short visit, but then what did he know of city ladies and their sartorial needs? She probably changed her dress every day. He could only hope that it wouldn't be he and Daniel who would be expected to do her laundry.

Clementine wafted into the room just as the two men had delivered the last bag. “Oh, this is lovely,” she said, and again Lewis found himself slightly irritated by the timbre of her voice. She turned and smiled at Daniel. “Thank you so much for going to such trouble.”

Daniel reddened, and stammered in return, “You're most welcome, ma'am. And now I'll leave you to get settled.”

Obviously he found her high-pitched drawl of no concern. It was obvious, to Lewis at least, that he found Clementine Elliott quite charming.

Over the next few days, Mrs. Elliott appeared to charm nearly everyone else in Wellington, too. As a widow, or at least a presumed widow, she was the subject of a great deal of sympathy.

“I expect we'll find her husband's body in the spring,” was Susannah's opinion. Unlike her husband, Lewis's sister generally took no delight in idle gossip. She did seem, however, quite willing to report on Clementine Elliott, as the community's sympathy turned to curiosity and then, in certain circles anyway, admiration.

“The men fall over themselves to cross her path so they can tip their hats,” Susannah said. “I don't see what the attraction is myself.” At which point Lewis noticed that Daniel blushed. At least he had the good sense not to make any comment.

She went on. “The only topic of conversation amongst Wellington women is the cut of her dress and the amount of ribbon used to trim it. Meribeth Scully says they've been bought right out of satin.”

The Scullys ran the local dry goods store, and although they carried a large selection of cloth and bobbins of thread, their supply of ribbon was limited to the plainer types required by local housewives and the two tailors in the village, mostly grosgrain in black or a dignified brown. This did not amount to a great deal of ribbon in a year, especially as there were so many Quakers in the area, and they, of course, used no ribbon at all.

Lewis knew from their sidelong glances that Daniel and Susannah were expecting him to launch into a diatribe about the folly of letting personal vanity occupy the attention that should rightly go to spiritual concerns — it was what was expected from a Methodist minister — yet he found that he could quite understand the interest in this display of exotic female finery.

In all the years of their marriage there were few ribbons that had ever come Betsy's way, yet there had been one time when he had been paid for a christening with a few yards of cloth. It had been a pretty calico print, with a blue background and a scattering of pink and yellow flowers. He should have taken the bolt to the nearest town and traded it with some storekeeper for flour or sugar or even a few coins, but something had held him back. Instead, he had taken it home and suggested to Betsy that it was time for a new summer dress. Her eyes had lit up when she saw the cloth and he chided himself for not thinking of her more often. Even then, she had said something about their daughter's wardrobe, but he had insisted that she use it for herself.

Women needed things like pretty clothes once in a while to offset the harshness of their lives in this hard place, to take the edge off their constant round of looking after houses and children and husbands. Betsy had looked lovely in her new dress and he had told her so. Let the Scullys sell as much ribbon as they could lay their hands on, and if Clementine Elliott had raised the bar of Wellington fashion, then so be it. What real harm could it do if it was but a transitory thing and made women happier creatures?

Of more concern was his brother-in-law. He knew that Daniel had a bit of an eye. After all, it had been what attracted him to Susannah in the first place. She had been an extraordinarily pretty girl and was still a fine-looking woman, but Lewis knew that she had begun to fret about the fine lines that had etched themselves into the skin around her eyes and mouth, and once he had surprised her at the mirror in the front hall. She had been pulling at the slightly sagging pouch of flesh under her chin. She'd blushed a little when she saw him, and he had not commented. He had no real reason to think that any part of Daniel would rove except for his eye, but he was anxious that his sister's feelings not be wounded by even this small transgression. If necessary, he would have a word with him, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Mrs. Elliott had dutifully attended her father-in-law the day after her arrival, but what the old man made of her was unknown, for by now he was apparently so far gone that it was unlikely that he even realized she was there. She must have concluded the same thing, for she made no move to return to the Elliott farm. Instead, she wandered the town, her small, pale son in tow, and handed her cards to everyone she met. Daniel had a supply of these cards, for she had asked him to leave a pile on the table in the entrance hall. He showed one to Lewis.
Psychic Guide
, it said in an ornamented script, and underneath, in plainer letters,
Mesmerism, Transportation and Spirit Communication, Dr. & Mrs. Nathan Elliott. Rates upon inquiry
.

“What nonsense is this?” Lewis said. “Spirit communication? What's that supposed to be about?”

“I asked the same thing,” Daniel said. “Apparently, Mrs. Elliott has the ability to contact the dead, and helps their relatives speak with them, make sure they're all right, that sort of thing. It all seems very odd, doesn't it?”

Lewis was quite prepared to overlook the obsession with dress that Clementine Elliott had ignited, but this was something he could not countenance.

“This is wrong,” he said flatly, “a desecration. Not only that, I suspect it's impossible anyway. This can't be anything but a parlour trick.”

Daniel shrugged. “It's got everybody talking.”

“I expect it has,” Lewis said. “That doesn't mean it's right. Has any fool actually taken her up on it?”

Daniel appeared unconcerned. “Not yet, but I suspect it's only a matter of time. There are plenty enough people who are desperate over the loss of a loved one. And there will be plenty of people who are curious enough to come at least once, just to see what it's all about.”

“You'll have to tell her she can't do that sort of thing here.”

Daniel bristled. “Now, why on earth should I do that? It's none of my business … and she's a paying customer.”

“But it's fraud,” Lewis protested. “You'd be a party to it.”

“I don't see how you can come to that conclusion. All I do is rent the rooms. Besides, how do you know it's a fraud? Maybe she
can
do what she claims.”

“You know that can't be true, Daniel.”

“No, I don't know for sure,” he said. “Maybe she can. Whether she can or not, all she's really doing is bringing a little comfort to folks. What's wrong with that?”

“But it's a lie.”

“Oh, leave it alone, Thaddeus. She's not hurting anybody. Not everybody has your conviction, you know.”

In spite of his certainty that contacting the dead was both impious and impossible, Lewis had to concede that there was a certain element of truth in this argument, for he, too, had once been guilty of a longing to communicate with his lost daughters. He wondered if he would have availed himself of a similar service had it been available at the time of his most intense grief. In spite of his moral objections, he rather suspected that he might have considered it.