Free Unholy Alliance by Don Gutteridge Page B

a notepad. Bergeron, who said he had slept little
since his arrival on Monday evening, decided to take advantage of
the bath and retire early. Macaulay promised that Tillie from the
kitchen would bring a tisane up to his room within the hour.
Tremblay bolted up the marble stairs without a parting word.
LaFontaine looked ruefully after him, apologized to their host,
thanked him courteously for the supper, and then excused himself,
explaining that he had some reading to do in the privacy of his
chamber. Marc was as disappointed as Macaulay was, for he too had
been hoping that the French leader would join them in the parlour
for a brandy and some casual conversation. Truth be told, they were
hoping that LaFontaine might let his guard down just enough to
reveal some part at least of the inner man. His forthright and
courageous actions in the political arena over the past three years
spoke volumes about him, but if Robert and his Reform party were to
throw their fate into his hands, they surely needed to know more
about what he really felt and believed. Only a few weeks
ago, for example, he had publicly denounced the Union Act and its
unjust terms. At the same time he continued to be vocal in his
criticism of those French leaders who had taken the violent route
to reform – even while staking his own political future upon the
support of scarred freedom-fighters like young Tremblay. Was there
no buried rage in the man? No understandable contempt for the
hypocrisies of the British?
    “You’ll smoke a pipe in the parlour, won’t
you?” Macaulay said to Marc in the hallway outside the
dining-room.
    “I’d be delighted,” Marc said, “though a long
walk would be more in order after that enormous supper.”
    “Snow’s too deep, even though it stopped
before noon. But in the morning, if you like, we’ll put on some big
boots and have a go. Bergeron has expressed an interest in seeing
my racehorses.”
    “You’re on,” Marc said as they approached the
door to the front parlour on the left, directly across from the
library. Just beyond it was the foyer and the butler’s office. Its
door was ajar, and Marc could see Graves Chilton seated at an
elegant davenport, poring over some papers.
    “Alfred used to keep my household accounts,”
explained Macaulay, “and Chilton has offered to do the same, for
which I’m extremely grateful. Chilton seems a bit unctuous, and
overly firm with the staff perhaps, but he’s very, very
competent.”
    They entered the parlour and sat down in
comfortable chairs near the French doors. Beyond the verandah that
lay just outside them the bright moonlight danced crystalline on
the rolling, unblemished landscape of snow, rimmed by a dozen blue
spruce, their lower branches pillowed in drifts. The two men sat
companionably for half an hour, consciously avoiding the
afternoon’s events and smoking their pipes with slow satisfaction.
Macaulay began to talk about his collection of rare books and his
interest in Britain’s latest writing sensation, novelist Charles
Dickens.
    “My Beth is a great admirer of his,” Marc
said.
    “Well, then, Marc, tell her I have his new
work, Nicholas Nickleby , just arrived from New York. I’ve
got it beside my bed. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll give it
to you to take home to her when you go.”
    “That’s awfully good of you, Garnet, but
there’s no hurry – ”
    “I’ve also got a Shakespeare folio you might
want to browse through while you’re here. It’s only a valuable
facsimile but – ”
    “I’d love to see it,” Marc said.
    They left the parlour and walked slowly down
the central hall towards the rotunda and the northwest wing. The
library was now dark, but as they passed the billiard-room they
heard the glassy click of billiard balls and a whoop of triumph
from Daniel Bérubé.
    “Hincks and Bérubé are getting along well,”
Macaulay said.
    “I wonder if LaFontaine plays whist or
piquet.”
    “I should think poker would be his