Laurier in Love. Roy MacSkimming

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      As Émilie chatters on, Zoë observes her. Émilie relishes giving descriptions of the three homes for sale, all conveniently within walking distance in Sandy Hill. She knows the virtues and drawbacks of each, the order in which they should be visited. Zoë nods from time to time in absentminded agreement.

      Ever since Émilie Barthe, as she then was, descended on Arthabaska in the early years of the Laurier marriage and cut a swath through local society, having lived with her father in Paris and London, people have said how extraordinary she is, how witty and worldly and vivacious and cosmopolitan. And how remarkable that her high spirits and entrancing conversation make one completely overlook her plainness. The sharpness of her nose. The narrowness of her mouth. Her weak chin. Her oddly large, heavy-lidded eyes with their yellowish pupils, said to result from her habit of reading late into the night. “Une jolie laide,” people called her from the very first: an ugly beauty.

      People were right, Zoë thinks. Not that it prevented Émilie from becoming an immediate threat to every wife in their circle. Silly, really: it was only Zoë who had anything to fear. From the very first she saw that Émilie had eyes for Wilfrid alone and, since he was already married, that she’d take the next best thing and marry his law partner. Even then Zoë was a step ahead of Émilie. It was just that she could do nothing to stop her.

      Of course it was never Émilie’s appearance but her knowledge of literature that Wilfrid admired. Their mutual love of reading is their self-described bond, and it’s unbreakable. Certainly it’s well beyond Zoë to share opinions about Madame de Staël or Victor Hugo (whom Émilie once actually met) or Byron or Mary Shelley. Once Joseph Lavergne married Émilie, changing her from a dangerous single woman into a supposedly safe wife, Wilfrid would rise from his desk in their small office every day, either at eleven in the morning or at English teatime, and announce: “Now, Joseph, if you will permit it, I will go and have a little chat with your wife.” And he’d walk to the door with a book under his arm. Joseph’s permission was always given, since in any case it was always taken for granted.

      The Lavergnes’ pretty home, Le Vert Logis, was the setting for this long-running literary salon of two. It’s just four doors down the street from the law office, which in turn sits directly across the street from the Lauriers’ house. The Lauriers and the Lavergnes lived within constant sight of each other in those days: a very narrow compass indeed. Everything happened in full view of everyone.

      “You mustn’t worry about the expense of buying another house,” Émilie is telling her, “the party will cover the cost. Mr. Mulock will see to that.”

      “Oh—you know about his letter?” Zoë isn’t sure whether to feel betrayed, angry or just irritated by the inevitable. Mr. Mulock’s letter was a personal communication between the Liberal Party’s richest MP and Wilfrid. There’s no reason why Émilie should know about it. Or about the trust fund, or the promise to buy them a house. And if she does know, there’s still less reason for her to tell Zoë—unless it’s to flaunt her closeness to Wilfrid. And that too is unnecessary.

      “I envy you the freedom to pick out any home you choose,” Émilie declares. “How many women get that chance? Really, Zoë, you don’t know how lucky you are.”

      “Oh, I think I do,” she replies softly. She doesn’t want anyone to overhear them discussing such private matters, even though no one is actually within earshot. “But won’t you and Joseph be buying a house too?” She knows today’s outing is as much for Émilie’s benefit as her own.

      “I certainly hope so. As long as he gets a judgeship.”

      “Wilfrid says he deserves it.”

      “Of course he does.” Émilie puts on her bravest smile, her mask of supreme self-confidence that dares the world to contradict it. “Wilfrid won’t fail us. He never fails either of us, my dear.”

      Zoë looks away across the dining room, grateful for the approach of the waiter carrying a silver tea service on a silver tray. She never ceases to wonder at Émilie’s blithe assumption that all will be given her in time. Setting the plate of little cakes between them, the waiter asks the ladies’ permission to pour the tea, which has already steeped, into frail china cups.

      “I adore le thé à l’anglaise,” Émile remarks.

      This must be for the waiter’s benefit, since it’s hardly news to Zoë. She thinks how much more important this morning’s rituals in the cathedral are to her than her friendship with Émilie. Or, for that matter, than the mock drama and hollow battles of politics, which consume Wilfrid’s waking hours. Church, family, home: Zoë knows what matters. This morning she may make some progress toward a home, so Émilie is doing her a kindness after all. She should be thankful.

      “The Americans have their White House,” Zoë says, “so the President already has a place to live. Perhaps we should be like them.”

      Delicately Émilie inserts a madeleine between sharp front teeth and severs it in half. “Why would anyone want to be like the Americans?”

      Zoë blows on the surface of her tea. “It’s an insult to one’s tea to blow on it,” Wilfrid tells her, but nobody is looking except Émilie, and flouting Wilfrid’s conception of good manners gives her a perverse satisfaction.

      Émilie leans forward conspiratorially over the table. “What do you think about the knighthood?”

      “What knighthood?”

      Émilie leans back in her chair, grinning. She’s trumped Zoë once again. “There’s a rumour that the Queen is going to knight Wilfrid,” she says gloatingly. “He’ll be on her honours list for the Jubilee. You haven’t heard? I’m astonished, my dear.”

      Zoë has never actually blushed in Émilie’s presence before.

      Émilie goes on: “Imagine, ‘Sir Wilfrid.’ What could be more splendid? And you’ll be Lady Laurier!”

      Émilie’s grin is manic. Zoë suspects it conceals misery, jealous hostility: a conviction that Zoë doesn’t appreciate such high royal favour, much less deserve it.

      “Rumours are rumours,” Zoë says. “I know for a fact Wilfrid doesn’t want a knighthood. His supporters don’t care for titles, and neither does he. He prefers to remain plain M. Laurier, the same as he’s always been.”

      Émilie reaches into her pearl-embroidered purse for more surprises. “Here are the houses.” Somehow she’s obtained little photographs of all three homes for sale. She pushes aside the plate of madeleines to spread the black-and-white prints on the tablecloth in an arc, a croupier dealing cards. “There. Which one do you like best?”

      Peering uncertainly at the grainy, indistinct images, Zoë fumbles in her purse for her pince-nez. “I’d need to see inside first.”

      “Of course you will. But from an architectural point of view, they’re all quite distinguished, don’t you think?”

      Zoë studies the photographs. She doesn’t know what to say. She hates being put on the spot.

      The first house is built of brick in the French style, with a mansard roof and dormer windows. It has three storeys, and its elegance and symmetry appeal to her. The other two are of stone, more horizontal in design, with white, intricately carved verge boards and front verandahs and gabled windows on the top floor. One of them is evidently part of a terrace.

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