Cartier asked.
“Because it is her equal, in royalty terms … Tsar Alexander the Second, who will make the decisions whether to cede Russian America. And so the offer must be signed by Queen Victoria. Otherwise it’s a waste of time.”
“Harry, would you be prepared to assume the leadership of this matter for us?” Macdonald put the question in his most persuasive tone.
Carnarvon did not hesitate. “Yes, of course. My first step will be to have a chat with the Foreign Secretary.” As the colonials knew, the Foreign Secretary was also the Prime Minister. “If he’s agreeable, then we’ll set up a small secret team, headed by his Permanent Under-Secretary and mine. They can work on the details and the four of us can provide policy direction. How does that sound?”
“First class,” Macdonald announced, with his colleagues nodding their agreement. “The amount of money to offer, and how it’ll be put together, will be difficult.” Galt was such a fuss-budget about his bloody finances, Macdonald thought.
“That’ll be a matter for the Prime Minister and Mr. Disraeli — and, of course, Her Imperial Majesty. I can assure you, gentlemen, that the Queen pays close attention to the affairs of the state, particularly since she lost her beloved Prince Albert.”
Henry Herbert stood, walked to the still-roaring fire, and turned his buttocks toward it. Holding his coattails aside to allow the heat to better penetrate to the skin of his lean frame, he said, “So, gentlemen, you have given me much work to do. As I said, I will write a note to Sir Frederic Rogers instructing him to work in close concert with you people in preparing a proper British North America Act based on the Quebec Resolutions. And as soon as I come down to London later in the week, I will attend upon my good friend and Prime Minster, Lord Stanley, the Earl of Derby, to enlist his support in acquiring Russian America.”
Macdonald stood, swaying slightly and intoned, “And thereby put the boots to the conniving bastard Seward and his dreams of Manifest Destiny.”
Alexander Galt applauded, clapping his hands slowly, and said “Well spoke, John A., well spoke. Now while you’re on your speechifying feet, why don’t you compose a few rapturous words to tell His Lordship about the beautiful young miss you met on Bond Street.”
“Very good, John A.!” Cartier exclaimed. “How old is she? You’re still young and virile at fifty-two. Ah, l’amour, je pense, I think it is marvellous, even if I haven’t heard your story yet. Is she really beautiful, John? Has she big breasts, wide hips?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, George, you lecherous old frog. Leave off!”
John A. Macdonald’s ugly face turned a shade of deeper red. He flopped back down in his chair, crossed his long legs, and waved the black half-Wellington boot of his lifted foot. “Harry, a week ago last Monday, I met this lovely young creature — on Bond Street, as Alex says. She’s tall, almost as tall as I am, and carries herself like a queen. She has a wonderful smile, brown eyes, and dark wavy hair. And I know her family. Know them very well.”
Cartier was astonished. “What a coincidence! How old is she, John A.?”
Macdonald replied. “She’s closer to thirty than she is to thirty-five.”
“What are your intentions, John A.?” Harry had lit another cigar as he stood before the fireplace. He judged that the evening was about to become longer than he anticipated. He was anxious to join his wife in bed upstairs, especially since at dinner she had given him their secret signal that her hands were lusting to have his body that night.
“My intentions? If the truth were known, I would take her to wife in an instant, if she would have me.”
“But you’ve only just met her.”
“Well, no … as I told you, I know the family. Her brother, Lieutenant Colonel Hewitt Bernard, is a member of my staff, and he and I once shared accommodation in Ottawa. When his mother, Madame Bernard and his sister, Susan Agnes, came to live with him in Ottawa, I saw a great deal of them. But at the time I had no eye for Agnes. As you may know, Harry, my dear wife passed away nine years ago, and since then I’ve been alone with my politics, my law practice — but without the comfort and care and love of a woman. I’ve also been alone with too much drink. But that’s changed. Since meeting Agnes, except for a tiddly moment of falling off the postillion tonight in the presence of my dear colleagues and a noble host, except for that, I have been the model of behaviour.”
“Indeed,” Galt agreed. “Your performance as a chairman of this London Conference …”
“You highly intelligent, perceptive colonials appointed me chairman unanimously!” Macdonald snorted.
“Yes, well, mark that down as an error. Anyway, your performance has been devoid of any blemish of drink — and the results have been spectacular. You’ve handled the sessions and all the sensitive personalities around the table with remarkable patience and leadership.”
“Alex, leave off all this bullshit!” George shouted. “I want to hear more about Agnes. John, you’d probably like to bed her, but what are the chances that an out-of-practice fifty-two-year-old like you could do such a thing in this highly moral, painfully Puritan age without marrying her?”
“And that, my dear George, is exactly my intent, to marry her if she will have me. That’s the rub. What if she refuses me? I’ve been with her three times since we met on Bond Street, always at dinner and always with her mother or brother or both in attendance. They watched me as if I were an ancient hawk circling to steal their most precious chick.”
“Who can blame them?” Galt roared, again slapping his knee with delight.
“Who can indeed?” John A. could only agree. “Well, chaps, I shall soon put the question. Thursday, to be exact. Agnes is dining with me. Not her brother, not her mother. Just Agnes alone. I’ll do it then. I’ll work up my courage and propose!”
The fatherly Cartier cautioned, “Just don’t work up your courage with drink, John.”
Macdonald allowed, “That would be the quickest way to lose my wonderful Agnes. I have enough handicaps as it is, God knows.”
“And George and I are two of them.” Galt laughed as he stood up saying to Carnarvon, “Well, sir, it’s been a long day.”
“But a productive one,” Lord Carnarvon told him, “and there are still more matters we haven’t covered this evening.”
Macdonald struggled to his feet. “Perhaps we can address them in the morning after breakfast?”
“Yes, of course. I’m anxious to talk with you in your capacity as Canada’s Minister of Militia Affairs about that military threat from the United States in general and the Fenians in particular.”
John A. straightened his long frame. “I bid you goodnight, Harry, and thank you for your gracious hospitality.” He held back a belch. “I shall be happy to give you an appraisal of the American threat, which continues unabated, and of those Irish madmen.”
4
December 12, 1866
London
Ever the consummate host, the Earl of Carnarvon had insisted on driving with his honoured colonial guests to the sparkling new railway station at Newbury. It would have been impossible for Henry Herbert to simply see his guests off from the front entrance of Highclere Castle.
So it was that on the morning of December 12 he escorted his three visitors to board the waiting train amid the whistling vapour clouds and pulsing puffing noises of the powerful steam engine as it vibrated with energy waiting to be unleashed like a racehorse to get on to the next stop.
Carnarvon had said farewell to Galt and Cartier, adding that he would see them in London on the weekend or by Monday at the latest, and admonishing the two ministers to ensure that the work of the confederation conference went smoothly.
Then