Bon Marche

by Chet Hagan

  MacCallum added a second bit of welcome news:

  “That long-hunter, Abner Lower, whom you recommended as a guide to bring the horses to Tennessee, has accepted the assignment. As a matter of fact, he left two days ago with the horses you want and eight of the blacks. Lower has agreed to guide the remainder of the household on another trip as soon as I can wind up the business here. He seems a competent man. I like him. He says that he ought to be seeing you at the beginning of August, with luck, perhaps as early as late July.”

  Dewey tore his mind away from the memory of Andrew’s letter and directed his attention once again to the royal guest. “How are you finding America?” Dewey asked the Duke of Orleans.

  “Rugged! Most rugged, indeed. But invigorating, for the most part.” He smiled. “We seem to have come to Nashville at the wrong time, though. What with the court being in session, the accommodations here are extremely limited. Captain Maxwell is a gracious host, but my brothers and I are forced to sleep three to a bed.”

  Charles laughed. “You’re fortunate, Your Excellency, that your bedfellows are related. You might have been quartered with two strangers.”

  Orleans joined in the laughter. After another moment or two of polite conversation, Charles drifted away to Maxwell’s well-stocked bar and asked for a bourbon. He was becoming quite fond of the local whiskey.

  He stood nearly alone at the end of the bar, watching the gentry of Nashville being introduced to the Duke of Orleans, enjoying the scene.

  Tim de Monbreun came in, the Quebec Frenchman all flustered at the thought of meeting French royalty. He shook visibly when he was introduced and let loose with a string of frontier Pidgin French expletives that brought a guffaw from the duke.

  As Charles continued to look on, a petite young lady was presented. She had flowing auburn hair—Charles suddenly recalled his Parisian friend, Marie—wide, knowing eyes, and full rouged lips. Despite her small stature, she was full breasted, and her self-assurance was immediately evident; she seemed not awed at all at meeting a Bourbon prince of France. She curtsied politely, exchanged a few words with the duke, and joined the other guests in the crowded room.

  “Who is that young lady?” Charles asked another man at the bar.

  “The redhead?”

  “Yes.”

  “James Jackson’s daughter. The storekeeper, you know.”

  Nodding his thanks for the information, Dewey drained his glass, and made straight for her.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, “my name is Dewey—Charles Dewey. I’m told that you’re James Jackson’s daughter.”

  “Yes, I am.” She studied him frankly.

  “I trade at your father’s store, but I’ve never seen you there.”

  “I’ve been away at school. In Boston.” Before he could comment, she asked: “And what do you do, Mr. Dewey?”

  “I’m a horse breeder. I’m building an estate out by Richland Creek, on the former Duncan trading-post property.”

  She smiled beautifully at him. “Oh, an estate! Not just a farm, but an estate.”

  “Yes,” he said defensively, annoyed by her sarcastic tone, “that’s what I intend it to be. The finest estate in western Tennessee.”

  “I’m pleased for you, Mr. Dewey.” She turned to leave him.

  Charles placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Perhaps I can show it to you some day?”

  “Perhaps.” Once more she tried to move away, but his hand stayed on her arm.

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” he said insistently.

  She stared at him for a moment, as she shook loose his light hold. “It must be a grand estate, sir.”

  “Well, not right now, but—”

  “I mean, if I must see it immediately,” she teased, “I imagine there is a marvelous house, with the most modern of appointments, and—”

  “No,” he admitted disconsolately, “I live in a log house.”

  “Log houses, Mr. Dewey, are easily seen here in Nashville, without riding way out to Richland Creek.”

  He knew she was making fun of him, but he persisted. “Miss Jackson, what you’ll see there now—and what you’ll see there in two, three years—will astound you.”

  “But, right now—not much?”

  “Not much,” Charles admitted.

  “Two years, or three, would be soon enough to see the magnificence of your estate, wouldn’t it?” Her eyes—they were what Charles thought of as spring green—sparkled. “Explain to me, Mr. Dewey, why I must see it now.”

  His mouth was suddenly dry. The words he was about to speak seemed not to be his; he felt they were being forced out of him.

  “Because I intend that you, Miss Jackson, shall be the mistress there.”

  The girl laughed loudly, all heads turning toward them. Charles flushed.

  “You are entertaining, Mr. Dewey.” She paused, looking into his eyes. “I take it that you’re serious.”

  “I am.”

  She stepped back away from him, running her eyes over him from head to foot and back again.

  “Attractive enough,” she said quietly. Not to him. To herself.

  Her candor left him without words.

  “Now, Mr. Dewey,” she went on, “do you have a staff on this grand estate?”

  “I have blacks, yes.”

  “And you live there alone with your slaves?”

  “No,” he replied hesitantly, “I … uh … have five children.”

  She gasped. “Five children!”

  “Yes.”

  “And your wife?”

  “She died.”

  The auburn-haired girl offered him no false words of sympathy. “And so you see me as a nursemaid.”

  “Good Lord, no!”

  “What do you see me as?”

  “As the beautiful mistress of Bon Marché.”

  “Hmmm … Good bargain?”

  “Yes, that’s what it means.”

  “I’m to be a good bargain, too, I imagine?”

  He was suddenly angry. Her continual sarcasm did that. He wanted to end the conversation.

  “Miss Jackson,” Charles said in formal tones, “perhaps I spoke too hastily, too boldly.”

  She pouted. “Oh, you’re withdrawing your kind offer?”

  “It seems you wish me to.”

  Another beautiful smile. “Very well, Mr. Dewey, you’ve won me over. I’ll see your estate. You may call for me at my father’s store at noon tomorrow. You do have a carriage?”

  “Of course.”

  “Noon, then.”

  She started to turn away from him. “Oh, by the way, my name is Matilda. Mattie, to my friends. You may call me Mattie, if you wish.”

  V

  CHARLES was nearly an hour late in arriving at the store for Mattie Jackson the next day.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he explained to the annoyed young woman, “but our servant girl picked this morning to have a baby. I simply had to be there.”

  “You must have a strong paternal feeling for your blacks.”

  “Yes, I do.” He drew a deep breath. “You see, Angelica was my late wife’s housemaid, and—”

  Mattie interrupted his explanation: “I like that about you, Charles Dewey—your concern for your blacks.”

  While she still spoke candidly, the sarcasm of the night before had disappeared. They chatted incessantly during the carriage ride to Bon Marché, with Mattie telling him that she was a second cousin to Andrew Jackson.

  “At least,” she laughed, “that’s what Daddy claims. It seems that he had a cousin in North Carolina who may have been a cousin to Andrew Jackson’s father. It’s all pretty vague, really. But we have fun with it. I call him Cousin Andy and he calls me Cousin Mattie, and everyone is comfortable with that. It really doesn’t matter to me, one way or another. Cousin or not, I admire him immensely.”

  “He seems a unique man,” Dewey commented.

  “A great man!” she corrected him.

  Charles was at ease with her. He tol
d her of Paris, of the days in the navy, of his guardian spirit, and of the decision it made for him to become an American. Of Elkwood and of Fortunata. Of the trip west and of Martha’s death.

  Once again he omitted the fact of his desertion; he hadn’t told Marshall Statler about it, or Martha, or even Andrew MacCallum. He saw no need to tell Mattie about it. That secret, he was determined, would die with him.

  At the Richland Creek property, he guided her around, proudly showing her what had been done.

  “My horses will be here in late July or early August, and then you’ll see the beginning of what this”—he swept an arm—”is meant to be.”

  The afternoon passed swiftly. Looking at the sun moving westward, Charles said to her: “We ought to leave in a few minutes if I’m to get you home before darkness sets in.”

  “I haven’t seen the new baby yet.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

  “I want to, Charles.”

  Reluctantly, Dewey led her to the cabin built for Horace and Angelica. Horace bustled about importantly as he greeted the visitor. Angelica, her face impassive, was sitting up in her small bed, nursing the light-skinned baby.

  “Oh, it’s darling,” Mattie cooed. “A boy or a girl?”

  “A son,” Horace replied proudly. “His name’s Marshall.”

  Charles explained: “Marshall Statler was the master of Elkwood plantation, back in Virginia.” He tried to prod Mattie. “We really ought to be leaving—”

  “May I hold him?” Mattie asked of Angelica as she finished the nursing.

  The black mother extended the tiny bundle to her without comment.

  Mattie took the baby in her arms, rocking it gently, cooing, thoroughly enjoying herself.

  After another few minutes: “Mattie, if we’re to be back before darkness—”

  “Oh, very well.” She surrendered the baby to Angelica. “Thank you.”

  Angelica nodded. She didn’t smile.

  On the drive back to Nashville, Mattie was exuberant about the children. “Corrine and I could be good friends. She’s a very self-assured young lady.”

  “Like you, I think.”

  Mattie looked over at him. “Yes, isn’t she? If I ever have any children of my own, I hope I’ll have a daughter like Corrine.” Grinning, “Franklin, though, is not so sure about me. I suspect that he sees me as a potential intruder.”

  “Franklin will love you,” Charles interrupted. “He above all the others would accept you as a mother. He’s a very realistic, sensible young fellow.”

  “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

  “What?”

  “Talking of me as a mother of those children. I love children; you could see that, I’m sure. But a ready-made family is not what every young girl dreams of.”

  “But—”

  “Charles, I went along with your suggestion that I might be the mistress of Bon Marché only because I thought it was a ploy, a way to meet me, to—”

  “I was totally serious!”

  “And ridiculous,” she said forcefully. “I discovered today that I enjoy your company. That I like your children. That your dreams of an estate in this wilderness are challenging. But you’ve read too much into my acceptance of your offer to take this carriage ride with you. Much too much!”

  “I apologize for that.” Mattie had made him angry again.

  They rode along in silence for a time, Charles getting into the horse for more speed. He wanted to get her home.

  It was she who broke the silence. “That baby—you’re the father, aren’t you?”

  Not looking at her, a scowling Dewey whacked the reins down on the back of the horse. He didn’t give her an answer, but he had the horse at full trot now.

  “I’d be thankful,” the young woman said stonily, “if you’d slow the carriage a bit.”

  He obeyed her, but without comment.

  “You are the father, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” It was a mumble, barely audible.

  They were within sight of Nashville before Mattie spoke again. “Do you want to court me, Charles Dewey?”

  Indeed, that was what he wanted. Yet the anger she had generated in him—brought on by her unrelenting candor and the admission she had wrung from him about Angelica’s baby—would not abate quickly.

  She waited a few moments for his answer. “Well…?”

  “Yes, I do want to court you.”

  It was a factual statement, devoid of enthusiasm. She recognized that.

  “Very well, let’s give it a try,” Mattie said. “But no promises. Not yet. I suggest that no promises be made on either side.”

  “I agree.” He swallowed hard. “I was desperately afraid that when you learned about Angelica’s baby—”

  “Who am I to make moral judgments? The only thing I wanted, Charles, was the truth. If you had lied to me, there would have been no talk of courtship, believe me.”

  He exhaled a loud breath.

  “Relieved?”

  A smile came. “Yes—much relieved.”

  She was laughing as he drew the carriage up in front of the Jackson store.

  “Could you come for dinner Saturday night?”

  “I’d be pleased to.”

  “Don’t be too pleased,” Mattie giggled. “The dinner means that you’ll have to make some kind of announcement to my parents about your intentions.”

  “Oh, God—”

  “I know…” She patted his hand. “But Mother is one of those ladies who put a lot of store in such formalities.”

  Dewey grimaced. “Suppose she doesn’t approve of me?”

  “Oh, she won’t. Without a doubt, she won’t. You won’t measure up to her standards. She sent me to school in Boston hoping that I’d meet a young, wealthy New England merchant from an impressive family.”

  Mattie edged closer to him, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “And I did meet such a young man. Mother doesn’t know it, but I did. There was one little problem: he … uh … well, he had a rather serious quirk—he wasn’t attracted to women.” She laughed loudly.

  Charles joined her laughter. “I don’t have such a problem.” He leaned over, trying to kiss her.

  She avoided him. “You don’t have to prove that to me, you know. Remember—I saw the baby today.”

  Dewey groaned.

  “That wasn’t kind, was it?” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Saturday, then. Seven o’clock. And please don’t be late. You may not have as convenient an excuse as you had today.”

  21

  THE mare writhed on the ground, sweating profusely, emitting sharp cries of pain, her legs thrashing.

  “Don’t nobody know what to do for her?” Abner Lower asked of the slaves who circled the stricken animal.

  “It da colic,” Malachi, one of the older blacks, answered with a certainty born of experience. “Her gut done git twisted, Ah guess.”

  “And what do we do?” Lower demanded. He disliked being in a situation where the Negroes knew more than he did, but he had never been involved in breeding horses and he had to rely on the slaves.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to do, Mistah Abner. Da colic, it bad. She gonna die.”

  The long-hunter looked at the position of the sun. It wasn’t yet directly overhead, although nearly so.

  “Shit, we could make another six to eight miles today if it warn’t for this!”

  “Yas, suh,” Malachi replied dutifully.

  The mare’s foal came up to her, nickering, trying to nuzzle one of her teats. He was kicked away by the pained mother.

  “What happens to that foal if she dies?” the guide of the Fortunata party wanted to know.

  “‘Nother mare might take ‘im, but it ain’t likely.”

  Lower frowned, walking away from the group, pondering. He glanced again at the sun. Moving quickly now, he went to one of the pack horses, and brought down a musket, and loaded it. The slaves melted away from the mare as the long-hunter approached
.

  “Ain’t no point in standin’ around here just waitin’ for her to die,” Lower muttered. No one disagreed with him.

  He put the muzzle of the gun to her ear and pulled the trigger. The once-proud head of the blooded mare jerked convulsively as the noise of the explosion reverberated through the wilderness.

  “Now, the foal—”

  Malachi became bold. “Suh, he got ole Skull’s blood runnin’ in him. Mistah Charles, he partial to thet.”

  Lower hesitated, lowering the musket. “You think another mare might take him?”

  “Ah try, Mistah Abner.”

  “How long?”

  “It take time.”

  Their guide sighed. “Well, try, then. We’ll make camp here tonight.”

  He spat in the dust, angry at the delay. “Shit!”

  II

  MATTIE Jackson hadn’t been wrong. Her mother didn’t approve of Charles.

  “Frankly, Mr. Dewey, I had hoped for more for my only child than a debilitating life in this ungodly wilderness!”

  Sarah Jackson was a humorless woman: sullen, argumentative, imperious, snobbish. And sarcastic. It was easy to see where Mattie got her casual sarcastic repartee. She got her looks from her mother, as well. Mrs. Jackson was a strikingly handsome woman, but her beauty was ruined by the perpetually stony expression.

  Mattie’s parents were a study in contrasts. Storekeeper James, whom Charles already knew, was extroverted, talkative, inclined to tell bawdy stories. He was cowed by his wife, however; she was clearly the dominant figure.

  Thus the Saturday night dinner evolved into a competition between Dewey and Sarah Jackson.

  “The wilderness can be difficult at times, ma’am,” Charles countered, “but I’ve never thought of it as debilitating. Challenging and invigorating are more appropriate words, I believe.”

  Mrs. Jackson answered with a snort of derision. “I’ve seen women crushed by this frontier life—made old before their time.” Looking directly at her husband: “I myself have suffered. There are simply no graces here, Mr. Dewey. None at all!”

  “Those will come, Mrs. Jackson.”

  “So James has been telling me—for a decade now.”