Dolley noticed. For all of Elizabeth’s pretensions, Dolley did like her and sensed that Elizabeth’s withdrawn nature must make it difficult for her to mingle. That she forced herself to do it was testimony to her dedication to her husband’s career. Perhaps the reserve existed to hide her shyness. Elizabeth Monroe was quite unlike Anna Maria Thornton, who was making a bee-line for Serurier, probably to inflict on the Frenchman news of her husband’s latest ideas. Anna Maria, although French by birth, was ardently patriotic when it came to her American husband. Recently, he had become interested in creating artificial ice. Before that, William had concocted a scheme for African colonization.
Henry Clay separated himself from Elizabeth Monroe and Henry Carroll to join Dolley for a moment.
“Thank you for paying attention to Mrs. Monroe.”
“My pleasure.”
“Do you like crowds, Mr. Clay?”
“Love them. I can get far more accomplished in a crowd than in my office.”
“Me, too.” Dolley was beginning to feel that this man, in his prime at thirty-seven, was a kindred spirit. “And what better place to tell a secret.”
“Tell,” Clay whispered, his eyes full of excitement.
“Webster’s Achilles heel is as plain as day. Probably that’s why I’ve missed it until now.”
“And …?”
“Ambition.”
Clay rubbed his chin. “Most politicians entertain some ambition.”
“The presidency.” Dolley’s tone rose.
Clay’s light blue eyes clouded over for a moment. “Do you think he is—aware of this ambition?” He had too much faith in Dolley’s intuition to doubt her.
“No … but it’s there and we must help him find it.”
Clay started to protest that a prideful Webster would be that much harder to combat, then remembered that it was Dolley who discreetly suggested Webster be placed on the Foreign Relations Committee. “I will find a way.”
“One other small suggestion, though I’m certain you’ve already thought of it. I hesitate to mention it because you’ll see that I am truly a turtle to your hare.”
“Mrs. Madison, out with it.” Clay cocked his head.
“Tie Webster to his party. Party, first. The United States, second.”
Clay nearly whistled. No, he had not thought of that although in time he would have. Most Americans would indeed think twice before casting their vote for a man who put his country second, no matter how admired he was. People wanted a President above regionalism, above the narrow concerns of party. “This will, of course, redouble his efforts against the war.”
“I know.”
“He is brilliant.”
“I know that, too, but we will win this war, and he will forever wear the stain of not battling the enemy.” She paused, then became unusually solemn. “Politics are cruel. The times are cruel. I hate to hobble such a gifted man. I hate even to think of such—”
Henry Clay put his finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t, Mrs. Madison. Your heart puts you at a disadvantage in such matters. Believe me, he would do worse to you. And his attacks on your husband have been remorseless.”
Dolley still felt guilty and Clay spoke again. “Dear Mrs. Madison, you are not responsible for this man’s character. The Fates reveal who we are and what we are soon enough.”
Before she could reply, William Thornton slapped Clay on the shoulder. “A word, Mr. Speaker … although I know no man willingly leaves Mrs. Madison’s company.”
Dolley smiled at Thornton as he pulled Clay to him.
“Sevens and elevens,” someone whispered in Dolley’s ear. She turned around to see the senator from Louisiana give her a tobacco-stained grin.
“Don’t you ever tell, Senator Brown. My husband would give me a tongue-lashing that I couldn’t bear.” Dolley reached in her pocket and brought out the dice, only to replace them quickly. She’d taken to carrying them wherever she went, turning the cool cubes over and over in her fingers. It produced a calming effect, and Dolley needed to appear calm. She was far more worried than she wanted anyone to know.
Her first concern was Jemmy’s health. After that she worried about the war and she fretted over Payne—her son could at least have written her. Dickey Cutts, almost four years old, tugged at her heart, too—he was so weak—and then she missed her sister Lucy, that indefatigable chatterbox, off in Kentucky. Mostly she worried about Jemmy, but underneath, something else stirred, too.
Dolley had set aside the more rigorous aspects of her Quaker faith. She would never quite forgive the Society of Friends for disowning her father when he went bankrupt. She expected them to disown Lucy when she married George Steptoe Washington and she thought it silly, but to cast aside John Payne, her father, a hardworking, principled man who had suffered much for his faith during the Revolutionary years—that was cruel. When she herself was disowned years later for marrying James Madison, an Episcopalian, she barely noticed. She wondered if the residue of what was good about the faith still anchored her life. Obviously the caveats against gambling, socializing, and wearing fashionable clothes had never truly reached Dolley; to look at her, one would never suspect she had endured such a strict upbringing. But the admonition never to take another human life remained with her even if she was powerless to stop the war. The longer the war continued, the more she sought diversions.
“Did you hear that I won five hundred dollars from our esteemed Speaker of the House? He can’t roll the dice to save his soul.” Brown gloated, interrupting her thoughts.
“No? I hear he’s a wicked cardplayer.”
“That man could cut cards with the Devil.” Brown lowered his voice. “And before this war is over, he might have to.”
Elizabeth Monroe swept over to them then. Brown bowed to her and joined Senator Rufus King, the center stone in a necklace of Federalists. Even in casual conversation the New Yorker outshone the others. His ferocious hatred of slavery inspired like-minded people but made Southerners laugh. King hated the fact that since the Negro counted for three-fifths of a white man, the South got 60 percent more representation because of its Negro population, even though those Negroes were never represented politically. Moral indignation is the plumage. Look to the bird. So people said, but King, a deeper man than that, chipped away at slavery whenever and wherever he could. The Southerners resented it, yet most of them knew slavery would drag them down. While all but a few fanatics admitted this, none knew, economically, how to extricate themselves from slavery.
Well trained in Louisiana hospitality, Senator Brown circulated among the crowd. Dolley watched him make special efforts to be pleasant to the Federalists, whom he despised. If men could make such efforts socially, then why not politically? Common cause was woefully uncommon.
Dolley turned to see Anna Maria Thornton bearing down upon her. Even from across the room it was hard not to notice the jewels that adorned the doctor’s wife.
Mrs. Thornton’s earrings must have cost a king’s ransom. Dolley shrewdly appraised the bright sapphires. The blue gems were usually either too pale or too muddy, but these, set off with diamonds, gleamed a rich marine blue. Jewelry was to women what rank was to military men.
“Mrs. Thornton, you shine in those sapphires.” Dolley praised her as she reached them. Elizabeth Monroe simply stared at the gargantuan stones.
“My William says women are silly to be so taken with mere rocks under pressure. That’s what he calls sapphires, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. You know William, he has such a practical turn of mind … until it comes to horses. He’s as silly about horses as he says I am about precious stones.”
“A vice I do share with your indefatigable husband,” Dolley confessed. “What about you, Mrs. Monroe?” Dolley saw Elizabeth hesitate, so she added, “Not that you have vices, my dear, but surely you love horses.”
Mrs. Monroe cleared her throat. “I’ve learned to appreciate them. Mr. Monroe appreciates a good horse. He says the best judge of horses is Light-Horse
Harry Lee. Now I doubt Mr. Lee can even afford a horse.”
“He has the best eye for women, too.” Mrs. Thornton couldn’t resist.
“Well, he was always gallant but not”—Dolley weighed her words—“a cad.”
“Like Daschkov,” Mrs. Thornton whispered.
Both Dolley and Elizabeth leaned toward Mrs. Thornton, drawn by the irresistible force of gossip. Mrs. Thornton adjusted her careful coiffure, relishing the moment. Then she continued. “Now mind you, he is handsome in a brutal, Slavic fashion. That deep baritone voice. Oh my”—her hand fluttered—“but I’ve heard from friends now in Russia that mothers never left a daughter alone with him for even ten minutes, and, of course, he must have enriched the entire race of gypsies.”
“What do you mean,” Elizabeth Monroe whispered, “gypsies?”
“Oh, Mrs. Monroe. Forgive me. You are sheltered.” Anna Maria Thornton couldn’t abide the thought that this prim woman might be First Lady. She herself would make a better one. “The gypsies in Russia, indeed throughout most of central Europe, provide music and, shall we say, comfort for men who can pay for such exotic delights.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips in disapproval.
Dolley laughed. “Mrs. Thornton, I shall be very careful never to leave you alone with André Daschkov.”
Young Matilda Lee Love, blessed with fine, straight teeth and a perfect figure, walked over. She was the mistress of Rokeby Plantation, a large estate near Washington, across the Potomac River in Virginia. Despite her youth, she was renowned for her hospitality and good sense. “You all are as merry as grigs.”
“Matilda, sweetheart.” Dolley addressed Mrs. Love by her first name, which let the other two ladies know she was dear to Dolley. “I take it as my mission to keep Mrs. Thornton from the clutches of that rascally Russian.”
Matilda turned her head to see where the broad-shouldered fellow was. “Ah, yes.” She then turned to observe Mr. Thornton. The comparison was not favorable. “Mrs. Thornton, perhaps some clutches are more, uh, bearable than others.”
Dolley doubled over. “You are wicked!”
Matilda inclined her head. She liked being thought wicked. Mrs. Thornton smiled. She would not lose ground before these two. After all, she was a woman of the world.
“Mrs. Love, you are aptly named.”
Matilda hooted with laughter. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Thornton, if only I had done everything I was accused of.”
“And I!” Tears ran down Dolley’s cheeks, she was laughing so hard.
Even Elizabeth Monroe was laughing, although she wasn’t sure she should be.
“What does the Bible say?” Mrs. Thornton struggled for the exact words from the Old Testament. “ ‘Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.’ ”
“Sapphires.” Matilda pointed to Mrs. Thornton’s necklace.
“You know,” Anna Maria Thornton said thoughtfully, “I really don’t think William bought these because of my virtue. He bought them to keep me quiet. He says I talk too much.”
That did it. The ladies swayed in merriment. Maybe Mrs. Thornton did talk a stream of nine words at once to you, but she knew it, and somehow that along with her slight French accent made it all right.
As she caught her breath, Matilda held on to Dolley’s arm for support. “I tease you mercilessly but you are virtuous.”
“Virtue is not habit-forming,” Dolley saucily replied, setting them off again.
Lisel Serurier could not stand being left out. She hurried over, leaving a congressman from Connecticut in her wake. “You ladies are having a good laugh, no?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth Monroe added.
Matilda gave her the details and soon Madame Serurier was glancing at Daschkov conspiratorially. “I think he puts padding up here,” she whispered, pointing to her chest.
“No!” Mrs. Thornton seized on the detail.
“We all have our little tricks.” Matilda raised an eyebrow. “Remember John Randolph trying to lower his high voice by—?”
Mrs. Thornton interrupted. “Well, he’s insane. Truly. Just yesterday my William was making notes for better treatment of the insane.”
“Spending a lot of time in the congressional gallery, no doubt.” Dolley was feeling devilish.
“Why, no …” Then Mrs. Thornton got the joke.
Madame Serurier caught Dolley’s eye and laughed. Her laughter sounded like a harp glissando. Madame felt closer to Mrs. Madison than to other American women, who seemed drab and one-dimensional to her. She had once confided to Dolley that trying to make conversation with an American lady forced her to expand her vocabulary on the weather, child care, and clothing. Accustomed to the courts of Europe, she expected bracing discussions of politics, the arts, and the world. She valued Dolley because she also enjoyed such discussions. Yet Madame observed how the President’s wife avoided detailed political topics in public. The more she knew of America, the more she appreciated Dolley’s tactics.
Mrs. Thornton complained that the British had driven down cotton and tobacco prices. Madame Serurier listened intently. Mrs. Thornton ventured a bit out of the safe realm, but not too far. Madame Serurier expressed her concern and sympathy, as did Mrs. Madison, yet neither woman had ever heard a convincing explanation of how the British devalued Southern goods whose prices had started to slide before the war. Commerce, like the wheel of fortune, rolled and rolled. When it was up, everyone decided their unusual intelligence had created good fortune; when down, the bad fortune was always somebody else’s fault.
This fault was laid at James Madison’s door by the Federalists. Out of the corner of her eye Dolley observed two of her husband’s more outspoken enemies putting their heads together. In the absence of John Randolph, Michael Lieb, senator from Pennsylvania, had snatched the mantle of hostility for himself, although he could not match Randolph’s rancor. While he ate from the President’s table, he managed to suggest to the other guests that Madison was a fool. According to Lieb, James Madison had been lied to by the French and believed them. He’d been lied to by the British and believed them, too. Napoleon promised not to sell off the United States ships he had seized, then sold them anyway. The only reason the United States went to war against Britain instead of against France was that the British had been stealing longer.
Christopher Gore was a good Federalist, giving Michael Lieb his full attention. Gore was pro-British, and the Boston bankers were still lending money to Britain. Gore would never offend a Boston banker, and if some of that money financed Britain’s war effort—well, he didn’t know about it.
Dolley edged closer to overhear.
Gore listened to Lieb recalling how the British minister to the United States, with his pretty American wife, had promised to back down over shipping rights. The minister even hinted that British ports in the Western Hemisphere, closed to Americans, would be opened. He lied outright but he had fooled Madison. His replacement, Francis James Jackson, far less attractive a liar, was soon recalled to the motherland to save him from death at the hands of the irate Americans.
Gore laughed. “They recalled him before our President had ample opportunity to believe him, too.”
“That gave Clay and Calhoun the last straw to break the camel’s back.” Lieb lowered his voice as he saw Clay approaching.
“Gentlemen.”
“Mr. Speaker.”
“It’s black as the Devil’s eyebrows outside—or Daniel Webster’s.”
They smiled at this while the mayor of Washington joined them. Clay put his arm around James Blake’s broad back. “Jimmy, when are we going to get some street lamps?”
“We’ve got three on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Those were put in nearly fifteen years ago.” Gore, fussy about his clothing, fiddled with his coat sleeve.
“And you congressmen didn’t leave the great city of Washington any money to maintain them,” Jimmy Blake replied.
“I thought the citizens whose homes are graced by these torc
hes of freedom from the night paid for their own maintenance.” Clay finished his drink. He needed another.
“Does that mean we have only three rich families in Washington?” Lieb asked with good humor.
James Blake smiled a tight smile. “We have rich folks aplenty, but they keep their money in their home states. Washington is left to fend for itself. I am quite sure you have street lamps all over Philadelphia, Senator.”
Henry Clay laughed. Good for James Blake. Why, they’d both have another drink.
Clay and the mayor left the two Federalists to chat with Dolley, who had now taken over the tea-pouring duties from Anna. Every lady present knew one brought the teacup to the pot, never the other way around. When the duty became arduous, Dolley would enlist another lady to take over for a while, always a feather in that lady’s cap. It was important for the husbands to see their wives honored.
Dolley laughed at Clay’s recounting of James Blake’s remark. Her turban wobbled, and Clay quickly placed his hand on the brilliant jade material.
“My dear Mrs. Madison, I don’t want you to lose your head.”
“I imagine the British would sing at such an occurrence.” Dolley reached up to straighten her headdress.
Uncle Willy screamed whenever he heard his mistress laugh. He screamed a lot that night.
“French John, give him some cake. He can’t holler when he’s eating.”
“Did you teach him not to speak with his mouth full? My children haven’t yet learned that lesson.” Clay smiled.
Minister Serurier walked over and held out his teacup.
“Tea?” Dolley questioned. The minister usually enjoyed stronger drink.
“Perhaps it will settle my stomach.”
“A smooth Kentucky bourbon will help that.” Clay offered a sip from his glass.
“Mr. Speaker, I marvel at the wonders of the New World: Turkeys. Red savages. Bourbon. Had you concocted this elixir later in your history, it would have been called Napoleon, or Bonaparte, n’est-ce pas?”
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