Bon Marche (61 page)

Charles bowed to her. “Ma'am, an honor.”

“We met the last time you were in Charleston,” the woman said.

He didn't remember. “Of course,” he lied. “It's just that there are so many beautiful women in Charleston that…” He let the sentence trail off with a shrug.

She smiled.

“Charles, have you run across that gentleman yet,” Mrs. Cheves said pointedly, “who's interested in buying one of your horses? Oh, dear, which one was it, now?”

“Huger?” He picked a name of one of the Charleston horsemen he knew to be in the room.

“That's it—Mr. Huger. Have you seen him yet?”

“No.”

“Well, I believe I saw him go out on the veranda a few moments ago.” To the matron: “Would you excuse us, Mrs. Lowndes? Mr. Huger wanted very much to talk to Mr. Dewey.”

A quick bow to the older woman and Charles and Mary Elizabeth were through the French doors onto the veranda. She pulled him behind a tall boxwood and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him wildly.

“Oh, God, it's been so long,” she whispered.

He kissed her back, but was concerned. “This is dangerous business.”

“Do you care?”

“Certainly I care. Your reputation—”

“To hell with it!”

“You don't mean that.”

A wan smile. “No. Maybe you're just a fantasy, Charles Dewey, but I've missed you terribly.” She frowned. “And I can't understand why you didn't write to me!”

“Because it wasn't the right—” He stopped. “Because my wife read your letter.”

“Oh!”

“You might have been less … intimate, you know.”

“Did I cause trouble for you?”

“For a time.”

She laid her hand on his cheek. “What did you tell her about us?”

“That I would always remember you fondly.”

“Will you?”

“Of course.”

“Did you come back to Charleston to see me?”

“No,” Charles said firmly. “I came back to race my horses—on my way to New York.”

Mary Elizabeth pouted.

“I was convinced,” he went on, “that you wouldn't speak to me again because I hadn't written to you.”

“You were wrong.”

Dewey sighed. “Yes. You know, my daughter said she saw in your eyes that you wanted to go bed with me.”

“She's very perceptive.”

“She said that women see those things in other women.”

“That's true.”

“And if she could see, then others can see it, too.”

“Probably.”

Her seeming lack of concern about the situation worried him. “I think we'd better go back inside.”

“Very well.” She laughed. “We really can't do much out here anyway.”

They started toward the door.

“Your daughter, Charles, is very charming. I think she's going to like Charleston—and its young men.”

VI

“M
Y
husband's name was Nat,” the Princess said.

The tall, dark-haired young man was taken aback. “Your husband? But I was under the impression that you were an unmarried lady. Mrs. Cheves's introduction—”

Alma May chuckled. “Single, but not a maiden,” she said, using the racetrack term. “I'm divorced.”

“Really?” His eyes opened wide.

She had wondered what polite society would think of her divorce. And now she found herself amused by the reaction of this man she knew as Nathaniel Heyward II. Mrs. Cheves, in introducing him, had left no doubt about the importance of the Heyward family in Charleston.

They strolled along on the wide lawn in front of the Cheves mansion. The evening was warm, the sky clear, with only a few stars visible. He was smoking a long, thin cigar, puffing at it in a rather imperious manner.

“Does my divorce shock you?” she asked.

“No, no, certainly not!”

“Would you be interested to know that I don't believe you?”

“Really, Miss Dewey, I'm not a prude.”

She was having fun with him. “Have you ever known a divorced woman before?”

“No, I can't say that I have.”

“Tell me, then, what went through your mind when I told you that?”

He was flustered. “Oh, well, surprise, of course. I mean—”

“No thought that here might be a choice piece of fruit?”

She had silenced him. He puffed faster at the cigar.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Heyward,” she said, laughing. “I didn't mean to make sport with you. And I apologize for having embarrassed you.”

“You are a rather … gay person, aren't you?”

“I've had enough somber moments in my life.”

“And your husband—your former husband—what did he do, Miss Dewey?”

“He was an actor.”

Again the eyes opened wide. Again: “Really?”

Now the Princess laughed. She couldn't help it. The proper young man's reaction was farcical to her.

“Oh, my,” she said, trying to stop laughing, “I really am being quite rude to you.”

“I don't think that, Miss Dewey. It's just that I've never met anyone like you before.”

“And you probably don't want to meet anyone like me again.”

“Please don't say that, Miss Dewey!”

“My name is Alma May.”

He nodded.

“Or Princess, if you prefer.”

“Princess? That's perfect. It fits you admirably.” He sobered. “You are quite beautiful, you know.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I would like to have the opportunity to show you Charleston. It's quite a lovely place.”

“I'd like that.”

“Really?”

Another chuckle. “Yes, Nat, I
really
would. If you can stop being so surprised about everything I say.”

“I am a boor, aren't I?”

“Not at all. I find you very charming.”

He studied her face for a moment. Then he glanced at the ember of his shortening cigar, flipping it away into the grass.

He's going to kiss me,
Alma May thought.

He didn't.

“Perhaps … uh, Princess”—he still was not comfortable with her nickname—“you would permit me to drive you to your lodgings tonight?”

“I'd like nothing better.”

“Real—” He began to laugh. “I must get over that habit, mustn't I?”

“Yes, Nat, you must.”

A small gong sounded from inside the house.

“The signal for supper,” he explained. “Are you hungry, Miss … uh … Princess?”

“Uh-huh. But not for food.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but closed it without having spoken.

Finally: “Princess, you
are
quite a tease, you know.”

“I know.”

He kissed her then.

Good Lord, finally!

42

“I'
M
not sure that I approve of your dalliance with this fellow Heyward.” Dewey was angry with his daughter.

“‘This fellow Heyward,'” Alma May said, “is of one of the finest families in Charleston.”

“All the more reason to—”

“And it's not a dalliance. Lord, Father, where do you get those old-fashioned words?”

Charles sighed. “Old-fashioned or not, you know what I'm talking about! You've been seeing this man every day since the reception. It's unseemly.”

“No, Father, it's not. I enjoy his company; he enjoys mine. It's as simple as that.”

“And as
innocent
as that?”

“At least he's not married.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The Princess grinned at him. “Daddy, when Nathaniel and I were walking on the lawn the other night, I saw you with Mrs. Cheves hiding behind the boxwood.”

“We weren't hiding.”

“Maybe you should have been.”

“Alma May, you're still my daughter, and I'll not stand for this insolence!”

“It's not insolence, Father; it's just a statement of fact.”

“And this Heyward fellow,” Charles groaned, “I suppose he saw us, too.”

“No. I was distracting him, you might say. Shocking him with my candor, if you want the whole truth. Your secret is safe with me.”

“What you saw,” Charles tried to explain, “was an innocent kiss. One kiss, nothing more—and nothing more implied.”

“Yes, Daddy.” She was grinning again.

“Damn you! It
was
innocent!”

“I'll accept your protestations of innocence if you'll accept mine.”

“That smacks of blackmail, young lady.”

“Uh-huh. Or … let's just say we've reached an understanding.”

Dewey sank down on the edge of his bed. “Princess, what am I going to do with you?”

“Accept me for what I am.”

“And what is that?”

“Your daughter. Who loves you. And who knows how much you love Mother. And who knows, too, that you're a handsome, virile man—”

“I think I've heard enough.”

“—who also loves another woman.”

“No, you're wrong about that.”

“Maybe.”

“You
are,
Princess.”

“Poor Daddy.” She came to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Don't feel so guilty about loving Mary Elizabeth. You can no more stop that than you can stop the tides.”

A smile came to his face. “You think yourself wise about these things, don't you?”

“I am, Daddy. I really am.”

II

T
HE
racing at Charleston went better for the Bon Marché entourage in the second week of the meeting. His horses properly rested after being turned out in the pasture, Dewey picked his spots carefully, relying on his experience. Nine horses carrying the purple silks were started. Seven were winners.

With only two racing days remaining, Charles was approached by Thomas Pinckney, Junior.

“The chesnut colt that won yesterday,” Pinckney said. “The one you call Pour de Bon. Is he for sale?”

“Yes.”

“You're not going to use that sealed-bid method again, are you? I'd much prefer to deal directly with you.”

“No sealed bids this time, Mr. Pinckney. Pour de Bon's price is six thousand—take it or leave it.”

“I'll take it.”

“Fine. I'll prepare the pedigree papers for you.”

“And you'll have my bank draft in the morning.” Young Pinckney hesitated. “The name, sir? I'm not much on languages, but am I correct in assuming that Pour de Bon means ‘in earnest'?”

“Yes, or ‘for good and all,' to be more literal in the translation.”

“Hmmm. Would you be disturbed if I changed the colt's name?”

“Once you've bought him, that's your prerogative.”

“Good.” Pinckney smiled. “I want to name him Cooper River. Not so elegant as your name, probably, but it'll let everyone know where he comes from now.”

“Cooper River it is. I'll make that note on the pedigree papers.”

The sale of the chestnut to Pinckney was the only one Dewey made in Charleston this time around. Several were interested in other animals, but the prices that had been set back at Bon Marché were not to their liking. Charles didn't mind; he had a long way to go yet. A long way, indeed.

He began to make plans to move the Bon Marché caravan on to Georgia.

III

U
NCHARACTERISTICALLY
, Dewey was having trouble getting to sleep. He had gone to bed early in preparation for the final day of racing at Charleston and for the work that then would have to be done to get under way again.

Alma May had gone with Nathaniel Heyward II to a soiree at the Elms, the Izard family plantation. He didn't expect that he would see her before dawn. And that disturbed his sleep, as well.

He stretched and sighed. Then he got out of bed and walked, naked, to the traveling case where his sherry was stored.

“Perhaps a sip of sherry,” he said aloud to himself. The big clock in the corner of the room told him it was only nine o'clock. That's what was wrong, he decided. He had gone to bed too early.

There was a knock on the door.

Not loud. At first he thought that he was hearing a knock on a door farther along the hallway of the inn.

But it was repeated.

“Who is it?”

“Mary Elizabeth.”

He had a feeling of panic. Hurriedly, he slipped on a robe and opened the door. She looked up and down the hallway before she came in.

“Isn't this foolishness?” he asked.

“It could be.” She slipped off the cape that covered her dress. “Langdon has gone to Columbia on some political business.”

They stood there in the middle of the room for a long time, it seemed to Dewey.

“I was just going to have a sherry,” he said. “Would you join me?”

“Of course.”

He poured the wine, gesturing her to the lone chair in the room. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed. He handed her the glass, but remained standing.

Mary Elizabeth took a sip. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Charles went to the chair and sat down.

Her annoyance was obvious. “I guess I've made a mistake.”

“Hmmm.”

“Is that grunt an answer?”

“To what?”

“Oh, for God's sake, Charles! Do you imagine I came to your room—that I risked having someone see me in a public inn—to parry with you?”

“No.”

Not a single smile had been exchanged between them. And now a silence fell. It went on interminably.

She drained the glass, made a show of setting it carefully on the small table by the bed, and got to her feet. Pulling her cape around her again, she said, with deep sarcasm: “Thank you for the sherry, Mr. Dewey.”

Mary Elizabeth made for the door.

“No, wait!”

She stopped, not turning to him.