The Last Crossing (43 page)

This afternoon, Lucy and I had an hour or two alone. In two days, the chief factor intends to send the Gaunt party off in high style with a grand banquet and ball to be held in Rowand’s Folly. Lucy took me utterly by surprise when she told me that Addington has invited her to outfit herself for the ball at his expense. This, he said, was a small token of appreciation for all the pains she has taken to make us comfortable on the trail in the past months. I found Addington’s unexpected generosity both perplexing and disturbing but said nothing to Lucy, not wanting to dampen her delight in the purchases she had made at the company store. Her ballgown is to be a surprise for me on the night of the dance, and I was required to solemnly swear not to attempt to spy on her sewing it. Lucy’s girlish excitement is a
side of her I had not seen before and it is most charming. She is positively flirtatious and brims with innocent, feminine glee.

The much heralded night has arrived and I am bored. I had hoped to have Lucy upon my arm for the banquet, but at the last moment her composure fled and she refused to accompany me. No matter how I entreated her, she was most adamant that she would not attend and be the one woman in the midst of “so many Britishers.” The dance, she argued, is a different matter, there will be plenty of Métis and Indian women present. But she will not allow herself to fall under the scrutiny of a hall full of men. “They will all think me Charles Gaunt’s scarlet woman and stare and whisper,” she said. There was nothing I could do to dismiss her fears.

So here I sit at a groaning board, taking my farewell of valiant trenchermen and bibulous clerks, longing for the refreshment of Lucy’s company. Course succeeds course with stomach-numbing regularity, gargantuan servings of meat dishes leavened with boiled potatoes and turnips. Buffalo hump, boss ribs, beaver tails, dried moose nose, whitefish fried in buffalo marrow, and the pièce de résistance, a buffalo calf removed from its dam by Caesarean operation, and preserved in the ice house for just such a momentous feast. Gallons of rum and claret have been downed. Our bread pudding shovelled home, now we have embarked on port and oratory.

The factor toasts our health and reviews the pleasures our society has provided him. No sooner does he take his seat than one of his scruffy, drunken clerks seizes the floor and tearfully recites some Robbie Burns. Nothing is as dreadful as a Scot who sheds his dourness. On and on it goes, compliments extended to the English gentlemen, pointless reminiscences of our month’s stay at Fort Edmonton, professions of undying friendship, all of which I submit to with a gratified smile pasted to my lips.

Not so my brother, who has remained red-eyed and choleric throughout the festivities, bending a spoon in his hands. It has not penetrated the dim recesses of his tiny mind that the Hudson Bay men
eagerly await some equal return of sentiment from the leader of our expedition. But no, Addington keeps silent and holds to his place while dismay spreads among those trying to prompt him to acknowledge the company’s unstinting generosity for so many weeks.

I have stubbornly determined not to launch a lifeboat and come to the rescue when, unsteadily, Ayto, glass in hand, rises to his feet and beams upon the hopeful assembly. “Dear friends,” he begins, “many of you know I am the Captain’s secretary and in that humble capacity I wish to step into the breach. The Captain is a man of action, not of words, and I know how he trembles to address you. It is my most earnest desire to relieve him of that terror.” Laughter linked to the mention of his name jolts Addington out of his trance; under glowering brows he regards Ayto as if he has suddenly become aware there is a madman at table. Already in full flight, the Yankee journalist does not register my brother’s baleful glare.

“Caleb Ayto,” he says, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat, “a humble citizen of the great republic which abuts your borders, has been deeply moved by the generosity and courtesy shown to me by my cousins to the north. On behalf of the Gaunt expedition, let me tender a few words of heartfelt thanks, not only for the splendid dinner and the overflowing cup we have all partaken of tonight, but for all you have done in the past weeks to relieve the cares and tribulations of weary travellers. We have faced many dangers, been subject to much hardship, tasted the bitterness of hope disappointed as we searched in vain for the noble Captain’s lost brother. But you, gentlemen, have lifted our spirits and eased our despair with the balm of true friendship. With renewed vigour, we sally forth on our sacred quest, confident of your prayers for our success in the coming days …”

Overwhelmed by this tide of purple bilgewater, I float off on my own thoughts, anticipating the sight of Lucy arrayed in her new gown until a burst of clapping and the cheers of those assembled mark the termination of Ayto’s peroration and rouse me from my stupor.

The factor announces the dance is shortly to begin and we gentlemen, led by a piper, enter the ballroom, promenade round to the skirl of the bagpipe, applauded by company employees, stared at by Indian
headmen draped in buffalo robes and Hudson Bay blankets. After enduring one more circuit of the room, the most eminent among us are ushered to a half-dozen pine chairs which have been guarded from trespass by several gnarly-fisted French-Canadian boatmen, one of whom has a kerchief tied around his head, lending him a fierce and piratical aspect.

At the factor’s signal, three fiddlers and the piper who escorted us into the hall strike up a tempestuous air. The virtuoso of the orchestra is a Métis Paganini arrayed in gorgeous evening dress, snowy-white buckskin frock coat and waistcoat decorated with silk embroidery and beadwork flowers. As he saws his bow, face running with sweat, long hair whipping, the glass beads scatter candlelight, make him shimmer like a rainbow.

Where is Lucy? I cast an anxious glance to the door of the ballroom, jammed with Indian statesmen shrouded in skin togas, but catch not a glimpse of her.

The ball proceeds. Jigs and reels follow hard upon each other, as if dancing were a competition, or a trial of endurance. Every once in a while some dancer flails his feet on the floor so expertly and exuberantly that he gathers an admiring crowd, which then whoops and urges him on to greater feats of terpsichore.

There are no shy, retiring ladies here fanning themselves coyly in a quiet corner. The women are as active and boisterous as the men; their faces shine with sweaty bliss. The Cree and Assiniboine girls who have clearly participated in a white man’s dance before perform the intricate steps with a lively confidence, while the novices simply spring up and down on the spot, joy launching them several feet above the floor, as they leap like the bounding hart.

Addington, who is seated on the factor’s right, suddenly rises from his chair and begins to prowl the edges of the dance floor. Back and forth, back and forth he paces, swigging from a pocket flask. There is something odd about his gait, the jolting action of a mechanical toy. He stares down at his feet as if willing them to move, as if he must
think
each step before he makes it, as if he is uncertain his foot can be
trusted to make contact with the floor. A young Indian women interrupts his sentry duty, makes signs she wishes him as a partner for the next dance, but he waves her off with a disgusted look on his face.

I turn away from my brother’s rudeness just in time to see Lucy make her entrance, weave her way towards me through the throng of onlookers. My heart quickens. How pale and self-conscious she appears. How this adds to her loveliness. Her red hair is drawn into a pretty chignon from which an ebony velvet ribbon trails, over her shoulder down to her breast. The velvety sable of the ribbon heightens, deepens, darkens her brown eyes until they appear almost black. The gown is very simple, a high-bodiced, long-skirted white muslin tied with another black ribbon at the waist. A fashion
à la Grecque
, or perhaps the dress of the heroine of a Jane Austen novel. And the shoes, ladies’ booties peeping out from under the hem of her skirt, are of a style so defunct as to have become lost in the mists of time. God knows for whom they were ordered, unless perhaps for Mistress John Rowand, or how long they have sat upon a shelf waiting to be claimed, but here they are, carrying Lucy Stoveall to join me.

I rise and bow. “My dear, you are ravishing.”

The compliment colours and flusters her.

She asks, “It’s all right then?”

“You are the belle of the ball.”

Trying to disguise her pleasure, she seats herself. A moment later, her foot begins to tap in time to the raucous music. Is this a signal to me? Am I to request the pleasure of the next dance?

But a young Frenchman with long curly hair tickling the collar of his blouse saves me from attempting to cut these athletic capers. He stands mute before Lucy and offers his hand.

“Go along, Lucy,” I say. “I doubt a dancing master could be found in London to cover this ground. And I assure you, it is beyond my poor powers.”

And there she is, jigging with the rest of them, feet spattering on the floor, face rosy with effort, eyes joyous as the music increases tempo, as the chinks in the floorboards puff dust. When the dance
ends, the young Frenchman surrenders Lucy to a new partner who draws her back into the hooting crowd of dancers. She is transported by the music and to see her transported delights me. Unmindful of all past and future troubles, Lucy is happy to be nothing but a body lost in reckless grace.

The heat in the ballroom is overpowering, dizzying. I take out a handkerchief and mop my face. As I put it away I catch sight of Addington, finally still. Ayto is with him, leaning into his ear, nattering away. My brother pays him not a speck of attention; there is a disturbingly lost look about Addington’s flushed face.

Suddenly a shout goes up among a knot of dancers. “Chasse aux lièvres! Chasse aux lièvres!” The cry is taken up by all until the rafters ring with it. Men and women rush about, seizing spectators, dragging them on to the dance floor. A pretty Indian girl with a coppery moon-shaped face effects my kidnapping despite my protests. She wears a red gingham dress decorated with jangling copper bells which jangle all the harder as she hauls me out of my seat, tugging fiercely on my wrist.

All the dancers join hands and we form a huge ring. A blushing, protesting young man is shoved into the centre of it by his rowdy chums. The orchestra strikes up a tune and we all begin to circle the embarrassed lad. Round and round we go until the music abruptly stops and everyone begins to sing:

Much abashed, the chap looks down at his feet, then abruptly moves to a young Métis girl on whose cheek he bestows a decorous peck as the crowd roars its approval, flinging risqué
beaux gestes
. The young lady takes the place of the young man, round and round we go, until the melody once more ceases, and we sing the refrain. The girl selects her gallant, kisses him, and the Chasse aux Lièvres continues.

The music once more breaks off, and a shyly grinning, sandy-haired Scot prepares himself to choose his favoured lady when Addington suddenly bustles forward, breaks through the ring, and stalks to the side of the startled Scot. There is astonishment and shock at this breach of custom and good manners. My brother is oblivious to the dancers’ reaction. He takes the boy by the shoulder and murmurs something in his ear, claps a hand to his back. The Scot remains rooted to the spot for a brief moment before shuffling away, looking puzzled and downcast.

A strained hush falls on the crowd as Addington slowly begins to circle the ring of dancers, running his eyes over the women with a peculiar, gloating smile. There is lewd calculation in his gaze, as if each woman is being undressed by his eyes, fondled by the hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

All the girls and women lower their heads to avoid his appraisal. All at once, Addington comes face to face with Lucy. She is the first to refuse to flinch, returns his stare with one of equal intensity. The two of them stand motionless as seconds pass. Then Addington takes two sudden, lurching strides, seizes Lucy, and brutally kisses her mouth.

It is over in a flash. My brother violently thrusts Lucy away from him, she stumbles backward, collides with one of the dancers, is caught in his arms and saved from falling. Addington, head down, bulls his way through the outraged crowd, blindly knocking people aside with shoulders and forearms, striding with that strange, jerky deliberateness.

Just like that, my brother disappears from the scene. I hurry to Lucy’s side, my anger checked by concern, take her hand and lead her through the confusion, the whispers, and astonished murmuring.

“Are you injured?” I say. “Please, you must sit.” The factor holds a chair for her.

Lucy presses the heel of her hand to her lips. Her eyes are mournful and sad. “Why would your brother want to spoil my gay time? Why would he treat me so?” she asks.

I have no answer. Behind us, the music resumes.

“Wait here,” I order her. “I must speak to him about his abominable behaviour.”

Lucy grabs my sleeve. “No, let it pass. I don’t want to see him rip you like he did Custis Straw. He’s a frightful person, your brother.”

“Keep Mrs. Stoveall safe,” I say to the factor. “I shall be back directly.”

I descend to the first floor of Rowand’s Folly calling out, “Addington! Addington, damn you! Where are you! Answer me!”

Getting no reply, I push out into the grounds of the deserted fort. The gallery holds no pacing sentinels tonight; all company employees have been given leave to attend the dance. A cadaverous mongrel heaves up from the dirt, trots to my side with a questioning whine, follows me as I make a tour of the outbuildings, testing the silence with my brother’s name. I receive no answer.

There is a chill to the night air; I feel the drops of sweat shrinking on my face. A brisk wind has swept the sky clean of clouds. All that is left are millions of scattered, glassy stars pricking out the beadwork of Heaven, the Big and Little Dipper, Hercules, the Hunting Dogs. I gaze up at them for a long interval until they begin to dash my vision with yellow rails of light. When I drop my eyes, I see it, one window lit on the third floor of Rowand’s Folly.