Love and War

'I will,' Billy promised. 'I'm sorry we differed over the nig— the other question.'

'I needn't agree with my brother's dunderheaded opinions to care about him.'

George put his arms out. They embraced, and Billy went away into the dark, following the spiky glitter of bayonets, the tap-tapping of unseen drums.

Constance and the children arrived safely. They brought stacks of luggage, and a package of food and reading material Brett had prepared for Billy.

Patricia was excited to see the capital and elated by the thought of attending school there in the fall. Her brother, older by exactly ten months, shared the former enthusiasm but stuck out his tongue at the latter — in the Willard lobby. His forceful opinion earned him a whack and a reprimand from his mother.

George said they all might be back home by autumn. The coming battle would give some indication, anyway. Prices for hiring horses and renting vehicles had escalated wildly in the past couple of days; hundreds of people planned to drive into Virginia to view the stirring event from some safe vantage point. Although George knew the real nature of war, he too had succumbed; they had a barouche available if they wanted it.

'If I told you what it cost, Constance, you might turn me out.'

Wednesday evening, George returned to the hotel suite after long hours of attempting to wade through the quixotic confusion of Ripley's department. Looking grim, Constance handed him a carte de visite.

'Someone delivered it while I was shopping. I thought we might be fortunate enough to have Stanley and Isabel snub us.'

He turned the card over and, with dismay, read Isabel's handwritten invitation to dinner the following night. He scowled at the message for some time before he said: 'Let's go this once and be done with it. Otherwise she'll keep inviting us, and we'll keep suffering and dreading it the way you dread an appointment to have teeth yanked.'

Constance sighed. 'I suppose I can endure it if you can, though we both know who's probably behind the show of friendliness. Old Simon wants to keep you content.'

He shrugged to acknowledge the likelihood, then said, 'Perhaps Isabel actually enjoys entertaining us.'

'George, do be serious.'

'I am. It gives her a chance to show off to newcomers.' He scratched his chin. 'Wonder what she'll choose to brag about this time?'

A whole menu of items, as it turned out. The appetizer was the rented mansion on I Street. They were forced to tour it for fifteen minutes; Isabel alternately called attention to its expensive appointments and commiserated: 'I feel so sorry for you, cramped into Willard's. We were ever so fortunate to escape the National and get into this place, don't you think?'

'Oh, yes.' Constance was impeccably polite, her smile imperviously genuine. 'It was kind of you to invite us, Isabel.'

'Bygones should be bygones — especially in times like these.' Isabel thrust that one at George, who didn't swallow it. He suddenly felt tired, cranky, and overdressed — a toy soldier. The hilt of the ridiculous staff sword kept knocking against his sash.

At dinner, the knives were brought out. Stanley and Isabel larded their talk with names of important persons, implying they were intimate with all of them — Chase, Stevens, Welles, General McDowell, and of course Cameron.

'Did you see his latest monthly report, George?'

'I am in no position to see it, Stanley. I read about it.'

'The remarks about the Academy —?'

'Yes.' It took control merely to admit that.

'Exactly what did he say, dear?' Isabel asked, causing George to hear a phantom door go bang; he was in their trap.

'Why, merely that the rebellion wouldn't have been possible — at least not on such a large scale — without the treason of the officers educated at West Point at public expense. Simon concluded by asking whether such treason was not directly due to some radical defect in our national system — namely, the mere existence of the elitist institution.'

Elitist. Public expense. Treason. It was the same old crowd of ragpickers, given new respectability by their new red, white, and blue suits. 'Balderdash,' he said, longing to use a stronger word.

'Permit me to differ, George,' Isabel said. 'I've heard the same view from any number of the congressional and cabinet wives. Even the President expressed it in his July fourth message.'

Stanley feigned a mournful air, shaking his head. 'I'm afraid your old school is in for hard times.'

George shot his wife a seething glance over the tureens of turtle soup. Her eyes mirrored his misery but pleaded for patience.

The next knife appeared as the table servants offered platters of broiled tilefish and roast venison. Smiling, Isabel said, 'We have another bit of good news. Tell them about the factory, Stanley.'

Like a schoolboy reciting a rote lesson, Stanley did so.

George said, 'Army shoes, eh? I presume you already have a contract?'

'We do,' Isabel said. 'Profit isn't the chief reason we purchased Lashbrook's, however. We wanted to help the war effort.' George couldn't help a glance at the ceiling. Fortunately, Constance missed it.

Isabel continued, 'I will admit to one selfish consideration. If the factory succeeds, Stanley will no longer be exclusively dependent on income from Hazard's to supplement the pittance paid by the War Department. He will stand on his own feet.'

He'll rest in Boss Cameron's pocket, more likely.

Infernally insincere, Isabel continued to smile as she went on. 'If each of you manages his own business, it should promote family harmony — something I would find refreshing. Of course we assume the income from Stanley's ownership interest in Hazard's will continue to be paid —'

'You needn't worry that anyone will defraud you, Isabel.' Constance heard the growl in her husband's remark and touched his wrist.

'We mustn't stay late. You said tomorrow would be busy.'

False politeness settled over the table again. Isabel was in fine spirits for the rest of the meal, as if she had played a trump — or several — and won.

In the hack returning to the hotel, George burst out: 'Stanley's shoe contract makes me feel like a damn profiteer, too. We're selling iron plate to the navy and eight-inch columbiads to the War Department I work for —'

Constance patted his hand and kept patting, trying to relieve his tension. 'Oh, I think there are differences.'

'Too subtle for me to see.'

'What would you do if the Union desperately needed cannon but couldn't afford to pay? What if you were asked to manufacture guns on that basis?'

'I'd kick like hell. I have an obligation to the people who work for me. They expect wages once a week.'

'But if you could manage to meet the payroll, you'd say yes. That's the difference between you and Stanley.'

Dubious, George shook his head. 'I don't know whether I'm as saintly as all that. I do know our cannon are probably a damn sight better made than Stanley's bootees.'

Constance laughed and hugged him. 'That's why Stanley may turn into a profiteer, but you'll be — always and forever — George Hazard.' She kissed him on the cheek. 'For which I'm thankful.'

At Willard's, she was relieved to find their son safely back from the encampments over in Virginia. She hadn't wanted him to go by himself, deeming him too young. George had persuaded her not to be so protective. The boy seemed none the worse for the experience.

'McDowell's on the march,' he told them with great enthusiasm. 'Uncle Billy says we'll probably fight the