Bon Marche (17 page)

C
HARLES
never would have admitted it, but the wedding day was a disappointment. So much effort had gone into the planning that the day itself seemed an anticlimax.

True, it was a day of beauty. The weather was superb. A Philadelphia decorator had turned the huge entrance hall into an exquisite wedding chapel filled with a wide variety of flowers and plants. And Martha, in her white Paris wedding gown of lace and silk and velvet, couldn't have been lovelier. Somehow, though, Dewey just walked through the ceremony, almost disinterested.

He would confess later to Andrew that he could remember clearly only one thing about the day: Martha's glowing face as they exchanged vows in front of the Reverend Mr. Smith. Andrew would reassure him, “Had I been in your circumstance, old friend, that's the one thing I'd want to remember. She was
so
beautiful.”

Perhaps it was the crush of the wedding guests that disconcerted him, or the overexuberance displayed by Statler all day long, or the nervous wait he had while Katherine and Funston were married. Whatever it was, he had expected something else that he couldn't enunciate. And didn't find.

It turned into a long day, with too lavish a buffet dinner, too many toasts with French champagne, and too many gifts to be opened and fussed over.

Darkness had come before Charles and Martha could leave the Elkwood mansion to go to their unfinished cottage on the edge of the plantation, sitting on a knoll overlooking the James River. The blacks had worked hard to finish enough of their new home so that they could spend their wedding night there. In the morning, they were to leave for a honeymoon trip to Philadelphia, and the rest of the house would be completed by the time they returned.

They drove along a new road leading to the cottage in a small open cart, Martha nestled against him, and Charles holding the reins lightly.

“I thought of you last night,” he said softly, “or perhaps I dreamed it, of you walking into the river to come to me.”

“I remembered that, too, last night.”

“Did you, really?”

“Uh-huh. And I remembered making love to you that first time. And I wished, right then, that I would be transported to
this
moment—going to my new home with my darling Charles.” She giggled. “I was also wishing that you'd come to my room right then.” Her arms went around his neck, and she kissed him again and again..

“You have a naughty streak in you.” He laughed.

“I do. I admit I do.” She kissed him once more.

“Was the day all you expected?” he asked.

“Oh, Charles dear, it was lovely!”

He sighed. “And a bit tiring.”

“That, too. But the best part of the day is still to come—when I can go to bed with Mr. Charles Dewey, my husband. And love him and love him and love him.” Martha snuggled even closer to him.

He clucked to the horse for more speed.

11

A
DVERSITY
was not a stranger to Dewey. Having been born to it, he had learned to anticipate it, to ready himself for it, to turn it aside, even to bend it to his advantage. That was a strength of his character. Yet he wanted to believe that adversity was not a necessity of living; that, given reason and rationality, the seeds of adversity need not be sown. And that desire to believe was a weakness.

Within twenty-four hours of his return to Elkwood after the honeymoon, and after the return of Funston and Katherine from a similar trip to Charleston, Charles learned that reason was not a weapon he could use with Lee. The young Virginia gentleman who was now his brother-in-law had no desire to be rational. He proved it with one impetuous act.

Charles's three young Negro jockeys, who had been under his guidance for nearly two years, were suddenly reassigned to the ranks of the field hands.

“It's my clear duty,” Lee told him coldly, “to manage this estate. And I've decided that the special treatment allowed for those three can only cause feelings of resentment among the other nigras. Resentment can boil over into other trouble, and I'll not have any trouble among the blacks on this plantation.”

Charles tried to remain calm. “That has not been the case here, Funston. The other slaves find some joy, some hope, in the good things that have happened to the jockeys.”

“You're naive.” Funston turned to leave. “My decision will stand.”

Charles reached out, grabbing Lee's arm. “One moment! You speak of duty. Well, I have a duty, too. I'm responsible for the breeding and racing interests of Elkwood. Those jockeys are necessary to those interests.”

Lee glared at Dewey, shaking his arm to loosen Charles's tight grip. “When they are needed at the races you will ask me to assign them to you.”

“And the grooms and handlers?”

“The same.”

“In other words, you're denying me the regular use of any of the Negroes in operating the horse business.”

“I'm simply controlling the use of the nigras as I see fit.” This time Lee managed to turn and walk away.

Charles had no choice but to go to Marshall Statler—with Lee—and ask him to mediate the dispute. In doing so he received his second shock of the day.

“I can understand that Funston must control the hands if he is to be manager of Elkwood,” Statler said.

“But, sir—”

“Hear me out,” Statler interrupted. “I can also understand that you, Charles, need the regular use of the experienced grooms and handlers and jockeys.” He turned to Lee. “I propose that those blacks be assigned permanently to Charles—that, to preserve the integrity of the racing operation, we sell to Charles what nigras he needs, for the token sum of one dollar each. Now, won't that solve this little impasse?”

“Hardly, sir,” Lee snapped. “You know as well as I do that selling those slaves for a token will merely put my accounts in arrears at the end of the year. If Dewey is to purchase those boys, I submit that he ought to pay full value for them.”

Charles was disgusted. “I was under the mistaken impression that Elkwood was to be a cooperative venture—”

“Now wait, Charles,” Statler interrupted once more. “Funston has a valid point. Are you able to make such a purchase?”

“Probably.”

“Well, then, isn't that the best way to proceed? You simply reach an agreement with Funston on the value of the hands you need, and that will settle it.”

“Will it?” Charles asked bitterly. “Am I to understand that all breeding and racing interests are no longer a part of Elkwood?”

“Of course they are,” Statler insisted. “But I think you'd be happy with a bit of autonomy in this matter.”

“If that's what you wish.”

Charles and Funston wrangled over the prices, with Statler only a spectator. Funston wanted more than Charles thought reasonable, but Dewey finally agreed to two hundred fifty English pounds for each of the three jockeys, and two hundred pounds each for six grooms and handlers. It would deplete his reserves rather drastically, but he had no choice in light of Statler's failure to back him.

In the next several days, he found himself paying for other necessities. Hay grown on Elkwood acres was sold to Charles; so, too, were oats. Dewey realized that he'd have to be totally self-sufficient on his six hundred acres, and he moved to acquire ten other Negroes—from an agent, not from Lee—as field hands to clear the acreage and put in crops of hay and oats for his horses.

In the midst of all of that there was the traumatic recognition that he was now a slaveholder! A thief of another man's labor. That phrase, coined by Mr. Jefferson, tumbled around in his mind, and gave him more than one sleepless night. So did the certain knowledge that Funston Lee had managed to cut him off from the day-to-day activities of Elkwood.

It wasn't the last of the adversities he was to face.

II

L
ESS
than a month after the weddings, Andrew MacCallum wound up his business at Elkwood and prepared to leave. Short of losing Martha, Charles could think of no worse loss. MacCallum, his tutoring no longer needed at the plantation, had made arrangements to return to New Jersey to teach at the college at Princeton.

Statler planned a lavish dinner to bid farewell to the young teacher, and many toasts were drunk, many kind words were said. They didn't change the reality of MacCallum's leaving.

After the dinner, Charles and Andrew strolled together across the broad lawn overlooking the valley behind the mansion.

“I don't know how I shall get along without your guidance, Andrew.”

“Nonsense,” the Scotsman said quietly, “you'll get along just fine.” He paused. “There'll come a time, though, when you'll find a need to leave, just as I have. When that time comes, Charles, I hope you won't hesitate. Elkwood and Mr. Statler have been good to you. But there's more to this world than Elkwood. And Marshall Statler.”

Charles laughed uneasily. “I think I've already discovered that.”

“Hmmm. I know it's a tutor's failing, but tonight, as I watched you and Statler at dinner, I was reminded of some words of Mr. Shakespeare:

“‘Men at some time are masters of their fates;

the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that Caesar?

Why should that name be sounded more than yours?

Write them together, yours is as fair a name;

sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;

weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em,

Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.'”

“You put me in important company,” Dewey commented soberly.

“Perhaps. But I want you to understand, my old friend, that your future doesn't lie in Caesar—in Statler. It lies in yourself. I'm convinced you have it in you to be an important man in this country, and that your future won't hinge on being here at Elkwood. With Caesar, so to speak.”

“I only hope I don't disappoint you, Andrew.”

“You won't, Charles, you won't.”

They embraced as brothers would embrace. And tears flowed unashamedly.

III

M
AC
C
ALLUM
had been gone only a few days when Dewey found himself wishing for his guidance. He had come into the little cottage after a long morning with the horses to find Katherine sitting at a table with Martha. The elder sister had been weeping; her clothes were disheveled, and there was an ugly purple bruise on her cheek.

“What—?”

“Funston has beaten her,” Martha started to explain, near tears herself.

Charles was annoyed. “Ought we be involved in this?”

“She's my sister, Charles.”

“Very well … what happened?”

“Funston went into a rage,” Katherine sobbed, “when he learned I wasn't pregnant.”

“That seems a poor excuse—”

“Oh, Charles,” his sister-in-law wailed, “it's more than that.” Her sobbing prevented her from continuing for several moments. “You see, he thought I was pregnant when we were married.”

Dewey groaned. “My relationship with your husband, Katie, is already strained. I think that whatever problems you have with him ought not to be brought into this house.”

“Charles, dear,” Martha pleaded, “hear her out.”

He shrugged.

Katherine drew a deep breath. “When you and Martha wanted to be married, and Father came to me asking about my marriage plans … well, I told Funston I was going to have a baby.”

“You lied to him?”

“Yes.”

“And when he found out the lie, he did that?” Charles pointed to her bruised face.

“Yes.”

“What would you have me do?” His disgust was evident in the tone of the question.

“Come back to Elkwood with me, and —”

Dewey cut her off. “No.”

“But I'm afraid of him!”

“Then go to your father,” Charles suggested. “He lives in the same household. This has nothing to do with Martha and me. I'll not have you loading your personal problems on us.”

Martha, in a quiet voice, spoke to him beggingly. “Isn't there
something
we can do, Charles?”

“Nothing! I'm not so sure, if you want my true feelings, that Funston wasn't within his rights. What you did, Katie, was despicable. I want no part of this! Now or in the future.”

Katherine sighed, got to her feet, and left the cottage. Through the window they could see her slowly walking along the road toward the mansion.

“Weren't you too hard with her?” Martha asked.

“Do you really think so?”

His wife thought for a moment. “Perhaps not. It's just that—”

Charles went to her and gathered her in his arms. “I don't want this to come between us, Martha. But the cold fact is that you're too forgiving. Have you forgotten what she tried to do to us?”

“No.” The reply was only a whisper.

“We'll not talk about this again.” He kissed her. “Do you agree?”

“Yes.” Again, very softly.

“Dear, sweet Martha, I love you so.”

“And I love you, Charles.”

“Then let's not risk that love by becoming involved in the insanities of those two.”

IV

A
SON
was born to Charles and Martha in the latter part of May 1787. In the first week of June, the Reverend Mr. Lawrence Smith officiated at a simple christening ceremony at Elkwood.

“What shall be the name of this child of Christ?” Mr. Smith asked.

“Franklin Dewey,” Charles answered proudly.

The minister dipped several fingers into a chalice of holy water and sprinkled it liberally on the baby's head, drawing a loud squall from the infant.

“I baptize you Franklin Dewey,” he intoned, “in the name of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom. And whatsoever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him.”