by Anya Seton
'Has this been going on a long time?' asked Theo, in a voice devoid of all emotion.
Her quiet frightened him as it had Venus. He made an imploring gesture.
'I suppose I should have guessed it long ago. I've been very stupid,' she added.
'It hasn't been long,' he muttered. 'Only a couple of months. She was sitting outside her cabin one night—singing. There were flowers in her hair. I was lonely——'
'You needn't explain it to me, Joseph. I am quite aware that men take mistresses. But I wish it had not been one of your own slaves and in our own home.'
Her cool voice augmented his shame. He had tried to forget, during these weeks of blind passion with Venus, that she was one of his slaves. He thought of the disgust with which his father or brothers would regard any intercourse with the slaves. It happened, of course; that fellow on the Santee was debarred from Charleston society because of it. But it was contemptible. It was her fault—that brown devil with her luring voice and her thin, passionate lips!
He sprang up. 'I'll sell the bitch tomorrow!'
'No'. Theo seated herself quietly and shook her head.
He went on, unheeding. 'She shall be sent down to the barracoon in Charleston. The factor will take charge of it, see that she is bought for a distant plantation. You wanted me to do that once before. I wish I'd heeded you. Oh, Theo—with all my soul, I wish you had been spared this humiliation—and I too,' he added with a groan.
She surveyed his self-abasement with maternal tolerance. Having no physical love for him, it was easy for her to forgive. Her first reaction had sprung from the hurt to her pride and revulsion from an ugly episode. And there was truth in Venus's accusation: she was not a good wife in the conventional sense. Poor Joseph, she thought, as she had so many times.
'I don't want you to sell Venus,' she repeated gently.
He raised his head, wondering what punishment, then, Theo deemed the girl deserved. Whatever it was he would comply. A wife so sorely humiliated might make any conditions.
' I want you to set her free, Joseph.'
His jaw dropped. 'What!'
'Yes. Give her her freedom. She's like a mountain lioness from the back hills, trapped and caged. It is because she is caged that she's dangerous. And she is dangerous; she always has been. I think slavery is wrong, anyhow, but for those others it does not matter: they are stupid, and they are better cared for by us than they could manage for themselves. Yes, I know. We must have field hands, or what would become of the rice? But Venus is no field hand.'
'She would bring me a very good price,' said Joseph. He was dazed by her magnanimity.
'You can afford to forego the price.—Oh, yes, you can.'
' But what would she do—where would she go?'
She was silent a minute; then she said: 'I think you should buy her a passage to the North, Boston, perhaps, and give her a little money besides. Up there she will find her own level.—And don't tell her it was my idea. Let her think that she has won this great victory over me and her hatred will vanish at last.'
'You're wonderful, Theo,' he said humbly.
His humility did not last long. In an hour he was blustering at her for having stayed North so long, and how dared she stop at the Oaks during the fever season! Even one night might be dangerous.
'You were here, willing to take the risk yourself,' she pointed out.
He reddened and was momentarily silenced. At any rate, she must go to Debordieu as soon as the sun was up and sleep with her windows tight shut against the night air.
'Of course,' she agreed. 'I'm aching to see my child. I've longed for him constantly, but——'
But your father came first as usual, thought Joseph bitterly, but he did not say it. They did not mention Aaron after she had given him the bare facts of his sailing. Joseph was relieved. Good riddance. The stormy petrel had finally departed to a safe distance from whence he could no longer foul the family nest. He showed restraint in not laboring this viewpoint. Gratitude kept him silent. Theo had shown incredible generosity in her treatment of Venus and himself. He would show equal generosity by never referring to her disgraceful father. They would start afresh.
His hopes were realized except for one thing. Theo settled quietly back into life in Carolina. She ran his households more efficiently than she ever had. Indeed, with Venus gone, the negroes became more amenable to her rule. She did the necessary civilities to his family: without enthusiasm, and on both sides with nothing more than chilly politeness, but still she did them. She spent much time with Gampy, tutoring him, playing with him. To Joseph himself she was invariably charming. She consulted his wishes and bore with his ill temper.
But she retained her own bedroom, and the door remained shut. And he could do nothing. Her health was poor, as it always was on the Waccamaw. She suffered from headaches and a recurrence of the kidney complications which had accompanied Gampy's birth. She seldom complained, but she proffered this as excuse for the shut door. He grew to feel that, besides this, her refusal sprang from his guilty affair with Venus. She had forgiven it, had been angelic in her forbearance, yet it was not surprising that a pure delicate woman, herself naturally chaste, should recoil from this memory. It made a barrier that time alone could surmount.
So thought Joseph, saving his pride, and she let him think so. It didn't matter what he thought, so long as she escaped the embraces which had always been revolting and would now be unbearable. She felt some guilt for this final complete denial of conjugal rights, but none for the secret occupation which consumed every free minute she dared snatch: the dispatch of letters, to everyone who might have influence to remove the persecution against Aaron.
When, in the spring of 1809, she read of the election of James Madison to the Presidency, her heart beat high with hope. Had not Dolly once said, 'Of course, I am Colonel Burr's friend'? That charming blue-eyed lady would not be cold as were these ingrates. And she could do anything with her Jemmy.
Theo sharpened her quill and bent again to the task.
Madam: You may perhaps be surprised at receiving a letter from one with whom you have had so little intercourse for the last few years. But your surprise will cease when you recollect that my father, once your friend, is now in exile; and that the President only can restore him to me and to his country.
Her pen flew over the pages of entreaty, but she warned the good lady that ' Mr. Alston is ignorant of the step I have taken in writing to you.'
When the answer came, it was cruelly disappointing. Dolly wrote affectionately. It took careful re-reading to discover that the sweetness concealed denial. There was nothing that the Madisons could do ' at present' except tender good wishes and affectionate remembrances, etc.
In truth, Madison was far too harassed in attending to other legacies from the Jefferson administrations to concern himself with an unpopular exile.
This was a blow to Theo, who had counted on Dolly's friendship. Still, Aaron's letters were encouraging. He was enjoying himself in London; had met a vast number of people in high places, many of whom were sympathetic to 'X'. Lord Holland and the Earl of Bridgewater had received him cordially. He made long visits to Jeremy Bentham, the philosopher, a kindred spirit. There was no cause for worry.
Theo kept these precious letters locked in a small casket which she carried with her everywhere. She wrote voluminous answers and bribed little Cupid to smuggle them off the Waccamaw to the northbound mail. This procedure was unnecessary, for Joseph was often absent, and, if he had intercepted one of her letters now, he would have looked the other way.
But Theo took no chances. He had once concealed a letter, one of such importance that had he not done so it might have changed Aaron's life. She could not trust him where her father was concerned.
On the fifth of October, 1809, Theo was reinstalled at the Oaks after a summer of short trips in search of coolness and health. Debordieu had not seemed to answer. It had been oppressed this year by a nearly constant land breeze tainted with the swamps. She had gathe
red up Gampy and Eleanore and a handful of servants and tried various up-country resorts in the Carolinas—Rocky River Springs, Greenville, Cheva-los—without finding permanent relief at any of them.
Now, with cooler weather, her spirits lightened a little. It was not disagreeable to rest at the Oaks. It was the hour for lessons. She and Gampy were secluded in the library. The seven-year-old was hunched over his little desk, laboriously writing at her dictation.
'Amo, amas, amat,' said Theo. 'Take heed, darling. You will have to recite all this from memory presently.'
He nodded, frowning with concentration.
I shall have to get him a tutor soon, she thought. He learns so rapidly that he will be beyond me.
She looked at the curly brown head proudly. If only her father might see him now. She treasured every one of Gampy's sayings and precocious doings to send to Aaron, who never failed to comment on each one with lively interest. Even three thousand miles away he showed more interest in the boy than did Joseph, she thought, not quite justly. Joseph was fond of his son; yet he saw him but seldom, and he did not understand that severe displays of paternal authority frightened the little boy, who kept out of his way as much as possible.
'Now conjugate the whole verb for me,' she suggested, seeing that he had finished.
Gampy had obediently begun, when they were both startled as a shrill scream came from the porch outside, followed by the excited chatter of negro voices.
' What in the world——' began Theo, laying down her Latin grammar.
The door burst open, and Eleanore rushed in, cap awry, gesticulating wildly. 'O Madame, il y a un sauvage dans le jardin!'
Mother and son stared, Gampy's eyes round with excitement.
Then Theo laughed. 'Nonsense, Eleanore. There are no Indians on the Waccamaw.'
'Moi-même, je l'ai vu! He is vilain et féroce, with fezzers in his hair, and a gun. Mon Dieu, he will shoot us all.'
'I hardly think so, Eleanore. But, come, show me this Indian.'
'Me, too, Mama. Let me come, too,' wailed Gampy, as she motioned him to stay there. 'I want to see an Indian.'
'If he is a friendly one, I will call you,' she promised.
The shrinking Eleanore led the way to the porch. 'Voilà, Madame!' She pointed a trembling finger.
'It is an Indian!' cried Theo, surprised and interested, though certainly not a hostile one, for his gun was slung across his back and he had one hand upheld in greeting. His long hair was twisted on top of his head and skewered with an eagle feather, but his dress was the conventional fringed buckskin suit of the backwoodsman. He wore beaded moccasins, but she had seen those, too, on many white men out West. His copper-red face was unpainted and serene.
He advanced quietly down the lawn, ignoring the scared black faces that peered at him from around the corner of the house.
'Ciel—sauvez-vous, Madame!'screamed Eleanore, tugging at Theo's arm.
'Certainly not,' said Theo impatiently. 'Stop making such a fuss. I cannot imagine what he wants, but he has a good face.'
The Indian now mounted the steps toward Theo, and Eleanore gave a stifled gasp and fled.
' What do you want?' Theo stood still, staring into the impassive dark eyes that, now that he had gained the porch, were a foot above hers.
'You Mrs. Alston?'
She nodded, puzzled.
He silently slid his hand into his leather jacket, took from it a letter, and held it out to her.
It was inscribed, 'Mrs. Theodosia Burr Alston,' in an unfamiliar handwriting. She made no move to take it. Her brain darted over a score of possibilities. It must be something to do with Aaron, of course. This peculiar messenger might have come from one of his remaining supporters out West: but it could be some kind of trap. Devious and many had been the instruments of his persecution already; this might be a new device.
' Where do you come from?' she asked, temporizing.
The Indian held the letter rigidly out in front of him.
'From setting sun, beyond Great River,' he answered.
' And how did you get here?'
'Follow trail over plains and mountains. One moon since.'
'Ask him his name, Mama'. A small excited voice from behind her betrayed that Gampy, unable to bear the suspense any longer, had crept out on the porch and was staring at the Indian in openmouthed fascination.
The Indian turned his head a fraction, and a faint smile softened the grimness of his face as he saw the boy. He touched his breast. 'Wabasha. Me Sioux Chief.'
'Then what in Heaven's name can a Sioux Chief want with me?' she cried, half to herself.
' Read——' He indicated the letter. She took it from him now, still wary.
The Sioux folded his arms against his chest and stared, expressionless, out over the lawn.
Theo broke the red seal, noting with increased disquiet that it had been impressed with a governmental insignia. She saw the date, 'St. Louis, September first, 1809,' and then she knew: knew before she turned the closely written sheets, and saw at the bottom, the signature, 'Merne.'
The letter dropped to her lap. The name penetrated her heart with a pain that she had believed conquered. I won't read it, she thought violently. He has nothing to do with me. This is some new injury against Father.
True, he had been merciful according to his lights in Richmond; he did not give evidence, whatever it was. But she no longer felt that the evidence could have been harmful. Aaron had been acquitted. He would have been so, anyway, she thought now, secure in the calm of certainty. Her doubts, her suspense, her pleadings with Merne seemed shameful in retrospect. She revolted from the memory of her attempts to force his love: a love which he no longer wished to feel.
'Why don't you read your letter, Mama? Who's it from?' Gampy, having examined the impassive Indian from all angles, now pushed against her knee curiously.
Yes, of course I must read it, she thought. This is ridiculous. But not here. She must be alone. 'Go back to the library, Gampy,' she directed, 'and wait there. I'll be with you in a minute. '
She went to her own room and locked the door. She unfolded the paper with determination. How strange that she had never seen his handwriting before! It was clear, bold, and very legible. The letter began abruptly.
The Indian who brings you this is my trusted friend. I did him a favor once which he is now repaying. I cannot trust this message to the mails.
I am going to die, Theodosia. I cannot tell you how I know it, but I do. I might tell you of a vision I had, the second-sight of my Scotch forebears. I might tell you of the prophecy of a Mandan woman. These Indians sec many things we do not, and they often sec the future true. This may be folly and superstition. But for me, I know that the trail is nearly ended.
I want to see you once again first. I shall be with you in mid-October. I shall not embarrass you; it will be but for a few hours. I am on my way to Washington to try to clear my name.
President Madison has seen fit to question my expenditures out here. He questions my honor. It seems that I have made many enemies, who do not scruple to slander me.
Is there something familiar to you in this, Theo? Yes, I also sec the parallel. You called me hard and cruel in my judgment of your father. Perhaps I was. In my own consciousness of rectitude, I thoughtlessly assumed that the opinion of the majority must be justifiable: that there can be no smoke without fire. Now I am no longer sure. I am discovering for myself that lies may be as effective as truth.
Had I one human being on whose unswerving loyalty I could count, as he could on you, I would call myself blessed. I feel this now, who never did before. I have always gloried in my internal solitude. Even you have never touched it.
And now I am lonely. I am thirty-five, yet I feel old and finished. I do not say this to arouse your pity—God forbid! I am trying to explain to you and myself why I must sec you. It is a yearning of the spirit. Our love has never reached fruition; it has been tainted time and again, by desire, by anger, by the sordid, and ev
en the grotesque.
And yet it has been love. We were, I believe, meant by Heaven or destiny or what you will to be together. That we have never been is the result of the strange compulsions of the human heart. You had—you will always have—a greater love than I. I, too, had other loyalties.
I think that somewhere and sometime there will be a state where these different loves will not conflict. It is one of the things I wish to tell you of. I cannot write them.
I have lain under the stars. I have listened to the voice of the waters—the rivers that you love. The wilderness has taught me. I think I can make you understand, too.
MERNE
Theo sat quietly, the letter in her hand. He who had never needed her, who had repudiated her love the last time they were together, he needed her now. He was in trouble and lonely. How gladly would she see him! They might meet now, at last, untroubled by passion, unclouded by obscure resentments.
'Mid-October,' he had written. He had already started, then. He would be here in a few days. They could be together, not only for a few hours, but he must stay at the Oaks. Joseph would be pleased to entertain the Governor, and Joseph knew nothing of their association. In any event he could have no objection. She and Merne had no relationship to which a husband could object. That was finished.
She discounted Merne's premonition of death. That was a morbidity she had not expected from him. It was born of loneliness, and perhaps illness. The fever gave one fancies like that. How often she had seen it!
She read the letter again, then, leaning over the fire, put it on the embers, where it flared up brightly and was gone.
The Sioux was standing where she had left him, on the porch. She approached him smiling. 'Governor Lewis says you are his trusted friend. I thank you for bringing me the message. Come in and I will give you food and drink. You must stay here as long as you like and rest.'