“He’s not anything like they say,” she hadtold Matthew earnestly. “I’ve heard all the stories, especiallysince I’ve been attending Miss Tyson’s Academy. They’re all lies!”Brave, hopelessly infatuated, foolish perhaps, he had asked to beintroduced to the notorious barrister and recluse, who after allhad done the state some service in his brilliant defense ofBilly McNair in January. “Not yet,” Celia had replied. “It’s notthat he wouldn’t agree to see you. It’s just that I haven’t yet gotup the courage to tell him about our love. So much has happened tous – all of it good – since the trial, and as soon as this awfulbusiness with the Law Society is over, I think he’ll be ready toabsorb the shock of my having fallen in love with the son of a manwho has libelled him in print.”
Just the week before, a letter had appearedin the Upper Canada Gazette, signed by Bartholomew Burchill,in which the scourge of Yankeeism and its malevolent consequencesupon the province – upon its politics and its morals – wereexposed, detailed, and then pitilessly damned. Although theoutraged silversmith for the most part kept to generalities -preferring to tar every interloper, émigré and republicanblackguard with a single brush – he did, towards the end, veerdangerously close to naming names. He could not, he averred, ingood conscience conclude his exposé without especial reference tocertain hellish abominations, so repellent that even the HolyBible could not bring itself to put a label on them, and whichwere being committed under their very noses by a disbarred lawyerfrom a neighbouring state. That such a reprehensible creatureshould be allowed not only to carry on his unspeakable perversionsin the godly city of Toronto but also to contemplate practising hisown dubious profession in the province and prosper at its expense -well, no words could adequately describe the writer’s indignation(though the previous four hundred had come close to doing so).
At their next secret rendezvous, Celia hadassured her distraught suitor that her guardian had been irritatedby the letter, but only because he felt it might prejudice hisrequest to be admitted to the Bar. As a controversial trial lawyerin New York City who had routinely got acquitted accused murderersand wealthy embezzlers, he was used to adverse public reaction andcharacter assassination. And before Matthew could dredge up thecourage to ask the question that had to be asked, Celia – bless her- had said with amazing calm, “No, he did not do any of theterrible things he’s been accused of.” After an awkward pause,Matthew had said, “Or the things they say he did that got himkicked out of New York?” “None of them,” she’d replied, looking himstraight in the eye. After another, longer pause, he said with hisheart thudding in his chest, “How do you know for sure?” Hurt butundaunted, Celia said, “Because he was my father’s law partner andfriend for all the years of my life. Brodie and I called him‘uncle.’ And still do.” Then, miraculously, she leaned over andkissed him on the cheek. “Now we don’t have to discuss my guardianor your father any more.”
Matthew removed his apron, washed his hands,combed his hair, pulled on a sweater, and slipped out the back doorof the shop. He went along the service lane to Jarvis Street,checked to see that the roadway was clear of people who mightrecognize him, and headed north. Five minutes later found himtreading past a silent foundry and on towards a small shed behindit. He gave the coded knock, and entered.
Celia wasn’t there. The discarded cushionsthat they had found here and arranged for their comfort among thefoundry’s detritus were still in place. No-one had been insidesince their last meeting three days ago. Perhaps something haddelayed her. With a sigh, he sat down to wait. He hated losing evena minute of their time together. It had been only a month since hehad met her and they had known that they must meet again, despitethe odds against them. Matthew’s father never let him leave theshop unsupervised except on occasion to deliver packages, of new orrepaired pieces, to demanding customers. Even then, old Burchillknew how long it should take his son to get there and back. WhenMatthew pointed out that he was almost nineteen and needed a sociallife outside of church and guild meetings, he was sent back intothe repair shop and given double his usual quota. However, one ofhis rare deliveries had been to Miss Tyson’s Academy, and it wasCelia who had received him and asked him ever so politely to waituntil the headmistress could come from her junior class to checkthe parcel. In the meantime, would the gentleman like a cup oftea?
The knock came, jarring him out of hisreverie. The door opened, and Celia came in. His heart leapt at thesight of her golden hair – wantonly free – her pale perfect skin,and her tiny figure dwarfed by the cloth coat she always wore. Thenhe spotted the worry in her blue, blue eyes, and his heartsank.
“What’s happened?”
She scooted down beside him. “I was justabout to leave the house,” she said, out of breath, “when I heardsomeone at the front door. The servants don’t come on Sunday,Brodie went off to St. James, and Uncle was feeling poorly from hisexertions at the legislature last night.”
“Take your time,” Matthew said, alarmed andaroused by the pretty heavings of her chest beneath the coat.
“So I had to answer it.”
“And?”
“There were two well-dressed gentlemen,lawyers, I’m sure, from back home. They looked vaguely familiar.They asked to see Uncle. I woke him up from his nap, and he said toshow them in.”
“Did he look worried?”
Celia paused, thinking. “Not really. But thenhe’s a barrister. He made his living acting out the parts he had toplay in court. So I’m not sure. I felt I ought to stay, even thoughI was desperate to see you.”
“Dearest Celia,” Matthew stammered, uncertainof the protocol and niceties of lovemaking.
“But he ordered me out of the house, quietlybut firmly. He told me not to come back until noon.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about, isthere?” Matthew said hopefully.
Celia teetered against him, and let herselfbe consoled.
FIVE
The Reverend John Strachan – D.D., Rector of YorkCounty, Archdeacon responsible for the Established Church in UpperCanada, arch-Tory, and Defender of the Queen’s faith – was in fullflight. His church (soon to be a cathedral?) was packed with thefaithful, the near-faithful and the merely curious – a thousandstrong, a quarter of the adult population of Toronto! Thebeleaguered verger, Reuben Epp, had had to damp down the fires thatnormally kept the hallowed space comfortably warm on a crisp Marchday, for the body-heat of enthusiasm and anticipation proved to bemore than sufficient. The earlier parts of the service seemed tosome onlookers to have been mysteriously hurried and perfunctory,almost as if the Lord Himself were urging them on to the mainevent. And when Archdeacon Strachan ascended to the pulpit, thesilence was as deep as the instant of Communion itself.
The homily delivered by the Rector of St.James could not have been described as a farewell address, but itwas definitely a kind of summing up. He began with a well-knownBiblical text from Matthew 7: 12-20, which begins with talk offalse prophets and wolves in sheep’s clothing, and ends with“Wherefore by their fruits shall ye know them.” He then spoke withquiet pride about the wilderness of Upper Canada in 1801 when hehimself had arrived from Scotland at the tender age of twenty toteach school. Convinced that education had to be imbued with thereligious spirit, he had providentially decided to take ordination,and thenceforth to this day had endeavoured to spread the Word ofGod in combination with a love for learning. Religion and educationwere forever to be entwined, and his pupils at the Cornwall Academyand later at his school here in the capital had imbibed The Bookof Common Prayer with their Aristotle. Nor had the rod beenspared.