of love had dimmed, choked off by that powerful, depressing force that enveloped them both — boredom with each other’s minds and bodies. While she silently blamed his advance into old age, de Stoeckl told himself that she had chosen frigid abstinence, probably out of fear of another, and at this late time, a much-unwanted pregnancy.
As his thoughts of Martha coursed through his mind — but only briefly — Edouard de Stoeckl’s shoulders moved in an involuntary shrug under the smooth dark sable. That rich fur was a mark of his senior rank in the hierarchy of power that flowed across the Motherland as an emanation of the man upon whom he had been summoned to attend, Alexander, the Tsar of all the Russias.
The shrug was the response to the point at which his rueful thoughts about his unresponsive mate intersected with the image of another woman, a raven-haired beauty whose face forced itself into his mind, causing the features of his wife to disappear the way a magician disposes of the presence of a person behind a puff of stage smoke.
There in his mind’s eye lay Anna, her willowy pink-white body silhouetted against the silk sheets, her full lips opened with invitation as her arms reached out for him. What an unbelievable night of lovemaking — beyond any experience de Stoeckl had ever had or believed could be had. He shook his head ever so slightly as his mind reeled with the incredulity of the passion so fresh in his memory. He had torn himself from Anna’s amorous embrace in order to bathe, trim his beard and mustache, dress, and be out of the Grand Hotel and into the waiting sleigh to be carried to the Foreign Ministry.
Would Gorchakov notice how haggard he looked? Would the Prince speak to him about his apparent lack of sleep? Behind the sable collar his lips parted in a smile as he decided that his response, if queried, would be that he had spent a fitful night worrying about the issues of the Russian America decision and about his ability to comprehend and adequately respond to the questions that might be put to him by His Imperial Majesty or His Royal Highness. It would be highly inappropriate for him to announce that his condition was the result of a night of frantic love-making. On the other hand, if de Stoeckl were to make such an admission, Gorchakov might look at him with reproof but would undoubtedly conceal a surge of jealousy behind his mask of shock.
De Stoeckl was rudely jolted from his thoughts by a sharp, pungent, heavy smell that blasted, undiluted, full into his fur-covered face, penetrating the sable with the ease of a sharp sword cutting soft lard. The horse on the left had noisily passed a packet of stench that would either sober or strangle any normal mortal. For his sins, de Stoeckl prayed that the animals felt healthily relieved.
3
December 11, 1866
Newbury, England
“I’m concerned about what those bloody Americans are up to, I must say. That wretched fellow Seward and his Manifest Destiny thing.” Lord Carnarvon took a long pull on his after-dinner cigar. Through the cloud of pungent smoke, he politely asked his Canadian guests, “More port, gentlemen? Monsieur Cartier? No. Mr Galt, a soupcon? Yes. And of course, Mr. Macdonald. Your glass is empty.”
“The port is exquisite, Your Lordship.” John A. Macdonald smiled as he held out the silver goblet to be refilled by their host, thirty-five-year-old Henry Howard Molyneux Herbert, fourth earl of Carnarvon and the Colonial Secretary in the unstable government of the day.
The Colonial Secretary, recently in office in succession to Edward Cardwell, was most anxious to grasp what was going on with the Canadians and the Maritimers at their private proceedings in the Westminster Palace Hotel. It was inappropriate for Carnarvon to intrude directly on the meetings. He was already dedicated to the proposition of Confederation of the British colonies in North America. That past summer, during the transitional period of assuming the Colonial Secretary’s post, the young earl had concluded that his most important objective would be to strengthen, as far as practicable, the central government of British America against the excessive power or the encroachment of the local administrations.
What better way to have news of the proceedings than to invite the three Canadian leaders — all of whom he now knew through meetings and correspondences — to travel down to Newbury by mid-afternoon train and have dinner and spend the night at his family’s hereditary estate, Highclere Castle?
This magnificent stone edifice stood majestically encircled by gently rolling parkland broken by stands and copses of trees. The first viewing of the castle had made a deep impression on the awestruck colonial trio as their two-horsed coach approached Highclere through massive iron gates and proceeded down a red cobblestone lane lined with towering oaks. Their awe had continued even after the warm greeting by the youthful minister and his lovely and even much younger chatelaine. After being shown by servants to their respective rooms, the Canadians had been taken by their host on a tour of the vast mansion with its many wood-panelled rooms, most of them enriched with splendid paintings of Carnarvon’s numerous ancestors as well as past and present members of the Royal Family.
“Dinner is at seven for eight,” Carnarvon had advised his guests as he guided them at long last back to their bedrooms. Knowing that formal dress was required, the colonials had come prepared.
“About this ‘Your Lordship’ business,” Carnarvon said as he put the port flask on the spindly, lacquered table that stood between the deep, soft, dark-leather chairs clustered around the roaring fire in the library. “I think it would not be untoward, gentlemen, if in private circumstances such as these you might be good enough to call me Harry. After all, we’ll see a great deal of one another in the next weeks as we work toward the legislation you need for the creation of a unified British North America. So I would be obliged if, in view of my comparative youth and” — he grinned — “inexperience, you called me by that name.”
Macdonald, Cartier, and Galt, each looking nearly old enough to be Carnarvon’s father, shifted uncomfortably in their chairs as they considered how to respond to this gracious, totally unexpected request. It would be up to John A., the chairman and leader of their London Conference, to respond.
As he listened to Carnarvon, Macdonald sipped his heavy, sweet port. He was already relaxed after several before-dinner scotch whiskeys and the superb Loire Valley white wine served flowingly with the pheasant. The lanky minister had his response at the tip of his eloquent Scottish Canadian tongue. He looked at his host, a man of fine-cut English aristocratic features, his wavy brown hair and full black Victorian beard carefully groomed, his dark brown eyes soft and sincere, his frame slight in build and much shorter than his tall, gangly self.
“That is a most gracious offer to us unworthy colonials, sir.” Macdonald’s Scottish brogue was soft. “On behalf of my respectful colleagues and myself, even though we are not necessarily in comfort about the matter, we accept, Harry. But only on the condition that you call us George, Alex, and John A.”
“Agreed!” Carnarvon laughed. “Now tell me, how is your conference going?”
The pugnacious, square-jawed Alexander Galt, his large nose and high forehead flushed pink from the food, wine and fire, said, “If it please Your Lordship —”
“Harry.”
“Harry … before we discuss how the conference is going, what’s all this about what the bloody Americans are up to?”
“Well, we are all much aware that their anti-British animosity cup is running over.”
“That’s a mild way of putting it, considering that the bloody Irish American Fenians want to kill us all,” Macdonald muttered as Cartier nodded his head in agreement.
Carnarvon pulled a handkerchief out of his left sleeve, staunched
