My Theodosia

by Anya Seton

  It was dusk and snowing fast against the tiny-paned windows. The parlor glowed with a crackling fire. At one end of the small room the half-dozen guests murmured politely as though awaiting the arrival of the tea service and decanters. There was no atmosphere of special festivity.

  Aaron, exactly as usual, made graceful desultory talk and quietly supervised everything. Joseph in a new coat of buff brocade seemed precisely the same young man who had left Richmond Hill four and a half months ago, silent and embarrassed. He had arrived yesterday evening, and Theo had not seen him alone. She herself wore a fine muslin frock embroidered in brilliants, one of those bought in New York before they left. But this was not unusual either. She had had many new white dresses, and this one could not compare in elegance to the one she had worn for her birthday party.

  Only Natalie, who had of course accompanied them, experienced any of the emotions proper to a wedding. She huddled in a corner behind the fire screen, her handkerchief to her eyes, her kindly little mouth working. 'Pourvu qu'elle soit heureuse, cette pauvre Theo,' she horrified herself by murmuring. For Theo's total lack of animation, with none of the shy radiance one expected in a bride, smote Natalie's practical heart with dismay. She touched the crucifix around her neck and prayed for Theo to the Holy Mother who understands all things.

  The Reverend Mr. Johnson swayed back and forth in front of the fireplace as he intoned the service. His long black coattails all but raked across the burning logs, and Theo watched them fascinated until he prompted her to each response.

  Suddenly he stopped swaying. His ponderous Bible shut with a thud. It was all over.

  Theo felt her father's arm draw her close to him, and in the same moment that she realized his arm trembled a little she looked up to see his eyes bright with moisture. He put his long delicate fingers on either side of her face and kissed her forehead. 'God bless you, my dear,' he whispered.

  'Father——' She clung to him frantically, an hysterical sob crowding into her throat.

  He shook his head slightly and put her from him. Beneath the tenderness of his gaze, she saw the familiar air of admonishment. 'Go to your husband, Theo. He is waiting to embrace you.'

  Husband! The word struck through her brain. This thickset stranger with the curly black hair and petulant mouth—Husband! Terrifying and yet ludicrous too. Almost she could have laughed, as he stepped forward clumsily and kissed her on the mouth.

  A smile rippled through the company, the half-sentimental, half-bawdy amusement reserved for weddings.

  I'm quite alone, she thought, profoundly startled. No one understands—not even Father!

  'Let us away to the wedding feast,' said Aaron lightly, herding them into the dining-room and lifting his glass in the first toast to the young couple.

  At nine o'clock Natalie led Theo upstairs and helped her change into her traveling clothes. She draped a violet velvet cloak over Theo's shoulders, tied bonnet ribbons under her round chin. The bonnet was of violet velvet too, and beneath its brim the girl's face shone ghostly white.

  Natalie kissed her. 'Don't be afraid, chérie,' she whispered unhappily. 'It can't be so—so bad. All ze married women in zis world have—subi'. She blushed scarlet.

  Theo smiled faintly. 'I'm not afraid, Natalie, dear.'

  For now again she felt nothing but a weary blankness: a complete detachment as though she stood far outside herself watching the antics of tiny, not very interesting puppets.

  This sense of isolation carried her through the leave-taking. Aaron had prepared himself to deal with this difficult moment, soothing her, and reminding her that they would meet again in a fortnight. His precautions were unnecessary. She seemed scarcely more aware of him than she did of the others, and her brief, almost casual farewell dismayed him. He wished her to adapt herself to her new circumstances, of course, yet where had she acquired this sudden remoteness? It invested her with a surprising maturity. For one instant he felt misgivings—he checked them instantly. Of course she would be happy—ambition and determination produced happiness under any conditions. She must learn this.

  He flung open the door and ushered the bride and groom to the small cutter which was waiting outside. The horses stamped and blew with the cold. But it had stopped snowing. High above a frosting of stars twinkled tiny as spangles, diminished by the chill air.

  Theo seated herself in the cutter and Joseph clambered in beside her. The horses started off briskly with a cheerful jingling of sleighbells.

  'Good-bye, Godspeed!' Most of the company had returned indoors, unwilling to brave the cold or the night air, but Aaron stood bareheaded on the Dutch stoop until the cutter disappeared around a corner.

  It glided smoothly on its runners over the fresh snowfall toward the docks. Aaron had booked a stateroom for them on the New York packet, and had informed Joseph of it upon his arrival the evening before.

  'Theodosia loves Richmond Hill,' he had explained, 'and I have made arrangements for you to go there at once. It will be easier for her to go by boat, even though ice on the river may delay you. The overland journey is too rigorous at this time of year, and the taverns are impossible.'

  So Joseph had found his honeymoon arranged for him in every detail. He had accepted it without protest, recognizing that it was sensible and saved him trouble. But he was astounded, on entering the large and commodious cabin which Aaron had booked, to find it transformed out of all resemblance to a ship's cabin. A Turkish carpet covered the floor, and the dingy curved timbers that formed the walls had been whitewashed to shining purity. There were two small armchairs with needlepoint seats, and on the hinged table by the berths stood an enormous bowl of Christmas roses.

  Theodosia broke her silence with a little cry. 'How pretty it is! I didn't know a ship's cabin could look like this. Did you have it fixed this way?'

  He shook his head sulkily. 'No'. After a moment's silence he added, 'I presume that your father did.'

  She walked over to the stove, pulled off her mittens, and held her chilled hands to the blaze.

  Of course it was her father. Who else would have taken such pains to insure her comfort? Who else would have thought to send her roses, the only kind that could be procured in midwinter, a trifle shriveled and puny, but roses none the less? Messages of cheer and comfort.

  Joseph flung his cape on one of the chairs and stared unhappily at Theo's small unconscious back. His mind was not analytical, but he found himself irritated by Aaron's thoughtfulness. There was something faintly ridiculous about starting married life in a bower of a father-in-law's devising. And deeper than that lay a disquiet that he could not quite drag to light.

  Now and then at Richmond Hill, he had mulled over the single-hearted devotion that Theo showed her father. And often, when they were together, he had felt himself excluded while the two of them escaped into an apparently delightful atmosphere which he did not understand and slightly resented.

  Still, you couldn't resent so admirable a thing as love between father and daughter; it was most proper and becoming. Always, he had told himself, it would be different once he and Theo were married. Theo would then automatically transfer that eager admiration, that breathless responsiveness, to her new master. Girls always did.

  He had vaguely pictured his wedding night, seeing Theo starry-eyed and shy, shedding a few natural tears, perhaps, as she parted from her father. But, after all, they were to see Aaron again so soon. He had pictured himself as drying those tears tenderly, carrying her off in a high manner. Then they would be alone at last, freed from all other influences.

  But Theo had neither blushed nor cried. Since the ceremony she had not spoken to him at all—until now, to express pleasure over the transformed cabin, with which he had had nothing to do. Neither did he like the transformation. A ship's cabin should be a ship's cabin. This looked like a stage-setting, specious and theatrical. It made him uncomfortable.

  Theo continued to warm her hands at the stove; her back, under the cape which she had not removed, w
as both remote and rigid. She seemed totally unapproachable: a polite little stranger.

  From the deck above their heads he could hear the trampling of sailors' feet. Six bells rang from somewhere, there came a musical shout, 'Heave away,' followed by the flapping of the mainsail. The vessel creaked.

  He cleared his throat. 'We—we're getting under way.'

  'Why, yes, I believe we are,' she answered, not moving.

  He walked over beside her. 'Won't you take off your bonnet and cape? It's warm in here.'

  She obediently untied the ribbons beneath her chin. He took the cape from her, hung it on a bracket near the door, taking as much time as possible to do so. He was increasingly uncomfortable. Damn it all, they were married, she was extremely pretty, she was his wife. He had dreamed of this moment. There had been nights in Carolina when he had tossed sweating on his bed, consumed with desire for her. For love of her he had refused to go to the brothels with his friends in Charleston.

  But now he felt no desire. Her pale fixed little face, with its great staring eyes like—like a sleepwalker's almost frightened him. He could no more imagine embracing her than he could one of the cold marble statues in his plantation garden.

  Yet this was a bridal night. On bridal nights a man must be masterful, vigorous, no matter the unresponsiveness of the bride.

  Joseph paced a few uneasy steps across the cabin and made a pretense of peering through the porthole into the blackness outside. A light or two pricked out from the shore; the leaping flames of a huge bonfire moved slowly past, and out of sight. The packet glided downstream with velvet quietness. There was almost no motion. The inner uncertainty and fear of being inadequate, which had bedeviled him from childhood, now gnawed at Joseph's heart. He took refuge in the brusque, arrogant manner that was half-temperamental and half-concealment.

  'I'm going to have a dram of negus,' he said abruptly, scowling at Theo as though she had forbidden it, 'if I can find a servant to make it for me on this damned boat.'

  Theodosia turned her small head, her eyebrows raised in cool surprise.

  'Alexis is waiting out by the saloon, you know. You have but to call him. He makes excellent negus.'

  Alexis, of course. He had forgotten. Aaron had provided his own servants for them too. Joseph, suddenly swept with unreasonable anger, threw open the cabin door, and shouted in a voice that was an insult, 'Alexis!'

  The negro came running. 'Yes, sir. Yes, sir.'

  'I want negus. And be quick about it, damn you.'

  Alexis bowed with dignity, resentment in every line of his stiff body. Aaron treated his servants with invariable kindness and courtesy. The negro did not like Mr. Alston, but he saw that the bridegroom was unhappy. He felt a trifle sorry for him, but a whole lot sorrier for Miss Theo. She'd got herself a dull-headed, ill-tempered bull of a husband for fair: him and his passel of Gullah niggers with their singsong jabber and their heathen charms.

  He came back in a few minutes bearing a steaming bowl of negus, fragrant with lemon peel, port wine, and nutmeg. Miss Theo was sitting in one of the chairs, her chin on her hand, mooning over the Christmas roses Colonel Burr had combed Albany to find. Mr. Alston was leaning against the far wall, frowning at the carpet. Neither looked up when Alexis came in, so he placed the bowl of negus beside two china cups on the wooden bench, and bowing disappeared.

  Joseph ladled out the smoking-hot liquid. 'You will join me,' he ordered sharply. 'We must drink a toast to our marriage.'

  'Certainly'. She accepted the cup, touched her lips to it. Joseph gulped his, poured himself another, and another.

  This isn't real, Theo thought. Soon I shall waken and I will find myself in my white bedroom at Richmond Hill. Father will be up and dressed already, down in the library writing. He will be a little cross with me for being late to breakfast, and he will tease me by forbidding me another cup of tea. But after breakfast we will walk out onto the porch together; the air will be crisp and sparkling; Minerva will be waiting for me, whinnying at the hitching-post. Our pond will be thinly iced, with new pussy-willows around its margin, and behind I shall see the Hudson.

  My beautiful river! But I'm on the Hudson now! The realization came with shock, yet it brought comfort. Her rivet that she loved cradled her now on its mighty waters: waters that flowed relentlessly on like Time that could not be checked or diverted.

  Meme. The short blunt name which she had never used slid into her thoughts. It gave her sharp pain. All these months she had kept his memory away from her. She pushed it back now with violence. It didn't happen the way I thought it did. There was no magic, no enchantment. It was trivial and cheap: Father said so. I must never think of it. For Time and the river have brought me on here to this clipped moment, and even now it slips into the past as I try to hold it.

  'What must be must be, and there is no going back'. That is the river's eternal murmur.

  'Theo!'

  She looked up slowly to meet her young husband's eyes. The wine had given him courage. He flung across the room and seized her roughly by the shoulders. 'Kiss me!' he shouted, and his trembling fingers fumbled at her bodice.

  She shrank convulsively, pushing against the chair-back. Her flesh seemed to gather itself up and recoil from his hands. She gave a moan of terror. 'No, please——'

  His face flamed. 'What's the matter with you? You're my wife! You look——' His voice thickened, was nearly unintelligible. 'You look as though you hated me'. He dropped his hands and sank to his knees beside her chair. Theo huddled as far from him as possible. The sound of his heavy breathing filled the cabin.

  'Theo——' His voice cracked. He swallowed.

  Her heart pounded in sickening strokes. Slowly, inch by inch, she turned her head toward him. He was grotesque, crouching there, this great panting animal, an enemy, a wild beast. Suddenly his face pierced through the thick mist of fear. His mouth was twisted like that of a small child that has been unbearably humiliated and does not understand. His eyes, bewildered and desperate, slid quickly away from hers. But before his mouth hardened back into its customary defiance, she had seen, and it cut through her own terror. He was not an enemy, not a wild beast, but a groping, unhappy human being, unsure of himself or his real worth. Her throat closed with pity, for she knew in that second that, under his clumsy show of masculinity, he was as frightened as she.

  'Poor Joseph,' she whispered. The two words trembled between them. He stared, unbelieving, on guard. Tears filled her eyes and she smiled at him, the compassionate smile of maternal women through all the ages.

  They did not belong together, their bodies had for each other no chemical attraction, their souls no communion. But they were both caught. Equally helpless bits of jetsam on the forward-surging river of life. And for well or ill they must remain together, nor hurt each other too much. She closed her eyes and, stretching out her arms, drew his head gently against her breast.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ON MARCH FOURTH Theodosia and Joseph arrived in the new Federal City to witness President Jefferson's inauguration. They wedged themselves amongst the wildly excited crowd inside the Capitol, craning and jostling with the others for a clear view.

  Aaron, splendid in black silk, as presiding officer of the Senate made a brief, graceful speech presenting the new President, for his inauguration, to the assemblage and to the new Chief Justice, John Marshall, who administered the prescribed oath. Jefferson's lanky, unkempt figure towered over him, yet Theo was not the only one in the Senate Chamber who felt that Aaron would have better suited the high position, and that Jefferson would make but an uncouth and grotesque representative for the growing nation.

  It's all wrong, thought Theo bitterly. It should have been Father. Why are people so blind—so stupid?

  Though Aaron privately shared this opinion, neither to friend nor enemy did he ever show the slightest disappointment at the eventual outcome of the tie vote. On the contrary, during the last weeks, when the election had finally been thrown into the House of Re
presentatives, and that harassed body had doggedly cast indecisive vote after vote for thirty-five ballots, and on the thirty-sixth the Federalists voted in sufficient numbers to elect Jefferson, Burr had taken pains to disclaim all personal interest in the matter, assuring everyone of his dismay at the situation. 'How monstrous,' he said smoothly, 'that the plainly expressed will of the people for Jefferson should be blocked by a technicality.'

  Aaron was a good loser, and if one avenue closed, his natural optimism at once suggested another. He had lost the Presidency by one electoral vote. Maddening—yes. Still, it was lost; he accepted the inevitable with his usual composure and made plans for the future. There would be other elections, other opportunities for dazzling achievement in this vast and unexploited country.

  His cheerfulness infected Theodosia, and, for the three days that she and Joseph spent in Washington, the celebrations, receptions, banquets, and parades gave her no time to think of the approaching separation from her father. During the past month she had been able to make at least a partial adjustment to her marriage relation. She never quite lost the maternal compassion she had discovered on her wedding night: an emotion new to her, who had spent all of her seventeen years in the rôle of dependent and worshiper. It gave her strength to endure Joseph's ill temper and inept love-making.

  The Alstons left Washington on the seventh. Joseph, fretting to be off, managed by his impatience to soften the pain of Theodosia's parting with Aaron. She clung to her father, repeating all the trivial instructions which occur to one at such moments—'I forgot to give Katie the book I promised; please tell her I will send it at once from the South. And tell Natalie that my white cashmere shawl was forgotten on the top shelf of my cupboard at Richmond Hill. I want her to use it herself as long as she wishes, and——'

  'The horses are waiting, Theo,' interrupted Joseph. 'We shall be late for the ferry.'