Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  “But I do not love her.”

  “Perhaps honour must do when love is impossible.”

  We let go of each other’s hands. We continued to Mount Vernon in worlds and thoughts that were parallel rather than intersecting.

  *****

  We were getting close.

  I could tell by the speed with which we traveled, and the many times George looked from left to right out the windows. He was like a little boy with something to show.

  But this was not a new toy or rabbit. It was our home. It was the object that was rooted at the core of his dreams.

  Suddenly, he took my hand and placed it upon his knee. “We are nearly there.”

  He was breathless.

  We approached from the west and I caught glimpses of gardens with inviting pathways to the side. We ascended the hill and—

  “There it is!” George shouted, pointing out the window.

  I only caught a glimpse before the carriage pulled up the drive. The house was a whitewashed two-and-a-half-story with a red roof. It was not as grand as White House but basked nicely in the afternoon sun.

  “I added sand to the paint to make it appear as stone. I also added the new story.” As we approached, we could not fully see the house, and George seemed ready to burst at this deficiency. “When I stayed here with my brother Lawrence, there were but four rooms and a single hall. Considering the extent of my renovations, some say I was foolish for not tearing down and starting fresh, but I could not do that to all Lawrence had accomplished. I don’t ever wish to wipe away the past but to build upon it and make it better.”

  I was not sure which held my interest more: the upcoming view of our new home or the rapt look upon my husband’s face as he shared his thoughts.

  “I am sure it is lovely,” I said.

  These words brought him out of his reverie, for he looked at me and said, “It makes an attempt but still has far to go. But now I have even more reason to make it shine.” He looked upon the children, then at me.

  The carriage turned round a circle drive. It stopped. George did not wait for the coachman to open the door but pushed it open and exited. He lifted the children out, and then me, placing me gently upon the drive.

  A welcoming door stood before us.

  But nice as it was, grand as it tried to be, the welcoming glee on my husband’s face was far more poignant.

  *****

  It had been a long day. A long trip in distance, emotion, and symbolism—for the children and I had left behind one life and were now ensconced in the next.

  The children were safely tucked into bed, and my body longed for its own soft mattress and pillow. I would sleep well tonight and arise in the morning eager to start afresh.

  I closed the door to the children’s room with a soft click and turned round to see George waiting for me.

  “Come walk with me,” he said.

  I did not feel like walking, yet I could not turn him down. Not on our first evening here.

  He led me down the newly created walnut stairway into the foyer, which was a respectable thirteen feet wide. Wood paneling had been installed, topped with intricate cornices painted in a lovely ocher.

  We made a sharp turn beside the stairs and he led me out the back door of the house. We had not been there yet, having been too consumed with getting our baggage unpacked and the children settled after a meal.

  Once outside, he swept his arm across the vista before me. “Voilà!”

  My hand flew to my breast. “Oh, George!”

  I knew my reaction pleased him, because he drew me under his arm. I was just the right height to fit . . .

  “That is the Potomac River,” he said.

  “It is far wider than the Pamunkey.”

  “Far wider.”

  “And the woods and hills . . . the area around White House is so flat by comparison.”

  He pointed to a section of trees. “Those are cherry and apple trees, and the tall ones are poplars.”

  “The blossoms are beyond lovely.”

  “They have bloomed just for you. They wanted to show off.”

  I laughed. “We have come at the right time of year. A happy coincidence.”

  He shook his head sternly. “There is no such thing.” I felt him take a deep breath. “I belong here, Martha. We belong here. Our marriage, our life together . . . it was God who brought us together, who brought us here.”

  I did not, could not, argue with him.

  Five

  I stood outside the door of the small room George used as a study, not wishing to startle him. He was busy at work and did not look up. The light of the candle was still needed as it was not yet dawn.

  I did not mind his inattention but enjoyed watching him in this clandestine way. His red hair was pulled back, though slightly tousled from sleep. He had put on breeches and shirt, but the latter remained untucked, its sleeves rolled. His feet were bare, and I resisted the urge to admonish him about staying warm because I was chilled. I had already learned our tolerance for hot and cold were not the same. Where I took great pains to adjust to variances in temperature, George seemed immune to them. Perhaps his extensive time spent in the wild had toughened him.

  He sighed deeply and stretched his arms above his head. It was then he saw me. “Martha? What are you doing out of bed?”

  “Seeing where my warm blanket had gone to.”

  He smiled and held out his hand to me. I went to him and he pulled me close.

  “What are you working on?” I asked.

  “I am working on you, on your New Kent holdings. I wish to do right by you, and by what the Custis family amassed over so many years.”

  “Believe me, I am relieved to be free of the burden.”

  He pointed to a letter. “I have written your factor—”

  “Our factor.”

  “Our factor in England, Robert Cary and Company, and have informed them it would behoove them to treat us fairly, as the Custis and Washington fortunes are not without influence, and if they do not treat us well, we will take our business elsewhere.”

  “Bravo, husband!”

  Spurred on by my support, he read a portion aloud: “‘Regarding prices, you must take some pains to inform yourself exactly, because should the prices differ from those of the estate, I might possibly think myself deceived and be disgusted.’”

  I laughed softly. “You are most certainly direct.”

  “A necessity when there are thousands of miles between us. But in truth, beyond the sales of tobacco—of which I never know how much I am going to be paid or how much will be lost en route or stolen—I am fed up with how many of the material goods we order are inferior. Machinery comes with parts missing, certain goods are absent or used by the crew along the trip, and I have heard rumours that merchants in London add ten percent to any order they know is coming to the colonies. Goods from London are mean in quality, but not in price, for in that they excel. And to not know the price until we receive the goods . . .’tis a situation ripe for disenchantment.”

  I agreed. “I have learned one must be very specific, though even that does not fend off deviations. I have oft instructed my representatives not to shop the most expensive stores but to seek better prices. I have ordered a dress stipulating the highest cost to be paid and have been disappointed in the quality, or have been baited with a dress of higher cost. I refuse to fall victim to such nonsense.”

  “As much as we have the power.”

  I pulled his arm around me once more. “They don’t think very well of us, do they?”

  He shook his head. “We will always be a stepchild to them—an annoying, bothersome stepchild. My brother Lawrence told me that even when he went to school in England, he was looked down upon as a mere colonial. How much land or stat
us we have here has little bearing in England.”

  “And we have little recourse to change their minds,” I said.

  “None. Our mother country has us under her thumb, yet never embraces us or pulls us close, giving comfort within the folds of her skirts.”

  “Aptly said, husband.” And though I did not say it aloud, I was struck by the similarity in the treatment Mother England assessed us and the treatment George’s mother availed her children: demanding compensation, but not willing to give much of anything—at least not without a high price.

  I kissed the top of his head. “Come back to bed, dearest. You have done fair work and ’tis not e’en day yet.”

  George nodded and followed me to a place where comfort, appreciation, and reason prevailed.

  *****

  I was torn.

  On the one hand I ached to see George’s beloved Belvoir and meet George William and Sally Fairfax. But on the other . . .

  I was afraid.

  Would she be as beautiful and charming as I had heard? Would I feel like a wild flower compared to her carefully pruned rose?

  When the invitation came for us to dine at Belvoir, my initial reaction was a petulant no. I saw no reason to stray past the safe and lovely halls of Mount Vernon. Yet I knew that was not possible. Neighbours were of high import in the colonies, where towns of any size were few and far between. Neighbours were important and hospitality was held in highest esteem. No visitor was ever turned away, and invitations were given and accepted with great frequency. It was a duty.

  And a joy which this time, I did not feel.

  As we rode the four miles to this first meeting I tried to console myself with the hopes that all praise of Belvoir and Sally had been exaggerated. It was a fact that the grapevine tended to elevate the best and amplify the worst. The truth generally lived in the middle. This time, above all times, I wished that to be true.

  George slipped his hand through my arm. “I do hope you will like Belvoir and the Fairfaxes as much as I do. Both are very dear to me.”

  My throat went dry. Dear indeed.

  *****

  “Welcome, welcome,” Sally said.

  She drew me into a close embrace before I had a good look at her. Once I was released I had the unfortunate chance to see that, for once, the grapevine had not exaggerated. She was truly beautiful. She was quite a bit taller than I, and slim—though shapely in all the right places. Her face was long, her hair dark, her jaw wide. Her eyebrows were arched in just such a way to enhance lively eyes. Within moments I witnessed how she used them to complement her expressions.

  “So this is the widow Custis I have heard so much about,” she said.

  “Widow no more,” I said. I looked to George, but he was conversing with Sally’s husband, George William. “George and I are thoroughly enjoying the delights of marriage.”

  She hesitated a moment, as if making a judgment. I did not waver but held her gaze. I was determined to be the victor of this initial foray, to claim that which was mine.

  Finally she said, “You are very lucky indeed, for George is most certainly a man of many talents.”

  Her innuendo was palpable, but before I could react, the men joined us and we were taken on a tour of Belvoir.

  I declared the first battle . . . a draw.

  *****

  Three stories containing nine rooms, including a library. There were scores of fine paintings, intricate accessories, delectable fabrics, and paper on the walls—all imported from England. Although determined to remain unimpressed, I could not feign indifference. “The house is exceptional,” I said. “Exquisite.”

  “Why, thank you.” Sally ran a hand along a golden candelabrum. “My father-in-law had fine taste, and as the agent to his cousin Lord Fairfax, he did his best to make this home one to be remembered by all who saw it.”

  George moved beside me. “You can see why I was so enamored with this place as a boy.”

  “You were a part of the family,” George William said. “After all, your brother married my sister.”

  “You were our pet,” Sally cooed. “A Fairfax protégé.”

  It held the implication of insult, yet I saw George took no offense.

  She moved to the window of the parlour. “See how we can e’en see each other from our house to yours? I find that quite invigorating, don’t you, George?”

  He blushed, then said, “I always find it a comfort to see neighbours.”

  George William slapped him on the back. “Said by a man who has seen his share of wilderness. When the two of us used to go out to survey my family’s land, we would travel days without seeing another soul.”

  “You were company enough for me,” George said. “Repeatedly beating me at cards around the campfire . . . though I’d much rather lose my money to you than to spend it on some flea-infested inn.”

  Sally shuddered. “I am spoiled. I admit it. No campfires, dirty inns, or fleas for me, if you please.” She turned to find my opinion. “Right, Martha?”

  “Of course I prefer the luxuries of life, and yet . . .” I pointedly looked at George. “If a time came when I was given a choice of that, or hard conditions and being with my husband, I would be willing to suffer. A bit.”

  Sally clapped. “Bravo, Martha! All the right words said quite rightly. You have a keeper here, George.”

  I was relieved when my husband looked only upon me—and smiled. “Indeed I do.”

  In this foray I declared myself victorious.

  This time.

  *****

  George pulled back the covers and got in bed. He waited for me to do the same, yet I lingered at my dressing table, brushing my hair.

  “You are pensive. Didn’t you have a good time at Belvoir?”

  “Your friends were very gracious.”

  “They wish to be your friends too, my dear.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Why do you say it so? ‘Mmm’?”

  I twisted upon the stool to face him. “She is still in love with you.”

  “’Tis not love, Martha.”

  At least he didn’t insult me by feigning ignorance. “Then what is it?”

  He rose to sitting, adjusting the pillow behind him. “Sally and I have suffered a flirtation. As she said, I was the Fairfax pet. I was their protégé and they enjoyed teaching me the finer points of society.”

  I shook my head. “It is more than that.”

  He was silent, confirming my instinct.

  “Perhaps . . . perhaps it was more, at one time. When I was in the army, away from home for an extensive time, she wrote to me. I wrote back. I wrote to other female friends too—’twas not just Sally.”

  Though intended to make me feel better, it did not.

  “I have always enjoyed the company and friendship of the fairer sex. Although I am not witty or particularly good at the banter many desire, I do enjoy their outlook. ’Tis so different from that of men.”

  I would not be distracted into another discussion. “When you wrote to her . . . was she married to George William?”

  George smoothed the sheet across his chest. “She was. Has always been as long as I have known her.”

  “Did you not think that . . . improper?”

  “Though others may have thought so, we . . . and George William . . .” He sighed. “You must understand it is just Sally’s way. Where you are a nurturer, she is a seeker of pleasure. She is flirtatious. And though I took flattery in her attention at first, I soon saw she extends it to all men. Coyness and wit and hints of flirtation . . .’Tis hard to ignore, to not be drawn in.”

  I believed him. I had witnessed Sally’s talent at repartee firsthand. Just the way she walked across a room or offered a teacup . . . she knew how to fully utilize the sway of her bo
dy, the linger of a hand, the pull of a pointed gaze.

  “She is a flirt, but that is all she is, dearest. Neither she, nor I, ever entered into any kind of untoward . . . We would not do that. My friendship and loyalty to George William, and e’en toward the old gentleman, Lord Fairfax, is too important to me. I would not abuse the vast kindnesses they have bestowed through the years. I would not, did not, and will not do it.”

  His face had grown red with emotion. I set the brush aside and climbed into the space beside him. I cupped his face in my hands. “I believe you, husband. And I will not speak of it again.”

  “There is no need,” he said.

  “I know. The subject is hereby closed.”

  “I chose you, Martha. Where Sally may intrigue, you challenge me, you make me believe anything is possible. With you, I am a better man.”

  There was no higher compliment.

  *****

  We never spoke of Sally again, though to my own shame, I did not completely forget the spark that lingered between them. For I knew that the sin of temptation does not rest easily. Nor die.

  To our credit—and George’s—the children and I settled nicely into Mount Vernon. He became busy with the duties of a farmer, and I with the duties of a farmer’s wife. I was well versed in these, as the household of White House had been mine to handle for seven years while married to Daniel, and another eighteen months after his death.

  I enjoyed being a plantation wife. The gardens were my responsibility, as was the household. I had many men and women to help me inside, and spent much of my time overseeing the work in the outbuildings: the kitchen, the smokehouse, the dairy, and the spinning house, where I trained spinners to make cloth and clothing for the family and the slaves. And the list of goods that were needed was constantly amended. There were many mouths to feed, bodies to clothe, and ailments to heal. And it was my responsibility to do it all.

  I enjoyed my challenges. And George his.

  Or so I thought.

  One summer evening, I could not find him. He was not sitting behind the house—a favourite place when work was done, because the view of the Potomac was so restful. Nor was he in his study. “Have you seen Mr. Washington?” I asked Cully.