Probable Claws

16

March 16, 1787

Friday

Bleak, windy, raw, a typical March day kept Ewing inside, fire roaring in his library. Catherine, showing signs of her pregnancy, remained with him, sorting letters. Correspondence on the left, financial interests on the right.

She sat across from her father, her shawl loose around her shoulders. The warmth from the fire proved sufficient.

“You’ll want to read this one.” She handed him a letter, paper heavy, well laid, gorgeous handwriting on the envelope.

He reached, checked the front. “Ah, the baron. He’s in the middle of everything.”

When a young man on the Grand Tour of Europe, Ewing, in France, had met Baron Necker, also young, interested in the New World. The two men, eyes to the future, hopes high, became friends. Both became important in their nations. As for Baron Necker, he was born to it. Ewing made his own way, although his father gave him the advantage of a superior education and at his death bequeathed to him the tobacco lands south of the James. The baron would always compliment Ewing by saying that the Virginian had made his own way.

Perching his spectacles on his nose, Ewing read, gasped.

“What is it, Father?”

“The Comte de Vergennes has died. The powerful foreign minister. A bad time to take leave of France no matter what one thinks of him. The king has summoned the Assembly of Notables. Necker writes the hall of the king’s Menus-Plaisirs, not one empty seat. Those most powerful sit in the front, vigilant of their privileges. But listen, my dear. The Comptroller General of Finance, Charles-Alexandre de Calonne, began a speech insinuating that he, only he, wooed the king to call this assembly. Furthermore, he, again alone, has restored confidence in the nation’s finances, which when he was appointed in 1783 languished in a disastrous state.” He looked over the rim of his glasses. “That’s a broadside against Necker.”

“His predecessor?” Catherine did her best to keep abreast of events in England, France, and the various Germanies. As to Spain, rich though it was, Catherine considered it a shot bolt. She and her father would discuss these things, each finding reasons for the stagnation of Spain, the arrogance of England, the foolishness of France. Then they would examine the new nation in which they lived. The comparisons could be sobering.

“Well, Necker’s Account Rendered ultimately brought about his dismissal, but listen. This is fantastic. I cannot think of another word. The treasury collects four hundred seventy-five million livres a year. France spends six hundred million livres a year. At the end of 1786 the deficit was thirty-seven million livres, but, oh, this is shocking. Shocking.” He took a restorative breath. “By the end of 1786, twelve hundred and fifty million livres had been borrowed—twelve hundred and fifty million livres! Dear God. Furthermore, Calonne laid the financial abuses not just on the former Comptroller, my friend, but at the feet of the most privileged, who benefit from many special financial levies. Certain agricultural goods benefit some members, but not others. The purchase of salt. Good God, this is a most depressing list, but here is the insult, the outrageous insult.”

His face reddened. “The raving toady declares that France has given birth to America!” He slapped the letter on the desk. “Was their assistance invaluable? Yes. But the citizens of the colonies gave birth to this nation, not a gaggle of raving aristocrats and royals of questionable intellect. Just wait until I show this to my friends!”

Catherine picked up the letter, read quietly, then laughed. “Well, there is humor in Paris. The baron quotes from a pamphleteer or some form of writer. Now listen.” She raised her chin, glanced at her father, and began in her captivating, beguiling, cultivated rich alto: “ ‘Among the blessings attaching to this great age, France will soon be able to count the joy of embracing to its bosom the illustrious author of so many fine pamphlets against the Water Company.’ ” She laughed.

“That is an elegant humiliation.”

“The baron wishes you to know he did not inform you last year of Calonne’s pamphlets, thinking them of no interest to a man of the New World, as he puts it. And he wishes you to know that Calonne wrote those pamphlets. The Water Company. France was aware, forgive the pun, of screeds against the Water Company. A project for which Calonne was offered no livres under the table, which may have triggered his resentment.” She handed the letter back to her father.

“Something must be done over there, but each of those men at the Assembly will fight tooth and nail for his special privilege. And from this letter it appears the Comptroller has overplayed his hand.”

“I forgot to look, who wrote the scathing comment about the joy of embracing?”

Ewing scanned the strong handwriting. “Ah, here he tells us. Mirabeau. A man on the make, a man intelligent enough to make fools of the Assembly.” He again looked at his daughter. “That can be heady stuff but remember this is a country with a king. It is possible a man can lose his head. Not here.” Then he paused. “Not yet anyway.”

“Do you think we should call an assembly?”

“My dear, neither France nor we can go on. Should we add up all the war debts from the thirteen colonies, I don’t think it would touch the debt over there, but we are so new, our commerce small compared to theirs. We have some products the world desires. They have more ways to make money or coerce it out of others than we do. But do we need our own gathering?” He thought. “Sometimes putting men of education and wealth in a room is not a good idea. Leaven it with some military men, working men, still not such a good idea, but better. Fill it with lawyers and you are doomed, everlasting doom.”

Knowing of her father’s disaffection for lawyers, she kept silent.

He placed the letter on his desk. “I don’t mean to distress you, my dear, but I wonder if we are in a better state than France. Every state, like every prince, comte, duke, whatever, is out for itself. Petty. Selfish and retarding commerce. This can’t go on any more than France’s borrowing can continue.”

“Someone has to take the first step. Washington?”

Ewing shook his head. “The general will stay above the fray. But if some form of assembly is called it will only work if he blesses it.” He rubbed his forehead. “I wish I had answers. And, my dear, we had best prepare ourselves for losses from our French clients. I doubt we will be paid for our large tobacco shipment. I hope I am wrong, but we will face large losses.”

“The English?”

A lip curled slightly. “Convinced though they are of their superiority and that we are traitors, they will pay. Actually, I suspect the ire of the educated has been splenetic, focused on Lord North. We are somewhat off the hook.”

“We sent much tobacco there.”

“Safe. For one thing they sit around in those coffeehouses, talk politics, and smoke. I would question English industry in the cities. Too much talk.”

“Perhaps they save the coffeehouse for when work is done. Consider their power,” Catherine countered.

“I do. I do.” Ewing folded his hands over his chest.

Two sets of small footsteps echoed in the polished hall. Bettina’s echoed behind them. JohnJohn, Tulli, and Bettina stopped at the library’s open door.

“I rode today!” JohnJohn, tipping over two years old but a big boy for his age, much like his father, loudly announced.

Tulli, nine, kept a close watch on the child, loved him, really. “He did. Cold as it is he rode all by himself.”

“I’m going to be a soldier like Father.” His little chest puffed out.

“That’s wonderful, JohnJohn.” Catherine stood, walked to the door, picked up her son.

Ewing laughed. “Next thing you know, he’ll be in the irons, racing against you and Jeddie.”

“I will.”

Tulli, turning into a good little rider, said nothing, but Catherine, sensitive to such things, put her hand on his shoulder. “He’ll have to catch you, won’t he, Tulli?”

A wordless grin followed this statement.

“All right, you two beggars. Back to the kitchen. Never know what you’ll find in there.” Bettina turned to walk down the hall.

“A pie?” JohnJohn shouted.

Bettina threw up her hands as she kept walking.

Catherine remarked, “I’d find out if I were you. No one can cook or bake like Bettina.”

The little fellow ran, not terribly well but he did run. Tulli skipped behind him.

Catherine returned to her seat, then stood up, carried a log to the fireplace, an upward shower of molten sparks emitting dots of color and light.

“Roger can do that,” Ewing said.

Roger, the butler, performed many services. Like Ewing, age was encroaching. He was training his son, Weymouth, to succeed him since being butler is a position of responsibility, power. A good butler understands the politics of any situation. He is also the head man among the slaves. Weymouth, obedient but unmotivated, did not have the makings of a good butler. Roger tried to hide his disappointment.

“I know he can but I like to keep a fire going. And I’m sure Roger is back there in the kitchen with Bettina. They’re solving some problem on this place of which we know nothing.”

He nodded. “They’re uncanny, those two. By the way, how do you think Bettina’s romance with DoRe progresses?”

“At a stately pace.” Catherine laughed. “They’re in their forties, lost their first mates, and DoRe works for that holy horror.” She meant Maureen Selisse Holloway.

He shook his head. “Holy horror she is, but she is uncommonly shrewd about finance. She obviously picked up a great deal from her father.”

Maureen’s father, a powerful banker in the Caribbean, made money both honestly and dishonestly, but make it, he did. As did Maureen.

The fire hissed, cracked. Ewing inhaled the pleasing odor. His desk, at a right angle to the fireplace, allowed him to view the fire as he worked. In summer’s warm weather he would have his desk turned so it faced the fireplace, which would have been scrubbed out, a large brass fan put in the middle with another fan of huge turkey feathers in front of the brass fan.

Catherine, too, watched the flames.

“Sometimes the world weighs on my shoulders. Then I listen to JohnJohn or watch Marcia and Isabelle together. The world vanishes for a time.” He smiled. “Then again, bad as it seems it’s not as fearful as when I could have been hanged for supporting the rebellion.”

“It’s God’s grace that we won.” Catherine, not given to religious sentiments, believed that.

“Indeed.” He inquired, “Feeling all right?”

“The baby’s not due until July. I’m fine.”

“Well, you know anytime you wish to nap or rest, tell me.”

“I will. Given the baron’s letter, should we not seek other sources of revenue?”

“I have been doing so. I have tried to create sources of income that cannot be wiped out at once. Hence the timber, the apple orchard, the tobacco holdings south of the James and in North Carolina. The only other things I can conceive would be a flour mill, a sawmill, a foundry.”

“All needed. But we would have to build them, find people with the knowledge to run them and run them honestly.”

“Pestalozzi has the best flours, cornmeal,” Ewing added. “I doubt we could do better.”

“I’ve been putting off a decision but given our potential losses, I will contact Yancy and agree to race Reynaldo against Black Knight.”

“Is that wise? You would be training as you grow closer to birth.”

“True, but I will be on the ground. Jeddie will be breezing him.”

“He’s a good young man.”

“He is. With Jeddie working the blooded horses and Barker O. training the driving horses, we are formidable.”

“You’re formidable. I sit back and watch.”

“You can ride.”

“Not well and I don’t love it,” he admitted. “You have always loved it. And it looks as though JohnJohn may grow into that also. I haven’t asked but I can’t help myself. Do you want a boy or a girl? If I’ve heard the answer I don’t remember. I think I would remember.”

Catherine laughed. “A girl. I live with two boys now, my husband and JohnJohn. I need an ally.”

He laughed with her. “Now you know how I felt surrounded by you, Rachel, and your mother.” He paused. “I believe I learned more from your mother than anyone else in my life. She was an uncommon woman who could see around corners. She perceived things I missed. She felt things. I would try to be logical and she’d kiss me on the cheek and say, ‘Husband, people are not logical. They pretend to be.’ She was right.”

“She’d say that to me, too. She’d point her finger at me, usually walking in the garden. ‘You are just like your father.’ I’m glad of that.” Catherine complimented him.

He smiled. “I have many shortcomings.”

“Don’t we all, Father? But as to being logical, it seems to me, we can try to be so. The French could use a bit of bracing logic and so could we. We do need an assembly. I say nothing. It’s not my place and in some ways that gives me an advantage. I can listen to the conversation of your friends and absorb it all. Some people can peer into the future better than others, but no one really knows, do they?”

“And they never will,” he declared with finality.