Bon Marche (45 page)

“You mean Charles did
this
because you told him you couldn't stay?”

“I'm afraid that I struck the first blow and—”

“Andrew, don't lie to me, please.”

He sighed. “Very well, no more equivocation. Charles became enraged when I declined his offer. And he'd listen to no explanation about Princeton. When he said something I found offensive, I slapped him. He retaliated—with a good deal more vigor than I was ready for.”

“Oh, my God, what are we going to do?” Mattie began to weep.

“I'm not sure. I think, though, that I ought to do what he demanded: I ought to get out.” To Mercy: “Dear, would you pack, please? We'll leave immediately.”

“No!” Mattie insisted vehemently. “You leave now and it'll never be the same again.”

“Whether we stay or go,” Andrew said with deep melancholy, “it can never be the same again. That became a reality in that terrible instant when we struck each other.”

“We'll work it out.”

“I don't think that's possible, Mattie, as much as I would wish for it, as much as I would like to turn back the clock half an hour.”

Again Andrew spoke to Mercy: “Would you pack, dear?”

“Will you be able to ride?” Worry showed on his wife's pleasant face.

“Certainly. I'll be fine.” He touched his abdomen. “I'm just a little tender, that's all.”

Mercy hurried away.

MacCallum sat up with a slight groan.

Still kneeling beside him, Mattie Dewey let her control slip away. Her weeping became tearing sobs, making it difficult for her to catch her breath. Andrew offered his arms and she fell into them.

He patted her. “It's going to be all right,” he tried to assure her. “In time, Mattie, in time.”

Andrew MacCallum knew it would never be all right again.
There's a hint of madness there.
He ordered his mind to reject such a terrible thought.

Mercy had packed quickly. Horace had been sent to have their horses saddled. With reassurances to Mattie—words, empty words!—and promises that they would keep in touch, the MacCallums rode away.

Dewey, slumped in the darkness against a tree beside the lane, saw them go. He opened his mouth to call out to them, but no words came.

Sounds of the hooves on the hard-packed surface faded away into the night.

Rolling over, he retched into the grass.

III

“D
AMN
you, Marshall, I told you not to gallop that mare! I don't want her to leave her race on the training track!”

Dewey, livid with anger, was pounding his riding crop against his boot.

“I'm sorry,” the jockey said, “she got away from me. She's full of it this morning. But she's gonna have plenty for the race.”

“Are you presuming to tell me how to train a race horse?!”

“Oh, no, sir. I'm sorry if you thought so.”

“Cool her out carefully,” Charles ordered, “if you're not too stupid for that, too.”

Marshall, the hurt frozen on his face, turned the mare quickly, trotting away toward the barn.

Franklin, who had witnessed the unhappy scene, came up to his father. “Don't you think you were a little hard on him?”

“Must I have arrogance from you, too?”

His son swallowed hard. He had rehearsed a little speech after nearly a week of outbursts of Dewey's sudden, irrational temper. In the house, at the barns, on the training track. No one escaped them, not even Mattie.

“Not arrogance, Father, but the truth. Ever since Uncle Andrew left here—”

“That man is
not
your uncle!”

“Ever since he left here so suddenly, you've been impossible. I don't know what happened between you two, and I'm not asking that you tell me. But I want you to know that what you're doing now is destroying this farm. No one can work properly under the goad of your uncontrollable anger. If I acted like that, you'd take a whip to me, and with good reason.”

“That's enough!” Dewey started to walk away.

“No, you'll hear me, Father!”

The words stopped Charles in his tracks: Franklin had said, You'll
hear
me, not you'll
listen
to me. Andrew had said Charles would have to
hear
his children.

He turned back to Franklin. “Very well—go on.”

“I can't watch you anymore, day after day, tearing yourself apart like this. If it's so painful for you, why don't you go into Nashville and have out whatever it is with Andrew? Finish it, for God's sake!”

“They've left for the East,” he answered sullenly.

“Not yet. Not until Saturday.”

“Oh? How do you know that?”

“I checked.”

“You talked with Andrew?”

“Yes. He won't talk about what happened, but he seems rational, at least.”

Charles stared at Franklin. “Is there more you want to say?”

“Yes. I think you ought to apologize to Marshall.”

“Perhaps you're right.”

They walked together to the training barn, where another black, not Marshall, was cooling out the mare.

“Where's Marshall?” Dewey demanded.

“Ah don' know, Mistah Charles. He jest come back from th' track, saddle up thet ole geldin' o' his, an' lit off down th' road. He never did say nothin' ‘cept Ah was t' cool out this here mare.”

“Tell Marshall I want to see him when he returns.”

“Yah, suh. Jest as quick as he git back.”

IV

M
ARSHALL
Dewey was punishing the gray gelding with both whip and spur, racing him at breakneck speed toward Nashville. Tears of hurt and anger ran down his light brown face.

He didn't slow the lathered animal until he saw the town ahead of him. Then he stopped for a moment, wiping the tears away with his sleeves, squaring his shoulders, preparing for what he planned to do next. He kicked the gelding into a slow trot and headed him in the direction of Mercy Callison's house.

There he knocked lightly on the door. Delilah opened it.

“Is Mister Andrew here?”

The black woman looked at him suspiciously. “Who want him?”

“Tell him Marshall … Marshall Dewey.”

Delilah went away, closing the door on him. In just a few seconds, MacCallum opened the door again.

“Marshall? Is something wrong?”

The boy struggled to keep from crying again. “I want to go with you when you leave.”

“I think you'd better come in.” He led the boy into the living room, where Mercy and Delilah were packing a large trunk.

“We have a guest, dear. I think he might like a cup of chocolate.”

Mercy nodded to Delilah, who hustled away.

“Sit down, Marshall,” Andrew said calmly.

The boy perched uneasily on the edge of the settee.

“Now, tell us why you want to go with us?”

“I want to be a jockey in New York,” Marshall said defiantly.

“I see. Does Charles know?”

“He won't care.”

“The two of you had an argument?”

The lad nodded.

Andrew sighed. “How old are you, Marshall?”

“I'll be twelve.”

“Don't you think that's a bit young to go traipsing off to New York?”

“I'm free,” Marshall answered quickly. “Horace says that means I can do whatever I want to.”

“Yes, but…” MacCallum wanted to choose his words carefully. “It means, you must understand, that you can do anything you want when you're
grown.
When you're older, when you're a man, you can make your own decisions. Now, though, you're still bound to listen to your father.”

Delilah brought the chocolate. For the first time, Marshall smiled. “Thank you.” He took a sip. “It's good,” he added politely.

“Marshall, I want you to listen to me carefully,” Andrew went on. “Your father loves you.”

“That's not true!”

“Oh, I think it is. I know things must look bad to you now. Maybe you won't fully understand all of these things, but your father … well, he has risked a lot for you. For one thing, he recognized you as his son, and that wasn't easy for him. And as you said, he made sure you were free. He made sure, too, that you had schooling with his other children. All of those things, Marshall, grew out of his love for you. He had no other reason to do them. And he'd be very unhappy if you went away now.”

Marshall finished the chocolate, carefully setting the cup down on a small table by the settee. He seemed to be thinking about what he wanted to say next. Andrew waited for him.

“If you don't take me with you,” he said slowly, “I'll go with somebody else. Or by myself. I won't go back to Bon Marché!”

Mercy entered the conversation. “Perhaps, dear,” she said to her husband, “we could send a note to Bon Marché, telling Charles that Marshall is here and that he wants to go with us. If Charles approves, then that solves it, doesn't it?”

“We can't take a young boy with—”

“Of course we can!”

MacCallum's continuing doubts showed on his face.

“Is there any other way to handle this intelligently, dear?” Mercy added.

Andrew shrugged. “No, I guess not. But let's not have Morgan carry the message, eh?”

She smiled at him. “Write the note, Andrew, and I'll ask Mr. Parker at the inn to have one of his boys take it out there immediately.”

V

“A
ND
then he says,” Charles Dewey was saying, “‘If you disapprove, I shall make certain that Marshall is brought back to Bon Marché at once. If you approve, we will assure you that we will do for Marshall as if he were our own son, continuing his education, caring for his health and well-being, making every effort to help him grow into a fine young man who will be a credit to you and to your family.'”

Charles looked up at the sober faces of the other members of the family. With some bitterness: “And he signs it ‘With affection.'”

Angelica, who stood with Horace behind Dewey's chair at the dinner table, wept softly.

“All right,” the master of Bon Marché continued, “since I seem to be the villain of the piece, perhaps some of you would like to share your wisdom with me on this matter.”

Franklin's reply was immediate. “I think you ought to let him go, Father.”

Franklin's wife nodded agreement.

“I concur,” George added. “But I think you should provide money for his support.”

Dewey looked at his daughters. “Well?”

“He's too young to go to New York,” Corrine said firmly.

Louise shook her head. “I just don't know, Father.”

“Lee?”

“I agree with Corrine.”

Charles turned to his wife. “Mattie? You seem to have had a lot to say in the past week or so about my lack of feeling in the matter of
Professor
Andrew MacCallum. I imagine you also have an opinion on this.”

Mattie flushed. “I'd appreciate your asking my opinion a good deal more if you'd keep the sarcasm out of this discussion.”

He forced a smile. “I'm sorry, dear. It's difficult.”

“You might make a greater effort.”

Franklin interceded. “What
do
you think, Mother?”

“Were I Marshall's mother, I'd want to be consulted,” she replied.

“You're right, of course.” Charles turned around, looking up into Angelica's teary face. “Angelica, what would you have me do?”

“Will they be good to ‘im?”

A slight pause. “I feel certain they will be.”

“Will he be happy?”

“How can I answer that?”

Angelica dabbed a handkerchief at her eyes. “Well, he
unhappy
now. Mebbe if he goes…” She couldn't finish the thought.

Dewey buried his head in his hands. Only the sounds of breathing could be heard. For a minute. For two. His head came up, and his eyes searched every face.

“I have been … responsible … for what has happened … with Marshall.” The words were spoken slowly. Painfully. “I ask all … of you to forgive me for that. His … mother is right. The lad is unhappy now. No one can guarantee another person's happiness. But if letting him go might contribute to it, I'm willing to have him go with the MacCallums.”

“I think that's wise, dear,” Mattie said quietly.

“Speak to them,” Charles told her, “and see what financial arrangements need to be made. Do what you think is best.”

“I will.”

He got to his feet, leaning forward on the table with his hands. He seemed desperately tired.

“This matter is closed now. I want everyone to understand that it will not be a fit subject for further conversation in this house.”

32

“H
AVE
you heard about Patton Anderson?” August Schimmel asked.

“What mischief has he been into now?”

“The ultimate, you might say. He's been killed in a duel.”

“Oh, Lord! More of that!”

“Yes. And Jackson is making noises about his determination to bring the killer to justice. A man named David Magness, and Jackson would see him hang.”

“If Andy ran this world, we'd be at each other's throats at every turn. What was the argument about?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I guess not.” Charles shook his head sadly. “Anderson was the man who introduced me to this area. He was a likeable sort, but thoroughly the scoundrel.”

Schimmel, the owner-editor of the
Nashville Monitor,
had come to Bon Marché to discuss with Dewey the progress of their jointly owned racehorse: the colt by New York for which Schimmel had bid seven thousand dollars at Bon Marché's first auction.

A four-year-old now, Monitor—the horse had been named for the newspaper—was being prepared for his debut in the 1811 race meetings. They stood at the rail of the training track, watching as one of the black jockeys brought the untried thoroughbred out of the final turn and set him down for a two-furlong breeze through the straightaway.