House of Rougeaux(57)

They met again in Ottawa in the spring. Guillaume told his family, one night at supper, that he would be away for five or six days this time. Melody asked, “What will you do there, Papa?” Guillaume answered truthfully that he would be visiting a workshop where craftsmen made leather satchels, to observe some of their techniques and purchase some new tools.

“And,” he said, “I will visit a friend.”

A look of apprehension passed through the faces of the children, the girls especially. They cherished their mother’s memory and feared their father might someday marry again.

“My friend Mr. Hathaway,” he said, remaining, with great effort, casually composed. The children relaxed and smiled.

“You met him last fall, didn’t you, Papa?” said Eleanor. Guillaume said he did, and that this time Ross would be in charge of the saddlery in his stead. Ross shone with pride and straightened in his chair.

“And I hope to find another book for Auntie.”

“Books for Auntie!” little Dax cried out, clapping his hands.

Since childhood, Josephine had had a great interest in all things botanical, and over time had acquired a small number of books on plants and their properties. She kept dozens of things growing in pots indoors, and outdoors in the warmer seasons. Dax was fascinated by the illustrations in her botanical books, particularly the ones that showed both the interiors and exteriors of seeds and blossoms. Adding another volume to Josie’s treasured collection was the least Guillaume could do. He was so grateful to her, for everything.



* * *



The days in Ottawa with Hathaway were glorious. They took every measure of discretion and thus created every possible shelter for their intimacy. On the last night, as they lay among the bedclothes, Guillaume asked Hathaway the question that had been nagging at his heart. He did not assume any claim on this man, but he wanted to know. He shifted and took a breath.

“Francis.”

“What is it,” Hathaway murmured, rolling over to face him.

“Are there others?”

Hathaway remained quiet a moment or two.

“There have been,” he said.

“Many?”

“Not too very many.”

“What about now?”

“Would it matter very much to you?”

Guillaume considered this. Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. Perhaps both at once. Before he could answer Hathaway spoke again.

“Anyway, I seem only to be capable of loving one man at a time.”

Guillaume reached for him, still amazed at how dear Francis had become to him.

“I too,” he said.



* * *



The seasons passed and there were more visits, more letters. In the next year Hathaway occasionally had business in Montreal and Josephine suggested to Guillaume that he be invited to suppers, though they dared no other meetings. Hathaway brought gifts for the children, and for Josephine. His quiet charm won them all over. Two years later she insisted he be invited to Ross’ wedding.

“Sometimes the best hiding place is in plain sight,” she said, and Guillaume could not argue.

Another year later he traveled to Toronto.

Francis had his housekeeper fix up the spare room for his guest and prepare a special meal, and then he sent her home to her family. He met Guillaume at the station, and asked him if he wouldn’t mind dining the next night with Edward and his wife.

The guest room went unused and Guillaume discovered his friend anew in his private quarters. There were things he had chosen with care, there were photographs, the small garden with the famous peach trees. There was a cat.

“Do you like it?” Francis asked.

“Very much.”

“I wanted you to see it,” he said, “for I may be leaving.”

Guillaume, who was looking out at the garden, turned to face him.

“I was thinking,” Francis went on, “that with my new contacts, my business could do just as well in Montreal.”

Just when Guillaume thought nothing more could surprise him, the floor dropped away.

Francis took both his hands and looked into his eyes.

“You would do this?” asked Guillaume.

“Yes.” Francis’ voice was gentle.

“Are you sure?”

“We are not young,” Francis said. “Whatever days I have left I wish to spend as many of them as possible with you.”

What was possible, indeed in all the world there was no place for them, and yet, there they were. Perhaps there was a new country, one not found on a globe that had been traced all over with such darkness–a new country where there were fruit trees and quiet Saturdays together, where Francis would come often to dinner, but never agree to a game of billiards. After dinners with the Rougeauxes, Francis might even develop the habit of leaving without his gloves, and Guillaume might sigh, and say to Josephine and the children that he had better just take the gloves over to Mr. Hathaway, and that he would be back directly. But if he got back home late once in a while it would be alright, because they would understand that Papa and Mr. Hathaway always got to talking, and always forgot about the time.





7





Eleanor





Montreal & New York, Late 1800s