However blasé chevalier Brookner might have appeared, the other members of the group had been spooked by the barricaded road yesterday, the continuing reports of outlaw gangs in the region, and the menacing note this morning. Little conversation of any kind took place. This served Charles Lambert well, for he seemed happy to remain disengaged, though his brooding eyes were more active in their furtive glancing. Sedgewick and Brookner, after their drunken exchange of threats late last night, seemed relieved not to have to pretend to be civil to each other. What specific behaviour of Brookner’s had angered Sedgewick, Marc could not even guess at, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with politics. Adelaide hid behind her veil. Only Ainslie Pritchard seemed truly disconcerted by the silence, but could find no neutral topic of conversation nor the tone required to keep it casual. Instead, he fidgeted with his fur helmet and cast wary glances left and right through the coach windows.
Whenever they made a “refreshment-stop” en route, Brookner would proceed to the door of the tavern or cabin and rap peremptorily on it with the haft of his sword. Only when he gave them the all clear were the others permitted to follow him in.
It was three o’clock when they approached the village of Morrisburg, without incident, and pulled up to the Wayside Hotel. Brookner addressed his companions with a solemn face: “A twice-weekly coach runs between here and Prescott, and from there you can get daily coaches that will take you to Kingston, then to Cobourg and Toronto. If any of you wish to leave this party, the local coach will arrive here in about an hour and then turn around and leave again for Prescott, getting there late this evening.”
No-one accepted Brookner’s generous offer. There was safety in numbers, it seemed.
The Wayside Hotel was a modest establishment on the edge of the village. The Battle of Crysler Farm had been fought nearby, Marc knew, and the St. Lawrence River, when not frozen, raced past not a quarter of a mile through the light bush behind the inn. The reception area was small and full of smoky heat from an eager but ill-functioning fireplace. Several cramped, adjoining chambers would serve as dining-room and lounge. There was no bar as such. A chalkboard sign announced that the Prescott stagecoach would arrive at four o’clock this day.
The proprietor bustled out of what appeared to be a kitchen, from the smells and metallic clangings, pulling a bloodied apron from his waist and letting it fall where it wished. His big black eyes were agog in his dark Welsh face. “My heavens, what have we here? Where on earth did you people come from? I heard the roads east were blocked by barricades and renegades and such.”
“We are a party of six and wish supper and rooms for the night. Can you accommodate us?” Brookner asked loftily.
The initial shock of such an unexpected sight soon began to wear off, and the little man was able to say, “Pardon me, sir, I have forgot my manners. I am Iain Jones, the owner of the inn, and you are most welcome, you gentlemen and the lady. I’ll have my wife take your coats, and my boy’ll fetch your cases and trunks. You’ll be needing a dram to drain away the chill. We’ve plenty of rooms, as you’ll be the only guests, unless the stage brings us a surprise or two.”
Within the next hour the party had been warmed with sherry and rum and shown to their modest but tidy rooms, where they chose to rest until supper at six. Marc decided he would take a nap, despite his having dozed a good deal of the way in the coach. While the threat against his life, or Brookner’s-or both-was still real, he was too fatigued to attempt any entrapment this night. As he would do after supper, he now pushed his bed so that its foot rested flush against the door. Then he lay down and began to drift into a pleasant sleep. The last thing he remembered hearing was the sleigh-coach from Prescott pulling up in front.
He was awakened by Percy Sedgewick rapping at his door and calling out his name. “Mr. Edwards! Supper is being served. Are you okay?”
“I’m all right. Tell Mr. Jones I’ll be down in a while for something cold. I’ve got to shave and change.”
“I’ll tell him. You sure you’re okay?”
Marc assured him. But he felt too groggy to shave or change his clothes, so he decided to slip downstairs and take a breath of fresh air to clear his head. As he crossed the reception area he could hear the voices of the others at supper in one of the rooms to his left. On his right was a tiny lounge with the door half ajar. He paused, then walked outside. The night was again cloudless, and the stars so bright and brittle they appeared about to shatter. He found his mind clearing wonderfully. A few minutes later he turned and went back in. Iain Jones was waiting for him.
“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Marc said, “I’ll just come down in an hour or so and have some cold roast and bread. I-”
But the Welsh eyes were bulging with other news. “The lady in the lounge over there, the one that come in on the stage from Prescott, she says she wants to see you,” he said, happily scandalized.
Marc nodded and headed towards the lounge indicated. He paused until he heard Jones reluctantly retreat to serve his other paying guests. Could it be Beth? Had she come across to Morrisburg en route home and spied him crossing the foyer? He knew there was a ferry somewhere near here. With his heart in his throat, he opened the door and went in.
The room was lit by a single lamp in one corner and heated by an iron stove whose fire had recently gone out. On a padded bench sat a woman, too tall and erect for Beth. Nestled in her arms was a baby.
“My God,” Marc cried, falling back against the chair opposite the bench. “Winnifred!”
“How in the world did you get here? And with baby Mary? Where’s Thomas?”
Although she looked haggard and careworn, the tough intelligence that had seen her through a difficult year since her marriage to Thomas Goodall still shone through, and intimidated. “I can’t answer a dozen questions at once, and I have a few of my own for you. But if you’ll sit back and not interrupt, I’ll try to tell you what’s happened to us since October. Thomas is fine, as fine as he can be under the circumstances. And he’s right here. In the barn, hiding out.”
“But he’ll freeze!”
Winnifred reached down to the bench and picked up a thick roast-beef sandwich. “He’s already had two of these-through the window over there-and there’s more here if we get hungry.”
“You’re not going to sleep in a barn with-”
“Of course not. I’ve paid for a room, and supper.”
“I’m baffled.”
“What else is new?”
They shared a brief laugh, but Marc’s pale appearance and thinness and Winnifred’s desperate circumstances made it bittersweet.
“You first, then,” Winnifred said, rocking the baby as she tried to come awake. “We heard you’d been wounded, but nothing more.”
As succinctly as he could, and with one ear alert for noises from across the foyer, Marc gave her an expurgated account of the battles, Rick’s death, and his own injuries. He told her about Beth’s promise to be back in Toronto by the end of the month.
Winnifred then explained that she and Thomas were desperately trying to find their way across the border. They had come from Prescott, arriving at this inn a few hours earlier. She was as surprised as he when she’d spotted him from the window of her room while he took in the outside air.
“We’ve all got troubles.” Winnifred sighed. “And to think that a year ago we were all happy and looking forward to living our lives peacefully and in the Christian spirit we were raised to revere.”