Laurier in Love. Roy MacSkimming

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      Rather than surrender to despair, Émilie listened to her own resourceful nature. It wasn’t the same as listening to the distant violin, or dreaming of St. Ann’s Hill, but infinitely more practical. After considering various possibilities, some quite outrageous, she seized on the At Home. It will be as much for Wilfrid as for herself. Imaginatively planned in every detail, consummately executed to ensure un beau succès, it must succeed on a scale to do credit to him: to his Quebec origins, his party, his administration, his circle of intimates, his own dearest Émilie, to whom he signs himself (even if only she knows it), “Of all your friends, the truest & sincerest & most devoted.”

      With all this in mind, Émilie has had a most satisfactory meeting with Wilfrid in his East Block office. It wasn’t difficult to arrange: his private secretary, Ulric Barthe, is her cousin. She stood before Wilfrid, sharing his professional domain for the first time, hoping he wouldn’t notice her hands were shaking, and admired the marble fireplace, the dark-green wooden blinds filtering sunlight from the Hill, the enormous baize-covered desk formerly occupied by Sir John A. Macdonald. After a slightly too formal and reserved greeting, she sat down across from him and energetically presented her plans for the At Home.

      It would be held in the Russell’s spacious double drawing room. It would be nothing like the ladies’ teas so commonplace in Ottawa, but a massive and splendid celebration of society itself. Male guests would be as numerous as female. Mentioning the more eminent invitees on her list, she asked for Wilfrid’s advice. Whom else should she invite? Whom should she avoid? There were gaps in her knowledge of Ottawa society, and she didn’t want to make egregious gaffes.

      Listening carefully, Wilfrid grew enthusiastic, animated, inspired. This was exactly the sort of occasion his Émilie excelled at. It would provide scope for her gifts as a consummate hostess. Ottawa’s society matrons would realize an invigorating new spirit was among them, a free thinker in the best sense, a cultivated Québécoise who knew more about high style and fashion and good conversation than any of them. Wilfrid was so pleased with the boldness of her conception that he wrote a large cheque on the spot to underwrite the arrangements.

      Émilie wasn’t so much surprised by his generosity as relieved: in fact, she was counting on it, since Joseph’s judgeship wouldn’t take effect for several weeks. What gratified her most was Wilfrid’s relaxing into his old warmth and affection, his eagerness to become once more her intimate companion and fellow conspirator. His spontaneous, irrepressible smile told her how happy he felt about her plans, how delighted he was by her presence, how impressed by her resolve to take the capital by storm. Instructing Ulric to provide her with a list of addresses for Members of Parliament, Senators and Supreme Court justices, he advised her to consult the Undersecretary of State, Joseph Pope. Pope knew absolutely everybody who mattered.

      She’d met Pope socially with his wife, Minette, a Taschereau from Quebec City, her mother one of the Pacaud clan from Arthabaska and thus linked by long friendship to the Lauriers. Ulric took her upstairs to Pope’s office. Although a touch pompous, Pope struck her as handsome, radiating a quiet sense of power derived from sitting for years at Sir John A.’s right hand, where he’d learned the precise location of men’s secrets and vanities. Now, Émilie supposed, he’d know a little about Wilfrid’s as well.

      Pope understood exactly what she wanted. He rhymed off ladies and gentlemen in various walks of life who must on no account be omitted from her guest list. Political persuasion should be no barrier, he pointed out, and volunteered as many Conservative names as Liberals. He jotted them all down as he spoke, handing her at the end three sheets of stationery neatly covered with names, followed by full titles. He gave Émilie to understand it was important to observe the titles: “‘Forms are things,’ Sir John always said.”

      Stopping by Wilfrid’s office on her way out, Émilie thanked him for his help. She composed her hands in front of her, as in prayer. “Until now I was becoming afraid,” she told him quietly, “that you’d begun to forget about me. About us.”

      Wilfrid returned her gaze with equal seriousness. When his smile came, it was slow and sweet, almost feminine in its gentleness. “My dear, never believe such a thing is possible. You are always in my thoughts, do you understand? Always.”

      Armand is arriving soon from Quebec City, and Émilie has sent Gabrielle to the station to fetch him. With only two hours until her guests arrive, there’s still much to do. She wants to know the hotel staff are carrying out her instructions to the letter. The Mulligan brothers, who have taken over the Russell from M. St-Jacques, have at least some sense of style: they’ve shown imagination and flair by opening the Russell Theatre next door. George Mulligan has assured her he’s taking a keen interest in preparations for her event—and of course he’s anxious to please Wilfrid—but, being a man, Mulligan will have overlooked important details.

      Émilie hurries downstairs to the double drawing room on its second floor. It looks better than she expected. The burgundy velvet settees and easy chairs and circular banquettes have all been shampooed, almost freed of stale tobacco smells. The electric chandeliers glisten. The immense old rug has been cleaned, something it’s needed for years: the red floral pattern bears an unfortunate resemblance to bloody footprints, but most of the rug has been covered with linen stretched flat for dancing, and the rest will soon be invisible under the feet of her guests.

      Against the back wall, extravagant palms explode from gleaming brass pots, shielding the discoloured plaster. Ugly statues stand in the corner niches: nothing she can do about that. More palms flank the room’s best feature, the marble fireplace, its mirror extending gracefully from floor to ceiling. Émilie is relieved to see one of her most critical demands has been met: the tall draped windows overlooking Parliament Hill have been cleaned and now admit a crystalline light.

      Down a broad corridor where hotel staff will dispense dainties and teas, additional sofas and chairs are set out for the comfort of less ambulatory guests. Here the electric lighting strikes Émilie as too harsh: she summons an employee to dim the lights. An ensemble drawn from the Governor General’s Foot Guards Band, supplemented by strings, is setting up in an alcove. Émilie introduces herself to Captain Gillmor, the music director, and asks about his repertoire. He’s planned a mixture of airs from Victor Herbert’s The Wizard of the Nile, a sprinkling of Gilbert and Sullivan and tunes from last season’s Leicester Square musical The Geisha. She’s glad Captain Gillmor has understood her request for music that is both gay and fashionable. She adds one more request: “Please ensure your musicians don’t play too loudly. I want our guests to be able to hear themselves talk.”

      After a visit to the kitchen to deal with Chef Desjardins, who seems irked by the necessity to be agreeable, she returns to her room. She’s relieved to find Gabrielle has returned with Armand. Émilie embraces her son warmly. Standing back to admire him, tall and debonair in his recently purchased frock coat, she compliments him on his flourishing new moustache. It doesn’t make him look any older, as he undoubtedly hopes, but doesn’t spoil his good looks either.

      Armand stands impatiently for his mother’s inspection, barely tolerating her adoring gaze, while his sister giggles beside him. “Mother,” he demands, “would you please remind me why I’m here?” He can’t avoid grinning at being the centre of so much worshipful attention.

      “Why, to adorn my grand reception, of course. To crown my coming out in Ottawa society. It will be ever so successful thanks to your presence. And Gabrielle’s, naturally.”

      “Thank you, Maman,” Bielle says. “I’m honoured to attend with my little brother. Even if he’s a brat with no manners.”

      “Not only to attend,” Émilie replies, “but to assist me in welcoming our distinguished СКАЧАТЬ