Bon Marche

by Chet Hagan

  “You must be aware,” True said, taking over the chores as spokesman for both Jacksons, “that my brother and I have become more than enamored with your daughters.”

  Louise registered surprise. “Honestly, I’m not aware of that.”

  “But certainly you know that we’ve been … uh … squiring your daughters.”

  “I know that you’ve danced with them at the balls here at Bon Marché,” Louise interrupted. “And there have been several dinners with them in Nashville, but I had no idea that you were considering courting them!”

  “That is our intention, ma’am.”

  August coughed nervously. “Under other circumstances, perhaps, we might welcome the attention of young men of your caliber. But we believe that the girls are too young to marry and that they ought to be first educated.”

  Able spoke for the first time. “Hope and Joy have given us reason to believe that they would welcome our suit, or suits, if I am to be grammatically correct.”

  “I take it, then,” August said, showing a slight anger, “that you’ve discussed the prospect of marriage with our daughters.”

  “Yes, we have.” That was True once more.

  “Discreetly, of course,” Able added.

  “I’m opposed to any marriage for the twins at this time,” Louise said firmly.

  “If you’ll pardon me, ma’am,” True said, “I’d like to point out that on our father’s death some two years ago we were left with a considerable fortune—perhaps not rivaling the economics of Bon Marché—but enough to make us both wealthy and competent to care for wives and families.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not hearing us,” the father said. “We wish that our daughters will attend college before they consider marriage.”

  “Yes, sir, and I appreciate that,” True responded. “But we thought, perhaps, there might be a more compelling reason for agreeing to our suit…” He looked at his brother. “… or suits. We believe that we could, with Joy and Hope by our sides, make a salutary difference here at Bon Marché. At the risk of seeming egotistical, the plantation could use our … well, our management.”

  “You’ve discussed this with your Cousin Mattie, then?” Louise asked.

  “We have.”

  Louise sighed. “What bothers me about all of this is that it sounds all the world like a business arrangement. Neither one of you has mentioned love!”

  Able spoke. “Oh, that goes without saying, Mrs. Schimmel.”

  “Yesterday you were calling me Louise,” she said sarcastically.

  “Of course. And I apologize for that seeming formality. But if you are to be my mother-in-law—”

  “Young man, you presume a great deal!”

  August gently touched his wife’s hand, silencing her. “Able … True…” He nodded to each young man in turn. “I’m sure you must realize that we must now discuss this within the family.”

  “Of course.” True sprang to his feet, Able aping him. “We appreciate the opportunity to have met with you. And we hope for an affirmative answer.”

  The Jackson brothers quickly left the Schimmel wing.

  “The arrogance of those two!” Louise sputtered. “And Mattie—damn her! This is her doing! She means to control Bon Marché through that pair. And what happens to Father?”

  “Louise, calm yourself. What happens to Charles Dewey is not the primary consideration here, is it? It’s what’s best for our daughters that matters most.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And if Joy and Hope love the Jackson boys…”

  V

  IT was the first Saturday in June of 1832 that Joy Schimmel married True Jackson, and Hope Schimmel was wed to Able Jackson in a lavish outdoor double-wedding ceremony at Bon Marché.

  Their mother had accepted the inevitability of the matches, but on the evening prior to the event, Louise said to August: “Now maybe we ought to consider what all this will do to Father.”

  “In all honesty, he seems pleased by it. He told me that he thinks the twins have made wise choices.”

  “He’s finished at Bon Marché, you know,” Louise said coldly. “Mattie has seen to that. And what of Franklin? He’s the eldest son of Charles Dewey. Shouldn’t he be given some consideration before the Jacksons trample over him?”

  “I think you’re overreacting, dear.”

  “I hope so.”

  He tried to jolly her. “Admit it now, Louise, you like True and Able.”

  “Yes.” She thought for a moment. “But, damn it, I’m a Dewey! And I want the Dewey name always to be associated with Bon Marché.”

  “It will be,” August assured her. “Nothing will ever be able to change that.”

  At the reception following the ceremony the next afternoon, Alma May came up to her mother, a new man in tow.

  “Mother, I want you to meet Allen Carstairs. He’s a … uh … what is it you do, Allen?”

  “I’m a liquor salesman.”

  “Of course, how could I forget that?” the Princess giggled drunkenly, holding high a glass of champagne. “Allen, I want you to meet my mother, the formidable Mattie Dewey. Or should I say Mattie Jackson Dewey?”

  Mattie shook the man’s hand. “Alma May, you’ll learn, Mr. Carstairs, has trouble holding her liquor. Or have you learned that already?”

  “See! What did I tell you, Allen? My darling mother is an absolute genius at launching darts straight to the heart of the matter.” She laughed loudly, turning heads their way. “Straight to the heart! That’s Mattie Jackson!”

  “Please, Princess,” Mattie said quietly, “this is hardly the place for—”

  “It’s a perfect place to speak the truth!” she shouted. “On this day, the Jacksons shall eclipse the Deweys at Bon Marché. A bloodless victory, and I salute you for it, Mother!” She gestured wildly with her hands, spilling the contents of her glass on her companion.

  “Alma May, be quiet!”

  “Not anymore, Mother, darling. I just want you to know one thing. I’m gonna change my name back to Dewey! I’m gonna drop all that nonsense about having been Mrs.… oh, what the hell was that man’s name?… oh, yes, about having been Mrs. Nathan Ludlum … and I’m gonna be Alma May Dewey again! PRINCESS ALMA MAY DEWEY!”

  Now everyone was looking at them. Mattie started to walk away.

  “AND MOTHER, THEN IT’S GOING TO BE THE DEWEYS AGAINST THE JACKSONS!” She was shouting now. “THE DEWEYS AGAINST THE JACKSONS! IN A FAIR FIGHT!”

  She began to sink slowly to the grass.

  “Or an unfair fight, if that’s what you want, Mother.” The Princess passed out.

  VI

  TWO weeks after the double wedding, True Jackson made plans to import an Arabian stallion, Bagdad, to Bon Marché. The price was eight thousand dollars.

  Franklin Dewey, the breeding manager, was not consulted.

  Nor was the master of Bon Marché.

  48

  IT could not be said that Mattie Dewey had erred in putting the Jackson brothers in charge of Bon Marché.

  The addition of Bagdad to the breeding shed was only one indication of the management that would be employed by True and Able. In just a few months, racing revenues increased; other breeders were being enticed back to Bon Marché stallions.

  If there was a loss, it was a human one.

  And, strangely, not involving Charles Dewey. He welcomed the brothers; he understood that the plantation had been stagnating, and he liked what he saw being done by the confident young men. There may have been moments when he wished that he had been able to effect the changes being made, but he didn’t allow his own ego to intrude in what was being done for Bon Marché. After all, even though he was being consulted rarely, it was still his Bon Marché, and it was benefiting.

  Alma May chided him for his complacency. “Daddy, those damned Jacksons are determined to wipe out any traces of Deweys at Bon Marché!”

  He laughed at her. “Princess, you make it sound like a vendetta.”

  “That�
��s exactly what it is!”

  “No. It’s change, dear. It’s the inexorable movement of time. It’s a lot of us getting older. It’s reality facing us.”

  “Don’t you care about the Dewey name anymore?”

  “More than ever, I think. Perhaps if Mattie hadn’t made her moves the Dewey name would have eventually been associated with failure. I wouldn’t have liked that.”

  The Princess looked in his eyes. “Do you still love her, Daddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean like before—with the passion and all?”

  “You may be thirty-three years old, Princess, but you’re not old enough to ask me that question.” But he was smiling when he said it.

  “Do you still think of Mary Elizabeth Cheves?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Would you still be passionate with her if you met again?”

  He sighed. “Alma May, someday you will know that passion doesn’t rule us forever. That we can make our way in life without passionate love. Believe me, you’ll discover that.”

  “God, I hope not!”

  There was a small silence.

  “But you know you’ve answered me, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “About Mother and passion and—”

  His cheery laughter cut her off. “Princess, don’t you have something better to do?”

  “She’s a damn fool, you know!”

  II

  ALMA May wasn’t alone in her discontent with the Jackson regime at Bon Marché. Alvin Mussmer also resented it. He didn’t like the way Able Jackson shunted his father-in-law aside in breeding decisions, not so much for Franklin’s feelings, but because he saw his own future at Bon Marché in jeopardy.

  He brought it up one evening at Franklin’s dinner table. “Must you always do everything that Able tells you?”

  “Able is a competent horseman,” Franklin replied quietly.

  “But can’t you see that he walks all over you! I mean, you’re the eldest son—don’t you have some rights around here?”

  “Whatever rights I might have, Alvin,” Franklin said angrily, “I’ll protect myself. I don’t see where you have to concern yourself about it.”

  “I’m the husband of your daughter. I’d think that I’d be able to express an opinion.”

  “Your opinion is noted. I would like you to show more concern for your own welfare—and do a little work around here occasionally.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that I’m aware of your taking advantage of being my son-in-law by sloughing off any task given you.”

  “I’ll bet that bastard Jackson has been—”

  Franklin brought his fist down hard on the table. “There’ll be no more talk like that at this table! Do you understand, Alvin?”

  Sullenly. “Yeah.”

  Later, alone in their bedroom, Carrie upbraided her husband. “What’s the matter with you, Alvin? Insulting my father and then cursing at the table—”

  “Shut up!”

  “I won’t shut up! You owe my father an apology, and I want you to do it tonight!”

  “Apologize to a Dewey?” he replied sarcastically. “You don’t apologize to Deweys around here anymore. You shit on them! If your name is Jackson, you can shit on Thomas Dewey, and you can shit on Franklin Dewey, and you can even shit on that old fool grandfather of yours!”

  Screaming, Carrie attacked him, raking his face with her fingernails, drawing blood.

  Alvin slapped her hard across the cheek, but she advanced on him again, her anger out of control.

  Her husband smashed a fist into her cheek, slashing it with his knuckles. Blood ran down her smooth skin. She started to fall, but he hit her again, the fist catching her full in the mouth. Carrie felt teeth break.

  Alvin stood over her, gasping for breath. “Well, let me tell you, Carrie Almightydewey, they’re not going to shit on me!”

  He stalked out of the room.

  It was only later that it was learned that young Mussmer had raced to the gelding barn, saddled a horse—not his own—and rode away, making quick stops at the various pastures to open the gates and leave them open.

  Several hours went by before the horses that had escaped could be rounded up by the slaves.

  Overseer Elmer Mussmer presented himself to True Jackson.

  “Mister Jackson, I don’t know how to explain my son’s actions, but I’ll pay for the horse he took.” An afterthought: “And maybe you’d be more comfortable if me and my wife left now, too.”

  True solemnly studied the distraught man, showing no emotion. “I don’t want your money for the horse. The authorities have their own way of dealing with horse thieves.”

  “No! I don’t want them to—”

  “As for the second part of your offer,” he continued coldly, “I believe I will accept that. It might be best all around if you didn’t stay.”

  III

  CHARLES had just written the date—April 9, 1834—in the family Bible. He sat, pen poised over the big volume, contemplating what he had to write next.

  “I don’t see why,” he growled to Mattie, “they have to name the baby ‘Andrew.’”

  “Because they want him to carry the name of the President,” Mattie explained. She didn’t want to argue with him, but her husband’s continuing complaints about her Cousin Andy annoyed her more than usual. “Just as you named one of your sons for George Washington and we named our son Thomas Jefferson.”

  “Yes, well…” He wrote, “Andrew Jackson, son of True and Joy (Schimmel) Jackson.” “At least,” he muttered, “we’ve got that name out of the way now.”

  Carrie entered the drawing room, four-year-old Honey Mussmer toddling in her wake, chattering gaily. The little girl rushed to her great-grandfather and Charles swept her up into his lap.

  “Pop-pop, read me a story,” Honey demanded.

  “You, young lady,” Charles chuckled, “are a demanding little wench.”

  Carrie sank into a chair, her face in a frown.

  “Trouble, dear?” Mattie asked.

  “No, not really. It’s just that Able has told me that the divorce has now been approved and—”

  “Well, now that that’s settled,” her grandmother said, “perhaps you can go about putting your life in order again.”

  “Yes.” Carrie sighed. “When Able gave me the news, I wondered about Alvin again. I mean, what is he doing now? Is he well? I did love him once.”

  “There’s no point mooning your life away over that bastard!” Dewey exclaimed.

  “Charles! The baby!”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry.” He picked up a book of fairy tales, searching it for a story he would read for Honey.

  “Have you any plans, Carrie?” Mattie wanted to know.

  The young woman just shrugged.

  “You’re only twenty-three. Your life hasn’t exactly come to an end.”

  “Some days it seems so.”

  Charles spoke up. “You might take up your duties as a newspaper publisher.”

  “What?”

  “A newspaper publisher. You are the half owner of the St. Louis Challenger, you know.”

  “What are you talking about, Grandfather?”

  “The St. Louis Challenger is owned fifty percent by one Carrie Dewey. It was back when you were … nine, wasn’t it Mattie?”

  His wife nodded.

  “Yes, nine. A trust fund was set up in your behalf and invested in a new newspaper August was starting in St. Louis. One hundred thousand dollars of the trust fund monies bought you half interest in it.”

  Carrie was astounded. “You mean I’m really the half owner of a newspaper?”

  “And a very prosperous one.”

  “But … I never heard of this before.”

  “Well, it was a long time ago,” Dewey said lightly, “and the whole thing just sort of … slipped through the cracks, you might say.”

  Carrie laughed gaily. “That’s a lo
t of money to slip through the cracks!”

  “Just a figure of speech.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Tell me again—what’s the name of the newspaper?”

  “The St. Louis Challenger.”

  “Do you think I could work there?”

  “That’s for August to say, of course. But if you’re interested, I’m sure he’ll make arrangements for you in St. Louis.”

  Carrie sobered. “Oh … but I can’t possibly do it. I mean, Honey and all…”

  “If you want to give it a try, dear, I’m sure your grandmother and I could arrange to have Honey as a guest for a while. Couldn’t we, Mattie?”

  “Ah, yes…” She wished Charles hadn’t made such a snap decision. “Yes … yes … of course.”

  “That’s settled, then.” He flipped open the book. “Now, young Miss Honey, how about the story of a gentleman named Rumpelstiltskin? That’s one we haven’t read yet.”

  The child clapped her hands in delight.

  IV

  MATTIE was worried. She saw it happening all over again: Charles’s preoccupation with little Honey, a delightful blonde-haired child, was a mirror repeat of the love and attention he had lavished on Honey’s mother. Everything was the same—the riding lessons, the special tutoring to teach her to read, the walks in the woods to study the wonders of nature.

  At first, Mattie believed that Carrie would quickly tire of the newspaper chores in St. Louis, but those hopes were quickly dashed.

  In her first letter home, Carrie wrote: “What an exciting time this is! And St. Louis is such a vital town. Mr. Bonsai says I have some natural talent for the newspaper business, and in my ego I’m beginning to believe him.”

  Several weeks later, August Schimmel confirmed Carrie’s quick adaptation to newspapering at the crowded family dinner table at Bon Marché.

  “I had a letter from Wilson Bonsal today,” he reported. “He’s much pleased with Carrie’s work. He says she’ll soon be completing the apprenticeship he set up for her and will be assigned to a regular staff position.”

  “This Mr. Bonsai,” Mattie asked, “what sort of man is he?”

  “A veteran newspaperman. From Boston. I was very lucky to lure him to St. Louis.”