Bon Marche (6 page)

“If you'll be comfortable here, Mr. Dewey,” the butler was saying, “I'll inform Mr. Statler of your arrival. May we know whose message you carry?”

“It's from Mr. Milton of Williamsburg.”

Samuel nodded. “Just a moment, please.” He hurried away.

Charles gazed around at the beautifully paneled entrance hall which was dominated by a handsomely carved walnut stairway that climbed a well three stories high. It was astounding, seeming to just hang there in midair without adequate support.

Numerous portraits hung on the walls. One, especially, caught his eye. It was of a young woman of exceptional beauty, her honey-colored hair framing a flawless face. And eyes of such blueness …

He wished that he could know her.

II

M
ARSHALL
Statler came forward from behind a desk in his drawing room. In back of him, two large windows, which came almost to the floor, gave Charles a view of a sprawling valley behind the mansion.

“Mr. Dewey.” Statler greeted him in an easy manner, bowing slightly. “Samuel tells me that you bring a message from my old friend, George Milton.”

Charles returned the bow. “Yes, sir, I do.” He reached into the saddlebag and brought out the letter.

Statler took it, leading the way to two chairs positioned in front of a white marble fireplace where a fire crackled invitingly. The visitor sat down with some care, his bottom still hurting from his many hours in the saddle.

“Tea, Mr. Dewey?”

“That would be most welcome.”

The master of Elkwood nodded to the butler as he broke the wax seal and read Milton's letter:

My dear Marshall,

This letter is being brought to you by a charming young Frenchman who calls himself Charles Dewey, although I suspect the name is an accommodation to his newly found status as a fledgling American. He is late of the French navy, having left it at the conclusion of the happy circumstances at Yorktown. His appearance before you has a twofold purpose: first, to deliver to your stud the mare Abigail, to complete the breeding we had previously arranged; second, to follow on a discussion we had several months ago regarding your desire to find a tutor of French for your lovely daughters.

As Statler read the letter, Charles had an opportunity to study him. He was tall, perhaps six feet, and most sturdy. Big-boned. The hands that held the letter were huge. His face was square and ruggedly handsome, unmarked by wrinkles. It was well tanned, making it clear that he spent a great deal of time out-of-doors. His black hair was cropped short; he wore no queue. Dewey thought him to be in his mid-forties. The clothes he wore were simple in style. Serviceable, not unlike those Milton had provided for Charles. In spite of his obvious gentleman's station there was nothing effete about him. There was no commonness, either. Marshall Statler carried himself in the manner of a leader. A master.

Statler was still reading the letter:

Young Dewey is well spoken, as you will be able to determine for yourself, although with almost no formal education. Correction: No formal education at all! He has told me of having a ship's surgeon as a tutor, apparently under the patronage of the Comte de Grasse, admiral of the French fleet. If this be true—and I have no reason to doubt it—it demonstrates the young man's ability to ingratiate himself with personages above his social rank; no mean talent, I'm sure you will agree.

Samuel came into the room with a large silver tray. He placed it on a table between the two men and poured tea into two dainty porcelain cups, adding a dollop of thick yellow cream to each. Charles took his cup and tasted the brew rather tentatively; he had never had cream in tea before. It was delicious.

The plantation owner paused in his reading to sip at the tea.

I cannot vouch for his morality, having known him for only a day. I know you must think me mad for sending him to you with such limited opportunity to gauge his qualifications for any kind of employ. Yet, as you are already aware, I pride myself on an ability to quickly judge the personalities of men (an ability that has served me well over the years), and I am much taken with this lad. I have told him only that I was going to suggest to you that you consider finding him a position. Nothing was mentioned about our earlier conversation regarding your search for a French tutor.

“If your evaluation of Mr. Dewey is in opposition to mine, so be it. Your saying yea or nay to him will in no way change our affectionate friendship. I pray that this finds you and your charming children in the bloom of health and contentment. I pray, too, that Abigail shall welcome the entreaties of your fine stallion, and that any issue therefrom might see fit to win a race or two.

Statler folded the letter slowly and put it aside. “May I show you around Elkwood?”

“Sir…” Charles began hesitantly. “I've ridden a long way—a long way for
me,
that is—and I'm extremely tired.” He was embarrassed at having made the admission. “Might the inspection be postponed until—”

“Of course,” Statler interrupted. “I should have been aware of the tedious ride you've had.”

Charles forced a laugh, trying to make light of his predicament. “Tedious, sir, might not be the best descriptive word. My very bones ache, it seems.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, Mr. Statler, I was never aboard a horse before yesterday.”

“What! Good Lord, it's a wonder you can walk at all! Sixty-odd miles in a couple of days is a test for an
experienced
horseman.”

Dewey just grinned. He had made his point.

“Samuel will show you to your room and make you comfortable so that you can rest for a few hours.” Statler chuckled. “Never on a horse before yesterday?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you'll be called in time for dinner, even though you may have to eat it standing at the mantel.”

III

A massive crystal chandelier, lighted by as many as three dozen candles, hung high above the polished walnut surface of the oval dining table, which had been set with delicate rose-patterned china, gleaming silverware, and spotless linen napkins. In the center of the table stood a large cut-crystal bowl filled with water on which floated roses in a profusion of colors: red, pink, white, yellow.
Roses in October?
Charles had little knowledge of growing things, but he was certain that roses didn't bloom in October. Yet the blossoms were real; he wondered what magic had been performed at Elkwood to accomplish that.

There were five for dinner: Statler and Charles, a young man who was introduced as Andrew MacCallum without further immediate identification, and Statler's two daughters.

Katherine, the elder, was dark like the father, and her handsome face had his same squareness. Indeed, she was a feminine version of Marshall Statler. Her nut-brown eyes reflected the same self-assurance; there was even a hint of imperiousness. In command, as it were. Charles speculated that she was two, perhaps three, years older than he.

The younger Statler daughter, Martha, was the beauty he had seen in the portrait in the entrance hall. But the painting, Dewey thought, was only a weak approximation of her loveliness. The blue eyes were of such translucence as almost to disappear at times, depending on how she tilted her head in the light. She was of a shy nature; that was immediately apparent. And although she might have been four or five years younger than Katherine, Martha was more buxom. More of a woman, Charles decided.

He was immediately taken with her, even though it was Katherine who seemed more interested in, and more intrigued by, him.

It was during the serving of a hot creamed soup—Dewey couldn't identify the ingredients—that MacCallum's identity became known.

“Well, Mr. MacCallum,” Statler said, “what have you to report on the progress of my daughters' studies?”

“Father,” Katherine protested, “our guest certainly isn't interested in talk of ciphering and penmanship.”

“Perhaps Mr. Dewey will excuse just a moment or two of family discussion,” the father responded sternly. “Mr. MacCallum?”

“Latin continues to be … uh … vexatious for both young ladies. On the whole, though, I'm pleased with our progress.”

The tutor was choosing his words carefully.

“Miss Katherine continues with her proficiency in mathematics, and Miss Martha remains more interested in literature. But as you've instructed, sir, I'm making every effort to balance their … uh … enthusiasms.”

A slight smile came to Statler's face. “And with little success, eh?”

“With some, sir,” MacCallum answered flatly.

Statler turned to his daughters. “Young ladies, we have had this discussion before, and we're going to have it again, I'm afraid. I must insist that you be more cooperative with Mr. MacCallum in those studies that you've decided are dull or boring. Well-roundedness is what I want in your schooling—and what I shall have!”

“Father, please!” Katherine protested once more, inclining her head toward Charles.

Statler laughed lightly. “Someday, Mr. Dewey, you may find yourself in a similar situation as the father of daughters who imagine themselves grown and capable, even though they've barely escaped puberty.”

“Father!” This time Katherine squealed.

“Oh, very well,” Statler shrugged, “the table is yours, Katie.”

She turned to Charles, all brightness and enthusiasm. “Do tell us about Yorktown, Mr. Dewey.”

Charles lied.

The truth of his lack of knowledge of the surrender of Cornwallis—an event he had used only as a vehicle for his desertion—was something he didn't want anyone to know. He had no choice but to lie.

Carefully, he kept the lies to colorful generalities.

“The flags and bands and thousands of troops—well, it was a magnificent sight.”

And: “General Washington appeared in his full-dress uniform, of course, presenting a regal picture.”

And: “The Comte de Barras represented the French naval forces in the absence of Admiral de Grasse, who was ill, I'm afraid.”

That last, at least, was a fact.

As he spoke, a leg of lamb on a huge white platter, its exterior crisply roasted and its aroma delightful, was placed in front of Statler.

Martha spoke for the first time. “Did you see General Lafayette, Mr. Dewey?”

“Unfortunately, from my vantage point—”

Katherine interrupted with a giggle. “Martha is partial to Frenchmen—” A hand went to her mouth. “Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Dewey. That must have sounded terrible! I didn't mean to—”

“That's all right, Miss Katherine. There's no offense. I'm rather proud of being French.”

“Of course—as you should be.”

“But I'm more proud of being what I am now—an American.”

“Perhaps we should allow our guest to eat,” Statler suggested.

Katherine ignored him. “And the redcoats? How did they appear?”

“Katie!” her father remonstrated. “Please permit our guest to enjoy his meal.”

His daughter's face was sullen. “Yes, Father.”

“I'm sure you'll have other opportunities to hear from Mr. Dewey.” To Charles: “I hope you'll excuse my daughters' demands for news from outside. We get precious few visitors here.”

Dewey nodded his understanding. He was grateful that Statler had rescued him—now he could end the lying. And he was hungry, too.

With the lamb were served golden-bright yams smothered with butter and some kind of boiled greens, bitter to his taste, but he ate them anyway, fearing that he might insult his host if he didn't.

As dessert was being served—a sweet white cake swimming in a thick sauce laced with rum—the master of Elkwood made a family announcement: “I've had a communication from Mr. Lee, and he has kindly offered us the use of his coach and horses to get to church on Sunday. I've accepted.”

He turned to MacCallum. “Lee tells me, too, that carriage horses might be available in Charlottesville. Perhaps we can make arrangements to go there within a week or so and look at them.”

“Of course,” the tutor replied.

“That damned Tarleton!” Charles saw anger in Statler's face. “Leaving us without even the horses to go to church!”

No one commented. Apparently the subject of the person named Tarleton was one that had been amply covered during other meals.

Statler rose from the table. “Well, I'm up early.” He looked at Charles. “May I suggest, Mr. Dewey, that we conduct our postponed tour of the estate first thing in the morning?”

“As you wish.”

“Good. I'll have Samuel wake you at five-thirty.”

Charles groaned inwardly, but he welcomed the opportunity to escape any more questions about Yorktown.

IV

I
N
a large bedroom on the second floor of the mansion, Martha Statler prepared for bed, clearly annoyed. Her sister was perched on the arm of a chair, watching her intently.

“Why don't you go to your own room?” Martha snapped.

Katherine giggled. “I'm just looking for a sign.”

“A sign of what?”

“Of how the charming Mr. Dewey's presence has affected my little sister.”

“Katie, you're dreadful.” Martha tried to make light of her sister's innuendo, forcing a smile. “What kind of sign could there possibly be?”

“Oh,” Katherine answered, grinning impishly, “a slight shortness of breath, a rosy blush on the breast…” She dropped her voice into a conspiratorial whisper: “Perhaps even an erect nipple.”

“Katie! Really!” Martha turned away from her. “There are times when you can be quite crude! Please go to your own room.”

“Oh, dear, is my darling sister embarrassed by the truth: that the handsome Frenchman, with his fair blond hair, raises some desire in her?”

Martha didn't reply.