Why not accept this new status quo? Caroline asked herself as she lay awake for an hour after her husband’s deep breathing signaled sleep. After Andrew Jackson, the country needed a rest. The Van Buren administration would be boring and humdrum, but peaceful. Unfortunately, she agreed with John Sladen that it would be a peace of deception, a peace built on the lies and half-truths of the schemer in the White House.
Caroline despised President-elect Martin Van Buren far more venomously than George. Lately, Caroline had begun borrowing most of her political emotions from John Sladen. Was it an attempt to compensate for the other thing she failed to give him? Over the last four years, she had watched his hopes dwindle as he began to wonder about the nature of the love she had confessed in 1833.
Was she becoming La Belle Dame sans Merci? Was that hidden wish, once confessed to George but now, she hoped, long and safely dismissed, the ultimate satisfaction she sought for being born a woman? No, no, a thousand times no, Caroline told herself. She wanted to be a loving woman. She was a loving woman, within the terrible limits of her situation. She tiptoed into her study and for another hour poured out these anguished thoughts to her only confidant now, her diary. Only in these white pages could she tell the whole truth to her secret self.
The next morning she was awakened at seven by Jonathan and Charlie romping in the hall outside their bedroom. Mercy, their nurse, was simply unable to control the two boys. But George, still troubled by Tabitha’s death, would not hear of letting her go. He was equally immune to Caroline’s complaints about Hannibal. The big black had become involved with other free blacks who wanted public schools in the District of Columbia. They had petitioned Congress, and George had urged Speaker of the House James Polk to put some pressure on the committee that presided over the District. Sarah Polk had begged Caroline to change George’s mind. Any such gesture by the Speaker would have imperiled Southern votes for Andrew Jackson’s program. George had stubbornly declined to cease and desist, and when Polk failed to act, Senator Stapleton donated fifty thousand dollars to found a private school for the blacks. Little Tabitha Flowers, Hannibal’s daughter, was enrolled in it.
Caroline was convinced that Hannibal had become an abolitionist and regularly smuggled tracts from the Reverend Mr. Donaldson into Washington. But the big coachman vehemently denied it. He said Jesus had told him to forgive Tabitha’s murderers and to wait patiently for God to dispose of slavery in His own good time.
Her head throbbed so severely from lack of sleep, Caroline feared she was on the brink of a migraine. But she dressed with her usual care and joined George for the trip to the Capitol to witness Martin Van Buren’s inauguration. The crowd was large, but George agreed that most of them were there to get a last glimpse of Andrew Jackson. Once more he thrilled them by bowing to the majesty of the people when he emerged on the portico to watch Van Buren take the oath of office.
The new president’s speech was an hour long, and Caroline almost dozed off in the middle of it. What she heard was the expected swarm of evasions and equivocations about every issue before the nation, larded by lavish praise of Andrew Jackson and humble pie about never being able to come close to the zenith of his accomplishments.
The reception at the White House was singularly decorous. The people in their majesty seemed to have no enthusiasm for shaking Little Van’s hand. The crowd were almost all politicians and government jobholders. The only entertainment was supplied by the vice president, Colonel Richard Johnson of Kentucky. Another white-haired Western military hero, he claimed to have killed the Indian chief Tecumseh in the 1812 battle of the Thames. His followers had tried to run him as a rival to Van Buren for the nomination with a very Western campaign song.
Rumpsey Dumpsey, Rumpsey Dumpsey
Old Dick Johnson killed Tecumsehy!
Aside from its stupidity, the song had stirred unpleasant memories of her father’s death in Caroline’s mind, further lowering her enthusiasm for Colonel Johnson. Martin Van Buren shared this negative attitude. He had done everything in his power to keep Johnson off the ticket, but Jackson had insisted on him. Now the vice president stood in the East Room, a big smile on his wide weathered face, his presence advertised by his trademark, a red vest that he had supposedly stripped from Tecumseh’s corpse. On his arm was his latest mistress, a tan-skinned mulatto woman about thirty years his junior, who happened to be one of his slaves.
Caroline gravitated to Sarah Polk, who was sipping punch only a few feet from the East Room doors. “Do you think our president, so known for his tolerance, will invite the vice president and his lady friend to the White House?” Sarah asked.
“Mrs. Eaton will insist on it, I’m sure, if she ever returns from Spain,” Caroline said.
“Have you heard the latest about her? She’s taken to smoking cigars with visiting Frenchmen, while her husband sits in a corner, sodden with brandy.”
George and James Polk began discussing Texas. Caroline strolled over to the far corner of the East Room, where John Sladen was chatting with ex-senator William Rives of Virginia and a half dozen congressmen from the Old Dominion. Rives had been Johnson’s rival for the vice presidential nomination. Van Buren had sworn to support him at the Democratic Convention and then double-crossed him when Old Hickory proved adamant about Tecumseh’s killer.
As Caroline reached the group, Rives, a tall, distinguished man with a lofty senatorial forehead, was saying, “I’m still at a loss to, understand why one lucky shot fired at an Indian twenty-five years ago entitles a man to be vice president of the United States.”
“You know Mrs. Stapleton, Senator?” John Sladen asked.
“Is there anyone in Washington who doesn’t know Mrs. Stapleton?” Rives said. “I’ve been the grateful recipient of her hospitality many times. How is your fine husband?”
“He’s over there, worrying Mr. Polk about Texas,” Caroline said. “Obeying a final order from General Jackson, delivered in the White House last night.”
“I fear he and Mr. Polk will have to do a lot more worrying in the White House before Texas becomes part of our Union,” Rives said. “The new captain of our ship of state is better known for hesitation than navigation.”
Senator Calhoun joined them, shaking hands with Rives and the other Virginians. Rives repeated his wry remark about the new vice president. Calhoun chuckled heartily. John Sladen asked if everyone knew the story about the latest mistress. “She’s the sister of the girl he turned to last year, after his previous mistress’s death. But she found him tiresome and ran off with an Indian. The colonel pursued them down the Mississippi, caught them, and sold the creature to the worst plantation in the Alabama bottomlands. After that, he found her sister remarkably receptive to his addresses.”
“Mr. Sladen, please,” Rives said. “There’s a lady present.”
“A Washington hostess can’t be shocked at anything she hears, Rives,” Calhoun said. “Her profession requires a certain worldliness which I for one find admirable.”
“I yield your point, Senator,” Rives said. “Lest I be excluded from another sampling of those marvelous quartered oranges glazed with yellow sugar that Mrs. Stapleton serves. But I wonder what the ladies of the South will think of our esteemed vice president and his menage. They’re a good deal less worldly, don’t you think?”
“It’s one of their outstanding traits,” Calhoun said. “But I don’t think Mrs. Stapleton approves of the vice president’s arrangements, though she can listen to them without blushing. Would you agree, Mrs. Stapleton?”
“I have no plans to invite Colonel Johnson to my home. Or return his mistress’s call, if she were imprudent enough to make one,” Caroline said.
Caroline looked calmly at John Sladen as she said this. Does that atone for Mrs. Eaton? she asked. She was allying her salon with reemerging Southern solidarity. Rives was an invaluable prize for the Calhoun forces. Old Virginia still saw herself as the inevitable leader of the South, ignoring the twin liabilities of depleted soil a
nd mountains of debt. They were extremely reluctant to recognize John C. Calhoun as their natural leader.
That night at the inaugural ball, Colonel Johnson, minus his red vest, displayed himself and his mulatto mistress once more, with the same well-liquored smile on his face. At a nearby table, the new president did his best to pretend the Johnsons did not exist. He was surrounded by his four sons and his close friend and fellow New Yorker, hawk-visaged Benjamin Butler, the U.S. attorney general.
Caroline, seated next to Sarah Polk, filled her in on the amorous history of the president’s tall, handsome second son, John Van Buren. The best people in New York locked up their daughters when “Prince John” came to town. Caroline had learned a great deal about him from James Gordon Bennett, editor of the newspaper that was rapidly emerging as everyone’s favorite, the New York Herald. She had invited the engaging young Scotsman to one of her recent salons. Bennett had rewarded her hospitality by christening her Washington’s “premier hostess”—and had given her a minute account of John Van Buren’s debts, drinking, and amorous escapades.
“He’s currently seeing a certain Maria Ameriga Vespucci, who claims to be a direct descendant of the great navigator. She’s hoping for a grant from Congress to reward her ancestor for naming our continent. By promising her his efforts as a lobbyist, he’s gained access to heart.”
“Do you think she’ll guide him to the Temple of Fame?” Sarah asked.
“I fear she lacks a crucial attribute—discretion.”
“I thought you were going to say virtue.”
“I begin to think virtuosity is more important.”
“I sometimes think you may be right.”
They were old friends now, capable of joking about their secret profession—yet no less determined to persevere. Sarah began talking about James’s problems in the new Congress. He badly wanted to remain Speaker of the House, but many of Senator Calhoun’s recent Southern adherents were talking about voting against Polk because of his devotion to General Jackson. The Virginia delegation in particular seemed ripe to support John Bell, a former Speaker and avowed foe of Van Buren’s. Bell had played a major role in the president’s failure to carry Tennessee. “I’ll talk to John Sladen. I think he can persuade a good number of them to cease and desist. If necessary, I’ll risk going to Senator Calhoun himself.”
In Washington politics, only a gossamer thread linked personal ties to political necessities. A politician could be persuaded by a personal plea, but not often. Even then, some sort of quid pro quo had to be offered.
“What can James do or say to please Senator Calhoun?”
“He might be able to persuade the Tennessee legislature to vote some money for the Tennessee branch of his railroad.”
“I think it should be something congressional.”
“One of his people might like the chairmanship of the committee on public lands. That would give them a chance to woo Westerners.”
“A very good idea. James might go for that.”
Everything was always couched in mights and maybes. Nothing was ever certain in the shadowy world of Washington power. So many proud egos had to be stroked, so many hungry or angry interests satisfied.
On the other side of the table, Caroline noticed James Polk and George Stapleton were having a serious conversation with lobbyist Reuben Whitney. His wife, who was as fat as he was, looked around the flag-bedecked hall with an air of bored aplomb. At their mansion a block from Capitol Hill, the Whitneys gave parties far more splendid. Keeping congressmen well fed was vitally important to the banks Whitney represented.
“Mrs. Stapleton. May I have the honor?”
John Sladen stood behind Caroline’s chair. They glided out on the floor and passed the vice president’s table as he planted a kiss on the cheek of his mistress. “Is there any hope of persuading Clothilde to come to Washington?” Caroline asked.
John shook his head. “We’ve agreed to disagree on that point.”
She switched to James Polk’s worries about the Speakership. “He has a right to be worried. I don’t think he’s going to get it,” Congressman Sladen said.
“John, please don’t talk to me as if I were a lobbyist. You know Sarah is my dearest friend. I insist on a major effort on your part. And on Senator Calhoun’s part. James has proven . he’s a friend of the South with those endless hours he’s spent arguing with that vicious old man, John Quincy Adams, about his abolitionist petitions.”
“I suppose so. But he didn’t carry his home state for our so-called president. That means the Little Magician will do nothing for him.”
“All the more reason for you and Mr. Calhoun to do something. You must convince Mr. Calhoun that if he ever hopes to forge his alliance between the West and the South, Mr. Polk is the man to lead it.”
“I fear Mr. Calhoun thinks he’s the man.”
“He’s wrong and you know it. The West adores the Union. Calhoun’s loathed there as a secessionist. He’ll have to content himself with power behind the scenes.”
“You’re asking a great deal of me.” *
“I expect a great deal of you. I always have and always will.”
Words sprang to John Sladen’s lips. He compressed his mouth into a taut line and did not speak them. Had he been about to reply, What can expect of you? Caroline escaped the question, as she escaped so many things.
“It’s time I danced with my husband.”
George obediently abandoned Reuben Whitney and led her out on the floor. “You look particularly beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you.”
She was wearing black, a color she had begun to favor more and more. Did it suit her mood? The gown was taffeta, with great puffed sleeves intricately decorated with black lace. Her dressmaker assured her it was a replica of the gown worn last year at the court of Louis Philippe by none other than the king’s mistress. On the bosom was a black taffeta rose, an interesting reminder of the single rose she had worn in her hair at their wedding.
“You’ve spent most of the night talking to Reuben Whitney. What does he have to say?”
“Plenty. He thinks the roof is about to fall in on everyone in sight. There’s too much paper money in circulation, and not nearly enough gold and silver to match it.”
“It couldn’t happen to a nicer president.”
“We’re all in the same boat now. I think they call it the ship of state.”
“There are more important things to worry about. Do you have the New Jersey delegation lined up to make James Polk the Speaker again?”
Two hours later, the Stapletons rolled home in their crimson-sided carriage. George’s hand came out of the darkness to caress the back of her neck. “You’ve never looked lovelier. Age simply doesn’t wither nor custom stale you.”
“I’m Cleopatra now?”
“That makes me Mark Antony. Doomed to defeat. Let’s try another couple.”
“Elizabeth and Essex?”
“Didn’t she chop off his head?”
“I fear so. It may be the only way to guarantee a man’s respect.”
He drew her to him for a rough kiss. “I’ll take my chances, Bess.”
How could she say no? Josephine Parks drew a warm bath. Caroline floated in the scented water for a half hour and slipped into bed beside him wearing only a negligee. She was willing, warm and willing. But the moment his hand touched her breast, she became a different woman: stubbornly, secretly unyielding, while she seemed to say yes, to return his kisses with mounting fervor. Yes and no, yes and no, the two words became a kind of seesaw in her mind, her soul.
Did he notice? Did he detect behind her eyes the sullen resolution not to yield, to command rather than surrender, to prevail rather than submit? No, no, he was too absorbed in his own pleasure, the sense of his own formidable body, above all that great rod of manhood that she received into her body with sighs and cries worthy of Fanny Kemble at her best. Yes, she was performing here as she performed everywhere. Was there anything wrong wi
th that?
Not a thing, not a thing, not a thing, not a thing …
It was over. A few more sighs, a few more caresses. Then the blessed isolation of darkness, a chance to commune with that lonely girl who prowled Ohio’s woods and fields vowing to find a man worthy of her mind and heart. Was it her fault that she had found two, one worthy of the first, the other of the second?
Hours later, sleep still eluded her. Why? George was snoring softly beside her. Hadn’t she done her duty? Hadn’t she satisfied her husband? What was troubling her? Fear of another pregnancy? She had left the hot water in the bathtub and plunged into it the moment George released her. It was as good as a douche, according to her worldly friend, the wife of the French ambassador, who had been dispensing this Gallic advice around Washington for years.
What was it? Suddenly she knew. The ring on her finger—Hannah Cosway Stapleton’s ring. It was too tight again. Twice now she had had it widened—while she and the jeweler puzzled over the mystery. Her other rings still fit her nicely. Why was this one so troublesome? Caroline sat up in bed and tried to pull it off. It would not move. Only after she returned to the bathroom and soaped her hand did it slide off.
By that time she was wide-awake. It took her another hour to get to sleep. The last thing she remembered was a flickering glimpse of Hannah’s saintly face in the portrait on Bowood’s walls. Go away, Caroline told the ghost. Dawn was graying the windows as she slipped into an exhausted doze.
THREE
JEREMY BIDDLE SAT IN THE Stapletons’ front parlor on Pennsylvania Avenue, trembling from head to foot. “Calm down, Jeremy,” George Stapleton said. “It can’t be this bad.”
“It’s worse, infinitely worse,” Jeremy said. “We could lose every cent we’ve got!”
Caroline sat on the couch on the opposite side of the room, as far away from Jeremy as she could get. He had obviously not slept in several days; his eyes were bloodshot, his face had the pallor of a corpse. He looked more like a fugitive from the law than the business leader of New Jersey.
The Wages of Fame Page 32
