Bon Marche (62 page)

“Stay,” he said. He went to her, turning her gently to face him, gathering her in his arms, holding her close. “If you knew the times I wished for this.”

“I'm here now, Charles.”

The cape slipped to the floor.

Slowly he undid the combs in her hair, the auburn locks falling to her shoulders, framing her flawless face.

“My God, woman,” he breathed, “you are so beautiful.”

Mary Elizabeth stretched to kiss him and, as they continued the kiss, he guided her to the bed. He undressed her, savoring the sight of every inch of smooth pink skin he exposed, and kissing her on each newly revealed area.

When he finished, he took off his robe, pulling the covers over them, gathering her in his arms, feeling her tingling warmth against him.

Nothing was said.

They made love, slowly at first. Then with growing ardor. Then with fury. And they slept. When they awoke again, Charles looked at the clock. In the dim light of the room he could make out that it was eleven o'clock. They hadn't said a word to each other in nearly two hours.

“When must you go?” he asked.

“Never.”

“No—be serious.”

She sighed. “Not until the morning.”

“Maybe, just this once, the morning could be delayed.”

He forced himself to think of nothing but Mary Elizabeth. And in the fantasies that accompanied their lovemaking there was nothing else in his life but this one woman.

It was about four o'clock when they heard whispered voices and light laughter in the hallway.

“The Princess and young Heyward,” Charles said.

“Hmmm.”

“Wouldn't it be wonderful if we were as young and as unencumbered as those two?”

“No, Charles. I don't envy them at all. There have never been two other people in the world—nor will there be—who have what we have right now.”

“I suppose we must believe that.” He suddenly felt very sad. And he wanted to weep in that sadness.

There was no delaying the morning.

He watched silently from the bed as she dressed, as she piled the auburn hair on top of her head again, as she made the transition from Miss Dulles to Mrs. Cheves.

When she was finished, she turned to him. “Will I ever see you again, Charles Dewey?”

“Probably not.”

“Remember me,” she said. She slipped through the door without looking back at him.

IV

O
N
the final afternoon of the Charleston race meeting, Dewey gleefully watched two more Bon Marché horses cross the finish line as winners.

He was preparing the vans for the departure when Alma May came up to him, Nathaniel Heyward II in tow.

“Have you two had a good day at the races?” Dewey asked.

“Your daughter is uncanny with her choices, sir. My problem is that I haven't followed her advice often enough.”

Charles laughed. “Well, if you want one final piece of advice, young man, may I suggest that you back Mr. Pinckney's colt in the last event? A horse named Cooper River.”

“You know this horse, sir?”

“Hmmm. Just a bit. I bred him.”

“Well, maybe I can get even for the day.” He pecked Alma May on the cheek. “Stay here for a moment, dear, while I get a wager down.” He rushed off.

“I was awake during the night,” Dewey said to the Princess, “and I heard you two in the hallway. Rather late wasn't it?”

“It must have been someone else, Daddy.”

He made an idle gesture. “I'm not going to chastise you for your late hours—”

“No, it really must have been someone else,” she insisted, grinning broadly. “You see, I stayed in Nathaniel's quarters last night.”

“Oh?”

“Are you shocked, Daddy?”

“You want me to be shocked, don't you? Well, you're a grown woman—”

She kissed him gaily. “Daddy, you're so sweet! He's asked me to marry him.”

“Now, that
does
shock me. And what have you answered?”

“I said no. The poor dear has taken the rejection pretty well, too.”

Alma May looked around. “I haven't seen Mrs. Cheves here today.”

“No.”

“I thought surely she would come to bid you good-bye.”

“Well, she hasn't.”

She shook her head, perplexed. “I was so sure about what I saw in her eyes.”

“Perhaps your father isn't the exciting, virile fellow you imagined him to be.”

And Charles laughed. Oh, how he laughed.

43

I
T
was an odyssey of sorts—a wandering journey to spread the fame of Bon Marché. A quest, too, by Charles Dewey for some peace of mind.

As they left the Atlantic coast, traveling north and a bit west some one hundred fifty miles to Augusta, Georgia, Charles was tempted several times to turn his horse south once more to go back to Charleston—to hold her again, to feel her smooth skin against him again. But that was a temptation to which he could not succumb.

He wished that he could be given the youth of Alma May; that he could view his passions with the same devil-may-care attitude that sustained the Princess in her determined efforts to throw off the memories of her unhappy marriage. But he couldn't do that. His maturity, his sense of right and wrong, even his perception of “sin” got in the way.

He was haunted by images. Of Mary Elizabeth risking her reputation for a few hours together in a hired bed. Of Mattie in a wilderness bower on their honeymoon asking, “How long will this last?” Of a guileless Martha poised naked on the bank of the James, walking into the water, her arms extended to him. Women he loved. Women he had used. His thoughts rewarded him with guilt.

And melancholy.
I'm too old for real love,
he thought.
Too old!

The images and the guilt and the melancholy were part of Dewey's baggage as they moved from Charleston to Augusta and then into Virginia, to Petersburg and Richmond.

By the time the Bon Marché caravan got to Richmond to compete in the last few days of fall racing there, Charles had sold a dozen of his thoroughbred runners. For Alma May there had been at least as many conquests. Several times he had determined that he would speak to her about her indiscretions, but each time his own guilt intruded. He kept silent. The Princess, after all, was her own woman.

Little Carrie, then, became the beneficiary of Dewey's reluctance to deal with his daughter's imprudent ways. More and more he turned to the innocence of his granddaughter for his own well-being. They spent long hours together, reading to each other, discussing animals and birds and flowers and trees. They made numerous side trips so that Charles could show Carrie historical landmarks and tell her of the dramatic events that had occurred in those places.

It was an education for her, he told himself. There was a greater truth, however. Carrie Dewey, age eleven, represented his new purpose in life. Even his sanity.

It was because of Carrie that, when the racing was done at Richmond, Charles decided to return to Elkwood.

II

T
HEY
stood there—the three of them: Charles, Alma May and Carrie—within the circle of giant boxwoods, looking down at the stone marking the grave of Marshall Statler.

“Your great-grandfather,” Dewey said quietly to the little girl, “was the kindest man I have ever known. If I've accomplished anything at all in this life, it's because of the guidance of Marshall Statler. I only wish I could have been more like him.”

His eyes came up, and he looked around the Elkwood of 1822. “How he loved this place! His wife—your great-grandmother, Carrie—had died when he was still a young man. And the love he had for her was channeled into this.” He swept an arm to encompass the plantation.

But this wasn't the Elkwood of Marshall Statler. The plantation had become seedy and unkempt. The mansion needed paint, many of the pastures had reverted to weeds and thistles, some sections of fence were down, the slaves were ill-dressed and sullen-faced.

And Katherine? She was an old woman, her face lined and sallow, her body bent in a defeated attitude. If she had ever been beautiful—and Dewey tried to remember the beauty of spirit she once had—she was no longer. She was now, in sum, spiritless.

Katherine sat with them at tea in what had been Statler's stylish drawing room. The room, like the woman, was no longer beautiful. Charles remembered every piece of furniture in that room. It was all still there, worn and neglected.

“You know,” Katherine was saying to Carrie, “I remember your father so well. Good Lord! Can it be more than a quarter of a century since I've seen Franklin? He was only”—she looked to Charles for confirmation—“nine when he left here.”

“Yes—nine.”

“Hmmm. Well, Carrie, I recall that your father was a sober lad. The most serious youngster I think I've ever seen. Is he still?”

Dewey laughed. “Franklin is still sober, yes. The steady rock, really, on which Bon Marché rests today. I'm very proud of him.”

Katherine's voice took on a scolding tone. “Your few letters, Charles, didn't contain much news.”

“Well, I—”

“And Lee? How is he?”

“Quite well. He has a fine career as a newspaper correspondent and artist. You'd like him.”

The woman sighed deeply. “I remember so vividly the circumstances of his christening and how dear Martha tried to—” She stopped, wiping a hand across her eyes.

“How
is
Funston?” Charles asked.

“Here seldom,” Katherine answered bitterly. “His father died, you know—”

“I didn't know.”

“Funston now spends more time at Marsh Run than he does here.” She smiled wanly. “And at other places. Certainly you've noticed how things have become run down around here.”

Charles nodded.

“I don't seem to have the strength to contend with the management of it. There's so much to do,” she continued wearily, “what with Elkwood and Fortunata—”

“Fortunata!” Dewey's eyebrows shot up.

“Of course—you didn't know. Six … or was it seven?… years ago, the main house burned.”

“Damn!”

“Mr. Monkton was quite discouraged. Funston made him an offer and he accepted.”

Charles sat silently, seething with anger that Funston Lee had, after all, acquired the Fortunata property. He had planned to show it to Carrie, but now he didn't want to set foot on it.

All that he wanted to do was to leave. They did—within the quarter-hour. It had been a mistake to return. A sad mistake.

III

“W
E
have rented an attractive, small house here in Baltimore,” Charles wrote to Mattie, “so that we might have a proper place to stay during the winter.”

Alma May came into the room, twirling around to show off a new dress.

“And where to tonight, Princess?”

“A soiree at the Grundys'.”

“With whom, may I ask?”

“With David … uh…” She thought for a moment. “Oh, Daddy, I've only just met him.”

Dewey frowned.

“When he calls for me, I'll introduce him to you, if I can remember his name.” Alma May giggled. “You know, I'm not sure that I ever want to leave here. It's so much more gay than Nashville.”

Charles forced a laugh. “There's still New York to conquer, Princess.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” she replied soberly. “New York isn't the South. How can a southern girl—”

“Admirably,” her father interrupted. “If my observations of your activities since we left home are any indication.”

“Do I detect a note of disapproval, Daddy?”

“It's a bit late for that, isn't it?” He sighed.

“Daddy, dear Daddy.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Have I given you cause for worry?”

“At times.”

Another kiss. “Don't concern yourself for me, Daddy. Just know that I've promised myself that I would live by a very simple philosophy: face every day as if it were the last.”

“I'm not so sure I approve of that kind of fatalism. It seems so devoid of purpose.”

“Oh, I have purpose, Daddy: to have a good time.”

“That's not making much of a contribution with your life, is it?”

The Princess pondered his question, then shrugged. “I guess I'm just not a contributor, Daddy. I'm more of a taker.” She laughed gaily. “But that just balances things out. If we didn't have takers, the contributors wouldn't have anyone to contribute to. And speaking of that…”

Charles groaned. “How much this time?”

“Just a hundred. There's this dress I haven't paid for yet.”

He counted out the bills for her. “Perhaps if I stopped indulging your every whim, you'd understand what I'm trying to say to you.”

Alma May threw her arms around him, squeezing hard. “Daddy, you're such a dear! But don't you understand that if I didn't get money from you, there are other men who would—”

“I don't want to hear things like that!” He tried to control his sudden anger. “Now, get out of here and let me write to your mother.”

“And to Mary Elizabeth?” she asked.

“No,
not
to Mary Elizabeth.”

“Have you written to her since we left Charleston?”

“No.”

“I pity that poor woman. She's so much in love with you, and—”

The Negro maid, Margaret, entered the room. “'Scuse me, Miss Alma. There's a Mister Abernathy askin' fer ya.”

“Abernathy! Of course! Shall I bring him in for an introduction, Daddy?”

“Don't bother. I'll probably not see him again after tonight anyway.”

Again she kissed him. “You're so understanding, Daddy. Thank you for the money.”

He waved away the thanks. “Have a good time, Princess.”