Bloody Relations Read Online Free Page A

beat. Beth and Marc waited for the minuet, easing into the pleasures of an evening that promised to be lively and prolonged. After all, it was July, the winter had been divisive and stressful, and now a sort of saviour had arrived in their midst, an Apollo come down from Olympus to restore calm and reason. When the orchestra was persuaded to strike up a Virginia reel, the room shook with the stamp of feet and the mêlée of sets being improvised or reconstituted. Dance cards were tossed aside when a caller, who materialized as if on cue, boomed out the steps and courtesies of the quintessential North American dance.
    Marc lost Beth in one of the scrums of partner switching.Sweating and thirsty, he made for the refreshment table, where he found a goblet of icy champagne and his good friend Owen Jenkin. They chatted briefly about the ceremonial arrival of Lord Durham that morning and agreed that His Lordship had no doubt calculated every gesture in the show of pomp and authority which they and five thousand others had witnessed. Any Englishman who could influence the czar of Russia as no one had before him, or leave the governor of New York awestruck in Fort Niagara, was a man who had greatness in his bones.
    â€œWe must do everything we can to make his stay here purposeful and productive,” Marc said.
    â€œI think he’s managing quite nicely on his own,” Owen said. “The town Tories have worked themselves into a sweet sweat over a Whig and a probable Radical being sent here to tell them what’s needed to keep the peace. But look at them now: jigging like a flock of Kentuckians, and scraping and bowing like penitents before the pope.”
    â€œHe’s off to a good start anyway.”
    â€œI feel like a pipe. Care to join me?”
    Marc looked about for Beth. The dancers were forming up in groups of four pairs for an announced quadrille. He spotted a tiny white hand fluttering across the room near the alcove where Lord Durham’s party had been holding court for the past half-hour. It was Beth, about to step smartly into the opening steps of the quadrille. At her side, with an arm about her waist, stood the most notorious man in Spadina: Edward Gibbon Wakefield.
    Beth smiled at her husband before being swept away.
    â€œLet’s have that pipe, Owen.”
    Marc followed Major Jenkin through an archway and along a broad hall that gave them access to the men’s smoker. The major was in full dress uniform, but seeing his friend in the regalia hehad recently given up roused no feeling in Marc of regret or loss. He was at ease with his decision, at least for the moment. They found their way through the cigar and pipe smoke to a pair of leather chairs, lit up, and leaned back in perfect contentment.
    â€œI’m afraid to say so, Marc,” Owen said at last, “but there are a good many men in this house tonight who would like to see Lord Durham’s mission fail and fail badly.”
    â€œYou’re right, but it’s a pity they can’t see that things can never be the same as they were before Mackenzie and Papineau. It’s not even a matter of who’s right or who’s wrong. The horse is out of the barn and galloping apace.”
    â€œAnd we could use a new horse and a new barn, eh?”
    A burst of rough male laughter erupted behind them. Marc turned towards its source. An open archway led to an adjacent room, the one set up for card playing.
    Owen Jenkin chuckled. “Now there are four gentlemen sharing a laugh who otherwise might not give one another the time of day.”
    â€œI don’t think I recognize any of them.”
    â€œThe chap with the paunch is Alasdair Hepburn, a big shot in the Commercial Bank. His whist partner, unlikely as it may seem, is Patrick O’Driscoll.”
    â€œThe grand panjandrum of the Orange Lodge here in the city?”
    â€œThe same. A muckraking zealot if there ever was one. Like oil and water, those