Bon Marche (9 page)

“That's correct, sir.”

“Mr. Dewey,” Statler explained, “had the good fortune to have been at Yorktown.”

“Yorktown,” Lee snarled, “was the ultimate victory of the rabble.”

Statler laughed. “Don't let Squire Lee frighten you, Charles. He's inclined to pretend to be a Tory, although he's in the same boat as we … uh … rebels. He delights, however, in the role of devil's advocate.”

“You may be content with the republican nonsense of Mr. Jefferson and his ilk, but I'm not!” Lee's fat face was flushed. He looked directly at Charles. “And I place that young upstart, the vaunted Marquis de Lafayette, in that same dangerous company.”

Charles bridled.

“Careful,” MacCallum warned under his breath.

Statler laughed even louder. “See—what did I tell you?” To Lee: “Young Mr. Dewey comes to us under the aegis of our mutual friend, George Milton.”

“Milton!” Lee exploded. “That scoundrel is no friend of mine. He robbed me on my last consignment of tobacco to him.”

“John, John,” Statler chuckled, “entirely predictable.”

Lee snorted in derision.

A young man came to the door of the church and called out, “Gentlemen, the services are about to begin.”

III

A
S
one body, the men trooped into the church and noisily took their seats on the side opposite the women.

To Charles, the service appeared hurried. Prayers were mumbled hastily. The minister—MacCallum said his name was Lawrence Smith—spoke for only a short period on what he called “being,” with liberal mention of Aristotle and Plato, speculating on whether there was anything permanent in the changing phenomena of nature and whether God the Creator bore the same relationship to nature as to man.

It was confusing. And boring, made more so by the monotone in which Pastor Smith read his text. Fortunately, the sermon lasted just about a quarter of an hour. It was followed by the desultory singing of a hymn,
a cappella,
and a final rapid prayer. The entire service was concluded in half an hour.

As they left the church, Charles asked MacCallum: “What was that about?”

Andrew grinned at him. “Metaphysics.”

“What?”

“Metaphysics,” the tutor repeated. “The study of—let's see if I can recall my philosophy classes—of fundamental problems relating to the ultimate nature of reality. Of ‘being,' as Mr. Smith put it, and of human knowledge. There,” MacCallum added proudly, “I
did
remember!”

Dewey stared at him. “But that doesn't make any sense, Andrew.”

“I admit it's abstruse. Old Aristotle could be that way at times.”

“But as a sermon?” Charles was still confused.

“Oh, that. It's safe, you see. Also, a lot of ministers like to show off their scholarship. But, primarily, it's a safe subject.”

MacCallum drew him aside. “What you have to understand is that the church in this country is as much involved in the Revolution as is the political structure. In somewhat of a nutshell, Charles, the Anglican church, or the state church, has been equated with British royalty. Wherever the Anglican church was established, the colonists had to pay taxes to support it. Many Americans were not inclined to do so.

“But they were, nevertheless, believers and didn't want to disassociate themselves from God. Catholicism was not an answer for them, so they split within the Anglican church. Again in the most simple terms, the conservative members, primarily the Tories who opposed the war against the Crown, remained Anglicans. Dissenters, those who were opposed to the tax-supported church, and mainly those who supported the war, became Presbyterians.”

He gestured toward the building. “That's a Presbyterian church. So abhorrent is the idea of a state church—especially among these Virginia planters, it seems—that the ministers find it impossible to speak on anything that even remotely mirrors the real world: politics, the war, taxes, commerce. Even the Bible. So thay take the safe road. Metaphysics is safe because no one understands it—including, I'm inclined to believe, the ministers themselves.”

Charles shook his head. “I don't know—I just expected something more … well,
religious.
”

“It will come,” MacCallum said matter-of-factly. “It's just that the church is in transition right now. Like you, I think the transition is rather bland. Spiritually unrewarding.”

IV

T
HERE
was no move among the worshipers to leave the church grounds. Men and women gathered in clusters, and once more there was no talk of religious matters. Charles and Andrew made their way to a group surrounding Marshall Statler and John Lee, the Reverend Mr. Smith now among them. The subject under discussion was cockfighting, with Mr. Smith being lavish in his praise of a bird he had bred.

“Powerful across the breast,” he was telling the others, “and with a most aggressive spirit.”

“Tested, Lawrence?” Lee asked him.

“Only in hand, John.” He smiled. “Kept in restraint with difficulty. He's a red, similar to that good one I had two years ago.”

Lee nodded knowingly. “You'll have to bring him around some day, Parson. That is, if you're prepared to back your bird with a wager.”

“It'll be done, John. Be assured of that.”

Dewey turned away from the conversation, revolted by it. Cockfighting was a favorite diversion on French warships, and he had always hated it: the torn flesh, the lacerated eyes, the ignoble death. He remembered the glee exhibited by Captain de Boade at cockfights aboard ship. Now he was seeing the same enthusiasm, only a bit more restrained, in a minister of God. It made him ill.

He found himself looking around for Martha, finally spotting her among a small group composed primarily of women, in which Katherine and a laughing Funston Lee were the center of attention.

Katherine saw him approaching and called out to him: “Mr. Dewey, please come and let me present some of the ladies.”

Quickly, she made introductions to some half-dozen women, one of whom was the Reverend Mr. Smith's wife. Charles couldn't help but wonder what she thought of her husband's preoccupation with cockfighting.

“Do tell the ladies about Yorktown, Mr. Dewey,” Katherine insisted. That brought a scowl to young Lee's face.

“I don't wish to bore the ladies,” Charles said, hoping to get out of his predicament.

“Bore them? Of course you won't.”

He gave them an abbreviated version of what he had earlier told the Statler sisters.

The same lies.

Even so, his concocted stories of the unobserved surrender ceremonies drew appreciative oohs and aahs from the listeners.

“What role did you play in the festivities, Mr. Dewey?” an annoyed Funston asked.

“I was with the delegation from the
Ville de Paris,
flagship of the French navy.”

“In what capacity, sir?”

“As a member of the staff of the Comte de Grasse, Admiral of the Fleet.”

Charles found it strange that he didn't mind lying in response to Lee's goading questions.

Funston persisted. “A ranking member?”

“As Comte de Grasse's personal aide, Mr. Lee.” The lying had become fun; he was making Lee very uncomfortable.

“Aren't you a bit young to hold such an exalted position?” Lee continued sarcastically.

“Age—young or old—was not a barrier in this war. Indeed, there were quite a few of
your
age who saw fit to serve at Yorktown.”

Katherine giggled, and several of the other ladies tried to hide smiles.

Lee's rage was a sudden thing. His face went black with it. “You give me offense, sir!”

“Oh? In what way?”

“By innuendo, sir. There are good and valid reasons why I didn't serve in the army.”

“I'm sure there are, Mr. Lee.” Charles grinned at him. “And I see no reason why you should have to detail them in this … uh … innocent conversation.”

“You, sir, are insufferable!”

“Funston, please,” Katherine begged, having seen his uncontrolled anger before.

“Stay out of this!”

Mrs. Smith, the pastor's wife, spoke up. “I suggest, Mr. Lee, that perhaps this has gone far enough.”

Her no-nonsense words brought him up short. He bowed to her. “Of course, Mrs. Smith, you're correct,” he said unctuously. “I do hope that you can excuse my boorish behavior.”

The matron patted Lee's arm, smiling at him reassuringly. “I like to think that I can still appreciate the spirt of the young.”

A hand tugged at Charles's sleeve. He turned to find Martha by his side.

“Perhaps Mr. Dewey would like to meet some of the other ladies,” she said softly.

He permitted her to lead him away.

“You made a mistake, you know,” Martha said as they walked slowly toward another group of women. “Funston can be mean. He won't forget what just happened.”

“And what
did
just happen?”

“You made him look the fool.”

Charles laughed. “He does that fairly well on his own.”

“Don't make light of this. Funston has a cruel side. He's already killed one man in a duel.”

“Really? On what pretense?”

“Over the sale of a horse. He accused the other man of selling him a horse he knew to be permanently lame.” She furrowed her brow. “He's dangerous when he believes he's been crossed.”

Charles was warmed by her concern for him. “Miss Martha, I'm sorry if I brought you any distress.” A pause. “Uh … are they going to be married—Lee and Miss Katherine?”

“I hope so,” the young girl replied. “It would serve her right.”

He grinned. “A little sisterly animosity?”

“No, truthfulness.”

The word brought him up short. He stopped walking. “Uh … Miss Martha, I'd appreciate it, when I meet the other ladies, if there's no more talk of Yorktown.”

She gazed up at him through those lovely blue eyes. Admiringly. “Your modesty becomes you, Mr. Dewey.”

Charles swallowed hard. “Yes, well…”

Martha smiled at him. “Very well, Mr. Dewey, no more talk of Yorktown,” she promised.

They arrived at a second group of women. Martha introduced him and then led him away to yet another knot of ladies. And another. And another, until Charles was certain that he had met every lady of the congregation.

Finally they stood alone under a large tree at the edge of the churchyard.

“Thank you, Miss Martha,” he said, “for being so kind to me.”

She didn't answer him, looking shyly at the ground.

He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “You're very beautiful.” The words were tender.

Martha's reply was an almost imperceptible squeeze of the hand, but she kept her eyes downcast, not looking at him. Her shyness made her even more appealing to him.

“Well, there you are!” MacCallum's cheery voice broke the spell of the moment. “Miss Martha, your father has asked me to tell you that he's ready to leave. Would you inform Miss Katherine, please?”

Charles watched her leave, and turned to MacCallum with an embarrassed laugh. “Brewing?”

“Most definitely
yes!
” The tutor wasn't happy. “It seems that my warnings fell on deaf ears. Your little encounter with Funston has now made the rounds of the entire congregation.” He was angry.

“I think
encounter
is too strong a word.”

“To young Lee it was an encounter. Believe me!” Andrew sighed. “And then you top it off with a hand-holding
tête-à-tête
with an unchaperoned young lady—” He threw up his hands.

“You're exaggerating the whole thing,” Charles insisted defensively. “We were just standing here. It was innocent.”

MacCallum shrugged. “I'll accept your protestations of innocence, but others may not.” Another sigh and the tutor clapped Charles on the back. “Come—we're all to dine at Marsh Run.”

“Marsh Run?”

“The John Lee estate. Mr. Statler has accepted an invitation for Sunday dinner.”

Charles blanched. “Oh, God!”

“Exactly.” But Andrew was smiling again. “This time, my impetuous young Frenchman, stay by my side, speak discreetly only when spoken to, and keep your hands to yourself.”

“Agreed.”

V

D
EWEY'S
forced semisilence at Marsh Run gave him an opportunity to observe a traditional Sabbath dinner on a Virginia plantation. There were other guests besides the Statler entourage: other planters and their wives and children, plus the Reverend and Mrs. Smith. Twenty-seven in all.

And there were surprises. John Lee, although a bit loud, was a gracious host, presiding over a truly sumptuous meal: beef, ham, wild turkey, goose, half a dozen different vegetables (including the bitter greens, identified this time as “collards”), a bewildering choice of wines, and a delicious frozen dessert that Lee called “ice cream.”

(Charles didn't know—and Lee probably didn't, either—that ice cream had long been a delicacy in France; but not in the society of one Charles Dupree.)

Mrs. Lee, too, was a surprise. When he had been introduced to the ladies at the church, Charles had not met Mrs. Lee. He wondered why. Now, at dinner, he found that John's wife was a frail woman, her face drawn as if in constant pain, her hair nearly white, and she was confined to a chair to which wheels had been attached, a blanket covering her legs. Mrs. Lee was not introduced to Dewey, and she said not a word. Charles surmised that the woman was unable to speak.

She had been pushed to the table in her wheeled contraption by a light-skinned Negro serving girl—a tall, slim young woman of considerable beauty.

Later, when the men retired to Lee's drawing room for brandy, the light-skinned girl was there again, serving the liquor. It was in that circumstance that Charles learned her name: Melody. It fit her. The few words she had to speak in the course of her duties were delicate, almost musical. He found himself following her moves about the room. She was the kind of woman who captured the eyes, holding them prisoner.