Bon Marche (8 page)

MacCallum sighed. “And let me tell you that won't be easy. Miss Katherine, especially, is at an age where she's feeling her womanliness. While I'll not go into details, I can tell you that Miss Katherine might give you cause to believe that her … uh … favors are available. Lord, this is difficult!”

“I understand, Andrew.”

“Ah! You say you do, but could you resist if an opportunity presented itself?”

Charles was sober-faced. “I'd make it a point to do so.”

“Fine. You'll not be alone in this. If I see something brewing, I hope you won't be offended if I bring it to your attention. Privately, of course.”

“I'd be most appreciative.”

Andrew laughed again. “Let's hope so.”

“I would—honestly!”

“I don't wish to belabor this matter, but you should also know about Mr. Lee, of whom Mr. Statler spoke. He is Funston Lee, the son of a rather obnoxious man who lives some five miles removed from Elkwood—a Virginia gentleman, he insists, though I have my doubts about his credentials. In any event, the younger Lee, Funston, is paying court to Miss Katherine, and she's not above attempting to make him jealous by paying special attention to you. Be aware of that, and be especially meticulous in your conversations and actions when Lee is about.

“In this part of the country, Charles, it's not unique for one gentleman to challenge another to what you French call an
affaire d'honneur
—you see, I do know a little French—over the affections of a young lady. Nor is it unique for a young lady to try to precipitate a duel as an affirmation of the love, if we may call it that, the young gentleman professes for her.”

“I'll be most careful,” Charles assured him.

“Good! Someday it may be worth your life that you are.”

MacCallum picked a spot under a leafless maple tree, dropping to the ground with a satisfied groan. He gestured for Charles to follow his example.

“Now, Charles”—the tutor leaned back against the trunk— “another reality of Elkwood. Mr. Statler, a widower of some seven years, has only daughters as his issue, as you're already aware. He doesn't enunciate this, but he's deeply distressed by the fact that he has no male heir. Therefore, there's a tendency on his part to … uh … overindulge a new male inhabitant of Elkwood, to look upon him as a son. It has happened to me, and I'll wager it'll happen to you. If you don't want to be a surrogate son, you'll have to resist his entreaties.”

Andrew paused briefly. “Of course, perhaps you'll see such an opportunity differently than did I. I call this to your attention only to make you aware of it. It will make no difference to me, one way or another, how you choose to handle it.”

Charles nodded. He saw no reason to comment. But he was intrigued by what the tutor had just told him.

“Finally, a third warning, if I may,” MacCallum went on. “The institution of slavery is deeply ingrained here. As a northerner—I was brought to New Jersey from Scotland at an early age and raised there—that institution remains foreign to me. It would be wise for a newcomer such as yourself not to intrude into the matter of the treatment of the slaves—
not intrude in any manner!
Such intrusion, believe me, will be resented. With vehemence. If slavery offends you, keep your own counsel. Nothing will bring you more trouble, perhaps not even the dalliance with a daughter, than expressing your disapproval of slavery. It's a fact of life here. Accept it in silence.”

“I appreciate your … uh…”

“
Candor
is the word you seek, Charles.”

The young Frenchman laughed. “Thank you. I can see that I'm going to learn much from this association.”

“And perhaps I'll learn to contend with French pronunciation,” MacCallum countered. “If we had a bottle of wine here now, I'd propose a toast.” He pantomimed pouring the wine, and lifting the glass high. “To a happy collaboration!”

“To a happy collaboration!” Charles repeated, duplicating the mime.

IV

D
EWEY'S
first few days as a French tutor went well enough, under the firm direction of Andrew MacCallum. Since Charles knew only conversational French and had no grounding in grammar, Andrew had him give the girls a list of often-used words at first. Correct spellings were gleaned from the appendix of a very old and very large British dictionary in MacCallum's possession.

Katherine and Martha wrote the words in their copybooks. It wasn't “lessons,” really—it seemed like great fun.

And rudimentary.
Tête,
head.
Oeil,
eye, and the plural,
yeux. Bouche,
mouth.
Menton,
chin.
Goulot,
neck, and the feminine,
encolure. Corps,
body.
Poitrine,
breast. Charles noticed that Martha actually blushed when he included the word.
Bras,
arm.
Jambe,
leg.
Pied,
foot.

They counted:
Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.

Into the copybooks went the common greetings and social niceties:
Bonjour, bonsoir, au revoir, enchanté, merci, s'il vous plaît.

At the end of the second day, Katherine interrupted the rote lessons. “Monsieur Dewey, you haven't mentioned the most important word of all.”

“And that would be?”

“Love!”

“Ah,
mademoiselle,
” Charles answered playfully, “that would be
amour.
”

“You'll note,” MacCallum interjected, ever the tutor, “that it has a Latin root:
amor,
which is the Latin word for
love,
you may recall.”

Katherine ignored him.
“Amour,”
she repeated in a husky whisper. “There's such a lovely sound to it.”

Charles nodded. “And there are so many ways to use it.
Affaire d'amour,
a love affair;
s'amouracher,
to fall in love;
mal d'amour,
lovesickness;
amourette,
passing fancy;
amour-propre,
self-love.”

“I think it's important,” MacCallum insisted, “that you recognize the Latin base in so many languages—Italian, Spanish, French.” He tried to make his point in the context of what Katherine had started. “The Romance languages, they're called. It was the ancient Romans who said,
Amor vincit omnia
—love conquers all.”

“Does it, Monsieur Dewey?” Katherine asked.

Charles gave a Gallic shrug.
“Amour fait beaucoup, mais argent fait tout.”

The young woman was perplexed. “What does that mean?”

“Love does much, but money does all.” He laughed.

“Mr. Dewey, you're simply horrid!”

“
Monsieur
Dewey,” MacCallum corrected her.

“Very well …
monsieur,
” Katherine pouted. “But he's still horrid.”

Then she smiled at Charles.

Invitingly.

5

C
HARLES
Dewey knew there was a God, even though he had never been inside a church.

He could recall having been witness to only a single religious ceremony, when the bodies of three seamen killed in a gunnery accident off the West Indies were consigned to the waters of the Caribbean.

What religion he knew had been assimilated into his consciousness as a result of what he had heard. But what told him there was a God, what made him a believer, was the sure knowledge that his life was directed by a guardian spirit. Who else but God could be responsible for such a spirit?

In that somewhat narrow sense, he was a
devout
believer.

The prospect, then, of going to church with the Statler family on his first Sunday at Elkwood was pleasing to him. Until he met Funston Lee.

As Statler had announced during dinner at the beginning of the week, Lee sent his coach to take Marshall Statler, his daughters, Andrew MacCallum, and Charles to the services. But Lee himself arrived with the coach, and there was limited room inside it.

Charles's trouble began early, when they were just leaving the mansion. Katherine suddenly took his arm as they went down the stone steps, holding it tightly, walking closer to him than was necessary. Hurrying ahead of the others, she guided him to the coach where Lee awaited the Statler party.

Lee was tall and slim, with smoldering, deep-set eyes. His thin lips were pressed together in disgust at that moment. He was grandly dressed; his lavishly embroidered cape was trimmed with rich fur.

“Funston dear,” Katherine cooed, pressing so close to Charles that he could feel her thigh, “I wish to present Monsieur Dewey.”

Lee glowered at him for an instant, then removed his black velvet tricorne and made a sweeping bow so exaggerated that it could only suggest contempt.

“Ah! The Frenchman,” he said. “Your servant, sir.”

Imprisoned by Katherine's determined hold, Dewey couldn't return the bow. The others were at the coach now, with MacCallum helping Martha inside. Lee extended his hand to Katherine. Before relinquishing Charles's arm, she patted it affectionately, a gesture that Lee was meant to see. Katherine boarded, then Statler and the tutor.

“Oh, dear,” Funston said, glancing inside the coach, “I fear the ladies will be most uncomfortable if we attempt to crowd a half-dozen in there.”

He paused in feigned thought, turning finally to Charles. “Perhaps Monsieur Dewey will play the gallant Frenchman and ride on top … with the coachman.”

The insult was obvious. A half-bow and Lee sprang into the coach, shutting the door firmly.

Charles quickly climbed to his seat, smiling at the black driver. He was determined not to let his anger show.

A cold, light rain began to fall as the coach made its way toward the church. He pulled his cape tighter around him, glancing over at the Negro coachman. “Under these circumstances,” he said, making an attempt at lightheartedness, “perhaps we shouldn't have ventured out.”

“Yas, suh.” The black man didn't look at him.

“May I ask your name?”

“Ah belongs to ole Mistah Lee.”

“But, you
do
have a name?”

“Mistah Lee call me Driver.”

It seemed to Charles that the Negro was having difficulty keeping his answers civil. “What does your family call you?”

The coachman looked over at him at last, surprise registered on his face. “Ain't got no family, suh. An' mah name's Driver.”

Dewey kept silent after that.

The drizzle had ended by the time the half-hour drive to the church was completed, but it had done its damage. Charles's cape was wet, and he was shivering from the cold.

His spirit was dampened as well.

II

T
HE
scene at the rural Virginia church was not at all what Dewey had anticipated.

Almost immediately after leaving their carriages, the women of the congregation disappeared inside the small white clapboard church while the men stood around in groups outside the building, not discussing matters of religion. The talk was of tobacco prices, the manner in which grain would be sown in the spring, trouble with slaves. And horses.

Marshall Statler got into a protracted conversation with a gentleman who had been introduced to Charles as Mr. Ransom.

“I swear to you, Ransom,” Statler said, “that there's never been a finer stallion in Virginia than John Tayloe's Yorick. Why, after six seasons at stud, Tayloe was able to return him to training to accept a challenge from Dr. Flood's breed horse. Let's see—that was in seventy-three, as I recall it.”

“Yes, I believe it was.”

“Did you see that match?”

“No,” Ransom admitted.

“Well, sir, I had that great good fortune,” Statler continued enthusiastically. “It was agreed that they run a single five-mile heat at five hundred pounds a side.”

The master of Elkwood laughed. “I was able to find a hundred pounds as an added wager on Yorick. And it was devastating, sir, absolutely devastating! He covered the distance in”—a pause for thought—“in twelve minutes and twenty-seven, if my memory serves me, and Yorick was in hand the whole way. That was carrying one hundred and eighty! And Yorick, by that time, was thirteen. A truly amazing racing stallion, Mr. Ransom. It's why I'm so pleased to have his son, Skullduggery.”

“Hmmm. I've always been partial to the
Fearnoughts.
”

“Oh, yes,” Statler mused, “he was most prolific and his issue always had good size and stamina. But I always questioned his stud fee—ten pounds seemed exhorbitant.”

“He
was
important,” Ransom said defensively.

“True. And I hope that when the war is finally concluded we can look to England again for some new bloodstock. God knows, we can use it.”

“Will your Skullduggery be open to service outside mares?”

“Of course,” Statler answered. “I don't have enough mares left to keep him content. Does two pounds seem fair?”

“Eminently. We'll talk of this again in the spring.”

“Fine, fine.”

Another large coach drew up. Andrew MacCallum nudged Charles. “Here comes John Lee,” he whispered. “Be most careful with this one.”

“Funston's father?”

“The same.”

The elder Lee, obsese and carelessly dressed, grunted his way out of the coach and walked slowly to the knot of men around Statler.

“Good day, Marshall,” he said sullenly.

“John,” Statler nodded. “May I present Mr. Charles Dewey?”

“I've heard that you had a Frenchman in your household now.” He studied Charles as he would have examined a horse or maybe a slave. As a commodity. “Funston tells me that you're late of the French navy.”