Bon Marche (30 page)

With first light, Charles woke to her touch. She was running her fingers down his chest. Teasing him.

“Good morning,” she said sleepily.

He kissed her tenderly.

“I enjoy making love to you, Mr. Dewey.”

He smiled at her. “You know, I had that impression.”

“Is there a reason to get an early start this morning?”

“The racing won't begin until the afternoon.”

“Isn't that convenient?” She giggled, entwining herself with him.

VI

L
EXINGTON
, while it was still a frontier town, was a good deal more civilized than Nashville. It offered several good inns; there were numerous substantial homes in the community. It had a government, having been incorporated some fifteen years earlier. And there was a newspaper, the
Kentucky Gazette,
which Dewey found devoted a considerable portion of its columns to horse racing.

It was well past noon, the first heat of the first race already having been run, when Charles and Mattie made their appearance at the new Lexington Jockey Club racecourse. Charles made inquiries about a John Fowler, one of the owners of the imported English stallion, Blaze. When he was directed to the gentleman, Fowler greeted him effusively.

“I've been hearing a good deal about the racing around Nashville,” Fowler said.

“Not so far advanced as it is here,” Charles admitted, glancing around at the large crowd.

“Ah, but I believe we had a head start on you. There's been racing here, on a more or less formal basis, since ‘eighty-nine. Here and in Georgetown and Danville and Equiria and Shelbyville and Bardstown.”

“Hmmm.”

“Kentucky, Mr. Dewey, is leading the way for racing in the West.”

Dewey told him that he was interested in breeding some mares to Blaze.

“Do you want to see him?” Fowler asked.

“You have him here?”

“Yes, he's standing at a farm just down the road. I figured there'd be a lot of breeders here who might want to inspect him. He's the first true English horse to be brought to this state, you know.”

Fowler led the way to a temporary paddock near the racetrack, where the big bay stallion pranced and postured. A large white blaze marked his face, obviously giving the horse his name.

“Impressive,” Charles said.

“He had a decent race record in England,” Fowler volunteered. “Of course, not as great as some others, but…”

Dewey decided to book three of his mares to the stallion, and an agreement was made for ten dollars a mating.

“Are you a wagering man?” the Kentuckian inquired.

Charles's hearty laugh was his answer.

“Might I suggest that you place a bet on a gelding named Boone in the three-mile dash coming up?”

“Well, I don't know your horses—”

“Believe me, Mr. Dewey, Boone is most solid in that race.”

Dewey followed his advice, betting a hundred dollars on Boone in a public selling pool being operated by the jockey club. The gelding was distanced.

The visitor shrugged off the loss, but as he and Mattie walked away, Charles whispered to her, “Rule number one:
never
bet blind.”

“Why did you, then?”

“Because…” He thought for a moment. “Hell, I don't know!”

VII

A
S
they were eating dinner at Postlethwait's Tavern that evening, Charles said, “We ought to get an early start in the morning to return to Nashville.”

“Hmmm.”

He chuckled. “What I'm trying to say is that we ought to consider an early retirement.”

“Because we have to rise at an early hour?”

“No,” he admitted, “because I want to be in bed with you.”

“That's a sensible reason.”

He reached across the table, taking her hand. “Mattie, when are we going to be married?”

“I didn't know we were going to be.”

Dewey's face mirrored his shock. “But I thought—”

“I like you very much, Charles Dewey,” she said softly. “I like your love-making. But I'm not sure I want to be married to you. I need more time to decide that.”

He sat silently, unable to find words.

“You see, I don't believe that going to bed with a man is reason enough to marry him. If I had believed that, I would have been married in Boston.”

There were times when he hated her candor.

“You love the whole idea of Bon Marché,” she went on, “of building it, nurturing it, making it the finest estate in Tennessee. That's admirable. But is it for me? I don't know. Not yet.”

“So I must wait?” He couldn't hide his annoyance.

She nodded. “If you want me.”

“I want you.”

“You're a terrible romantic, Charles,” she said soberly. “I'm much more practical than you.”

“So I'm beginning to understand.”

“Good!” She rose from the table. “Then let's be practical. It's time to go to bed.”

22

“C
HARLES
! Charles! The horses are here!”

Mattie rode wildly into the clearing at Bon Marché, her horse heavily lathered.

“The horses,” she reportedly breathlessly. “That fellow Lower arrived in Nashville with them this morning. I've led them out here. They're just a few minutes behind me.”

She turned in the saddle, pointing down the wooded road leading into Bon Marché. She was beaming, proud of the service she had performed.

Charles helped her to dismount. “Didn't anyone ever teach you not to run a horse like that?” The remonstrance was mild, however, and was followed by a kiss.

“I think I'm as excited as you must be! Your horses are here!”

“How do they look?”

A frown. “I don't know, Charles. I'm not an expert on horses.”

They stood together looking down the broad lane. A minute. Two minutes. Three. Charles shifted nervously from one foot to another.

Then, when he saw the Fortunata party coming out of the woods, Charles ran forward to embrace Malachi, the loyal old black man. “Thank God you've made it!”

“Yas, suh. We all mighty glad to be here, Mistah Charles.”

Dewey stood silently as the horses were herded past him, counting them and clapping the other blacks on the back as they came by him.

Abner Lower, mounted and looking very weary, brought up the rear. When he came abreast of Charles, he slid to the ground and gave him a clumsy salute.

“Mr. Dewey—your horses.”

“My God, Lower, they look … well, all wrung out!”

“Yes, sir. It was a difficult trip.”

“I counted only twenty-five.”

“Yes, sir. We lost three.” He told him of the episode with the mare Estella and her foal. “And just two days ago, that two-year-old, Virginia Song, stepped in a chuckhole and broke his right fore. I'm sorry, Mr. Dewey, but I had to destroy him.”

Charles groaned. He really wanted to weep. “Virginia Song? I had great hopes for him.”

The hunter-guide nodded.

A forced smile. “Well, Lower, it's good to see you, nevertheless. I imagine it could have been worse.”

“It could have been,” Lower agreed. “To be truthful, I didn't realize how slow it would be, driving that many horses.”

“Hmmm. I can appreciate the difficulties, believe me.”

Dewey shouted to Malachi. “Put the mares and foals in that pasture to your left. The horses in training on your right. And take the stallions directly to the barn. Horace will show you the way.”

Lower went to his saddlebag and took out the log book listing the horses. He handed it and another package to Charles.

“MacCallum sent these along. The larger package, he said, is the latest English Stud Book.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lower.” Charles shook his hand. “I know you must be tired and hungry. We have food prepared—”

“I just want to sleep.”

“Of course.”

As they walked toward the log houses, Dewey asked: “The slaves? They gave you no trouble?”

“No, sir.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “They … uh … well, dammit, Mr. Dewey, they love you.”

II

L
ATE
that night Charles sat in the light of an oil lamp, studying the log book of the horses. Mattie was quietly by his side.

He wrote a note in the book. “Note this date,” he said to her. “August 10, 1797—the real beginning of Bon Marché.”

“It's noted.”

Charles repeated the date. “A beginning with twenty-five horses. Five stallions, seven horses in training, and ten mares, three with foals by their sides.”

“You're pleased, aren't you?”

“Yes. I believe them to be the finest blooded horses in western Tennessee.” He paused. “Or, I guess I should say
thoroughbreds.
I noted in the English Stud Book that Andrew sent along that that's the universally accepted term now—thoroughbred.”

Mattie made no comment.

Charles smiled. “Thoroughbred? Andrew had an old English dictionary at Elkwood, when he was tutoring me, in which thoroughbred meant a well-bred or thoroughly trained person. But I think the term is well applied to our blooded horses.
Thoroughbred.
I like that—it has a good ring to it.

“I have five of the best stallions in this area,” Charles went on. “Premier Etoile, a son of Skullduggery, by Yorick. Lord, Marshall Statler was proud of old Skull. And he allowed me to name Premier Etoile, you know.” He laughed. “But of course, you
don't
know. I have so much still to tell you.” Dewey leaned over and kissed her. “So much to tell you.”

She smiled at him.

“Then there's Predator, by Shark, and Arrangement, by Medley—I had a role in importing both Medley and Shark.” He paused in thought. “In ‘84 and ‘86, if my memory serves me.

“And New York, by Messenger.” A grin. “Mattie, I actually sent mares all the way to New York to breed to that stallion. He's a bit small, but sturdy. The Messenger blood lines may yet be important. And, finally, Cranium, also by Skullduggery.”

He sighed. “Skull's last foal colt. Not much at the track, but Martha was particularly fond of that one. I guess it's the reason I kept him. Oh, hell, Mattie, I must be boring you to death.”

“You're not,” she told him.

“It's late, isn't it?”

“Hmmm.”

“I wonder what your mother is going to say about you staying out here tonight?”

“Do you care?”

“Yes, I care. She's bound to be unhappy with both of us.”

Mattie shrugged. “I don't care.” A deep breath. “It is late, Charles, but could we talk?”

“Certainly.”

“I watched you carefully today with the horses, and for the first time, I realized what Bon Marché means to you. Angelica was with me, and she said something I haven't been able to dismiss. She said, ‘He needs you, Miss Mattie. He can't do it without you.' Do you think that's true?”

“Angelica is a wise woman.”

“And she loves you deeply. She makes me feel inadequate in that department. I'm not sure, Charles, that I love you as she does.”

“Don't be silly.”

“No, it's true. I admire you; you know that. But love is something else again. Yet when she said, ‘He can't do it without you,' I knew she was speaking the truth. You need me, Charles, for my strength—”

“I do. And—”

She silenced him by putting her fingers to his lips. “Bon Marché needs more than a horseman. It needs someone to manage it, to make it grow, while you care for the horse business. If you'll take me on those terms, Charles, I'll marry you.”

Delighted, he tried to kiss her, but she moved away from him.

“Will you take me on those terms?”

“Yes.”

“Knowing that love is not yet there?”

“On any terms.”

She kissed him, sealing the bargain. And she laughed. “After a good night's sleep—if that's possible with us—I'll ride to Nashville and tell Mother.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“No, you have work here. I'll take care of Mother. I'll also have Father put in an order for sawmill equipment.”

“Sawmill?”

“To cut the lumber to build the Bon Marché mansion. The best damned house this wilderness has ever seen!”

III

M
ATTIE'S
news of her decision to marry Charles Dewey did not produce the anticipated rage in her mother. Instead, Mrs. Jackson accepted it calmly, with even a small measure of cheer, immediately setting about making plans for the ceremony.

Sarah ordered her own wedding gown of lace and silk removed from the huge trunk and altered to fit Mattie. She rented Mr. Parker's large parlor in the Nashville Inn for the occasion. And she ordered her husband to find champagne somewhere and have it brought to Nashville. It turned out that St. Louis was the nearest source of champagne—of whatever quality—and two riders were dispatched to fetch it.

A date was set—August 30.

Most troublesome in the planning was finding someone to perform the ceremony. Nashville was devoid of churches and ministers. Itinerant preacher Brother John wasn't considered by Sarah to be proper, but he wasn't in evidence anyway, busy wih his own saving of souls somewhere on the Natchez Trace. In the end, Superior Court Judge John McNairy—who was due to be in the community for a court session—made his services available.

Sarah had several disappointments. She sought a decorator to turn Mr. Parker's parlor into a wedding chapel. The closest such gentleman was found to be in distant Philadelphia; Mrs. Jackson decided to do the decorating herself. A professsional chef was not available either, but Sarah finally accepted Mr. Parker's assurances that the Nashville Inn cooks were equal to the important task of providing a sumptuous wedding dinner.