Bon Marche (11 page)

Darnell was instructed to keep the three horses in his barn until they were ready to return to the plantation, setting the scene for the next step in the horse-buying operation: a visit to the blooded horses—the racehorses—of a gentleman named Richard Shackelford, who had been recommended by John Lee.

Shackelford, when they made their way to his farm the next day, gave them no reason to believe that they were welcome. He was a tall, gaunt, pallid man. Irritable and humorless.

“Mr. Lee shouldn't have sent you to me,” he insisted. “I'm not a horse trader, sir. Indeed, my racing stable has been much affected by the war.”

Statler nodded sympathetically. “Colonel Tarleton made certain that mine was stripped of all its runners.”

“Most regrettable.” He spoke the words in such a manner that it was evident he didn't care at all what had happened to Statler's horses.

“I'm surprised, Mr. Shackelford, that Tarleton didn't pay you a visit.”

“He did. I was here. My horses weren't.” He volunteered no other information.

“And the animals of your neighbors?”

“My neighbors keep their own counsel, as I keep mine.”

Statler cleared his throat. “Might we impose on your kindness, sir, and ask to see your horses? Or would you prefer that we leave?”

“They've only just returned from the Shenandoah within the last few days.”

“Of course, if you feel that they can't be shown to their best advantage…”

Without giving Statler a reply, Shackelford led them to a barn, but he didn't invite them to go in. Instead, he had a whispered conversation with a black groom, who entered the barn and, one-by-one, brought the racehorses out and led them around a small paddock. In all, Shackelford showed them eleven horses in that manner. All were young—several yearlings were included, and none was over three.

“Impressive,” Statler commented. “None of racing age?”

“A few.”

“Any for sale?”

“No.”

Charles wondered why Statler persisted. There seemed no doubt that the surly horseman didn't want to sell, that he would have preferred that they leave. Statler recognized something, however, that Charles's inexperience didn't allow him to know—that Shackelford
was
a horse trader, despite his denial.

“I mean no disrespect, Mr. Shackelford, but I'm electing not to accept your ‘no.' I'm prepared to offer
hard
money for horses ready for the track.”

Statler paused to allow that fact to sink in. “In light of the … uh … strained economy of these days, perhaps we can strike a mutually satisfactory relationship in this matter. May I see your older horses?”

It appeared to Charles that Shackelford actually snarled. Whatever it was he did, he also gestured to the black groom, and another parade of horses was started.

This time Shackelford provided some information on pedigrees: a six-year-old chestnut horse by a son of Janus, out of a good racing mare owned by the Byrds of Westover; a seven-year-old bay of the Fearnought line, noted for stamina; a light gray, nearly white, five years old, by “Mr. Williamson's Arab.” In all, they were shown eight horses in training.

“Very nice, Mr. Shackelford,” Statler said, “very nice, indeed. The Fearnought, sir—how much?”

“Were he for sale, I'd have to ask six hundred.”

Statler smiled slightly. “And were he for sale, I'd offer four-fifty.”

“In what currency?”

“Gold sovereigns, naturally. Hard money, as I said. Were we talking Continental paper, your expressed valuation would be—what?—three or four thousand pounds? Or should I say dollars?” He laughed. “I'm never quite sure just how to make the transition from English to American money, in light of the rapid fluctuations in the value of our paper. But, sir, be assured that we
are
talking gold!”

Charles noticed that Shackelford's eyebrows twitched. Nevertheless, he said, “It's unfortunate the Fearnought's not for sale.”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” Statler replied, climbing aboard the wagon, gesturing to the others to follow.

The wagon was already moving when Shackelford called out to them, “What would you say to four-sixty, sir?”

The wagon was stopped.

“I'd say that it would be ten more sovereigns than I was prepared to pay.”

Shackelford scratched his head for a moment. “Gold immediately?”

“This very moment.”

The Charlottesville horseman nodded assent to the sale, somewhat sullenly, and the gold coins were counted from the strongbox.

Before the strange bargaining was ended, Statler had also bought the Arab gray as well as a muscular, untried three-year-old chestnut colt. He had spent a total of eight hundred seventy-five sovereigns. Only a few gold coins remained in the box.

Once more Statler asked that the horses be kept in Shackelford's barn until they returned for them.

When the wagon was driven out of sight of Shackelford, Statler broke into a gay laugh. “Did you see Charles's face, Andrew, during the bargaining?”

“Yes, sir,” the tutor answered, joining the laughter. “It was most expressive.”

Statler clapped Charles on the back. “Son, if you're ever going to be a horse trader you're going to have to learn to control what you say with your expressions. It was marvelous! I could read you like a book.” He continued to chuckle.

Feeling some embarrassment, Charles tried to mask it by also laughing. “I'll admit,” he said, “that I was mystified by your persistence when it seemed certain that Shackelford didn't want to sell anything.”

“Rule number one, son, is that there's not a horseman alive who's not in the business of selling when the price is right. Also, I did some reading of Shackelford's situation. For example, everyone has been a victim of the hard money distress brought on by the war. Could Shackelford have been an exception? Hardly.”

Statler went on: “Further, I reasoned that his ability to keep his horses out of the clutches of the British, especially Tarleton, was unique—that there had to be some method behind that uniqueness. Had he, perhaps, kept his horses by bribing Colonel Tarleton or one of his officers? If he did, it was with hard money, gold or silver. The English aren't fools. A bribe with Continental paper money would have been no bribe at all. Therefore, he could be—how shall I put this?—he could be
seduced
by gold, because he had none left. And gold immediately available. Cash on the barrel head, as it's said.

“Do you really believe he bribed the redcoats?” Charles asked.

“With all my heart. If he did send his horses to the Shenandoah Valley, as he claimed, it was more for show with his neighbors than to keep them out of English hands. His gold had already done that job for him. Now he was faced with the necessity of replacing some of his hard money, and he had only one commodity with which to do that: horses.” Statler grinned. “Believing that, my strategy was simple.”

The master of Elkwood sobered. “It may be, of course, that Mr. Shackelford will have the final laugh in this matter. My own hard money reserve is now badly depleted. And the horses we just bought might not be worth a damn.” He turned to the tutor. “What say you, Andrew?”

“I'm much taken with that Fearnought,” MacCallum replied with enthusiasm. “He's well put together. I think you've chosen wisely, sir.”

Statler laughed loudly again. “This Scotsman,” he said to Dewey, nodding toward Andrew, “has a fine eye for horses, a natural talent of selection that is wasted because, like many of his clansmen, he's close with his money. He loses heart when it comes to risking a pound or two. With all of his education—and I admire him for that—he's not learned how to find joy in backing his judgment of horses with a wager.”

“Mr. Statler's characterization of a wager as a pound or two,” MacCallum said to Charles, “is a bit off the mark, I'm afraid. A
hundred
pounds or two would be more accurate.” To Statler: “My joy, sir, is found in other pursuits.”

There was no rancor in the comments. It was all said in lighthearted fun.

“Sad, sad.” Statler shook his head in feigned distress. “Charles, my son, if you learn nothing else from our association, I shall make certain that you appreciate the challenge of matching horses with money. It may rank as a
noble
pursuit, and, believe me, it's most invigorating.”

He put his arm around young Dewey's shoulders. “Indeed, it's not unlike the satisfaction of being with an accommodating woman. And that, too, I'll wager, you'll understand for yourself someday.”

II

U
NDERSTANDING
?

It came unexpectedly.

Charles Dewey had had experience with women: the whores in the cribs along the waterfronts in the warships' ports-of-call. But he never had the enthusiasm for the sport that had been exhibited by the insatiable Captain de Boade. Certainly there was nothing tender about those recollections. And the sum of what might be called his emotional attachment to a female was his moment of innocent hand-holding with the lovely Martha Statler on that first Sunday at church.

Although he admired the beauty of her form, he didn't think of Martha in any erotic sense. Instead, it was Katherine Statler who stirred something illicit within him.

He was wary of her, knowing that she was capable of using him—her baiting of Funston Lee at his expense was reason enough for Charles's caution. But, that aside, he wondered about Katie's clearly evident desire, her seeming availability. Andrew had specifically warned him of that, but as time went on, he was asking questions of himself: Was the attention she showed him designed only to raise young Lee's hackles? Or was there something more to it?

If there was something more to it, Dewey thought, a liaison with Katherine would have distinct benefits at Elkwood. His ambition told him that. And as his ambition grew, his wariness of her diminished.

Perhaps the grand holiday dinner on his first Christmas at the plantation—the sumptuous wild game pie, the spicy jam cakes, the mouth-watering home-cured hams—had given him a false sense of well-being.

Or perhaps it was the almost hypnotic effect of the scented candles glowing among the boxwood sprigs that decorated the classical mantels of the mansion.

Or perhaps it was the sense of family he felt during the holiday entertainments provided by Statler's guitar playing and Katherine's clear soprano voice accompanied by Martha on the pianoforte.

Or perhaps it was the cheery heat of the yule log, decorated with holly, crackling on the hearth.

Or perhaps it was just because he had drunk too much wine.

Whatever it was—and it might well have been a combination of all of those things—he was totally at ease with Katherine that evening. No warning was conveyed to him by her numerous touches—on his arm, his hand, his cheek—or even by the lingering kiss she placed on his lips as she presented her gift to him: a rich wool muffler.

No warning. It all seemed so natural. So right.

The yule log consumed, the candles melted down in their pewter holders, the entertainment ended, Charles lay in his bed, more content than he had ever been. Hands linked behind his head, eyes staring at the ceiling, thoughts on his good fortune, he thanked his guardian spirit.

There was a tiny squeak as the door opened slowly. In the dim half-light a silhouette entered his room; he knew immediately that the shadow was Katherine. It was almost as if he had expected her. She came to him, her dainty perfume adding to the intoxication he already felt: from the wine, the food, the fire, the candles, the belonging.

“I came to wish you a proper merry Christmas,” she said softly.

Charles laughed. “Katie,
proper
is hardly the word to use under these circumstances.”

She sat on the edge of his bed; he could see that she wore only a cotton nightdress. “Are you really concerned with propriety?” she asked boldly.

“No,” he admitted. He was glad she was there.

A hand went to his cheek, so delicately he wasn't certain it was touching him. She leaned over him, her lips replacing the hand, and she kissed his cheek, his eyes, his chin, his mouth. Her arms went around his neck, imprisoning him, the kisses becoming passionate. Her fingers moved down his bare back. Enticingly.

Charles returned her kisses, matching her passion, gathering her roughly into his arms, pulling her tightly against him, feeling her small, firm breasts against his chest. He reached for the nightdress and started to pull it over her head. She helped him. With a great tug she tore it from her, ripping the cloth, dropping it to the floor. And she entwined herself with him, her hands roaming his body. He found her breasts with his mouth, his tongue bringing her nipples erect. Katherine moaned slightly, and, while he continued to kiss her there, she took hold of his hard penis, stroking it.

He thrust a hand between her legs, but as soon as he touched her soft, warm wetness, she pulled away from him. And when he attempted to roll over on her and gain control of the lovemaking, a kind of madness came over her. Katie fought him, while still holding his penis, manipulating it, faster and faster, with her strong fingers. As she brought him near a climax, he stopped struggling with her and allowed himself to explode in an ejaculation.

During all of that, not a word was spoken.

Katherine put her head on his chest, sighing deeply. Contentedly.

“You're a bitch,” he said with some heat.

“Hmmm.” She seemed unconcerned about his anger.

“I don't know why in the hell you came here!”

Katie affected a sultry whisper. “To satisfy you, dear Charles.” She was acting.

That made him more angry. “And what of allowing me to see to your satisfaction?”

“I've had my satisfaction, Charles.”