At the mention of this place, my memories returned to George’s first visit at White House. “The happiest moments of my life were spent at Belvoir. I cannot trace a room in the house that does not bring to mind the recollection of pleasing scenes.”
“Apparently Sally is very beautiful. Tall and quite sophisticated.”
And I am short and simple.
After a moment, reason interrupted my fears and I shook my head vehemently. “George would never do anything untoward with a married woman, especially someone married to his best friend. He is too honourable a man.”
“He is a man.” Mother looked toward the house. “Your father was a man of honour too, and you know how his urges . . .”
I nodded quickly so she would not have to linger amid the pain of my father’s illegitimate son and daughter—one of slave blood, one white.
Mother continued. “The British gentry take no contention of fidelity. Perhaps this George William has his own dalliances and allows his wife—”
“Stop!”
Mother took a step away. “I know it is not a pleasant thought, Martha, but it is always wise to know the facts before entering into such a life-changing union.”
“The fact is, I . . .” I was going to say I loved him, and yet I feared she would discount such romance as a trifling. “I respect George and admire him for all the right reasons. We complement each other and will make good partners. We are not British in this regard. We are Virginians, and colonists, and our tolerance for such sins is of much smaller measure.
“Perhaps,” Mother said, though clearly unconvinced. “We tolerate what we cannot change. Perhaps we do so as an act of defense.”
“Perhaps as people entrusted with a new land we should not do so at all. Is this not a chance to hold ourselves to a higher standard? Display higher morals? We would all be better off if we chose to obey God’s commands with all our might.”
Mother shook her head and turned back toward the house. “Men are still men, my dear, with high intentions, weak bodies, and flawed wills.”
I caught up with her, pulling her to a stop once more before we returned to the house. “You will not speak of this again, to anyone.”
“I did not start the gossip, Martha.”
“But you can stop it. Stop it right here.”
“And if someone brings it up in my presence?”
“Tell them you believe it cannot be so and they must be mistaken. Defend the honour of my future husband, and as such, my honour as well.
She looked at me, her eyes busy with consideration. “As you wish. I only want you to be happy. I know you are weary of the responsibilities of widowhood, but wisdom and common sense must still prevail in such decisions.”
“I feel I am being very wise and sensible,” I said. “Now . . . would you like to help me design my wedding attire, or not?”
*****
I was back at White House, the children in bed, the daylight waning. I combed through my hair, making ready to retire.
To her credit, Mother did not revisit the subject of Sally Fairfax after our walk. I knew nothing of the woman, but for the beautiful, tall, and sophisticated attributes which Mother relayed via the gossip grapevine.
But even so, I hated her.
As if in response to my ungracious thought, my comb found resistance in a snarl. I segregated the lock of offending hair and attacked. I found victory, but not without many casualties within the teeth of my comb.
Such was the unexpected consequence of hatred. At other times I had witnessed its other casualties, far more serious than a few strands of hair. My father-in-law had wallowed in such a state, causing a bevy of repercussions both private and social, mental and physical. My Daniel had died as a result of his father’s bitter hatred.
I lowered the comb to my lap and stared at my reflection in the mirror of my dressing table. I rearranged the long locks of my hair about my shoulders. In the proper light its brown hue held the richness of chestnut. I leaned closer to peer into my eyes. They were hazel with golden flecks when one was very close.
George will be this close. Closer.
We were an interesting pair, the two of us. My hazel eyes were a happy complement to his blue ones, my short stature a foil to his considerable presence. My ease in talking with anyone about most anything offered a cover for his tendency to say little, unless among close friends. And my determination to move forward from the state of sorrow and pain would serve both of us well.
Who needed beauty? Or height? Or sophistication like Sally Fairfax?
That the first two were decreed by God and thus beyond my control was a consolation. As for the latter? I could hold my own with any icon of society. I may not have had a vastness of experience, but I was not one to shirk a challenge, nor give up without a fight.
If my George still held the thought of Sally close to his breast, it was up to me to pry any memory of her away and replace his thoughts and desires of her with thoughts and desires of me.
My George.
This is what it came to. Whether he held any feelings for Sally or not, the fact was, he had proposed to me. He had chosen me. And I had chosen him.
That, in itself, was a momentous victory.
I encountered no more tangles—in thought or grooming.
*****
His letter had been cryptic: I am coming to White House on June the fifth. I will not be able to stay, yet I must see you.
I sat at the desk in my bedchamber and reread the note again. And again. I tried not to interpret anything within his words, nor the fact he would not be staying over. Was he having second thoughts? We had not seen each other since April, and though we had exchanged many letters, I was wise enough to know that they were a meager surrogate to an actual embrace or a gentle touch.
I had set aside all worries about Sally Fairfax—or at least pretended I had done as much—yet I knew I would not feel totally at ease until we were legally wed. After all, he had known Sally for years, and me but a few months. We had only been in each other’s presence three times before today. That Sally lived but four miles from Mount Vernon was a concern.
I shook my head against the jealous thoughts. My chiding comments to my mother stating that George was too honourable a man to succumb to anything untoward seemed weak and ineffectual as the weeks, and yea, even months, passed without seeing him. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but the truth was, fondness grew stronger when one body was in close proximity to another.
He would be in that close proximity soon. It was wrong of me to worry. Would worry add one day to my life? He was coming. To see me.
But why so short a visit? Did he not feel the same needs that my heart had developed during our time apart? The need to grab hold and never, ever let go?
I looked toward the door of my bedchamber. I had vowed not to wait downstairs, fearful I would pace and make the children and servants nervous with my actions. From the vantage point of my desk, I could still see the entry road, allowing me to suffer my anxiety in private.
Suddenly, the door to my room burst open and Jacky and Patsy ran in. They were the only ones who were not required to knock. “Is he here yet?” Jacky asked.
I gave him a look. “You know very well he is not here.”
Patsy shook her head. “Nah here.”
I pulled one child into each arm. “But he will be soon. I am certain of it.”
“I wonder what he will bring me,” Jacky said.
“He does not need to bring you a present,” I said.
“But I want him to.”
“Me too!” Patsy said.
“You are spoiled children.” Yet I said it with no condemnation in my voice. For I did spoil them. Horribly, I suppose. I could not help myself. They were all I had and, as such, would want for nothing.
Ja
cky and I both heard the sound of a horse at the same moment, and both turned toward the window.
“He is here!”
The children ran out of the room. I paused at the mirror and was about to pinch my cheeks when I found they had flushed on their own accord.
I headed downstairs with a prayer upon my lips. Please, God . . .
*****
George accosted the children—and gave them gifts.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
“I do so because I want to.” He looked from them to me. “But since our time is so short . . . if I may have a word with you? In private?”
“Of course.” As I called Amanda to come take my darlings away, I found my heart beating in twice its time.
“Would you please close the doors, Amanda?” George asked.
With a glance to me, she replied, “Yes, sir,” and did just that.
Of course he would like privacy. If he is to tell you it is over, that your marriage is not to be . . .
I began to sit in my usual chair, but he took my hand and led me to the settee. “Please,” he said, indicating the seat.
I sat, and he, beside me. He angled his knees toward mine, the cloth of my dress making contact. “I am so sorry,” he said.
My heart stopped. My worst fears were to be realized.
“Sorry that we have not been able to be together. Sorry that I must come only to leave so quickly.”
He pulled my hands to his lips.
He smiled.
And with those two gestures I knew he had not changed his mind. I took a deep breath, releasing the frustrations and insecurities that had held me captive. I tried to speak but found my throat dry. “I have missed you.”
“And I you.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek.
As he pulled away I nearly cried with relief.
“Are you unwell?”
I attempted to laugh it away. “No, no, I am very well. Very glad to see you and know . . . and have you here beside me. Close. Finally close.”
He nodded and I knew he felt it too.
He let my hands free and reached inside his coat. “I have a gift for you. It is the reason I had to come.”
George removed a burgundy pouch. He fumbled the pull-strings open and poured into his palm the object of his intent: a ring. He held it for me to see. “Upon your accepting my proposal, I had it made in Philadelphia. It is a pearl—your birthstone, yes?” He smiled. “I have heard an engagement ring containing the bride’s birthstone is said to bring good luck.” He looked up to gauge my reaction.
“It is beautiful.”
He took my hand and slipped it upon my finger.
“It fits!” I said.
“It fits,” he said.
We both looked, one to the other, as if this simple fact was a sign that we would fit, one with the other.
“Thank you, George.” I kissed his cheek.
Before I could withdraw, he held my face close. We sat, forehead to forehead. “I must be off now,” he whispered, his breath hot upon my skin. “The war beckons. The French have become cocky and lead raids upon our settlers, basing their violence at Fort Du Quesne. The fort must be taken.”
“When will you return?”
He sat aright. “I don’t know. As soon as possible, I assure you.
“Just . . . return. Return to me, safely.”
“I will do my best.”
We had only a few minutes together before he left me. I stood at the porch and waved after him until he offered one last wave before the fork in the road took him from my sight.
My gaze moved from his departure to the ring he had left behind. A ring, binding us together.
Why had I worried? Those moments wasted could never be returned.
I vowed to do less of it.
May God help me.
*****
How could I not worry? Although I had dispensed of my worries regarding George’s sincere affection and intention to marry me, with him away to the west, fighting the French, and the Indians that fought at their sides . . .
What if he did not return?
His stories of previous defeats and slaughters offered no comfort. Had he not already done his duty regarding Fort Du Quesne? Must he be on the forefront again?
The answer was . . . yes.
When George had heard that General Forbes had plans to advance against the French fort, he volunteered with vigor—and pluck. He wrote to those in charge and asked for a command that was distinguished in some measure from the common run of provincial officers. As he owned the most experience regarding fighting the French in that area of the wilderness, his offer was accepted and he received command of a brigade.
Upon stopping in Winchester to gather troops, George discovered that he was just in time for an election for the Virginia House of Burgesses. Even though he was going to be gone before the election commenced, he convinced some fellow officers who were to stay behind to campaign for him. They did, in rousing colonial tradition, with casks of rum, wine, and beer. And my George was victorious. How he managed to gain a seat in the House as an afterthought, while heading to war . . .
I fear he did it to impress me. Did he not know that I needed no more impressing?
And yet . . .
I also sensed the flame of ambition in his breast. And anxiety and passion. For some reason my George felt compelled to achieve. To overcome a meager childhood?
I knew better than to hold him back by comment or suggestion. For a person to feel complete, he had to believe he had attained all he was meant to attain. I had no full notion of where George’s aspirations would take him. As for my own? I wished to be by his side and in our home during each victory or defeat. I wished for us to be a family. And I wished for more family. Two, perhaps three more children? I relished the notion of a house brimming with this precious blessing.
As spring turned into summer, life carried on.
Until the day I was reminded of death.
It was a beautiful summer day, though hot to the point of weariness.
And tempers.
It was a day when working inside, which offered shade but limited movement of air, was of marginal advantage over working in the sunny tobacco fields with benefit of full breeze.
Even the children chose outside over in, flitting from the porch to the shade of the trees out front. I watched them from the window and took comfort in the sounds of their voices and laughter when they slipped out of sight. Amanda was supposed to be watching them while she weeded the day lilies.
I was making new breeches and shirts for the workers. They wore them through so quickly, it often was a struggle to keep up. I prided myself in small stitches, knowing the better I sewed them this first time, the better chance I had of not repairing a rent seam tomorrow. I had tried to teach servants this art, but they took little pride in fine work—or speed. I paused a moment to watch one such servant, Hildy, to see what made her production so tedious.
She took an inordinate amount of time threading the needle, squinting, and holding it far, then near.
“Are you having trouble seeing the needle hole?” I asked.
She blinked, as though clearing her eyes. “Didn’t use to.”
“How old are you now?”
“Forty, best as I know.”
“You need spectacles.”
She looked shocked. “No one has those.”
She was right. None of our slaves had spectacles. And yet . . . “They are not needed for large work, but this . . . I need you to help with fine work. I will see you get some on our next visit to Williamsburg.”
Hildy grinned. “That would be fine, mistress. Real fine.”
I went back to my sewing, glad for the busyness, yet wishing
it were a chore that used my mind more than it did. Perhaps I should have worked on the correspondence today, the ordering of supplies. That would have been a better choice for this eighth day of July.
This anniversary of death.
There I went again, thinking about it, marking the date with this horrible memory of Daniel’s end. I had no one with which to share my misery. Some of the house servants were aware—I could tell by Amanda’s and Cully’s kind eyes that morning that they had remembered—but the children had no concept of time and date. And I did not want them to know. It did no good to commemorate tragedy. It only served to keep it alive.
And yet . . . I knew. I remembered. And I suffered.
Alone.
It was not too late to do the correspondence. I could leave Hildy to the sewing. I was just about to do so when I heard the sound of horses and a wagon driving up the road out front. My first concern was the children. With a glance I saw Jacky and Patsy were safe, digging in the dirt by a tree. My second concern was whether we were gaining visitors. Had the windows in the guest room been opened this morning? If not, that room would surely be as hot as Hades.
But just as I made to go check the windows, I saw that it was not a carriage. It was a delivery wagon. I relaxed and left it to Cully to disperse the goods. But then I found renewed interest . . . could it be my wedding clothes? I had not expected them until the autumn, but such schedules were varied and unreliable.
I heard Cully talking with the driver, heard their voices but not their words. I watched as both men moved to the back of the wagon and peered inside. Then suddenly, Cully shook his head violently. He pointed back down the road.
“Back? I ain’t goin’ to take it away.” The man lowered the back gate of the wagon, readying to remove the cargo.
Cully pointed again, more vehemently. “Go! We cannot have that here. Not today.”
They exchanged more words, their voices rising. Whatever were they arguing about?
I walked onto the porch and proceeded down the front steps. When the men saw me, they halted their argument and Cully hurried forward, as if to intercept me.
“Sorry, mistress. I got it handled. It ain’t nothing you have to—”
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