Bon Marche (60 page)

“Nathan will find a competent manger, and it should continue to show a profit for Bon Marché.”

“You have it all planned out, I see.”

“I'm my father's daughter,” Alma May said softly.

II

M
ATTIE
traced tiny patterns on her husband's bare chest with her fingertips. This man to whom she had been married for a quarter of a century, who often infuriated her—too often, who was going to leave now on a venture of which she didn't approve, was still her lover.

“Charles?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you going to see
her
when you get to Charleston?” The question was asked in a whisper.

He laughed lightly. “You've said it yourself numerous times in the last month or two: I'm fifty-seven years old.”

“If that's meant to reassure me, you haven't. I've just had proof of your abilities in bed.”

He kissed her. Another laugh. “There are some things that just come naturally.”

“And that's not reassuring, either. Answer me now: are you going to see Mrs. Cheves in Charleston?”

“Probably.”

“And do you think she will be pleased to see you?”

“Probably not. I haven't communicated with her since I was last there.”

“You never answered her letter?” Mattie hadn't known.

“No.”

“Sometimes you surprise me.”

And he did again. “Mattie, come with us.”

“But you leave in the morning!”

“Just pack a few clothes. You can buy new ones in Charleston and Richmond. And in New York, too, if you wish.”

“No, Charles, it's just not practical.”

He chuckled. “It would give you an opportunity to meet Mary Elizabeth.”

“Charles Dewey!”

They kissed, both of them laughing like young lovers for the sheer joy of being together.

“Charles,” she whispered, “come back to me.”

“Guaranteed,” he said lightly.

III

F
IFTY
thousand dollars of the Bon Marché fortune had been committed to the racing journey to New York. Four new horse vans had been built—larger than the ones used on the earlier trip to Charleston, each designed to accommodate six horses, their tack, feed supplies, and gear. The heavy vans were to be drawn by teams of four draft horses.

As before, the purpose of the trip was to sell the products of Bon Marché breeding and to make the all-purple silks of the plantation known far beyond the boundaries of Tennessee. This time, however, prices had been set on the twenty-one thoroughbreds to be campaigned along the way. There would be no auctioning and no solicitation of sealed bids. Charles and his sons, Franklin and George, had carefully evaluated each horse and had established a minimum price for it.

“If you're fortunate enough, Father,” Franklin had said, “to have no injuries that will make an animal unsalable, we ought to be able to double our investment.”

It was a large entourage that trundled out of Bon Marché on an early August morning of 1822.

There were forty-three horses in all: the twenty-one runners, sixteen draft horses and six riding horses for Charles, Alma May, and little Carrie. And there were twenty slaves: four teamsters, a dozen grooms and handlers, three jockeys, and Alma May's housemaid, Margaret, who would also serve as a cook along the way when it wasn't possible to find accommodations at an inn.

Charles estimated, based on his past experience, that it would be many months before he saw Nashville again.

IV

T
HEY
sat at dinner in a comfortable inn overlooking the prosperous waterfront neighborhood of Charleston, known as the East Battery. It had been a reasonably easy trip to South Carolina; they had experienced rain on only three of the twenty-nine days they had been on the road. But Charles, Alma May, and Carrie were all glad to be settled again, if only for the two weeks of the Charleston racing meeting.

“Did you really think you could sneak into town,” a voice behind them said, “with that circus you've brought with you?”

Dewey didn't have to turn around to know who it was. But when he did, there was that same feeling he had known seven years earlier. He was excited by the beauty of Mary Elizabeth Cheves.

He came to his feet, taking her hands. “Mary Elizabeth—”

“Charles Dewey,” she said quietly, “I ought to be very angry with you for not telling me you were coming.” She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “But I'm not. It's enough that you're here now.”

His face flushed, Charles said formally: “Mrs. Cheves, I'd like you to meet my youngest daughter, Alma May. Alma, this is Mrs. Langdon Cheves, wife of the former Speaker of the House of Representatives.”

“Ah, yes, the Princess. My dear, you're going to have every swain in Charleston at your feet.”

Alma May smiled, her eyes asking questions about who this woman was.

“And this is my first granddaughter, Carrie.”

“My, my,” Mary Elizabeth gushed, “aren't you a darling!”

Dewey realized that he was still holding her hands and he let go of them.

“Charles, this isn't a chance meeting,” the woman said, dropping her voice into an intimate tone. “This is a small town, you know, and I heard about your arrival early this afternoon.”

He laughed. “We didn't get here until noon.”

“As I said, it's a small town. In any event, I talked Langdon into bringing me here tonight for dinner, in the hope of seeing you. I want you to meet him.” To the daughter and granddaughter: “Excuse us, dears.”

A firm hand on Dewey's arm, she guided him across the dining room.

An unsmiling Langdon Cheves rose as they approached his table.

“Darling,” Mary Elizabeth said, “may I present Mr. Charles Dewey of Nashville.”

Cheves nodded, offering his hand. “My wife has spoken of you often, Mr. Dewey. In horse racing, aren't you?”

“Breeding and racing, yes. I'm pleased to meet you, sir.” He shook the hand.

“Won't you sit down, Mr. Dewey?” Cheves suggested politely.

“Well, my daughter and—”

“For just a moment, Charles.” Mrs. Cheves had given an order.

Ill at ease, Dewey joined them at their table.

Cheves made conversation. “I appreciate a good race, Mr. Dewey, but I'm afraid I never had the time to indulge myself in the sport.”

“The country should be grateful, sir, that your time was spent in the legislature.”

“Yes, well…”

“Mr. Dewey is here with his daughter and granddaughter, dear,” Mary Elizabeth said to her husband, “and I thought it might be possible to have a reception for them.”

“Of course.” Without enthusiasm.

“Oh, I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble—”

“Nonsense! We'd be honored.” She cast a stern glance at Langdon Cheves.

“Honored,” he echoed.

After a few more stiff moments, Charles was able to go back to his own table.

“That lady is pretty, Grandfather,” Carrie chirped.

“Yes, she is.”

Alma May made no comment at all, then.

When they had finished dinner, though, and had put little Carrie to bed, the Princess followed her father to his room. Charles retrieved a bottle of sherry from one of his traveling cases and poured for both of them.

“This Mrs. Cheves, Daddy,” Alma May asked, “who is she?”

“An old friend.”

“A friend who Mother knows about?”

Charles grinned. “Yes, Princess.”

“Oh.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It's just that Mrs. Cheves doesn't think of you as just an old friend.”

“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” Dewey was amused.

“Her eyes,” the Princess replied. “I could see it in her eyes. She'd go to bed with you if you gave her any encouragement.”

“Young lady, I think this conversation has gone far enough!”

“I'm not a child anymore. Women see those things in other women.”

He laughed loudly. “Well, Princess, I'll just have to take your word for that. And I'll say good night.”

Alma May went to the door. “Daddy?”

“What now?”

“She
would,
you know. And I want you to know that if … well, Daddy, I can be discreet.”

“Good night, Princess!”

Dewey shook his head disapprovingly as his daughter left the room … but he had never felt closer to her than he did at that moment.

V

R
ACING
in Charleston had changed since Charles's last visit. Subtle changes, perhaps, but changes that made the racing more competitive. He started three horses on the first day of the meeting without a winner, either on the track or in the betting pool.

Shrugging off the losses—over the years he had learned to lose with grace—he decided that the long trip in the vans had taken a lot out of his animals. He immediately rented a fenced pasture and turned the thoroughbreds out into it to graze and unwind.

“There'll be time in the second week of the meeting,” he told one of the jockeys, “to win our share of races.”

And so, on the first Saturday night in Charleston, not the conqueror he had been seven years earlier, Dewey prepared himself for the reception at the Cheves mansion. He had sent Alma May on a shopping expedition, both for herself and for little Carrie. He wanted his women to be dressed in the highest style. The Princess chose for herself a gown that her father wouldn't have allowed her to wear in Nashville, with revealing décolletage and bare arms. She was gorgeous.

Charles, too, had made an effort to bring his wardrobe up to fashion. A Charleston tailor was pressed into hurried service to make him a suit with a velvet-collared coat, leg-hugging trousers, and a ruffled silk shirt featuring the high collars of the day.

“Father, you're handsome!” Alma May had exclaimed. “She's going to swoon!”

“That'll be enough of that, young lady.” But he admitted to himself that he wanted to look just right for Mary Elizabeth.

Langdon Cheves and his wife had invited all of the first families of Charleston to the reception: the Izards, and the Manigaults, and the Mazycks, and the Lowndeses, and the Pringles, and the Cogdells, and the Kinlochs, and the Pinckneys. The spacious parlors of the mansion were jammed.

Mary Elizabeth greeted them at the door. Effusively. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered, her auburn hair, longer now, piled high on her head, a silky white gown outlining her superb figure, scooped low in front, a single diamond on a delicate gold chain nestled just above the cleavage of her breasts.

She took his hand and led him, the Princess, and Carrie through the entrance hall. As they made their way through a crowd of people, Charles glanced up the long, winding stairway that led to the bedrooms above. She seemed to sense what he was thinking, squeezing his hand gently.

They crossed the main living room, Mary Elizabeth making quick introductions as they moved, but not stopping until they came to Langdon Cheves. He was standing, with an elbow on the mantel, in a circle of five or six other gentlemen.

“Darling,” his wife said, “our guest of honor has arrived.”

“Mr. Dewey,” Cheves said, bowing slightly. “I believe you know some of these gentlemen from your last visit.” He quickly ran over their names again, and handshakes were exchanged.

“The Royalist colt I purchased from you, Mr. Dewey,” Charles Manigault interjected enthusiastically, “has done marvelously well. He earned himself out … oh, by seven or eight times. I have him at stud now.”

“I'm delighted,” Charles replied.

“Whiskey, Mr. Dewey?” Cheves wanted to know.

“Yes, please.”

His host snapped his fingers, and a black waiter was instantly by his side with a silver tray loaded with crystal glasses filled with whiskey.

As Dewey took his drink he realized that Mary Elizabeth had left them. He could see her across the room, introducing the Princess to young men in the crowd.

“Are you here on another selling foray?” Manigault asked.

“In one sense only,” Charles explained. “Actually, I'm on my way to New York to test the racing there. But I will sell along the way if sales develop.”

“I understand, Mr. Dewey, that your first day of racing here wasn't too kind to you,” Manigault said sympathetically.

“Not too kind,” he admitted with a wry smile.

After a few more moments of racing talk, the conversation shifted to politics, with Langdon Cheves holding forth. Charles found himself bored, his eyes wandering about the room seeking out Mary Elizabeth. He caught only fleeting glances of her, but each time his heart pounded harder.
Old fool!
he thought.

“There's talk, Mr. Dewey,” Cheves was saying, “that your General Jackson will be competing for the presidency in the next election. What think you of that?”

“Jackson is very popular.”

“And is he popular with you, sir?”

Charles hadn't been paying enough close attention to gauge the sentiments of the men in the group. He answered cautiously. “Well, if there is to be a westerner in contention, I think I would prefer Henry Clay. But you must understand that I'm not too well versed on politics.”

“Yes, of course,” Cheves sniffed.

Only then did Charles remember that Clay and Cheves had been opponents for the post of Speaker of the House. He decided not to apologize for his preference of Clay for President.

The talk of politics continued without another effort by the host to draw Dewey into it. After another ten minutes of that, Charles excused himself quietly and left the group. No one seemed to notice his departure.

He found Mary Elizabeth chatting with a thin-faced, stern matron introduced to him as Mrs. Rawlins Lowndes.