Bon Marche (40 page)

IV

W
ITHIN
the week a lawyer appeared at the Davidson County Court House in Nashville to file two petitions on behalf of his client, Squire Charles Dewey of the Bon Marche plantation.

The first asked that the court look favorably on a desire of Mr. Dewey to have one of his slaves, a lad called Marshall, given the legal name of Marshall Dewey. Attached to the petition was an affidavit declaring that the young man's parents were the aforementioned Charles Dewey and a slave woman, Angelica.

Another document was a manumission appeal, in which Dewey asked that one of his slaves, Marshall Dewey, a minor, be declared “now and forever” a free man.

At Bon Marché the family crowded around Matilda's stall, offering her carrots and fresh alfalfa hay.

“What's next for her, Charles?” Mattie asked.

“Next?” He laughed. “Can you imagine that she could ever be greater, in any other races, that she was last Sunday? I can't. And, since she could never top herself, I think she's earned retirement. To stud, of course.”

“Just like a man!” his wife said, pretending to be annoyed. “Considering motherhood a retirement.”

“I think she ought to go to the court of Predator.” Charles looked to Franklin for confirmation of his choice.

“I think you're right, Father. His foals could use some stamina.”

Dewey held out a leaf of hay to the filly. “What think you of that, Matilda? Could you add some guts to the babies of Predator?”

Drawing back her upper lip, exposing her teeth, the filly nickered loudly.

They all laughed.

29

C
HARLES
was weeping unashamedly.

He stood at the head of the long lane leading to the Bon Marché mansion, waving wildly at two riders coming toward him. They were only pygmies in the distance, unrecognizable by any normal eye, but Charles knew who they were. He had been waiting for days and now, in mid-December of 1808, the day had arrived.

As they drew closer, the familiar face of the lead rider came clear to him.

“Andrew!” Charles shouted.

The horse was spurred and Andrew MacCallum raced to Dewey's side. “Charles, my friend!”

Dismounting, the former tutor groaned. “Oh, God, the old legs are protesting mightily.”

The two men embraced, holding each other for a long time in a kind of desperation. Abner Lower, who had made the trip to New Jersey to guide MacCallum to Bon Marché, sat on his horse and smiled.

Finally, Dewey held Andrew at arm's length, studying him. “Andrew, dear Andrew! How long has it been?”

“Twelve years.”

“You've grown gray, Andrew.”

“I
am
in my fifties, Charles. And a bit paunchy, too.” He patted an ample stomach.

“Fifties, gray, paunchy—it doesn't make any difference. You're
here
—that's all that matters.”

Dewey looked up at Lower.

“A difficult trip, Abner?”

“A lucky one,” the guide reported. “The weather held for us. I was afraid we were goin' to have snow in the mountains coming out of Virginia, but I reckon we stayed in front of it all the while.”

Charles wiped a hand over his teary face. “I'm grateful to you, Abner.”

Lower nodded.

Taking MacCallum by the arm Charles propelled him toward Bon Marché. “It's only a short walk, Andrew. Or would you rather ride in?”

“If I never have to get up on that nag again, it'll satisfy me.”

“You know, Andrew, if I had realized that it would take Franklin's wedding to get you here, I would have had him marry at sixteen.”

MacCallum laughed. “I really believe you would have.”

II

A
NDREW
had thought a great deal about what he would find in Tennessee. It would give him an opportunity, he had decided, to study the family unit on the frontier. He didn't mean to be totally academic about it; the visit to his dearest friend was paramount, of course. But he had spent all of his life in study, and he couldn't change now.

As Dewey proudly showed him around Bon Marché, Andrew made mental comparisons with plantations he had seen in Virginia. The way of life on those plantations was more leisurely, but few had the full range of facilities he found at Bon Marché—and the fair-minded management he could deduce almost immediately. Bon Marché, he concluded, was a happier place than any plantation he had ever seen that was based on a slave economy. There was less of the depressing master-slave attitude.

Dinner that night was in MacCallum's honor. Many toasts were drunk, many old stories revived. And the dinner hour went late. Finally, when Franklin asked his father to check on a sick foal with him, Andrew was left alone with Mattie. It was a welcome respite for him. She led him to the drawing room.

“A sherry, Andrew?”

“No, I think not. As always when I'm with Charles, I'm inclined to drink too much.”

Mattie grinned. “He's spoken of nothing else for weeks but your arrival.”

“Yes, we have a rare relationship. I find it difficult to put it into words.”

“You have a good effect on Charles.”

Andrew laughed, getting up to stand with his back to the fireplace. “I was about to say the same thing regarding you. Quite honestly, the Charles I knew in Virginia is different from the Tennessee Charles.”

“In what way?” She was intrigued.

“Oh, he always had the same self-assurance, but he was … well, existing alone. It was Charles Dewey against the world, so to speak. Here I see him as a man who is guided and molded and nurtured. By you, Mattie.”

She blushed at the compliment, but she was pleased. “You give me too much credit.”

“I think not.”

“His first wife—wasn't she supportive?”

He ran his hand through his hair, using the brief moment to organize his thoughts. “Supportive yes, but she didn't challenge him. Martha Dewey was a lovely woman—a beauty, I can tell you—and she loved him deeply. But Charles had to be the impetus in everything. You've challenged him; you've made him more than he might have been.”

She smiled wanly. “Nagged him, you mean.”

“No, no, nothing like that at all,” MacCallum protested. “You're strong. He needs that strength to complement his own.” A chuckle. “Indeed, Mattie, you are the woman I've searched for and never found. I take vicarious pleasure in knowing that my dearest friend has found you.”

Charles entered the room. “If that foal doesn't improve by the morning,” he said sadly, “we may have to destroy it. I'm perplexed; I don't know what's wrong with it. But I do know that it's simply wasting away.”

“Franklin must be distressed,” Mattie commented.

“He is. I wish he wouldn't take every failure with a horse as his own guilt.” He clapped his hands together to mark an end to that subject. “Well, what have you two been talking about?”

“Secrets,” Mattie said, smiling.

“Indeed?”

“That's right,” MacCallum confirmed.

“And I'm not to be taken into your confidence?”

“Never.” His friend laughed.

Charles waited for more. It didn't come. He shrugged. “Well, I know when I've been shut out. A sherry, Andrew?”

“No, thank you. I've already had that kind offer from your wife, but your toasts at dinner were quite enough for me.” He sighed. “Truthfully, Charles, I am rather tired.”

“Of course, you must be. Let me show you to your room.”

As the two friends climbed the stairway to the second floor, MacCallum said, “Mattie's a very special woman, Charles.”

“Yes.”

“I told you once that you were the luckiest man I knew, and I have to repeat it again.”

“I give thanks every night for my good fortune.”

They entered a large bedroom. Horace had already unpacked Andrew's clothes and put them away.

MacCallum began to undress. “I stopped at Elkwood on the way through Virginia.”

“Oh?”

“Katherine is a very unhappy lady.”

“That doesn't surprise me.”

Andrew frowned. “You don't forgive easily, do you?”

“It isn't a case of forgiving or not forgiving, Andrew. Elkwood is part of my past. A long-gone part. I have nothing that ties me there anymore.”

“Lee has become a drunken sot,” the visitor went on. “And his affairs are common gossip throughout central Virginia.”

“Why doesn't she leave him?”

“She can't. Statler's will, you'll recall, gave them Elkwood jointly. If she tries to get out, he'll tie her up in unending litigation.”

“Hmmm.”

“She'd like to hear from you, Charles.”

“No, I can't do that.”

“The children are her nieces and nephews,” Andrew reminded him.

“Their recollection of her is minimal.”

MacCallum groaned. “For God's sake, Charles, give her
something!
She's a woman alone.”

“I'll give it some thought.” He changed the subject.

III

T
HE
days leading up to Christmas, and the wedding, were crowded with activities. Charles tried to fill every minute of Andrew's time until his friend, genuinely annoyed, asked him to desist.

“Charles, I'm not a child,” he said as gently as he could. “I don't need to be led around.”

“I've been smothering you,” Dewey said gravely.

“Yes.”

Charles shrugged. “I apologize for that, old friend. You have the free run of Bon Marché.”

MacCallum, intent on his study now, sought out Corrine. “You may not know it,” he said to the girl, “but you are your mother from head to toe. The same hair, the same eyes, the same … uh … womanliness, the same beauty.”

Corrine flushed. “Thank you, Uncle Andrew. You embarrass me. But I don't remember much about my mother. She's more of a shadow than a reality.”

“Your father doesn't speak of her?”

“Rarely.”

“Hmmm. They were married, you know, when your mother was several years younger than you are now. Let's see, you're—”

“Eighteen.” She said it with pride—perhaps even defiance.

“Is there a young man?”

“Oh, yes!” She became animated. “His name is William Holder. He's a lawyer.” The happy animation turned suddenly to sadness. “Father doesn't care for him.”

“Oh?”

“Billy, you see, doesn't hold any brief for horse racing and gambling. He considers such things … well, corruptive.”

MacCallum laughed. “I can see where Charles might not see eye to eye with him.”

“Billy's not awed by Father, as most people are.” The words reflected her pride. “I'm afraid they've exchanged some heated words. Billy says gamblers are wastrels…”

“My, my.”

“… and horse race people are ne'er-do-wells.”

“You seem to have a real problem, young lady.”

“Oh, no,” she replied, the defiance returning. “Billy and I
will
be married, just as soon as his career allows us to have a home of our own. He refuses to rely on Bon Marché money.”

“Good for you. And him.”

“You approve?” She seemed surprised that her father's close friend would side with her.

“Of course. I'm in favor of adults making their own way in life. You must do what you think is best for you, not what might be thought best for your father.”

She kissed him on the cheek. Spontaneously. “I wish you were my father.”

“No, you don't. Your father is a fine man; he'll come around. I said earlier that you had your mother's good looks. Now I know that you also have your father's grit. That's a fine combination.”

Corrine gasped. “You think I'm like
him!
”

“Very much so.”

The young girl shook her head. “I never thought of it that way before. But, I think you may be right. I
am
a Dewey, aren't I?”

IV

L
OUISE
Dewey, MacCallum learned quickly, wasn't at all like her older sister. At sixteen, she was willowy, pretty if not beautiful, and somewhat of a tomboy. Not a woman; not yet. But, there was a certain iciness in her that suggested she would mature into a woman of style. Of class. To Andrew, such an inevitability seemed preordained.

Andrew spent a morning at the training track, watching Louise handle spirited two-year-old thoroughbreds, riding them with an expertise of a jockey.

“You seem to be at ease on a horse,” he said to her while she was unsaddling one of the young animals.

“It would be strange if I wasn't, don't you think?”

“Yes and no. Your sister, Corrine, doesn't seem to be interested in equines.”

“Corry is a pill!”

“Oh, is she?”

“Yes, and a damned prude, too! Uncle Andrew, I get sick to my stomach sometimes with her. It's always Billy this and Billy that, as though Billy Holder had hung the moon.”

“You don't like Holder?”

“He's all right, I guess. It's just that he's so certain about everything.” She paused. “And I don't like the way he argues with Father. He doesn't show him any respect.”

“And you think your father merits respect?”

“Of course I think he merits respect!” She grinned at him. “Uncle Andrew, you're baiting me.”

“Guilty,” MacCallum laughed.

“Why?”

“To get to know you better. To understand the younger generation of Deweys. To make up for all those years that I was away from you—from all of Charles's children.”

Louise studied his face. “That makes sense, I guess. But I'm not special. I'm just me. I hope that doesn't disappoint you.”

“Not at all. What do you want in life, Louise?”