My Theodosia

  'Nonsense,' said Aaron heartily. 'Of course she won't. Write her love-letters, the moony stuff women like. Quote poetry. Tell her about your heart, how fast it beats when you think of her. Tell her you arc in a fever of impatience for the wedding day. By the by, have you two decided on that blissful date?'

  'No, sir. I've tried, but she only says she doesn't believe in early marriages, and quotes Aristotle to prove it.'

  Aaron laughed, divided between amusement and exasperation. What a lover—cowed by Aristotle! No wonder the child put him off. But it was vitally necessary that they should be married as soon as Alston could finish his business and family arrangements and get back North. Creditors were still imperfectly appeased, and he could borrow no more from Alston at present, though the young man would come into a substantial sum upon his marriage.

  And from the political angle a close connection with South Carolina was imperative. Though it had occurred to no one else, Aaron foresaw the possibility of a tied electoral vote between himself and Jefferson. In this event South Carolina's influence might easily swing the election.

  These considerations were not, however, the most important. There was Theo herself. If her little episode with the unknown boy by the East River had caused him to think that it was high time she married the right man, the shocking incident with this Captain Lewis the other night had confirmed his opinion with regrettable emphasis. She must be anchored at once in a safe port where the chance winds of passion could not reach her. He had not the smallest doubt that his decision was right, all the more so since it gave him pain to part with her.

  'Write to her by every packet,' he went on, knowing that Theodosia would be far more receptive to a courtship by letter. 'Very often one expresses oneself better on paper, and Theo is an excellent correspondent.'

  'I'm not,' said Joseph gloomily.

  'But indeed you are, my dear boy,' contradicted Aaron quite sincerely. He considered Joseph's facility with the written word to be his one native asset.

  Theo accepted her farewell interview with Joseph placidly. During these days of illness she had managed to forget about him, as she had forgotten everything except the headache. Still, when her duty had been pointed out to her, she admitted the reasonableness of Joseph's request.

  Aaron overruled Natalie's objections. 'I admire your sense of propriety, yet these circumstances are exceptional,' he said, and Natalie finally allowed that they were. So she brushed Theo's hair and braided it into tight auburn plaits, straightened the bedclothes, pulling them up to her chin so that no inch of the high-necked linen nightdress might show. Then she stationed herself in a far comer of the room with Aaron.

  Joseph, when summoned, shuffled to the bedside and stood there uncomfortably, trying to think of something to say.

  Theo was unexpectedly touched by the anxiety in his face. 'I'm much better, you know, except for this stupid ankle.'

  The gentleness of her voice flustered him anew. She seemed so young, lying there between her long braids, her pale little face upturned and defenseless.

  'I'm sorry you're going tomorrow. I shall miss you very much,' she added, from an impulse of pure kindness, and realized as she said it that she did feel more kindly toward him than she ever had.

  His heavy face flushed. 'I'll come back soon, soon as ever I can. Will you be glad to sec me?'

  She smiled up at him. 'Of course, very glad'. That was true, too. She would surely be glad to see him when the time came. It was a long way off: three months or more—an eternity.

  'We'll write each other often?' he insisted.

  'Yes, indeed we will.'

  He moved uneasily. Her soft pink mouth tempted him, as did the innocent relaxation of her body, outlined, despite Natalie's carc, by the bedclothes. He glanced nervously toward Aaron and Natalie. They were chatting in low tones, politely unconcerned, but his courage failed him.

  He bent and kissed Theo on her cool cheek. 'Good-bye, Theo.'

  She touched his shoulder lightly. 'Good-bye, Joseph'. And as that seemed inadequate and he still looked unhappy and dissatisfied, she added, 'I shall count the days until your first letter.'

  With this he had to be content. No one could expect vehement emotion in the face of sickness. Neither of them suspected that the pattern for their whole marital life had been set. Theodosia had discovered the power of weakness and illness, the release they gave from intolerable circumstance, and though she fought this consciously, never recognizing the evasion, she was to be many times defeated.

  Joseph, his Gullah servants, and his fine carriage sailed next day on the Veronica for Charleston. While the vessel awaited the tide's turn, he and Aaron shared a flagon of Trent wine at the Tontine Coffee House, and the latter rehearsed his prospective son-in-law's instructions.

  'Communicate with me in the cipher I gave you if you wish to write indiscreetly. I need not tell you to guard your tongue: you are not overtalkative. But do not be niggardly with your letters, either to me or to Theo.'

  Joseph again gave his assurances. The prospect of soon seeing his homeland and pangs at parting from Theodosia had induced in him an unusual state of emotion.

  His eyes were moist as the Veronica set sail, and he strained them to get the last glimpse of the New York skyline—a jumble of low, clustered red and brown rooftops, dominated by the high-flung spire of Trinity Church.

  He mused sentimentally for a while, leaning on the after rail and watching the swirling wake, until the Veronica, tacking, rolled halfway over in a ground swell, and his meditations were disagreeably replaced by a queasy feeling in his stomach.

  He loathed the sea, and his vexation increased at finding his cabin smaller and dirtier than he had expected. Cato, his bodyservant, crouched on the planks, was already retching with the seasickness which assailed all the negroes.

  'Don't you dare puke here, you worthless nigger!' shouted Joseph, pointing his command by a hard kick on the Gullah's back side.

  When Cato had staggered out, Joseph locked the door and hunted for his escritoire. Difficult though it was to recapture the nostalgic yearning of an hour back, he dipped his pen and set bravely to writing the first pages of his first letter to Theodosia.

  She received the letter a month later. As Aaron had expected, it surprised her by its eloquence. Beneath the ponderous phrases ran a current of real feeling. He told her that he missed her; he described his voyage and his reception on the Waccamaw; he hinted at their wedding date.

  Theo's ankle healed slowly, and this cut her off from most of her normal distractions. No dances, no rides on Minerva, no gay expeditions to Turtle Bay. She had much time for reading and pursuing her studies as directed by Aaron. And she had plenty of time for letter-writing.

  Joseph's image softened and acquired a romantic blur. Relieved of his bodily presence, she discovered in him virtues that she had not previously noted. It would have been strange had she not, for Aaron daily pointed out these virtues. He commented on Joseph's proficient horseback riding, on his aristocratic appearance, on his growing political aptitude. 'Mark my words,' said Aaron, 'he will be Governor of his State some day, unless I can find for him a loftier situation. Which is entirely possible.'

  This was as close as Aaron ever came to mentioning his ambition, even to Theo. He was engaged in a perilous political balancing act, and his native discretion had deepened to complete secrecy.

  There was nothing actually unconstitutional in trying to take advantage of the existing method of voting. Separate ballots were cast in the Electoral College for the candidates for President and Vice-President, but the candidate receiving the highest vote was chosen as President. If by some fortunate circumstance the vice-presidential candidate should receive more votes than the presidential one, the positions of Jefferson and Aaron would automatically be reversed. Nothing either heinous or unconstitutional, and yet the country at large, both Federalist and Republican, persisted in acting as though there were. Heated orators held forth on 'the will of the people,' and the tra
gic consequences of a 'possible miscarriage of justice,' until the public gradually convinced itself that Jefferson must be the only, the divinely appointed, choice.

  The returns trickled in through November and December, delayed by weather conditions and different voting days throughout the States. It became increasingly apparent that the result was to be as inconclusive as it was anticlimactic. The votes for Jefferson and Burr showed a tic.

  Aaron sat tight awaiting developments, guarding his speech and his writing, while most of the press, led by Hamilton's New York Evening Post, exploded into outraged editorials.

  Aaron kept very quiet, but Jefferson did not. He wrote to his rival an extraordinary letter barbed with distrust and fury, and in a calmer tone he wrote to James Madison.

  '...The election in South Carolina has, in some measure, decided the great contest, though as yet we do not know the actual votes of Tennessee, Kentucky, and Vermont, yet we believe the votes to be, on the whole, Jefferson 73, Burr 73....

  There will be an absolute parity between the two Republican candidates. This has produced great dismay and gloom...'

  Jefferson was right. There was indeed dismay, and with it gloom. It disconcerted Aaron to discover the rising strength of public opinion against him.

  It was declared that he had been intriguing with the Federalists and was a traitor to his party. Well, what if he had? thought Aaron. A judicious tempering of sentiments was always allowable. Even the great and noble Mr. Hamilton, who now cried 'Shame!' had not been above circulating a secret pamphlet vilifying his own party leader, John Adams, when it suited his purpose.

  Never given to self-pity or sickly introspection, Aaron was not crushed by the hullabaloo against him. He accepted it stoically and retired into dignified silence. Never at any time in his career did he trouble to explain his actions. What was done was done, be it right or wrong, and recapitulations bored him.

  But there were moments when he felt puzzled and hurt by the hostility of the nation's leaders. Many years ago Washington had taken one of his dark, unreasonable dislikes to him, blocked his military advancement, and refused him an appointment as Minister to France. Adams disliked him. Jefferson, who had once been friendly, now hated him, and as for Hamilton——But he was so accustomed to hostility from that quarter that he underestimated it. Nor did he as yet suspect how much Hamilton's influence had contributed to stifle his career.

  By January the tie-vote excitement had mounted into hysteria, yet Theodosia, tranquil at Richmond Hill, was scarcely aware of it. Snowdrifts piled high across nearly impassable roads; raw damp air blew up the Hudson and stopped all thoughts of venturing out. The quiet winter days followed each other without outward change. And yet imperceptibly there had been change, for Theo had come to accept the inevitability of her marriage. Time, Aaron's pressure, and a constant interchange of letters with Joseph had overcome her resistance.

  After a talk with Aaron, who must shortly leave for Albany and the legislative session, she capitulated in the following note:

  NEW YORK, January 13th, 1801

  I have already written to you by the post to tell you that I shall be happy to sec you whenever you choose; that I suppose is equivalent to very soon; and that you may no longer feel doubts or suspicions on my account, I repeat the invitation by a packet as less dilatory than the mail; but for all these doubts and suspicions I will take ample revenge when we meet.

  I yesterday received your letter of the 26th of December, and am expecting your defense of early marriages today. My father laughs at my impatience to hear from you and says I am in love; but I do not believe that to be a fair deduction, for the post is really very irregular and slow—enough so to provoke anybody.

  We leave this for Albany on the 26th inst. and shall remain there till the 10th of February. My movements will after that depend on my father and you. I had intended not to marry this twelvemonth, and in that case thought it wrong to divert you from your present engagements in Carolina; but to your solicitations I yield my judgment. Adieu. I wish you many returns of the century.

  THEODOSIA

  The following day Alexis brought to her bedroom the letter from Joseph that she was expecting. It was immensely bulky and spotted with red seals. It covered thirty manuscript pages, and Joseph had sat up all night composing it. He flattered himself that he had turned many a neat phrase, displayed an 'elegant' knowledge of the classics, and answered all her objections.

  He began ceremoniously:

  CHARLESTON, S.C., December 28th, 1800

  'Hear me, Miss Burr'. [And he quoted from one of her letters:] 'Aristotle says that a man should not marry before he is six and thirty; pray, Mr. Alston, what arguments have you to oppose to such authority?'

  It has always been my practice, whether from a natural independence of mind, from pride, or what other cause I will not pretend to say, never to adopt the opinion of anyone, however respectable his authority, unless thoroughly convinced by his arguments; the 'ipse dixit,' as logicians term it, even of Cicero, who stands higher in my estimation than any other author, would not have the least weight with me; you must, therefore, till you offer better reasons than the Grecian sage himself has done, excuse my differing with him.

  He went on like this for several pages, and Theo sighed as she waded through paragraph after paragraph of his sprawling handwriting.

  He talked a great deal about himself; he quoted a poem by Benjamin Franklin; in one unrestrained moment he addressed her as 'My Theodosia,' and told her that he anticipated marriage with rapture; that it would form 'so perfect a heaven from our uniting in every study, improving our minds together and informing each other by our mutual assistance and observations.'

  But now, having polished off the subject of early marriage, Joseph abandoned the personal note and embarked on an essay, nearly three thousand words long, refuting her objections to South Carolina.

  'Alas! Beautiful and romantic hills of South Carolina—fair and fertile plains interspersed with groves of the orange, the lemon, and the myrtle, which fling such healthful fragrance to the air, where are ye fled?' wrote Joseph, soaring into dizzy heights of rhetoric. And there was a great deal more of this, until Theodosia, a quarter of an hour later, reached the postscript.

  The arrangement you speak of, proposing in your letter for an interview, has determined me. I shall, therefore, sail certainly in a few days. Winds be propitious!

  Theo folded together the scattered pages and carried the letter to her father, as a matter of course. Aaron sat in the library composing a speech on taxation for the session at Albany, but he turned to her with the instant whole-hearted attention that was one of his greatest charms.

  'From Joseph,' she said ruefully, half-laughing. 'There's a vast lot of it.'

  'There is indeed'. Aaron surveyed the crumpled pile of paper. But he read it at once, while Theo pulled a book from the shelves and lost herself in the sprightly pages of a new romance.

  Thank Heaven, thought Aaron, as he plodded on and on, that Alston does not speak as he writes, or my poor Theo would soon be buried under an avalanche of verbiage. I could have said all this in a tenth the space, and far more seductively. Still he hid his amusement, finished reading the letter, and replaced it on the table.

  'A masterly dissertation. I see that we are to expect your betrothed very soon. He will, no doubt, follow us to Albany. In fact I have written him to that effect.'

  Theo nodded, still deep in the pages of her romance. The fortunes of Rinaldo, who had scaled the castle wall on a silken ladder to elope with his lady fair, were far more important than Joseph's possible advent.

  'Moreover,' went on Aaron, with calculated lack of emphasis, 'you and Alston will be married in Albany in about a fortnight, I should think.'

  She jerked upright. The novel slid from her lap to the carpet. 'In Albany!' she repeated blankly. 'Why, that's impossible! It's too soon.'

  'Not at all. What is there to be gained by waiting? He is coming North for the purpose, is he n
ot?'

  'Yes, I—I suppose so. But I always thought I should be married from Richmond Hill, and not in the middle of winter——'

  'Neither location nor climate has anything to do with marriage, my dear. And though I do not wish to sound vulgar, I must tell you the truth. I cannot afford to give you a wedding appropriate to our position at Richmond Hill. The whole town would have to be asked.'

  Which was true enough, though Aaron had another motive for desiring an Albany wedding. At this critical period, with his name on every thinking man's tongue and the hostile press yapping, it would confound them all when it became known that he was quietly pursuing his legislative duties in Albany, and that, far from being engaged in the tie negotiations ot intriguing for the Presidency, he was engrossed by a charming domestic affair—the marriage of his beloved only child.

  He went to the highboy, and unlocking a small drawer drew from it a bag of coins. He put them gently in her lap. 'Consult with Natalie as to your wardrobe, then buy yourself some pretty gowns. That new French modiste on Chatham Street will make them up in a few days. Stint nothing. And if you need more money, I will find it for you gladly. I want my Theodosia to be the most beautiful of brides.'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THEODOSIA and Joseph were married in Albany, on Monday, February 2, 1801, in the low-ceilinged parlor of the little house Aaron had leased for the session.

  Afterward Theo never could remember much about the ceremony except a sharp sensation of surprise that marriage, which seemed such a soul-shaking step to contemplate, could in the happening seem so casual and undramatic. She had expected heartache, palpitations, perhaps even the mystical joy one read about. She felt nothing at all.