MY THEODOSIA (4 page)

'Sir!' Aaron leapt to his feet. 'You forget yourself!' His voice, scarce raised, yet sounded through the tavern like a thunderclap.

Men sat up, murmuring. Garson shrank, his dark skin glistening.

'I—I meant no harm, Colonel,' he babbled. 'I apologize. It was the spirits.'

Aaron's nostrils dilated, but his look became less menacing 'I accept your excuse. Remember'—his piercing gaze swept the whole company—'no man may make light of my
daughter's name without having me to reckon with. And I am not unhandy with the pistols.'

No one spoke. Aaron relaxed. 'Come, gentlemen,' he cried, with perfect good-humor, 'another bumper all around. Brom Martling, see to it for me. I must go now. I bid you all good day.'

As the heavy oak door swung to behind him, Garson grumbled, 'How did I know he would be so touchy?'

'Tis the only subject on which he's touchy,' said young Van Ness, with swift loyalty. 'Usually he has the temper of an angel.'

'He's fair daft about that girl of his,' went on Garson, still smarting. 'It seems scarcely natural.'

'Oh, he's natural enough,' snorted Matthew Davis. 'He's a great dog with the ladies. Ten to one, he's gone off now to visit that blue-eyed wench he's keeping on South Street. The lucky beggar—she has one of the trimmest ankles I've ever seen. Though I remember once, when I was in Albany, walking down State Street, the door of one of the houses opened, and I said to myself..'. He meandered on through one of his interminable stories, but this time the Colonel had gone, and nobody listened.

A
ARON
had not gone to South Street, however, nor even thought of it. Little Sally Martin, with her dovelike compliance and devoted eyes of a water spaniel, was useful only as an occasional physical necessity. Brothels offended his fastidiousness, and lately he had not had the time to undertake the complicated and protracted pursuit expected by ladies of fashion. Sally was merely a stopgap. Inexpensive and cozy as a cup of tea—and equally unintoxicating.

Aaron's mind, this morning, was concerned with far more interesting matters. He guided Selim up Broadway at a walk. The stallion's shoes rang on the cobblestones, raising little puffs of malodorous dust, detouring a yapping dog-fight and piles of garbage where pigs rooted, grunting happily. Aaron drew him aside at the sound of a musical horn, to let the Boston Mail go by. He was pleased to see the lumbering
coach. It meant letters and newspapers from New England, more news of the political situation.

He turned west on Chambers Street, then north on the Greenwich Road, spurring Selim to a canter now that the cobblestones were left behind. Two miles brought him near Greenwich Village. He passed a handful of wooden houses without seeing them, turning thankfully through the iron gates of Richmond Hill.

The stable-boy rushed up at the sound of hoofs. Aaron mechanically threw him the reins, peering over his head for the small figure that usually came flying down the steps to greet him.

'Has Miss Burr gone out, Dick?'

The man muttered. He wanted his dinner and could not leave until Minerva was back and properly rubbed down. 'Been gone since eight, sir, on the gray mare, and yesterday she was gone all morning, and the day before...'

'Thank you, that will do'. Aaron's quiet voice struck him like a brick.

He opened his mouth, shut it again, and stalked sulkily away with Selim.

Aaron walked thoughtfully up the white steps. So the child was up to something, perhaps, after all. He had heard a rumor. Someone had seen her talking to a youth in the Jones Woods. He had dismissed it as ridiculous. He still thought it unlikely. But in any event he was not much disturbed. She was not one of your giddy little flibbertigibbets. All the same, it was surprising, and Aaron was seldom surprised. As in chess, a game in which he excelled, he found it easy to anticipate his opponent's campaign of play, keeping always two, three, or more moves ahead of him. But Theo was not an opponent. She was flesh of his flesh, an infinitely dear projection of himself.

Frowning, he walked down the white-paneled, picture-hung hallway to his library, and relaxed with the thrill of sensuous pleasure the room always gave him. The stoic and the voluptuary lived amicably side by side in his soul. He could be perfectly indifferent to his surroundings, and indeed, upstairs in his bedchamber he slept on a camp cot, and with no other furnishings except a table, chair, and commode.

But this library was his delight. He had added it himself to the back of the house, when, in 1791, he had acquired the lease to this mansion which had housed the John Adamses and General Washington.

It was a spacious room, with three tall windows that gave eastern and southern light. The walls were lined to shoulder height with books, shipload after shipload of them from the presses of England and France. Soft creamy vellum bindings alternated with the dead leaf-brown of calfskin. Their musty odor of ink and old leather pervaded the room like incense.

The polished oak floor was all but hidden by an ingrain carpet, warmly red, decorated with scattered fleurs-de-lis. Ardent francophile that he was, Aaron had snapped it up at an auction, and had often been sardonically amused at the horror this royalist emblem excited in some of his friends. His convictions, and his interests, were republican enough, but he was no fanatic, and a beautiful carpet was a beautiful carpet.

There were two library tables, a sprinkling of lyre-backed chairs, and a sofa, upholstered in crimson satin, from the fashionable workshop of Duncan Phyfe. An elegant little 'traveling-case' on wheels stood near the door, complete with tea caddies and liquor bottles for the refreshment of guests.

The north wall was given over to an enormous fireplace, its wooden mantel painted white and carved with the classic egg-and-dart design. Two'Sèvres vases stood upon it, the blues and golds of their porcelain lustrous as jewels. And above them hung a portrait of Theodosia at fourteen. Gilbert Stuart had painted it, and Aaron had been none too pleased with the result. It had caught her dimpled prettiness and the sweet gravity of her face in repose, but failed entirely to give any hint of her vivacity and sparkle. "Tis a namby-pamby, bread-and-butter miss you have made of her,' he told Stuart, whose touchy vanity was thereby so outraged that they had no more dealings with each other.

Still Aaron kept it there until such time as young Vanderlyn could produce a better likeness. He glanced at the picture now, meditatively, seated himself at his writing-table, pulled a sheaf of letters to him, and picked up his quill pen.

In a few minutes there came a timid knock at the door and Natalie's high accented voice. 'May I speak with you a moment, Papa Burr?'

He rose with instant courtesy, thrusting his pen into its ruby-colored glass of shot. Natalie slid into the room twisting her fingers nervously. He settled her on a chair and reseated himself. 'What is it, Natalie? What is troubling you?'

He smiled kindly at the girl, thinking that it was a pity she was not prettier, though she had a certain style with her retroussé nose and tiny pursed mouth, and she did manage to coax her light nondescript hair into a chic coiffure. She wasn't a Frenchwoman for nothing.

'It's ... it's about Theo,' she faltered.

His eyelids flickered, but his warm smile remained unchanged. 'Well, what about Theo? Come, child, you act like a flushed partridge. Out with it.'

Natalie gulped and in one excited breath went on: 'This morning, she—she said she had rendezvous with a'andsome young man, but she was not even sure of his name. I could not believe my ears. I tried to stop her, of course, but she would not listen. She ran from me, toute étourdie, laughing comme une folle. I—I thought I must tell you.'

Aaron nodded, his eyes sympathetic. 'You did quite right, my dear,' while he suppressed laughter that would have hurt the earnest and estimable Natalie. So that was all it was. An escapade, a piece of light-hearted foolishment, or she would never have told Natalie.

They both turned at sounds outside, Minerva's unmistakable whinny, then Theo's clear voice, asking eagerly, 'Is Colonel Burr at home yet?'

Natalie rose hastily. 'You won't scold her too much today, will you? It is her jour de fête.'

'I shall not scold her,' said Aaron gravely, 'too much'. Amusement twitched at his mouth as Natalie escaped.

He stood quietly waiting, as light footsteps ran down the hall toward him.

Theo burst in, stumbling a little over her flowing skirt. 'Oh, I'm so sorry I was not here to greet you! And, Papa, thank you, thank you for the exquisite present'. She flung her arms about his neck, pressing her warm young cheek to his.

'I'm glad you like it, child. It should suit you'. He encircled her chin with his hand, tilting her head back to search her face. Her eyes, brilliant and unshadowed, met his with loving candor.

'Did you enjoy your ride?' he asked quietly, but there was meaning in his tone.

Theo's tiny white teeth caught her underlip. She lowered her lashes, half-guilty, half-laughing. So he knew. It never occurred to her to wonder how. Sooner or later he always knew everything, anyway.

'Well, I did, and I didn't,' she answered, choosing her words. 'You see, the other day...'

'You needn't tell me,' he struck in, smiling. 'You have my most perfect trust, as you know'. He touched her smooth hair in a brief caress.

Suddenly she averted her face. Slow red washed over her neck and up to the curly auburn bang on her forehead.

Aaron stared. His intuition, always sensitive, was triggerquick where Theo was concerned. Damme if I don't believe the minx has been kissed. A surface cynicism masked a disagreeable sense of shock. Imperceptibly his whole body stiffened. 'But tell me this, Theo. Will you be riding that way again?' His tone was casual, though he watched her narrowly, intent to catch any secrecy or subtle withdrawal in those transparent features.

And there was none. Her color had ebbed. She perfectly understood the meaning behind his question. She gave her little gurgle of amusement, shook her head. 'No, I shall not ride that way again. On the whole, I find the—the landscape not to my liking.'

'Ah-—' said Aaron, satisfied. He reached over the table, flipped open his silver snuffbox, took a pinch with a well-kept thumb and forefinger, and sniffed it delicately. 'Run along now, Miss Prissy'. He seldom called her by her childish nickname any more, and she smiled quick response. 'I'll let you off your studies today,' he went on. 'Go and prepare yourself for the party. You must look your loveliest. There will be a rare gathering to do you honor.'

When she had gone, he sat quietly at the table, thinking. He appraised Theo's little amourette at its exact worth. Some momentary flirtation, already finished, and leaving her as innocent and unawakened as she had been before. He had been far too wise to force her confidence. To make much of the episode might have lit the spark of perversity that dwelt in every female breast—even hers. Besides, it was not necessary. The chapter was closed, he knew with sure instinct.

But there would be a next time, that was the trouble.

Some obnoxious booby would come along with sheep's eyes and a persuasive tongue to lure Theo into the scalding cauldron of passion. And no one knew better than Aaron that girls, unguided except by their passions, ever entangled themselves with the least desirable men.

He must at all costs protect her from that. He got up, paced back and forth on the carpet. He hadn't realized it, but she was ripe for mating. Already some of her contemporaries were married. Early and brilliant marriage was the crowning accomplishment for a woman.

True, there had been suitors buzzing around her of late, but they were all nonentities. He had not given them a serious thought. Theo must have a husband worthy of her, and worthy of marrying a Burr. And it must be a husband of his choosing, for did he not know, far better than she could know herself, what would be best for her? Had he not from her earliest infancy guided her thoughts, formed her character, and supervised nearly every hour of her blossoming life?

He turned with sudden resolution, went to a mahogany highboy, and, taking a small brass key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer. He took from it a large envelope marked 'A,' and carried it to his writing-table. There were a number of letters inside and a sheet of paper covered with his own small, precise writing.

The paper was headed 'Joseph Alston,' and continued through a complete record of memoranda. 'Born: Charleston, November 10th, 1779.—Attended Princeton for one year, 1795. No great scholar.—Three plantations and two estates. Probable net income in excess of forty thousand per annum.—Of an outwardly arrogant and overbearing disposition, but in reality very easily led.—Healthy and well set up. Not unduly addicted to strong drink or venery'. And so on, to the bottom of the crowded page.

Aaron read it all over again, very slowly, and his eyes were inscrutable.

T
HE
guests began arriving at half-past three. The stamping of horses, the creaking of cabriolet wheels, the squeal of brakes on a heavy coach, all floated up through Theodosia's open window. She listened to the delightful bustle and fumed with impatience to be part of it.

She dearly loved the excitement of anticipation, the beginnings of things: parties, trips, or weightier projects. She was never quite to lose that breathless certainty of youth that
this
time something magical would happen, the decisive something for which she dimly longed.

Adonis, the fashionable coiffeur specially fetched from Pearl Street for the occasion, held his tongs near his sweating black cheek to test their heat, and his deliberateness exasperated Theo.

'Do hurry, Adonis,' she pleaded. 'People are arriving.'

The old negro threw a contemptuous glance toward the window. 'Jus' Republican canaille, mamselle—don' know better zan be early. What do zey know of etiquette?' He snorted, twisting and snipping expertly at Theo's hair. 'Parvenus! Like zat Josephine Beauharnais over in France now, pretending she be somebody. I see her many times in Martinique. Pfoui! Running after any planter who would look at her—no better zan a trollop.'