Nothing could be further from the truth, but she agrees with him all the same.
Wirt has spent the last five years badgering Sally’s family to provide their recollections of her father to him so that he might write his biography. He has argued—quite passionately—that his tome will do for Patrick Henry’s legacy what John Marshall’s five-volume set did for George Washington, but Sally is not convinced Wirt can write.The Letters of the BritishSpy, while commercially successful, was difficult for her to get through, and several of his other projects have been considered flops. She has advised her siblings to remain mum, and thus far, Wirt has succeeded only in soliciting the memories of her stepfather, who, it should be noted, knew Sally’s father the least well of any of them.
“I trust your wife is well?” she asks him.
“Yes, quite. She has her health, which is all any of us can wish for at present.” Sally waits for him to give her the floor, but he plows into a long-winded story about how he and his wife hosted a dinner party yesterday evening, with plans for everyone to go to the theater afterward. “Through some act of divine intervention, our party ran long and we decided not to make use of our tickets. What a fine bit of luck, you’ll agree?”
“Never has a man been so well-rewarded for being an easy drunk,” says Ritchie, and Wirt blushes.
“So, you know each other?” Wirt asks. “Youshould.”
“She was just explaining the connection.”
Wirt looks momentarily confused.
“Spencer Roane,” Sally offers, and then he nods his head knowingly.
Sally directs her attention to Ritchie. “I made the acquaintance of your father-in-law this morning. He set my sister-in-law’s leg.”
Ritchie seems poised to speak, but Wirt beats him to the punch. “Do you mean Margaret?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an absolute shame.”
Sally can’t disagree with him there.
Wirt explains, “Sally was married to Archie Campbell’s brother Robert until—” He turns to Sally. “When did Robert die?”
“Three years ago this past September.” Without realizing she’s even done it, she touches the ring around her neck.
Because it is impossible for Wirt to consider anyone for more than a moment or two without passing judgment on him, he says, “He was a splendid fellow.”
If there is one thing Sally does not want to do, it is listen to William Wirt’s reminiscences of her late husband. She addresses Ritchie. “I have read your coverage of the theater fire, and I wish to speak to you about it.”
“By all means.”
“Surely, you have noted that among the list of the dead, there is a high proportion of women.”
“I have.”
“And how do you explain it?”
“Well, I think there are likely several logical explanations…”
“Such as?”
Ritchie coughs into his gloved hand. “Well, for one, the dresses.”
“What about them?” asks Sally curtly.
“They’re highly flammable,” Wirt offers.
“No more so than a dress coat.”
“It is thought that so much fabric may have impeded the ladies’ escape,” says Ritchie.
Sally unbuttons her coat and reaches for her own skirt. “This thing? It hardly weighs an ounce.”
