Bon Marche (38 page)

“And if you regard the horses as a crop, as I'm suggesting, next year you'd have … let's see … seventy-six young animals for sale. Why, think what an event that would be if we conducted an auction. Seventy-six of the finest young thoroughbreds in Tennessee! Buyers would come from the Carolinas and Kentucky and Virginia and Louisiana and Ohio…”

He raised a hand to try to halt her rush of words.

“And they'd all know of Bon Marché and its greatness!”

Now he laughed. “You're an expert in plumbing my ego, aren't you?”

“I like to think so.” She kissed him. There was no mistaking the meaning of the kiss.

“Before we get to
that,
” he grinned, “may I be allowed one question?”

“Just one.”

“If I market all of my horses, what the hell do I do for racing animals?”

“I'm confident, dear, that you'll be able to solve that problem.”

“You are, eh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And are you also confident that you can have the master of Bon Marché—Lord, what a farce that title is!—make love to you any time you wish?”

She slowly pulled her nightdress over her head. “I'd give odds on that.”

V

B
Y
the time Andrew MacCallum replied to Dewey's angry letter about Aaron Burr's plot and Andrew Jackson's possible role in it, Burr had been arrested and charged with treason. He was to be tried in Richmond, Virginia, before Chief Justice John Marshall.

MacCallum wrote back to Charles:

I respectfully suggest to you that subsequent events have revealed the Burr episode for what it truly is: downright comedic in its ineffectiveness. That he may have charmed any number of people enough to consider throwing in with him seems clear enough. But never, from everything I have learned, did Burr stand a single chance of being successful.

He's a sad, broken man now. He can never again be an effective force in this country, whether or not he is found guilty of treason. And there are learned men here at Princeton who seriously question whether a charge of treason can be made to stick against him.

Charles gritted his teeth as he read on, angered by the thought that Burr might escape punishment for his misdeeds.

As to you, Charles, what Burr has done and what Jackson may have done are not worth the unhappiness apparent in your letter to me. For God's sake, my good friend, don't ruin your marriage over such silliness!

Dewey found himself offended by MacCallum's word. “Silliness, is it?” he said aloud.

You asked for my advice, and I give it to you: Keep clear of Andrew Jackson, if you wish, but don't allow your opinion of him to endanger your relationship with Mattie or the rest of your family. You mention that the children are adults now. Allow them to be so, making their own decisions on whether or not they wish to be associated with Jackson in the future. I can't see that that will harm you in any way.

Remember when we studied the Greek philosophers? I commend to you now what Plutarch said: “A man should not allow himself to hate even his enemies, because if you indulge this passion on some occasions, it will rise of itself in others: if you hate your enemies, you will contact such a vicious habit of mind, as by degrees will break out upon those who are your friends.”

Hate will debilitate you, Charles. It may well bring alienation from your fine family. Do not allow it to happen!

Dewey re-read the last paragraph again. He knew that Andrew was correct.

Finally, I appreciate your fine offer to join you in Tennessee. As before, I must decline, Charles, my friend, I am a hidebound academician, content here in Princeton. No matter how small “my price,” as you put it, I would not be worth it. I send my love to your wife—perhaps someday I will meet her—and to the children. And, of course, my greatest affection to you.

Charles Dewey held the letter in his hand, staring at it. Did anyone ever have a wiser friend? For the first time in many months he thought of his guardian spirit and how it must have conspired to bring him together with Andrew MacCallum.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

28

M
ORE
than three hundred had been invited.

On May 28, 1808, Bon Marché overflowed with guests, summoned to celebrate the twenty-first birthday anniversary of Franklin Dewey, firstborn son of a one-time deserter from the French navy.

In a sense, the party also celebrated the majority of Charles Dewey's entire life. It symbolized the success he had achieved in his adopted country: at forty-three he had everything he had ever dreamed of, everything his guardian spirit had ever promised him.

Mattie Dewey, although she was in the role of a stepmother, had cheerfully undertaken the task of making the party the most lavish social event on the western frontier to that date. Huge tables had been set up in the oak grove on the broad front lawn of Bon Marché and spread with gleaming linen that her father had imported from Ireland. More than fifty of the blacks, carefully chosen for their skill as waiters and waitresses, were dressed in white linen, each wearing a wide silk sash of royal purple—the racing colors of Bon Marché.

Four Bon Marché beeves were turning on spits over fragrant hickory-wood fires. Dozens of large hams from Bon Marché's own smokehouse were distributed among the tables. Giant crystal bowls were filled to overflowing with fruits from the Bon Marché orchards: apples, peaches, pears, nuts of a half-dozen varieties. There was bourbon from the Bon Marché distillery. And hard apple cider. And pastries from the Bon Marché bakery.

Sweet-smelling bales of hay were scattered across the lawn, covered with more white linen, so that the guests would have a place to sit when they pleased. But the visitors, many of them seeing Bon Marché for the first time, preferred to stroll about, astounded by what Charles and Mattie Dewey had accomplished there: the well-built barns for the horses, the grain mill, the blacksmith shop, the tannery, the tobacco sheds, the training track, the smokehouse, the bakery, the summer kitchen (busier on this day than it had ever been), the miles of stone fences, the greenhouse for exotic flowers (each table featured a bouquet of flowers many of the guests didn't recognize), the fine brick carriage house, and the magnificent mansion.

There was curiosity, too, about the crude double-cabin on the edge of the grove, kept there by Mattie and Charles as a reminder of what Bon Marché had been at the beginning.

As the notes of an orchestra hired for the occasion drifted across the lawn, husband and wife found themselves together for a rare moment.

Charles took Mattie's hands. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “It's just wonderful. I was thinking a moment or two ago of how proud Martha would have been, seeing her first child reach twenty-one.” A pause. “For Martha, then, another thank-you, Mattie.”

She smiled. “I gratefully accept the thanks of
both
of you.”

“Lord, how fortunate we are! Not just for Franklin, you know, but for all the children.” His eyes swept the lawn, seeking them out. “Corrine—a beautiful woman at eighteen. And the twins? Can you believe it: sixteen on their next birthday? And the Princess…”

They watched as little Alma May, already eight years old, skipped across the lawn, charming everyone, stopping to curtsy now and then.

“And Thomas,” Charles went on. “He's such a shy one. I wonder where he's hiding out now?” He grinned. “And can we forget George?” His second son stood fifteen yards removed from them, surrounded by a small crowd of gaily chattering girls.

Dewey bent to kiss his petite wife on the lips.

She laughed. “I was thinking,” she said, “about how we've enriched the merchants of Nashville by having this party. I believe that every dress, every hat, every coat, every piece of satin, silk, and lace, every fragrance must have been cleaned out of the stores.”

He guffawed. “And every dollar out of the purses of a lot of gentlemen.” A grimace. “Including this one.”

“Don't complain, dear. You know you're enjoying this as much as Franklin is.”

“More, I think. Oh … have you met the Bolling girl?”

“Amantha? She's a plain young lady, isn't she?”

“Hmmm. Mr. Shakespeare said that ‘beauty is but a vain and doubtful good.' I suspect that Franklin must believe that. He seems smitten by her.”

“Completely,” Mattie agreed. “Now I think we've indulged ourselves enough with this
tête-à-tête.
Back to our guests.”

The governor of Tennessee was there, and the mayor of Nashville, and most of the prominent families of western Tennessee, including the cream of the horse-racing fraternity. But
not
Andrew Jackson. He and Rachel had been invited—Mattie had insisted on that—but Andy had sent a brief, though proper, note of apology, saying that Rachel was not feeling well enough to “face the rigors of a social engagement at this time.” Dewey didn't believe the excuse for a moment, but he welcomed it.

The party had started at noon; it was due to continue through dinner. At about five o'clock, as long shadows began to fall across the lawn, Charles stood on a hay bale in the center of the melee, and called for attention.

“Friends,” he shouted, so that all might hear him, “Mrs. Dewey and I are pleased that you could all find time to do us the honor of being here. And to do our son, Franklin, the honor of celebrating the important twenty-first anniversary of his birth. Now, if the guest of honor would come forward…”

Franklin moved to where his father was perched on the hay bale, somewhat shyly holding the hand of Amantha Bolling.

“Franklin,” his father said, “we—meaning the entire family—sought the perfect gift to mark this occasion. And we believe we have. George!”

Smiling broadly, George Washington Dewey led a well-muscled chestnut colt to the center of the lawn. He had to keep a strong hold on the animal, because it pranced about nervously, upset by being in the middle of so much humanity.

“Franklin, my son,” Charles continued, “this is a yearling colt by the great Diomed, winner of the inaugural Epsom Derby in England.”

Horsemen on the grounds applauded appreciatively, sending the yearling off on another dance.

“Diomed is the son of Florizel, out of Sister of Juno, by Spectator. And this colt is out of Mr. John Tayloe's mare, Castianira, also imported from England. Fine breeding for a fine young man!”

More applause.

“And we have already named this handsome young fellow, Franklin. We have called him Majority, so that he will always remind you of this happy occasion!”

George led the yearling to his brother and handed him the rope. Franklin beamed, running a hand over the smooth red coat of the colt, clucking to him. Still holding the lead rope, he climbed up on the bay bale to stand by his father.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. Then, louder: “Thank you, all the members of my family, for this superb gift. I promise you that I will train him to live up to his royal blood.”

Franklin turned to Dewey. “May I say more, Father?”

“It's your day, lad.”

“I would also like to take advantage of this moment to make an announcement.” He paused to hand the horse back to George. “I am proud to tell you all that Mr. Malcolm Bolling has given his permission for me to take his daughter in marriage.”

The applause was universal.

Franklin reached down to pull Amantha up beside him. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot … her name is Amantha.”

Laughter.

“We plan to be married on January first next, 1809.” He turned to Charles. “That is, if you approve, sir.”

Charles took an embarrassed Amantha in his arms, kissing her on the cheek. She blushed red. “I approve, son, most heartily. Now,” he shouted, “a toast! To Franklin and Amantha—to their long happiness!”

The toast was drunk.

The young girls in the crowd quickly gathered around Amantha, giggling and chattering.

George, who had instructed one of the Negroes to take the yearling back to the barn, drew his brother aside.

“Franklin, you sly dog! I had no idea it had gone this far.”

“Yes, well…” The older brother seemed embarrassed.

“The picnic ploy must have worked, eh?”

“I guess it did.”

“You
guess
it did? What the hell does that mean?”

“Well,” Franklin started hesitantly, “I
did
take your advice … but, it wasn't at all the way you described it.”

“No?”

“No … You see, George, you must be more self-assured than I am. We … uh … well, we kissed, of course.”

“Of course.” His brother grinned wickedly.

“But … I don't know about nature taking its course.”

“You mean, that's it?! Nothing else happened?”

“No.”

George was incredulous. “You're still a virgin?”

Franklin nodded sadly. “You see, George … uh … Amantha wants to wait until the wedding night, and I—”

George cut him off with a raucous laugh. “Well, I'll be damned! I didn't know such things still happened in the enlightened nineteenth century!”

II

C
HARLES
yawned.

“I plan to start Matilda in the Gallatin Purse on Sunday.”

“Finally!” Mattie teased him. “And I must say that you're not giving me this news with any great enthusiasm. How dare you, Charles Dewey, yawn when you speak of my namesake?”

He grinned at her. “In truth, she hasn't shown me much in training. No speed, certainly. Frankly, I'm disappointed with New York's produce. I guess it's the Messenger blood, but all of them are small, you know.”

Another yawn. “God, I'm tired,” he said. “I think I'll lay up the racing string after the Gallatin meeting. Or just let Franklin and George carry on with it.”