hivernant . He says you’re a graduate of the College de Montreal, so I’m sure you read and write and figure well.”
“Yes, sir. I signed on as a voyageur with Mr. Bleddyn, and I want further employment. I am determined not to go back with the mangeurs de lard .”
Stewart swiveled the seat of his chair halfway from Dylan, smiled thinly—a skull’s smile—and stared at a far wall. Odd to think of this sepulchral figure as a Campbell clansman. Not that his father’s side mattered anyway. “Are you? I wonder. I wonder what it is you want in the pays sauvage .”
Dylan had no idea how to answer him.
Duncan Campbell Stewart felt curious about this young man. They had no idea, none of the young ones did. “Tell me about yourself.”
“My father is a… merchant, but peddling bores me.” Dylan stopped, and Stewart saw his embarrassment. Pedlar was the Hudson’s Bay Company insult for a Nor’Wester.
Stewart looked from underneath his brows at Davies. He knew his shadowed eyes made others uncomfortable. “Are you an idealist, then?”
Davies hesitated, then spoke. Stewart was a sophisticated man who would understand. “My first thought was for the priesthood, sir. In the last century the Jesuits were active among these Indians. I wanted… I wanted to get that program started again, to be a missionary to this country, to save the souls of these Indians.”
God help us, thought Stewart. He said only, “An idealist indeed.” He regarded Davies for a long moment. “Do you know what an idealist is, young Mr. Davies?”
“No, sir.” Stewart saw that like other youths, Davies hated to be played with this way.
“An architect who designs buildings without water closets. In other words, a man who sees with his dreams instead of his eyes. That can be dangerous in this country sauvage , Mr. Davies.”
Davies nodded. Polite, anyway, and Stewart meant to take advantage.
“I, too, came here an idealist.” He swiveled back toward Davies. “I am a graduate of the University of Edinburgh, Mr. Davies, and of All Souls College, Oxford.” Davies looked surprised. He must have thought Oxford was closed to Highlander barbarians.
“My great model was Adam Smith. Have you heard of the late Professor Smith, Mr. Davies?” Stewart raised the dark, craggy eyebrows.
Dylan told himself there was nothing to be intimidated about. “No.”
Stewart spoke deliberately. “He taught that trade is the great ameliorating influence of civilized man. Good not only for the economy of men, but for their souls.” Stewart gave a short, hacking, humorless laugh, like the grate of chisel on marble. “Naive, Mr. Davies. Naive.” Dylan pictured Stewart cutting that word into the marble of Professor Smith’s tombstone.
Stewart stared into space. Dylan wondered what scenes he was seeing, remembering, vast murals of dark, recollected pictures of life in the pays sauvage . Scenes that would account for his sepulchral manner. “Professor Smith saw with his dreams. But he was never here to see… actual Indians, was he?”
Dylan didn’t know what to say.
Stewart turned his head, and his darkened eyes to Dylan and spoke gently, in a tone that imitated kindness. “Mr. Davies, I find your company engaging. Will you come in to dinner with me?”
Dru had told him about the extravagant dinners at the Great Hall. Dylan could hardly refuse. Surely Dru and the family wouldn’t mind. “With pleasure, Mr. Stewart,” he lied.
It was an immense dining room, seating up to two hundred people formally, according to Stewart. He and Dylan were ushered to seats at a table running perpendicular to the head table. Only Montreal partners sat at the head table, said Stewart, “their innocence protected against intimacy with the likes of us wintering partners, who have rubbed shoulders too familiarly with savages.” The pecking order was something like Montreal partners, wintering partners, factors, clerks, and guides.
Dylan thought he would hardly
“Yes, sir. I signed on as a voyageur with Mr. Bleddyn, and I want further employment. I am determined not to go back with the mangeurs de lard .”
Stewart swiveled the seat of his chair halfway from Dylan, smiled thinly—a skull’s smile—and stared at a far wall. Odd to think of this sepulchral figure as a Campbell clansman. Not that his father’s side mattered anyway. “Are you? I wonder. I wonder what it is you want in the pays sauvage .”
Dylan had no idea how to answer him.
Duncan Campbell Stewart felt curious about this young man. They had no idea, none of the young ones did. “Tell me about yourself.”
“My father is a… merchant, but peddling bores me.” Dylan stopped, and Stewart saw his embarrassment. Pedlar was the Hudson’s Bay Company insult for a Nor’Wester.
Stewart looked from underneath his brows at Davies. He knew his shadowed eyes made others uncomfortable. “Are you an idealist, then?”
Davies hesitated, then spoke. Stewart was a sophisticated man who would understand. “My first thought was for the priesthood, sir. In the last century the Jesuits were active among these Indians. I wanted… I wanted to get that program started again, to be a missionary to this country, to save the souls of these Indians.”
God help us, thought Stewart. He said only, “An idealist indeed.” He regarded Davies for a long moment. “Do you know what an idealist is, young Mr. Davies?”
“No, sir.” Stewart saw that like other youths, Davies hated to be played with this way.
“An architect who designs buildings without water closets. In other words, a man who sees with his dreams instead of his eyes. That can be dangerous in this country sauvage , Mr. Davies.”
Davies nodded. Polite, anyway, and Stewart meant to take advantage.
“I, too, came here an idealist.” He swiveled back toward Davies. “I am a graduate of the University of Edinburgh, Mr. Davies, and of All Souls College, Oxford.” Davies looked surprised. He must have thought Oxford was closed to Highlander barbarians.
“My great model was Adam Smith. Have you heard of the late Professor Smith, Mr. Davies?” Stewart raised the dark, craggy eyebrows.
Dylan told himself there was nothing to be intimidated about. “No.”
Stewart spoke deliberately. “He taught that trade is the great ameliorating influence of civilized man. Good not only for the economy of men, but for their souls.” Stewart gave a short, hacking, humorless laugh, like the grate of chisel on marble. “Naive, Mr. Davies. Naive.” Dylan pictured Stewart cutting that word into the marble of Professor Smith’s tombstone.
Stewart stared into space. Dylan wondered what scenes he was seeing, remembering, vast murals of dark, recollected pictures of life in the pays sauvage . Scenes that would account for his sepulchral manner. “Professor Smith saw with his dreams. But he was never here to see… actual Indians, was he?”
Dylan didn’t know what to say.
Stewart turned his head, and his darkened eyes to Dylan and spoke gently, in a tone that imitated kindness. “Mr. Davies, I find your company engaging. Will you come in to dinner with me?”
Dru had told him about the extravagant dinners at the Great Hall. Dylan could hardly refuse. Surely Dru and the family wouldn’t mind. “With pleasure, Mr. Stewart,” he lied.
It was an immense dining room, seating up to two hundred people formally, according to Stewart. He and Dylan were ushered to seats at a table running perpendicular to the head table. Only Montreal partners sat at the head table, said Stewart, “their innocence protected against intimacy with the likes of us wintering partners, who have rubbed shoulders too familiarly with savages.” The pecking order was something like Montreal partners, wintering partners, factors, clerks, and guides.
Dylan thought he would hardly
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