Jessie

by Judy Alter

  "Just a little tired, Aunt," I assured her. "I will rest longer tonight and be fine in the morning."

  Though I rushed to the mirror to examine my eyes, and did find them a trifle puffy, I knew it was not fatigue but wanting—and maybe a dose of rebellious anger—that had dimmed my appearance. I wrote daily to John but could, of course, receive no reply. By then both John and I knew better than to correspond openly. So I was left to wonder how and where he was. Sometimes I traced an imaginary route on one of Father's maps that I had folded—heaven help me if he found that out!—and put in a valise. But I was most uncertain of where John was... and how he was... and whether or not he thought of me.

  If Aunt Susanna was a comfort to me, my Grandmother McDowell was a joy. She was then in her eighty-ninth year and in failing health but full of contentment for the life she had lived, though it sometimes sounded harrowing to me as she regaled us with stories of her youth.

  "My mother... your great-grandmother," she said dramatically, "carried to her grave a long cut on her forehead from a knife thrown by an Indian in the British service. When she was tired or upset, the scar would turn red and swell... she called it her King George's mark."

  She told a fascinating story of the English officer who came to our great-grandmother's house and demanded to be fed. When he was served peas that were very green in color—mint or lettuce or something had been added to them—he accused her of trying to poison him. Calmly, the hostess called her youngest child to her and fed her several spoonfuls of the peas. "You may feel safe now, gentlemen," she is supposed to have said. "Whoever eats at my table, invited or not, has my best care. My husband, my young sons, my brothers, are all in the rebel army, and I pray for their success and your defeat, but you will get no harm from me."

  They ate their peas and went on their way. Listening to Grandmother tell the story, I was thrilled to think of the people from whom I was descended. They had done something important for their country—and that thought, of course, sent my mind reeling back to John and his current service in the army.

  * * *

  "Jessie, wait until you meet Francis," Sally gushed. "He's a perfect gentleman." Her blond curls cascaded around her face, giving her a schoolgirl look that was strangely inappropriate for a girl about to marry a man of forty or more.

  "I can hardly wait," I murmured, though in truth, after one day, I was already bored with the wedding festivities. Besides, I remembered Aunt Jasmine's description of him as a "trifling poor fellow."

  Days in Lexington were long, though we went gaily to one pre-nuptial party after another. Liza enjoyed it thoroughly, but every party was a trial as far as I was concerned, partly because it was difficult to get there. Lexington was not like Washington, where everything was in walking distance—nothing here was close to anything else, and all of it was separated by steep ridges. We took carriages everywhere, and they frequently had to have the wheels blocked as they descended one incline after another, lest the carriage fly down the hill ahead of the horses.

  People came from the countryside around to attend these parties, for the McDowells were well known in Lexington. Some guests arrived in country carryalls and others in fine carriages. The ladies wore low-cut dresses of silk, dresses that Mother would never have allowed on me—high-cut dresses had not yet become fashionable for women—and they threw wonderful plaid capes over their shoulders for warmth against the spring chill. I felt woefully childish in my high-necked dresses.

  But the worst of these parties was that I reminded everyone of a long-dead cousin, "poor, dear Eliza" who had been married to "poor Charles." Both poor souls had died unexpectedly, at young ages, leaving orphan children, and though those children were now grown, their parents were far from forgotten. Unfortunately, I resembled the late Eliza, though as more than one aunt said in a whisper loud enough to be heard, "Jessie's nose is not nearly so delicate."

  The children of Eliza and Charles were present for the wedding, the eldest being the cousin named Preston, whom Mother had strongly recommended to my consideration. He was down from West Point, and though the aunts did not comment on it as much as I feared, it was clear that Preston and I resembled each other as closely as twins.

  * * *

  "Jessie! Want to see me scratch my ear with my elbow?" Preston was as bored and out of patience with the formalities as I was.

  "Certainly," I said with more enthusiasm than I had shown for most of what went on around me.

  He bent double and very nearly had his elbow in his ear with a little patience. "I've been practicing," he explained proudly when I complimented him.

  "Good," I said dryly. "Everyone needs a talent."

  "And a little amusement," he said, sinking down on the end of the chaise next to me. "I'm about stifled with this wedding."

  "So am I," I said offhandedly. Actually I was consumed with longing instead of stifled with boredom, but the end result of both emotions was about the same. Either one of us would have done anything to bring excitement to the day.

  The much-talked-of Francis Thomas did nothing to brighten the days. He was tall, thin, and nervous, given to fluttering about in a manner that I would have found unpleasant in a woman, let alone a man. He positively hovered over Sally, his yellowish complexion turning slightly pink when he looked at her. Was it joy, anger, or jealousy? I was never able to decide.

  Liza thought him a fine figure of a man and openly pined for such a man for herself. I was silently scornful.

  "Ah, yes," he said on meeting us, "Senator Benton's daughters. I... know your father by reputation."

  Liza smirked and simpered but said nothing. I was not silent.

  "How kind of you," I murmured, thinking how Father would laugh at my diplomacy. Mr. Thomas had been far from complimenting Father with that veiled reference, and I knew it. But neither did I give him the satisfaction of thinking I had ever heard of him before he decided to marry my cousin.

  I could hardly bear it when Sally asked later if I did not think he was wonderful.

  "Oh, indeed," I said, but the irony was lost on her.

  * * *

  "Jessie! I've found a place to escape." Preston said this in a whisper, then turned quickly away with a motion behind his back for me to follow him.

  A rainy day was keeping us confined to the house, and our older relatives had taken over the parlor to listen as a young cousin—whom I thought foppish—filled them with tales of his European tour. We were clearly not wanted, though I wondered when, if ever, we would be considered adults. Still, I didn't want to spend the day in that parlor.

  "This way," Preston said conspiratorially, and we mounted the steps to the attic, where it was cool—open windows let in a cross breeze—and quiet. "I hate the way they talk about us as though we weren't there," he said.

  "I don't suppose they realize," I answered, "but they are cruel. What was your mother's nose like?"

  He laughed aloud. "More delicate than yours," he said, mimicking the aunt's tone. But then he turned serious. "We do look alike, you know, as though we had shared parents."

  "Maybe. But you are too thin for a Benton. You obviously belong to the McDowell side of the family."

  He shrugged ruefully and began idly playing with the clasp on a trunk near him. With a loud snap it gave, and a slight push of his hand popped the lid up. Inside, carefully laid in layers of paper, were astonishing clothes—old army uniforms, beautiful gowns for women, delicate laces and striking feathers, all manner of fine things.

  "Whatever...?" Preston wondered aloud.

  "You've found the family closet," I said. "Maybe some of the clothes even belonged to your parents."

  That gave him a funny twist for a moment, and without another word he began to dig through the clothes, though I noted the care with which he moved one thing aside to find what was beneath it. Fishing out an army uniform, he held it up against himself, as though trying it for size.

  "Far too large," I said from my spot on an adjacent trunk. "The jacket is
twice as big around as you."

  "You're right. I'm too thin," he said with a sigh.

  "Here, let me try." It was not without some embarrassment that I found that the army uniform came closer to fitting me than it did Preston. "What else is in there?" I asked.

  He pulled out a garment of satin covered by unbleached silk lace. "Here... I bet it's Aunt Susanna's wedding dress."

  It was Empire in style, the waist almost up to the arms and not a pleat or a gore in the skirt to indicate the waist, except for a narrow band, which ran to a bow in the back.

  "I've heard that Uncle William McDowell brought it from Paris," I said, reaching to touch the delicate fabric.

  There is no way to account for what happened next, but within minutes we found ourselves dressed—Preston in the wedding dress and me in the army uniform. Looking at each other, we laughed aloud, the happiest I'd been since arriving in Lexington.

  "Let's go downstairs and show off," I said boldly.

  Preston paled at the thought. "We can't... I mean, it would make them angry...."

  "Nonsense," I said. "They will see the good humor in it."

  I was wrong again, though at first that wasn't apparent. When we walked into the parlor where Cousin Edward McDowell was still holding forth about Europe, there were gasps of... well, I thought they were delight. "Eliza's dress!"...,"It must be Charles's uniform"...."How striking they look!"

  But then they discovered that we had, as it were, switched costumes, that the girl cousin wore the army uniform and the boy cousin the wedding dress. Surprise turned to horror, and we watched helplessly as the relatives turned angrily from us. With Preston pulling on my arm, we retreated to the attic and our own outfits.

  Much later Aunt Susanna asked whatever I had been thinking of.

  "Nothing," I answered truthfully. "They were lovely clothes, but the uniform fit me better than it did Preston... and we just dressed up."

  My beloved aunt was angry at me. "I would not be upset, Jessie, with your dressing up. But it is unsuitable for a young woman to dress as a man....There is... there is no excuse. It will make people think you wish yourself a man." She shuddered at the thought, and it took all her strength to ask, belatedly, "Do you?"

  "Of course not, Aunt," I answered quickly. "I would not be other than I am for anything." And within my mind a quick refrain sang, "I would not be other than John's love and Father's daughter," but I dared not say that to Aunt Susanna.

  "I shall not," she said stiffly, "inform your mother of this incident. It would only distress her needlessly, but it goes without saying that I expect exemplary behavior from you from now on. You must act like a lady."

  There it was again, that prescription about ladylike behavior. I wanted badly to argue, to repeat that we had merely been dressing up to relieve the boredom of a rainy day, and what did it matter who wore what costume? With difficulty I kept my silence.

  Mother, I thought, might not ever mention Preston to me as a suitable prospect for marriage if she knew of today's incident. It was a dark irony and of little comfort.

  Late that night, curled in bed, I whispered the story to John, as though he were next to me, and I was gratified that he roared with laughter. Or at least I thought he did.

  * * *

  Sally and Francis were married in a ceremony held in the bride's home, with only their families present, though between the two of them, that amounted to a goodly number of people. Sally wore clothes made by family servants, and the bride's cake had been lovingly made by women who had cooked for the McDowells since before Sally was born. It was decorated with wreaths of ivy and geranium leaves carefully sculpted of candied rind of watermelon. The most touching moment of the entire festivities came when the old butler who had served generations of McDowells brought the cake in to "Miss Sally." Two young servants had to hold his arm and guide him, lest he wobble so as to drop the cake. But at last—while we waited breathlessly—he placed the cake in front of Sally with a flourish, and her gasp of thanks brought joy to the old man's face. So too did the drop of whiskey given him by Sally's father after his successful completion of his mission.

  Francis Thomas sat throughout this charade with a strange and unemotional expression on his pale face, his eyes staring covertly from under hooded lids at first one guest and then the other, as though he were taking stock of the assembled company.

  Sally, I wondered, bow can you? And then John would appear unbidden in my vision, with his healthy good looks that spoke of a vigorous outdoor life, and his self-confident smile, and I would know how lucky I was to have met him. The contrast between John and Sally's new husband did not even bear discussing.

  * * *

  Father greeted me with fury when I returned home.

  "Obviously," I said, facing his anger, "you have heard from Aunt Susanna. She told me she would not upset Mother."

  "She has not," he boomed, "upset your mother, but she has written me, simply out of concern for you. She does not think..." He paused as though to consider his words. "She does not think you have a proper vision of your role as a woman."

  "I think," I said dryly, "I am getting a better and better vision each day, but it is not an encouraging one."

  "Jessie, Jessie," he said, real emotion straining his voice, "you have so much to contribute. You have been such a great help to me... and will continue to be, I hope. You can be a help to any man... but you must do it as a lady."

  "It is a lesson I trust I have learned," I said with unusual submission, "and I will certainly plan to be of help to the man I marry." My words were deliberate, and Father took them that way, with a sudden flash of expression across his face.

  "Well," he said with bluff heartiness, "that's a long way in the future."

  I bit my tongue to keep from asking, "And how soon is Lieutenant Frémont expected back?"

  * * *

  One day I begged leave from my duties in Father's library to go for a walk. The day, I explained, was so fine that I could not confine myself to the indoors.

  "Of course, Jessie," Father said heartily. "I'll just work on my notes for this speech."

  Hurrying away from the house on C Street, I felt more than a twinge of guilt. My destination was Monsieur Nicollet's studio, and my object was news of John. His "Papa Joe" would tell me the latest word, I was sure.

  Mr. Nicollet greeted me warmly. "Miss Jessie, it is a pleasure to have you in my studio." His words were tinged with a Gallic accent, and he bent over my extended hand in the French manner. I thought him utterly charming. "What brings you to my studio? Ah, I know... of course... you want to know what I have heard from John."

  He began to laugh at his own cleverness, but the laughter ended in a fit of coughing, and I remembered that the ostensible reason John was given charge of the expedition that summer was that Papa Joe's health would not permit him to travel. Papa Joe had been indignant at the time.

  When he had regained his composure, I said, "You are right, of course. That is exactly what I want to know."

  "I will keep you in suspense a few moments more," he said, "while I prepare tea. Here, please make yourself comfortable." Gallantly, he held a chair for me at a round table that was placed at the windows—I wondered if it was still there from John's rearranging of the furniture for the funeral cortege, all those months before.

  Mr. Nicollet—I could not call him Papa Joe to his face, though in my mind he forever bore that affectionate name, and my French was not good enough for me to attempt "Monsieur" without stammering—bustled about in the small kitchen and soon appeared with two delicate cups of English china and a pot of steaming tea. Though the day was hot, the tea was delicious and relaxing.

  "Now," he said, when at last we had settled at the table, "you want to know. I hear from John that he has mapped the Des Moines River—what he was sent to do. He has established its course from the mouth up to the Raccoon Forks, about two hundred miles, and he has sketched the major topographical features. Very thorough, that young man is."<
br />
  I beamed in pleasure at this praise for my lover. "He has been working hard," I said, somewhat inanely.

  "Ah, yes, but they have had some recreation. He writes me of hunting deer and wild turkey in the woods."

  "And he is well?" I asked, a faint tremor of anxiety going through my body. Surely, if he was not well, Papa Joe would have said so by now.

  "He is in fine health... and he expects to be back in the capital city by August. He is... he is a very responsible young man, but I tell you nothing you do not already know."

  "I am pleased to hear it from you, sir," I said and meant it sincerely. Surely if John made a smashing success of this expedition, Father would look on him differently.

  * * *

  It was not to be so. Father heard that John had returned even before I did, and he made two quick announcements to me. The first was that John had successfully completed the mission he was sent on—that Des Moines River again, a river I was beginning to resent!—and the second was that I was not to see him.

  "Neither elsewhere, unchaperoned, nor in this house," Father thundered.

  "Why?" I countered.

  "Your mother and I agree that he is not a suitable match for you," he said formally. Then, with some exasperation, "Jessie, we've had this discussion before. He's poor as a church mouse, with no formal training for the army and therefore no prospects....He simply cannot offer you the life you were meant to lead."

  "He has had magnificent training from Mr. Nicollet," I responded angrily, "training that makes his future as an explorer seem bright indeed." Even before I finished speaking, the look on Father's face told me that I had erred by defending John.

  He glowered and said, "Jessie, I have told you my wishes."

  "And I have heard them," I said, a phrase that I thought had the singular beauty of not committing me to comply with those wishes.