He was still much in debt. While he had been in the military, Mount Vernon had sustained itself but not prospered. Although unfortunate, it was expected. Without the landlord present, work was accomplished in its own time and to a lesser degree.
I knew George had overextended himself to make the main house nice for us. Its mahogany furnishings, Wilton carpets, Chinese porcelain, silver cutlery with the Washington coat of arms, and other accoutrements were all very fine. Fine was a word George used often to describe the quality he longed to possess. We even ordered a four-poster bed with fluted mahogany pillars for feet posts. It had blue-on-white chintz for the bed curtains, quilt, festoons adorning the cornices, and chair covers. And though I appreciated his efforts (as well as his good taste and his bow to my favourite colour), I regretted I was partially the cause of his current predicament.
And yet, what would I have thought if I had come to a home of only four rooms, with pewter plates, odd pieces of furniture, and natty bed linens? I had grown up with nice things and upon marrying Daniel had been exposed to goods of an even higher degree. That George had surpassed the quality of what I owned at White House was to his credit, but . . . but did I need it? Did I long for that quality to such an extent that I expressed a level of disappointment at its lack—albeit unintentionally?
If I was honest with myself, I would have to say yes. If liking fine things was a sin, I was guilty. If preferring a lovely teacup to a spun mug of pottery was against the will of the Lord, then I had apologies to offer.
However . . . when you take any woman off the road and offer her china or tin, silk or homespun, she will choose the better product. ’Tis human nature. It would not take even the poorest of men long to become used to such niceties and to suffer disappointment if they were suddenly taken away. No indeed, the sin did not lie in the enjoyment, but in the worship of luxury at the expense of the worship of God.
Of this sin, I strived to remain innocent. All things—fine or not—belonged to the Lord, and if He should choose to take them all away from us, I would grieve (and ponder why) but finally accept His will as superior to our own. George and I both believed the Almighty had His reasons for all things. We relished the occasion when He let us in on the secret.
Though at other times, I still did not understand why I lost two sweet babies . . . and Daniel.
And yet if I had not lost Daniel, I would not have married George. Not that one man was better than the other, but there was something about George that hinted of a destiny beyond the norm. I had no proof and had received no signs. But my intuition as a woman, as a wife, as a human being with an intellect and sense that had its own level of merit . . .
Mark my words, there was a reason beyond our knowing that caused me to marry George Washington. There was some upcoming fate that would lead both of us—as a pair—to some great challenge.
But as for now . . .
Although I tried to go back to sleep, I could not.
So go the annoying meanderings of a morning mind.
*****
Dawn was usually my alarm clock, but today, mind racing, I arose before its rays reached the windows.
So be it. There were guests in the house who would want breakfast at seven.
After dressing I went downstairs and unlocked the food stores. I removed enough for the day’s needs at the mansion, as well as the food for the workers at the Mansion House Farm and the four other Washington farms nearby: the Dogue Run Farm (named after the Dogue Creek that edged it), Union Farm, Muddy Hole Farm, and River Farm. Each had separate overseers and workers, and all had to be fed. And clothed.
With wealth came great responsibility. My father and mother oft cited the verse, For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more. My days were full of requirements and those asking for more.
Addie, the cook, must have seen my light, for she appeared, her cap askew, still tying her apron. “Mistress? Has there been a change in plans?”
“Breakfast should still be at seven. Four guests, the children, Mr. Washington, and I.”
I saw her relief that I had not added to her burden. “I will get you some tea.”
“That would be much appreciated.”
*****
No one left one of my breakfasts hungry.
Except, perhaps, my husband.
Mr. Tanner was the first to notice George’s Spartan tastes—while his own plate was heaped with ham, chicken, eggs, spoon bread, biscuits, and hominy doused with molasses. “Are you not hungry this morning, Mr. Washington?”
George poured honey over his cornmeal Indian cakes. “I have many hours on horseback ahead of me. My steed appreciates my partaking of lighter fare.”
“Tea and Indian cakes,” I said. “That is all I can ever get him to eat no matter what delicacies I produce.”
Mrs. Tanner licked her fingers noisily. “I simply must have the recipe for this sweet bread. ’Tis lusciously delicious.”
I nodded. Visitors were often asking for recipes. Many were my mother’s. And her mother’s. I often wished I shared George’s preference for light fare because my family’s penchant for plumpness was not aided by my fondness for the breads. Yet if the host and the hostess did not partake of the foods offered, the guests might feel the need to restrain themselves. The duty of any hostess was to ensure her guests ate unto their limit.
“Would you like some more coffee, Mr. Tanner?”
“Yes, please. ’Tis very rich and flavorful.”
“We had it sent from Jamaica.”
“It is excellent.” He turned to my husband. “I would love to hear about your exploits in the Ohio Valley, Colonel.”
I saw a familiar look pull across George’s face. He put his fork down, took a final sip of his tea, and stood. “I would love to discuss it with you, Mr. Tanner, but I am afraid my duties will not wait.”
He kissed me on the cheek and, with a bow, left the room.
“Well, then,” Mrs. Tanner said. She looked appalled, as if George’s departure had offended her.
I had little tolerance for such opinions. I was more than willing to open my house to visitors, however weak the thread that bound us—the Tanners were cousins of George’s sister Betty’s husband—but I would not, could not, let them undermine the to-dos of the day.
In fact, I had my own departure planned. During my first year as a wife, married to Daniel, I had discovered that guests had a tendency to monopolize my time—if allowed. And so, I did not allow it.
One particular time we had guests for a week. My preference was to have an hour’s worth of quiet time after breakfast, alone in my room, reading the Bible or some sermons, and praying. No one was to disturb me at this one time that was my own. And God’s.
But during the second day of the guests’ week-long visit, upon missing my quiet time twice due to their unending ability to chat about absolutely everything and nothing, I created myself a new policy: an hour after breakfast commenced, I retired to my room, leaving the guests with suggestions of good reading material in books and newspapers, a walk in the garden, or a play upon our harpsichord. I made a point of saying I was retiring for a biblical communion with our Lord. I found that no one then—nor since—had the gumption to argue with me.
I glanced at the clock on the mantel. Twenty minutes to go . . .
“Have some more ham, Mr. Tanner.”
*****
I was a worrier. ’Twas not a good trait to own. In fact . . .
I sat in our room during my quiet time, the words of the Bible open before me: Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neit
her do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?
But alas, I took only partial comfort in the words. For I did not worry about food or clothing. In those needs, my life was heartily complete.
I read the verses again, searching for contentment regarding the concern that haunted my thoughts. Only the last verse offered any hope of peace. I knew I should not worry because it did no good to worry, and yet . . .
Why was I not with child? It was not as though . . . George and I were close, as a husband and wife should be. And I was obviously capable, having given birth to four children in six short years. Was something wrong with me? Or . . . I could not imagine George was to blame—although he had suffered smallpox while traveling with his brother in Barbados . . . . Yet what more virile, healthy sort could there be than my George?
Women bore children. It was a fact that was oft complained about for its frequency. Never had I heard anyone complain about a lack of pregnancy. There was no other who would understand. My mother had given birth to nine children, the last, Mary—born the same year as my Patsy. Mother had been forty-six at the time of Mary’s birth. My sister Nancy, married not even three years, had already borne one child and was expecting another. George’s sister, Betty, already had five children and could expect many more. Large families were the bastion of our lives. Not having children was unheard of.
Nearly.
There was one neighbour who might give me insight or comfort or . . . I was not certain what I sought, nay, what I truly needed. Only that I needed to speak to some other woman about my condition—or lack thereof.
And that someone was—had to be—childless Sally Fairfax.
I called upon her alone. ’Twas not my habit to do such a thing with any of our neighbours, and yet this was not a visit where I wished George to be present. Nor the children. Nor even a driver. My plan was to travel the four miles to Belvoir, talk with Sally, and return before George or her George William ever knew of the exchange. ’Twas not that either husband would object to our friendly discourse—we had exchanged visits many times over the past year—but if asked the reason for the visit . . . I did not wish to lie, and though I did not know with certainty Sally would suffer the same compunction, I did not wish to force a lie upon her.
And so I went. Alone. To seek satisfaction of any sort. The entire four miles was spent in prayer, seeking wisdom. Seeking solace. Seeking answers and divine help.
Sally greeted me at the door of the grand parlour. “My dear Martha,” she said, kissing my cheek. “What a wonderful surprise. Do come in.” She turned to the butler and ordered tea and scones, then settled into the blue damask chair near the settee upon which I had settled. “So then. What has brought you out on this beautiful autumn day?” Although on other occasions I had taken pleasure in bantering with Sally, on this day I had neither the inclination nor the ability.
“The subject of children brings me here.”
Her forehead furrowed. “Are Jacky and Patsy all right?”
“They are fine,” I said. “My subject lies in the . . . the lack . . .” Oh dear. I had thought I would feel free with someone as outspoken and bold as Sally to just say it. Just state my concern and be—
“You have been married . . . ?”
“Two years in January,” I said.
“’Tis not that long a time, Martha. I have been married near eleven years and we have no . . .”
I nodded. “Which is why I come to you, to try to understand, to learn what to do, to find solace, to . . .” I took a new breath. “Honestly, I don’t know exactly why I have come, except I knew that you, of all people, might understand my anxiety.”
Sally’s eyes grew blank, as though she had left the room and had entered a place of her own thoughts. “Many times I have asked God why. Why has He not blessed us with children?” She blinked once, returning her eyes to this time and this place. “Especially since the entire Fairfax inheritance—which as you know is extensive—rides upon an heir. Old Sir Thomas never married, hates women, and has no direct heirs.”
“Why does he hate women?”
“He was spurned at the altar in quite a dramatic fashion and as such, will take no brook of the female sex.”
“But surely as a cousin, your George William will—”
“For now we have his favor, but ’tis tenuous. The next generation must be secured, and . . .” She fingered the lace upon her sleeve, looked at me beneath her lashes, then away. “There are other issues—totally unfair and unfounded, but nonetheless embraced by Lord Fairfax and his associates back in England.”
My George had told me the smallest bit of the rumours, assuring me they were not at all true. But it was not my place to reveal this knowledge. If Sally chose to tell me, then I would offer comment. If not . . .
Sally placed her hands into her lap, letting them find company, one with the other. “There is rumour of mixed blood in the Fairfax line. George William’s father wed a woman in the West Indies. It is intimated she may have been of . . . of mixed heritage.”
She waited for me to comment. “Oh” was all I dared say.
She stood and began to pace between the chairs and the fireplace. “People in England do not understand, do not have any tolerance for even a hint of . . . If it were true, by now the association would be so diluted it makes no difference to me, nor should it to anyone, but those people in England . . .” She stopped her movement and faced me, her lip curled in distaste. “They flaunt themselves as superior and above our lives here, and hold the treasures we need at arm’s distance, as though only those without taint might dare step across the ocean and touch—” Her face had grown red, her words fierce. She returned to her chair. “Forgive me. I have no tolerance for such things. Did you know a few years ago, after my father-in-law died, George William took more than one trip to England with the purpose of showing all those cretins he is not a Negro’s son? He had some aunts who were positive he would turn dark upon puberty.”
“I had no idea.”
“And then there is the issue . . .” She shook her head. “Lord Thomas does not like me. Not one bit. On my honour I know of nothing I have done to offend him except by achieving guilt through the unpardonable offense of being female.”
“Has Lord Thomas indicated you and George William will not be his heirs?”
“Of course not. He dangles his title and treasure for his pleasure. At the moment, we serve a purpose here, managing his riches. We are the only heir who resides in the colonies. The others are willing to take the spoils, but have no wish to leave their soft English beds.”
I didn’t know what to say. Although I longed for more children—for George’s children—I had not the pressure nor consequence of barrenness Sally endured.
She seemed to remember the core of our discussion and put a hand upon my knee. “Forgive me. I rant and rail upon things you did not need to hear. You are worried about future children. I feel for you, Martha. I truly do. For George is a gentleman through and through, a man of not only physical but emotional, spiritual, and intellectual stature. As such I cannot imagine why God would not want his—and your—progeny to cover the earth.”
Suddenly, I realized the immensity of her concession. The support it extended in spite of their . . . history. With one more look at her sincere eyes, her flushed cheeks, her determined jaw, I fully relinquished any residual jealousy to the past. Sally and I were both safely and irrevocably married to our respective Georges. We were neighbours living in a land where every neighbour counted. And most of all, we were women with common aspirations and dreams.
Sally looked toward the door. “Ah. Tea. Very good.”
And it was.
*****
On the way home from Sally’s, I determined, thr
ough no proof or sign from above but through my own desire for a logical explanation, that God had not blessed us with children because I was not a good enough mother.
I vowed to remedy that deficit in every way possible.
I would be an exceptional mother.
Our future depended upon it.
*****
Although I enjoyed teaching the children, with George’s doubling the size of Mount Vernon (he purchased over eighteen hundred acres and was on the lookout for more), with his doubling the number of tenant farmers in his Ohio Valley land to eighteen, with his becoming obsessed with three dozen new fruit trees and a desire to create hardy strains of cherry, peach, and apricot . . .
I was exhausted. For each increase in our worth added to the work. Mount Vernon was becoming the essence of a small town, and its administration fell upon our shoulders. I was glad for the help I had within the house—I had grown up in a household where workers were needed in the fields and could not be spared in the house—but even so, the children suffered a lack of attention to their education.
And so we hired a tutor.
Walter McGowan was an amiable Scotsman with a zest for learning and teaching. The children adored him, and I respected his ability to make them keep to their lessons. Jacky was always one to put play before work, yet under Mr. McGowan’s tutelage kept to the books and thrived. Besides the basics in reading, writing, and numbers, Mr. McGowan requested we purchase books on Greek grammar, history, geography, and bookkeeping. It afforded me great joy to pass the parlour and see the children bent over paper or book, or hear them heartily singing their alphabet or answering Mr. McGowan’s questions. The tutor’s accent was delightful, though I did worry just a bit when it began to rub off on the children. When Patsy said, “Nay, I canna go to bed yet, Mamma,” and Jacky said, “I dinnae know where my shoes maeght be,” I nearly said something to Mr. McGowan, but ended up not. He was a good influence, though if the children asked me to cook haggis and neeps and tatties, I would have had to decline.
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