Laurier in Love. Roy MacSkimming
this awful place will be much improved by your arrival.”
And now she’s here.
In fact, Émilie finds the Russell rather charming in its old-fashioned way. She admires English style, if not the English themselves. It was so like Wilfrid to despise and denigrate his surroundings when he was feeling lonely or disappointed or depressed. It was the same for her, at home in Arthabaska. For years they exchanged two, three letters a week across the abyss, he here, she there—Joseph too off in the capital, the children away at school in Quebec City—and only Zoë, of all people, to keep her company. Wilfrid’s letters, always so tender and thoughtful and solicitous, written in his fluent though stilted English so that Arthabaska’s nosy postmistress couldn’t read them, were all that kept her sane: even if he did make her jealous with his stories of women he’d met. Those days of mutual exile seemed to last forever.
Now all that has changed. With Wilfrid in power at last, and Joseph a member of his government, Émilie is determined to make Ottawa her home. Noticing an unfamiliar metallic taste in her mouth, she decides approvingly it must be the taste of Ottawa, caused perhaps by the drinking water, or the sulphurous air drifting up from the lumber mills that line both banks of the river beyond Parliament Hill. This city is their field of action. She’ll advance upon it, embrace it, occupy it, populate it with her being and ideas and energy. Ottawa, with all its deficiencies, is where she and Wilfrid are fated to pursue their destiny—whatever form it may take.
For longer than she cares to remember, the obstacles to their being together have been insuperable. It’s dizzying to see them swept away overnight. In his letters Wilfrid repeatedly referred to the “chains” of his political work, coiling ever more tightly about him as his career came into the ascendant. He portrayed himself as a Samson who could regain his strength only if he broke away from his duties long enough to spend a few precious hours in her presence. Soon they’ll be in each other’s presence almost daily. The irony is breathtaking: the chains that kept them apart so long have finally brought them together.
What other bonds might they snap? Not that she dares expect the ultimate union, but without question she can imagine it: can visualize it in vivid detail, taste its promise, its rightness. Men and women have done more outrageous things in history.
Can such things happen in Ottawa? She needs to understand this city better, has to learn how society here thinks, how it will receive the closeness of her friendship with the Prime Minister. The English, after all. But she and Wilfrid have never been secretive about that closeness, and they can’t start now. Years ago they agreed not to dissemble or deceive, but to be as open as possible: open before family, neighbours, friends, above all before Zoë and Joseph. They’ve always behaved like people with nothing to hide. And they’ve been accepted as such, at least in friendly quarters, in spite of gossiping enemies. Of course, that was in Quebec City and sleepy, out-of-the-way Arthabaska, both tolerant places where Wilfrid is the favourite son and can do no wrong. . . .
Immersed in these thoughts, she almost misses the discreet but persistent knocking at her door.
She flings it open to Wilfrid standing in the corridor, courtly and perfect. He’s wearing a pearl-grey summer suit and top hat, in one hand an extravagant bouquet of red roses, in the other a large parcel wrapped in plain brown paper.
“May I present these inadequate tokens?” He slips the parcel under one arm, removes his hat, offers the roses with a bow.
Émilie smiles broadly, completely forgetting her anxiety about exposing her irregular teeth. Seeing Wilfrid bow to her, however satirically, thrills her to the core.
At these moments of reunion, her doubts and misgivings dissolve in a flood of exquisite relief. She embraces him and takes the bouquet, drinking in its heady scent. He leaves his hat and parcel on the hall table beside the calling cards.
Leading him by the hand into the room, she removes the peonies from the china vase to make way for their more aristocratic cousins. She lays the peonies wetly to rest on top of yesterday’s L’Électeur, the Quebec City newspaper loyal to Laurier and the Liberal Party.
“I trust Joseph won’t mind,” he says, his voice low.
“Of course not. He loves roses.”
“I don’t mean that. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Waiting for you.”
He smiles secretively. “Speak to me about the children. Tell me about your splendid little man and delightful girl. How are they?”
They sit facing each other on the uncomfortable blue settee, knees touching. The long sculpted slope above his upper lip is moist from the heat. She fingers a silky loop of his hair curling over the back of his high starched collar.
“As usual, the children are your first concern,” she says with a mock pout, filled with simultaneous pride and regret. “Well, Gabrielle is over her summer cold. The last thing she told me when I left home was to give you her love.”
“I hope she’s enjoying her freedom from the convent.”
“She’s writing poetry again. Your praise encouraged her.”
Wilfrid smiles boyishly. Glad she can give him pleasure this way, Émilie notices the hair at his temples is a little greyer than she remembers it: dusted with ash.
“I love to hear Gabrielle is writing verses. It shows what a lively imagination she has. It doesn’t even matter whether they’re good or bad as long as her mind is active.”
“She’s already eighteen. The marriageable age.”
“You didn’t marry at eighteen.”
“True. I was waiting for the right man.” She laughs, a little too loudly.
Wilfrid remains serious. “But Bielle mustn’t rush. With all her gifts, she must wait until the right man comes along.”
“The Sisters wanted her to consider a novitiate.”
“Good Lord!”
She pats the back of his hand. “Don’t worry, she wasn’t interested. But Bielle received an excellent education at Jésus-Marie, thanks to you. We couldn’t have managed without your help.”
“Helping her has always given me joy.”
“I know, my dear, I know. And now that stage in her life is over, and she must think about her future. For the moment she’s fine at home. But if Joseph and I can buy a house in Ottawa, Bielle’s marriage prospects will be greatly improved. She could—”
“Yes, and I would see much more of her. That would be delightful. Now what about Armand? He’ll be returning to Quebec City before long.”
“Armand is in good spirits, as always.”
“Such a clever boy. I must show you his latest letter to me. It’s filled with wonderful invective against the Tories: ‘May you blow up Tupper, may you impale Foster,’ and other provocations. He has a precocious interest in politics for a sixteen-year-old. Oh yes: ‘And to destroy all that cannaille, you won’t need bombs, only your famous eloquence.’”
“Really!” Émilie shakes her head in amused despair. “I don’t know what to do with that boy.”
“He must make you very proud. But he does have a tendency toward indolence. I wish you’d get him to exercise more. I know about indolence, I’m inclined that way myself. I’ve always been a lazy dog.”
“Armand returns to the Séminaire in two weeks. I’m going to miss him.”
“They’ll be after him to join the priesthood too.”
“He does have bouts of religious feeling, you know.”
“What idealistic young man doesn’t? It’s natural at his age.” Wilfrid rises from the settee, begins pacing. “I’m sure you don’t want him to be a priest either, but it worries me there’s even a possibility.”