The Widow's Demise (4 page)

“You swear?”

“I do.”

Trueman snapped the reins and the horses
moved out smartly.

***

Marc and Gilles Gagnon were designated to approach
Humphrey Cardiff, who agreed to meet them in his office at one
o’clock. When they were settled in, Marc started things off by
saying, “We’ve come to discuss the upcoming election, which you
probably guessed.”

Cardiff smiled. “That thought had occurred to
me.”

“You are chairman of Arthur Dingman’s
election committee?” Marc said.

“Indeed I am. And you two gentlemen are much
involved in Louis LaFontaine’s campaign.”

“We are. And the reason we have come here is
to discuss some of the ground rules for the campaign. We are hoping
to avoid trouble on the hustings by doing more advance preparation
that will forestall it.”

Cardiff’s heavy brows shot up. “What sort of
trouble?”

“Well,” Gagnon said, “there was a lot of
violence and rough stuff during LaFontaine’s campaign in Terrebonne
last April. We are hoping that there will not be a repetition of
those incidents.”

“And you think our side might be capable of
such tricks?”

“Both sides are capable of it,” Marc said.
“Strong feelings usually prevail at election time. All we can do is
make sure that the leadership is not the root cause of violence
among the troops.”

“You feel there might be some strong
anti-French, anti-Rebellion feeling among the populace of the
county?”

“It would be easy to stir up,” Gagnon said,
suddenly aware of his very French accent. “As you did in you letter
to the
Gazette.
”

“Ah, that,” Cardiff said. “That was fair
political comment. It was intended to persuade people to vote Tory,
not incite violence of any sort. I am the Attorney-General. I am
opposed to violence. I stand for law and order. And I can assure
you gentlemen that no-one on our side will do any stirring up of
the populace.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” Marc said. “We
want an open and fair election.”

“But,” said Gagnon, “we hear you have taken
on D’Arcy Rutherford.”

Cardiff’s grimace turned slowly to a smile.
“You overestimate Rutherford’s influence. He is a loyal Tory and a
superb organizer. That is all. You have nothing to worry about on
that score.”

“This is most reassuring,” said Marc. “May we
shake hands on it?”

“Certainly,” Cardiff said. He held out his
hand. “To a clean election.”

“Likewise,” Marc said.

He and Gagnon were shown out. Humphrey
Cardiff went back to his desk and sat down. He lit a cigar and
puffed on it with some satisfaction. Words were wonderful things,
he thought. They could be shaped, manipulated and aimed where you
wanted them. A few minutes later, the side door to his office
opened and D’Arcy Rutherford came in. He was a short, wiry little
man with angular features and tiny shifting eyes that darted here
and there and never seemed to alight anywhere.

“Ah, D’Arcy,” Rutherford said. “You’re just
in time.”

“Things are in motion,” Rutherford said.

“LaFontaine will never know what hit him,”
Cardiff said.

He continued to puff on his fancy cigar.

***

Carlton Diggs, the butler, poked his head into
Delores’s sewing-room. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but your father
would like to see you in the library.”

“I didn’t know he was back from the office,”
Delores said, putting down her knitting.

“He just arrived a few minutes ago.”

“Very well, then.”

Delores followed Diggs down the hall to the
library. Her father was seated at the big table, fingering a
calf-bound book.

“Ah, there you are,” Cardiff said, placing
the book aside. “Please have a seat. There is something important I
wish to discuss with you.”

Delores sensed the urgency in his voice, and
without further ado sat down next to him.

“I’m not sure how or where to begin, my dear,
but begin I must. I’ll come straight to the point. I was, to say
the least, disappointed in your behaviour last evening at the
ball.”

Delores was taken aback. Her father was not
usually so blunt. “Oh,” she said, “in what way?”

“Well, you were, how shall I say it, a little
too free with your person.” He looked down briefly and then back up
again.

“But I was the hostess. I was expected to
mingle and make our guests feel comfortable.”

“Of course you were. But it is unseemly for a
young woman to approach a man and ask for a dance, a manoeuvre you
repeated several times.”

“I wanted to make Monsieur Gagnon feel at
home here in Toronto. I wished to show him we were not
prejudiced.”

“He wasn’t the only one, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry you feel so strongly about it,
father. After all, I am a woman of independent means.”

“That’s just my point, Delores. You are a
widow with a small fortune. Every unattached male in town is in
pursuit of you, and you make yourself shamelessly available.”

“I like to dance,” Delores said
stubbornly.

“I particularly don’t like you getting close
to Lionel Trueman. The man is nothing but a gold digger.”

“I only danced with him once.”

“Don’t be disingenuous. I know for a fact
that you spent the morning driving about the countryside with the
man.”

Delores bit her lip. “Who told you?” she said
sharply.

“What does it matter. I know. And I heartily
disapprove.”

“It was Perkins, wasn’t it?”

John Perkins was the all-purpose manservant
in the household.

“What if it was. That is irrelevant.”

“Lionel Trueman is just a friend. I have no
intention of marrying the man. Not him nor any man.”

“Then you ought to act in a manner that
suggests that. I am heavily involved in Mr. Dingman’s election
campaign. I don’t want tongues to start wagging.”

“So it’s your precious campaign you’re
worried about!”

“I’m worried about my daughter. Now promise
me you’ll curtail your activities in regard to gentleman
friends.”

“Well, it’ll have to be tomorrow because I’ve
invited Horace Macy to spend the afternoon with me. He’ll be here
shortly.”

“Macy? The chemist? Why, he’s worse than
Trueman. Everybody knows his business is near bankruptcy. He’s
after your money. I absolutely forbid his coming here.”

Delores laughed. “Well, he’s a long ways from
getting it. I find him amusing. He likes to play piquet. That is
all there is to it.”

“I’ll not have him in the house. You are a
most wilful girl.”

“Woman, you mean. And a very rich one.”

***

Delores found John Perkins in the drawing-room,
stacking kindling in the fireplace.

“Madam,” he said with a tremor in his
voice.

“Put down your work, Perkins. I wish to speak
with you.”

“Yes, madam. Is anything the matter?”

“Yes, there is. I want to know why you told
my father about my carriage-ride this morning when I expressly
asked you and the other servants not to.”

Perkins, a handsome fellow with a shock of
sandy hair, went white. “Mr. Cardiff asked me if anyone came to
visit you this morning. I couldn’t tell a lie directly to the
master. He’d have dismissed me.”

“You didn’t have to tell him anything. You
could have said you were busy all the time and didn’t see anything
at all. Don’t you have a brain in your skull?”

“I’m sorry, madam, I didn’t know what to –
”

“It’s too late for an apology. I want you to
gather your belongings and clear out.”

“You’re – you’re firing me?”

“I am. I can’t have people about me who are
untrustworthy.”

“But my wife is pregnant!”

Perkins did not live in. He had a rented
cottage, where he lived with his wife of six months.

“That’s of no concern to me. And don’t expect
references.”

“But I’ll not be able to get another
job.”

“You don’t deserve one.”

“I’ll – I’ll go to the master,” he spluttered
as anger overwhelmed his fear.

“He’ll not overrule me in any matter
concerning the servants. You’re wasting your breath.”

“Please, madam. It was a small mistake.”

“Not as I see it. Now quit whining about it
and do as I ask you. You’ll get the rest of your wages for the
week.”

With that she turned and walked out, feeling
exhilarated.

Perkins began to stack the kindling, then
dropped the last sticks beside the growing pile. Very slowly he
left the room.

***

Horace Macy approached the back door of Rosewood. He
didn’t mind using the rear entrance as it made his assignations
with Delores all the more romantic, like something out of Sir
Walter Scott. There was, however, a sense of urgency in his step.
His chemist’s shop was on its last legs. He needed an infusion of
cash, and quickly. But the widow was proving a hard nut to crack.
There were times when he thought she saw him merely as a playing
partner for the French card game of piquet, and nothing more.
Certainly she had an inordinate passion for the game, and he
figured that he had convinced her that he shared that passion. But
what else? Every attempt to bring the conversation around to
marriage was summarily or coyly rebuffed. Perhaps he would have to
approach the father, but Humphrey Cardiff was a formidable
gentleman. He would want to know the details of his wealth, of
which there were few that would impress a man of Cardiff’s standing
in the community. No, he must get the lady’s consent first, and use
her as an ally against the father’s protestations. Well, he would
press her again this afternoon. And she would surely succumb.
Unless, of course, there were serious rivals. She had danced with
Lionel Trueman last night, and with Cecil Denfield, although he was
married. He’d have to keep an eye on Trueman. Perhaps he didn’t
play piquet.

Macy approached the door and gave three
discreet raps. Seconds later the door was opened by Delores
Cardiff-Jones.

“Ah, right on time,” she said. “Father’s in
his study. We’ll go to my sewing-room as usual.”

Macy followed her through the kitchen and
down a hallway to her sitting-room. The card-table and cards were
ready for immediate use.

“We won’t be disturbed,” Delores said. “The
maid will bring us coffee in half an hour.”

“Let’s get started, then, shall we?” Macy
said, putting his coat and hat on a nearby chair.

They settled on opposite sides of the table
and prepared for an afternoon of piquet. So fiercely did Delores
concentrate on the game that there was little opportunity for small
talk. The challenge for Macy was to lose the game to Delores
without her discovering any deception. She liked to win. It was not
until the maid brought the coffee that Macy could direct the
conversation towards more productive ends.

“That was a fine ball last night,” Macy
said.

“I thought it went very well, thank you.”

“I enjoyed dancing with you, as always.”

“I was kept very busy, that’s for sure.”

“You and I were meant to dance together.”

“You dance very nicely, Horace.”

“I meant we go together as a couple. We’re
compatible.”

“You’re the best piquet player I’ve come up
against.”

Macy sighed. “I think you know what I’m
driving at.”

“How would I know what you’re thinking,”
Delores said lightly.

“You know I wish to marry you.”

“I do know that, and I think it’s charming of
you to think that way.”

“But I’m serious. We have a lot in common. We
like to enjoy ourselves. We are passionate about cards. I have been
a widower for a year and a half, and have a large house that needs
people to inhabit it.”

Since his wife’s death Macy had lived in five
rooms at the front of the house with his mother and a single
servant. The rest of the house he had closed up, and neglected. But
at least he owned it, although he might have to sell it to save his
business. Unless . . .

“But I have been a widow for only six
months,” Delores said. “It’s far too soon for me to think of
remarrying.”

“But when you do, you would consider me?”

Delores finished her coffee. “Of course I
would. When the time is ripe. Now let’s get back to our
piquet.”

***

Horace Macy stepped out of the back door onto the
stoop. At Delores’s behest he would go through the bushes and out
through the lane that ran behind Rosewood. It was all very cloak
and dagger, and he felt a charge of excitement run though him.
Surely Delores would not put herself through so much trouble if she
were not – deep down – serious about his intentions. Just then,
someone popped out from the bushes.

It was Lionel Trueman. His face was purple
with rage, as if he had spent some time stoking his anger.

“I thought it was you who went in that door
two hours ago,” he seethed.

“What business is it of yours?” Macy said,
coming up to the taller man.

“The widow is mine,” Trueman said. “And I
don’t appreciate people who meddle in my affairs.”

“The widow belongs to herself,” Macy said.
“But she does invite me here almost every afternoon. I’d hardly
call that meddling.”

“You are a fool if you think you can horn in
my territory.”

“I don’t consider it your territory.”

“The lady was with me all morning.”

“I spent the afternoon in her
sewing-room
!” Macy was becoming extremely upset at this
upstart customs official.

“You are only after her money. Everybody
knows your shop is failing.”

“Are you accusing me of being dishonourable
in my intentions?” Macy blustered, getting red in the face
himself.

“I am.”

“Those are fighting words.”

“I meant them to be.” Trueman leaned forward
and hovered over Macy, glaring at him.

“You want to settle this matter once and for
all?” Macy said.