Bon Marche

by Chet Hagan

  “You mean General Washington?”

  “The same. In earlier days he was involved in the race meetings at Alexandria and frequently subscribed to the purses at the Williamsburg Jockey Club. A fine racing gentleman he was. I hope he will find the time to be so again.”

  For nearly an hour they crisscrossed the streets of Williamsburg, until Charles announced that he was reasonably comfortable with the mechanics of guiding Abigail.

  Upon returning to Milton’s house, Charles was given a saddlebag containing his old clothes, some food for the trip, a map, and two sealed letters: one to Mr. Stannard at the ordinary, the second to Marshall Statler.

  “You’ll like Statler,” Milton assured him. “He’s a gentleman in the finest sense of that word. I’ve suggested to him that perhaps he might find a position for you at Elkwood. Of course I have no way of knowing what his exact situation is right now, but I’ve made the suggestion nevertheless.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You may like Elkwood for other reasons—two of them.” Milton grinned wickedly. “Statler has a brace of young, nubile daughters. Something a virile Frenchman can appreciate, eh?”

  Charles just smiled.

  “Now I think you should be off. Godspeed!”

  The Virginia countryside was a revelation to a sixteen-year-old whose total experience had been in a crowded, noisy, demanding city and in the confining community of a ship at sea. The comparative vastness of it all nearly overwhelmed him, as did the immediate oneness he felt with the new environment.

  Now that he was alone, Dewey was free to turn the horse in any direction he chose. He knew that if he wanted to—and the thought of it was a bit frightening—he could abandon the route George Milton had set for him. And the task. He could go to Elkwood plantation. Or not go.

  Free to choose!

  It was heady wine.

  3

  CHARLES Dewey’s every muscle ached.

  Two days of having his legs in an unaccustomed attitude—spread across the broad beam of a horse—had numbed them. When he shifted them to seek a more comfortable position, they rewarded him with spasms of pain.

  His rump was sore, chafed raw by sixty miles of pounding against a saddle that was rock-hard, not leather-soft. His back hurt. His fingers were cramped around the reins. And, because everything else about him was suffering, his head throbbed.

  He knew, from having stopped at Stannard’s ordinary the night before, that getting off the horse brought him no relief from the misery. It meant only that he had to get back on the animal again—and that was more torment.

  Charles wondered about George Milton’s enthusiasm for horses, concluding that the Virginia gentleman and all his ilk were certainly mad!

  Then, too, he was concerned whether he would ever reach Elkwood plantation. When he left the ordinary that morning, Mr. Stannard had told him that he ought to be at Elkwood by midafternoon. But midafternoon had passed; the sun was fast approaching the western horizon.

  Just as those thoughts were running through his mind, he saw it. Off in the distance was the mansion Stannard had described to him, beautifully situated atop a small hill, its white columns gleaming against the dark red brick facade.

  He dug a heel into Abigail’s side, asking her for more speed, even though the faster pace brought new agony to his rear end.

  The road led him directly to two ornate brick pillars, connecting scrolls of wrought iron forming an archway over the wide lane between them. He stopped the mare. From his vantage point Charles could look down the lane at the perfect symmetry of the huge trees that lined both sides. And at the end of the tunnel of trees, he could make out again the white columns of the big house. It was a magnificent sight.

  As he sat there, a farm cart rumbled up behind him, driven by an elderly Negro man.

  “Pardon me,” he called to the black, “is this Elkwood?”

  “Yas, suh, it is.”

  “The home of Mr. Marshall Statler?”

  “Yas, suh.”

  Charles tipped his hat slightly, kicking the mare forward. Slowly. He had the feeling, as he moved between the trees, that he was riding into another world, one he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

  His progress was uphill. It was not something he realized at first, so gradual was the upward grade of the lane. But when he turned in the saddle to idly look back at the entrance arch, he found that he was gazing down at it.

  Although he guessed that he still had half a mile to go in his ascent to the mansion, he was close enough to see that the house had three stories dominated by the massive columns across the front. Six of them. A balcony off the second floor was supported by those columns. The full third floor was under a slate roof, and featured six large windowed dormers. Double chimneys extended high above the roof on both ends, wispy smoke curling up from them in the near calm of the day.

  Nearer now, and it came clear to him that there was a fourth floor; a basement level, really, with half-windows visible above the ground. Therefore, the entrance to the mansion—Charles reasoned that it must be the main floor—was up some dozen stone steps, guarded on both sides by carved marble balustrades.

  In front of the house was a sweeping circular drive, in the center of which stood giant evergreen bushes—taller than a man, that had been trimmed into perfect spheres. Boxwoods, he was to learn later.

  As he rode into the circle, the heavy mahogany double doors at the entrance opened and a liveried black man hurried down the steps to take hold of the horse’s bridle, bowing at the same time.

  “My name is Dewey,” Charles announced formally, “and I bring a message for Mr. Statler.”

  At the top of the steps now stood another Negro, dressed in a somber black suit and a starched and ruffled white shirt. A Negro of some importance, apparently.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Dewey,” he called out. “Won’t you come in? William will take your horse.” His speech suggested a good education.

  Charles handed the reins to William and slid to the ground. He groaned audibly as his aching legs protested the sudden movement. Removing the saddlebag, he mounted the wide steps, noticing out of the corner of his eye that William was leading the mare away at a trot. To where, he didn’t know.

  “I’m Samuel, Mr. Statler’s butler,” the black man at the door explained, holding it open for Charles, gesturing him inside an entrance hall so large that Dewey imagined George Milton’s compact Williamsburg home might fit inside it.

  “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

  MARSHALL 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.”r />
  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 d
esertion—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.