Bon Marche (58 page)

She lingered into May, and that's all it had been: a lingering.

The Deweys stood now, heads bowed in grief, as the Presbyterian minister from town intoned the words of the commitment ritual. And they watched as Franklin stepped forward to sprinkle a handful of earth into his wife's grave, the noise of it striking the wooden box seeming to thunder through Richie's Place.

Charles turned away from it—from the scene and the sounds—and shuddered. He had not wanted to be there. Mattie had insisted that he come.

He was not the Charles Dewey they had known. His hair was in disarray, there was a stubble of whiskers on his face. He had drawn an old tattered shawl about him, as if it was cold but this May day was warm. This Charles Dewey was a wraith, not a real man. And not a sober one, either. A drunken specter.

It was over.

Charles hurried away, ahead of the others.

“Grandfather, wait for me!”

The child's voice stopped him. Carrie ran up to him, taking his hand.

“Will you read to me, Grandfather?”

“Oh, Carrie, some other time, perhaps.”

Her sweet round face was troubled. “Don't you love me anymore, Grandfather?”

Dewey fell to his knees, gathering his granddaughter into his arms, hugging her tightly. “Of course I love you, Carrie.” A sob. “More than life itself.”

IV

“I
TELL
you, Franklin, it's not normal,” George was saying to his brother. “Father spends every waking moment with Carrie. She's his
only
interest.”

“You're overreacting.”

“Am I? It seems to me that, as Carrie's father, you'd be more concerned than the rest of us.”

“About what? Do you believe that Carrie's in any danger?”

“Of course not. But—”

“Are you worried about Father's sanity?”

“Well, it's—”

“Or would you rather have our Father the way he was at Amantha's funeral? Not caring about anything, sick with guilt about Richard's death, and drunk?”

“Of course I wouldn't!”

Franklin sighed. “Then leave it alone! I know this about it all: together they've saved each other. Little Carrie lost her brother and her mother in just a short period of time. Maybe she didn't understand it all, but I saw the grief in her. She turned to her grandfather, and he comforted her. On the other side of the coin, Father was convinced that he was responsible for Richard's drowning; he could find no reason to go on—with anything. Carrie gave him a reason.

“And have you seen what they've done together? I don't think I've ever seen a nine-year-old ride as well as Carrie does. And she reads better than most adults, and he has taught her skills in mathematics far above her age. She's interested in everything, because Father has made her interested: in trees and flowers and animals and the heavens and … my God, George, they've accomplished a miracle together!”

George wasn't fully convinced. “I don't know, Franklin. To me he seems to have withdrawn from the real world. I mean, President Monroe comes to Nashville, and he doesn't bother to accept the invitation to meet him. That's not Father, you know.”

“George, George, be realistic. While the President was here, he was being fawned over by Andy Jackson.” He laughed. “You know how Father would have reacted to that.”

“Yes, but—”

“You went to the reception for Monroe, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“So Bon Marché was adequately represented, it seems to me. And what did you learn from meeting Monroe?”

“Well, he was most impressive, Franklin. And Mary was much taken with what he said when he visited the Nashville Female Academy. She tells me that the President expressed the view that women have the same claims on education and opportunities for gain as do the men.”

Franklin laughed loudly. “Be careful, George. That sounds like dangerous talk to me. Mary may decide that she wants to wear trousers.”

“Damn you!”

His brother continued to laugh. “No offense, George. But I don't really think Father missed anything by not meeting Monroe, do you?”

“Perhaps not,” George admitted sullenly.

“And as for his … uh … preoccupation with Carrie, perhaps you ought to leave that to me, eh?” He quickly changed the subject. “That Sir Archie–Matilda colt—have you decided on a name for him?”

“Sir Matt, I believe. He's going to be a good one, Franklin. And I thought Mattie might be please with the name. I remember how delighted she was when Matilda…”

V

M
ATTIE
was pleased with the colt's name, but not with what Charles had presented to her as a
fait accompli.

“Charles! One hundred thousand dollars! And in an enterprise in which you have no experience!”

“I trust August,” he replied.

“So do I! And I have no basic objection to investing in your children's—
our
children's —enterprises. But a hundred thousand dollars in a newspaper in St. Louis, and established as a trust for Carrie! I don't see the need for it. August has money of his own, and it seems to me that if there is to be a trust fund set up in any newspaper operations, August and Louise ought to do it for their own daughters.”

“August was willing to let me in on this,” Charles tried to explain.

“And you could think of nothing but to involve Carrie's future in what can be no more than a very risky venture?”

“Carrie's future is important to me.”

“And to me, Charles. But I think you should realize that Carrie has a father! A perfectly capable father. You can't be everything to that child, Charles. Not grandfather, father, mother, and now
banker
to her. There has to be a limit!”

Charles had heard enough. “The commitment has been made,” he said quietly, determinedly. “Carrie Dewey is now the half owner of a newspaper in St. Louis.”

Mattie sighed. “I don't know why I try to talk to you anymore.”

She went to the window of the drawing room, staring out at Bon Marché. Charles Dewey had built what she was looking at—with her help, of course. But it had been his vision, his determination, his wealth that had built it.

Turning, she went back to the chair opposite her husband. “There is one other thing I think we ought to talk about, Charles.”

He nodded.

“It's the Princess,” she frowned.

“Oh, I was under the impression that the theater was going quite well.”

“The
theater
is fine, but—”

Dewey was suddenly angry. “If that bastard Ludlum has—”

“Charles, please! Can't you ever let me finish a thought?”

“I'm sorry. Please go on.”

“It's not Ludlum, Charles, but Alma May. There have been entirely too many stories of her escapades in Nashville. She's been seen in the company of other men at numerous taverns, in circumstances that are less than discreet.”

“Gossip?”

“Unfortunately, no. Two nights ago Louise saw her going into the City Hotel, quite intoxicated, in the company of two men, also drunk. Louise followed her in and saw her disappear up the stairs to the rooms.” Mattie screwed up her face in disgust. “Of course, Louise was in no position to follow her farther.”

“The men? Did Louise recognize them?”

“No, it was quite late and dark.”

“And Ludlum? What of him?”

“I don't know.” She looked at him pleadingly. “I was hoping, Charles, that you could investigate this thing. If the Princess is in trouble—”

“Of course. I was thinking of taking Carrie to Nashville anyway for a little shopping tour. Maybe I'll stop at the theater. A surprise visit, you know.”

Mattie struggled to restrain her temper. “This is not something in which you can involve that child, Charles.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps not. If I can find time in the next week or so—”

“Tomorrow, Charles,” she insisted, but keeping her voice under control.

“Carrie and I had planned a picnic for tomorrow.”

Mattie screamed. No words, just a scream of frustration.

“What?” He seemed genuinely perplexed.

“George is right! Your preoccupation with Carrie has unhinged you! The Princess is in serious trouble and you prattle on like a madman about some damned picnic!”

His reply seemed calmly reasoned. “If tomorrow is what you wish, dear, tomorrow it will be.”

40

I
T
was ten o'clock when Dewey rode into Nashville.

The theater was locked tight. Securing his horse on the hitching rail in front, he walked around the back of the building and mounted the stairway to the comfortable living quarters that had been built above the auditorium.

He banged on the door. There was no answer. Again. Silence. A third knock.

A sleepy male voice called out: “Who's there?”

“Charles … Charles Dewey!”

There were shuffling noises from inside, and a key was turned. A disheveled Nathan Ludlum opened the door, his eyes squinting in the midmorning sunlight.

“I'm sorry if I've awakened you,” Charles said easily.

“No, no … that's all right. It's just that we sleep late on those days when we have no performances.”

“Hmmm.”

Ludlum stood uneasily in the doorway.

“I just thought I'd come and pay you a little visit,” Dewey explained. “It has been a long time since I've been here.”

“Yes, it has. But … uh … we weren't expecting guests.”

Charles laughed. “Guests? I'm family.”

The actor stood aside, gesturing his father-in-law inside. The door opened into a small kitchen. It was badly disordered; soiled dishes were piled everywhere.

“As you can see,” Ludlum apologized, “we really
weren't
expecting anyone.”

“It seems that my knocking didn't wake the Princess.”

“Well…” Nathan was decidedly uncomfortable. “No, sir, it didn't.” He smiled. “Suppose, sir, you allow us time to get dressed and presentable, and then we can meet you, for a late breakfast perhaps, at the Nashville Inn. In a half-hour, shall we say?”

Charles was disquieted. “That won't be necessary, Nathan. We can just sit here and chat for a few minutes.” He pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. “I have other things to do in Nashville before I return to Bon Marché. And I've already had breakfast.”

“Yes, well…” Ludlum cleared his throat. “Alma May isn't here at this moment.”

“Already at work, is she?”

His son-in-law sank down in a chair opposite him. “No, sir.” The voice was hard. “She hasn't been here all night.”

Dewey's eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“As a matter of fact, she hasn't been here for two days.”

“Two days!”

Ludlum nodded.

“For God's sake, man, let's stop this nonsense! Where in the hell is she?!”

“I can only guess.”

“I want some explanations, and I want them right now!”

Nathan drew a deep breath. “Our marriage … hasn't been going too well lately. Alma May has found it necessary—oh, God, that's the wrong word—has found it more to her liking to seek the … companionship of other men.”

“And you permit it?”

The actor shrugged.

“There's more to this than you're telling me. I want it all, Nathan!”

“Of course—you should know. Alma May was not pregnant when we were married. She said that only to overcome her mother's objections to the marriage. But we both thought that … well, that we could set it right by having her become pregnant immediately after we were married.” He sighed. “It just didn't work out that way. The Princess, then, put the blame on me.”

Charles was remembering the report George had gotten on Ludlum's fathering of an illegitimate child in Pittsburgh.

“She set out to prove that point,” Nathan continued, “by attempting to become pregnant by … others. First there was an actor in the company…”

Nathan gave Dewey the details of having found his wife in the storage room with a colleague, of the violent confrontation, of the trumped-up story about a miscarriage.

Charles fought his growing anger. “And now—right at this moment—do you know where she is?”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“Find her,” Dewey ordered, “and bring her back here. You have one hour!”

II

A
UGUST
Schimmel walked with Charles from the newspaper office to the Dewey Theater.

“I really appreciate this, August,” Charles said. “I need your calming influence. I'm afraid of what my temper might do.”

Schimmel patted him lightly on the arm, reassuringly.

The two men mounted the stairway to the theater living quarters, Charles opening the door without knocking. They found Alma May sitting disconsolately at the small table; her husband was leaning against the wall some four or five feet away from her.

Dewey just stared at his daughter for a moment, his arms stiff at his sides, the hands working angrily.

“Alma,” he said coldly, “I don't give a damn what happens to you! I have only one concern right now: the well-being of your mother. If she knew how evil you are, what a tramp you've become—”

“Daddy, please, let me explain!”

“No explanation could possibly erase what I already know! And I don't want to know any more of your …
filth.
My purpose is to rectify this situation, to try to put a face on it so that it doesn't destroy Mattie.”

The Princess sobbed.

“And spare me the tears! First, let me tell you something that
he
should have told you at the beginning.” He gestured in the direction of his son-in-law. “He fathered a child in Pittsburgh more than two years ago!”