Miss Foster smiled and exchanged a happy glance with Ernest who stood attentively nearby. "Yes. She's getting to be a big girl."
"And a pretty one too."
Their conversation turned to spring, and the markets, and finally, the impending visit of Charles Dickens.
"And did you know, Clarissa (Lady Hutchinson had taken to calling her young conterpart by her first name) he's only thirty. Thirty! Can you believe it?"
"Why, that does seem rather young considering he's so famous."
"Doesn't it?"
"Indeed."
"Ernest, bring us some more of those little cookies, would you? I just can't get enough of them today."
"Of course, Madam," the butler replied, stepping forwards and taking the empty plate from Lady Hutchinson.
"Oh, it's alright, Lady Hutchinson," Miss Foster said, waving a hand in an attempts to waylay the butler. "I should get Grace home. She's got to take her nap."
"Oh, it's still early yet," Lady Hutchinson protested gently. "Stay awhile longer. Caroline wanted to show you the handkerchiefs she's monogrammed."
Miss Foster sighed. "Alright. But no more than a half an hour. Then I really have to get going. Grace will be wanting her nap soon. Or, rather, mum will be wanting her nap soon. Which means baby goes to bed so mum can too."
"That's just fine, dear," Lady Hutchinson replied warmly as she gave Ernest a look that said "hurry up".
The butler got the message.
"I'll be right back, ladies," he said quickly, turning and disappearing from the drawing room.
"Thank you, Ernest!" Miss Foster called after him
When he returned, Caroline was eagerly showing off her monogrammed napkins.
"And see! It's got a "J" for James and an "H" for Hutchinson. James Hutchinson. Isn't it pretty?"
"It's very pretty, Caroline," Miss Foster cooed. "And what a beautiful thread you've chosen. It almost looks like real gold."
"Yes. It's stunning. Mother picked it out for me. Didn't you mother?"
Lady Hutchinson smiled. "That I did, my darling."
"And do you plan to make one for your mother and brother as well?" Miss Foster asked, glancing at Ernest who stood watching them politely, a tray of cookies in his hand.
The little girl nodded enthusiastically.
"And how about me? Would you make one for me?"
Caroline looked perplexed. "For you? But you're not married."
"No...no, I'm not," Clarissa answered, somewhat embarassed.
Ernest felt a twinge of sadness for the young woman and decided to come to her defense, but Lady Hutchinson beat him to it.
"Caroline?"
"Yes, mother?"
"Who says you've got to be married to have a monogrammed handkerchief?"
"Well, because Miss Foster doesn't have a husband's name. Mrs. Winthrop says that Miss Foster will never be a missus anybody. You get one because you're Mrs. Hutchinson. But I have to wait until Miss Foster gets married before I can make her one."
"What a silly - "
"No, no, it's quite alright," said the young heiress, interrupting Lady Hutchinson to avoid any further embarassment. "She's right. Once I get married and I have my husband's last name, then you can make me one. Right, Caroline?"
"Of course, Miss Foster," the girl said, smiling.
Lady Hutchinson rolled her eyes and took a cookie from the tray Ernest was holding. The girls chatted awhile longer but then the bell sounded downstairs, announcing Winston's arrival, and it was time for Miss Foster to return home.
"Goodbye, Lady Hutchinson. Ernest. Caroline. Thank you for having me."
"Oh, anytime Clarissa."
"Come again, Miss Foster."
"Mind the step. Careful with the baby."
"I've got it. Thank you."
"Good day."
"Good day."
"Well, that was a fun afternoon," Lady Hutchinson mused once Ernest had shut the door.
"Yes it was, wasn't it?"
"And to think that I am that baby's godmother."
With these final words, the woman touched her heart and sighed softly before turning and heading down the corridor.
It was a week later when a letter arrived from Helena. She was in Montreal. At a family's house in Westmount. The Mitchell's. Working as a domestic. She said the pay was good. The food was decent. And her bedroom was small, but cozy. Peter likened the arrangement to the home he'd worked at before the Hutchinson's. Lady Hutchinson was still miffed that Helena hadn't said goodbye. Ernest only hoped that it was really as good as it sounded.
"Why can't we have pancakes today, mother?" Caroline whined as Ernest set breakfast on the table.
"Because, dear, Peter chose to make us omelettes instead."
"But I don't like omelettes."
"Caroline," Lord Hutchinson said in a reproving tone. "There's to be no whining at my table. I've got a busy day of work ahead of me and I haven't the patience. You'll eat what's on your plate or you won't eat at all."
"But, father - "
"No buts, Caroline!"
"Caroline," said Lady Hutchinson gently, as Ernest reached around her to place a plate in front of her. "Don't upset your father. Remember what we talked about?"
The little girl paused. "That if I behave, I may get a puppy?"
Lady Hutchinson nodded affirmatively as she poured herself a cup of tea.
"I'll be good," Caroline sighed softly.
Ernest remained stoic as he continued to serve breakfast.
"Pass me the butter, would you, Laura?"
As their meal got underway, Ernest retreated to the kitchen and made his own breakfast of leftover omelette and toast. Peter was busy preparing soup stock for lunch.
"So what do you think of this business with Helena, Ernest?" the cook asked as Ernest munched happily on his meal.
His stomach had been growling since he'd woken and he was glad to finally be eating something.
"Well, I hope it's as good as she says it is."
"I mean more of her baby," said Peter, adding a container of lamb bones to the boiling broth.
"That is a matter of endless debate," said Ernest, shoving a piece of omelette into his mouth.
"Do you think she did the right thing?"
Ernest looked curiously at the young man. "Why are you so interested about Miss Foster all of a sudden?"
"Well, it's just, Linda, you know..."
"Ah," said Ernest, his eyes lighting up. "That lass you're seeing...you and her share bits of gossip, I imagine?"
Peter shrugged, but didn't answer.
"And what of the situation at Clarissa's? It's been weeks since I've been over. Is everything running smoothly?"
Peter nodded as he stirred the broth. "It seems to be. Linda says that Miss Foster's a natural. That she's got what it takes to be a good mother to the baby."
Ernest gave a grunt of satisfaction. "I never doubted her for a second."
"Well, according to Linda, Winston did."
"What? Doubted her?"
"Yeah. Like...he said that she wouldn't make a good mother - that she was too caught up in her social activities and traveling and church to commit herself properly."
"Bah!" Ernest spat as he finished his meal. "She's perfect for it."
"That's what Linda said."
Ernest wiped his plate and set it in the wash basin. "I suppose it helps she has her father's money."
"Who was her father, anyway?"
"Irwin Foster. Coal magnate. Of Boston fame."
"Is that where they're from then?"
"Leeds, originally. But Clarissa and Arthur were born in Boston. Their father moved them here when he started the Kingston coal refinery."
"And then he died?"
"Yes."
Peter finished stirring the broth. "I've got to get some carrots from the cellar."
"Alright. I'll leave you to finish cooking."
"Ernest?"
The butler turned around. He was nearly at
the door."
"Yes?"
"The father of the baby? Can you finally tell me? Now that Helena isn't coming back?"
Ernest grimaced. So far he'd not told anyone except Lady Hutchinson. Peter was right though. Helena wouldn't be returning - so it's not as though it would tarnish her reputation to divulge that information. But, then again, Grace would one day grow into an adult and if Clarissa Foster remained in Kingston, Grace would indoubtedly face some ridicule around town.
"I'm sorry, Peter. It's too sensitive."
The cook nodded, but his face wore an annoyed expression.
"I understand," he said, as he set the wooden soup ladle on the counter and made his way towards the door that lead outside.
"I'm glad for that."
The young man shrugged and pushed through the door, disappearing. Ernest hated keeping secrets - but this was one secret that needed keeping.
"ERNEST? BRING SOME MORE TEA, WOULD YOU?"
Best not to keep Lady Hutchinson waiting, thought the butler as he lit the kettle and prepared a fresh pot of tea.
James Hutchinson walked as quickly as possible. Past McGuire's pub, past the law offices of Thompson and Abelard. The wind had picked up and rain pelted at his rain slicker. Several metres in front of him, a group of rowdy youths were piling into a taxi carriage, happily oblivious to the troubles that presently vexed the parliamentarian.
Turning onto Wharf Street, he hurried past the canner's before turning into the narrow, winding alleyway that would take him to Victor's Victuallers.
Thank God this is the last of it, he thought as he approached the heavy, plank door that advertised "Meat For Sale".
There was a light on inside - but as always - the drapes that covered the window had been pulled tight.
The parliamentarian took a deep breath and rapped sharply on the door.
There was a scraping of chairs and the sound of footsteps as someone approached.
"Who goes there?" a man's voice barked gruffly.
"J. H.," James replied as he always did. One didn't want to go saying their name aloud in this part of town.
The lock was unlatched and the door swung open. Anxious to get out of the rain, the assemblyman stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him.
"Good evening, James."
The parliamentarian whirled around and saw his colleague seated at a small, wooden table. An oil lamp sat blazing atop it.
"Alistair..."
"Have a seat, James."
Surprised to see Lord Black, James made his way slowly towards the table.
Why is he here?
Normally he was absent from these exchanges. Normally it was just he and Victor. This area of town had a bad reputation, and after dark, was only frequented by Kingston's various criminal elements.
James Hutchinson pulled up a chair and sat himself down a few feet away from Lord Black.
"I was sorry to hear about your son. Every young man deserves a good home."
"My family's business is none of your concern, Alistair," James growled.
The heavy-set assemblyman seated across from him chuckled. "Ah, James. Everything that happens in this town is my concern. Don't you see? That's how I supplement my meagre income. You of all people should understand that."
James scowled.
"Anyhow, would you like something to drink?" he asked cheerfully. "Fetch our guest some brandy, would you, Victor?" he ordered, turning towards the grizzled victualler who had greeted James at the door.
The small man James was accustomed to dealing with at these monthly exchanges nodded and shuffled towards the liquor cabinet at the other end of the small abode.
"Now then, perhaps we can get our business underway."
"What business is that?" James demanded, feeling inside his jacket for the pistol he always carried. "This was to be my last payment."
Edmund sighed as Victor set a glass on the table for James.
"I wish it were."
"What do you mean?" James asked. He turned and glared at Victor until he took a large step backwards.
"Well, you see, I will be returning to England shortly and I wish to live out my final years in the utmost comfort."
"And? How is that my business?" James asked, eyeing his drink suspiciously.
"Well, it means your payments shall continue until the day I leave the continent."
"No."
"You can't refuse me, James."
"Alistair. We agreed. This was to be the last of my payments to you."
"Ah, but see, then I wouldn't be a politician," the heavy man chuckled as he sipped his own drink. "Your money is paying for my lad's schooling. I can't afford to abandon the milk from that cow now, can I?"
Lord Hutchinson shook his head in disgust. "And if you milk the cow dry?"
"Well, I shall just have to find another one then, shan't I?"
"We're done, Alistair. I have no more money to give you. My family will be on the street before long!"
Lord Black smiled and wagged a finger. "Ah, ah, James. Victor, re-introduce our friend to James, will you? Perhaps, in the two years since he's last seen her, he's forgotten her."
The weasle-like Victor grinned malevolently and strode to the other end of the room where he drew back the curtain that covered his bed, James' eyes widening at what he saw. For there, standing in the corner, was Isabella - or at least that was the name she'd given him when, in a night of drunkenness and debauchery at a party hosted by Lord Black, she'd climbed on top of him and they'd done what only a husband and wife were meant to do.
"You vile witch..." he muttered as she stepped forwards, into the light, her long red hair cascading down her half-naked shoulders.
"Oh, come now, James. You certainly didn't think she was so foul those twenty-four months ago."
"You whoreson!" James yelled, rising from his chair so violently that it fell backwards with a bang.
The woman jumped at the sound and Lord Black's previously smiling face now wore a deep frown.
"Sit down, James!"
"Never! This is finished!" he yelled, pulling a small bag of money from inside his slicker and placing it on the table. "You stay away from me and my family. Consider that your warning!" he spat.
Suddenly he was seized from behind.
Victor.
Lord Black, his expression dark, rose from the table so that he stood facing James.
"You foolish man! Don't you know that your reputation will be ruined? I have witnesses!"
Arms pinned to his sides, Lord Hutchinson could only shake his head. "You've blackmailed me long enough, Alistair. You're nothing more than a petty thief. To think that you and I hail from the same nation..."
The heavy-set man opened his mouth as though he were about to say something, but stopped himself.
"Release him, Victor," he said after nearly a minute had passed.
The victualler did as he was ordered and Lord Hutchinson immediately made for the door.
"Not so fast."
Despite his desire to flee, Lord Hutchinson turned to face his colleague.
"What is it? You want my house now, too?"
Lord Black smiled. "I wouldn't object. It is one of the finest in town. But no. Sadly, as I said, I am returning to England in a short time and I need my money in liquid form."
"So what more do you want from me? I can't afford to keep paying you this outrageous amount."
"No, I suppose you can't. But you will, if you wish for me to keep your secret."
Lord Hutchinson stared at his nemesis. "Why can't you honour our agreement? For twenty-four months, without fail, I have paid you two hundred pounds. And yet you still come to me. Why? For what reason?"
"Because, James, as I said, your donations pay for my lad's schooling. You know it's much more expensive here in the colonies."
"Well, be that as it may, I've paid you nearly five thousand pounds over these two years. I can't afford anymore."
The heavy-set man nodded. "I know. But y
ou will."
Lord Hutchinson shook his head. "I will not."
And with that, he turned, pulled the door open, and exited the victualler's.
"YOU'LL PAY ME, JAMES! ELSE I'LL BE SILENT NO MORE! YOUR SECRET WILL BE OUT!"
Lord Hutchinson ignored his blackmailer's shouts and hurried through the alleyway, back to Wharf Street, back to familiarity, all the while dogged by the glaring question: Just what, exactly, was he going to do?
- 9 -
"How is it that a man with twelve pairs of socks doesn't have an extra pair of shoes?" Peter asked as he and Ernest rifled through his dresser drawers the following morning.
"I don't know. I guess I never thought to keep an extra pair."
"Well, bother..."
"I'm sure Linda's father won't be looking at your feet."
"And if he does?"
Ernest grinned. "Then I suppose you shan't be allowed to see his daughter any longer."
The cook made a face and continued his search. Today was a big day for the young man. He'd been invited to join Linda and her father for breakfast and he wanted to look his best. Unfortunately, he'd spilled lard on his shoes the night before while preparing supper and was now in desperate need of a clean pair.
"Suppose we were to exchange shoes for the day? You'll wear mine, and I'll wear yours."
Ernest shook his head. "We've already explored that option and our feet aren't nearly the same size."
"Oh...er...right," Peter said slowly, suddenly remembering.
"Maybe Master Hutchinson will lend you a pair. I would go and speak to him."
"That's a good idea, Ernest."
"Those are the only sort of ideas I have, lad."
"I'll go right now. He should be awake by now. Won't he?"
Ernest nodded. "I imagine he'll be in his study. When you go, ask him if he'd like his morning cup of tea brought."
"I will."
The young man left Ernest to clean up the mess they had made hunting for an extra pair of shoes, and hurried to Lord Hutchinson's study. Upstairs, he passed the bathroom. The door was ajar and he could hear Lady Hutchinson humming to herself. Ahead, further down the corridor, the door to Lord Hutchinson's study was shut. Peter approached and knocked softly on the door.
"Laura?"
"Er...no...it's Peter, Sir."
"Oh."
"May I come in for a minute?"
"I suppose."
The young man opened the door and stepped inside Lord Hutchinson's study, closing the door just as Lady Hutchinson's face appeared in the corridor outside.
"What is it? I want chicken tonight. You already asked me," the parliamentarian said brusquely.