Laurier in Love. Roy MacSkimming
three English newspapers. With the musicians still tuning up, the ladies emerge as one into the drawing room. Émilie’s nervousness vanishes at the droll sight of the rivals travelling together in a pack, each fearful of missing out on something or someone the others might see. The Three Graces, she thinks. Or Macbeth’s witches.
Florence Randal of the Journal signs her columns “Kilmeny.” Mrs. McIntyre of the Citizen styles herself “Frills.” Their new competitor from the Free Press, whose office sits right beside the Russell, uses the nom de plume “The Marchioness.” Émilie can’t recall the young woman’s real name, but covers her lapse by lavishing on her an especially warm smile. The poor girl needs it: she’s the plainest of the three by far and knows it.
Émilie obliges the women by providing highlights of her guest list in advance. Miss Randal, with her cornflower-blue eyes and gracefully moulded mouth and chin, is the most attractive of them: chic and gracious, clearly a New Woman, to judge by her assertiveness. Mrs. McIntyre is sweetly vulgar, with a silly hat and too much plump décolletage. As Émilie sizes them up, they do the same with her.
Miss Randal declares she’s never seen the Russell’s prosaic old drawing room looking so elegant: “Why, it’s been transformed into an artistic statement!” Mrs. McIntyre exclaims over Émilie’s royal blue satin dress brocaded with lace and black velvet, the balloon sleeves flaring extravagantly, the square neckline revealing her still-youthful neck and throat and providing a tasteful glimpse of her “magnificent” (Wilfrid’s word) shoulders. Émilie hopes the columnists will write not only about her dress, but her fashionably tilted white hat decorated with ostrich plumes. Her white gloves extend above the elbow.
Mrs. McIntyre is especially attentive toward Gabrielle, whose costume, a blue-and-white striped silk with a huge white picture hat, complements her mother’s. Armand stares a little too obviously at Miss Randal, who seems to have bewitched him. Eventually the three women drift off into the drawing room to await events, trailing compliments. Armand gazes longingly after them.
She forgets all about the witches in her delight over the arrival of her first guest. Sir Henri Joly de Lotbinière is not only a minister in Wilfrid’s cabinet and a former Premier of Quebec, but a seigneur who still collects rents from tenant farmers on his estate along the St. Lawrence. Émilie considers Sir Henri the most spectacular of the remaining aristocrats of her province. His snowy, wavy hair, drooping moustache and old-world courtliness make him the perfect knight. His glazed shirt front is dazzling. He bows and kisses her hand.
“Sir Henri, I can’t tell you what a pleasure this is. I am honoured you’ve come to my little party.”
“You do honour to us, Madame,” he replies in a stentorian voice, adding more softly, “I feel proud that a countrywoman of mine should hold a magnificent salon in this dull place. You put me in mind of Madame Récamier.”
This is the most shameless flattery, but Émilie adores being compared to Chateaubriand’s beautiful lover. “Won’t you have something to drink, Sir Henri?”
“As long as you are serving something more interesting than English tea.”
“Champagne punch is offered at the buffet.”
The old gentleman pauses to shower attention on Gabrielle and Armand, whom he’s known since they were born, and moves on to introduce himself to the witches. They’re fascinated by his august bearing, his aura of having stepped out of a novel by Dumas. In a few moments he’s gracefully waltzing Miss Randal across the floor to a melody by Victor Herbert.
Émilie turns back to the spectacle of the Misses Ritchie, all four of them, sweeping down on her in a cloud of lilac water. Their charming, girlish high spirits fill the room as they announce themselves in turn: “Beatrice. Elsie. Grace. Amy.” They act thrilled to see Gabrielle, whom they met while rehearsing for Lady Aberdeen’s historical dress ball. Are the Ritchies sincere or pretending? So hard to tell with adolescent girls. They take turns flirting with Armand, who flushes with pleasure, Miss Randal forgotten. His English seems suddenly to have improved.
Several ladies of a certain age appear, all wearing enormous hats, feigning astonishment that they’ve arrived at the same place at the same time, when they were together only yesterday at the May Court Club: Mrs. Perley, Mrs. Sparks, Mrs. Southam, Mrs. Bronson. Émilie catches her breath, trying not to seem surprised or flattered that the wealthy dowagers are bestowing their presence on her.
The Misses Powell, Lola and Maude, arrive with their much older brother, the Chief of Police. Émilie can see why the sisters need chaperoning, especially Lola. Both wear their abundant auburn hair in pre-Raphaelite tresses, which cascade over romantic gowns of black and burgundy velvet hung with strings of oriental beads. She didn’t realize Ottawa harboured such exotic creatures. Lola, with her amused air of self-possession and her commanding height, carries off this stylistic extravagance especially well. But she’s excessively talkative, and Émilie has to interrupt her to receive the next set of arrivals.
Now she’s worried her lady guests may feel bored without sufficient cavaliers to amuse them. Happily, at that moment she recognizes Nicholas Flood Davin, the voluble Irishman and Conservative MP known for his eloquence and wit, and man-about-town Agar Adamson, lean and handsomely clean-shaven. Adamson is still a bachelor, and they say Davin might as well be: his wife prefers to stay home in faraway Regina. Émilie finds Adamson attractive and Davin’s flirtatious chatter amusing, and she resolves to get to know them better.
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