Desperate Acts by Don Gutteridge

the air and
exercise the expensive horse provided him. On this occasion, the
Governor and his outriders swung north on Brock Street and followed
it up to the city boundary at Lot Street (soon to be renamed Queen
in honour of the young sovereign). Here it branched off in three
directions, offering the prospect of more than one pleasant ride
through parkland and forest. His Excellency opted for Spadina Road,
a winding north-westerly pathway that brought him eventually to the
gates of a splendid country residence. The Governor dismounted
before an excited groom could reach him and steady the horse’s
bridle. A tall and impeccably attired figure, accustomed to
deference but not disarmed by it, Poulett Thomson strode to the
front door just as it opened to reveal, not a fawning butler, but
the equally imposing figure of Dr. William Warren Baldwin.
    The Governor was whisked off to the library,
where half a dozen Durhamites eagerly awaited him. The grand
strategy to win over the Legislative Council and the Legislative
Assembly of Upper Canada to the cause of political union was about
to be set in motion.
    ***
    Diana Ramsay was given every Saturday afternoon off.
Since last May, almost every such afternoon had been spent in the
company of Brodie Langford. Today, as usual, they strolled down to
the bay and took in the fine view offered by the blue water and the
island-spit with the last of its foliage still aflame in these
waning weeks of autumn. After which they ambled up to the Market to
enjoy the hustle and bustle of its Saturday doings. Brodie was
proud of himself for carrying out their customary promenade without
once giving Diana the slightest hint of the anxiety he was feeling
over the blackmail note.
    But as they were leaving the Market, Diana
stopped, took his hand, stared into his eyes, and said, “You must
tell me what is bothering you, sweet. We agreed, did we not, to
share everything – our happiness and our sorrows?”
    He did not need to be reminded that she
herself had confided to him her own worst fears and the shame she
had recently endured. “Yes,” he said, “it’s only right that you
should know.”
    And so he told her about the anonymous note
slipped under his kitchen door, though he did not mention how
ominous the threat had been. He said that some crank had made a
pathetic effort to extort money by making some vague reference to
an indiscretion that Miss Ramsay was supposed to have committed. He
even tried a dismissive chuckle at the end of his account.
    “You think this ‘crank’ knows about my baby
girl?” Diana said calmly, but going straight to the point as she
habitually did.
    “Well, that thought did cross my mind, but
only briefly. No-one could possibly know about that.” Then, hating
himself, he added, “Could they?”
    “I can’t see how that’s possible. I’ve told
no-one in Toronto but you. And I received a letter from my brother
in Montreal just yesterday. Here, I’ve still got it on me – I was
going to show it to you later.” She pulled out an envelope, removed
a two-page letter, and gave it to Brodie.
    He read it right through while Diana waited
patiently beside him. Her brother, among other things, assured her
that Baby Sarah, now eighteen months old, was thriving, and that
the story of its being an adopted foundling had been accepted among
their friends and acquaintances. None of the servants – not even
their own son – knew the truth. Hence, she was not to worry about
the child’s health or her own reputation. She was to relax and try
to rebuild her life in Toronto as best she could.
    “So you see, sweet,” Diana said, taking him
by the arm, “there is no way this extortionist could know about the
baby. I want you to stop worrying.”
    Brodie smiled. “I’ve already torn the note
up.” He gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. He was in fact
both relieved and excited. The note was unquestionably the work of
an ignorant blackguard. Next Wednesday, after the