House of Rougeaux(55)

Yours sincerely,

F. Hathaway





Guillaume read it several times over and then tucked it into the pocket of his vest, overwhelmed with a sudden turmoil. Certainly he had thought they might possibly meet again, but every time the thought arose he pushed it aside. It was one thing to allow himself one night, a night outside of his real life, that would never be repeated. It would be quite another thing to pursue knowing this man.

He kept the letter with him all the next week, taking it out to read again here and there, as if this time he would discover an answer in its short lines. At times he imagined going to Ottawa, the touch of Hathaway’s hands, the sound of his voice. But then reason would come and throw a heavy curtain down over the visions, covering them with the old sadness and resignation.

One evening Guillaume sat in the parlor after supper with Josephine. The girls had taken Dax out to play in the street and the other boys had gone to visit a neighbor. Josephine sat by the open window in Elizabeth’s rocking chair, leaning forward to use the last of the evening sunlight for her sewing. There was never a lack of hems and breeches to mend.

“What’s troubling you, Guille?” Josephine never wasted time on preamble. Guillaume shook his head, rubbed his tired eyes, and then took Hathaway’s letter from his pocket and handed it to her. She traced her fingers over the ink and around the edges of the paper. “F. Hathaway,” she said, musing. “A friend?”

“Could be,” he said.

“If you wish it?”

Guillaume cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. Josie laid her mending aside and looked at him a long time.

“What’s stopping you?”

“It’s not for a man to do,” he said at last. “Not what an honorable man does.”

“Why do you say so?” Josephine’s voice was low and steady.

“Papa,” he said, “was the best kind of man. Can you say he wasn’t the best kind of man?”

“And you must be like him?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, Guille,” she said, “yes, Papa was of the best kind, but there isn’t only one kind of good man.”

“I know that.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

Guillaume coughed. He swallowed. He rubbed his eyes again and his fingers came away wet. “Maybe I don’t know anything,” he allowed. He covered his face with his hands. Josie came and put her arms around him.

“My brave brother,” she said, “let your heart live. Let it be as the Holy One made it.”

They sat in silence awhile, and then Guillaume said that if he could no longer justify his annual journey east to Québec City, neither did it make sense to be going away again so soon, this time west to Ottawa.

“It need not make sense,” Josie smiled. She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead, just as she did with the children.

Guillaume penned a new letter:

Dear Mr. Hathaway,

I should be glad to discuss the opportunities you mention, and shall make my travel plans for early in the month of October. I thank you for your invitation.

Sincerely,

G. Rougeaux





The long days of August came and went, and then September opened with a chill. The children readied their books for school, the roses in front faded, dropping brown petals, and Guillaume wore his woolen shirt in the shop, buttoned to the neck. Each night he snuffed out the candle thinking he was one more day closer to October. And then, all at once it was the 3rd, and Guillaume, leather valise in hand, found himself boarding a train for Ottawa.

The inn was not far from the station, somewhat grander than the guesthouse in Québec City, but still a modest place; it was near to a park on the Ottawa River. He asked for Mr. Hathaway at the reception desk. The clerk replied in a chilly tone that Mr. Hathaway had gone out that morning and did not say when he was expected back. It was however nearing the supper hour and the clerk stated, “You may wait for him here.” Two upright chairs stood against the wall opposite the desk, on either side of a tin umbrella stand.

He glimpsed a number of passersby outside, horse carts taking their wares to wherever it was their business lay. Guillaume caught the clerk watching him once or twice. Indeed, Guillaume wondered himself just what he was doing there. A cup of tea would have been very welcome, something to settle the nerves. But then, out the window Guillaume saw him, Hathaway, drawing nearer up the walk in the company of another man. Guillaume stood as the two came through the door, engaged in an animated conversation. Surprise flashed across Hathaway’s face and Guillaume thought he saw a flush rise at his white throat. He strode toward Guillaume and clasped his hand in greeting.

“You’ve made it,” he said, smiling.

Guillaume glanced at the other man. Hathaway read his look and quickly introduced his companion. His name was Hurst, another textile merchant, and they’d just finished a meeting.

Hathaway addressed Hurst. “Will you be dining with us here?”

“No,” the other man sighed, consulting a pocket watch, “Mrs. Hurst is expecting me. We’ll draw up the papers at my office tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Hathaway said. When the other man departed he said to Guillaume, “Let’s get you settled in here, you must be tired.” He turned to the clerk. “Monsieur Rougeaux will share my lodgings tonight. He is my associate and we have much business to discuss.” Indeed, it was not unusual for two men to share a room, provided there were two beds, which there were.