“You’re at it again,” Gilbert said. “Do you just say whatever comes into your head now?”
“I recommend it.”
“We can’t all be so careless, you know. Some of us have responsibilities.”
“By which you mean a title and an estate to inherit,” Edwin said. “What a terrible fate. I’ll weep for you later. Will I receive the same remittance as Niall?”
“A little more. Niall’s is just meant to support him. Yours comes with conditions.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re not to come back to England for a while,” Gilbert said.
“Exile,” Edwin said.
“Oh, don’t be melodramatic. You were always going to go off to Canada, as you said.”
“But how long’s a while?” Edwin turned away from the window to stare at his brother. “I’d thought I could go to Canada for a time, establish myself somehow, and then come home at regular intervals for visits. What did Father say, exactly?”
“I’m afraid the phrase that sticks in memory is ‘tell him he’s to stay the hell out of England.’？”
“Well, that’s rather…unambiguous.”
“You know how Father is. And of course Mother is going along with it.” Gilbert stood, and paused for a moment by the door. “Just give them time, Eddie. I’d be astonished if your exile were permanent. I’ll work on them.”
5
The trouble with Victoria, in Edwin’s eyes, is that it’s too much like England without actually being England. It’s a far-distant simulation of England, a watercolor superimposed unconvincingly on the landscape. On Edwin’s second night in the city, Thomas takes him to the Union Club. It’s enjoyable at first, a shot of home, pleasant hours slipping past in the company of a few other old boys from the homeland and some truly exceptional single-malt scotch. Some of the older men have been in Victoria for decades, and Thomas seeks out their company. He stays close, asks their opinions, listens seriously to them, flatters them. It’s embarrassing to watch. Thomas is clearly hoping to establish himself as a steady kind of man with whom one might wish to go into business, but it’s obvious to Edwin that the older men are only being polite. They’re not interested in outsiders, even outsiders from the correct country, with the correct ancestors and the correct accent, who’ve gone to the correct school. It’s a closed society that admits Thomas only on the periphery. How long will Thomas have to stay here, circling around inside this clubhouse, before they’ll accept him? Five years? Ten? A millennium?
Edwin turns his back on Thomas and goes to the window. They’re on the third floor, with a view of the harbor, and the last light is fading from the sky. He feels restless and ill at ease. Behind him, men are relating tales of sporting triumphs and uneventful voyages by steamship to Quebec City, Halifax, and New York. “Would you believe,” an arrival at the latter port is saying, somewhere behind him, “my poor mother was under the impression that New York was still part of the Commonwealth?”
Time passes; night falls over the harbor; Edwin rejoins the other men.
“But the unfortunate truth of the matter,” one says, in the depths of a conversation about the importance of being an adventuring sort, “is we’ve no real future back in England, have we?”
A pensive silence falls over the group. These men are second sons, one and all. They are ill-prepared for a working life and will inherit nothing. To his own great surprise, Edwin raises a glass.
“To exile,” he says, and drinks. There are disapproving murmurs: “I would hardly call this exile,” someone says.
“To building a new future, gentlemen, in a new and far-distant land,” says Thomas, ever the diplomat.
* * *
—
Later, Thomas finds him standing by the window.
“You know,” he says, “I may have heard something or other in passing about a dinner party, but I’m not sure I quite believed it till now.”
“I’m afraid the Barretts are incorrigible gossips.”
“I think I’ve had about enough of this place,” Thomas says. “I thought I could make a go of it here, but if you’re going to leave England, surely there’s something to be said for actually leaving England.” He turns to face Edwin. “I’ve been thinking about going north.”
“How far north?” Edwin is beset by a worrisome vision of igloos on the frozen tundra.
“Not very far. Just up Vancouver Island a little.”