Thaddeus Lewis Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Janet Kellough
was too brisk for the two of them to manage.
It seemed a sensible arrangement. They could take their meals at the hotel, Susannah said, relieving them of the daily struggle in the kitchen. There would be no rent to pay, and surely Lewis could find something to do that would provide enough money for any of their other needs, which at the best of times were modest. Perhaps there were enough Methodists in the village to support a located preacher; if not, he was sure that someone in the bustling town would need occasional help — clerking or bookkeeping or private tutoring. He was too old for anything very physical, but as an educated man and a former minister and teacher, he was sure his skills could be turned into some source of ready cash.
As far as he could see, the only problem with the suggestion was a promise he had made to Betsy. He had been appointed to one different circuit after another over the years, and she had cheerfully moved from district to district with him. Two years ago, however, she had abruptly announced that her moving days were over and that she intended to stay put in the half-house in Demorestville. She would have to release him from his promise not to make her move again before he could accept his sister’s offer.
He had underestimated his wife’s practicality.
“It would be a relief to me,” she said when he read the letter to her. “I’ve been worrying about how much we ask of Seth and Minta, though they’ve never said a word to me. Minta has enough to do, what with looking after Henry and little Rachel, and we’ve trespassed on Seth’s generosity long enough. I’ll be sorry to leave here, but I don’t see how we can stay, do you?”
He didn’t, and so he had written to his sister to accept their invitation.
The newly named Temperance House Hotel was a large, rambling three-storey building with a graceful double verandah fronting on Wellington’s main street. It was perfectly situated to offer accommodation to travellers on the Danforth Road, the main route between Toronto and Kingston, or to farmers bringing their produce to the wharves at the nearby harbour. A hotel situated on such a well-travelled thoroughfare should have been a going concern, but Daniel had decided to offer only wines and ale at the hotel, and to forego the sale of hard liquor, and, furthermore, to advertise that fact in the hotel’s name. Lewis approved of his brother-in-law’s decision. There was too much drunkenness in Canada West, liquor too easily obtained, and at the hotels that also served as taverns the noise of rowdy patrons was a constant source of annoyance to those trying to sleep in the rooms above.
“People need a place to stay where they won’t be accosted by drunks,” Daniel had said. “Someplace that’s respectable enough for a lady to stay. Clean beds, good food, quiet rooms. You’ll see — it will be appreciated by the more discerning customer.”
But temperance was not a particularly popular concept with the majority of people in the Province of Canada, and so far only one customer had proved discerning enough to appreciate the quiet rooms — a Mr. Gilmour, who had been with them now for more than a week. This gentleman neatly fit Daniel’s notion of what a desirable guest should look like, for he wore a fine tweed chesterfield coat over a brown suit of superior cloth, topped with one of the tall hats that had lately come into fashion. He further accessorized his elegant costume with an orange silk cravat tied into a wide bow at his throat and a matching handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. He carried a gold pocket watch, which he consulted frequently. He did not, however, state his business in Wellington, although Daniel had done his best to find out.
“I ask him every morning if he’s going out and he always says yes,” Daniel reported to Lewis. “I ask him every evening if he’s had a satisfactory day, and the answer is the same, but he never elaborates any further. It’s very puzzling.”
“You shouldn’t be so curious,” Lewis told his brother-in-law. “People don’t want their innkeeper poking around in their business.”
“I’m not poking, I’m just being polite. You know, expressing an interest in my customers.”
“Well, they won’t thank you for it, you know. Just serve up their food and keep your questions to yourself. You don’t want to drive him away.”
Lewis thought that Daniel would be less curious about the mysterious Mr. Gilmour if he had a few more guests to look after. But until that happened, the slow traffic at the hotel promised ample opportunity for Lewis to indulge in tea and papers, and with the search for the missing Nate Elliott disbanded, he had only to wait until their solitary guest departed for the afternoon, before he made for the dining room with his steaming cup and a sigh of contentment.
As he spread the newspapers across the table, he noted that the front page of the new Toronto paper, The Globe, was full of the consequences of the recent election. Responsible government had seemed such a fine idea back in 1839 when Lord Durham had suggested that the two Canadian colonies be united into one province, but no one had given much thought to the actual mechanics of making it work. Over the intervening five years it had become apparent that neither Upper nor Lower Canada — or Canada West and Canada East, as they were now called — could dominate the provincial assembly. They needed to cooperate, and to a certain extent they did, but no one had defined their responsibilities nor delineated their powers. The assembly had limped along until the arrival the previous year of Sir Charles Metcalfe as governor general, a man who seemed to assume that being a governor meant that he should govern, and that allowing a recently rebellious population to make decisions for themselves was a ludicrous proposition. In spite of this, he had initially attempted compromise with his upstart assembly, going so far as to agree that the rebels of 1837 should be granted amnesty and allowed to return home; but he would make no further concessions to the notion of the province controlling its own affairs.
The entire assembly had resigned in protest over Governor Metcalfe’s insistence on controlling government appointments. The Province of Canada had responsible government in name only, it seemed, as Metcalfe had simply carried on without these elected representatives until he was sure enough of his ground to call for a new vote. He had trotted out the old bogeyman of “British loyalty” as a campaign platform. Any further handing over of responsibilities to the assembly was, according to Metcalfe, tantamount to disloyalty to the Crown.
His strategy had worked, especially in Protestant Canada West, but Lewis had been surprised by some of the people who had supported it. Egerton Ryerson, self-appointed Methodist spokesman and editor of The Christian Guardian, had written in defence of the governor, to howls of outrage and general vilification by those who supported reform. Lewis read that Ryerson had now been appointed superintendant of education for Canada West, and wondered if that had been the price put on his support. Lewis had never liked Ryerson, and there were many Methodists, himself included, who often found themselves in disagreement with the man’s opinions. Shaking his head over the chronic chaos of government affairs, he abandoned The Globe and turned instead to the inside pages of the Cobourg Star.
These were more entertaining by far. One article reported on the recent international cricket match between the United States and the Province of Canada, which took place at the St. George’s Cricket Club in New York. Due to bad weather the match had been extended to three days of play. Lewis read with pleasure that “the British Empire’s Canadian Province” had emerged victorious by a margin of twenty-three runs. Another item detailed some of the many wonders that had been unveiled at the Paris Industrial Exhibition, including a new musical instrument called the baritone saxophone. Its inventor, a Belgian man by the name of Adolphe Sax, intended the new apparatus “to fill the gap between the loud woodwinds and the more adaptable brass instruments” according to the article. Lewis hadn’t realized that such a gap existed, never having heard an orchestra, only a few of the military bands that accompanied British troops in Canada.
He then became absorbed in an article about General Tom Thumb, a wonder of nature who was featured with Barnum’s American Museum. A perfectly formed child, who at the age of five stood only twenty-five inches high and weighed only fifteen pounds, Tom could sing, dance, and impersonate Napoleon Bonaparte, apparently. His act, along with the Feejee Mermaid, was drawing huge crowds as the exhibit travelled across the United States.
Wonder or freak, Lewis wasn’t sure, but in any event his