She looked up quickly, touched by his rare humbleness. 'Do you really care to please me still? We have been married three years.'
He stirred, turning still farther from her. 'You've seemed so cold, so indifferent of late. Even your letters——'
She drew a sharp breath. Oh, why, she thought passionately, wrapped up in our separate worlds, do we all hurt each other? Insensitive as he is, he has felt the change in me. Now that I know what love is, I can no longer pretend to myself that I feel it for him. Yet he's my husband, the father of my baby. Even if I am unhappy, we need not both be so.
She rose and went over to Joseph and, taking his resisting hand in hers, pressed it gently against her cheek. Gradually his rigidity relaxed, his expression changed into one which was too familiar. He pulled her violently against him.
This is all there is to marriage for anyone, she thought, tolerant affection and this—this degrading submission of the body. Even with Meme it would surely have come to this in time. She clung desperately to this theory, using it as anodyne. It carried her through the visits to Clifton and Hagley. It enabled her to write cheerful letters to her father, but it lost its potency when she reached Charleston on December third. For there she met Natalie again, and no amount of feverish self-deception could blind her to the fact that her adopted sister had found in marriage, not tolerance or submission, but passionate love.
Natalie and Thomas Sumter had at last arrived from France, bringing with them a baby daughter. Joseph's own house on Church Street was for once in readiness, and Theodosia was delighted to be able to welcome the travelers in her own home.
After the bustle of greeting and the first excited exchange of news, the two young women settled down in the drawingroom to take stock of each other.
'How delicious it is to see you again, Theo!' cried Natalie, kissing her enthusiastically. 'Do you see how well I speak English now, since Thomas wants me to? What do you think of my Tom? Is he not handsome?'
Theo agreed politely. She thought Thomas Sumter a pleasant-looking young man with agreeable manners, though hardly the paragon that Natalie considered him. The French girl had grown thinner, but her pointed face was radiant, her staidness and small spinsterish ways had vanished. She babbled with an irresistible joy.
'I'm so happy to be back here in my Tommy's home, though I am happy anywhere with him. Marriage is heaven, Theo, is it not, chérie?' She paused a moment. 'You are happy, are you not, with good Joseph? He seems so fond of you.'
'Yes, of course,' said Theo briefly.
'And he is so rich, too, your Joseph,' added Natalie, laughing. 'This splendid town house and all your plantations——We are not so rich, but it matters not a bit to me. We have enough'. She leaned forward suddenly. 'Le bon Dieu has blessed me in every way. My beloved husband, my baby, and now——' she laughed, touching her stomach in a frank gesture.
'Another one so soon !' cried Theo, half-shocked. She could not recognize the prim Natalie, particularly when she answered gaily:
'Why not? What greater happiness is there in life than sleeping with the man you love and in bearing him children?'
Theo did not respond. For a moment she hated Natalie. What right had anyone to be so blatantly sensual or so maddeningly pleased with her lot? She was ashamed of her annoyance, however, and patiently bore with Natalie's rhapsodies during the week in which they remained together at Charleston. It was disconcerting, though, to find that the Charlestonians took Natalie to their hearts in an impulsive, affectionate manner which they had never shown toward Theodosia. The young Sumters were exceedingly popular, while the young Alstons, though possessed of far greater wealth and position, were not.
I suppose it's my fault in some way, thought Theo wearily; everything always is, but I can't help it.
She was sorry to say good-bye to Natalie when the Sumters left for their home in Statesburgh, yet for once it was a relief to get back to the Waccamaw. She settled down for that winter of 1803–04. She was no longer actively unhappy. Her days passed quietly. There were small pleasures—new books from England, Gampy's Christmas party, and, as always, Aaron's letters.
In February Aaron became a candidate for Governor of New York State. He wrote of it to Theo in his most airy manner, adding in one place, 'Hamilton is intriguing for any candidate who can have a chance of success against me'. He would be, thought Theo angrily, when she read this, but as Aaron made no more mention of the campaign in his next letters, she thought little about it.
On May first, casually inserted into the middle of a chatty letter, he wrote one sentence, 'The election is lost by a great majority: tant mieux'. So that the affair seemed unimportant to her. There were always elections and political contests. If he failed this time—well, next time would be better.
She was far more interested in the plans they were again discussing for the annual trip to the North. Aaron, by borrowing another strategic amount, had managed to stave off his most urgent creditors. As always at the temporary release from money pinch his spirits soared. And he still retained possession of Richmond Hill. What, then, more delightful than that they should pass the summer there again, Theo and Gampy and himself!
But a little later he suddenly ceased to mention this project, and while his letters continued brightly affectionate, there lay over them a thin film of evasiveness. His plans, it seemed, were unsettled after all. Perhaps rather than go to Richmond Hill in June she had better spend the forepart of the summer with Natalie at Statesburgh. This puzzled her, but she decided that it must have to do with financial embarrassment as usual and did not press him.
Aaron gave her no inkling of his purpose, nor of the grim interchange of notes between two estates on Manhattan Island—Richmond Hill and the Grange. Hamilton's hatred had finally subdued his caution, his attacks could no longer be ignored. For years Aaron bad ignored them, disdaining to notice rumors or oblique references. Cheetham's scurrilous articles could not be certainly traced to Hamilton, and they had become so violent as to defeat their purpose anyway.
But one of Cheetham's published taunts had rankled: 'Has the Vice-President sunk so low as to permit himself to be insulted by General Hamilton?' That appeared in the heat of the gubernatorial campaign. Aaron, completely contemptuous of the source, had tried to dismiss it from his mind along with the other slanders. It was not so easily dismissed, however.
He could treat with disdain attacks on his morals, his politics, even on his reputation, but his physical courage had never before been impugned. His one real vanity lay in his military record for conspicuous bravery during the War of Independence.
On June fifteenth he sat in his library at Richmond Hill with a newspaper open on his desk before him: a newspaper that had been brought by young John Swartwout. The young man's face was red with indignation; his voice quivered as he flung the sheet before Aaron. 'Look at this, sir. By God, it's too much!'
Aaron's eyebrows shot up, and he smiled. 'What now, my hot young friend? More insinuations against the VicePresident?'
'This is more than insinuation, sir. This is too direct to be overlooked.'
Aaron ran his eyes over the letter which had been printed without comment: a letter from an unknown Doctor Cooper to a friend.
General Hamilton and Judge Kent have declared, in substance, that they looked upon Mr. Burr to be a dangerous man, and one who ought not to be trusted with the reins of government.... I could detail to you a still more despicable opinion which General Hamilton has expressed of Mr. Burr.
Aaron's face was impassive. He leaned back in his chair and offered his snuffbox to the excited young man, who was watching him anxiously.
Swartwout waved the snuff aside, crying: 'But what are you going to do, sir? You can't let it pass. You will be derided, people will think you are afraid——'
Aaron shook his head. 'Softly, John. There is nothing new in this. Hamilton, it seems, is forever interested in labeling me with "despicable, and more despicable." I am flattered that he finds me of such endur
ing interest.'
'But this is different, sir. It's in print, a direct quotation!' Aaron laughed. 'Even so. It's in print, and that makes all the difference. Don't look so woebegone. I do not intend to let it pass. My patience is indeed exhausted.'
Swartwout brightened. 'What will you do, sir?'
'Point out to General Hamilton the necessity of a prompt and unqualified acknowledgment or denial of the use of any expression which would warrant the assertions of Doctor Cooper.'
The young man frowned; he worshiped Aaron, thought him without flaw, and yet any temporizing in this instance seemed to him almost shameful. 'Why do you not call him out at once, sir? He has given you unendurable provocation.'
Aaron shook his head, smiling wryly. 'Don't be alarmed, John. I have a feeling that you will not be cheated of the bloodshed you desire. But one must observe the proper decorum. You needn't be in such a hurry. You may safely,' he added, with a trace of annoyance, 'leave the vindication of my own honor to me. Come, pour yourself a glass of Madeira from the decanter over there, and then go, for I have much to attend to.'
On June seventeenth, Aaron summoned his friend, William Van Ness, and gave him a letter for Hamilton, who answered evasively and unsatisfactorily, averring that he could not be held responsible for the inferences drawn by others from whatever he had said of a political opponent in the course of fifteen years' competition, and that he could not enter into any explanation on a basis so vague. In short, he denied or affirmed nothing, and the letter, though partially conciliatory in tone, also managed to be subtly insulting. Letter followed letter, and each one carried the two antagonists nearer to the inevitable climax.
On the evening of July tenth Aaron locked himself into his library and, though it was warm, he kindled the fire which lay ready on the hearth. He sat down beside it and watched the orange-and-gold flames. Tomorrow at this time, I may be quite dead, he thought, and the crudity of the thought gave him sardonic amusement. His hand was steady, and, except for a slight persistent chillness, he felt fit and normal.
He thought of Hamilton up at the Grange, surrounded, no doubt, by his wife and children, and the picture gave him an unaccustomed pang of loneliness. Above the fireplace a new portrait of Theodosia had replaced the one by Gilbert Stuart. Vanderlyn had painted it two years ago, and Aaron liked it. But the face was turned from him in profile, and the expression was grave, almost judicial. It gave him no sensation of communion tonight. Still, he poured himself a glass of wine and drank to the picture. 'It is to you, my dearest Theodosia, that I am indebted for a very great portion of the happiness which I have enjoyed in this life,' he said aloud. And he thought of the first Theodosia, her mother. Ten years since she died, and he no longer missed her, or thought of her often. Yet he had been fond of her and had made her a good husband.
I was faithful to her, he thought, and it surprised him to remember this. Since her death there had been so many women, casual, unimportant: affairs of a few weeks or months. Still, in each case when the thing ended, there had been nc recriminations. No ex-mistress bore him any ill-will.
There were, however, embarrassing letters about. He must dispose of them. It was one of the tasks which confronted him this evening. He rose and went to his secretary, and took from it sheafs of envelopes and six blue boxes which contained his private correspondence. When he had finished with these, he wrote to Theodosia and Joseph, long letters of direction and farewell, calmly affectionate and unemotional.
They would never be seen unless he fell. Again the thought of death impressed him as melodramatic and ludicrous. It happened to others, but it held no immediate significance for oneself. That is no doubt a childish feeling——He shrugged his shoulders, and, removing his coat, slipped on a light silk dressing-gown and stretched out on the sofa before the fire. Tomorrow what was to be would be. In the meantime, it was late and he was tired. He closed his eyes and fell into a sound sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IT WAS only a few miles across the Waccamaw Neck from the plantations on the river to the string of sandy islands in the ocean, and yet those few miles made the difference between health and fever in summer.
Many of the planters had built themselves summer homes upon the ocean side, and Colonel William Alston had followed suit with a pretentious cottage. Because of its squat gables and unusual size for a beach house, it had come to be called the 'Castle'. This the Colonel had built on Debordieu Island, which lay nearly opposite to his own plantation. He seldom used it, however, for his family preferred Sullivan's Island near Charleston.
In the summer of 1804, the 'Castle' being vacant, Theodosia moved the baby and a portion of her household over to Debordieu, while she awaited word from Aaron as to their northern plans. She had considered joining Natalie at Statesburgh, but Gampy had not been well. He had had a fit of the ague, and though it passed quickly, it left the child pale and listless. She dared not travel far with him. Even the carriage ride from the Oaks and the short row across the creek which separated Debordieu from the mainland tired the little boy.
But when they reached the house and saw below them the surf creaming on the sand two hundred yards away, he revived. His dark eyes glowed with excitement. 'Gampy like this place,' he informed his mother solemnly in his clear little voice.
Theo smiled, kissing him quickly. 'And so do I, darling.'
From the first hours on Debordieu Island she knew a peace she had never before found in the South. The 'Castle' had grace and informality. It was built on a mound of oyster shells and raised high on brick piles, so that the servants' and kitchen quarters beneath the house were always light and cool. The house proper had but one floor—two great rooms with octagonal bay windows at either end, connected by a central hall and four small bedrooms. The two twenty-foot rooms were, respectively, Theo's bedroom, which she shared with Gampy, and a living-dining-room facing upon the ocean.
The island was covered with crab grass, relieved by a few stunted cedars, scrub oak, and the pretty red-berried cassena bush, but all this shrubbery was low and in no way checked the constant salt breeze. A wide porch spread across the house front, and on the afternoon of their arrival Theo curled up in a chair on this porch, took deep breaths of fresh salty air, and listened contentedly to the ceaseless booming of the sea
Presently a delicious odor of frying oysters stole up from the kitchen below. She realized that for the first time in weeks she was really hungry and eager for supper. There were three servants down there in the kitchen—Dido the cook, her husband Hector, and their little son Cupid. Theo's selection of these particular slaves had annoyed Joseph. Neither they nor any of their forebears had been house servants; they were field hands, and that was that.
'But can't they be promoted?' urged Theo. 'I wouldn't dream of taking Phoebe away from the Oaks or disturbing the arrangements there. And I know Dido can cook. I visited her cabin the other day when she was stewing a rabbit that tasted most delectable. Anyway, Eleanore can teach her.'
'The regular house servants will resent your interfering with their caste system,' objected Joseph.
Theo sighed. 'I'm afraid they resent anything I do, anyway——Oh, it's not anything tangible,' she added quickly, seeing Joseph's frown deepen and wishing to forestall the usual criticisms of her plantation management. 'It's just that I should like to start fresh at the beach with new servants who will be tractable and grateful for their elevation.'
She did not add that she had overheard Dido referring to Venus as a yellow wildcat who would be the better for a good lashing. She was slightly ashamed of herself for the warmth which this remark kindled in her toward Dido. Since Venus's return and restoration to favor, the girl had kept out of Theo's way. But she spent hours with Phoebe in the kitchen house, and she wielded an even greater influence over the slaves than she had before her escape. That this influence was hostile, Theo now knew definitely. The murmurs, the dark, quickly averted glares, the tardy and resentful obedience to her wishes—all these had begun again am
ongst the slaves. And yet there was nothing specific, nothing with which to confront Joseph. He remained oblivious. The niggers always obeyed him promptly enough. As for Venus—the girl's topaz eyes dewed with gratitude when they turned on maussa; in his presence her thin, voluptuous face wore a look of eager worship, highly flattering.
Theo knew that, to Joseph, Venus represented continual proof of his generosity, his humane treatment of his people; that he experienced a pleasant glow when he thought of her.
But I'm not going to think of Venus now—or anything disagreeable, said Theo to herself. There is peace here by the ocean and no worry.
No Joseph either. He had left for Columbia three days before. That his absence also contributed to the delightful relaxation of these days at the beach she did not admit to herself. In fact, during the next few weeks she scarcely thought of him at all.
Gampy grew plump and happy as he collected shells and dug holes in the sand with the wooden spade that Hector made for him. Dido justified Theo's confidence and produced delicious food. Hector and Cupid went fishing or crabbing daily, returning with succulent prizes. The household feasted on turtle eggs, oysters, clams, shrimps, and the delicate stone crabs. These Dido boiled in wine, flavored by a little herb which she had gathered herself upon the mainland. They all ate and slept prodigiously; even Eleanore was contented and ceased to grumble about le sale pays.
The ocean was for Theo a living presence, a companion. Its rhythm entered into her blood. Despite the horrified Eleanore's remonstrance, 'You will turn red as a boiled crab, Madame—so much sun is bad,' she lay long hours on the dazzling white beach, soaking up warmth and listening drowsily to the sea's thunderous music.
Lulled in this way by a rare sense of physical well-being, time lost its significance. Therefore, though she sent Hector to Georgetown twice a week for mail and was regularly dis appointed at receiving no word from her father, it was not until August that she became seriously disquieted.