Unholy Alliance (6 page)

“Your rooms are ready now,” Chilton announced
from the doorway. “If you like, I’ll take you there
immediately.”

This latter remark had more of an imperative
ring to it than Macaulay might have wished, but he said mildly,
“That would suit, Chilton. We’re finished here.”

Chilton bowed stiffly and stood back
deferentially, waiting for the gentlemen to make their move. Behind
him in the hallway, there came a loud clatter and a stifled oath,
followed by the sound of glass breaking. Chilton wheeled as if he’d
been ambushed and cried sharply, “You clumsy fool! Look what you’ve
done! That breakage will come out of your wages.”

Marc was the first one out into the hall,
arriving in time to see Austin Bragg struggling to his feet, with
chunks of a crystal goblet in each hand. What had begun as a look
of dismay on his face was already turning into one of seething,
ill-concealed rage.

“It wasn’t
me
that left these boots
here!” he snapped at Chilton.

Chilton glared back at him, but there seemed
little anger in him as he said with quiet menace, “Fetch Priscilla
to help clear up this mess. We’ll discuss the matter later,
after
the gentlemen have been tended to.” With that he
wheeled around to face Marc and the others, and beamed them a
rueful smile. “My apologies for this mishap. It shan’t happen
again. Now, if you’ll be good enough to follow me.”

Marc, Robert and Hincks turned to do so, but
Macaulay stayed behind, bending over Bragg and murmuring something
in his ear. Meanwhile Marc took a moment to scrutinize the strange
new butler leading them down the hall towards a rotunda at the far
end. Graves Chilton was a trim and neatly efficient specimen in
every respect but one. He moved like a cat – part prowl, part
prance; his morning coat and striped trousers seemed to have been
cut specifically for the form and articulation of their occupant; a
neat red moustache accented his thin, serviceable lips with
military precision; the eyes were a deep blue and ready to dart in
any emotional direction that might be demanded of them. But there
was nothing he could do about his hair, an intemperate burst of
orange stalks that the poor devil had pomaded and brushed and
curry-combed to no avail: it sprouted wherever it pleased. Marc
smiled to himself. Chilton might well prove to be officious and
insufferable, but he would run a tight ship.

And for the next three momentous days that
would suit them all just fine.

When Chilton ushered the French guests into the
dining-room for luncheon, Marc got his first look at
Louis-Hippolyte LaFontaine. And it was difficult not to keep on
looking. As Marc had been forewarned, LaFontaine did bear a
striking resemblance to pictures he had seen of the Emperor
Napoleon. His dark hair was parted in the Napoleonic style, his
bearing was regal, and as he stood watching Macaulay introduce the
others, the fingers of his right hand slipped automatically under
the lapel of his jacket. But he was much taller than the Emperor,
above average even, and he showed no signs of that great man’s
restless energy. Given the fellow’s reputation as a radical mover
and shaker in the turbulent politics of Quebec, Marc had expected
someone fiery of temperament, a man of passionate gestures. But
this Louis LaFontaine was a calm presence in the room: his black
eyes were full of stilled but watchful intensity. His voice, in
heavily accented English, was deep but otherwise unremarkable.

So taken with the leader of the French
Rouge
was Marc that he was well into the main course of the
meal before he even thought about studying the other three
Frenchman. Garnet Macaulay, as their host, had sat at the head of
the table and insisted that LaFontaine sit opposite him at the
other end. Marc, Robert and Hincks were placed on his left, with
Bergeron, Tremblay and Bérubé on his right. In a sometimes
confusing but always earnest manner, the two groups managed, in
both limited English and French, to carry on a polite patter, as if
this were merely a social occasion in which new neighbours strove
to get to know one another. As stilted as it was, and downright
awkward during those moments when Marc had to be called upon for a
quick translation, the effort being put forth by each side had to
be gratifying. Certainly it boded well for the serious
deliberations to follow.

The only exception to this calculated
bonhomie, as Marc began to notice, was Maurice Tremblay. He sat
opposite Marc, but never once looked directly at him. Instead, his
gaze, dark and disturbed, was fixed upon LaFontaine, except when it
swung down the table to fix itself upon Macaulay. And when it did,
the man’s face was twisted into what Marc could only construe as
contempt. Tremblay himself was a small man, sallow-skinned and
hollow-eyed with a mop of unbrushed hair on his head, like a bad
wig. He was slim, but wiry and well-muscled. He carried his fork
uncertainly in his left hand, and only when he raised his napkin to
his lips with both hands did he reveal the two-fingered remains of
the right one. During the entire meal he spoke not a single word in
either tongue.

As Robert had suggested, Garnet Macaulay
proved to be a wise choice as host. He kept the conversation going
by making innocuous remarks on the weather, the parlous state of
the roads, the financial foibles of their neighbours to the south,
and the pleasures of racing horses (his passion). LaFontaine did
not initiate any topics of his own and made no attempt to extend a
topic, but he was studiously polite in responding to questions or
calls for his opinion. Daniel Bérubé, on the other hand, was
voluble (more so in French than English) and more than eager to
hold up his end of the conversation. He was also a physical
presence at the table, a large, plump, pink-cheeked fellow
somewhere in his mid-forties with a gleaming bald head interrupted
only by two stooks of black hair over his ears. He had tiny brown
eyes set in huge, fleshy sockets and a nose that looked as if it
had been borrowed from a moose. His voice was a confident bray that
made Tremblay, seated beside him, wince. Several times Bérubé
attempted to direct the talk towards dry goods and urban
merchandising, with limited success (though Marc did recall that
LaFontaine himself owned a block of stores in downtown Montreal in
addition to his being a lawyer and politician). Bérubé seemed an
odd choice for the French delegation, Marc thought, and Tremblay’s
puzzled glances at LaFontaine indicated he felt much the same
way.

Erneste Bergeron, the fourth member of the
French contingent, spoke very little, perhaps because he spoke
little English (though it was clear that he understood a great
deal) or perhaps because he, like LaFontaine, was reserved by
nature. He was a handsome, slightly balding fellow of fifty years,
with placid, hazel eyes in which kindness and tolerance were
suffused with an abiding sadness. Indeed, his whole countenance
seemed to droop, and he appeared to find it difficult to smile at
points where his patrician manners dictated that he ought to. For
although Bergeron was not a true patrician – a grand seigneur or
member of the ancient landed aristocracy of Quebec – he had made
himself an extensive and influential landowner. He was also a
devout Roman Catholic, according to Robert.

As the dessert was being served – apple tart
garnished with walnuts and topped with fresh cream – Marc took a
moment to study the servants, for he had sensed a certain tension
in that quarter during the other courses of the meal. The dishes
themselves arrived on a dumb-waiter, and were served to the guests
by Austin Bragg and the parlour-maid, Priscilla Finch. The latter
was a pretty, flaxen-haired young woman with nervous blue eyes.
Bragg was darkly handsome and, oddly for a manservant, wore an
expression of barely restrained belligerence. Both were in uniform
and equally skilled at their work. They had obviously been
well-trained by the deceased butler, Alfred Harkness.

But whenever the new butler, Graves Chilton,
uttered a quiet word of instruction or came within an arm’s length
of either of his underlings, as he did several times while pouring
out the wine with practised ease, they would recoil with a
noticeable shudder – of fear or revulsion. Chilton himself seemed
aware of this response, for Marc watched him carefully keep his
distance whenever he could, and offer any necessary directives with
a curt nod or small wave of his right hand. Certainly this
discretion on his part was in marked contrast to the loud
dressing-down he had given Bragg earlier in the foyer. And although
Marc realized that he had taken a dislike to Chilton (who reminded
him of supercilious servants he had encountered as a youth back in
England), he nonetheless felt sorry for him. It was not easy
replacing a long-time and much revered employee in a settled
household.

When Garnet Macaulay indicated that luncheon
was concluded and suggested that the gentlemen meet in the library
for the inaugural session of their conference, LaFontaine nodded
agreement and said in carefully enunciated English, “Please offer
my congratulations to your cook for a most delicious meal. We look
forward to supper with as much anticipation as we do the
conversations to come.”

Macaulay’s cook, Mrs. Noreen Blodgett, was
renowned throughout the capital and beyond, and Macaulay smiled
broadly on her behalf. The historic gathering had gotten off to a
fine start.

***

It was decided that the Quebec delegates would speak
in French, slowly and formally where possible, and the Upper
Canadians likewise in English. And while much would be understood
by the listeners on both sides, Marc would translate the gist of a
given speech and be available for clarifications as matters
progressed. It was not an ideal protocol for a set of tough
negotiations among participants who felt variously aggrieved and
alienated, but it would have to do. On the positive side, more than
a dozen lengthy letters had been exchanged between LaFontaine and
Hincks since September, so that the main points of contention and
initial positions were already known. It was the presence of
LaFontaine’s associates that was worrisome.

It was also decided that no written record of
the meetings would be made. Individuals could make notes if they
wished to and pen private summaries after each session, where
desirable. But only if a formal accord were reached by Friday would
anything be crystallized in writing. It was assumed, of course,
that all participants were honourable, sincere, and cognizant of
the need for continuing secrecy – whatever the outcome.

No-one objected to Robert Baldwin beginning
the debate by outlining the general plan and its principal
objectives, for it had been he and Hincks who had conceived it and
made overtures to the Quebec radicals through LaFontaine. In his
plain, forthright style, Robert presented the scheme as if his
audience were hearing it for the first time, which, in the case of
LaFontaine’s associates, might well be true. The proposed new
Legislative Assembly would be composed of forty-two members elected
from Lower Canada (to be renamed Canada East) and forty-two from
Upper Canada (to be renamed Canada West). The united provinces
would be called, simply, Canada or, more familiarly, the Canadas.
If the anticipated elections were fair and gerrymandering held to a
minimum, they might assume that a sizeable number of
parti
Rouge
members would be returned from Canada East, as there had
been widespread support for its active involvement in the armed
uprising and even for the violent incursions from the United States
that had followed it in 1838. Those members of the French
establishment remaining after the social upheaval of a decade –
seigneurs, churchmen, and the few entrepreneurs and placeholders
who had thrived under British rule – would make sure that a rump
group of their own reached the new Assembly as the
Bleu
party.

Meanwhile in Canada West, the fractured and
dispersed Reformers were slowly regrouping, and hoped to take
fifteen or more seats of their allotted forty-two. Their opponents
were now irretrievably splintered. The expedient coalition of
raucous Orangemen, recalcitrant churchmen, dyed-in-the-wool
royalists, Family Compact opportunists propped up by successive
Governors, and moderate conservatives with an eye to the
advancement of commerce – this house of cards, Robert assured the
delegates, had begun to collapse under the weight of armed civil
conflict, widespread social unrest, repeated crop failures, and the
paralysis of the banking system. While they might be able to elect
a majority in Canada West, they would be unable to operate
cohesively in the new Assembly. It could be taken for granted,
Robert concluded with the hint of a smile, that each Tory
splinter-group would defend its own shrinking turf and that their
right-wing counterparts from Quebec would do the same.

Marc noted with satisfaction that the French
delegates seated across the conference table from him were
listening intently as he took Robert’s workmanlike English and
rendered it into passable French. He could tell from their
expressions that they realized only one conclusion could be drawn
from Robert’s initial analysis: the new joint Assembly would be
ripe for a takeover by any group with a coherent policy and shared
goals. And such a group might conceivably be comprised of
reform-minded members from two sources who were thought to be
implacable antagonists: alienated, French-speaking rebels and
non-combatant, English-speaking politicians. Even Tremblay’s
perpetual scowl softened for a moment at that delicious
possibility. LaFontaine himself, Marc noted, spent most of his time
observing his own countrymen from his position at the far end of
the table.

“So you see, gentlemen,” Robert summed up,
“the opportunity to seize control of the Assembly is going to
present itself. Of that there can be no doubt. The question is, can
we form a party of
Rouge
and Reform with common goals and
policies?”