Lily Fairchild. Don Gutteridge

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СКАЧАТЬ thanks. But no.”

      “You want me to write that?”

      “Yes.”

      “Lily, love, I think you oughta go. What else isthere?” Bridie said pointedly.

      “We got weedin’ to do,” Lily said, and started for the potato patch.

      Silas came back two hours later with a second missive. Again Bridie prepared to read the note aloud. Chester, who despite his infirmaties was walking now with two canes, came out to listen.

      “This is queer,” Aunt Bridie said. “It says only: ‘Lily dearest: there will be a military escort from London.’ Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

      “It means he’s the Prince of Wales,” Chester said. “The heir to the throne.”

      “The Englishthrone,” Bridie snapped.

      “Now don’t start again, woman, with them radical ideas. I got a bum ticker, you know.”

      “An’ how could the world ever forget it?”

      “Tell her yes,” Lily said to the startled trio.

      9

      The visit of Queen Victoria’s firstborn son to Her Majesty’s dominions in August and September of 1860 was the greatest public event yet in British North America’s fledgling existence. No fewer than four books were published to commemorate the events of the pretender’s ‘progress,’ one of them in Boston, no less. Newspapers everywhere devoted their column-inches to tracking every royal move and the public’s response. Even the Prince’s dance cards were faithfully reproduced as if they were imperishable poems.

      The hour-by-hour sweep of H.R.H. through the County of Lambton on September 13 was likewise exhaustively recorded for posterity. The Royal Party and a regiment of well-wishers and hopefuls boarded the Great Western in London at 9:00 a.m. (The Prince’s special car, however, belonged to the Grand Trunk: the rival railways had declared a truce to demonstrate their unshakeable faith in the Empire.) At 11:00 a.m. they touched down in Sarnia where H.R.H. stepped from his mobile drawing room, flanked by railway moguls, hastily promoted lieutenant-colonels, and the young scion’s guardian, the unflappable Duke of Newcastle. The waiting scarlet carpet was variously reported to be either one hundred or three hundred yards in length, the latter being a local estimate. More than five thousand subjects were said to be gathered at the Great Western depot and wharf – almost the county’s total population. The succession of toasts and responses which followed managed to delay the schedule by almost an hour. The only speech worth the space given to it was that of Chief Kan-was-ga-shi, Great Bear of the North, one of the several hundred Ojibwas who had come down from the wilds of Manitoulin for the occasion:

      Brother, Great Brother, the sky is beautiful. It was the wish of the Great Spirit that we should meet in this place. I hope the sky will continue to look fine, to give happiness to both the whites and to the Indians. You see the Indians who are around you. It is their earnest desire that you will always remember them.

      It is not recorded whether any of those assembled caught the ironies either in the words themselves or the circumstances in which they were delivered.

      After presenting the chiefs with silver medallions, the Prince led a cavalcade of carriages, mounted citizenry and rearguard foot-soldiers to the magnificent station-hotel of the Grand Trunk, showpiece of the new town-site already being referred to as Point Edward. Therein, the pooh-bahs received their luncheon and basked in the reflected glory and unabashed good humour of the young and future king. With no coaching whatsoever, the Prince proposed a toast to the “Prosperity of the Grand Trunk Railway.” Its regional vice-president, Dunbar Cruickshank, responded with unforced enthusiasm.

      After the meal H.R.H. and a very select group of dignitaries boarded the Grand Trunk steamer Michiganand sailed up the St. Clair and onto Lake Huron. By 3:30 p.m. the Royal Cortege was back at the Great Western depot and entrained for London where the Prince gave a levee that same evening which outshone even the shameless extravagance of the one given at Toronto’s Osgoode Hall two nights earlier. The entire episode, emblazoned forever in local annals, had lasted a mere four-and-a-half hours.

      Only Lily’s affection for the Templetons and her deep sense of gratitude towards them gave her the strength to submit to their fawning attentions. Certainly Mrs. Templeton had done her best with a sow’s ear. It was Bridie who’d insisted she come into stay with her benefactress for a full week before the event: “We’ll manage. Besides, you’ll have to get used to city ways all over,” she said. “Won’t be easy gettin’ them feet of yours into shoes again.”

      Lily’s outfit had been made by Mrs. Templeton’s dressmaker “from the ground up this time”, complete with a parasol, white gloves and linen handkerchiefs.

      “My word, Lily, what a figure you’ve got! Not even the farm can spoil you, though it’s tryin’,” said Mrs. Templeton, examining Lily’s calloused work hands.

      Lily tolerated all the fuss, and tried to be joyful when His Worship whirled her about the parlour to the thump of the piano for old times’ sake. She knew how much they missed their daughters. From the maid she learned that both daughters had promised to come down from Toronto for the Prince’s visit but at the last minute received invitations, through their prominent husbands, to attend the Royal Ball at Osgoode. Lily understood the obligation placed upon her by the Templeton’s expectations, but she anticipated and hoped for more personal desires to be met.

      When the royal train pulled into the station, Lily was standing beside Mrs. Templeton just behind the mayor and his officials. She had a clear view of the Prince as he approached them gingerly across the red carpet, his chaperone at his elbow, both of them aglitter in military regalia. The next rank brought the railroad bosses, among them the successor to Sir Oliver Steele (dead of a mysterious stroke), the fiercely ambitious Dunbar Cruickshank, and a recently appointed t vice-president of the Grand Trunk, Cap Dowling. Lily was not perturbed to see Lady Marigold Steele, the dark lady, at his elbow and out of her widow’s weeds for the occasion. Fanned out behind were several scarlet-coated regular officers and blue-clad militiamen. Tom Marshall was not among them.

      By the conclusion of the luncheon, Lily was as puzzled as she was hurt. Why didn’t you come, Tom? she thought, listening to the last of the toasts. The talisman had surely pulsed as she held it; its augury was as clear as a proclamation. Was she mistaken?

      “Great news, pet! I knew the Prince had his eye on you! We’ve been invited aboard the Michigan! And –” Mrs. Templeton lowered her voice theatrically, “that old snoop of a Duke isn’t coming.”

      But Lily knew whom the royal glance had favoured whenever discretion permitted. Seated two chairs from her at the woman’s table, the dark lady occupied her own kind of throne.

      Alice Templeton and Lily sat apart from the others on red-striped deck chairs letting the warm September breeze ruffle their parasols and watching their fellow passengers preen and promenade before the royal presence. The ladies coasted by like bevies of sea-birds looking for land. The men gathered for serious gossip around a ring of cigars. The Prince himself had changed into a smart blue tunic of only faintly military character with gilded epaulettes and splendid brass buttons. He stood on the foredeck of the ship like Nelson staring down the French, as the conversation of Cap Dowling and his party of monopolizers drifted insubstantially around him. Undaunted, the young ladies, made valiant by their finery, tacked and jibbed past the Commodore in hope that he might cast a mariner’s eye upon an unguarded throat, СКАЧАТЬ