Читать книгу The Golden Bees - Daniel Henderson - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Elizabeth Patterson had come early to womanhood. Her slim grace at fourteen had become exquisite beauty at sixteen. Young men courted her. Older men, wise in the ways of the world, delighted to pour out for the absorbed girl their experiences. And travelers, stopping over in Baltimore on their way to Washington, bore away from the Patterson home the memory of a girl whose wit and loveliness were surpassed by none of the famous beauties they had met in Europe.

It delighted her to be told that there was something foreign about her beauty; to be informed that she resembled Pauline Bonaparte, or that her features had some of the classic grace of Madame Récamier. Surely born for large conquests was this lily-like creature with her face of pure Grecian contour; with her large dark-blue eyes that flashed and softened so disconcertingly; with that delicately molded brow and chin and breast; with that scarlet bud of a mouth and that complexion of peach bloom; with those beautifully rounded shoulders and slender, tapering arms.

Thrown thus early among admiring men, the calculating girl measured her lovers shrewdly. It was sweet in a moment of forgetfulness to yield to the rough embrace of handsome, sea-smelling James Duncan. But it was characteristic of the girl, when the door had closed on the hopeful sailor, to estimate her fortunes with him and to decide that he would never do for a husband.

It was nice also to listen to young David Warren telling of his plan to lead a train of wagons loaded with merchandise west to Pittsburgh and to help him figure his profits on the adventure; but as for her exchanging satin for homespun and staking her career on the outcome of David's pioneering—that was not to be thought of.

By the time the girl was seventeen she had exhausted the social resources of her background and decided that there was no prospect in Baltimore of a brilliant match or a happy career. Deliberately, she began to look abroad.

"They say," the girl mused, "that I have unusual beauty and wit. My father is a man of wealth. I have been bred to hold up my head in the best society. Why should I not employ these assets in getting a husband who will give me a European setting? I might become the wife of a foreign ambassador—perhaps I could even attract a title. I must not allow a kiss from Jim Duncan, or a tongue like Dave Warren's, to lead me into one of those humdrum marriages I see other girls making—a babe every year, beauty gone, figure ruined, and her only horizon a yard full of babies' things."

There were, in truth, not many polished beaux in Baltimore society—the country was in too crude a state to breed them. Those that were eligible among her townsmen Betsy continued to allure and fascinate. Most of these, however, found before long that her wit and cleverness made them uncomfortable. Her loveliness was scarcely a balm for her sharp repartee. It ended by their contenting themselves with the companionship of girls who, if not so beautiful, were yet more soothing to their self-esteem.

The girl's imperious spirit had been fed by her environment. While her parents and aunt managed the household, she, as the oldest daughter, had become the mistress of the younger element, including kin and servitors—no small group.

During her early girlhood, as regularly as the coming of New Year, a baby had come to the Patterson home. Their amusement, if not their care, had fallen largely on her. Grudgingly fond of them individually, she conceived a hatred for babies as a class.

"We must welcome what God sends," Mrs. Patterson said submissively when the girl rebelled.

"When I get married, I hope God overlooks me," Betsy retorted.

When her reading of French customs had begun—through frank, spicy memoirs smuggled to her by sea-captains in her father's employ—it was her brothers and sisters that she used in her practise of those customs. For instance, when she was sixteen:

"Come, children, I've a new French game. We will call this our drawing-room. Get chairs. Each of you take a seat. Sit up stiffly. Now only one person talk at one time. I shall be Madame Récamier. You may choose other names. Madame de Staël, Monsieur Sismondi, Benjamin Franklin, Josephine Bonaparte, Monsieur Voltaire, Monsieur Talleyrand, M. Châteaubriand. This sofa shall be my chaise-longue. Now I shall talk."

With vivid fancy aided by a retentive memory, she launched forth into a description of France under the Bourbons.

"What in the world are you talking about?" one of the boys said sharply.

"What fun is it—sitting stiff in a chair listening to your chatter?" put in another.

"Barbarians!" Betsy said frigidly. "We are supposed to be portraying the cream of French society. This is a salon. It is foolish of me, of course, to expect you to enjoy it. Go away—the empty chairs will be a more appreciative audience!"

*****

The Patterson home was one well equipped for the training of a girl who dreamed so imperially.

In her father's house, with its colonial silver, mahogany furniture and tall candles, there was a small community of guests, relatives, and slaves, whose care and entertainment required talent and ability that made excellent training for court life. Nor was the hospitality less lavish. There was a never-ending round of meals served by blacks; there were waffles and corncakes; muffins or Sally Lunn; fish, soft-shell crabs, terrapin and oysters from the Chesapeake; a roasted young pig with an apple in his mouth; and a turkey stuffed with oysters, with a nip of punch for sauce, or a canvas-back duck with its jelly accompaniment. Also, there was a constantly replenished supply of delicacies brought by ships from abroad that were rare enough to delight the taste of the bon vivant. Yet, even before a gleaming table crowded with delicious Maryland foods, the girl's romantic fancy longed for the confections she imagined princesses enjoyed.

Among so many relatives and visitors, there was no need that Betsy should make a formal début. As she passed from girlhood to young womanhood, she passed from school to ballroom.

For entertainment outside of the family circle, there were occasional visits to the adored brick theater, where a troupe of idolized players appeared in Elizabethan dramas; also there were dances at the brilliant Assembly Balls in town, and frequent dances or fox hunts held at Colonel John Eager Howard's home at Belvedere, or at Charles Carroll's estate Doughoregan, or at Captain Ridgely's country-seat Hampton.

Sometimes the girls and men rode to balls on horseback, and then Betsy and her girl friends thought nothing of covering their fine muslin gowns with blankets to protect them from the dust. Winter with its snows did not hinder their merry-making, for there were capacious sleighs which when hitched to blooded horses gave them rides as exhilarating as the dances that followed.

There was one of her father's cronies who more than any other person established her in her purpose to have a career abroad. That individual was Commodore Barney, who fed her imagination with his memories.

"Tell me, Commodore," she coaxed, "how did it come about that you kissed Marie Antoinette?"

"Ah, Betsy," chuckled the sea-fighter, "there's mischief in your eye. You're poking fun at me!"

"Indeed, no," Betsy swore solemnly. "The Caton girls were asking me about that exploit, and I promised to bring them the truth of it."

"Well," said Commodore Barney, "here's the yarn—do with it what you like.

"I was the bearer of official letters from Robert Morris, at the head of the Navy Department, to Benjamin Franklin, who, with John Jay and John Adams, were winding up in France our war with England. The French people idolized Dr. Franklin—the shop windows of Paris were crowded with portraits, medallions and busts of him. Against the luxury of the French court, his plain dress and simple manners pleased the citizens. The common people, disgusted with kings, idolized the good doctor as the friend of mankind.

"When I delivered the letters to him at Passy, which was near the King and his court at Versailles, I felt ashamed in the presence of the great man, and told him I must soon join my ship.

"He laid his hand on my shoulder.

"'It would be a pity,' he said, 'to return to your ship without the enjoyment of a few days in Paris.'

"So he introduced me into the society of ministers, generals, noblemen and gentle ladies of Paris. He insisted on presenting me, rough sailor though I was, at the court at Versailles.

"Louis XVI seemed to me a weak, pathetic figure. But his fair young queen, Marie Antoinette! When I looked into her eyes, I clean forgot the gossip of the streets about her flirtations and scandals.

"I do not know what made me so bold. Perhaps there was a challenge in her gaze. Perhaps it was the teasing of her gay maids-of-honor. At any rate, it was not her slim, lovely hand I kissed, but instead—her cheek, as soft as a damask rose!"

"Bravo!" cried Betsy. "Of all your honors, Commodore, let that be the proudest memory—you bussed a queen—you kissed the lovely Marie Antoinette!"

"Yes," said Barney dryly, "we simple, democratic Americans have yet a hankering after royalty."

As the girl approached womanhood, one man was outstanding in the world—Napoleon Bonaparte. Beside his career, that of any other man in public life seemed tame. The talk of her household, whenever it drifted to Europe, centered upon Napoleon, whose sword was changing the map of the world. Next to the magnificence of courts, she esteemed military glory. When her father hoped that the victorious Corsican would prove to be the Washington of France and lay down his arms to promote peace, she wished that he would go on like Cæsar. Washington had created just a republic; Napoleon might create a new, a more glorious aristocracy. Great generals and great battles made life thrilling—long live Napoleon!

Discovering that Commodore Barney had met Napoleon, she questioned him repeatedly concerning the Corsican's appearance and habits. She asked also about Josephine. "What good fortune," she exclaimed, "for an obscure Creole to become the wife of a man who may rule Europe! Given her background, how far could I go?"

It was then that Commodore Barney, watching the animated girl with amused calculation, had said:

"What would you say, miss, if a noble young Frenchman, the very brother of this Napoleon, should come to collect from you the kiss I gave poor Marie Antoinette?"

The girl's eyes were flashing jewels.

"We will answer that, sir, when the payment is demanded!"

"I won't say more now," he said, "but there may come a day when those pretty lips will have to pay the price."

Still another gentleman of Baltimore who had the power to transport Betsy's thoughts was Monsieur Pascault, the Marquis de Poléon, who, escaping the massacre at San Domingo, had chosen to live in Maryland rather than in disturbed France. His house—the oldest one in Baltimore—had been ornamented by beautiful iron gates that he had had shipped to him from France.

Here was a place Betsy delighted to visit with her father. She found in the Pascault home an air of refinement the like of which she had never seen even in the finest Maryland homes. Monsieur Pascault, tapping his gold snuff-box, gave the girl a satisfying picture of a gentleman of the old régime. And then, to give a keener edge to her aspirations, there was pretty Mademoiselle Pascault waiting for General Rewbell, friend of Jerome's, to come and propose. The Pascaults gave frequent suppers, and often there were young diplomats from Washington as guests. How stupid Baltimore men seemed to Betsy beside these courtly, vivacious gentlemen.

*****

Commodore Barney, having received news by stage that Jerome had arrived in New York City from the West Indies, sent by the returning coach a letter warmly inviting his young comrade-in-arms to be his guest.

Jerome, his interest in Baltimore heightened by what Madame Rewbell had told him of Maryland society, accepted at once. His train of coaches started southward. In the autumn of 1803, he rolled into the politely expectant city that had welcomed in Revolutionary times Lafayette and Rochambeau and that had continued its hospitality to the French noblemen who, at the beginning of the French Revolution, had saved their heads by crossing the Atlantic.

If Baltimore then had delighted to welcome and entertain Bourbon sympathizers, it did not mean to let its hospitality flag when a young and charming young democrat—who might develop at any moment into a Prince of France—came to visit it.

To the young Frenchman, used to picturesque Old World cities, Baltimore indeed needed beauty in its women to relieve its lack of distinction. He had found the streets of New York disgustingly unclean. The chewing of tobacco, with its eternal spitting, had disgusted him. His reception, while hospitable, had been crude. Baltimore he found not quite so dirty, yet the town could not by the widest stretch of politeness be called charming.

The growth of the town was epitomized by Market Street, with its line of low-browed hip-roofed wooden houses, which had leaped into the surrounding fields, dragging commerce with it. The paint of the houses—blue, white and yellow, with here and there a substantial mansion of red brick—made the streets colorful if not beautiful. Under the locust trees that lined the walls, white urchins played with half-naked pickaninnies.

In the lanes of Baltimore, past the spire of St. Paul's Church, brisk ship-owners and merchants, on their way to the bank or wharf, paused to watch the young voyager from the Old World; and ancient gentlemen, who did not realize that they were relics, in three-cornered cocked hats, high-colored coats with narrow capes, knee-breeches, striped stockings, buckled shoes, long, dangling watch-chains and full Revolutionary costume—made him deep salutations when his carriage stopped, flourishing their canes backward with the grace of swordsmen, and told him that they remembered Lafayette, and besought him to carry back to the Marquis their regards.

Ladies, tripping full-skirted to the circulating library, gazed with awe on the handsome youth, and forgot their book heroes.

Occasionally, the traveler passed a courtyard from which bright-eyed girls gazed out with shy yet eager curiosity at the prince flashing by with his gay train.

Having come at the season for races, Jerome on the first day of his arrival was whisked away by his host to the race-track at Govane's. He traveled thereto amidst a thick procession: elegant coaches or farmers' carts turned into conveyances for the family; girls and gallants on horseback; here and there a tallyho thronged with gay ladies and gentlemen, its postilion trumpeting haughtily. Between the two streams of horses, tradesmen and laborers plodded on foot, while white ragamuffins and half-naked black boys clung to the backs of wagons to hasten their pace, or besought drivers of half-empty carriages for a ride.

In this merry procession jaunted the lacquered coach of the irresponsible and irrepressible Jerome, who behind his ebony coachmen glanced left and right, returning with a D'Artagnan gaze the glances of daringly coquettish girls.

It was not, however, the races, exciting as they were, that Jerome went to see. When he reached the race-track he could no longer conceal his eagerness to meet the rare Elizabeth.

"Why have I not seen Miss Patterson?" he inquired.

Commodore Barney dug his thumb into the youth's ribs.

"Still the same romantic Jerome! Well, while there was no falsehood told about that girl's beauty, if I were you I'd not be so eager. For when you meet her, it will mean your absolute surrender to her loveliness!"

Suddenly the Commodore caught sight of a slim girl who rose above her shining coach like an enthroned princess. She wore a simple gown of buff-colored silk, with a lace fichu, and a leghorn hat with tulle trimmings and ostrich plumes, under which her brown hair waved and glinted.

"There is Miss Patterson!" said the Commodore.

At that moment the girl turned. Jerome found himself staring into haunting blue eyes that lit up a face of marvelous beauty. Her gaze met his for an instant, then shifted—it seemed indifferently.

Jerome's long stare, if he had not been a distinguished visitor, would have been labeled rudeness.

"Madame Rewbell was right," he breathed. "Never have I beheld such beauty, such grace! I could seek the world over and not find so fair a 'belle femme.'"

The girl's feigned indifference to his ardent glances—the exquisite coquetry by which, at a distance, she invited his admiration, fanned his ardor.

To himself he said, "Why must I be mated to some homely member of the nobility when I might win this beauty? Yonder is one worthy to sit on a throne! How she outshines those heavy, dowdy German princesses about whom Napoleon is always talking! The First Consul, if he saw her, would yield himself to the influence of her loveliness. But, connoisseur in beauty that he is, I should have to guard her from his intriguing!"

That day both the girl and the youth went home unsatisfied. Tossed here and there by surging crowds, they had not met.

"Patience," the Commodore consoled Jerome. "You have been invited tomorrow to a ball at the house of Samuel Chase, a distinguished Marylander, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. Elizabeth will be there. You will dance with her—delicious intimacy!"

"For that chance," said Jerome, "it was worth being exiled from France—worth risking the displeasure of the First Consul, who dreams I am dutifully sailing the Spanish Main."