“How will he do that if he’s a lying weasel?”
“Jonathan, shut up! I’ve told you a dozen times, you’re too young to understand politics!” Caroline said.
“Who wants to understand politics?” Charlie said. They’re bor—ing.”
“You’re both excused from the table,” Caroline said.
Her head was starting to ache. How could things go so disastrously wrong? Was Sarah Polk’s dream of the Temple of Fame nothing but a midnight miasma?
“We’ll have a talk later, Jonathan,” George said as the boys departed, Jonathan with his head bowed, his mouth drooping.
George waited until they were out of earshot and said, “I wish you weren’t so abrupt with Jonathan. He’s beginning to think you dislike him.”
“He irritates me with his endless questions,” Caroline snapped. You all irritate me, no one more than you, she thought. George left her there, brooding. She listened while he called Jonathan and suggested they go for a stroll.
She was still sitting at the table when a letter from John Sladen arrived. His father-in-law, Simon Legrand, was dead, a victim of Mr. Clay’s “Dog Day” session of Congress. He had been exhausted since adjournment and had died in a doctor’s office in New Orleans. He had left John and Clothilde half his substantial fortune, and a command to seek his seat in the Senate “to carry on the principles of Andrew Jackson.”
You irritate me too with your endless worship of a woman who no longer exists, Caroline thought. More and more, the only thing that mattered to her was that vision of Sarah Childress Polk and Caroline Kemble Stapleton in the Temple of Fame.
Sarah Polk’s letter arrived a day or two later. She struggled to be philosophic.
Dearest Friend,
I trust you’ve read the bad news in the Globe. We lost by 3,000 votes. After such a campaign—three months of incessant speaking in heat and cold and soaking rain, James was so worn down, I almost accepted it as a blessing. I truly feared for his health. His old complaints of the stomach and bowels were coming on in the most rampant form, and I almost dreaded him going back to the Governor’s mansion and doing battle with the Whigs who are in control of the legislature. Coupled with the news from New York, about the meaning of which I have no illusions, I fear we must regard ourselves as a sorry pair of prophetesses. But the good thing about politics is its unpredictability. Who would have thought the Democrats could revive anywhere? Perhaps the intervention of another dark angel will work an even greater miracle. Meanwhile we will cheer on the continued ascent of Senator Stapleton. General Jackson sings hosannas to him daily for his championship of Texas.
With ever deepening affection,
Sarah
Caroline was so discouraged, she could scarcely find the energy to address invitations for her next salon. Like all those who rely on willpower to carry them through life, she reacted with extreme frustration and melancholy when events declined to shape themselves according to her hopes and wishes. It took her days to complete the chore. She did not even look forward to the event, although the guest list included the president himself.
On his card, she wrote in her firm hand:
I know how irregular and presumptuous it is to hope a President will visit a private home—but I feel an obligation to return your impeccable hospitality, especially after your kind remarks the other night. You will find plenty of Democrats here to whom you can send signals of amity—none more so than
Your friend,
Caroline Stapleton
She had no idea this invitation would change the course of American history.
SEVEN
WHILE HANNIBAL WAS DISTRIBUTING THE invitations, Josephine Parks informed Caroline that two young ladies were at the door. On their engraved cards were the names Miss Julia Gardiner and Miss Margaret Gardiner. Curious, Caroline greeted them in her front parlor.
The Gardiner sisters were extraordinarily attractive. Julia was dark and shapely, with remarkably expressive eyes and a winning smile. Her older sister, Margaret, was not quite as pretty but she had a sardonic cast to her mouth that made her interesting. Both were wearing the latest Paris style, flaring sleeves over a puff of contrasting fabric, the high necks of their day dresses finished with lingerie collars, the waists tightly laced.
“Our cousin, Fenimore Gardiner, told us we could presume on his acquaintance to introduce ourselves,” Julia Gardiner said. “Fenimore insisted our visit to Washington would be utterly wasted if we failed to meet the famous Mrs. Stapleton.”
“He called you the Madame de Staël of America,” Margaret said.
“I hope I don’t meet her fate. Wasn’t she sent into exile by Napoleon?”
“Yes. But then you might fall in love with someone as romantic as Benjamin Constant!” Julia said.
Benjamin Constant had been the leader of the liberal opposition in the French parliament until his death in 1830.
“Have you read his novel Adolphe?” Margaret asked. “I picked it up on our last trip to Paris. The hero is in love with a woman old enough to be his mother. He can’t live with her and can’t live without her. Very French.”
“I see nothing wrong with marrying an older man,” Julia said. “They’re far more interesting than most young ones I’ve met.”
“My sister is part adventuress,” Margaret said. “I can’t see marrying for anything but love—don’t you agree, Mrs. Stapleton?”
“Absolutely,” Caroline said with an inward wince.
“We’ve become acquainted with a number of politicos who live at our boardinghouse,” Julia said. “Margaret’s already made a conquest of Congressman Douglas of Illinois. When we visit the House gallery, he all but breaks a leg getting up to see us. But she won’t consider him. Among her innumerable requirements for happiness, she insists her husband must be taller than she is. I have only one stipulation. He must be rich—or famous. Preferably both.”
Caroline felt her gloom lifting with this onrush of merry chatter. “You must come to my little evening party next Monday night,” she said. “Though I fear most of the guests will be old enough to be your grandfathers.”
The Gardiners’ lovely oval faces were a study in unrestrained dismay. “Can you possibly invite some younger people?” Julia said. “Or at least middle-aged—I find men in their thirties extremely interesting.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Caroline said, realizing these sweet young things classified her with the middle-aged.
“Julia, you’re impossibly rude,” Margaret said. “Of course we’ll be delighted to come.”
On the Sunday after Caroline issued this invitation, Hannibal rushed into the dining room as the Stapletons were having breakfast. He knew how eagerly Caroline welcomed news from the White House, and this was news of the largest sort.
“Missus, I done talked to Charles Forten, the president’s steward, after church. He say Mrs. Tyler’s dyin’ for sure. They done send for all d’doctors, but they just shake their heads and say no hope.”
The next morning, the Washington Globe confirmed the sad news that Mrs. Tyler was sinking fast. The following day she was dead. Caroline canceled her salon and joined the rest of the city in mourning the president’s loss. She and George went to the black-draped White House to offer their condolences to President Tyler and his children, who looked truly stricken. The Stapletons listened sympathetically while friends and family recounted Letitia Tyler’s Christian virtues.
What would they say about her when she lay dead? Caroline mused. There would be no comments on Christian virtues, that was a certainty. Did she care? No, this was the standard sop to a woman who submitted to being a mere helpmate, bedmate, yes-master slave. She hoped George or her children, or Sarah Childress Polk, would praise her Roman virtues—her courage, her judgment, her candor.
A full month passed before Caroline reconstituted her evening party. She again invited the president, urging him in another deft note not to trouble himself over protocol and to take the opportunity to lift his s
pirits. She made a point of reinviting the Gardiner sisters and their parents as well. The acceptances poured in at twice the usual rate of speed. Everyone had been reluctant to begin entertaining out of respect for the dead. Mrs. Stapleton’s decision to take the lead was clearly welcomed.
Dolley Madison was among the first to arrive, and Caroline set her up in her usual corner, where she could receive her worshipers like the uncrowned queen of Washington. Next came John Quincy Adams, who joined Dolley for some cheerful reminiscences of the days of their youth—a subject Caroline hoped would absorb the old Yankee for the rest of the night. During the past week, he had thrown the House of Representatives into turmoil by introducing a petition from some citizens of Massachusetts asking Congress to dissolve the Union because it was half-slave and half—free. The Southern Democrats, led by John Sladen, had called for a vote of censure, which would have expelled Adams from Congress.
Other guests were soon swarming through the two parlors—Senators Webster, Benton, Calhoun, the first two with their amiable wives. Webster, after a drink or two, began telling everyone about his secret negotiations with British ambassador Lord Ashburton about settling the Maine boundary and putting an end to the British practice of stopping and searching American ships for Royal Navy deserters. Also on the table was an agreement committing the American navy to cooperate with the British navy to end the slave trade once and for all. John Quincy Adams stumped into Webster’s corner of the parlor to tell him the slave trade embargo was ten times more important than the Maine boundary. Senator Benton rumbled that he did not agree. “Give the British the idea that they can walk off with even a mile of American territory and they’ll try for a hundred or a thousand miles the next time.”
“I presume you’re talking about the slavocracy’s favorite topic, Texas,” Adams said.
“Texas, Oregon—all the lands you let drift out of our rightful ownership while you were secretary of state, sir,” Benton said. “Your craven worship of the English is exceeded only by your malicious desire to destroy this Union.”
Heads were turning, eyes were widening. Was even Mrs. Stapleton’s salon about to be invaded by the violent emotions that fractured Congress? Was there to be no haven of peace in Washington?
“Mrs. Stapleton?”
In the center of the room were Julia Gardiner and her sister, Margaret, two visions of springtime in dresses of creamy white, hothouse roses in their dark hair. Caroline literally hurled them into the breach that was opening between Congressman Adams and Senator Benton.
“Gentlemen! Here are two lovely young ladies from New York, who’ve come to Washington to complete their educations by seeing our government in action. Perhaps you’ve noticed their visits to the Capitol?”
“I’ve noticed how many congressmen climb the stairs like firemen rushing to a blaze to win a seat beside them in the gallery of the House,” John Quincy Adams said. “If I were forty years younger, I’d be on their heels.”
“You must honor the Senate with a visit soon,” Senator Calhoun said. “We’ll show you superior speed to the gallery, as well as superior intelligence on the floor.”
Julia Gardiner pronounced Senator Calhoun immensely more handsome face-to-face than any drawing she had seen of him in the newspapers. Margaret agreed—and asked Senator Benton if he minded being compared to a bull, pawing the earth, about to charge his enemies, when he rose to debate a question. “I prefer comparison to the grizzly bear,” Benton said, “because he usually wins his fights.”
“Mrs. Stapleton,” whispered a voice in Caroline’s ear. It was Henry Orr, her usually imperturbable caterer. “The president! President Tyler is in the hall!”
Looking more than a little haggard, the chief executive hesitated in the doorway to the front parlor, scouting the room for unwelcome faces. He found none. Caroline, hoping he would accept, had taken the precaution of not inviting Senator Henry Clay or any of his followers.
“Mrs. Stapleton,” Tyler said. “Your lovely notes have persuaded me that this is one place in Washington where I can hope for a friendly reception. Will you still countenance the company of a man whom the whole country is burning in effigy?”
“It’s a rule of this house, Mr. President, that politics cease at the doorstep.”
George was at her side, extending his hand. “What a pleasure, Mr. President. Come meet two of Mrs. Stapleton’s most charming discoveries, the Misses Gardiner from New York.”
He had towed the Gardiner sisters out of the Webster corner and they occupied the center of the room once more. Julia, by . far the more self-confident and flirtatious, greeted Tyler with her brightest smile. “Mr. President. I’m so honored!” she said, performing an elaborate curtsy.
Did she know the impact she might have on this lonely grief-stricken man? Femininity virtually oozed from every pore of her body. Her dress, low-cut in the evening style, revealed more than a little of her lovely breasts when she curtsied. Her eyes radiated an eager wish to please, to tease, and ultimately to satisfy. Woman incarnate, Caroline thought ruefully. It was not a role she ever willingly played. Was thought its enemy?
“My dear Miss Gardiner. The honor, the pleasure, is entirely mine,” President Tyler said.
He could not take his eyes off this beautiful creature. He barely managed to summon enough manners to greet Margaret warmly as well. Courtesy required him to circle the room, chatting briefly with many of the guests. But he insisted on Julia accompanying him, arm in arm. Several times he asked people if the mere sight of her did not convince them of the silliness of their political quarrels.
For the next hour, Julia and the president talked elaborate nonsense. He insisted on finding out her favorite colors, her favorite music, her favorite foods, her favorite animals, her favorite books. He wanted to know if she had ever fallen in love with anyone. Caroline realized she was watching courtship, Southern style. Julia Gardiner was being told her tastes, her inclinations, her adventures of the heart, were of overwhelming importance to the president of the United States. She was as dazzled by his attention as he was mesmerized by her beauty.
The president was fifty-two years old, a man without a wife, a politician without a political party. It was easy for him to conclude his life was over. Here in Caroline Stapleton’s parlor he was encountering the possibility of rebirth, of new love, new ardor—and this miracle inevitably led him to think it might be replicated in his political life. With Julia still on his arm, he beckoned George Stapleton into a corner and began an intense discussion, in which Caroline heard the word Texas at least ten times.
“Does Julia have this effect on other men?” Caroline asked her sister.
“At the moment, she’s being pursued by five different congressmen and a justice of the Supreme Court,” Margaret said.
John Sladen arrived with an uninvited guest, presuming on Mrs. Stapleton’s friendship as usual. This man had a face as dramatically handsome as any Caroline had ever seen. But his head barely reached her shoulder. He looked as if someone had sawed his legs off at the knees. “This is Congressman Douglas from Illinois,” John said. “He begged me to bring him here, not for your delicious cakes and pies and ice cream and wine, but because a certain Miss Margaret Gardiner was reported to be on your guest list.”
“There she is!” gasped the agitated Douglas. “Mrs. Stapleton, will you excuse me?”
He rushed across the room to present himself to Margaret. She greeted him with a coolness that could only have added to his agitation. She was rather tall for a woman, which probably explained her dislike of short men.
“I fear your friend Douglas is on a lost cause,” Caroline said. She told him about Margaret’s preference for taller men.
“I’ll invite him into the Sans Mercis,” John said. “There’s a group of us in the House that nurse broken hearts in the best poetic fashion.”
He downed a glass of champagne in a gulp.
“John,” Caroline said, “isn’t it time to stop blaming me for your unhappy
marriage? The days of youth are long gone. Are we even the same people who met in New York?”
She wanted to be even more blunt. Like me you married for money and power. But I don’t waste my time in useless regrets. The pain on his face stopped her. “You’re absolutely right as usual,” he said. “I hope this wasn’t the last of the champagne.”
She removed the glass from his hand. “George is over there discussing Texas with the president. Find out what they’re saying while I rescue Margaret from Congressman Douglas.”
She towed Douglas over to pay obeisance to Dolley Madison and turned her attention to the Gardiner sisters’ parents, David Gardiner and his formidable-looking wife, Juliana. They had gravitated to the Webster corner, where Gardiner was holding forth about the eloquence of the New York State Senate, in which he had served. Webster and Calhoun, the two greatest orators in America, could scarcely believe their ears. The man was making a perfect fool of himself, and Caroline suspected from the look on his wife’s face that she knew it.
“Your daughter Julia has conquered the president,” Caroline said to Mrs. Gardiner. “Is she interested in politics?”
“She barely knows the difference between a Whig and a Democrat,” her father said. “Which is as it should be, don’t you think, Mrs. Stapleton? Politics coarsens a woman.”
“Mrs. Stapleton disagrees,” John Calhoun said with a sly smile. “But I’ve seen not the slightest sign of coarsening in the thirteen years I’ve known her.”
“For that compliment, my dear Senator, I’ll invite you to join my husband and the president in a conversation that I’m sure will interest you.”
She led the smiling Calhoun across the parlor and interrupted George in the middle of quoting Andrew Jackson on the crucial importance of Texas to America’s security. “Gentlemen,” she said, “here’s a man who can’t be left out of your discussion.”
The Wages of Fame Page 38
