Bon Marche (7 page)

“That perhaps she imagines herself in her soft bed with him, intent upon—”

“Stop it!” Martha cried, rushing at her, a fist raised menacingly. “Stop it!”

Katherine, easily dodging the half-hearted assault, sauntered to the door. “So it is true, dear Martha,” she teased. “Our young guest
does
stir the passion in you.”

Martha, wanting to end the baiting, remained silent.

“Do you think he would be exciting in bed?”

No reply.

“Probably not,” Katherine shrugged. “But then again, perhaps…” She opened the door to leave the room. “I'll tell you what, my virginal sibling…” She was smirking. “… I'll try him out for you and give you a report.”

“Katie!” It was a shriek this time, Martha hurling herself at her sister, who skipped through the doorway, slamming the door shut in her face.

The younger girl rested her forehead on the door panel, struggling to restrain her anger: anger because of what had been said, and anger because she had allowed Katie to use her once more in one of her little games.

There were times when she
hated
Katherine.

4

M
ARSHALL
Statler's tour of the Elkwood plantation was strange.

As promised, Dewey was awakened at five-thirty by the butler, who brought him a simple breakfast of coffee with heavy cream and buttered toast.

Fifteen minutes later, Statler led Charles out of the rear of the mansion into a great bustle of activity among the numerous outbuildings.

“The tobacco shed,” Statler said as he pointed to a small barn. “Next to it is the shed where we do our wool carding. And that's the smokehouse. We're most proud of our hams.”

He moved rapidly, not waiting for questions or seeming to invite them. “The icehouse there. Next to it the bakery, which also serves as our summer kitchen. We do our own hide tanning in that rather unattractive building there.” Another pointed finger. “The greenhouse—”

“Excuse me.” Charles risked an interruption. “The roses I saw at last night's dinner—were they raised in your greenhouse?”

“Yes, that's the place,” Statler answered, offering no other detail.

His long strides, with Charles hurrying to keep up, quickly took them through the cluster of dependencies. The visitor marveled at the large number of Negroes he saw at work; how many he couldn't even guess.

He was led to a broad pasture next to a massive, handsomely appointed barn. Statler stopped at the fence to gaze out over a field partly shrouded in an early-morning mist, his attention on a dozen or so mares grazing there.

“And that's the heart of it,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “The horses.”

He pointed once more. “That's Abigail over there to the left, the mare you rode from Williamsburg.”

Charles wondered how Statler could identify Abigail with such certainty. The horses all looked more or less alike to him.

“She's to be bred to Skullduggery, from the Yorick line. And that's a good one, indeed.”

Statler sighed deeply. “In truth, Skullduggery and those few mares are all that remain of the Elkwood stud. The war has been most cruel to our breeding efforts. And that damnable Tarleton!”

His sudden anger was very real.

“That fine English gentleman, Colonel Ban Tarleton, and his vaunted mounted infantry! Lord, what an insufferable ass!”

Charles dared not speak. Now, at least, he knew who Tarleton was.

“He swept through here, seizing every serviceable mount we had. Even my own hunter. And, then … then he had the gall to question the
quality
of my horses! What arrogance!”

There was a pause as Statler sought to restrain his anger at the memory of what had happened.

“Skullduggery was spared only because of his crippled right hind.” He shrugged. “The rest, though, are gone. Our hopes for the future rest in seven of those mares that are to foal in the spring. I'd prefer it if I didn't have to return them all to one stallion. Perhaps Mr. Washington might entertain an offer for his fine stud, Magnolio.” A slight laugh. “Of course, that's only wishful thinking. Certainly the good squire is going to retain him at Mount Vernon.”

Statler turned suddenly, making his way toward the barn. “Come,” he called over his shoulder to Charles.

As they entered the barn, a combination of odors assailed the boy: of hay, of manure, of animal. Altogether not at all unpleasant. The barn was spacious, with many individual stalls, only one of which was occupied. As Statler went to it, Charles at his heels, a big bay horse inside the stall nickered softly, coming to the front of the enclosure to put his head over the half-door that kept him in.

“Good boy … good boy,” Statler clucked to him, patting the animal's nose with genuine affection.

“This, Mr. Dewey, is Skullduggery. He's only five and should just now be coming into his own as a racehorse. Unfortunately, he never will.” He pointed to the twisted right hind leg. “It was injured when he was just a foal. Ordinarily, he would have been destroyed. But I believed he might be carrying the abilities of his sire, Yorick, and I hoped that he'd be able to pass them on to his progeny. Hope, sir, is what motivates a horseman.”

Statler smiled. “What is it the Psalm says? ‘Happy is he whose hope is in the Lord thy God.' Well, at the risk of blasphemy, I can paraphrase that: Happy is the breeder whose hope is in the next foal crop.”

Charles remained silent, instinctively understanding that Marshall Statler wasn't expecting a reply, nor would he have welcomed one at that moment.

“There are those, as you know, young sir, who profess not to believe in God. I suspect that they have never known the joy of association with a truly high-bred horse. Of all of the varieties of domestic animals which a benevolent Providence has created for the use of Man, the blood horse stands alone, without a rival in the animal kingdom. Who but God could create such beauty, such form, such stamina, such power, such courage, such speed, such …
heart
in a single creature? If there were no God there would be no blooded horse.”

The younger man felt tempted to shout “Praise God!” in response. But he restrained himself.

“Well, Mr. Dewey,” Statler added, exhaling a long breath, “you've just heard what my daughters call my sermon. I must apologize for boring you with—”

“Oh, no, sir, I understand perfectly.”

The master of Elkwood chuckled. “Do you, now?” He patted Charles on the shoulder. “I thank you for that indulgence.”

A Negro groom approached, carrying the equipment needed to muck out the stallion's stall.

“Skullduggery looks mighty fit today, Malachi,” Statler said to him.

“Yas, suh.”

“He cleaned up all of his grain this morning, did he?”

“Yas, suh. Real slick like. He jest full o' hisself.” The black man laughed heartily. “Seems like he cain't wait fer them ladies t' come in season.”

II

T
HEY
sat on the fence overlooking the pasture as Marshall Statler gave his young guest chapter and verse on the pedigrees of the mares in the field in front of them. Andrew MacCallum, the tutor, joined them.

Charles had the immediate impression that MacCallum's arrival had been prearranged.

After several minutes of pleasant inanities, Statler grew sober. “Mr. Dewey, for some time now I've been wanting to add the French language to my daughters' training,” he began, “and although Mr. MacCallum is a graduate of the New Jersey College at Princeton, French was not in his curriculum. We've been discussing the possibility that you might undertake to teach them—”

Dewey was shocked by what he was hearing. “Sir, I don't think I have the ability—”

Statler's laugh interrupted him. “You do speak French?”

“Yes, but I don't have the training necessary to teach it to someone else.”

“Under Mr. MacCallum's expert guidance, we believe that your lack of training can be compensated for.”

Charles shook his head in doubt.

“Perhaps, Mr. Statler,” MacCallum interjected, “we should hear something of Mr. Dewey's background.”

Charles began to realize that if he wanted to stay at Elkwood—and he had made that decision during Statler's “sermon”—he had better seize this opportunity.

“My background, gentlemen,” he said, “is most limited.” He told them everything he could recall of his sixteen years: of his orphan status, of the terrible years he had spent on the Paris streets, of his enlistment in the French navy at ten, of the patronage of Admiral de Grasse, of his lessons with the ship's surgeon. He omitted only one fact: his desertion from the French navy.

“A difficult life,” Statler commented.

“In one sense, a learning process.” Charles was pleased with that phrase. “And one that has led me here, to this country, where I'm told opportunities are unlimited for one with ambition.”

Statler nodded. “Well, other duties require my attention.” He slid down from the fence. “Maybe it would be best if you discussed this matter further with Mr. MacCallum before giving me your decision.” He left them quickly.

There followed a strained silence, during which Charles assessed the tutor. He was in his early twenties, slightly built, an inch or two smaller than Charles in stature, with brown hair and eyes, and a pleasant enough face, but one that Charles thought of as gaunt.

The young Frenchman spoke finally: “Mr. MacCallum, I appreciate that you might not want me here in these … uh … circumstances. Would you be happier if I moved on and didn't intrude?”

“No, no. Elkwood, as much as I enjoy it, isn't going to be my total life, Mr. Dewey. There'll come a time when a better opportunity arises, and I shall take it.” A wan smile. “I'd like to correct one small detail of Mr. Statler's earlier narration: I
did
study French, however briefly, at Princeton. I had difficulty with the pronunciation, however, and in my Scottish stubbornness, I abandoned it for what I considered more worthwhile pursuits.

“No offense intended to the French language. Now, however, if Mr. Statler wishes that we”—he stressed the plural pronoun—“attempt to teach his daughters French, then I'm willing to try. And I'm certain that I shall benefit as well.”

“That's very kind.” Charles pondered his decision for just a moment. “I place myself in your hands.”

“Fine, fine.” MacCallum grinned. “Mr. Statler gave me the authority, in the event you agreed to his plan, to explain the terms of your employment at Elkwood. He proposes to offer you room and board and the amenities—clothing, a horse to ride, and the like—”

“But no money,” Charles interrupted.

“No money,” MacCallum confirmed. “Under the circumstances, however, I believe his offer to be generous.”

“So do I.” Charles extended his hand. MacCallum shook it warmly.

“In light of your acceptance,” the tutor said, “perhaps we should continue our discussion a bit longer.” He grimaced. “Are you wed to this fence?”

“Hardly,” Dewey laughed. “My bottom is still sore from my two days on horseback.”

“Then let's walk.”

III

“I believe the first thing we should do,” MacCallum said as they strolled across the vast lawn behind the mansion, “is to dispense with formalities. I'm Andrew. And you're Charles.”

“Agreed.”

“Uh … permit me a confession to start our cooperation. You were no sooner in the house, Charles—within an hour of your arrival—when Mr. Statler came to me with the idea of you teaching French to his daughters. Frankly, knowing nothing at all about you, I was skeptical. I expressed my doubts. Mr. Statler, however, persisted. He told me he believed you to be a young man of talent. I've been at Elkwood long enough to know that Mr. Statler has a weakness for snap judgments of that kind. And not always accurate judgments.

“Having now learned of your background, and having heard you speak last night at dinner and again here this morning, I'm inclined to agree with him. It's a talent, indeed, for you to have risen so far above your environment. I know that must sound condescending to you, but I mean it only in the most flattering way.”

“You're most kind. I had a good tutor aboard the
Ville de Paris.
”

“And he had a facile pupil.”

Charles was embarrassed. “Again—you're most kind.”

“Yes, well…” MacCallum smiled. “So much for that. Now, Charles, please bear with me as I outline certain realities of living here at Elkwood. I couldn't help noticing your almost instant fascination with Miss Martha. While I can appreciate that fascination, it mustn't be allowed to blossom into anything more. I understand the Frenchman's proclivity toward the opposite sex, but—”

“I don't understand that last remark,” Charles cut in.

MacCallum stared at him for an instant. “It's well known that Frenchmen have a … well, an appetite for women.”

“More than Scotsmen?”

The tutor laughed loudly. “So it's said. Am I to understand that you have no such appetite?”

“Appetite? You make it sound like a meal.”

“I seem to be doing this rather badly,” Andrew chortled. “But I'm going to muddle on and assume that you've had
some
experience with women.”

He paused, waiting for a response from Charles, who remained silent.

“What I'm trying to say, Charles, is that with the Statler daughters you must be like Caesar's wife.”

“Pardon?”

“Like Caesar's wife: above reproach.” He quickly realized his error. “Of course, you haven't learned of such things. We'll rectify those … uh … shortcomings as we go along. The point is, Charles, that you
must not
in any way, make overtures to Miss Martha or Miss Katherine.”