by Ron Carter
“Billy!” she exclaimed. “Do come in.”
She stepped aside to let him pass, as she had done a thousand times before, and he stepped into the entryway, looking about for some sign of Brigitte and Prissy. There was nothing, and he turned to Margaret as she closed the door.
“I wondered if this might be a good time to talk with Brigitte.”
Margaret masked her need to laugh. “Of course. She’s in her bedroom changing. Just got home from the millinery shop. She won’t be a minute. Would you like something? Cider? It’s cool, in the cellar.”
“No, thank you,” Billy croaked and followed as Margaret led him to the library where he nervously took the chair she offered. She remained standing.
“Been hot today,” Margaret observed.
“Yes. It has.” Hot? You don’t know how hot it is.
“How are things at the shipping company?”
“Waiting for word on arrival of two of our ships. Fine.”
“Any news from Adam? Or Matthew?”
“Not for a while. Adam’s on the way home. Matthew’s still in Philadelphia, so far as I know.”
“I’m worried about Adam. His ship is overdue. Six days.”
Billy slowly rubbed his hands together for a moment, then raised his eyes to hers. “I wouldn’t start to worry yet. I learned today that there was a storm down in the West Indies last Thursday. Not a hurricane—wrong season for hurricanes—just a strong blow. Adam likely put into a port down there to ride it out. Philadelphia got the last of the storm two days ago. Monday. Rain. No wind. No reason to think Adam’s in trouble. He’s a good navigator, and Rittenhouse is a good captain. They’ll be all right.”
“How do you know about the storm? In Philadelphia.”
“A ship that came in from the Caribbean today. I talked to them. Their first mate.”
There was relief in Margaret’s face. “Oh. I’ve been worried.” She glanced at the door and said, “I can’t imagine what’s keeping Brigitte. Wait here. I’ll just go see.” She left the room and Billy heard the footsteps in the hall that served the bedrooms. Seconds later footsteps returned, slower, more deliberate, and then Brigitte came through the library door and closed it behind her.
Billy stood.
She was wearing an ankle-length, simple blue dress with a small white band at the waist. Her auburn-brown hair was curled and brushed, held back by a white ribbon tied into a bow. Never had he seen the depth of expression that he now saw in her hazel eyes.
He bowed slightly. “How are you?”
“Well.” Her eyes did not leave his.
“It . . . I spoke with Matthew before he left for Philadelphia. And with your mother last Sunday. They gave permission for me to . . . to be here.” Self-conscious, he stopped for a moment, then went on. “You remember that we talked a few months ago. . . . About marriage. That’s my purpose in being here.”
“I know.”
Billy remained motionless for a moment, took a deep breath, then said, “There are so many things I thought I could say—I wanted to say. Now, here, looking at you as you are, none of them seems right.” He dropped his eyes and tried to put his thoughts in order. Then he raised his eyes back to hers. He shook his head and said in a quiet voice, “Brigitte, I love you. I have loved you ever since I can remember. There is nothing in this life I want more than to have you for my wife. Will you have me?”
She looked at him steadily. Sandy hair, a round, plain face, thick shoulders, a barrel chest, legs like tree stumps, steady, solid, tested, tried. She smiled at the sheer sturdiness of him and the earnest goodness reflected in his face.
“I love you, Billy. Yes, I will be your wife.”
He knew he would never again feel what rose in his chest at that moment.
He drew the box from his coat pocket and removed the lid. “I would be honored if you would wear this ring.” He could think of nothing more that needed to be said, and he handed the box to her. She took it and her eyes shone as she gazed at the simple beauty of Simon’s work. For a time she stood still, tenderly touching the ring with her fingers, face glowing, and then she raised her face.
“I’ve never seen such a beautiful thing. I will be proud to wear it wherever I go. Always.”
She handed the box back to him, and he removed the engagement ring with his thick, strong fingers and reached for her left hand. Gently, he slipped it onto her ring finger, held her hand for a moment while he studied it and the ring, then nodded and released her hand. She raised it to peer at it, and he could not miss the radiance in her face. He put the lid back on the box and replaced it, with the wedding band still inside, in his coat pocket.
“Brigitte, I don’t know how to tell you . . . my gratitude—”
She suddenly stepped close and wrapped her arms about him, and she kissed him, and he closed her inside those arms that could lift a cannon, and he held her to him and kissed her. Neither knew how long they stood in the embrace, nor did they care.
He released her, and she stepped back, face flushed, eyes glowing. “I didn’t expect it to feel this way,” she said. “I didn’t know what it would be, but I did not expect it to feel so calm, so right. I shall never forget it.”
“Nor will I.”
Her eyes were glistening but she was smiling. “Could we tell mother? I know she and Prissy are waiting somewhere, dying to hear it all.”
Billy grinned and nodded. “Yes. We should.”
He took her hand and they walked to the library door and Brigitte opened it. Standing there, startled, wide-eyed, caught unashamedly eavesdropping, were Margaret and Prissy. Billy chuckled, then laughed, and Brigitte laughed, and the two red-faced women laughed.
“Well?” Margaret exclaimed. “What happened? Did she say yes?”
Billy nodded as Brigitte held out her left hand, and Billy said. “She did.”
At the sight of the ring, Margaret clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh! Oh! Did you ever see such a thing of beauty?”
She seized Brigitte’s hand and Prissy reached, and the three women stood huddled, exclaiming, excited, sharing. Billy stood to one side, forgotten, ignored, grinning.
Prissy grasped Brigitte’s arm and exclaimed, “Did you kiss him?”
Brigitte blushed. “Oh, Prissy, you don’t ask such things.”
“Well,” Prissy blurted, “I do.”
“Of course she kissed him,” Margaret declared. She looked up at Billy. “Didn’t she? And you kissed her.”
Billy ducked his head, grinning, and remained silent, and Margaret reached up to embrace him. “Oh, Billy, I’m so happy for you two. So happy.”
He held her for a moment and then she stepped back and spoke.
“Have you two picked the time for the wedding?”
Brigitte shook her head. “I thought our families should work that out. We’ll have to find a time when Matthew’s home. And Adam and Caleb.”
Margaret thought for a moment. “Billy, can you work that out at the shipping company?”
“Yes.”
“Make it soon. Not good to let these things go on too long.”
“As soon as we know when Matthew’s coming back from Philadelphia we can arrange it.”
“Good. I’ll talk with Dorothy. We’ll take care of everything else.” She turned to Prissy. “Come with me. We have things to do in the kitchen.”
Prissy’s eyebrows arched in question. “What to do? We’re finished in the kitchen.”
There was an edge in Margaret’s voice. “No we’re not. Come on.”
Prissy looked at Margaret, then glanced at Brigitte and Billy, and raised a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh.” She followed Margaret out of the library and closed the door without another word.
Billy turned to Brigitte, grinning, head shaking slightly. “Sometimes I wonder how long your mother has known this day would come.”
Brigitte laughed. “I don’t know. Probably longer than we can guess.”
He took her hands. “I want you to know—I w
ill cherish this little time always.”
“As will I.”
He drew her close and held her, and he kissed her.
“I should go. My mother and Trudy are waiting. Can I see you tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll come after supper.”
“Come early. Share supper with us.”
“Would Margaret mind?”
“Mind? Has she ever?”
Neither could remember how many times over thirty years Billy had been at their supper table, or Matthew at the Weems’s supper table.
“No, she hasn’t. Tell her I thank her.”
“For supper?”
“Yes. . . . And for you.”
He took her by the hand and walked from the library to the front door, opened it, lingered for a moment looking at her, then walked out into the early purple of oncoming dusk. He paused at the front gate to raise one hand, and she waved back with her left hand, and then clasped her two hands to her breast, her right hand firmly pressed over her ring.
The heat of the day was passing, and dusk was deepening when Billy pushed through his gate and entered his house. Dorothy and Trudy were waiting in the parlor. Dorothy took one look at her grinning son and exclaimed, “You asked her, and she said yes!”
Billy couldn’t help laughing. “It worked out.”
Dorothy pointed. “Supper’s on the table. Sit down and tell us while we eat. Everything.”
They sat, Billy said grace, and the talk began.
Note
Billy Weems, Brigitte Dunson, and other characters and events in this chapter are fictional.
Philadelphia
May 30, 1787
CHAPTER XI
* * *
They came tentative, quiet, subdued, to gather in the East Room of the building on Chestnut, glancing at each other, saying little, their brains swamped, staggered by the four-hour thunderbolt Governor Edmund Randolph of Virginia had delivered that second day. In a single stroke he had blasted the Articles into oblivion forever and plunged the convention into a wild concoction of untried notions such as the world had never seen, or dreamed. Worse, they were now sworn to speak not one word of the proceedings outside the East Room! They could not gather at the Indian Queen, or one of their boardinghouse rooms, to thrash out what each thought he had heard from Randolph. Many, perhaps most of them, had spent a sleepless night in the privacy of their own rooms, pacing, running their hands through rumpled hair, mumbling to themselves, pacing again in their desperate effort at making their mind stretch far enough to grasp and understand the foundations on which Randolph’s ramblings had finally come to rest. Some had caught it, to stand stock-still, mesmerized when it burst inside them like a bomb in the darkness. Others recoiled in shock, aghast at what they saw. The one common bond that bound them together as they took their seats was that none of them were sure. Of anything.
With the convention doors locked, the windows closed, and the shades drawn, every eye tracked Washington in total silence as he walked to the dais, took his chair, raised those blue-gray eyes, and said, “The convention will come to order.”
No one moved.
Washington turned to William Jackson. “Mr. Secretary, is a quorum present?”
“It is, sir.”
“Following the address of Mr. Randolph of Virginia yesterday, this convention elected to dissolve into a committee of the whole for the purpose of giving the delegates wider latitude and ease in debating the issues. Mr. Nathaniel Gorham of Massachusetts was elected to chair the committee of the whole. I now yield the chair to Mr. Gorham to conduct the business of the committee.”
Washington rose, took his seat as a delegate, and Gorham took the chair on the dais. He took a few moments to organize the desk, then spoke.
“As a committee of the whole, our first item is to consider the fifteen proposals made by Governor Randolph yesterday. Debate is open.”
Instantly Randolph rose and spoke. “I move that the first resolution be adopted, that is, that the Articles of Confederation be corrected and enlarged to accomplish the objects proposed by their institution.”
His words were still echoing when Gouverneur Morris, the Pennsylvania delegate who was in truth from New York, but who by masterful political maneuvers had wrangled a seat as a delegate from Pennsylvania, was on his one foot, and his wooden leg. His voice was firm, strong.
“The first resolution is not consistent with the other fourteen! Are we to begin our work with obvious inconsistencies?”
Randolph’s mind leaped ahead and he turned to look at the big man with the Roman nose and the wooden leg. Morris intends laying this whole thing wide open! Now! Without prologue, without foundation! For one fraction of a second Randolph hesitated while he decided whether he dared put the whole of it before the delegation, raw, head-on, unvarnished. Then he turned back to Gorham and spoke with resolve.
“I request that my previous motion be put aside and that we adopt the following three resolutions.
“One. That a union of the states merely federal will not accomplish the objects proposed by the Articles of Confederation, namely common defense, security of liberty, and general welfare.
“Two. That no treaty or treaties among the whole or part of the states, as individual sovereignties, would be sufficient.
“Three. That a national government ought to be established consisting of a supreme legislative, executive, and judiciary.”
A collective gasp bounced off the walls. Some minds stalled and for a moment ceased functioning.
National? Supreme? What of the states? Their constitutions? Their courts? Is this man proposing the states and all they have fought for be surrendered? Abandoned? Abolished? Only the states are prepared to remain close enough to the people to know their will. A national government? Never can it be reached by the people! Not in ten thousand years!
With their thoughts scattered like autumn leaves in the first winds of winter, young Charles Pinckney of South Carolina stood, struggling to form the right words. Ben Franklin turned to study him, his old eyes narrowed as he concentrated.
Pinckney’s voice was clear, his inquiry straight and direct. “Mr. Randolph, how far do you propose going in reducing the power of the states?”
Pinckney remained standing for a moment, then sat down, and Pierce Butler of South Carolina quickly arose.
“I rise to pose one question to Mr. Randolph. Can he show us that the existence of the states cannot be preserved by any other mode than a national government?”
There it was! In the first twenty minutes of the first session that addressed the real issues that had brought them all to Philadelphia, they had cut to the heart of the issue that had crippled America for twelve long, frustrating years.
Without moving, Franklin shifted his eyes from Pinckney to Butler, then to Randolph. Did Randolph have the political acumen to understand the opening these two delegates had just delivered?
Randolph licked dry lips. “It is not my intent to attack the sovereignty of the states.” He stopped and looked first at Pinckney, then Butler, allowing time for his words to settle in. “Far from it. It was only my intent to replace the Confederation. Can we agree that the Confederation has proven itself fatally flawed? Unresponsive to the needs of our country today? I see no way to remedy it except to abolish it. By proposing a national government, I do not in the least suggest that it will, or should, directly or indirectly, abolish the state governments. I use the term national in the sense of the form of government which we so desperately need, not the powers with which it shall be vested. Those powers will be as this convention chooses to define them, and not one whit more.”
Franklin relaxed. Randolph had survived, very well.
Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, twice the age of his young cousin and with twice the respect, rose. “Do we dare? Do we dare conduct a discussion of a system of government founded on principles so different from the federal constitution that now exists? In short, what authority does this
convention actually enjoy, to even consider replacing the legitimate government of the United States?”
Again Gouverneur Morris rose, and his wooden leg thumped on the hardwood floor. His reply was blunt, strong, loud.
“Let us be honest. The clear choice facing this convention is this: Shall we have a confederation, or a nation? A federal government such as the Articles of Confederation created is a mere compact, resting on the good faith of the parties. A national or supreme government, however, has complete and compulsive operation on both the states and the citizens.” Morris paused for a moment to order his thoughts and select his words. “One supreme government is better calculated to prevent wars or render them less expensive or bloody. We had better take a supreme government now than a despot twenty years hence—for come he must. What Mr. Randolph proposes is not for the fainthearted. But, I beg you to consider the simple truth that there can be but one supreme power, and only one!”
The words struck deep, and for a moment silence held as the delegates’ minds slowly accepted the fundamental truth Morris had thrust before them, and they realized the issue was framed, finally, fully, and staring the entire convention in the face: would they attempt to amend the old government and the Articles of Confederation from which it sprang and struggle on, or would they sweep it aside and create an entirely new one?
Morris pursed his mouth for a moment and sat down.
Instantly Roger Sherman of Connecticut stood. Sixty-Six years of age, born to a poor farm family in Massachusetts, he later walked to a new life in Connecticut where he became a jack-of-all-trades for a time before he became a self-taught lawyer and storekeeper, publisher of almanacs, and successful treasurer of Yale University, which awarded him an honorary Master of Arts degree for his unselfish service. So impressed was Connecticut with this honest, plain, homely, shambling man with a large family that it sent him to the Confederation Congress for years, where he labored with distinction, serving on the five-man committee of which Franklin and Jefferson were members, to draft the Declaration of Independence.
