Thank you to searchingforperfection and catbrown for their hard work in editing and all of their suggestions. I appreciate all votes and comments, and I do read all the comments.
This story is a sequel to The Doctor's Daughter. Both are set during the War of 1812. Since the death of Major General Brock in the fall of 1812, neither side has scored a decisive victory. There have been minor accomplishments for both the Americans and the British, but the War Hawks in Washington are eager for more promising actions that will validate Jefferson's boasts that the conquest of Canada is "a mere matter of marching". In the spring of 1813 Major General Henry Dearborn is ordered to lead his forces in an attack on Kingston, Ontario. He considers those orders and then attacks the town of York (later known as Toronto), instead.
58
Abigail reached out, grabbed her husband's hand and squeezed. Lawrence gave her an encouraging smile in return, as they listened to a tiresome couple exhort the barbarity of the Yankees. He had been to many similar functions in his life, but this was the first time his wife had been at a social event with such prestigious people. He knew when to simply smile pleasantly and await the end of a vapid conservation and Abigail wisely followed his lead.
At last the couple dominating the small group were distracted by someone's arrival and the Orrs slipped away unnoticed.
"You've endured this before?" asked Abigail, with a tiresome look on her face.
"Many times," he replied. "The trick is to find a group with similar interests to your own, if you can be so lucky, and keep up with the topics." He gently led her in the direction of the ballroom, from which they could hear some pleasant melodies emanating.
"Who's that with the Reverend?" asked Abigail, nodding to her left.
Lawrence turned and saw Strachan leading a well-dressed, middle-aged woman towards them. "I don't know, but he is trying to meet up with us. Shall we make an escape?"
"I think not, husband. After that last conversation a little depth would be welcome."
"Ah, Major Orr!" called out the minister. The couple waited and watched as Strachan and the woman skilfully weaved their way past the mingling people. "Ah, Major and Mrs. Orr. I am so very glad you came to the Powell house tonight. May I introduce your hostess, Mrs. Powell?"
They exchanged greetings politely. The older woman's eyes seemed to appraise Abigail and her smile indicated her approval.
"Thank you for your generous invitation to this fine affair, Mrs. Powell." Abigail squeezed her husband's hand tightly. "I am a little curious as to why we were invited, though."
Mrs. Powell turned to the Reverend. "You did not tell them why they were here, John?"
He shrugged in response and Mrs. Powell raised a disapproving eyebrow. She turned back to Abigail.
"Well, my dear. Why do you think you have been invited?"
All three turned attentively to Abigail to listen to her answer. She glanced at Lawrence and saw him nod ever so slightly. "Well, Mrs. Powell. I hope you will forgive my forthrightness, but I believe the good minister here has some plan to elevate my husband's standing in York. Perhaps he intended Lawrence to meet the 'right people' or perhaps he has everything arranged for someone of note to offer my husband some specific position."
"Very astute. And what of your husband?" The older woman gave Lawrence a casual glance. "Do you think he is up to whatever John has in mind for him?"
Abigail did not hesitate. "Most certainly."
Mrs. Powell smiled and put her arm out to Abigail. "You gentlemen may go on to whatever business you have with my husband, now."
Lawrence and the minister exchanged looks without speaking.
As their hostess led Abigail away, Lawrence heard her say, "Mrs. Orr, please call me Veronique. Let me introduce you to some ladies..."
"Why do I feel like a mouse in a den of cats, Reverend?" asked Lawrence.
The only reply was a wry smirk and the comment, "That's half my work done right there. Your wife has impressed a woman who is very hard to impress. Come with me, Major."
The minister led him briskly through the crowd. A few people tried to engage them in conversation, but Strachan bulled his way through. At last they reached a closed door. The Reverend knocked twice and then entered, ushering Lawrence in. He closed the door behind them.
It was a den, but a den that strongly suggested education, nobility and power. There was a large and ornate wooden desk in the centre of the room, and intriguing maps and beautiful paintings upon the walls. The room reminded Lawrence of his father's office. There were seven, well-dressed men in the room, of varying ages. Each looked confident and thoughtful, and intelligent. Everyone seemed to be waiting for Strachan and Lawrence. Chief Justice Powell sat behind the desk, looking almost kingly.
"Reverend, you may go," Mr. Powell said quietly.
Strachan's face fell, but he left without a word. Lawrence took a deep breath.
"Have a seat, Major Orr." The Chief Justice pointed to a comfortable chair beside the corner of the desk. Lawrence obediently sat.
A young man approached with a glass and decanter. "Would you like a drink to calm your nerves, sir?"
"No, thank you."
Powell laughed gruffly. "Someone who faces cannon and musket balls for a living doesn't require a drink to calm his nerves during an interview. He'll need the drink when we finish this meeting, though. Pour it for him, if you please Stephen, and leave it near him on my desk."
"If I may be so bold, your honour, why am I here?" asked Lawrence. The atmosphere seemed restrained, but cordial.
"You are here, sir, because we sit on the edge of a sword. On one hand are law and order and the stability of the British Empire. On the other hand we have chaos and anarchy as demonstrated by our American neighbours. The people of Upper Canada may not know which is the correct choice, and leaders must be chosen to help the people make the correct choice."
Lawrence relaxed in the chair. "I recognize some of the faces in this room, even if I have not been formally introduced to the gentlemen. They are the leaders of York and Upper Canada. What can the likes of you want from a simple, retired Major?"
"Simply put, sir, we need you." Powell took a drink from his glass. "Isaac Brock was painted as something of a hero, even before his death, and I do not mean to belittle what deeds he did, sir." Lawrence settled back into the chair. "I think it is now clear to everyone that with his leadership the war would have been over this year. As it stands now, the war hawks in the American government are slavering over the conquest of our colonies, thinking it is just a matter of time before they gain full victory. Britain keeps its attention upon the tyrant in Europe, and rightly so. We, along with the eager aid of the good Reverend John Strachan, will do our best to ensure that the civilians in Upper Canada help in holding back the Americans." He paused and stared at Lawrence.
