Bon Marche (18 page)

The Reverend Mr. Smith looked up at the small group of family friends who had been invited to the ceremony. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you Master Franklin Dewey.”

Later, in the drawing room, where Statler was serving his best wine in honor of the occasion, one of the women guests asked Charles, “Is Franklin a family name?”

“Oh, no, ma'am. He's named for Dr. Benjamin Franklin, for his vital life as an American, and for the role he's playing right now in the Federal Convention in Philadelphia.”

Funston, standing nearby, laughed. “It seems a shame to name a defenseless baby after a profligate old bastard like Franklin.”

Katherine tugged at his arm, trying to silence him. Shrugging her off roughly, he went to Charles. “Not being a native of this country,” Lee said sarcastically, “you may not be aware of Dr. Franklin's reputation as a roué.”

“I'm aware of that and much more,” Charles answered, trying to control his temper. “He's been a great man in this country for many years. And he's served his country abroad—”

“Dallying with the ladies of the English and French courts all the while.”

Dewey ignored the remark. “And now, in Philadelphia, he's a leader in the work to make this country even stronger—to preserve it for all time. I have no qualms about naming my son Franklin for him.”

Funston screwed up his face as if smelling something rancid. “Well, Dewey, to me Franklin has the mark of a traitor. Senile, perhaps, but a traitor, nevertheless. The reports coming out of Philadelphia are that Franklin is a leader of that band of radicals who want a so-called constitution. That's not why the delegates were sent there —they were to amend the Articles of Confederation and nothing more!”

“Perhaps these times call for a greater experiment.”

“Experiment!” Lee's voice rose, causing all heads to turn toward him. “Before those devils are through with that convention, we'll have more than an experiment, believe me. I hear there's even talk of freeing the slaves. Dangerous talk, Dewey, and dangerous men! And your precious
Doctor
Franklin is in the vanguard.”

“Virginians should have no reason for concern. We are well represented.”

“Well represented! Good God, man, Virginia is represented by republicans only. Our good governor, Edmund Randolph—a young radical! His past tells you that. And that Madison; he's nothing but a letter-writing politician. And George Mason…” Lee shook his head in disgust. “He's the owner of five thousand acres, yet he prattles about the rights of the common man. And Washington—he'd be king if we let him. And the others are just as bad.”

Charles laughed at him. “I'm glad to see that you're consistent. Everyone's out of step but you.”

“The greatest patriot in this state refused to attend that convention! Did you know that?”

“You mean Henry?”

“Patrick Henry! Right! He wouldn't go to Philadelphia because he smelled a rat.” Funston drew himself up proudly. “I side with Patrick Henry. The only trouble is—in Philadelphia today there's more than one rat!”

Dewey was tiring of the game. “Lee, I believe I understand you for the first time. You see madness in everyone because you're just a little mad yourself.”

“Be careful, sir—”

Marshall Statler came between them. “Gentlemen, this is hardly the occasion for such a heated political argument.” He looked around at the others, smiling. “I must confess that I envy them their youthful exuberance.”

Statler raised his glass high. “Come! A toast to my first grandson. To Franklin Dewey!”

“To Franklin Dewey!” the others echoed.

But not Funston Lee.

V

E
ACH
day, each week, each month saw the steady erosion of hope that the brothers-in-law could be reconciled. Charles didn't want reconciliation, and Funston wouldn't have it. All stratagems employed by Statler to bring them together failed. One ploy was left to him: the Wednesday night dinners at the Elkwood mansion, Statler insisting that the two families dine together once a week. But the Wednesday nights only created an illusion of unity; the dinners were either sullen affairs where no one spoke, or shouting matches over any subject imaginable.

Perhaps Statler tried too hard to make the obligatory Wednesdays work. Often, in trying, he provided the spark for yet another argument.

Late in June 1788, the master of Elkwood said with too much enthusiasm, “It would be grand to be in Richmond these days to hear the verbal fireworks over the ratification of the Constitution.” He laughed gaily. “The reports indicate that it's great entertainment.”

“Let's hope that the Henryites prevail,” Funston growled, “so that we can be done with this nonsense about consolidated centralized government and get the states back to the business of governing themselves.”

“And bring what?” Charles challenged. “Chaos and disunity and weakness, leaving ourselves open to every foreign adventurer who would see the states as a prize ripe for picking?”

“That kind of talk is idiocy!” Lee waved a copy of the
Virginia Gazette.
“Patrick Henry, would they only listen to him, sees the truth in all this.” He began to read a marked passage in the newspaper: “‘Whither is the spirit of America gone? Whither is the genius of America fled? We draw the spirit of liberty from our British ancestors. But now, Sir, the American spirit, assisted by the ropes and chains of consolidation, is about to convert this country into a powerful and mighty empire. There will be no checks, no real balances, in this government. What can avail your specious, imaginary balances, your rope-dancing, chain-rattling, ridiculous idea of checks and contrivances?'”

Funston slammed down the newspaper for emphasis.

Charles grinned wickedly. “I'll admit, Lee, that Henry is an orator of note. Why, it's said that he spoke for seven hours straight the other day. But to what avail? In his dotage he merely spouts words, Lee, thousands of empty words. But I must say that he's right about one thing: the Constitution will bring about a powerful and mighty empire. The great Patrick deplores that possibility, but it's exactly what we need!”

“If this constitution is so great, so necessary, why is it that only two of the eight Virginia delegates to the convention signed it?”

“Three,” Charles countered. “Mr. Washington also signed it.”

“Washington! Washington!” Funston spat the name. “I'm sick of hearing of him! This President the Constitution speaks of—would that be Washington?”

“One would hope so.”

“And we'd have another King George. God help us, an American King George!”

“Preferable to the return of a British king, or a French one, or even a Spanish one. Or perhaps you believe the American people would want that instead of Washington?”

Lee laughed sarcastically, picked up the newspaper again, and searched it for another paragraph. “The people, you say. Well, Mr. Henry had the answer to that: ‘Who authorizes gentlemen to speak the language of We, the people, instead of We, the states? The people gave them no power to use their name.'”

“It's refreshing to know that you can read, Lee.” Charles got to his feet. “Perhaps, when you learn to
think,
we can resume this discussion.” He stalked from the room, Martha dutifully following him, muttering apologies to her father.

A week later, when Virginia had ratified the Constitution by the slim margin of ten votes, the Wednesday dinner at Elkwood was devoid of conversation. Statler knew it was dangerous to bring up the subject of the ratification.

VI

I
N
July, William Greene, Esquire, a lawyer from Richmond, came to see Dewey on an important mission, carrying with him a sheaf of legal papers. He sat with Charles and Martha in the modest sitting room of their cottage, of the Elkwood “under farm,” explaining that he had some news for the young Frenchman.

“Do you know a gentleman named de Grasse?” he asked. “The Comte François Joseph Paul de Grasse of Auvergne, France?”

“Of course. He's the Admiral of the French Fleet. I served under him.”

“
Was
the Admiral of the French Fleet, Mr. Dewey,” the lawyer said sadly. “I'm afraid I have the distressing duty to tell you that Count de Grasse died in Paris this past January eleventh.”

“Good Lord!” Charles felt a genuine loss.

“There's more to my news,” Greene went on. “Admiral de Grasse's lawyers in Paris have instructed me to inform you that the count bequeathed to you a sum of money in his will.”

“To me!”

“Yes, sir. A rather handsome sum of money, as a matter of fact—ten thousand British pounds.”

Charles gasped, and Martha let out a little squeal: “Oh, Charles!”

“Ten thousand…” Dewey was having trouble speaking. “Ten thousand pounds? But … why?”

Greene looked at his papers. “No specific reason is given. The entry in the will is very simple: ‘To Charles Dupree, now known as Charles Dewey, Elkwood, Goochland County, Virginia: ten thousand English pounds.' That's all it says.”

“You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Greene,” Charles said with a nervous laugh, “but I'm having difficulty believing this.”

“That's understandable, sir, but it is true. My information is that de Grasse had some financial interests in London—with wealthy men, money knows no nationalities—and that, upon getting your signature on this document”—he handed Charles a legal paper—“I'm instructed to send it to his solicitors in London. Following receipt there of the signed document, arrangements will be made to transfer to you the sum of ten thousand pounds sterling. If you will sign that, please, both as Charles Dupree and as Charles Dewey.”

Dewey's hands shook as he signed the paper. “Ten thousand pounds,” he said again. “My God, that's a fortune!”

“It is, indeed, sir.” Greene smiled. “And you have my congratulations.”

Charles and Martha talked for several hours about their windfall after the lawyer left, alternately laughing and crying.

“Admiral de Grasse must have loved you a great deal,” Martha suggested.

“Hmmm.” He had given in to his private thoughts. Once again, he realized, he had been given a vivid demonstration of the power of his guardian spirit. It wasn't any intimate association with de Grasse that had brought him the fortune; the spirit had simply used the proud admiral as a vehicle. Perhaps de Grasse himself would have been hard-pressed to give a reason for having made the bequest to his cabin boy. His
deserting
cabin boy.

A doubt struck Dewey. Could there be another explanation, he wondered, one not involving the spirit? Was de Grasse more to him than just the Admiral of the Fleet? Had de Grasse, by chance, known Charles's mother? Or his father? Then the most audacious of thoughts: Was it possible that de Grasse was his father? Could his mother have been a mistress to the admiral? No! All of that was impossible nonsense. Absolutely impossible! It was the spirit. It had to be the spirit!

At least the inheritance provided a new topic of conversation at the Wednesday night dinner. Only Funston Lee sat sullenly, saying nothing. The dinner lasted longer than usual, and when it finally ended, and Charles and Martha made ready to take their leave in the entrance hall at Elkwood, Katherine gathered her sister into her arms.

“I'm so happy for you, Martha,” she said with a sincerity that surprised Charles. Then she looked at Lee. “Isn't it marvelous, Funston? Such good fortune.”

“Marvelous? I suppose it is,” he replied, bitterness in his words. “Astounding, really. Ten thousand pounds for the bastard son of a promiscuous French sailor—and this one dressed in silks and bearing a title!”

A little cry came from Martha's throat, and then, for just an instant, a dead silence.

Charles turned slowly to Funston. He was smiling. “Bastard? Ah! A subject well known to the Lee family, in light of your half-breed half sister. What's her name again? Melody, isn't it?”

Funston rushed at him, but Charles met him with a balled fist that smashed into Funston's surly face, knocking him sprawling on the floor of the entrance hall, blood spurting freely from his nose.

Wiping a hand across his face, Lee looked at the blood on his fingers for a stunned moment. “Sir, I will, of course, demand satisfaction!” He spaced out the words, leaving no doubt as to their meaning.

Statler was quickly between them. “I'll have no talk of dueling in this house! My God, brothers-in-law brawling like common field hands! I'll have no more of this! Is that clear?”

Charles answered first. Forcefully. “Yes, sir. I regret that this has taken place in your home. And I apologize for that.”

The master of Elkwood reached out a hand to help Lee to his feet, but Funston refused his aid. “You have, sir,” he said churlishly, “my apologies to you.”

“I would much rather have the two of you exchange apologies,” Statler answered.

Lee merely scowled.

After a moment, Charles spoke again: “I'm sorry, Marshall, but that's no longer possible.”

Statler sighed deeply, suddenly looking much older.

At that moment, Dewey was seized with a desire to laugh, but he stifled it. Nevertheless he was struck by the humor of the situation. He had knocked Funston sprawling because he had said what Charles himself had thought earlier; that he might be the son of de Grasse. The bastard son.

VII

D
EWEY
moved quickly to take advantage of the money Admiral de Grasse had left him—for whatever reason.

A property on the James River adjacent to his “under farm,” and, therefore, adjacent to Elkwood, was purchased from an absentee owner in Williamsburg, increasing Charles's land holdings to some fifteen hundred acres.