and following him was Clara, twenty years of age, somewhat stern and disapproving of manner. Julia knew that golden-haired, sixteen-year-old Virginia, or Jennie as she was called, was Ulysses’s favorite sister, and Julia immediately took a liking to the warm, friendly girl with kind, gray-blue eyes so much like Ulys’s. Orvil was the next eldest, and even though they had already met, he joined the queue to shake her hand, his merry grin lifting her spirits. The youngest of the six Grant siblings was nine-year-old Mary Frances, whose lovely features, gray eyes, and brilliant complexion promised great beauty. She spoke to Julia with grave sweetness, in elegant phrases that suggested a clever mind at work.
The Grant siblings were so cordial and welcoming after their initial reserve that Julia felt her trepidation ebbing, but she had still not met her father-in-law. He had gone out to the country to fetch back Grandmama Simpson, his wife’s stepmother, who, despite her age and the discomforts of travel, had been determined to meet Ulys and his new bride. Julia found the tall and robust, warm and smiling Grandmama Simpson utterly delightful. She wore a dress of rich, chestnut-brown Irish poplin, a snowy muslin kerchief about her shoulders, and a soft white muslin cap upon her silvery gray bun, the wide ties in a bow beneath her chin. “You must call me Grandmama too,” she declared, clasping Julia’s hands.
As Simpson led his grandmother to a comfortable chair by the hearth, Ulys’s father—for he could be no other—came forward, scrutinizing her expectantly as Ulys introduced them. Mr. Grant was much taller than his son, sturdily built but with stooped shoulders that betrayed decades of hard labor. Like Ulys he had a wide forehead, high cheekbones, and a thin, resolute mouth, but his eyes seemed small and severe behind his spectacles and his face was pockmarked from years of accidental splashing from tannic acid. As Julia well knew, Ulys had forsaken his father’s trade for a West Point education.
“So,” Jesse Root Grant said abruptly, “you’re the western belle who captured my son’s heart.”
“I’m happy to lay claim to that title.” Julia put on her most charming smile. “However, I was merely repaying the favor, for he stole my heart first.”
Mr. Grant snorted. “That’s not how Lyss tells it.”
Before he could elaborate, if that was his intention, Mrs. Grant summoned the family to supper. Grace was reassuringly familiar, for like the Dents the Grants were Methodists, but conversation was restrained to murmured requests for dishes and pleases and thank-yous, until Julia began to feel oppressed and restless.
“My husband is called by so many names,” she said brightly, smiling around the table. Ulys smiled indulgently, and Orvil and Mary regarded her with curious interest. “I call him Ulys, but I’ve overheard his army comrades call him Sam, and you all call him Lyss.”
“Sometimes we call him Texas,” Orvil remarked.
“Lyss or even Texas I understand,” Julia replied. “But Sam?”
“Would you prefer Hiram?” Clara inclined her head toward her brother and dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “That is his given name, after all. Didn’t you know?”
Julia glanced from Clara to Ulys to his mother, instinctively following the trail of authority on the subject.
“He was baptized Hiram Ulysses Grant,” Mr. Grant answered for them.
“Jesse and I chose Ulysses together,” said Grandmama Simpson proudly. “We had recently finished reading Fénelon’s
Telemachus,
and we agreed that it was a good, noble name.”
“Grandfather preferred Hiram,” said Jennie shyly, smiling across the table at Julia. “He called it a good, honest, American name.”
“Mrs. Grant and I compromised.” Mr. Grant’s slight frown suggested that even so many years later, he wished he had not. “We named him Hiram Ulysses Grant.”
“And so he remained for many years, although we
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