Vital Secrets (4 page)

“Sir Francis has much to answer for, I'm afraid. Instead of using his majority in the assembly to redress the complaints of the farmers and work towards reconciliation, he has ruthlessly pursued his own agenda.”

“You were wise to get as far away from him as possible.” Hatch looked at Marc, put his pipe down, and added, “Nobody
hereabouts was surprised to learn about your resignation as his aide-de-camp. We knew what kind of man you were.”

Marc tried not to look affected by this kind remark. “Then why don't the conservatives repudiate the governor?”

Hatch laughed. “Believe it or not, they blame the actions of Willie Mackenzie's radicals for making Governor Head the way he now is: erratic and spiteful.”

“And have there been
actions
?”

Hatch paused, drew noisily on his dead pipe, glanced at it balefully, and said, “I'm afraid there have. People aren't just ranting and raving anymore: they're organizing and holding secret meetings. There's been talk—right here in Hamilton township—of arms about to be smuggled across the border, of trunkloads of American dollars and coinage on their way—to be used for God knows what dastardly purpose.”

“But we heard that sort of fear-mongering gossip last year, remember?”

“That is so. But this is not talk. Just last Thursday a gang of Orange thugs discovered a meeting of Mackenzie's followers in progress about a mile east of Cobourg, and decided to break it up. But it was no Reform rally they were disrupting. The conspirators were armed with pitchforks, sickles, axe-handles, and, they say, a dozen or more pistols. There was a regular donnybrook. Dozens were injured on both sides. And by the time the constables arrived, the worst of it was over, and everyone fled who could still walk. Of course, the wounded suddenly contracted lockjaw. Nobody would lay a charge. What I'm saying,
and what I fear every time I look into little Eustace's eyes, is that these desperate men are planning an insurrection or show of force sometime soon.”

“But they'll be slaughtered, don't they know that? They can't fight the British army with hoes and pistols.”

“That may be the only thing holding them back.”

Marc heaved a huge sigh. “You mean soldiers like me?”

“Yes, at least until they get guns and training. And they'll need the Yankees for that.” Hatch tried to light his pipe with a flaming stick from the fire, without success. “If I were you, I wouldn't wander around the back concessions of Northumberland County with that uniform winking in the noonday sun.”

“But surely an offer to buy their grain or hogs at a price well above the current market will have to be welcomed. The army is not their enemy.”

Hatch smiled. “They'll certainly let you in the front door, but don't expect a cup of tea. I think the poor buggers are desperate enough to sell their produce to anyone.” Hatch chuckled ruefully.

Marc yawned but, fatigued as he was, he did not want to fall asleep here in the cozy security of the Hatch parlour. Instead, he reached down between the two chairs, picked up the decanter, and poured himself a tumbler of port. Erastus declined Marc's offer of more.

The fire, ebbing rapidly, snapped and crackled intermittently.

“Well, lad, there's one subject we seem to have been avoiding, eh?”

Marc turned to face his friend. “Tell me everything I should know about what's happened next door.”

“I thought you'd never ask. Let me start with the good news. My daughter and her husband are quite happily married, even though they are very different people. Certainly, I was as surprised as anyone when Winnifred announced she had selected Thomas Goodall, my hired man, as her husband. Thomas is a fine farmer and a good Christian, but he hasn't said more than a dozen words a week since birth—less than that if you deduct the Lord's Prayer every Sunday. Winnifred—well, you know her—she has two opinions on every subject and ain't shy about conveying them to anyone within earshot. When she lived here she was more or less lady of the manor, but now that she and Thomas have their own farm, she's pitched in and done more than her share of the outdoor labour.” He paused and lowered his voice. “And she's in the family way.”

“That's wonderful news,” Marc said sincerely, for he liked and admired this proud, intelligent woman, and wished her well.

“And just in time,” Hatch said cryptically. To Marc's puzzled look, he said, “Well, believe it or not, Winnifred's been getting involved in politics this winter, too. Radical politics.” This last remark was whispered, as if the walls might have ears.

“But she's an independent thinker and a conservative like her father, surely.”

“Indeed she was. But the bad news is that the farm has not prospered. With last summer's drought and the available water being tied up on the clergy-reserve land next to them, they had a poor harvest, despite their effort and the expense of hiring extra help. And what they did take off the fields was sold at prices that didn't cover their costs. They're desperate to get enough cash to pay the leasehold.”

Marc was astonished. “But surely Beth wouldn't demand payment or turn them out? After all, they're looking after Aaron for her. And she's got plenty of money.”

“All true. She refused to take any payment on the lease. She's offered to pay for any hired help to do Aaron's share of the work until he's fully recovered.”

“I'm told by Beth's aunt that the boy has made remarkable progress.”

“Yes, he has, and we thank the Lord daily for that.”

“But?”

“But Winnifred is … well, proud, too proud I'm inclined to think. But she says—and Thomas agrees, according to her—that they ought to be able to make a decent living out of their farm or else abandon it. And when she found that most of the farmers in the county were in the same boat, in spite of the backbreaking work and heartbreaking effort, well, she began to blame the government—and quite publicly. When Beth came down to nurse Aaron in January, she soon discovered
that Winnifred was slipping off to gatherings of Mackenzie's malcontents, spouting their slogans, and behaving strangely. Eventually Beth told me.”

“Did you succeed in stopping her?”

Hatch sighed. “No,” he said with a wry smile that conveyed both regret and acceptance. “My attempts to dissuade her simply encouraged her to become even more committed. When I heard about talk of violence and outright sedition at these rallies, I became worried. I did manage to persuade Thomas to go with her to protect her, and him without a political bone in his body. This she readily agreed to, to my surprise.”

“And now that she is expecting?”

“She's stopped going. On her own account, we assume, unless Thomas found enough words to assert himself in the privacy of the boudoir.” Hatch smiled at the notion.

“But she hasn't changed her mind about the lease or the success of the farm? Surely, with a child on the way—”

Hatch looked suddenly grim, the customary laugh lines of his face collapsing around his eyes. “She says they'll give it one more year. The babe is due in September. If the fall harvest fails, they'll wait out the winter here, then—my God, I can barely say it, Marc—she, Thomas, and the child will sell everything they have, go down to Buffalo, buy a Conestoga wagon, and head west across the Mississippi to the Iowa Territory.”

Marc took this in, then said evenly, “I don't think that will happen, Rastus. There's every chance the governor will be recalled and a new one will follow the British government's
policy of conciliation. There are moderate, decent men on both the left and the right: their voices will be heard.”

Hatch tried to smile his gratitude. “And you count yourself among the moderates,” he said.

“I do,” Marc said with some conviction. “It's taken me a while, and I'm still learning, but I've come a long way, I think, in less than two years.”

“And we all know it.”

Marc was well aware whom the “all” was meant to include.

“But Winnifred's luck hasn't changed,” Hatch continued glumly. “Last Friday, Thomas was chopping wood out behind the house and damn near sliced off his left hand. Dr. Barnaby had to stitch it together like a rip in a glove. He's got it wrapped in a great bloody bandage, with a splint on his wrist to keep him from using the hand for anything. He can't even pick up a spoon to stir his tea with it.”

This was more serious than Winnifred's political leanings, Marc thought.

“The man has chopped a thousand cords of wood in his lifetime. But he's exhausted and worried to death,” said Hatch. “Fatigue will lead to such accidents.”

“Thank God for Barnaby,” Marc said. Charles Barnaby was a semi-retired army surgeon who lived across from the Durfee Inn but kept a surgery in Cobourg several days a week or whenever it was needed in emergencies.

“He's a splendid gentleman. They don't come any better
than Barnaby. In fact, you won't get to see him tomorrow because he's been in and out of his surgery since the fracas last Thursday night—setting bones and lecturing the participants on their foolishness. I lent him my cutter and Percherons on Saturday so he could transfer some of the wounded home, if necessary.”

“I wondered why I didn't see them in the barn.”

“That pair can haul a sled through anything. And we've had a bundle of snow this winter. The drifts are six or seven feet in the bush.”

Hatch yawned. There was little time left. Marc cleared his throat to ask what had to be asked.

“Beth is fine,” Hatch said suddenly. “She nursed Aaron night and day all through January, and for a while there we were very concerned for her own health—”

“But she's—”

“Fine now, as I said. As soon as Aaron began to regain his strength, she did, too. And since Thomas became helpless last week, Aaron's been strong enough to chop firewood and help Winnifred and Beth with the chores in the barn.”

“Has she—”

“Ever mentioned you? Not by name. But you've come up in the general conversation several times this winter, and Beth's been an avid listener. I'm sure she knows how much you've changed and that you still love her. But—”

“There's always a ‘but,' isn't there?”

“But she's just been too busy with Aaron and with the problems of the farm to turn her attention to her own future. You know how faithful she can be to a task she feels is important, and how selfless she is when it comes to helping those who need it.”

Marc nodded.

“Even if she
is
a Congregationalist.” Hatch smiled. “What I'm trying to say is, I think you've come at the right time to make your pitch.”

“Let's hope she feels the same way,” Marc said.

But how far could he hope? How far did he deserve to?

M
ARC WAS AWAKENED SLOWLY AND LUXURIOUSLY
by the mid-morning sun slanting across the counterpane. By the time he had completed the most rudimentary toilet and donned the scarlet, green, and gold of an officer of the 24th Regiment of Foot, the Hatches' dining-room was well warmed by the fire in the wood-stove and suffused with breakfast aromas: bacon, frying eggs and potatoes, and fresh-baked biscuits. The chores had been completed: cows milked, fed, and watered; stalls mucked out; hens relieved of their night's labour; kindling chopped; and the day's supply of firewood lugged indoors. Marc tried not to look abashed when he was greeted by the household as if he were the prodigal son being treated to the fatted calf.

“Sit down, lad, and dig in,” Hatch said as he settled into his captain's chair, then took Mary by the hand to stop her
fussing with Marc's plate and utensils, and eased her down to her own place next to him. Susie arrived promptly with a steaming platter of food.

“I apologize for sleeping so late,” Marc said.

“Nonsense,” Hatch said. “You've got a difficult day ahead of you, eh?”

Marc acknowledged the reference to the task at hand with a tight smile.

“How is the babe this morning?” Marc asked Mary.

“He's as healthy as his papa,” Mary said.

Suddenly Marc felt his heart lurch. Seeing Erastus Hatch, so long a widower and so lonely just a year ago, happy and at ease here in his home made Marc realize how badly he wanted to change his own life, and how much depended on what might happen or not happen in the next few hours. He decided that he would need to take a long walk and consider carefully what he might possibly say to Beth that would make a difference. He knew also that he needed an hour or so to regain the courage he had imagined for himself when he had played out the reconciliation scene with Beth at least a hundred times since last summer.

Hatch was halfway through his request for more bacon when he was interrupted by the sound of the back door opening and closing. Susie Huggan set down a plate and hurried to answer the door. Seconds later she reappeared with a big grin on her face.

“It's our neighbour,” she cried, “and she's brung us a basket
of duck's eggs!” Susie stepped aside to reveal both the visitor and her gift.

It was Beth Smallman. She glanced at the figures seated around the table, and stopped when she came to Marc.

The basket fell to the floor, and the duck eggs with it.