House of Rougeaux(53)

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Close to another year passed, and then it was April. The snow gave way rapidly to green budding things. The handful of fruit trees in the garden began to bring forth their delicate blossoms. Guillaume still deeply missed Bess, and Maman, but there were rare days when his remembrance of them came briefly and gently.

One late night he woke, restless, but not from grief. He rose from bed and opened the window, letting in the spring air that struck his bare skin, making him shiver. He thought of the Englishman, and, filled with an unexpected sense of possibility, lit a candle and drew a cedar box out from beneath the bed. Under a pile of odd receipts and papers the calling card was still there, edged in gold ink, bearing the name and address.

Carrying the candlestick, he stepped over to his writing desk. He sat with his steel pen and inkwell, staring at the paper for some time not knowing what to write. At last he began.

Dear Sir,

Perhaps you may remember me, a saddler from Montréal, as we met nearly two years ago at the guesthouse LeBlanc in Québec City. Sadly, my dear wife Elizabeth passed away not long thereafter. In any case, I enjoyed making your acquaintance. This coming July 19th I will again be in Québec City on business, staying at the same lodgings.

Sincerely,

G. Rougeaux





Guillaume had written letters only rarely, but even had he a lifetime of experience with correspondence, this would have been awkward. He blotted the ink and folded the letter carefully, then he addressed an envelope. He felt as if he were stepping off a precipice, and his heart beat wildly. Francis Hathaway might have moved away, might have died, might not remember him or wish to. It was beyond ridiculous. When morning came he hurried to the post office, before he could change his mind.

Days became weeks, became one month, then two, and still no reply. Guillaume chided himself for the vanity of sending the letter at all. He was a father, a grandfather now, no less, with all manner of responsibility for his family and community. What had he hoped to gain? It was folly. He saw that now.

And so he put the matter away, just as he had so long ago with Emmet Clarkson. The end of June approached and Guillaume made his preparations for Québec City just as he always did. Ross would not accompany him this time. Josephine had all the children engaged in renewing the interior whitewash of the entire house, and so when the day arrived Guillaume was again alone.

Guillaume sighed and smiled as he gazed through the window of the train car at the passing landscape. How time marched on. Dax was four years old, a little man who thought himself very big indeed now that he was an uncle. Albert and Genevieve had had their first child, a robust creature they called Elodie. Dax was allowed to hold the baby in Elizabeth’s old rocking chair, provided he did not squirm out from under her. If he rocked a little too fast the baby let out her funny laugh that surprised them all by sounding like an old man’s. How Bess would have liked to see all that.

The gentle jostling over the tracks made him sleepy. He dozed more easily now than he ever used to. Perhaps this would be his last trip to Québec City. What with the goods available these days in Montreal, the expense of the trip was really no longer justified. Quality studs and buckles and the like could be found for lesser prices right at home.



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Guillaume arrived at the guesthouse and rang the bell at the street door. He knew from his last visit that the place was under new ownership, and that the new owners honored Madame LeBlanc’s custom regarding colored guests. Madame LeBlanc, aging too, had gone to live elsewhere with a son and daughter-in-law. Madame Fournier, the new proprietress, ushered Guillaume into the small foyer and up the old stairs. Her brisk step rustled the indigo skirts of her dress, as they followed the stairs up to the second floor where the kitchen, dining room and proprietor’s quarters were located. The proprietress produced his room key from a desk drawer, and Guillaume went up another flight of stairs to room number four.

He unlocked the door and set his old leather valise on the floor beside the bed. The valise, which he used on every trip, was a wedding gift, crafted by his father. It sported a set of brass buckles purchased long ago right in this very city. Québec was the city of his father’s birth and his mother’s youth. Guillaume kept the leather of the valise oiled and wrapped in paper between uses, and it was still in excellent condition.

Guillaume looked about the room. The furniture was all still the same, the bedstead, chair and small bureau, but a new enamel pitcher and basin had replaced the old. The Fourniers had also invested in new linens, heavier scrubbing, and curtains more in line with the current fashion, giving the place an air of refreshment. It was just past five o’clock in the afternoon. Madame Fournier said that supper would be served at seven, and that she hoped he liked mutton stew. After washing up he removed his shoes and lay down on the bed. He rested an arm across his eyes, and let out a long breath.



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Madame Fournier, it turned out, was a good cook. The stew was fragrant and satisfying and served with a rich black bread. The handful of guests were polite and the conversation was pleasant, though Guillaume did not feel particularly here nor there. He let his thoughts drift as if they were children, leading him away from the adults’ table. An hour or so later, the supper dishes cleared, Madame Fournier returned to the dining room with a teapot and tray of cups.

Voices of the guests and the clatter of the tea things on the table muffled the sound of the doorbell from downstairs. Madame Fournier straightened.