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.
"You have said nothing that I disagree with, except that our American neighbours demonstrate chaos and anarchy." Lawrence looked about the room, wondering how many of these men were actually well-disposed to him. "I have found the Americans disorganized, while at other times they show fortitude, bravery and ingenuity. Like most aggressors, they bicker and argue over the best course of action while the defenders unify out of desperation."
Powell nodded. "We lack someone with a military mind. We have solicitors, members of the legislature, officers of the militia and a clergyman, but there is no trained army man among us. We need you."
"This talk concerns me, sir." Lawrence sat up straight, wondering if he had stumbled into a nest of traitors to the crown: men who would seek to usurp the King's representative once the Americans were beaten back. His eyes darted about the room.
Powell pointed a finger at him. "This is exactly what I'm talking about! Stephen! Philip! John! Did you see that? None of us took that meaning, but this Major assumed we might be a threat to the King and looked about to mark our faces."
One of the younger men stepped forward, opened his hands before him and spoke, "Major Orr, we are loyal to the King and his servants. We merely seek to protect our lands from American influence, whether it be through military or more subtle means." Lawrence examined his face and took him to be in earnest.
"You were there when Brock died," began Powell, ticking off points on his fingers. "You were sent to warn the militia that the magazine in the fort was to be blown."
"And failed," pointed out Lawrence.
"You did your best, which was better than most would have done. You were captured by the enemy. You managed to escape when the magazine exploded. You pitied one of the enemy, who was about to drown in a river, and rescued him. You befriended York militiamen and offered them the safety of your home. You killed a traitor and felt guilt over the act. Yet, you challenged a cad to a duel and, I think, you felt no guilt over that man's potential death."
Lawrence's jaw muscles clenched. "I do not like it that my actions have become the subject of gossip, sir."
"Even when it works to your benefit?" Powell scratched his whiskered chin. "You have the ability to kill a man when the need arises, yet mercy is present in your heart. You are born from nobility, yet you treat the common man with respect. You and your wife took in that girl...what was her name?" he asked the others.
"Millicent Grey," offered a voice.
"Yes. Major Orr, you are liked and respected by the people of York. The military has retired you and yet I think you are held in respect there, too. So, we have an offer to make you." Powell steepled his fingers. "Let me tell you exactly what we have in mind, sir."
59
Millie rubbed the bridge of her nose. She had never thought that reading could be painful, yet so enticing. The more she read, the more she learned. The more she learned, the more she wanted to read. She closed the book and sat back in the chair. The candles had burned down quite a bit, indicating at least three or four hours had gone by.
She placed the book back on the shelf and examined the spines of some of her employer's books. Mrs. Orr had described some of them and Millie was impatient for permission to look into several. The maid had little interest in Mrs. Orr's astronomy book, but the book on anatomy held a forbidden appeal with its images of the human body and the organs within. Mr. Orr's books on military tactics held absolutely no interest for her.
Millie reached out her hand and placed her finger on the Bible. That was one book that she was eager to read and the books of fiction had her very curious. She sighed, realizing the time would eventually come when the Orrs would allow her the freedom to look at any book she wished. All she had to do was be patient.
A sudden noise outside caught her attention. It was a scratching or snuffling sound, near the window by which she stood. Millie dashed to the window and stared out into blackness. There was a clatter near the rear of the house as some animal knocked over the gardening implements that she had left leaning against the wall.
Shaking her head, the maid made her way through the darkened house to the kitchen. She grabbed the broom from its familiar corner and then went to the front door. She had chased pests such as rabbits, skunks and raccoons out of the garden on previous evenings and knew that often all that was required was a show of force and a clear route of escape for the beast.
