remember what you told me at that lunch,” Willison says. “You leaned over and whispered, ‘Damn him! Why didn’t he say that last night?’”
Wilfrid sits back with a grin of satisfaction. “How things have changed. Now Sir Oliver Mowat is quite happy to join my cabinet.”
Zoë admits the porter with their luggage. The men sip ice water and discuss the civil service, and she hangs up suits and dresses in the big oak wardrobe, listening closely. Willison expects Wilfrid to do a thorough housecleaning to rid Ottawa of Tories, from deputy ministers on down. The Undersecretary of State, Joseph Pope, was once Sir John A. Macdonald’s personal secretary, for heaven’s sake: it won’t do. Wilfrid must be ruthless, must show people who think he’s too much of a gentleman to be Prime Minister how mistaken they are.
Wilfrid isn’t persuaded. Certain individuals may have to go, he concedes, but retirements should be on the basis of old age, and firings on the basis of incompetence, not politics. It’s only natural, after eighteen years of Conservative rule, that senior officials are tinged with Toryism. But those not irredeemably disloyal to the new government deserve a chance.
“Men change, particularly when it’s in their interests. We’ll see how they adapt. In the British tradition, civil servants serve the government of the day impartially. I believe in British traditions. The good ones, anyway.”
Willison is skeptical. “The civil servants may not be expecting your government to last. They’ll bide their time before reverting to their old ways.”
“Then we’ll tell them we intend to remain in power a very long time.”
They move on to the composition of the cabinet. It will contain no fewer than three provincial premiers: W.S. Fielding of Nova Scotia and A.G. Blair of New Brunswick, in addition to Mowat.
“You’ve done a masterful job of cabinet making,” Willison says. “It’s a college of experts, Wilfrid, a cabinet of all the talents.”
“A cabinet of all the talents. May I use that?”
They’re discussing the necessity of inserting Manitoba’s Clifford Sifton into cabinet as soon as possible, speculating on how his astringent personality will clash with the astringent Tarte, when there’s a sharp knock at the door. Zoë answers to a slim officer with a military moustache: Captain Sinclair, Lord Aberdeen’s aide-de-camp. Wilfrid knows him well from private audiences with the Aberdeens, in which Sinclair was a discreet and invariable presence. He bows and announces he’s come from His Excellency with a message for Mr. Laurier.
Willison excuses himself, and Captain Sinclair relaxes a little, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. “His Excellency told me I had better come in person, sir. We sent this morning’s message by telegram, because you and Madame Laurier were still in transit. But as His Excellency says, there is no substitute for the Queen’s messenger. He would like to see you at Rideau Hall at eleven in the morning.”
Wilfrid smiles gravely and inclines his head.
When Captain Sinclair leaves, Zoë is alone with her husband for the first time since early morning. Immediately he excuses himself to sit at his desk and sort his correspondence—in case any of the letters is urgent, he explains. Realizing he’s left her standing there, he turns back and asks if she’s seen the cartoon in The Globe.
She has. He asks if she’s read the caption. She hasn’t. He hands her the newspaper from the top of the pile.
Zoë sits on the bed and adjusts her bifocal pince-nez. Even with their help, she has to hold the paper close to the bedside lamp to make out the caption. It quotes The Times of London: “Mr. Laurier counts warm friends on both sides in politics. Many Conservatives will be found to echo the remark, once made with regard to him by Sir John Macdonald: ‘I can trust Laurier without the slightest fear. He is incapable of breaking his word even if he wished to.’”
“Do you think it’s true?” she asks.
“About my keeping my word?”
“Of course not. About the Conservatives feeling friendly toward you.”
“They may allow me a brief honeymoon, but it won’t last. Old Tupper is furious I blocked him from filling the Senate with cronies before he left office.”
“You can always blame Lord Aberdeen.”
“Not really. I expressly asked him to refuse assent to Tupper’s nominations.”
“I don’t like them comparing you to Macdonald.”
“But why? It’s a great compliment.”
“Look what being Prime Minister did to him.”
“What?”
“It killed him!”
Wilfrid laughs lightly. “My dear, Macdonald was twenty years older than I! And I haven’t been in better health in years.”
It’s true, considering he’s just been through a punishing election campaign: Wilfrid’s resilience is increasing with age. For the moment his bronchitis is in abeyance, although it always returns in winter.
“I already miss the children.” She’s referring to their dogs and cats in Arthabaska.
Wilfrid comes to sit beside her on the bed. He takes her hand in his and kisses it. “I know you do. But as soon as we can, we’ll find a house here—well, you’ll find us one—and we can bring all the children to come and live with us. A house with a pretty garden where they can be happy. Especially Mademoiselle Topsy.”
“It will be expensive.”
“Remember Mulock’s letter: there will be a trust fund. The party will look after everything. I know Silent Smith is too mixed up in it, but we’ll never need to worry about the bills again.”
“That was always the worst thing for you.” It pains her to recall the times Wilfrid tried to resign as leader: his desperate letters to the party president explaining the precariousness of their finances, how he no longer had time to practise law, how he lacked the private wealth to underwrite obligations on the party’s behalf. Even worse, he pleaded his personal inadequacy for the job: he actually felt unfit, a French Canadian in over his head in an English world. What if one of those resignation letters had succeeded? They wouldn’t be here now, they’d be back home where they belong. But would it be enough for him? Enough to stay home in Arthabaska with the old practice, the old friends, the old marriage?
Of course not. Anyone can see he’s infinitely happier now. Finally he feels the reins of power slipping into his hands. He vastly prefers power to being in opposition. When he lost the previous election to Macdonald five years ago, he erupted in expletives she’s never heard him use before or since.
“Besides,” he continues, “the Lavergnes will be moving their household here soon. You and Émilie will be able to reinvent a little of Arthabaska in Ottawa.”
Zoë feels her entire body tense, even as her mind fights to stay clear. “The Lavergnes? Both of them?”
“Of course. Now that Joseph is an MP—”
“Joseph has been an MP for years.”
“Yes,
