Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [62]
I had forgotten myself in the heat of the argument, but as I looked around I was shocked to discover that Charles and I had been standing in the middle of the path, shouting at each other. People were staring at us. I felt mortified. Charles looked shaken.
“If you two can’t be civil, then please have the decency to be quiet,” Sally said.
“Fine,” I replied.
“Of course,” Charles agreed.
Sally took Jonathan’s arm again, but they walked behind us this time, ready to douse the flames if the sparks began to fly. Charles shoved his hands into his pockets. “It has turned out to be a beautiful day, hasn’t it, Miss Fletcher?” I was surprised that the spring flowers didn’t wither at the ice in his voice. But I could be coldly polite, too.
“Yes, it’s a lovely day, Mr. St. John.”
We continued in that vein until Jonathan found a peaceful spot on the grass for us to spread our blanket. As we ate lunch, Charles gradually revealed a very charming side of himself, a side I’d certainly never seen before. “I’d like to hear more about your work in Washington,” Jonathan said.
“Tell them about the time you met President Buchanan,” Sally coaxed.
“Right. My shining moment in the presence of greatness,” he replied. I heard gentle laughter in his voice and saw that conceit and self-importance were not part of his nature. Instead, Charles possessed the rare quality of being able to laugh at himself. “I was attending a reception at a Washington hotel,” he began, “and the president mistook me for the British ambassador’s attaché. I didn’t know what to do. It was a huge gathering, and president Buchanan took me aside to ramble on and on about some trade agreement he was negotiating. I couldn’t be rude and interrupt him, so I just kept nodding my head. But then he asked me what I thought. I didn’t know whether I should embarrass the president of the United States by pointing out that I wasn’t the attaché, or simply mimic a British accent and say, ‘I think it’s a jolly good treaty, old boy!’ ”
Charles’ imitation of an Englishman was so amusing that I couldn’t help laughing. “So what did you do?” I asked.
“Luckily, I spotted the real British ambassador just then, so I said, ‘There’s the ambassador, Mr. President. He’s much more qualified to speak to this issue than I am.’ ” Charles used his phony British accent again, and we all roared with laughter.
“Is that the tightest spot you’ve ever been in, in Washington?” Jonathan asked.
“Politically, perhaps. But my most dangerous experience occurred the time my landlady lost her cat.”
“Tell us, Charles,” Sally begged. Charles had such an amusing manner of storytelling, mimicking all the voices and gesturing dramatically, that he might have been a stage actor. I found myself leaning toward him, listening attentively.
“Well, I had just returned to my boardinghouse one afternoon, when my landlady came running out to the front hallway, wringing her hands and begging for my help. Mrs. Peckham is such a sweet little white-haired lady, so small and frail—and at least a hundred years old—so of course I offered to help her any way that I could.
“ ‘My poor little kitty cat has been missing for three days,’ she said, ‘but I heard her crying this morning. I think she’s trapped up in a tree.’
“Now, I’m no cat-lover,” Charles said, “but I do take pride in being chivalrous. Her cat was, indeed, about halfway up the oak tree in front of the boardinghouse. So, like a good Southern gentleman, I removed my hat and coat, fetched Mrs. Peckham’s ladder from the tool shed, and began to climb. Wouldn’t you know, the blasted cat saw me coming and climbed higher and higher to get away from me? By the time she ran out of branches to climb, the ladder was far below me, and we were both teetering at the very top of the tree. The limbs were a bit thin to bear my weight, so I swayed in the breeze like wheat in the wind.
“Well, I finally succeeded in catching the animal, but she fought like a wildcat, scratching and hissing at me. I was already hanging on to