Stil , she kept him company. Not because she liked him but because she knew even then something it would take Porter Wilson decades to realize. The English of Quebec City were no longer the juggernauts, no longer the steamships, no longer the gracious passenger liners of the society and economy.
They were a life raft. Adrift. And you don’t make war on others in the raft.
Elizabeth MacWhirter had figured that out. And when Porter rocked the boat, she righted it.
She looked at Porter Wilson and saw a smal , energetic, toupéed man. His hair, where not imported, was dyed a shade of black the chairs would envy. His
eyes were brown and darted about nervously.
Mr. Blake arrived first. The oldest board member, he practical y lived at the Lit and His. He took off his coat, revealing his uniform of gray flannel suit, laundered white shirt, blue silk tie. He was always perfectly turned out. A gentleman, who managed to make Elizabeth feel young and beautiful. She’d had a crush on him when she’d been an awkward teen and he in his dashing twenties.
He’d been attractive then and sixty years later he was stil attractive, though his hair was thin and white and his once fine body had rounded and softened.
But his eyes were smart and lively, and his heart was large and strong.
“Elizabeth,” Mr. Blake smiled and took her hand, holding it for a moment. Never too long, never too familiar. Just enough, so that she knew she’d been held.
He took his seat. A seat, Elizabeth thought, that should be replaced. But then, honestly, so should Mr.
Blake. So should they al .
What would happen when they died out and al that was left of the board of the Literary and Historical Society were worn, empty chairs?
“Right, we need to make this fast. We have a practice in an hour.”
Tom Hancock arrived, fol owed by Ken Haslam.
The two were never far apart these days, being unlikely team members in the ridiculous upcoming race.
Tom was Elizabeth’s triumph. Her hope. And not simply because he was the minister of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church next door.
He was young and new to the community, having moved to Quebec City three years earlier. At thirty-three he was about half the age of the next youngest board member. Not yet cynical, not yet burned out. He stil believed his church would find new parishioners, the English community would suddenly produce babies with the desire to stay in Quebec City. He believed the Québec government when it promised job equality for Anglophones. And health care in their own language. And education. And nursing homes so that when al hope was lost, they might die with their mother tongue on caregivers’ lips.
He’d managed to inspire the board to believe maybe al wasn’t lost. And even, maybe, this wasn’t real y a war. Wasn’t some dreadful extension of the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, one which the
English lost this time. Elizabeth glanced up at the oddly petite statue of General James Wolfe. The martyred hero of the battle 250 years ago hovered over the library of the Literary and Historical Society, like a wooden accusation. To witness their petty battles and to remind them, in perpetuity, of the great battle he’d fought, for them. Where he’d died, but not before triumphing on that blood-soaked farmers field.
Ending the war, and securing Québec for the English.
On paper.
And now from his corner of the lovely old library General Wolfe looked down on them. In every way, Elizabeth suspected.
“So, Ken,” Tom said, taking his place beside the older man. “You in shape? Ready for the race?”
Elizabeth didn’t hear Ken Haslam’s response. But then she didn’t expect to. Ken’s thin lips moved, words were formed, but never actual y heard.
They al paused, thinking perhaps this was the day he would produce a word above a whisper. But they were wrong. Stil , Tom Hancock continued to talk to Ken, as though they were actual y having a conversation.
Elizabeth loved Tom for that as wel . For not giving in to the notion that because Ken was quiet he was stupid. Elizabeth knew him to be anything but. In his mid-sixties he was the most successful of al of them, building a business of his own. And now, having achieved that Ken Haslam had done something else remarkable.
He’d signed up for the treacherous ice canoe race.
Signed on to Tom Hancock’s team. He would be the oldest member of the team, the oldest member of any team. Perhaps the oldest racer ever.
Watching Ken, quiet and calm and Tom, young, vital, handsome, Elizabeth wondered if maybe they understood each other very wel after al . Perhaps both had things they weren’t saying.
Not for the first time Elizabeth wondered about Tom Hancock. Why he’d chosen to minister to them, and why he stayed within the wal s of old Quebec City. It took a certain personality, Elizabeth knew, to choose to live in what amounted to a fortress.
“Right, let’s start,” said Porter, sitting up even straighter.
“Winnie isn’t here yet,” said Elizabeth.
“We can’t wait.”
“Why not?” Tom asked, his voice relaxed. But stil Porter heard a chal enge.
“Because it’s already past ten thirty and you’re the one who wanted to make this quick,” Porter said, pleased at having scored a point.
Once again, thought Elizabeth, Porter managed to look at a friend and see a foe.
“Quite right. Stil , I’m happy to wait,” smiled Tom, unwil ing to take to the field.
“Wel , I’m not. First order of business?”
They discussed the purchase of new books for a while before Winnie arrived. Smal and energetic, she was fierce in her loyalty. To the English community, to the Lit and His, but mostly to her friend.
She marched in, gave Porter a withering look, and sat next to Elizabeth.
“I see you started without me,” she said to him. “I told you I’d be late.”
“You did, but that doesn’t mean we had to wait.
We’re discussing new books to buy.”
“And it didn’t occur to you this might be an issue best discussed with the librarian?”
“Wel , you’re here now.”
The rest of the board watched this as though at Wimbledon, though with considerably less interest. It was pretty clear who had the bal s, and who would win.
Fifty minutes later they’d almost reached the end of the agenda. There was one oatmeal cookie left, the members staring but too polite to take it. They’d discussed the heating bil s, the membership drive, the ratty old volumes left to them in wil s, instead of money. The books were general y sermons, or lurid Victorian poetry, or the dreary daily diary of a trip up the Amazon or into Africa to shoot and stuff some poor wild creature.
They discussed having another sale of books, but after the last debacle that was a short discussion.
Elizabeth took notes and had to force herself not to lip-synch to each board member’s comments. It was a liturgy. Familiar, soothing in a strange way. The same words repeated over and over every meeting. For ever and ever. Amen.
A sound suddenly interrupted that comforting liturgy, a sound so unique and startling Porter almost jumped out of his chair.
“What was that?” whispered Ken Haslam. For him it was almost a shout.
“It’s the doorbel , I think,” said Winnie.
“The doorbel ?” asked Porter. “I didn’t know we had one.”
“Put in in 1897 after the Lieutenant Governor visited and couldn’t get in,” said Mr. Blake, as though he’d been there. “Never heard it myself.”