Varina(35)

Mary Chesnut sat with her eyes closed, the stem of her glass between the first and middle fingers of her upturned hand, her palm cupping the bowl. V paused, and Mary, without opening her eyes, said, Please proceed.

So, of course, V and Burton shared a lovely, brief flirtation. He had graduated from Yale before the war and frequently made calculated glancing mentions that he was a Bonesman, as if that shed more than a glimmer of golden light south of about Delaware. V grew up around Masons, whose magical tickling handshakes and dark secrets went back to King Solomon, so a recently formed boy club hardly registered. More interesting to her was she and Burton being several years closer in age than she and Jeff. And that simple summation of years rested weightier on her mind than any secret society, no matter how extra special.

Burton would have made a poor poker player. For two weeks he moped about in love with her. He was a wise young man who didn’t hold her slight thickening in the wake of children as an exclusionary fact. Besides, the tallness that caused her to stoop self-consciously when she was fifteen helped her carry a little weight regally twenty years later. Though of course childless Mary Chesnut still enjoyed the figure of a fourteen-year-old.

—Thank you for noticing, Mary said.

When V finally realized how twisted up she had him, she enjoyed playing with Burton for a few weeks. Most of those brushings-by in the narrow hallway were her doing. Some days she laughed and flirted lightly, and others she acted even more dark and brooding than he did.

This was still early enough in the war that Richmond had not yet become flooded with beautiful young widows. By the second year, town whelmed over with them, all wearing flattering black dresses. A precious few were broken beyond repair and would probably die alone in a remote and unimaginable twentieth century still holding tight to their identity as widows of sacred Confederate dead. The rest told themselves—and anyone else willing to listen—that they would devote their lives to the memory of their fallen heroes, while at the same time keeping one eye on the calendar for the earliest date to stop wearing mourning and be colorful again, and the other sharp eye out for new love, the likeliest chance to escape the land of helplessness and sorrow. Many could offer themselves as virtually virgin brides, having married their beaux just days before sending them off to fight and die. Burton eventually found a firecracker of a woman, smart and full of wit, pretty enough, but not too pretty, and V liked to think she had primed the pump and kept him from one of those predacious young widows.

But that was later. Early days of the war, Burton thought he loved V fully and hopelessly. Imagine the romantic pain of loving the wife of the most powerful man in the land. And for three weeks in May she enjoyed convincing Burton to give hope a try. She used any excuse to touch his hand or make a big-sisterly correction to his tie or to smooth his lapels. And then to tease him for blushing.

So it came as no surprise one day toward the end of the month when he kissed her. She stood in the dining room arranging a vase of flowers when he passed through. The summer slipcovers—bleached cotton duck—had just been fitted over the upholstery, protection against all the sweaty visitors during hot summer. Burton came in the side door. He carried his hat, his hair pressed flat to his head by the band.

V said, Burton, could you come here just a minute?

When he came she leaned in close and with both hands, fingertips against his scalp, fluffed his hair and then shaped it in place.

He stumbled forward and bumped against her, arms circling. He mashed his lips to hers and then backed away and squared up to take a stinging slap that she never delivered. His hat had fallen in the exchange, and it lay on the rug, crown down, an open hole at their feet that they needed to avoid plunging into.

V found it a stirring kiss, a minor key reminder of youthful love. She wanted so much to kiss back. Instead, she said, Burton, let’s have coffee. Sit and compose yourself. I’ll go make it, and then we’ll talk. Do not even think of fleeing. Do not fail to be here when I get back.

He nodded.

She went down to the kitchen, and Ellen was there and saw a look on V’s face.

—What in the world? Ellen said.

—Burton.

—He’s been going around hangdog over you for a month. You didn’t notice?

—He just kissed me, V said.

—That’s different.

—Is there coffee? For two. I’ll take it up.

—If I need to come upstairs, you want me to cough when I get to the top of the stairs?

—Ha, V said.

When she returned, carrying a silver tray of pretty china cups and cream and sugar, Burton looked miserable.

He stood and said, I’m as appalled by my behavior as you are. As soon as the president arrives, I’ll hand in my resignation and confess to what I did.

He said it like a schoolboy reciting a bit of Shakespeare he did not at all understand.

—No, V said. You won’t. And please don’t ever assume you know what appalls me and what doesn’t. At this moment, I’ll claim my share of the blame, which is vastly the bigger slice of cake.

—Madame, he said.

A formulaic blurt. To be followed by some wearying assumption of behavior more appropriate to Lancelot and Guinevere than to the current world. He looked so earnest she almost laughed.

She sat next to him and held his twitchy hand. She said, When you’re confused, don’t talk. Listen. Yes?

He nodded assent.