Bon Marche (67 page)

“Here, boy!” he shouted to one of the Negro grooms. “Go see if you can stir up Miss Carrie. Tell her I'm waiting.”

“Yas, suh.” The black hurried away in the direction of the big house.

Dewey fumed as the minutes dragged on without the arrival of Carrie or any word from the black. Finally, the slave came running up.

“Ah sorry, Mistah Charles, but Miss Carrie she weren't at the house. An' I hadda look 'round fer her. She comin' now, though.”

“Well, where in the hell—”

Carrie rushed onto the scene. Breathlessly, she kissed him on the cheek apologetically.

“I'm sorry, Grandfather, I got held up.”

“What was so damned important?”

She laughed in the delightful way that always melted his anger. “I was talking to Alvin and I lost track of time.”

“Who in the devil is Alvin?”

“Oh, you know Alvin, Grandfather. Alvin Mussmer, the son of the the field hands' overseer.”

“Oh, yes,” Charles growled, “Elmer's son. I'm not so sure that I approve of you consorting with—”

“We weren't consorting, Grandfather, just talking.”

They mounted the mares.

“And what do you find to talk about with the likes of that Alvin fellow?”

“Lots of things. He's very sweet.”

“Carrie, you have to remember your position here at Bon Marché.”

“Oh, Grandfather,” she said, annoyed now, “you're so stuffy sometimes.”

“My only concern, young lady, is your well-being. If you won't look out for it, I must.”

“Grandfather, I'm nearly eighteen.”

“All the more reason to conduct yourself properly.”

They rode off toward Franklin, the grandfather studying the young girl. She was very much like her grandmother, and Charles was remembering that he made love to Martha when she was only sixteen. That thought didn't reassure him in the slightest.

III

C
HARLES
was reading another letter from Mattie at the dinner table:

Cousin Andy walked from the hotel to the Capitol for his inauguration, surprising a lot of people and pleasing them, too. They fell in behind him as he walked, and by the time he got to the Capitol there were thousands at his heels. A most impressive outpouring of devotion.

It was somewhat overcast early in the day, but just as Andy walked out onto the platform where he was to take the oath, the sun burst through the clouds most brightly! It was like an omen, I thought.

I wasn't on the stand and therefore couldn't hear his short speech, but I'm sure you'll all be reading about it in August's newspaper. (In answer to the query in your last letter, tell August that it's all right if he wants to reprint my letters, if he eliminates the purely personal matters.)

Charles looked up at his son-in-law. “There! You have your own correspondent in Washington.”

“Good, good,” Schimmel commented.

Charles turned his attention back to the letter.

After the speech and the oath-taking and the hand-shaking, Cousin Andy mounted a white horse and rode off toward the White House, again followed by the mob. As I told you earlier, there were no parties of celebration planned because of the period of mourning, but there had been a public announcement that the White House would be open to all who wanted to come.

Never have I seen anything like it, and I don't imagine I will ever again see such a demonstration. Food had been laid out on long tables in what I am told is the East Room, and it soon disappeared under the onslaught of hundreds. Andy was in the room (will I ever get accustomed to calling him the President?) and found himself shoved up against the wall by the press of bodies. How he got out I don't know; I didn't see his departure. I only know that somehow he was removed from the madness—and that's what it was: madness! I saw fights breaking out, more than one bloody nose, drapery torn down, cut glass and china smashed (worth how much, I wonder?), children passed out through windows so that they wouldn't be crushed, people standing with muddy boots on damask-covered furniture. I myself had difficulty getting out of the White House; my dress was ripped in three different places. But that was a small price to pay, I felt, for my safety.

As I was leaving the grounds, I saw White House servants opening casks of whiskey on the lawn. The intent, I imagine, was to lure the rabble out of the building. I hope it worked.

I'll be leaving here in two days. Just this morning I decided to go to Boston for a few days to see some old friends from my school days. I'll sail to New Orleans from there and duplicate the water trip you made, Charles, when you returned from your racing foray (is that the word I really want?).

I contemplated, for just a few hours, visiting Philadelphia to try to see Mother, but I've abandoned that idea. Indeed, I don't even know whether she is still alive. Isn't that sad?

“She sends her love to all of us,” Charles said. “I imagine it may be at least two more months before we see her again.”

Dewey went to his drawing room to work on the farm records and finances, a chore he had assumed again in Mattie's absence. After some time, Carrie entered the room.

“Am I disturbing you, Grandfather?”

“No, dear, I'm just finishing. Would you like a small sherry?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Thank you.” Sighing deeply, she dropped into a chair facing his desk. “For several days now I've been wanting to talk to you. I've rehearsed this so many times—”

“A problem?”

Carrie stared at him soberly. “I'm in love.”

“Oh?” Dewey's eyebrows shot up.

“Yes, Grandfather. With Alvin, and I want to marry him.”

“You're pulling my leg, of course.” He grinned at her. Sometimes her sense of humor was a little … mischievous.

“No.” She dropped her head, not looking at him any longer.

Charles was stunned. “You can't be serious, Carrie! Alvin Mussmer? A common … farm worker! What happened to all of our plans for college and for your future as a botanist, and—”

“I could still do those things.”

“No!” Charles came to his feet. “No, damn it!” He pounded a fist on his desk. “Alvin Mussmer is simply not worthy of you! I will not permit it!”

Carrie raised her head again, meeting his eyes. “Grandfather … dear Grandfather, I know this is going to hurt you, but”—she sobbed—“I'm carrying his child.”

“You're … you're
what?
”

Dewey sank slowly into his chair, dropping his head into his hands. “Does your father know of this?”

“No. I thought I owed it to you to come to you first.”

He laughed sarcastically. “You thought you
owed
it to me! What you owed to me”—he was stammering—“was … was … Oh, God, how could you, Carrie?” He began to cry.

“Please, Grandfather, try to understand. I love him. He's a dear, sweet boy.”

There was a long pause. A deep silence, broken only by the old man's weeping and Carrie's soft sobbing.

Suddenly, he slammed his fist on the desk again, then leaped to his feet and hurried toward the door.

“Grandfather, what are you going to do?”

“That son of a bitch!” Charles muttered. “That filthy son of a bitch!”

He was gone.

“Grandfather! Grandfather!” Carrie shouted after him. She began to run.

Dewey, his anger in control of him, rushed along the path toward that area of the farm where the four overseers' modest homes stood side by side. It was nearly a half-mile from the main house, and when he got here, he was breathing deeply. He pounded on the door of the Mussmer house.

Elmer Mussmer opened the door. “Squire Dewey, what—”

“Where's your son?!”

“In the feed mill right now, but—”

Charles took off at a dead run. Behind him he could hear Carrie screaming: “Grandfather! Wait! Wait!”

He burst through the door of the mill, where the boy was sacking grain.

“Mussmer, you dirty—” Dewey swung a fist, smashing it into Alvin's face, sending him sprawling, blood flowing from his nose.

Madly, he looked around for a weapon. He picked up a broken ax handle and swung it again and again at the huddled figure of young Mussmer. Alvin tried to crawl away from the attack, tried to regain his feet, but Charles kicked him viciously in the stomach. Once, twice, three times.

Then he fell on the boy and pummeled him with his fists, shouting, “I'll kill you, you bastard! I'll kill you!”

Dewey continued the beating even after Alvin was unconscious.

“Grandfather! Stop! Oh, please stop!” Carrie burst into the mill, followed by Elmer Mussmer, who grappled with the angry older man, pulling him off the boy.

“Squire Dewey, stop it! For God's sake, stop it!”

Charles lashed out wildly at the elder Mussmer, also knocking him to the floor. Only when Carrie threw herself at him, pounding her fists on his chest, did Dewey desist. He stood, then, with his legs spread wide, sucking in deep breaths, muttering oaths.

Carrie went to Alvin and cradled his bloody head in her lap, rocking him, weeping. “Oh, Alvin … dear Alvin.”

Elmer pushed himself to his feet, edging away from Charles before he spoke. “Squire, what is happening?”

“I want that bastard off this farm!” He was screaming, pointing at the unconscious boy. “And you, Mussmer, and your wife, are to go with him!”

His edict given, Dewey turned and strode out of the mill.

IV

“I
DON'T
give a damn what you say, Franklin, Alvin Mussmer will
not
marry Carrie!”

“But she's pregnant by him!”

The two men, father and son, stood in the middle of the Bon Marché drawing room, shouting at each other. It was less than a half-hour since the beating.

“And you think her pregnancy is going to make the marriage
right?
” Charles yelled.

“No! But, damn it, Father, she
is
pregnant. And we must recognize that reality!”

“The only reality I recognize is that that boy is not fit to marry Carrie!”

Franklin groaned, walking to the wide windows, gazing out, trying to control his temper. To bring reason to the moment.

“Fit or not,” the son said slowly, “we must make the best of this situation.” He went to Charles and laid a consoling hand on his arm. “Father, neither of us likes this, but Carrie … well, Carrie has taken the decision out of our hands.”

“Not out of my hands! That bastard leaves here tonight! I want all the Mussmers off this property!”

“No, Father, that's not the answer.”

Dewey roughly shrugged his son's hand off his arm. “That
is
the answer! If you don't like it, you can leave Bon Marché, too!”

Franklin stared at him. “
That,
Father, I will not do!” He started for the door, stopped, and turned once more to Charles. “I made a terrible mistake in allowing you to dominate the life of my daughter—”

“She's my granddaughter!”

“—
My daughter,
” Franklin continued with determination. “Your preoccupation with Carrie was convenient for me, I'll admit that. She had no mother and your concern for her filled that gap, in a sense. But now that she needs me, I'm going to fight for her. She tells me she loves young Mussmer—”

“Love!” Charles scoffed.

“—and I'm going to arrange for them to be married at once.”

“I forbid it!”

Franklin sighed deeply. “I don't know why I didn't see what you were up to before now.”

“What I was up to?”

“You have indulged Carrie and ignored your own children.”

Charles stared at him, trying not to comprehend what his eldest son was saying.

“When have you really cared about Thomas, for example?”

“I see Thomas every day,” Dewey insisted.

“And what do you say to him in the course of any one day? ‘Good morning, Thomas.' Do you call that caring about him?”

“He's a taciturn young man. Difficult to communicate with.”

“Have you ever tried?”

Charles just looked at him sullenly, not answering.

“And poor Marshall? You've totally abandoned him.”

“I offered to send him a racing string in New York, and he refused it.”

“Oh, Father.” Franklin was exasperated. “He was concerned that he wasn't ready for the opportunity. And in the nearly six years since then, have you ever again attempted to be a father to Marshall?”

Again, no reply.

His son shrugged. “Well, one bastard in the family is enough.”

“Take care, Franklin!” Dewey interrupted angrily.

“What are you going to do—thrash me, too? I tell you now, Father, that Carrie and Alvin
will
be married!”

“Damn you, listen to me!
I forbid it!
”

“Not this time, old man, not this time.” Franklin left his father standing alone in the drawing room.

V

M
ATTIE
faced a crisis when she returned to Bon Marché in June.

Somehow the plantation still ran under the management of Franklin and George, but barely. Charles had instituted a series of petulant moves that had seriously disrupted the smooth operation of Bon Marché. For one thing, he had stopped keeping the financial records up to date, ignoring bills that had to be paid. Mattie found a pile of unopened angry letters from creditors scattered on the desk.

Charles had also announced that he was going to take over the training of the Bon Marché horses once more. When his sons challenged him on that decision, he circumvented their objections by giving firm, direct orders to the Negro grooms and handlers—and the slaves obeyed him. “Mistah Charles,” after all, was still the master of Bon Marché in their eyes. Finally, Franklin and George gave in to him, fearing that the horses would suffer otherwise.