Bon Marche (56 page)

He was through the door quickly.

Nathan was rooted there, staring at the closed door. Charles Dewey hadn't frightened him with his threats. But the son had.

Prince George, he thought, the Enforcer Knight.

II

C
HARLES
sat on a bale of hay, tears tracking down his cheeks. In front of him in the stall lay the massive body of Premier Etoile, dead at the advanced age of thirty-five.

“My God, Franklin,” he said to his eldest son, “just think of what has transpired since that night when I saw Premier Etoile foaled and that kind man, Marshall Statler, allowed me to name him.”

“Etoile served us well, Father.”

A small smile. “Didn't he, though? He was a sturdy old gentleman, servicing mares right up to the end. I guess a male animal can't ask for more than that, eh?”

He got to his feet, going to the body, kneeling down and patting the stallion on the head. “Good ole fellow,” he sighed. “Lord, Franklin, this makes me feel old. I've known this thoroughbred for two-thirds of my life. And I'm on the downhill side of it now.”

“Nonsense.”

“It's true, son. I'm fifty-two.” He nodded toward the dead horse. “And he makes me remember all of the dreams I had when he was foal. I've been the most fortunate of men, Franklin. I believe I've realized them all.”

Franklin cleared his throat. “Father, maybe this is the time to bring up something George and I have been discussing.”

“About the old man, eh?”

“Not in that sense.” His son smiled. “We did talk of you taking less responsibility…”

Charles nodded.

“… but primarily, we've been discussing the age of our stallion band. We were going to suggest to you that Premier Etoile be retired.”

“Go on.”

“The truth, Father, is that the stallions are all on the oldish side. And we thought we ought to do something about that.”

“What's your plan?”

“We believe that we ought to retire New York, Arrangement, Predator, and Cranium.”

Dewey was astounded. “
All
of them!”

“Yes, sir. If you study the statistics, you'll realize, as we have, that they haven't been paying their way as stallions. Their books have dropped off drastically.”

“Hmmm.”

“Boaster, the stallion that George brought from England, is only nine, and he ought to head our new band. And the other imported stallion, Royalist, could be brought here permanently. He's fifteen, and he'd be our oldest.”

“But Royalist is owned by a syndicate.”

“Yes, sir, but I've talked with Joe Coleman. He and the others would be happy to sell out to us.”

“And then what?” Charles was becoming annoyed that his sons had done so much without consulting him.

“We want to put Majority to stud.”

“My God, son, he's still winning at the track!”

“That's true, but he's already ten, and we feel he'll make more money for us now as a stud horse. And, then, we'd also like to take Tough Guy off the track.”

Charles had heard enough. “No! At seven he's just coming into his own as a racehorse.”

“That's true, also, but he's so solid—being by Predator, out of Matilda—that there already have been queries about breeding to him.”

“What else?”

“That's it for the moment. George and I believe that those four stallions will give us a new solid base.”

“But only
four,
son?”

“Quality, not quantity, Father. Building on that base, then, we'd go into the open market for stallions. Maybe in Kentucky, Virginia, or even New York.”

“What's available?”

“Not much, honestly. I wrote to William Amis in North Carolina asking whether Sir Archie is for sale—he's by Diomed, you know—and Amis has answered that he's not. But I believe Sir Archie is the best stallion in the country right now, and I want to send four mares, including Matilda, to him for the next breeding season. That mating—should she have a colt—would give us another potential stallion for the future.”

Charles sank down on the bale of hay again. “The future? It belongs to you young men now, doesn't it?”

Franklin didn't try to answer the rhetorical question.

“What else is it that you see in the future for Bon Marché?”

His son replied hesitantly. “Sir … we thought that perhaps you'd welcome less responsibility.”

“So you suggested earlier,” Dewey growled.

“And we believe it would make good sense for the two of us to divide those responsibilities on an even basis: me in charge of breeding; George running the racing operation.”

“And me?”

“You'd still be in overall charge, of course.”

“But not much, eh?” He forced himself to laugh, but he felt hollow somehow, a shell of what he had been. Empty.

“We're only thinking of the growth of Bon Marché, Father.”

That was the telling statement. Charles slapped his hands together in that way he had of punctuating decisions. “Well, let's not delay it needlessly. You're both correct, obviously. This will give me more time for my grandchildren—a pleasing prospect, I'll tell you.”

He turned to leave the barn, his steps slow. “Have the blacks prepare a proper grave for that gallant animal.” He nodded toward the body of Premier Etoile.

“It's already being done, Father.”

“Yes … well”—he frowned—“of course it is.”

III

“W
HAT
are you going to tell your parents?”

Nathan Ludlum was genuinely concerned. His young wife had just told him that their efforts to make her pregnant had failed again.

“It's going to become obvious, pretty quickly, that you're not going to have a baby.”

The Princess sat in their bed, pouting. “Maybe I should have known,
before
we were married, whether you were capable or not.”

The bitterness of her words shocked him. “Princess, don't talk like that.” He tried to take her in his arms, but she edged away from him. “It's just that we haven't been fortunate, that's all.”

Alma May began to cry. “I can't face Mother with this! I can't!”

“When the time comes, Princess, we'll face it together.”

“Why
can't
you give me a baby?” she snapped at him.

“Dear, it's nothing like that at all.”

“How can you be so damned sure?”

Nathan sighed. The proof of his manly abilities was somewhere in Pittsburgh. But he couldn't use it. He thought now of Charles Dewey and of George, and he was very uneasy.

“Princess, baby,” he cooed to her. And he stroked her and fondled her and kissed her, using all the skills he had learned on the stage to win her as an audience again. Bringing her total attention to him.

When he had, they tried once more.

IV

M
ARY
Harrison Dewey had a son, a strapping boy whose arrival buoyed Charles Dewey's flagging spirits.

“This is what life is all about,” he said to George, as they stood by Mary's bed admiring the baby. “To see your blood reproduced over and over again. To realize that there is continuity in this insane world.”

Charles bent and kissed Mary as she held the infant in her arms. “Thank you, Mary,” he said softly.

“Well, George,” he said brightly as he straightened up, “this is my seventh grandchild. A lucky number, some say. Have you decided on a name for this prodigy?”

“Yes, sir,” his son answered quickly. “Charles Dewey the Second!”

“Oh, my!” He embraced George. “Oh, my!”

Mattie, watching the happy scene, brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Charles Dewey the Second,” the grandfather said, addressing the baby, “may God favor you as he has the grateful man whose name you now carry.”

He took Mattie's hand and they left the room.

“You might have consulted me about the name,” Mary snapped angrily.

“Mary, there are times when the spontaneous decision is the only one to make.” George smiled. “Couldn't you see how happy Father was?”

“Yes. But what of my father? He might be happy, too, if the baby were named for him.”

“Mary, stop it! This should be a joyful moment.”

His wife sighed. “Yes, Georgie. And it is. It's just that…”

George kissed her. “Mary, darling, I've never denied you anything, but this … well, it just had to be. And if we ever have a daughter, dear, she's going to be named Martha, for my mother.”

Mary frowned.

“Do you remember what I told you when I asked you to marry me?”

“Georgie,” Mary giggled, “you said so many naughty things.”

He laughed. “I did, didn't I? But the most important thing I said was that the Dewey family would always come first.”

V

I
T
was stuffy in the small storage room, and dusty. Pieces of scenery were jammed in without any special order, making it difficult for them to move around. And there was no light.

Alma May kissed him. Desperately.

“Christ, I don't know about this, Alma!”

“You said you wanted me.”

“I do,” the young man said, “but if Nat—”

“Nathan's not going to know.” She fondled him in the darkness, trying to arouse him. Trying to arouse herself.

His name was Gerald Parker, an actor in Ludlum's company. A pleasant enough fellow, but Alma May wouldn't have given him a second look in ordinary circumstances. The circumstances, however, were not ordinary for the Princess. She
needed
to be pregnant.

Groping with her hands, she found an open spot on the floor, pulling him down on top of her, loosening her clothing to make it easy for him. They came together, and he groaned slightly. Alma May put her fingers on his lips to silence him.

“Princess!” The shout came from the hallway outside the storage room.

“Oh, hell!”

“Don't stop.” Even though she said it in a whisper, it was clearly an order.

“Princess!”

Alma May dug her fingers into his back. “For God's sake, Jerry, come! Come!”

The door of the storage room flew open, freezing them. It let in only a little light from the hallway, and the couple was hidden behind a piece of scenery.

“Is anyone in there?” Nathan shouted.

There was not even the sound of breathing.

“Damn it, where is she!” Nathan said aloud.

Without warning, the dust in the room made Parker sneeze.

“Who's in here?” Nathan called.

He stepped into the room, searching. And then he saw the dim outline of two figures on the floor. “Who in the hell is it?”

Nathan moved closer. The figures became recognizable. “You bastard!” Reaching down, he grabbed Parker by the collar, smashing a fist into his face, sending him sprawling into a piece of scenery that gave away under the impact, breaking and tearing.

Alma May cried out in fright.

Her husband, cursing, yanked her to her feet, propelling her out into the hallway, throwing her against the opposite wall. She collapsed in a terrified heap.

“Why?” he screamed at her. “Why?”

Parker, seeing his chance to escape, ran off down the hallway and out of the building.

“You bitch!”

“Nathan, please!” Alma May was weeping. “It's just that you weren't able—”

He kicked her. Viciously. In the stomach.

She shrieked in pain, gasping. “No, Nathan, no!” She tried to crawl away, and he kicked her again. She stopped moving and lost consciousness.

Nathan dropped to the floor, cradling her head in his lap. “Damn you,” he said, “all this to cover a lie.”

He thought then of her father and of his brother-in-law, and he shuddered.

VI

I
N
truth, Nathan Ludlum was a consummate actor.

He had to be to carry off what had been decided after the incident in the theater storage room.

He carried the Princess to a doctor in Nashville, where it was discovered she had three broken ribs.

“If you had seen the height from which she fell off that ladder, Doctor,” Nathan said, “I think you'd say that she was fortunate it's not more than a few broken ribs.”

“How high would you say?”

“Twelve, maybe fourteen feet.”

“Hmmm. She must have fallen on something to make such pronounced bruises on her abdomen.” He pointed to the ugly purple marks made by Nathan's boot.

Alma May groaned as the doctor pulled the bandaging tight around her ribs.

“Well, the stage was littered with scenery,” Nathan explained calmly. “She could have struck any number of objects.”

He watched intently as the doctor finished his work.

“Sir,” the actor began hesitantly, “my wife is pregnant.”

The doctor frowned. “How long?”

“A month. No more than two, certainly.”

“Well, this kind of trauma could cause her to miscarry, of course. But the fetus at that stage of development is very small. If she does abort now, it shouldn't be too dangerous for a healthy young woman. But you'll have to watch her, of course.”

“I certainly will, Doctor.” Nathan was showing the proper amount of loving concern.

“Now, I don't think you ought to try to get her back to Bon Marché in a carriage right now,” the physician went on. “Perhaps you could make her comfortable for a couple of days at one of the inns.”

“Of course. We'll go to Mr. Parker's establishment.”

“Fine! I'll look in on her tomorrow morning.”

At the Nashville Inn, Nathan made Alma May as comfortable as possible, then sat by the bed looking at her. She had said virtually nothing since the incident at the theater.

“May I ask, Princess,” Nathan said quietly, “what is the next scene you plan for your little drama?”