MY THEODOSIA (3 page)

Theo dimpled, her poise returned. 'I am Theodosia Burr, daughter to Aaron Burr.'

He nodded. 'I thought as much. I've heard you described: "A paragon of loveliness and learning." Now, if the proprieties are satisfied, will you stay a little and let me read to you?' She smiled assent. After all, why not? Her silly panic had passed. And he was most respectable: Doctor Irving was well thought of in the city. Besides, she liked this young man; he was totally different from anyone she had met.

They seated themselves on a mound of pine needles. He spread his cloak over a lichen-covered boulder and their backs rested against it. It was deliciously cool. Sunlight filtered down through oak and poplar leaves. A small breeze sighed up the river, blowing away the mosquitoes which so often plagued the Manhattan countryside. The air was pungent with the fragrance of wild strawberries and pine. There was no sound except the rhythmic mouthings of the horses, as they edged placidly around their bridle-lengths, cropping the sweet wild grass.

Neither of them spoke for a while. He made no move to start his reading. A gentle peace held them both.

'This is my birthday,' she announced after a bit.

He drew his gaze back from the far horizon. 'Is it indeed?' He plucked a daisy from a patch beside him, thrust it into
her hair. 'Here's a nosegay for you, then, and I salute this most auspicious and blessed day. Is it the sixteenth?'

She shook her head, half-annoyed. 'The seventeenth'. 'Then we are the same age,' he said lazily.

'Really?' She was startled. 'I had thought you older.'

He shrugged his slight shoulders. 'This conversation leads nowhere'. He pulled a blade of grass and chewed the succulent tip.

' I thought you were going to read to me?' She was puzzled by him; he seemed moody, distrait.

He gestured toward his pocket, but his hand fell back limply. 'I was: a silly little tale I wrote about the Dutch country up the Hudson. But it's no good. It wouldn't interest you.'

'But it would!' she protested. 'Please'. Unconsciously she put her hand out to him, pleading. He imprisoned it gently in his, and at her sharp recoil she saw sudden amusement in his hazel eyes.

He released her hand and went on as though there had been no interruption. 'I wish I had written a poem for you, Dulcinea, but I am not at home in verse. Dull prose suits me better. Still, I can try.'

He propped himself on his elbows, staring at her with a half-humorous, half-tender intensity that discomposed her.

A daisy twinkles from her hair, like star in beech wood forest,
She is the fairest of the fair, and I would fain—fain——

He chuckled. 'I can't find a rhyme for forest, but no matter.'

He sighed and drew himself up, then leaned forward with sudden violence, crying, 'Look! Do you sec that brig down there?'

She followed his gaze to the river and nodded, astonished by the emotion in his voice.

'That's the
Infanta.
' He uttered the name as though it held
all wonder. 'She's been to Boston, and she's bound for Spain—Spain!' He turned to Theo and spoke passionately: 'More than anything in life I wish I were aboard her. You don't know what it is to hunger and thirst for distant places, do you?'

She shook her head.

'No. Why should you? You're sheltered and happy; you're a woman! But every night I dream of the Old World. It's like a fever. England, France, Spain. The very words make enchanted music for me. I shall see them some day—before I die. And I shall write about them, so that others may feel the enchantment as I do.—At least I hope to.'

His voice fell flat. But Theo's eyes dilated, her lips parted. 'I am sure you will.'

For in that one dazzled moment she had seen greatness in the boy beside her, had heard pulsing through his words a longing and a surge that carried her, too, up with him: up to the lonely starlit plateau of genius.

He shut his eyes an instant and turned to her blindly.

'You're sweet,' he whispered. 'I think you do understand'. With one quick motion he laid his head on her lap, and smiled up at her wickedly, as she froze. 'Don't look so shocked, my lovely little Theo—is that what they call you? My head is tired and this is such a soft place to rest. I think I could go to sleep.'

Her heart beat in thick, painful movements and the white fichu on her breast rose and fell. She tried to think and could not. She wanted to shove his head viciously away, and her muscles would not obey. A shiver shook her.

'What are you afraid of?' he asked softly. 'I won't harm you'. He gave a short laugh and sat up. Immediately relief flooded her, but with it a shamed disappointment.

He put gentle hands on her shoulders. 'You've never been
kissed, have you, Theo? It's not such a terrible thing. I think you must have one for your birthday'. He drew her quickly toward him and pressed his fresh young mouth to hers. He let her go at once. 'See? It's not so dreadful a thing, is it?'

She gasped, laughing shakily. Not so dreadful a thing—no. Sweet, piercingly sweet, but unimportant. She had expected the blast of lightning and found a candle-flame, never disturbing the dark secret something that had lain, terrorstricken, deep in her soul. What had it been, what had she expected? She didn't know. Whatever it was, it had passed her by, leaving only a dimming memory of shame, repulsion, and disloyalty.

She smiled at him with calm affection. 'I must be getting back now. Father will be home soon. Thank you, good sir, for my birthday kiss.'

He surveyed her, frowning, puzzled. She was so pretty with her rose-and-white skin, soft black eyes, and eager smile. He had wanted to kiss her ever since she came this morning, and he had been sure that, barring maidenly modesty and all the rest, she wanted it too. He was not inexperienced in such matters. Now he had kissed her, briefly it was true, as a preliminary, and she had escaped into a bright and all too obviously genuine indifference. There was a strangeness about her, an untouchable quality.

'Theo,' he asked, with sudden inspiration, 'are you in love with someone?'

'Oh, no'. She faced him candidly. 'And I mean never to marry.'

'Stuff! Of course you'll marry'. The sense of humor, that never deserted him for long, returned. 'You're not in love with me, that's certain'. And he laughed.

She scarcely heard him. She had just noticed that the sun
was now directly overhead. She was in a fever to be off. Her father would be astonished, perhaps hurt, if he came back from the city and she were not there to greet him, to thank him for his beautiful present.

When he had helped her to mount, Washington Irving looked up at her. 'Good-bye,' he said almost humbly. 'You do not wish us to meet again?'

'Of course,' she answered, with warm courtesy. 'Come to Richmond Hill at any time. We shall be so glad to see you'. But her small face was preoccupied, her eyes already straining ahead over the mare's ears down the flat sandy road that led toward home.

He stood quite still, watching her go, his hands deep in the pockets of his green riding-coat, his rumpled hair blown back by the freshening breeze. At the bend of the road, she waved once—quickly, and he waved back.

They did not meet again for seven years.

A
ARON
was enjoying a productive morning with a small group of his henchmen at Martling's Tavern. He sat in his usual corner of the smoky, ale-soured room, sipping a thimbleful of port, and looking, in his immaculate blue satin suit, like a sleek greyhound in a kennel of mongrels.

Others of the group were drinking claret or guzzling blistering New England rum and paid their court to the chief, who sat erect with a military precision that was born of army training and long self-discipline. His eyes, glittering black, wandered slowly from one face to another, appraising the potentialities of each. Eyes like Theodosia's, but with an added hypnotic, almost reptilian quality that subdued or fascinated at will.

The miscellaneous band of satellites which surrounded him were known as the 'Little Band,' or the 'Myrmidons,' and
Theo had also facetiously dubbed them the 'Tenth Legion'. They covered a wide range of personalities.

There were sachems and braves from Saint Tammany's Society—Matthew Davis, Van Ness, the Swartwout brothers; a sprinkling of artists and dilettantes; and some shady characters—wharf-rats, escaped slaves, and prostitutes. The latter had, naturally, no official standing in the 'Little Band,' but they were useful—and Aaron was never one to boggle over fine ethical points.

Whatever their individual peculiarities, they were all united by one prime virtue—uncritical obedience to the wishes of Colonel Burr.

Burr's enemies described him as an octopus insinuating slimy tentacles into all the strata of a deluded society, spewing an inky barrage of lies and sophistry to confound the righteous. His friends saw him quite simply as a god, shining, beneficent, and infinitely seductive.

Both views amused Aaron. He knew very well what he was: a man with a brilliant brain, not unkind, not altogether unscrupulous, but with a genius for manipulating people and events to further his ends.

And the game, to him, was as exciting as the goal.

The goal this time was worthy of his best efforts. Last month he had snatched victory from what had seemed sure defeat, by swinging the all-important New York State to the Republicans. These were now joyfully engaged in thumbing their noses at the furious Federalists, who screamed to the heavens of cheating and foul play.

Now, however, a bigger battle loomed. He and Mr. Jefferson were Republican candidates for the Presidency, and one of them was certain to win. The wily and astute Mr. Hamilton had for once faltered, and the Federalist Party had bogged down into a welter of contending factions. Let them floun
der, and a blessing on them! They would never pull themselves together in time to produce a candidate worth a pinch of snuff.

To be sure, the majority of Republicans seemed to take it for granted that Jefferson should be President and Aaron grateful for the small potatoes of the Vice-Presidency. But matters might far better be the other way around—far better.

That lanky, shock-haired dolt of a Jefferson had already been Vice-President for four years. He might well continue in that placid rôle. As it was, he spent most of his time at Monticello, sitting on his backside and philosophizing, or puttering with his idiotic mechanical contrivances, or, worse yet, tending his collection of birds.

Pshaw! thought Aaron, with an inward snort, though not a quiver showed upon his courteously attentive face as he listened to one of Matthew Davis's long-winded stories. John Adams had made muddle enough of his office, too stupid even to recognize that the people loathed his royalist bias. This was no time to elect another visionary. The country needed a man of action, a leader. It should have one!

Precisely as Davis's droning voice ceased, Aaron broke into mellow, appreciative chuckles. 'Oh, very droll, my dear Davis. Indeed, I have always said that you have a most ready wit!'

Davis beamed, adjusted his coat collar, flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his pantaloons, glancing triumphantly around the company. They were a set of clods and never appreciated the subtleties of his discourse as Colonel Burr always did.

A newcomer, rough-clothed in homespun, a week-old beard blackening his foxy jaws, pushed his way to Aaron's table.

Aaron hailed him warmly. 'Welcome, Garson. Very wel
come. I've been expecting you these three days'. He beckoned to the landlord, who bustled up, wiping his hands on his spotted apron.

'A noggin of rum for Mr. Garson, Brom, and one of your finest beefsteak and oyster pasties. He is just back from the Carolinas, and must be in need of Christian food.'

Garson laughed. 'The Colonel is right, as always. Though they eat well enough in the great houses, I had no taste of it. Nothing but salt pork and com pone, until my stomach crawled. For I stuck close to the taverns and settlers' cabins as you ordered.'

Aaron nodded. Tom Garson was one of his most efficient agents; an Englishman, come over in '95 with a down-at-the-heels theatrical company, and stranded in Philadelphia, where Aaron, ever on the alert for useful men, had picked him up. Garson's training as an actor made him invaluable, as did his cockney shrewdness.

Aaron leaned forward. 'You posed as a peddler this time, did you not?'

'That I did—and a pleasant trade it is. I took care to fill my pack with gewgaws for the women, and there was many a fine opportunity for trying the fit of a fichu over a tempting white bosom, or even sometimes a garter around a rosy thigh'. He smacked his lips as Aaron laughed.

'I'm willing to believe you made the most of such opportunities, but what of the men? How is the temper of the people? Will they vote for the right party? Will they vote for Aaron Burr?'

Garson drained his rum, wolfed a chunk of steaming pie, wiped the gravy off his mouth with the back of his hand, and sat back, while Aaron waited.

'The Republicans are gaining down there,' said Garson at last, 'but they know little about you in the South.'

'So Timothy Green writes me,' said Aaron dryly'. We must remedy that. Go on...'

'South Carolina will be the crux; its decision will tell the tale. And it is controlled by a few families, the Middletons, the Rutledges, and the Alstons. Especially the Alstons; they have great plantations up on the Waccamaw River. Gain them and I wager you will gain the state. The small fry will follow their lead.'

'The Alstons. Yes'. Aaron flashed his brilliant smile. 'You've done well, Garson. Your information confirms what I have already heard. It so happens that young Joseph Alston is in New York, is coming'—he paused for the fraction of a second and went on smoothly—'to my house for dinner this afternoon.'

Garson stared. Rum fumes had mounted to his brain, clouding its usual acuteness. Then, as the Colonel's words penetrated, he slapped the table until the mugs rattled, guffawing.

'By God, you're a sly one, you are! I see what you're up to ... Young Alston to dinner, and the beautiful Theodosia there, too, turning her great eyes his way. She'll use them to good purpose, I warrant, under her father's promptings.'