Jessie Page 9

  We were shown a small room with dingy wallpaper, dark woodwork in need of polish, an iron bedstead that appeared to sag in the middle, three straight chairs scarred by use, and a chest of drawers with a torn lace runner across the top.

  "Jessie?" John's voice was full of question.

  "Yes," I replied, fighting to keep back the tears. Sudden visions flashed through my mind—the grand wedding I should have had, with everyone who was anyone in Washington dancing to my happiness, the honeymoon in a classic small hotel in New York City or perhaps somewhere in Virginia, and the tour of Virginia to introduce my relatives to my new husband. Instead, here I was in Baltimore, and my relatives would hear soon enough of my disgrace. There would be no festive parties. What had I done?

  "Jessie, I am sorry. I... I'm not worthy of you, and now I've ruined... Well, you should have champagne and oysters and..." He chuckled just a bit. "We'll be lucky to get chops and a half pint of beer here."

  And then I saw him again—John Charles Frémont, the man I loved, the man who was haunted by his unworthiness, the man I must always convince that he stood head and shoulders above the crowd, in spite of his small stature. Now he stood before me with an expression that called to mind the young boy whose schoolmates had just called him a bastard. I held out my arms, and he came to me. I clung to his neck, and he nearly lifted me off my feet, so intense was his kiss. We forgot the chops and half pint.

  It would be lovely to say that John and I were physically matched from our first lovemaking, that it was a union of passion and fire, but such is not the case. I was a tentative lover, shy and uncertain, and John did indeed "know what he was doing," as he had put it—but Cecilia must have known too. John had little understanding of my uncertainties, my tentative responses, and when he was satisfied, lying content with his head on my breast, I was left full of doubts, feeling keyed up.

  "It will get better for you, too," he murmured sleepily, which I found cold comfort.

  I lay awake in that cold hotel room for hours, as John snored gently at my side, convincing myself that I had done the right thing, that I would never look back in doubt. Together, John and I were going to do something... well, something great. At last, content, I curled my arms around my husband and slept. The next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming in the dirty window, making the room bleaker than ever by contrast.

  We never got oysters and champagne in Baltimore, but we were well entertained by several of John's friends, all of whom wanted to offer their congratulations and advice, which ranged from confronting Father to moving permanently to New Orleans or some far city and starting life anew.

  "I'm afraid you don't understand Jessie," John told one earnest young man. "She is part of Washington. I think she would wither anywhere else. She has to be part of all that goes on in our capital."

  His words struck a chord of fear in me. What if Father never took us back? What if we were cut off from the Washington I knew? It would not only be disaster for me, it would be the end of John's army career, a career that now looked so promising.

  Papa Joe Nicollet was not much more encouraging. "Such matters never stay secret," he cautioned. "You should have been open and forthright about it. Now you appear to have been sneaky."

  "We have been sneaky," John said miserably. "There is no way Senator Benton will look kindly upon our marriage now."

  "Perhaps you are right," Papa Joe said with his characteristic shrug, "but I doubt it. He is too fond of his daughter and too interested in the West to be permanently angry with you. You, my friend, are in the right place at the right time." And then another coughing fit overtook him.

  * * *

  I wrote Harriet Bodisco—now the mother of a young baby—with our address, and she replied not only with congratulations but with a copy of the announcement of our wedding that Father had placed in the newspaper: "On the nineteenth in this city, by the Reverend Mr. Van Horsleigh, Miss Jessie Ann Benton, second daughter of Colonel Benton, to Mr. J. C. Frémont of the United States Army."

  John was indignant. "The man's name must always come first! It... it is an insult to you."

  I smiled grimly. "I told Mother I was the one who suggested we elope, and I am quite sure Father sees it as my wedding. You... in some senses you were just a victim of my headstrong foolishness."

  He smiled then. "A willing victim."

  In spite of its dinginess, the small hotel room was where we spent most of our hours, and, not surprisingly, we spent them in bed, learning to match each other as lovers. John was right—it did get better as I relaxed and learned to express my love for him with a touch here, a stroke there, and to take the pleasure he gave me. By the end of a week I was as eager as he, sometimes suggesting we decline a dinner invitation or retire early when the party was still animated around us.

  "Jessie!" he said with mock reproval one night as I lay in his arms, as sated as he. "This is what your father would not have you know. This is the joy that he would have kept from us."

  I had already pondered that, wondering as most brides must do about my parents' physical relationship. Though my father undoubtedly could have been described as lusty, I could not imagine my frail mother responding to him the way I already did to John. Still, it was hard to reconcile her supposed passivity with the production of six children. And yet I was sure theirs was not a union like ours—indeed, few were. We were not only blessed but singled out. Our physical passion was, to me, just one more sign that we were meant to be together for some extraordinary purpose, some calling beyond that of ordinary men and women.

  * * *

  After a week, still thoroughly entranced with each other, we were bored with Baltimore, and I was longing for Washington. "You must go back to work," I told John.

  "If we return, you will be subject to all kinds of stares and looks, and people will talk behind your back. I will not let that happen to you. I'll... I'll resign my commission and find work here... in Baltimore." His voice faltered on the last.

  "I hate Baltimore!" I cried passionately and then was ashamed of myself for such an outburst.

  John smiled. "I know you do, but..."

  "We will go back and hold our heads up," I said. "If we are proud, nothing can hurt us." What I didn't add was that Washington—a city prone to gossip—-would talk as much about John as they would me. By now some curious souls would have done their research into his background and unearthed his illegitimacy and the scandalous story of his mother and her broken marriage vows. I knew only too well that these stories were going to haunt John forever, and the sooner we faced them, the less power they would have over us. "Yes," I said, "we must go proudly back to Washington."

  He shook his head in disbelief, but that was just what we did. We returned to Washington by coach the next day and settled ourselves in one of the boardinghouses where my family had lived when I was young. I sent a note assuring Mother that I was well and asking her to have my wardrobe sent from the house on C Street to Mrs. Porter's.

  Her reply was brief: "Your father is distraught and barely able to work, but he remains stubborn. I am at a loss. We all miss you. May God bless you, my daughter."

  Contrary to John's fears about gossip, we were greeted as celebrities. Papa Joe, recovered and back in Washington, was overjoyed, of course, to have both of us back and relieved to have his assistant return to the maps then in progress. But others greeted us cordially, even offered their congratulations, and a few—the most bold—expressed their sorrow over the rift in our family.

  "Your father is a good man," Count Bodisco told me when I called at their home, at Harriet's invitation, "and he will see the error of his ways. You wait... he will make you both welcome in his home."

  "I hope so, sir," I said sincerely, "but he is also a stubborn man."

  The count chuckled. "We men... we are all stubborn. Now, tell me, do you not think my bride is beautiful?"

  As beautiful as you are ugly, I thought to myself as I smiled and agreed with him.

  The hei
r apparent of the family was a chubby, darling little boy of six months who—fortunately—favored his mother in both coloring and looks. Harriet had indeed blossomed with motherhood, and she seemed to adore the count, which still puzzled me and made me bless my own fortune all the more.

  * * *

  That winter President Tyler gave a New Year's reception at the White House, and John and I determined to go—at least, I determined and John acquiesced.

  "It will do no good for us to sneak in unnoticed," I told him. "We must arrive.....Can we borrow a coach?"

  While John was pondering, Papa Joe broke in, "Hassler will lend you his, I am sure of it."

  Frederick Hassler was director of the U.S. Coast Survey and one of those who had early on offered us his congratulations. But he owned the biggest and ugliest coach in all of Washington, so large that some called it the "ark."

  "Oh, no." John laughed. "Then we really would be conspicuous."

  It took only a minute for me to see the way clear. "It's perfect," I said. "Please, John, send a message and ask Mr. Hassler if he would be so kind...."

  "Jessie, have you lost your good sense?"

  "Please, John, just trust me."

  And he did.

  We arrived at the White House while there was still a crowd milling around outside, waiting to enter. All heads turned as the ark rolled heavily to a stop at the front gate.

  "Here we go," I said to John.

  I had worn my best velvet gown, navy blue with a narrow hooped skirt. My bonnet had bright yellow ostrich feathers, and for once I was every bit the equal to John's grandness in his uniform.

  I heard a gasp or two as John alighted and turned to hold his hand out for me. Then, my hand firmly locked in his arm, we made our way through the crowd, smiling at those we knew. The day was warm for January, with a bright sun. To me, that sun shone brightest on the two of us, making us the center of attention.

  We were greeted like celebrities rather than outcasts. President Tyler and his niece, Priscilla, were openly glad to see me, and I even drew a smile from John Calhoun. Count Bodisco and Harriet were pleased that we made a public appearance, and Maria Crittendon drew me aside to congratulate us.

  "Your father is here," she said with a smile. "He has not talked to me since your wedding."

  "Nor," I said unhappily, "to me. Perhaps today is the day. Mother writes that he is miserable."

  "So I've heard," Maria said, "and I am sorry for that. I would not have...."

  "Maria," I assured her, "you did the absolute right thing by letting us marry in your home. I am gloriously happy... and when Father comes around, everything will be perfect."

  The rooms of the White House were jammed with people, and so noisy, you could barely talk—a steady buzz of chatter competed with the Marine Band, which played bravely, though few paid attention to their efforts. Finally, though, I spotted Father across the Blue Room, deep in conversation with Senator Dickerson of New Jersey—a man who thought exploration of the Rockies useless because the land was suited for little but an Indian reserve. I smiled at the earnestness with which Father was trying to convert the narrow-minded senator. Father was his usual self—his clothes slightly rumpled, his white hair full and undisciplined—but there was an animated look on his face as he waved his hands, talked at length, and never gave Senator Dickerson a chance to say a word.

  My arm still linked in his, John and I made our way across the room, though I admit that my husband, usually so poised in a crowd, was a little hesitant. Too soon for him, we approached Father.

  "Senator Dickerson," I said graciously, "have you met my husband? Lieutenant Frémont can tell you much about the Rockies. He hopes to lead an expedition there soon." And then, turning to Father, I asked, "Don't you think John could help you convince the senator of the importance of exploration?"

  Senator Dickerson looked as if he would escape if only he could see a way, and even Father was a little stunned. He recovered quickly, though, to say "Of course, Jessie. Just the man to help me here."

  And the two of them were off in a fast dialogue about the importance of the American West. Phrases such as "fifty-four forty" and "Oregon Trail" flew through their conversation. Senator Dickerson was overwhelmed.

  When the senator finally made good his escape, I laid my hand on Father's arm. "I have missed you," I said, having to shout to make myself heard over the noise instead of whispering the words softly as I would have wished.

  He stared hard at me, then at John, then turned his gaze back to me. "I have missed you, too, Jessie. Perhaps we should talk."

  "John and I could join you for dinner tonight," I said.

  He nodded. "That would please your mother."

  And you? I wanted to ask, but I didn't want to embarrass him. "We'll be at the house at five o'clock," I said.

  And so we gathered at the Benton dining table in the house on C Street. Dinner was pleasant—civil, but strained. Mother sat at her end of the table, looking pale but happy, and Father at his end scowled to hide what I hoped was pleasure. When the blessing was asked, little Sarah in a quavering voice added, "Thank you, God, for sending Jessie and... uh... Lieutenant Frémont... home."

  I could barely keep the tears back, and I thought I even saw Father blink rapidly.

  John was carefully polite and correct, his usual demeanor of self-confidence hiding the insecurity that I now knew lay beneath his every movement. I perhaps tried too hard to be cheerful, prattling inanely about the President's reception and the dresses the various women wore. Even John looked askance at me, as though to ask if I would not be quiet for a moment.

  Somehow, though, we managed through dessert—a delicious chocolate silk-bread pudding, which Mathilde, our longtime housekeeper, had made especially because it was my favorite.

  "John, Jessie, I would see you in my parlor," Father said, rising from the table to hold Mother's chair. "We will join your mother in the parlor shortly."

  Now what? I wondered. Were we to be reviled again, punished further? John shot me a quick look, then stiffened his backbone and followed Father. After a hug from Mother, I too followed, making my steps as bold as possible.

  "I... well... I think it best," Father began, and then had to blow his nose, clear his throat, and begin over again. "I think you should take up residence in this house."

  John opened his mouth to protest, but my hand on his arm silenced him. We waited for Father to continue.

  "It will be economical for you, and, John... well, we have matters to discuss. It's time to think about the next exploration west... and, well, dammit all, I miss you, Jessie."

  Laughing, I went to hug him and was rewarded with a bear hug by that most undemonstrative of men. "John?" I asked, and when he nodded affirmatively, I assured Father that we should be delighted to reside on C Street.

  Immediately, Father began to talk directly to John, and I became an interested listener. "I had hoped Nicollet would lead an expedition to map what lies between the Missouri River and the Pacific," he said, "but it is apparent his health will never again permit him to lead a major expedition. I intend to recommend appropriation of $30,000 for the expedition, with you named to lead it."

  Had John been a lesser man, he might have fainted at this announcement. In five minutes we had had a double dose of news, more than we could ever have hoped for. Even I felt faint.

  Father was chairman of the Senate Committee on Military Affairs, which oversaw funds for the Topographical Corps, so there was little doubt that he would be able to secure passage of his appropriation. The Senate surely recognized the urgency of this exploration, and Father knew how to avoid opposition, how even to convince Mr. Tyler that exploration was of the utmost importance and would not lead to war, as Tyler feared.

  Father's eyes—and those of many of his colleagues at the time—were on both Oregon and California. Oregon, that vast unknown territory to the northwest, was shared by England and the United States. But England, with its Hudson's Bay Trading Company, clea
rly had the upper hand. We had but a few missionaries in the area, and Father believed that it was crucial to get settlers into the Northwest. He often said the land would belong to whatever nation settled it first—and Father was determined that the United States would be that nation.

  He was equally adamant about California, which seemed a paradise of sunshine and vegetation from the little I had heard of it. Father truly believed that the United States must stretch its empire from coast to coast. War with Mexico? He shrugged off Tyler's concerns. Settlers in Texas, having shed the control of Mexico through their unlikely but successful revolution, were now demanding annexation to the United States. And none of that led to war with Mexico. If the Texans succeeded, could California be far behind? Like Oregon, it needed but settlement by men—and women—from our country. And had not the first group of pioneers reached California the past fall, nearly perishing because of their ignorance of the route? Father believed that more must venture west to settle that land, but if they were to do so, they needed a map to follow. I believed in Father's dream with all my heart... and I saw John as the man—indeed, the only man—who could make those dreams into reality. It thrilled me to think of his place in history.

  * * *

  Life on C Street took on a rhythm of its own for a brief period. We lived in two rooms near the back of the house—a parlor and a bedroom, both with a view of the gardens. But most of our hours were spent in Father's library, where John was busy preparing for his expedition—Father had secured financing for a four-month expedition to the Rockies—and I worked as his assistant, just as I had been Father's. First we had to write the report on the Des Moines River survey, a diversionary tactic that had not, after all, prevented our marriage. Once the report was written—a dry and clear-cut account of rivers and rocks, vegetation and rainfall—we turned our attention to the new expedition.