I smiled at his passion and leaned closer, offering a whisper. “Treasonous thoughts, husband.”
He looked shocked. “Not at all. I don’t wish for trouble, just to be left alone to deal with things as we know best.”
“Kings are not keen on letting go.”
He looked back to the papers littering his desk. “I cannot think of that now. I must handle today, today.”
“But Jacky. We were going to discuss Jacky’s future.”
“I cannot deal with Jacky’s incorrigibility, Patsy’s illness, unfair taxes, overdue bills, and this plantation, my dear. Not today.”
Today, tomorrow . . . I knew from hard experience troubles were tenacious. More tenacious than I?
We would see.
*****
Two months passed. In May, George traveled to Williamsburg for the session of the House of Burgesses without us. I feared for Patsy and did not feel it would be wise for the children and me to travel. I would miss the balls and social events, but sacrifices had to be made. My duty was here. At home.
George was gone a month and when he returned I was more than willing to hand the running of the plantation back to him. Although, during this absence things did run in a smoother manner because, late of last year, George had hired a distant cousin, Lund Washington, to manage Mount Vernon. He had worked previously for a neighbour and came with high regard—which he deserved. Five years older than we, I found Lund to be an amiable bachelor and a fine asset to the estate.
Usually when George returned from a governmental session, he was weary of mind. But this time he fairly jumped from his horse as he rushed into the house.
I met him at the door. “What is wrong?”
He shook his head, handing me his hat and gloves. “Action has been taken against the Act!”
The only act of recent mind was the Stamp Act. “The session voted on it?”
“Of a sort.” He noticed the dust on his boots and legs. “Outside. Come out. I am fouling the house with the dirt of the road.”
We withdrew to the stoop, where he proceeded to brush off his clothing with a handkerchief as he gave his discourse. “For three weeks the House discussed nothing of more consequence than ferry permits and wolf bounties. Most members left and were on their way home—as was I. Only thirty-nine of the one hundred sixteen remained.”
“When . . . ?”
“When a new member—nine days new—stood before those still present and offered some resolutions. If only I could have been there to hear . . . . I received word Henry’s zeal holds a power to mesmerize.”
“Henry what—what is his last name?” I asked.
“His last is Henry. Patrick Henry.”
“By your reaction I take his zeal to be of a positive nature?”
He stopped brushing to consider. “I am not certain as yet. But perhaps he is just what we need in this time. He offered forward five Stamp Act Resolves, which”—George smiled and shook his head—“which were nothing less than bold and courageous.” His eyes sparkled as he faced me. “They stated as colonists we have the same rights as the English, in particular the right to be taxed only by our own representatives. Since we have no representation in England’s Parliament, they should not tax us. We should not have to pay any taxes except those which our Virginia House decrees.”
I stood in awe. “These resolves were passed?”
“They were, although a fifth one—stating that anyone who supported the right of Parliament to hold sway over us should be considered the enemy—was rescinded the next day, by an even smaller contingent still present.”
I put a hand to my chest. “These . . . these sound nearly treasonous.”
“The last one was indeed, which is why cooler heads . . . but the rest of them spoke with enough force they upset Governor Fauquier and he—” George shook his head in disbelief—“he dissolved the House of Burgesses. We are dissolved, Martha.”
“I am not sure what that means.”
“Alas, neither do we. But the resolutions, Martha. ’Tis the start of something.”
“What exactly?”
“I am not sure, but change is in the air. I feel it.”
*****
News of the actions by Virginia’s House sped north, and though there was general approval of the resolutions, as well as general disapproval of the Stamp Act, no other body of colonial government took action—until after the riots.
News came to us in various ways, in the form of letters from friends, from visitors who lived in other colonies, and through newspapers, which were often tardy with the news we had heard elsewhere.
One day Patsy came running into the dining room where I was choosing the setting for a dinner party. She was crying hysterically. I immediately stopped what I was doing. “What is wrong? Shh, shh. Calm now. Calm.” I imagined all sorts of injury but saw nothing of an obvious nature. And yet I knew strife often brought about one of her fits. She needed to be appeased, quickly.
She pressed her face into my shoulder. “He hung Marabel.”
“Your doll?”
She nodded and pulled away enough to make her full accusation. She pointed toward the bedrooms upstairs. “Jacky. He hung her to death!”
At the first mention of hung I had imagined the doll being hung by a string, perhaps wrapped round her body. But at the dead comment . . . I imagined the worst.
I stood and Patsy was quick to take my hand and pull me toward the stairs. Although Jacky was often her ablest protector, he was also her keenest tormentor.
I found Jacky in his sister’s bedroom, the doll duly hung—by the neck—from the back of a chair. Jacky stood guard over her with his toy sword. “Here you die on the Liberty Tree, you tax-collecting scum! Liberty and property forever!”
“John Parke Custis!”
With a look in my direction, he sheathed his sword, clicked his heels together, and offered me a bow. “Mother, I have saved us from English tyranny!”
If not for Patsy’s distress, I might have smiled at his playacting. My little protector.
“He killed her!” Patsy said.
Although at age nine Patsy was old enough to let such play slide, I knew Marabel to be her favorite.
And who knew what declarations of rebellion she had heard before Jacky’s latest.
By the strident look upon Patsy’s face, I knew I had to take action. “Move aside, rebel!” I told Jacky. “Quick, mayhaps we can save her yet!” I unknotted the end of Marabel’s noose and laid her on the bed. “Water and a handkerchief,” I told Pasty. “We must dress her wounds.”
“She will not get a proper burial,” Jacky said. “Her kind deserve to be fed to the dogs.”
“Jacky!”
He seemed to realize he had gone too far, for he moved to the window, where he poked his sword through the opening, offending only the September air.
I wrapped the handkerchief around Marabel’s neck and declared, “There. She will recover.”
Patsy tenderly took the doll into her arms, rocking her toward comfort. “Tell him not to do it again,” she whispered.
I would. But I also needed to find out what had compelled Jacky to his violent play. Although I did have fair notion . . .
“Jacky? Come please.”
He followed me into the hall, and though he pretended no worry, I could tell by his furtive glances he realized in this his Mamma was not pleased.
I closed the door to Patsy’s room and took him down the hall for some privacy. “Tell me where you have learned of such awful things as hanging and—”
“This morning I heard Poppa talk about it with Cousin Lund. I heard him. In Boston, mobs of drunken men hung tax collectors and the lieutenant governor on a tree—the Liberty Tree near the Common.”
I had not heard this
. “Killed them?”
“No, not them, Mamma. Stuffed people. Like Marabel is stuffed.”
I breathed again. They hung effigies of those they thought guilty.
But Jacky had more for me. “Then they went to the men’s houses and ripped them apart. They slashed paintings and stole money, and burned furniture in a big bonfire. They did not stop until the men said they would not take no more taxes from us.”
“Would not take any more taxes.”
He ignored my grammar lesson. “Poppa said there are no more tax collectors in all the colonies. Every one of them has quit.” He brandished his sword again. “We won! They are beaten!” He blinked away his playacting and looked at me. “I am hungry, Mamma. When is supper?”
My mind swam with implications far beyond my son’s violent play. The colonies had taken a stand that would have far repercussions. As George had said, change was in the air. Thickly, in the air.
I did not like change.
Eight
“But, Mr. McGowan, you cannot leave the children.”
The tutor stood before me, shaking his head. “I ’ave done the best I ken.”
“Patsy so loves her lessons—when she is well enough. And Jacky . . .” I did not finish without offering a lie, for we both knew Jacky avoided learning and books like most people avoided snakes and spiders. “You have been with us over six years.”
“Time enough for trying,” he said. “Perhaps a school of boarding would be best for the young man. He is thirteen now. Nearly a . . . he is thirteen.”
“Nearly a man” was a phrase I knew could not be stated. Would Jacky ever embrace responsibility and honour the way a boy his age should?
“I know of a good school run by a reverend Boucher in Caroline County, Maryland. He is highly respected and—”
“If it is a question of more money . . . ,” I offered.
“Ye’s paid me fine enough. It is merely time. I travel to England with hopes of being ordained. I leave tomorrow.”
He bowed and left me to the news.
I caught a glimpse of a shadow in the hall, then scruffing feet running upstairs. Had Jacky overheard the news? As much as I loved the boy, I knew he would rejoice.
A moment later, Molly appeared in the doorway to the parlour. “Mistress? Miss Patsy is feeling poorly.”
I was on my feet. I had one child who sorely needed me and another who thought he needed no one.
What was I going to do?
*****
George handed me a letter and sat on a wing chair as I read it. The chief failings of his character are that he is constitutionally somewhat too warm—indolent and voluptuous. As yet, these propensities are but in embryo. ’Ere long, however, they will discover themselves and if not duly and carefully regulated, it is easy to see to what they will lead . . . a young person sunk in unmanly sloth.
“See?” I asked George. “He does not excel at school there either.”
“That should not bring you satisfaction, my dear.” George lit a candle against the autumn dusk. “For five months after McGowan left, Jacky did no work. He did not e’en look at a book.”
“’Twas springtime. A hard time to ask any child—”
“The surveying equipment I bought especially for him? So he could be in the outdoors he enjoys so much and learn a skill that served me well? It too remained untouched.”
I had no dispute. At his tutor’s departure, Jacky held no pretense to learning and ran across the farms like an animal checking for a breach in a fence. He grew uncontainable. The boarding school Mr. McGowan had suggested—run by Reverend Jonathan Boucher, the writer of the letter—had been willing to take him.
May God help him.
How dare I have such thoughts! And yet, as I settled in my chair by the fire and watched the embers glow, I found I could think no other way. Although I loved my dear son, he had grown too much for me, especially since his sister required so much of my attention. Although last fall Patsy seemed better—well enough for George and me to travel without the children to partake of the waters at Warm Springs with George William and Sally Fairfax on a little holiday, during the summer she had suffered a fit while on a horse and had fallen. The scare . . . people whisper that it was bad Custis blood. How can I refute it? So many of the Custis clan have died from sickness.
*****
Although Dr. Rumney did his best for Patsy with his frequent visits, purges, vomits, light diets, and valerian medicine, 1768 was not a good year. George called in other doctors, and one suggested she wear on her finger an iron ring especially made for her condition—with the additional benefit of being of use to bite upon during her fits. George called in Joshua Evans, a blacksmith, who knew of this secret technique from the fourteenth century. George was skeptical but deferred to my desperation.
The iron ring was secret to the disease, that is for certain, for she became no better. As the spring progressed, I . . . I resigned myself to believing my hopes must turn to Jacky. He must become a fine young man. He must because he was my . . .
I hesitated to say it, yet it was a truth.
Jacky was . . . my only hope.
“Martha?”
George was looking at me. How long had I been silent and pensive?
“We must continue to put our hopes in Reverend Boucher’s expertise. It is Jacky’s best hope.”
Agreed.
*****
Things got worse. Jacky got worse. The letters from Boucher regarding my son made me cringe. I read the newest for the second time—this time aloud to George and Patsy. Although it was steeped in eloquent civility, it still stung: “‘Jack loves ease and pleasure, pleasure of the kind exceedingly uncommon in his years. I never did in my life know a youth so exceedingly indolent . . . one would suppose nature had intended him for some Asiatic prince. And I have never seen any student more attracted to the social life than Jack. Unfortunately, he has been badly influenced by a wild boy, the son of Samuel Galloway. This boy has done your ward more harm than he or his family can easily make amends for. And then there are the girls . . . young Galloway’s sister is . . .’” I stopped my reading and cringed.
“Is Jacky in trouble?” Patsy asked.
“It is this other boy,” I said, folding the letter closed to lock away the words of condemnation. “This Galloway is the tempter. He is the one who is harming our Jacky.”
“Jacky has always sought amusement,” Patsy said. “He makes me laugh.”
At her remark, I wished I had not read the letter aloud in her company. I wanted her to look up to her brother, not be privy to his weaknesses and errors. “Patsy, why don’t you go practice the harpsichord. That Bach piece you have played of late is quite delightful.”
She shook her head. “I want to hear what is to be done with my brother. If he is in trouble I wish to help.”
George strolled behind her chair and kissed the top of her head. “I fear the helping must come of Jacky’s own accord. He has had a myriad of people wanting to help. ’Tis only by his own determination any progress toward maturity will be made. He must learn that life is not only dogs, horses, guns, dress, and equipage.”
“I wish I were the one at school. I enjoy books and learning.”
“Mr. McGowan always praised your industrious work,” George said. “But there is no more for you to learn away from us. Your mamma is the best teacher.”
I accepted his compliment. As the probable wife of a plantation owner, Patsy had no need for Greek or Latin or mathematical complexities. I knew of no woman who had ventured to learning beyond lessons provided by family or tutors.
George fingered the books on a shelf. “I was forced to end my schooling when my father died. Since then I have learned by reading and studying of my own accord. I wanted Jack to have all the advantages I did not have, but if he
continues to squander them . . .” He looked at me. “Speaking of advantages, I did not tell you this, my dear, but I sent Jack to Baltimore for a stay of a few weeks to be inoculated for smallpox.”
“Smallpox! Why didn’t you consult—?”
“I have had the smallpox, Martha.” He motioned toward his face. “The entire world can see the evidence of my suffering.”
“The pockmarks have faded.”
“You miss the point. There are inoculations newly available. With Jacky out in the world where he will be exposed to many illnesses . . . I wanted him to have the full advantage of modern medicine. You do wish for him to be safe?”
’Twas a silly question. “You should have told me.”
George shrugged. “I did not wish for you to worry. I only tell you of the inoculation now in order to reveal to you further evidence of Jack’s disregard for responsibility. While recuperating in Baltimore, Jack manipulated the doctor as to his suffering, and had him send a letter to Reverend Boucher stating he would need another week for recovery.”
I stood. “So the inoculation made him ill. We must bring him home and—”
George stopped my words with a hand. “Jack was completely recovered and was seen frolicking and drinking at a wedding party.”
Patsy shook her head. “Oh, Jacky . . .”
“Oh Jacky, indeed,” George said. “His infrequent letters home are so full of spelling errors one would think they were written by a street sweeper. I know he probably scribbles them quickly, but—”
“I am not a good speller either, dearest.”
“You have no need to be. But Jack must groom himself to be fit for more useful purposes than . . . than a horse racer.”
“I know you wish to have him take over Mount Vernon someday and—”
I watched as the muscles in my husband’s neck tightened. I then watched as he found the control he so extolled. When he spoke again his voice was soft. “Since we have no children of our own . . . he is my only hope.”
There it was again. The shared sorrow over a lack of children, and our common desire Jacky would somehow, someway, achieve his potential.
Washington's Lady Page 14
