House of Rougeaux(54)

“Was that the bell?” she asked, looking toward the stairs. All fell silent a moment and the second ring came through clearly. “Ah!” she said, wiping her hands over her apron and heading out. “That will be Monsieur Hathaway.”

Guillaume snapped awake. Had he heard right?

Already there were two sets of footsteps on the creaking stairs. Guillaume stood.

The dining room door pushed open, Madame Fournier followed by another figure, both foreign and familiar. It was Hathaway, after all.

Guillaume was speechless.

Madame Fournier introduced the Englishman around the room, and he nodded politely. And then the blue eyes under their heavy black brows, turned toward him. Hathaway held out his hand.

“Monsieur Rougeaux,” he said, “I’m glad to see you.”

Guillaume knew not whether his feet still touched the floor. He reached out, and the two men shook hands.

“Mr. Hathaway,” he said.

Francis Hathaway settled into a chair opposite Guillaume. The guests took their tea. Guillaume looked upon the Englishman when he dared. He had the same lean features, the salt and pepper hair was a bit longer and perhaps had a touch more of the salt. Now and then their eyes met and Hathaway smiled.

Another hour or two passed, and the other guests retired, and then Guillaume and Hathaway were alone. It was dark outside now, and rain ticked lightly against the window pane. The Englishman spoke.

“I was very pleased to get your letter,” he said, explaining he had been away in Ottawa until just last week. Given the rate at which letters traveled, there was no time to reply. He had only been able to reserve his place at the guesthouse by chance, since an associate of his was journeying just then from Toronto to Québec City, and carried the message for him.

“And I am terribly sorry about your wife,” he added gently. “You must miss her very much.”

“I and the children,” said Guillaume.

Hathaway nodded.

“Have you a family?” asked Guillaume. They had spoken of many things in their first meeting, but not this. No, Hathaway did not. He had a married brother near to him in Toronto, but the rest were back in England.

“We are so different then,” said Guillaume. He could not imagine existing outside of his large family, living so untethered.

“Are we?” Hathaway ventured. Guillaume didn’t know. He smiled.

“Why did you come?” he asked.

“Why did you?”

An unbearable longing welled up in Guillaume’s chest.

“I wanted to meet you again,” he said simply.

“And here we are,” the Englishman said.



* * *



Their first kiss broke his heart. In a capsule of darkness and silence, they stood together inside the Englishman’s locked door. Hathaway gripped the edges of Guillaume’s vest, near the collar, pulling him close. Countless times Guillaume had invoked the image of Emmet Clarkson, or some other man, when he had been with Bess, and now the sheer reality of it was almost too much to bear.

Hathaway led him to the bed and drew him down so they sat side by side. He discerned Guillaume’s shaking hands, held them gently, and then brought them to the buttons at the front of his waistcoat.

“Help me with these, won’t you?” he whispered.

Guillaume obliged, grateful to have some direction, especially when his brain seemed to be on fire, and his only prayer was that he would live until morning, and not expire before this thing, this extraordinary thing, could be done.



* * *



When the line of sky beyond the curtains went from black to deep blue Guillaume pulled away and found his clothing. Listening to Hathaway’s light, even snoring, he crept from the room to his own down the hallway.

He awoke in his own bed to the sound of the breakfast bell. Eight o’clock, so much later than he ever slept. Down in the dining room some of the guests from the previous night were present, some had left early to continue their journeys in different directions. Francis Hathaway was among those not present, and Guillaume was relieved. He was a stranger to himself. It took all of his concentration to eat, nearly forgetting in which hand he was used to holding the knife and in which the fork.

When Guillaume emerged from the guesthouse, the bright sky dazzled his eyes. The rain-washed streets, thick with life, lay decorated in blue mirrors. Somehow Guillaume managed to attend to his purchases and return to the station, where he boarded his train, and finally sank into a dreamless sleep.



* * *



Josephine sensed the change in him at once, but left him alone. The activities of the household carried on as usual. It was a peaceful summer, business was good, and the children were growing up. Ross took over the deliveries from the saddlery and little Dax spent hours in the shop, hammering at scraps of leather and chattering to his father about what kind of saddles he was making. A lightness buoyed Guillaume, even at the weary end of the day. The colors of the roses that grew at the front of the house, the ones Elizabeth had planted before Albert was born, seemed richer than before.

One month later, in August, a letter came from Toronto.

It read,

My Dear Monsieur Rougeaux,

I wish to inform you that I shall be in Ottawa on business the first half of October, staying at the Sherbourne Inn. I believe there are some opportunities in saddlery in this city that may interest you, should you like to discuss them in person.