I'll wait in the office.'
'Will do.'
'And Milly.'
'Yes.'
'How would it be if I dropped around this evening? Say sevenish?'
There was a silence. Then Milly said doubtfully, 'I don't know.'
'What don't you know?' Richardson's voice held a matter-of-factness; the tone of one not intending to be put off. 'Had you planned anything?'
'No,' Milly said, 'but...' She hesitated. 'Isn't it a tradition to spend Christmas Eve at home?'
Richardson laughed, though the laugh had a hollowness. 'H that's all that worries you - forget it. I can assure you Eloise has made her own arrangements for Christmas Eve and they don't include me. In fact she'd be grateful to you for making sure I can't intrude.'
Still Milly hesitated, remembering her own decision. But now ... she wavered; it might be a long while ... Stalling for rime she said, 'Is all this wise? Switchboards have ears.'
'Then let's not give 'em too much to flap about,' Richardson said crisply. 'Seven o'clock?'
Half-unwillingly, 'All right,' Milly said, and hung up. Out of habit, after phoning, she replaced her earrings.
For a moment or two she remained by the desk, one hand touching the telephone as if a thread of contact still remained. Then, her expression pensive, she moved over to the high arched window overlooking the front courtyard of the Parliament Buildings.
Since she had come in earlier, the sky had darkened and it had begun to snow. Now, in thick white flakes, the snow was blanketing the nation's capital. From the window she could see the heart of it: the Peace Tower, sheer and lean against the leaden sky, gauntly surmounting the House of Commons and Senate; the square gothic towers of the West Block and, behind, the Confederation Building, hunched hugely like some sombre fortress; the colonnaded Rideau Club nudging the white sandstone US Embassy; and Wellington Street in front, its traffic - as of habit - snarled. At times, it could be a stern, grey scene - symbolic, Milly sometimes thought, of the Canadian climate and character. Now, in the clothing of winter, its hardness and angularity were already blurring into softness. The forecasters had been right, she thought. Ottawa was in for a white Christmas.
Her earrings still hurt. For the second time she took them off.
Chapter 2
Serious-faced, James Howden entered the high-ceilinged, beige-carpeted Privy Council chamber. The others - Cawston, Lexington, Nesbitson, Perrault, and Martening - were already seated near the head of the big oval table with its twenty-four carved-oak and red-leather chairs, scene of most decisions affecting Canadian history since Confederation. Off to one side, at a smaller table, a shorthand writer had appeared - a small, self-effacing man with pince-nez, an open notebook, and a row of sharpened pencils.
At the approach of the Prime Minister the five already in the room made to rise, but Howden waved them down, moving to the tall-backed, thronelike chair at the table's head. 'Smoke if you wish,' he said. Then pushing back the chair, he remained standing, and for a moment silent. When he began, his tone was businesslike.
'I ordered our meeting to be held in this chamber, gentlemen, for one purpose: as a reminder of the oaths of secrecy which all of you took on becoming Privy Councillors. What is to be said here is of utmost secrecy, and must remain so until the proper moment, even among our closest colleagues.' James Howden paused, glancing at the official reporter. 'I believe it might be best if we dispensed with a stenographic record.'
'Excuse me. Prime Minister.' It was Douglas Martening, his intellectual's face owlish behind big horn-rimmed spectacles. As always the Clerk of the Privy Council was respectful but definite: 'I think it might be better if we had recorded minutes. It avoids any disagreement subsequently about who said exactly what.'
Faces at the centre table turned towards the shorthand writer, who was carefully recording the discussion concerning his own
'Will do.'
'And Milly.'
'Yes.'
'How would it be if I dropped around this evening? Say sevenish?'
There was a silence. Then Milly said doubtfully, 'I don't know.'
'What don't you know?' Richardson's voice held a matter-of-factness; the tone of one not intending to be put off. 'Had you planned anything?'
'No,' Milly said, 'but...' She hesitated. 'Isn't it a tradition to spend Christmas Eve at home?'
Richardson laughed, though the laugh had a hollowness. 'H that's all that worries you - forget it. I can assure you Eloise has made her own arrangements for Christmas Eve and they don't include me. In fact she'd be grateful to you for making sure I can't intrude.'
Still Milly hesitated, remembering her own decision. But now ... she wavered; it might be a long while ... Stalling for rime she said, 'Is all this wise? Switchboards have ears.'
'Then let's not give 'em too much to flap about,' Richardson said crisply. 'Seven o'clock?'
Half-unwillingly, 'All right,' Milly said, and hung up. Out of habit, after phoning, she replaced her earrings.
For a moment or two she remained by the desk, one hand touching the telephone as if a thread of contact still remained. Then, her expression pensive, she moved over to the high arched window overlooking the front courtyard of the Parliament Buildings.
Since she had come in earlier, the sky had darkened and it had begun to snow. Now, in thick white flakes, the snow was blanketing the nation's capital. From the window she could see the heart of it: the Peace Tower, sheer and lean against the leaden sky, gauntly surmounting the House of Commons and Senate; the square gothic towers of the West Block and, behind, the Confederation Building, hunched hugely like some sombre fortress; the colonnaded Rideau Club nudging the white sandstone US Embassy; and Wellington Street in front, its traffic - as of habit - snarled. At times, it could be a stern, grey scene - symbolic, Milly sometimes thought, of the Canadian climate and character. Now, in the clothing of winter, its hardness and angularity were already blurring into softness. The forecasters had been right, she thought. Ottawa was in for a white Christmas.
Her earrings still hurt. For the second time she took them off.
Chapter 2
Serious-faced, James Howden entered the high-ceilinged, beige-carpeted Privy Council chamber. The others - Cawston, Lexington, Nesbitson, Perrault, and Martening - were already seated near the head of the big oval table with its twenty-four carved-oak and red-leather chairs, scene of most decisions affecting Canadian history since Confederation. Off to one side, at a smaller table, a shorthand writer had appeared - a small, self-effacing man with pince-nez, an open notebook, and a row of sharpened pencils.
At the approach of the Prime Minister the five already in the room made to rise, but Howden waved them down, moving to the tall-backed, thronelike chair at the table's head. 'Smoke if you wish,' he said. Then pushing back the chair, he remained standing, and for a moment silent. When he began, his tone was businesslike.
'I ordered our meeting to be held in this chamber, gentlemen, for one purpose: as a reminder of the oaths of secrecy which all of you took on becoming Privy Councillors. What is to be said here is of utmost secrecy, and must remain so until the proper moment, even among our closest colleagues.' James Howden paused, glancing at the official reporter. 'I believe it might be best if we dispensed with a stenographic record.'
'Excuse me. Prime Minister.' It was Douglas Martening, his intellectual's face owlish behind big horn-rimmed spectacles. As always the Clerk of the Privy Council was respectful but definite: 'I think it might be better if we had recorded minutes. It avoids any disagreement subsequently about who said exactly what.'
Faces at the centre table turned towards the shorthand writer, who was carefully recording the discussion concerning his own
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