House of Rougeaux(56)

The clerk eyed Guillaume.

“I’m sorry sir,” he said, “it’s not permitted.”

“What’s not permitted?” he asked.

“The Inn does not serve Ethiopians.”

Hathaway shot a glance at Guillaume. Unruffled, he spoke again.

“Monsieur Rougeaux is not from Ethiopia,” Hathaway began slowly, as if addressing someone stupid. “He is a master saddler from Montreal. We have a joint venture in upholstery, and if you will not serve him then we shall take our business elsewhere. Please cancel my fortnight’s reservation, and tell the management I am most disappointed.”

The clerk looked shaken. It was the offseason and a sudden two-week vacancy would not please his superior. “Perhaps we might make an exception for one night,” he said. “I shall go ask upstairs.”

“Good idea,” Hathaway said. He was not a man of great wealth, but his comportment spoke of his belief in his right to be in the place he chose, and with whomever he chose.

When the clerk returned they knew they had won.

“One night only,” he said.

Hathaway wasn’t finished. He addressed Guillaume. “How long were you planning to stay?”

“Two nights,” Guillaume said.

They didn’t wait for the clerk’s answer. Hathaway snatched up Guillaume’s valise from the floor at his feet and headed for the stairs.

The room was on the top floor and when they had entered Hathaway bolted the door behind them. They each let out a long breath.

“Upholstery,” said Guillaume. They burst into muffled laughter, and fell into each other’s arms.



* * *



A tallow candle burned on the bedside table. Hathaway held Guillaume’s hand, gazing at the contrasting hues of their intertwined fingers.

“In school, back in Sussex, they told us Africans were primitives,” he said, “and that slavery was invented for their own good.”

“To civilize us,” Guillaume said.

“Right.”

“Did you believe it?”

“When I was little. I believed everything.”

“As we do.”

Hathaway shifted his body and tucked a hand under his cheek. “So Africans were primitive, the red Indian a savage, Jews were dirty and the Chinese were thieves and liars.”

“The natural order.”

“But they hated me too, you know, the other boys in school. They called me dainty, a girl, Little Lord Hathaway. And then they’d try to bash my head in.”

Guillaume watched Hathaway’s face as he spoke, imagining this beautiful man as a once vulnerable child. “Was there no help for you?”

“My brother Edward, yes. If he was near he’d fight them off. I was a weakling and couldn’t defend myself. But Edward stood by me. He knew what people said about me and he told me to forget them. He always said, You’re fine as you are, Frankie. You’re fine as you are. I had to make a choice on who to believe.”

“Your brother reminds me of my sister Josephine.”

“Does he?”

“Very much so.”

“Then we are both blessed.”

Francis told Guillaume about a certain incident, a day back in Sussex when he was twelve and Edward was away. There was a cousin, James, of the same age, with whom he’d always been close, and a wrestling match in the cellar turned suddenly into something more exciting. That is, until Francis’ father appeared and nearly killed them both. James he banished from the house and Francis he whipped within an inch of his life. Indeed he might have murdered his son, had his wife not intervened.

“Later when Edward came home and saw what our father had done he was furious. That was the night he started talking about going to America. He said one day we’d go, the two of us.” Hathaway stretched and turned over. “There was a globe in the school library. I used to look at the mass of America, at Africa and the size of it, and China too. And the tiny dot that was England. Was most of the world thieves and savages, then? I dared to think it was all a lie. I made up my mind to find out the truth for myself.”

There were scars, Guillaume could see them now, several white lines across Francis’ lower back where his father’s belt buckle had scored the skin. Guillaume moved closer and pressed his lips there, again and again, as if he could draw out the pain and replace it with tenderness.



* * *



All that winter they exchanged letters. Guillaume wrote how he and Ross were studying the making of some other leather goods now, after Ross had become curious about how his grandfather had made the valise. Jonty was still intent on following Albert into the railroad industry. Melody and Eleanor, both especially musical, played a piano duet at the church’s Christmas service. Josephine was teaching Dax his numbers and letters. Guillaume wrote, Please tell me something about England, by which he meant, Tell me more about you, in your younger years. I want to know everything.

Hathaway did write of England, things he hadn’t yet told, of his voyage to Canada with his brother as young men, and how Edward still dragged him out rowing when the weather was good enough. He wrote of the day-to-day in Toronto, of the price of silks from India, of friends, and of the theater and opera, which he considered his own private church. Hathaway wrote, Please tell me something of Montréal, in the old days, before the expansion, by which he meant, Tell me about you in your younger years. I want to know everything.