Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  Jacky is fine. There is no need to worry.

  Need or no need, the worry remained.

  To appease it, since I could not check upon my son who was a four-days’ ride away, I tiptoed to the hall and into my sister Mary’s room, where my little Patsy had begged to sleep.

  The two little girls lay together in bed. Mary had taken more covers than her share, so I gently pulled them away in order for my daughter to stay warm. Patsy murmured a sound of cozy warmth. I kissed her cheek, pushed a stray hair from her forehead, and left the room.

  I returned to bed and adjusted my own covers against the coolness of the night.

  Patsy was fine. Jacky was fine. I could sleep appeased by that knowledge.

  I could sleep.

  But I didn’t.

  *****

  I regularly thanked God for caps.

  “Pin it up and tuck it under, Amanda,” I told my maid. We were back at home and I had much to do to catch up. “I have neither time nor patience for the whims of my hair today.”

  Although I rarely despaired over my hair, on some occasions it did not cooperate, and I owned neither the time or inclination to have Amanda fiddle over it. Enter my thanks for the fashion of the cap. Although most ladies chose those that sat low on the head, I preferred a cap that owned a bit of puff to it, one that gave the illusion of a height I did not own. When I was around the Dandridge side of our family, I never felt out of place, for they were the source of my height. But when visited by George’s side, or Sally and George William, I felt puny—in height at least.

  My other complaint (since I felt petty) was that because of my small height and family propensity, I was plumper than I would like. Give me three or four more inches to stretch out my weight and surely I would have been stunning. Although some of my neighbours had ceased wearing corsets while at home, my vanity suggested I could not follow the comforts of their fashion.

  Who invented corsets? Most likely a man, attempting to torture us and keep us from true relaxation. My only concession was to order stays easy-made, and in the summer months, very thin for when the heat made any clothing unbearable. How comfortable we would be if not for the shame instigated in the Garden of Eden.

  My, my, I was in a mood. And over such inconsequentials too. Such disrespect for priorities did not become me.

  The children rushed into the room. They were dressed and ready for breakfast and their studies.

  “Mamma!” Patsy ran to my side and climbed upon my lap. She was beginning to be too big, but I would never dare say as much. And blessedly, my dearest girl did not care whether my hair cooperated or the height of my cap.

  Jacky ignored me and began to jump upon the bed. I saw Amanda flash him a look, but she waited for me to chastise him.

  “Come give your mamma a kiss, young man.

  He jumped from the bed, nearly on top of Patsy, and did his duty. For this near-miss he did receive my ire. “You be careful of your sister. You nearly—”

  Suddenly, I felt Patsy begin to tremble. My first inclination was that she was chilled, and I thought of getting her changed into a warmer dress or procuring a blanket. But that thought was gone in a blink as her entire body shook its way out of my arms, sliding onto the floor. I attempted to cushion her decline and focused on keeping her head from hitting too hard.

  She continued to shake—with violent jerking—and her eyes rolled back in her head.

  “Mamma!” Jacky yelled.

  Amanda backed away.

  I pointed at her. “Go send for my husband! Quickly!”

  Amanda hesitated a moment, her face pulled with fear, but then she bolted from the room and I heard her calling out to the household. “Get the master! Get the master! Quickly!”

  I realized her trumpeting would bring the curiosity of other servants. “Jacky, close the door!” My eyes returned to Patsy.

  She was choking!

  I tried lifting her head to a better position, but she flung out of my arms, hitting the floor with a thud.

  “Hold her, Mamma!” Jacky said.

  I tried, but she had the strength of a man and would not be contained. I moved the bench of my dressing table away so she would not flail against it. “The coverlet!” I yelled at Jacky.

  He tossed me the coverlet that sat at the end of our bed. I attempted to wrap it around my daughter to cushion her limbs against the hardness of the wooden floor.

  There was a knock on the door and Amanda reentered. “Is he coming?” I asked.

  Her eyes scanned Patsy, then met mine. “He is at the River Farm, but I sent Linus to fetch him.” She did not venture closer. “Can I . . . can I help?”

  As suddenly as the seizure had taken her, Patsy was still. No one moved. I held my breath.

  She opened her eyes and I moved into her sight line. “Sweet child! I am here. Mamma is here.”

  Patsy blinked slowly, as if returning from another place.

  Jacky poked her shoulder. “What were you doing? You were shaking and—”

  “Shh, son. Help me get her to bed.”

  We half carried, half walked Patsy to the mattress. She stared straight ahead and seemed groggy, in a daze. “Get her a glass of water, Amanda. And a damp cloth.”

  I tucked her limbs beneath the bedclothes and stroked her hair. “There, there, sweet girl. Mamma has you safe.”

  But did I?

  *****

  An hour later I heard heavy footfalls on the stairs. George burst into the room. Seeing Patsy upon the bed, he raced to her side. “Dear girl. Are you all right?”

  “I am fine, Poppa.”

  He looked to me. “Is she?”

  I motioned him out of the room, leaving Patsy to play with Jacky. They were drawing pictures of horses.

  I closed the door behind us. I told him all I had witnessed, and in addition told him she had no memory of the incident, and apparently felt no pain—though her right elbow was sore.

  “It sounds like epilepsy,” George said.

  Oddly, I was glad it had a name. “You have heard of it?”

  “Seen it. One of my soldiers fell into a fit once. Thrashed about wildly, knocking things over, hurting those who were trying to contain him. Some Indians saw it and said some word that meant demon.”

  “Demon!”

  He took my hands, shaking his head. “No, no, dear. Please. I must learn what to share and what not. Apparently those without education have no other explanation but to say demons are involved. I have heard those in medieval times thought the same. But science has given it a name. Epilepsy.”

  “So there is a cure.

  He let a breath go in, then out. “I don’t think so.” He brought my hands to his lips and kissed them. “But we will find one, my dear. I will send for Dr. Laurei immediately, and if he cannot help, then I will send for Dr. Rumney, and another doctor and another. I promise we will find the answers we need.”

  My husband always kept his promises.

  *****

  Dr. Laurei and I stepped out of Patsy’s bedroom. His face was grave.

  “Will she be better?” I asked.

  “Has she suffered such a fit before?”

  “No,” George said.

  “Any other oddness or loss of contact with the here and now?”

  I could speak to that symptom. “She is known to fall asleep at odd times.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “How so?”

  “Once she was playing with a doll, then suddenly seemed to stare into nothing. When I looked away, then back at her, she had fallen asleep. And she was not tired. I know she was not.”

  George nodded. “I have seen her so at supper. And one time seated by the fire. She has always been a quiet, pensive child, so I didn’t think anything wrong. Too wrong.”

/>   He had suspected something? Why had he not said anything to me?

  Dr. Laurei continued. “I have no experience with this condition, but I will return to Alexandria and consult my books and others in my field. Then I will bring you medicines.”

  “So there are medicines that will cure her?”

  He seemed confused. “I am sorry, Mrs. Washington. I am not aware of any cure.”

  I could not speak. But George asked, “What can we do when such a violent episode occurs?”

  “You can move things out of her way, put a cushion beneath her head.”

  “But she choked,” I said. “I feared—”

  “I have heard of various iron rings to bite upon. I will look into it.” He put one hand on each of ours. “I am sorry ’tis not better news. I will do my best to help her. I promise I will.”

  Another promise to be fulfilled.

  *****

  Dr. Laurei came again and brought with him various bromides and methods to rid Patsy’s system of the poisons. He bled her. As another seizure was not forthcoming, we believed her better.

  She was not. After a time the seizures returned. We requested the presence of other doctors, but none offered anything but conjecture and experiments. One even had the audacity to try to attempt comfort by saying Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, and Joan of Arc were epileptic. I cared not a whit for this fact. My daughter was afflicted. Only she mattered.

  I had been accused of being a hovering mother before, and now . . . my state of anxiety increased. How could it not? But then came the day when my worries were amplified beyond measure.

  I was seated at Patsy’s bedside after one of her fits. She slept and I kept watch—over what, I was uncertain.

  George slipped into the dimly lit room. “How is she?”

  “Other than the fact she is sleeping, I cannot answer your question. What are we going to do?”

  He lowered his head as he shook it, and I noticed a piece of paper in his hand.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  He raised it up, lowered it, then raised it up again. “’Tis a letter,” he said.

  “I can see that. Who is it from?”

  His sigh was deep. “Your mother.”

  By the look on his face I knew the news was not good. “Please, George, just tell me. I am in no mood for foul news.”

  “Mood or not . . .” He did not raise the letter to read it, but did tell me its contents. “Your little sister, Mary, has died. A fever is all that is said, but you know how that symptom covers many afflictions and—”

  I moved from my bedside vigil and nudged him into the hall. I shut the door. “Let me see.”

  George had not withheld any information. Your dear little sister has died. A fever overtook her last Saturday and after three days, she succumbed.

  “No, no,” I said. “This can’t be. She was the same age as our Patsy. She can’t be—” I did not allow myself to finish the sentence, for I knew too well death could do as it wished.

  “I am so sorry, Martha,” George said as he pulled me into his arms.

  I pushed away from him. “Mary cannot die! If she dies, then our Patsy . . .” I knew it didn’t make sense to claim one with the other, but I didn’t care.

  “What can I do to comfort you?” George asked.

  I put my hand upon the doorknob. “There is no comfort for a child’s death. I know.”

  “I know you do.”

  I opened the door a crack, then stopped the movement. I looked into his eyes. “You wish to know what you can do? Cure my daughter.”

  “Our daugh—”

  I shut the door on him and went back to Patsy’s bedside. There would be no more dying in this family. I would not allow it.

  *****

  George did what he could. My insistence that he cure Patsy’s affliction softened as I witnessed his efforts and expense to do just that. Our prayers became repetitive and I sometimes wondered if the Almighty might grow weary of them. Yet until God gave me a healthy child . . . He would just have to endure our supplications.

  Unfortunately, there were other issues that forced our attention and worries, the main one being finances.

  I will admit to having exquisite taste. ’Twas a condition shared by both of us. And I must also admit to compensating for what we could not do to heal Patsy by buying her gifts. To see her squeal with joy when tiny kid gloves were delivered, or a silk dress to match mine, or pretties for her hair. We bought her a tea set and silver-plated spoons. And for Jacky . . . there was a miniature coach and six horses with a toy stable. We also endowed him with a gold-plated toy whip.

  Anything purchased for the children came out of their portion of the Custis money. This was my idea, as George was a generous man and offered otherwise. And, of course, I had offered my money toward the betterment of Mount Vernon. No one was more pleased than I that our lands had increased from seventeen hundred to ninety-eight hundred acres. And George had done well with Jacky’s holdings, doubling their value. In all honesty, we were taken by surprise when told all my cash was used. Yet, although our tastes were extravagant, there were other determining factors.

  Although the tobacco crop taken from Jacky’s Custis lands brought in twice the price as the Mount Vernon tobacco, one ship carrying our tobacco went down in the Bay of Biscay, and privateers took the goods from another. And the factors continued to tweak and twitter our money away as they saw fit. As we could only trade with England and no other country—by law—frustration became a close acquaintance. Plus, most of the goods we ordered were delivered to White House first because that is where the Custis factors were used to sending it. We then had to pay for transport to Mount Vernon. Oh, the letters we sent trying to rectify this change of address! Deaf ears. Deaf, or arrogant, or apathetic ears.

  And even if we found a market for our goods within this land, each colony held their own currency for trade. Pounds sterling were used in common, but they were rare to find. George and his friends contended this was so arranged to keep us from trading with each other. Our England was adept at handling colonies and keeping them in line.

  Personally, we were land rich and cash poor. ’Twas not an unusual trait for gentry, but it did add to the stress of our lives. Many a time I found George at his desk with papers and bills spread around him, trying to manipulate the numbers for our livelihood. The last time . . .

  He let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair with a humph. “’Tis not their fault,” he said.

  I stopped dusting the books on the shelf nearby. “Whose fault?”

  “Our factors. The merchants back in England. Their prices have been raised because they are being taxed to pay the country’s debt for the Seven Years War.”

  “Which war?”

  “The Seven Years War. That is what they have named the fighting within Europe while here we fought the French and the Indians here. Apparently, Britain is in debt to the tune of one hundred million pounds and partially blames us.”

  “So Englishmen are taxed?”

  “They are. It is said the unfairness of the taxation has forced forty thousand Englishmen into debt—forced them into debtor’s prison.”

  “Hardly what the government wished.”

  “And as such, and with the rebellion among the populace there, they have withdrawn many of those taxes.”

  “That is good,” I said as I dusted a copy of Plato’s Republic.

  “That is bad,” George said. “For the crown still needs money to pay off the war. And so they have decided to tax us.”

  “Us?”

  “The colonies. They say it is because we need to pay for the troops stationed here to defend us. Personally, I would like them to leave. We have proven—with the bravery of our volunteer troops—that we can defend ourselves. We no longe
r wish to be under their control.”

  “I am sure they would beg to differ.”

  He shrugged. “We all know any tax has more to do with past debts than new ones. It is the first time in fifty years Britain is not at war. I accuse them of having too much time on their hands.”

  I left the books alone and took a seat before his desk. “What kind of tax are they inflicting upon us?” I asked.

  “The proclamation that called it into place is called the Stamp Act. All papers here in the colonies are taxed and a purchased stamp is placed upon them: newspapers, documents, every printed piece of paper, and even playing cards.”

  “That is absurd.”

  “Indeed. Although I have never admired taxation, I accepted it when it seemed a natural part of trade, but when it seems extraneous and is being used to pay for debts England has incurred . . . They have already taxed molasses, food, and wine.”

  I assessed the full impact of his words. “There can only be disadvantage if we refuse to pay.”

  George shrugged. “’Tis not just our disadvantage. Taxes which cause us to buy fewer items from England will hurt those who manufacture those items. Who is to suffer most in this event—the English merchant or the Virginia planter?”

  “I care most about the latter.”

  “We pay either way,” he said. “And if we do not pay . . . the Stamp Act declares we will be punished in court, without a trial by jury.”

  I thought of the poor quality of goods we often received and the prices that continued to rise. “I am weary of paying, constantly paying . . .”

  “As are we all.”

  “But what can be done about it?”

  “I am not certain, but when the House meets in May, I am sure we will hear talk of it.”

  “You don’t embrace dissension, do you, George?”

  “These colonies have existed for one hundred fifty years. We have prospered, created our own representative governments, have built towns and farms and societies rooted in virtue and personal liberties. British cities reel with murder, poverty, crime, and societal inequities. We have done it better. Why can they not see that and leave us to handle ourselves?”