by Chet Hagan
“Ah, yes,” he said, “the beautiful young lady in the front row.” He took her hand.
Her mother spoke rather pointedly: “This was a present to her on her sixteenth birthday.”
“Indeed.” The actor smiled. “I’m most pleased to have shared it with you, Miss Dewey.”
“Oh! You know my name?” The Princess was flustered.
“Of course. When someone so lovely graces my theater, I make an effort to find out who she is. Happy birthday, Miss Dewey.” Ludlum bent to kiss her hand.
The young girl from Bon Marché danced back to the Nashville Inn.
As she and her mother undressed for bed in the room they shared, Alma May could speak of nothing but Nathan Ludlum.
“He’s so handsome and so gallant, don’t you think, Mother?”
“Yes, dear.” She hid her frown from the Princess. The attention the actor had paid to her daughter worried her.
“And Louise says he’s not married.”
“That shouldn’t be of concern to you.”
“You might have thought twice, Mother,” Alma May pouted, “about telling him that I was only sixteen.”
“Yes, dear. Now, do go to sleep!”
In the tavern of the Nashville Inn at that hour, Ludlum sat with his fellow actors at a large table, drinking ale.
“Nat,” one of them laughed, “I saw that little hand-kissing exhibition at the front door tonight. The bucolic type really isn’t in keeping with your style, is it?”
“Bucolic?” Ludlum grinned wickedly. “You see, my friend, your comment is just another proof that you’re never going to prosper in this world. Miss Dewey’s father, you should know, is the richest man in western Tennessee!”
He raised his glass of ale in a toast.
“To money,” he said.
IV
RACING at Charleston was elegantly social and all-pervasive; businesses and government offices closed for the races.
There were some surprises for Charles Dewey. He was astounded at the scale of wagering. Used to the flamboyant betting on the frontier, he knew what it was to see the backer of a horse risk property—real and human—on the outcome of a race. But never before had he seen so much cash money offered: hard money—gold and silver. Very little paper. Indeed, he had to amend his own wagering patterns, calling on the bank to exchange his paper money into large-denomination coins in order to keep pace with the Charlestonians. He did so willingly. And profitably.
Even more astonishing to Dewey was the quality of the horses. He had expected something much better in the way of competition. Starting six young horses in the first four days of racing, he saw five of them win convincingly; the sixth was beaten only a neck.
Thomas Pinckney, Junior, whose father and uncle had been stalwarts in the fight for American independence, was the first horseman to approach him with an offer for one of the Bon Marché runners.
“Your bloodlines, Mr. Dewey,” Pinckney said, “seem to be devastating us.”
“The luck of racing, sir.”
“Not at all. That Predator colt that won today—the big bay—is he for sale?”
Charles grinned. This was what he had come for. But he began cautiously. “Any horse is for sale for the proper price.”
“Ten thousand, sir.”
The visitor struggled to keep the shock off his face. The price he had anticipated for the colt had been far exceeded by the offer.
“Perhaps, Mr. Pinckney, we should not rush into this.”
“Oh? You have another offer?”
“Some interest has been expressed, yes.” The white lie was just a part of horse-trading.
“Tell me what it is and I shall match it.”
Charles needed time to think; there was a greater vein to be mined in Charleston than he had imagined. “I prefer that such offers be kept confidential.”
“Of course.”
“But when I do elect to sell him, you’ll be given ample opportunity to compete for him.”
“That seems fair to me, sir.” Young Pinckney bowed slightly and retired.
Dewey needed a plan. It was clear to him now that he would have no difficulty selling the dozen colts he had brought with him. Pinckney’s interest, he believed, only mirrored what was possible. He thought of Mattie and what ideas she might contribute; his wife, he admitted to himself, was a far shrewder bargainer than was he.
On the first Saturday of racing, his guardian spirit intervened. Mattie wasn’t there, but Mrs. Langdon Cheves was.
“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Dewey,” she said to him, coming up on him suddenly when he was saddling a runner for the feature event.
“Ma’am?”
“I’ve waited a week to hear from you.”
“Well, you see, the horses—”
“Now I’ve had to seek you out.” She was playing the coquette. “I’m not accustomed, Mr. Dewey, to playing second fiddle to a bunch of horses.”
Charles was uncomfortable. “I was … uh … concerned about the propriety of calling on a woman whose husband is absent—”
“I never knew,” she interrupted, “that propriety was a concern of men. My experience has been that women have had to set the rules in such matters.”
“Yes, well…” Once again her candor had cost him his words.
“Following that theory—to which I subscribe—you have an invitation for lunch tomorrow.”
“If you wish.”
“I wish, Mr. Dewey.”
V
SEVERAL times in the hours between Saturday afternoon and Sunday noon Charles had decided that he would send a message to Mrs. Cheves declining her invitation.
He didn’t.
He went because he wanted to be with her. Because, tossing sleeplessly in his bed that night, he could not erase the erotic thoughts he had about her. He even concluded, in one brief moment, that if she allowed him …
They had a delightful meal together, laughing and teasing. She captivated him. He found, as the meal ended and they strolled together on the vast lawn of the estate, that she became less and less like Mattie. The physical comparisons were still there, and the candor, but Mrs. Cheves had her own charm. She was more sophisticated than Mattie, more experienced in the world of “old society.”
They sat on a low stone wall at the edge of the lawn, gazing out over the fields. Silently. She reached over and took his hand, holding it in her lap.
“Mr. Dewey,” she began. “Oh, I can’t keep calling you that, can I?”
“It’s Charles.”
“I’m Mary Elizabeth. I was a Dulles.” She grinned. “But that doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Good! Because it’s not important, really. What’s important is that we be”—she hesitated—“friends.”
“I agree.”
“Friendship is what you seek in me?”
“Of course.”
“No more than that?”
He looked into her eyes for a moment. “Mary Elizabeth, I’m not very good at this game. I’m not even sure that I appreciate it being played. It’s childish, isn’t it, to suggest any more than friendship?”
The lovely woman sighed. “I’m sorry. Teasing has become a defense with me. Langdon is away so much, and I do receive … well, proposals.”
“So you talk your way out of them?”
“Exactly.” A frown. “It’s strange, Charles, but in this case I’d rather not have the defense.”
“More teasing?”
“Truth.”
He laughed at her. “Loneliness can be a great tempter.”
Mary Elizabeth didn’t comment. But she continued to cradle his hand in hers. When she spoke again, she changed the subject. “I hear everywhere, Charles, that your horses are the sensation of the race meeting.”
“I’ve been very fortunate, that’s true.”
“Charles Manigault told me two nights ago that he covets one of your colts—one by Royalist, if I remember the conversation correct
ly. You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m not much on racehorse pedigrees.”
“Two of my colts are by Royalist.”
“Anyway, Mr. Manigault seemed quite taken with one of them.”
“I’ve had some offers on several of the horses, and while I hope to sell them all, I’m not quite sure how to proceed. Obviously, I want to get as much as I can. I also want to keep the friendship of these gentlemen.”
“Let them bid on them,” she suggested.
Charles shook his head. “I don’t want to auction them. That takes too much preparation.”
“Accept sealed bids, then.”
He thought for a moment. “I believe that’s the answer.”
“May I help you with it?”
“Well…”
“Please! I want to! I’ll let it be known—I do get around, you know—that you’re accepting sealed bids, and then I’ll gather them for you.”
“I’m afraid that would be too much of in imposition.”
“Nonsense! I’m going to do it.” She laughed. “I’ll be your horse agent. Is that the correct term?”
“It is indeed.”
“Wonderful!” She was excited by the prospect. Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him. And then her arms went around his neck and she kissed him again.
Charles responded, and they held each other, sitting on that stone wall, neither wanting to let go.
“This is rather public out here,” she whispered.
“Hmmm.”
She was on her feet, tugging at his hand. “Come.”
He followed her into the entrance hall of the mansion, up the wide, curving stairway. She opened the door to the bedroom, beckoning that he enter.
“I think I’ve come far enough.”
“Charles, this isn’t teasing.”
“I know.”
“Don’t you want me?”
“At this moment, more than anything I can imagine.”
“But…”
“‘But love is blind, and lovers cannot see,’” he quoted, “‘the pretty follies that they themselves commit.’”
The spell was broken.
“Damn you!”
“What?”
“Spouting some stupid poetic morality at a time like this!” She was deeply annoyed.
“Shakespeare,” he explained weakly.
“I don’t care!”
There was an absurdity about the whole thing. When that came clear to Mary Elizabeth, she began to laugh. Charles laughed, too. They walked down the stairway, still clasping hands, as the laughter ran its course. At the door he kissed her cheek.
“Are you going to regret this?” she asked.
“No. We’ve done the right thing.”
As he walked to his horse and heard the door closing behind him, he cursed under his breath.
Dewey didn’t believe at all that they had done the right thing.
VI
MARY Elizabeth Cheves fulfilled her promise. She spread the word among her circle of wealthy Charlestonians about the sealed bids being accepted on the Bon Marché horses, and she gathered the bids for Charles.
In one happy afternoon together at her home, they opened the bids, culling out the highest ones. All twelve horses were sold, at an average price of over eight thousand dollars. Charles Manigault had bought the Royalist colt he coveted for twelve thousand five hundred—fully five thousand dollars over what was offered by another bidder.
Strangely, there was no bid at all from young Thomas Pinckney on the Predator colt for which he had earlier offered ten thousand dollars.
Charles wondered if he had offended Pinckney by not accepting that first offer. He shrugged. He thought the prices exorbitant, but he rationalized that the business of Bon Marché had to come first, not his rather old-fashioned ideas about the worth of a horse. There was money in Charleston; he would accept it.
Two more days were spent in the company of Mary Elizabeth Cheves, as the horses were delivered to the plantations in the vicinity of Charleston and payments accepted. His last morning in the fascinating city was spent at breakfast with Mrs. Cheves, a leisurely meal that neither one of them wanted to see end.
“I have in my saddlebag,” he told her, “bank drafts for nearly one hundred thousand dollars. I’ve even sold the horse vans.”
“You had a good agent.”
“I did, indeed. Agents get fees for their work, you know. I figure that I owe you almost ten thousand dollars.” He reached into his pocket for a bank draft he had drawn in her name.
She raised a hand to stop him. “You owe me nothing, Charles. Except your warm friendship.”
“That you have—in full measure.”
It was time to leave for Tennessee. He took her in his arms, kissing her tenderly.
Her head on his chest, she had the last word.
“Think sometime about what it might have been if it hadn’t been for your damned ‘pretty follies.’”
37
“YOU haven’t had much opportunity,” Mattie chuckled, “to tell us about Charleston, what with Alma May’s constant babbling about that actor.”
“The Princess does seem taken with him.”
“Thank the Lord they’ve finished here now and have moved on to Kentucky. I don’t know how I would have handled her if those actors had stayed.”
“That young lady is in love with all of life. We’ll see other such enthusiasms before she settles down.”
Charles got into bed, gathering his wife into his arms for the first time in more than a month. “I thought about this moment a great deal.”
“I guess neither one of us is very good at sleeping alone.” She kissed him. “Now, tell me about Charleston.”
Quickly, Dewey described the Charleston trip, the racing successes, the wagering coups, the unexpected windfall on the sale of the horses.
“You were very wise to sell the thoroughbreds with that sealed-bid device. It probably increased what you got for them. Quite substantially, it seems.”
“No doubt about that.”
He thought of Mary Elizabeth and was racked with guilt, hoping that his face didn’t reveal it.
“And the people—were they hospitable?”
“Exceedingly so. Charles Manigault, a wealthy rice planter, had me as a guest one evening at the estate he calls Steepbrook—I want to tell you about that house later—and Henry Izard, of another old-line Charleston family, had me to The Elms, also quite magnificent. I was much impressed with all the horsemen.”
“And the women?”
He saw another vision of Mrs. Cheves. Cool, lovely, desirable.
“Charles!”
“What?” He realized then that his thoughts of the lady from Charleston had prevented him from answering Mattie. “Oh, yes, the women…” He wondered what Mattie was thinking.
“The women,” he went on, “seemed to me, for the most part, to be spoiled. They have so many house servants—seemingly three times what we employ—that I don’t believe the ladies have anything at all to do. Except, perhaps, to be beautiful.”
Why in the devil did I say that? Charles asked himself.
“Were they beautiful?”
“Well … attractive, let’s say. They dress in fashion, of course, Charleston being much more sophisticated than Nashville.”
“I see.” Mattie frowned. “Do you want to tell me about her?”
Charles had a feeling of panic. “Who is that, dear?”
“The woman”—her tone was icy—“who seems to have captivated you.”
“Mattie,” he said, forcing a laugh, “you have a vivid imagination.”
“Is that your answer?”
“Yes, dear, that’s my answer. I suppose I should be flattered that you could be jealous—especially at my age—but, in truth, I can’t recall that I was introduced to any unmarried women.”
“She was married, then.”
“Mattie, for God’s sake!”
He ended the conversation by being more aggressive
than usual in his lovemaking. But he wasn’t convinced that Mattie would drop the subject.
She reads too damned well.
II
“DADDY! Daddy!” Alma May cried, rushing into the drawing room, waving a copy of the Nashville Monitor. “They’re coming back! Just think of it, they’re coming back!”
Her father grinned at her. “And who might that be, Princess?”
“Mr. Ludlum’s acting company!” She placed the newspaper on the desk in front of him, jabbing a finger at an article. “They’re going to settle here permanently, and there’s to be an acting school in Nashville, Daddy!”
“That’s very nice.”
“Nice! It’s the greatest thing ever to happen! I wonder why Louise didn’t tell me about this.”
“Maybe because she didn’t see it with the same end-of-the-world enthusiasm that you seem to have.”
“I’m going to enroll in the acting school!”
“Wait a minute, Princess. I think you ought to talk to your mother about this.”
“She’ll say yes if I can tell her that you said it was all right.”
Charles laughed. “And that’s exactly why the three of us will sit down calmly and discuss it together.”
“Oh, Father!”
He was Father when Alma May was annoyed, Daddy at all other times.
“When does this marvelous happening take place?”
“In January, it says here.”
“That’s three months away, Princess. Do you think you’ll be able to wait?” He was laughing at her again.
The young girl squeezed her way onto his lap and hugged him. “You’ll like Nathan, Daddy. He’s so—”
“Nathan? Do you know this young man well enough to call him by his first name?”
“Well, no,” she confessed sheepishly. “But, Daddy, he’s so handsome!”
“So I’ve been hearing. Now, Princess, take your unbounded enthusiasms elsewhere and let me finish my work.”
Alma May sprang to her feet. “You will like him, Daddy! Just you wait and see!”
She skipped out of the room. Charles looked after her, smiling at the pleasant picture she made: her mother’s auburn hair and fair skin, but taller, with slim, firm legs, her figure budding.
The Princess was a beautiful young woman. Woman? He had never seen his youngest daughter in that light before.
