Don Gutteridge
Governing Passion
ONE
The three Cavaliers, as they dubbed themselves, werehaving a somewhat quiet evening at Madame LaFrance’s bordello. Oneof the better things about Madame’s establishment was that you hada wide choice of gentlemanly pleasures to while away a snowyevening in early March of 1841. There was always, of course,several young women happy to follow you up the carpeted stairs toone of the cramped but well-swept cubicles where a fellow’s lustsand fancies could be stoked or assuaged. There was a roaring firein the fieldstone fireplace, around which three or four easy chairscould be comfortably arranged, with snifters of brandy appearing asif by magic on one’s outstretched fingertips. A tray of Cubancigars was ever displayed on a tiny trundle-table discreetly pushedabout by the luscious Nell, if she weren’t otherwise occupied. Atthe far end of the spacious room sat a pianoforte of some quality,upon which, at appropriate moments during the course of an evening,Sally Butts would perch, revealing the better parts of her legs anda tempting curvature of breast. Sally sang like the proverbialnightingale, or as Sir Lancelot himself said more often thannecessary, like a woods warbler. She was accompanied by Old Henry,who some said had once been Madame LaFrance’s lover. Sally’slilting voice was perfectly suited to the carpeted and heavilydraped space of the “gentleman’s room,” with its Persian rugs, itsvelvet curtains pulled shyly across the big bay window, its mohairfurniture imported from England, and its tender-lit candelabra.
This particular evening, Sally Butts had sungonly once, a beautiful but frail French ballad. Then, apologizingfor the cold in her head and chest, she slipped away. The Cavaliersapplauded enthusiastically, then settled back in their chairs aboutthe fire, sipping on their third brandy. No-one said it aloud, but,in the absence of Sally Butts’s song-making, there was tacitagreement that these knights of the house of easy virtue wouldforgo the pleasures of the flesh in favour of an hour’sconversation over drinks and cigars, distracted only by Nell orSarie or Blanche sliding across one’s lap every fifteen minutes orso and bussing one on the cheek. And the conversation this nightwas on the usual topic: politics.
“I suppose you’ve heard the rumour thatLaFontaine has taken up temporary residence in Kingston,” saidBartholomew Pugh with a disapproving jiggle of his jowls.
“My dear Gawain,” replied Gardiner Clough,referring to the name Pugh had taken when the three had firstplotted sojourns to Madame LaFrance’s place here in the heart ofDevil’s Acre, “I have had that news confirmed in a letter Ireceived just this morning.”
“What do you think that means’” asked SimonWhitemarsh, waving off young Nell, who was determined, it seemed,to break up their colloquy.
“Some Galahad you are!” she teased and swungher rump saucily away.
“Shall you tell him, Lancelot, or shall I?”Pugh said. “Either way it’s bad news.”
“Bad news?” said Whitemarsh. “If it’s aboutfrogs, it’s always bad news.”
Clough set down his brandy. “WheneverLaFontaine is in the same town as Robert Baldwin, there’s bound tobe trouble.”
“The French leader and the so-called head ofthe Reform party are trying once again to forge some kind ofalliance,” Pugh said. He was a short, fat, red-faced fellow withpale blue eyes that watered constantly. He was bald except for twotufts of unbrushable hair that stood up on his scalp likeexclamation points. “Neither group on its own will elect enoughmembers in the April election to make any kind of splash in the newParliament.”
“But together they could spell trouble forroyalists like ourselves,” Clough pointed out with the candour hehad displayed years ago when he had been a practising barrister.The only thing he practised of late was how to get the most out ofhis wife’s money.
“They couldn’t possibly constitute a majorityin the House, could they?” Whitemarsh said. He was a grey-hairedhaberdasher in his mid-fifties, with pasty-white skin and droopingeyes that looked perpetually on the verge of sleep. Those whodidn’t care for him attributed the latter quality to hisfrequenting the opium room just behind the curtains in back of thepiano.
“Only if LaFontaine can keep his own troopsin line and Baldwin can unite the fractious group of Reformers andClear Grits,” Pugh said. “And what chance is there of that, eh,Lancelot?”
Clough nodded his agreement. “There areextreme nationalists in the Quebec camp who will not sit withanyone who speaks English, regardless of the policies theyespouse.” Clough was a tall man with cadaverous features and theposture of a crane. His black hair and dark eyes had onceterrorized courtrooms. But that was long ago. Now he looked merelybrittle.
“But you think LaFontaine is in Kingston totry the impossible?” Whitemarsh said.
“There can be no other reason,” Pugh said,smiling at young Sarie as she brushed by him with a gust ofperfume. “Baldwin is there with his entire retinue, preparing forthe upcoming election and plotting strategy thereafter. He’s gotFrancis Hincks with him and that upstart barrister, Marc Edwards.They’re not in drafty Kingston in the middle of winter for theirhealth.”
“I hear they’re progressing well withreconstructing the hospital into a suitable legislature,”Whitemarsh said, happy to be contributing something to theconversation.
“I still think the capital of the unitedCanada should have been here in Toronto,” Clough said. “We alreadyhave a splendid building.”
“It was all politics,” Pugh said with abanker’s disdain for the messy world outside the clarity of highfinance. “They had to appease the Frenchies by moving it out ofToronto and closer to the Quebec border. So Kingston, ready or not,was it.”
“I hear they’re reconstructing the betterhalf of the town to make it agreeable for gentlemen,” Clough saidwith some envy.
“Not disagreeable to the banking profession,eh?” Pugh smiled.
These topics were ruminated upon for anothertwenty minutes, with no resolution but much satisfaction. Thefemale inmates of the hostel had gracefully given up, happy toaccommodate other well-turned-out gentlemen who drifted in fromtime to time. Fresh logs were placed on the fire by one of the ladswho did the heavy lifting in the brothel; cigar and pipe smokethickened the air; and the brandy gradually but surely induced anot-unpleasant drowsiness.
“Well, my fine-fettled knights,” saidBartholomew Pugh, “let’s brave the snow and the dark and return toour homes. I, like Lancelot here, have a faithful wife waiting forme.”
“And I have a faithful wolfhound,” Whitemarshsaid.
“You’re not going to take some comfort fromthe room next door?” Clough said, surprised.
“Not tonight, no. I’ve got a special sale ontomorrow at the shop, and I want to be clear-headed.”
“You’re not going home this early?” saidMadame LaFrance, who had been sitting tactfully in her chair nextto the piano, rising only to answer the door from time to time. Thegirls arranged their own encounters and kept track of the fare.They were veterans all, and knew their business. “Nell inparticular will be disappointed,” she continued. At this latterremark she gave out a sardonic laugh and took Whitemarsh by theelbow. “And you’re giving up my sweet Sarie for an Irishwolfhound?”
“We could be persuaded to stay tonight onlyif Sally Butts were to sing us another love song,” Pugh said. “Whoknows? She might get us in the mood.”
“We’re leaving a little something for heranyway,” Clough said, reaching for his coat from the halltree bythe door.
“The poor darling’s sick,” Madame LaFrancesaid, unable to keep the skepticism out of her voice. She was agenerously fleshed, blowsy woman of indeterminate age, with a soft,round face and fluffed-out curls. But the impression of softnesswas belied by her small, beady eyes that darted about in theirlarge sockets like loose coins. “Claims to have the croup,” shesaid.
“We’ll be back tomorrow night,” Pugh said,squeezing into his greatcoat. “And we’re likely to subscribe toyour full service, Madame.”