The Bishop's Pawn (2 page)

The subject of the debate, as spirited and
compelling as any he had heard in the legislative chambers at
Albany, had of course been the contents and recommendations of
Lord Durham’s Report
, which had reached the colony from
England just two weeks ago. Young Edwards had met the infamous earl
when His Excellency had visited Toronto last June on his
fact-finding mission following upon the rebellions in both Upper
and Lower Canada. Child’s play they were, when compared with the
glorious revolution of 1775, but Dougherty had been too polite to
say so. Besides, however miniscule its scale, the struggle of the
ordinary citizens of Upper Canada against the tyranny and arrogance
of the local oligarchy – dubbed the Family Compact – was real
enough. And blood
had
been shed, including that of
Lieutenant Edwards, and families had been burned out or driven off
their land. Moreover, the constitutional and governmental questions
that had sparked the rebellions (and were still unresolved)
provided an inexhaustible grist for the mill of any self-respecting
lawyer, whatever his politics or country of origin.

Lord Durham had recommended that the British
government promote the union of Upper and Lower Canada, with a
united legislature and a parliamentary system modelled on “British
principles.”. Robert Baldwin and his disciple Edwards were ecstatic
with this proposal, though their pleasure had been tempered by the
fact that the current provincial parliament was dominated by the
right-wingers. Dougherty’s contribution to their discussion had
been to point out that Lord Durham had initially considered the
best constitutional option to be a
federal
union of
all
the provinces of British North America – a notion, he
felt obligated to remark, that echoed uncannily an arrangement that
had been worked out in a nation not too far distant from them.
.

Dougherty now directed his amble west along
Front Street, pleasantly assaulted by the maritime scents of fish
from the shanties and stalls along the beach and from a mist-laden
breeze from the broad bay. He was still chuckling reminiscently as
he approached York Street. Having got the attention of Baldwin and
Marc, Dougherty had taken the opportunity to emphasize that the
critical issue for Upper Canada was the persistent and pernicious
presence of an “aristocracy” that was such in name only.
Furthermore, any government based on “British principles” was
unworkable without the weight of tradition and authority as a
counterbalance to an elected assembly. Having acknowledged this
problem in 1775, Franklin and Jefferson had set about designing a
republican
system with an ingenious set of checks and
balances. Unfortunately, the indisputable logic of this argument
had been dismantled not by any counter-thrust, but rather by the
sudden appearance of Diana Ramsay, the governess of Robert’s
children. One of the wee tots had a fever, and she thought that Mr.
Baldwin ought to tend to her. And Mr. Baldwin had agreed, excusing
himself but not before reminding his guests that they had arranged
to attend the Saturday evening sitting of the Legislative Assembly.
After which, young Marc Edwards had driven Dougherty home before
going on to Briar Cottage and his wife Beth, now nearing the end of
her “term.”

While disappointed in the abrupt conclusion
to their discussion, Dougherty was otherwise pleased to have gotten
a clear-eyed look at Miss Ramsay, for it was she who had recently
caught the fancy of his ward Brodie. It was obvious that her tidy
figure, dark curls and big black eyes would appeal to any young man
inclined that way, but it was the frank intelligence in her face
and her self-possessed bearing – despite the anxiety of the moment
– that appealed to Dougherty, and made him glad that Brodie was
beginning to settle into life in a British colony after the glamour
and promise of New York. They could never return there, not after
all that had happened, unjust as it had been – at least not as long
as he himself lived, for both Brodie and Celia had sworn to stand
by him to the end. That such an end now seemed more distant was a
prospect to be welcomed.

At York Street, even in the early-morning
mist off the bay, the monstrous folly of Somerset House loomed, and
affronted. Its cupolas, belvederes, balconies, colonnade and
portico had been expensively and haphazardly yoked together to
create a residence that was part chateau, part castle and part
Moroccan mosque. No doubt it suited the pretensions of
Receiver-General Ignatius Maxwell, one of the
faux
aristocrats at the heart of the province’s political deadlock.
Fortunately, as Dougherty swung north along Simcoe Street, with his
breathing a touch more strained but holding up nicely, he was able
to cast a more favourable eye upon the parliament buildings that
faced Front Street. Their handsome red-brick and simple but
graceful lines spoke well of both the practicality and the modest
aspirations of a North American citizenry struggling to define
itself. They weren’t the White House or the Capitol – nothing could
or ever would be – but then again they weren’t a clone of their
“betters” at Westminster. He was looking forward to the debate
there this evening.

At King Street once again, he walked east
towards Bay, increasing his pace slightly as he entered the home
stretch of this daily race against the ravages of time and
mortality. The displays in the shop windows held little appeal for
him, and thus he was able to concentrate on negotiating the worn
and broken planks of the boardwalk. Only at the jeweller’s shop did
he pause long enough to note the time on the garish English
pendulum clock that reared amongst the pocket watches, necklaces
and other baubles in the bow window: 7:33 A.M. He was three minutes
behind schedule! More ambling and less meditation, he concluded –
and moved on.

A few steps up Bay Street, he felt his
stomach rumble in anticipation of the breakfast that Celia would
have ready for him: sausages, eggs, flapjacks, maple syrup and
steaming black coffee – American style. But it was his ward Celia’s
smile he was looking forward to most of all.

***

“What do you mean, you’re gonna give up yer law
studies?” Beth said, a little more forcefully than she had
intended, a touch of her southern twang just noticeable.

“I’m not giving them up, I’m merely
postponing them,” Marc replied in a most reasonable tone. “And you
mustn’t go about upsetting yourself, not in your – ” Marc stopped,
but half-a-phrase too late.

“Not in my ‘condition,’ eh?” The blue eyes he
loved so dearly blazed with indignation, and just a hint of
amusement. “I’ve told you a dozen times, I haven’t got the dropsy
or gallopin’ consumption. There’s a healthy, protestin’ babe in
here.” At which point she rubbed a lascivious palm across her
nine-month belly. “An’ if she can somehow hear us squabblin’, she
ain’t likely to pay much attention – bein’ unfamiliar with the
Queen’s English.”

“
She
?”

Beth smiled, then grew serious again. “Can’t
Robert Baldwin carry the Reform cause without the aid of his
apprentice?” she said, leaning back in the big padded chair she had
appropriated when her ‘condition’ cried out for its comforts.

“I thought you of all people would be keen to
have me join the campaign to promote Lord Durham’s recommendations
for a united parliament and responsible government.”

“And I am, darlin’, really. Jess an’ his
father and I battled the Family Compact an’ stood up fer the Reform
party as hard as anybody in this province – and at such a
cost.”

Marc wanted to warn Beth not to dwell on her
past tragedies – the sudden and brutal deaths of her first husband
and her beloved father-in-law – given her condition, but restrained
himself in time. Instead he said, “You realize as clearly as anyone
that we have an uphill fight in the Assembly to get a bill passed
that will encourage the Melbourne government in London to implement
the earl’s key proposals. Pressure must come from the countryside,
from the farmers and tradesmen and shopkeepers. It must be a
groundswell so powerful and sustained that even the Tory-dominated
legislature will take notice and do their duty!”

“You ain’t on the platform yet,” Beth said
with a twinkle. “But I gather that Robert has plans fer erectin’ as
many as he can construct an’ get away with.”

“More than that,” Marc said, warming to the
topic, and grateful that his wife and companion was not only
beautiful – in her freckled, Irish way – but intelligent and
passionate about her adopted province. “Robert and his committee
have developed a master plan.”

Just then Charlene Huggan, their all-purpose
servant, popped into the archway between living-room and kitchen.
“Is it okay, Beth, if I slip next door fer a few minutes? I’ll be
back before Mr. Edwards leaves fer the evenin’.”

“You c’n bring Jasper back with you, if you
like,” Beth said. “I promised him a rematch.”

Jasper Hogg lived next door, when he wasn’t
parked in the Edwards’ parlour. The young carpenter, whose
principal work was intermittent at best, did all the heavy labour
about Briar Cottage: chopping and lugging wood, fetching water for
the cistern and stove, and tending to the needs of the horse. Which
allowed Marc to spend all his time studying for the Bar – up at
Osgoode Hall and in the legal chambers of Baldwin and Sullivan.

Charlene headed for the back door.

It was just after supper on Saturday. Marc
was preparing to leave in order to join Robert Baldwin and Doubtful
Dick for a stroll to the legislature and the scheduled session of
the Assembly. Beth, who had been teaching Jasper and Charlene to
play chess over the winter months, now routinely pitted herself
against the pair of them, who used the frequent consultations over
their next move as a kind of not-so-subtle lovers’ byplay. She
would have pleasant company until he got home.

“So what’s this master plan, then?” Beth
said, returning to the topic at hand.

“Robert and his associates are going to stump
every township between Cornwall and Sandwich,” Marc said. “They’re
also planning to organize Durham Clubs in every region to continue
the debate long after the platform rhetoric has faded.”

“You figure on stumpin’ alongside of Robert?”
Beth said, eyeing her husband closely.

Marc grinned. “Don’t worry, love. I don’t
intend to be absent for the birth of our
son.
”

“She’ll be pleased about that when I tell
her.”

Marc began to pull his boots on. “What Robert
has asked me to do is to help him write a series of pamphlets that
will flesh out the arguments being made in the Assembly and from
the podiums across the province, and to compose broadsides that
will highlight our principal points. He expects this work will be
ongoing, as our tactics may have to be adjusted to any sudden
change in the Tories’ counter-arguments or misrepresentation of our
views.”

Beth shifted slightly to ease a cramp in her
left leg. “That is somethin’ you’ll be able to do well. And, if
you’d like, I’d be happy to help out.”

Marc smiled to acknowledge this indirect
reference to her proven ability to frame effective political
tracts, drawing upon her past experience as a farm-owner who had
suffered from several of the thoughtless land policies of the
right-wing governments that had controlled the province since its
inception more than forty-five years ago.

“You could be of real help, love,” Marc said
slowly, “but since you do insist that you’ll be going back to the
shop as soon as you’re able, and with our son to occupy the rest of
your time, I don’t see how you could manage it.”

Beth wanted to object, but had to admit that
Marc could be right. She had succeeded in getting down to her
business –
Smallman’s Fashion Emporium for Ladies
(the newly
minted name of her expanded shop on King Street between Bay and
Yonge) – three days a week up until the beginning of March. By then
she had discovered that she had been too tired and grumpy to be of
use, in either the retail shop or the adjoining dressmaking
enterprise. Moreover, Rose Halpenny was quite capable of
supervising the latter, and Bertha Bethune was her mainstay among
the frocks and bonnets, and gentrified customers who frequented the
place. Her current plan was to take the baby and Charlene with her
to
Smallman’s
as often as she could after the birth. “Maybe
I’ll give up chess or one of them other sports we enjoy late in the
evenin’,” she said to Marc with a straight face.

“The supreme sacrifice, eh?”

Beth peered down at her swollen belly. “I
think this is the supreme sacrifice,” she said.

Marc nodded, then reached for his overcoat.
He glanced towards the kitchen.

“You don’t haveta wait fer Charlene an’
Jasper,” Beth said, shifting her body once again. “Me an’ the
babe’ll behave ourselves till they come.”

“All right. I
am
eager to pick up Dick
and Robert and get to the chamber before the fireworks begin. I
think our skeptical Yankee will be suitably impressed by the
quality of the debate, even if none of his own stunning, republican
logic is deployed by either side.”

“You’re referrin’ to the arrival of Mowbray
McDowell?”

“That’s right. He was spotted this morning on
the verandah of his townhouse, and we fully expect he will lead off
the debate this evening for the Tories.”

“I’d like to be there,” Beth said
wistfully.

Marc leaned over and kissed her on the
forehead. “They say he’s the best speaker they’ve ever had, better
than Justice Robinson or Sweet William Draper.”

“How come, if he was returned in the Kingston
by-election last September, he hasn’t shown up till now?”

Marc explained that McDowell had leased a
townhouse on George Street just north of Newgate in time for the
October opening of the legislature, and had even moved his wife and
servants there, but his father, a prominent importer of wines and
tobacco, had suffered a stroke. McDowell had stayed behind in
Kingston in expectation of his father’s imminent demise, foregoing
the golden opportunity to make his parliamentary debut at the
beginning of the session when the gallery was packed and public
attention high. And to make matters worse, McDowell senior had
lingered on, to the great inconvenience of his son, until Christmas
day, when he had passed wordlessly into the beyond. By then the
Assembly had been prorogued, and its reopening had been
purposefully delayed until the arrival of the earl’s
Report
in the first week of March. A premature spring, however – with
rain-squalls and local flooding – had made so many roads impassable
that the new session had not got underway until the previous
Monday. Poor Mowbray, stuck in Kingston consoling his mother and
winding up his father’s affairs, had found himself unable to travel
to Toronto by steamer (too much ice, still) or get there overland.
The first mail-packet from the east to brave the break-up had
reached the Queen’s Wharf only on Thursday: McDowell had apparently
been aboard.