Bon Marche (15 page)

Scowling, Funston reached into his pocket, coming out with some money, counting bills into Charles's outstretched hand. He said not a word.

Dewey turned on his heel, moving quickly to where Rebirth was being unsaddled. “Is he well?”

“Exhausted,” Statler answered, “but he doesn't appear to be in any distress.”

“Thank God.”

MacCallum tapped Charles on the arm. “What was all that about?” he asked, pointing to the Lee group.

“Oh, that? I was just collecting my wager. A hundred pounds.”

“A hundred pounds!” Andrew was aghast. “Where did you get a hundred pounds to bet?”

“I didn't have a hundred pounds.”

“But if you had lost—”

Dewey shrugged. “I would have thought of something.”

Statler, laughing uproariously, gathered Charles into his arms, hugging him tightly. “Son, you've learned more than one lesson today.” He looked at the tutor. “What say you now, Mr. MacCallum?”

“I'd say the both of you have lost your minds.” But Andrew was smiling.

Katherine rushed onto the scene, trailed by Martha. “Oh, Charles,” the elder sister gushed, “it was such a masterful ride!” She tried to put her arms around him, but Charles evaded her and walked to Martha. Very deliberately.

“This, I believe, belongs to you,” he said, taking her handkerchief from his sleeve, returning it to her. “Perhaps you will lend it to me again, on another day, when I need the blessings of your luck.”

“It will always be available to you,” she answered shyly.

He bent and kissed her softly on the lips. “I'll count on it.”

Katherine's face darkened. She turned angrily toward the Lee party, where Falconry was now on his feet, the grooms rubbing him with wet cloths. But before she had taken half a dozen steps in the direction of Funston, he was otherwise engaged. Two young women had come up to him, giggling coyly. And Lee walked off, one admirer on each arm, toward the refreshments pavilion.

“It's the defeated warrior who needs the solace,” he said loudly. “You
are
offering solace, aren't you?”

The Petersburg ladies giggled again.

9

R
EBIRTH
is what happened at Elkwood in Goochland County, Virginia. Part of it on the racing prowess of a bay horse by that name, and part of it on the unstinting endeavors of the human participants in the drama of making the plantation what it was before the war. And even more than it had been.

Marshall Statler spared neither personal effort nor money in his determination to bring renewed greatness to Elkwood. And side by side with him worked a young orphan of uncertain parentage, a deserter from the French navy, who called himself Charles Dewey.

A total stranger coming to the plantation in 1783 or 1784 would have immediately concluded that Charles was the natural son of the master of Elkwood. Their affection for each other was readily apparent. Charles had taken on the mannerisms of Statler—the way he talked, the way he gave orders, the way he smiled and frowned. His speech patterns were also Statler's, and little by little, the French accent was being buried in the soft drawl of Virginia.

In his second year at the plantation, Charles was given the position of horse manager, and all of his energies were channeled in that direction. He no longer had the time, nor the patience, for that matter, to teach French to the Statler sisters, but he made certain that his own education went forward—not in a classroom but through books Andrew MacCallum ordered for him from Philadelphia and New York and London.

And he had money of his own now, his purse starting with the winning of the audacious wager with Funston Lee in the spring of 1782 and fattened with a share of all the winnings of the Elkwood racehorses after that. In clear reality, Statler had made Charles his partner in the horse business.

Dewey didn't squirrel his money away. He purchased several blooded broodmares in his own name. In 1784, he helped to finance a syndicate of Virginia horsemen who imported the English sire, Medley. That stallion, moved to a different farm each year for breeding purposes, would stand his third season at Elkwood. Medley's predominantly gray get were most impressive.

Charles would further the horse business more than Statler had dared hope. He persuaded his patron to let him have three black lads as full-time jockeys so that he would not have to rely on the part-time riders they had been using from among the field hands. The experiment was a twofold success. Negro boys on the plantation could now look forward to some hope, to some goal in life, even though still slaves. That hope permeated the entire plantation, resulting in fewer conflicts with the overseers and fewer appeals by slaves to Statler's informal court of last resort.

Charles trained the young jockeys carefully, even supervising their diets. In sum, Elkwood had the best race riders in Virginia—making Elkwood the biggest winner at the Virginia tracks. And bringing more money to Charles Dewey.

Money, while he didn't hesitate to risk it on wagers or the purchase of horses, represented an important goal for him.

He wanted to marry.

II

“W
HY
?” Charles asked her.

“Pure selfishness,” Martha replied, smiling sweetly at him. “I decided that Katherine had controlled my life long enough. That I deserved to have what I wanted for a change. And”—she hesitated—“I wanted you. Katherine's Christmas night affair, I decided selfishly, wasn't going to deprive me.”

“I'm glad,” Dewey said, surprised by her candor.

It was the weekend following the Petersburg Cup race, a hot late-June Saturday, and they were going on a picnic. By themselves. Where, they didn't know, but they followed the meandering course of the James.

It was the small grove of wild cherry trees that welcomed them finally, the land sloping off gradually down to the river. The trees formed an arbor of sorts, a natural retreat for them.

They watered the horses when they got there, tethering them where they could graze without the need for further care. Martha spread a tablecloth on the grass and set out a feast from the basket they had carried with them: fresh bread, cheese, jam, cured ham, cold chicken, wine. It was an idyllic setting, and they ate with hardly a word being spoken. It seemed not a moment for words.

The sun was directly above them as they ate, and when they had finished, they stretched out on the grass, looking up through the branches at the cloudless blue sky, their fingers touching. Content. They might even have dozed for a moment or two. Then Charles rolled over, his face above Martha's, and kissed her gently.

“You're the loveliest thing I've ever seen,” he whispered.

She smiled at him. “There are a lot of things, dear Charles, that you haven't seen.”

“Maybe. But I can't even imagine that anything lovelier could exist.”

“Not even a blooded horse,” she teased.

He thought for a moment. “Which one?”

Their laughter echoed through the glade.

Martha pulled his head down on her breast. He could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, and he began to hum to its cadence.

“What
are
you doing?” she giggled.

“I'm singing the song of your heartbeats.”

“Are there any words to the song?”

A hesitation. “Yes.”

“What are they?”

“I love you.”

“Only that?”

“No other words matter.”

More silence passed between them—lovely, contented, happy silence. And they dozed again in the heat of the afternoon.

When Charles awoke he was thirsty. Coming to his feet, he stretched languidly. “Do you want to walk to the river?” He reached out for her, pulling her up to him, kissing her, holding her tightly.

Hand in hand they strolled down to the water. Charles dropped to his knees, made a cup of his hands, and drank from the clear river. “Come on,” he said, inviting her to join him.

“You drink like an animal, and I'm not an animal.”

“Oh, but you are!” He laughed at her. “You're my favorite animal.
Homo sapiens,
the wise and intelligent animal. Female branch, of course.”

“Of course.” She laughed, too—it was so easy to laugh—as she got down beside him and also drank.

“The water's pleasant,” he said.

“Hmmm.”

“Warm enough to swim.” He began to take off his boots.

“Charles—”

“I've decided to go swimming.”

She affected a pout. “And leave me sitting here on the bank?”

“No, I think you ought to join me.”

Martha just watched him as he quickly stripped off his clothing and stood naked by the side of the river. With no embarrassment. Lithe and muscular and proud.

“I'll wait for you,” he said as he dived into the slowly moving current and, with easy strokes, swam to the middle of the stream. He waved to her. “Come on!”

With less assurance, Martha also removed her clothes. Charles watched her from the river. And he gasped at the beauty of her—the perfect symmetry of her form, the firm, full, high breasts, the creamy smooth skin—as she stood momentarily in the bright sunlight and then walked into the water to be with him.

They frolicked like young otters, diving and surfacing and splashing and touching and kissing and laughing. For more than a half-hour they were aquatic beings—the only aquatic beings in the world. Finally, they made for the bank, Charles offering her a hand to bring her out of the water into his arms. He kissed her passionately.

Slowly they sank to the grass, not letting go of each other, and made love so naturally, so effortlessly, that it seemed the act had been created for that moment. They stretched out, in time, to let the sun dry them.

“Charles?”

“Hmmm.”

“Ought we think about getting back?”

“To where?” he asked

Martha's tinkling laughter filled the grove. “To home, of course.”

“I
am
home.”

“Charles, dear, be serious.” She glanced at the sun's westward course. “If we're not back by nightfall, Father will be concerned.”

He groaned. “I suppose we ought to be practical, but I don't want to be. The way I feel now I don't ever want to be practical again.”

“It
is
lovely here.” She traced little designs on his chest with her fingers, kissing him as she did.

“What do you think your father will say?”

“About what?” she asked.

“When I tell him I want to marry his daughter.”

“Don't you think you ought to ask the daughter first?”

Charles grinned at her. “A detail.”

“Charles Dewey!” She punched him playfully.

He sobered. “Miss Martha Statler, will you be my wife?”

“Yes.”

“And have my babies?”

“Dozens.”

“And be my lover for life?”

“Your lover for life,” Martha pledged.

III

“I
MUST
admit that the prospect is pleasing to me,” Marshall Statler said, “but I cannot agree to it.”

Dewey was shocked. “Why not, sir?”

“Because the two of you are too young for marriage. You're … uh … what?”

“Nineteen.”

Statler smiled tolerantly. “But not quite, eh?”

“I may be older. I just don't know.”

“Let me be charitable,” the master of Elkwood went on, “and agree that you are nineteen. It's a fact that Martha is just turned sixteen. I'd be a poor father if I agreed to her marriage at that age.”

Charles's face was sullen.

“There's another problem: My elder daughter is not yet married. It's my belief that she deserves the first opportunity to be married.”

“Is that fair?”

The question rankled Statler. “Whether you believe it fair or not, that's the way it shall be!”

“I'm sorry, sir.” Charles wanted no break with his benefactor. “I didn't mean to be disrespectful.”

“Of course you didn't, son.” Statler came close to where Charles was sitting and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “There are times, Charles, when it's difficult to be a parent. I only wish their mother were here now.” A pause. “But I must run this family as best I know how, and I believe strongly that my elder child must have some preference.”

“Yes, sir.” Charles carefully pondered his next words. “Isn't it possible, though, that Miss Katherine might … uh … delay marriage? Or not marry at all?”

Statler laughed. “Katherine? I would think that highly unlikely. Young Lee, after all, is paying court to her now.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a strained break in the conversation.

“I don't want you to take offense, Charles,” Statler began again, “but I must ask that you not force my hand in this matter. I would be most distressed—most distressed!—if I were presented with a
fait accompli.
”

“Sir?”

“If Martha became pregnant, to put a candid face on it.”

Dewey said nothing.

“Ought I be distressed now?”

“Oh, no, sir. It's just that—”

“Son, don't imagine that you're the first young buck who's been in love and felt the … urgings of that love. I had those same feelings—God, it seems so long ago—and I understand how you feel now. But the fact remains: I can't agree to your marriage to Martha at this time. I must insist that Katherine marry first.”

IV

T
HE
stresses of Marshall Statler's decision were felt by all.

By Martha:
“We'd be married now if it weren't for
you,
” she blurted one day when Katie teased her about Charles. “It's the fault of your on-again-off-again affair with that ass Funston!”