Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  I spotted a clearing ahead and walked Arrow toward it, needing sky, needing light. The trees opened up and I dismounted—awkwardly, as I was used to George’s steady hands to set me to the ground. Arrow immediately took advantage and began eating the tall grasses and bountiful leaves. I took a deep breath and raised my face to the sky. It was vivid blue with clouds moving fast, as if on parade.

  On impulse, I descended to the ground and stretched onto my back. I removed an offending stone from behind my ribs and cradled my head with my hands. Thus settled, the world appeared different. The sky was framed with green, as a portrait on a wall. The walls of trees surrounding me and the green of my bed below formed a continuous mass, an encasement holding me, folding round me like a baby’s bunting, making me feel secure and safe.

  Here in the woods was a land untouched by man. This place belonged to its Creator and was therefore perfect and right. And I, lying in its midst . . .

  I was a creation too. His creation.

  Then I felt something—from the inside rather than out. An assurance. A hand upon my heart saying, You belong to me and I to you.

  New tears came, but from a different source than before. These tears sprang not from despair but from a poignant release. A tender relief. I was not alone. God was with me. And though I would never—ever—understand His ways, with the soft touch of His hand upon my heart I felt I could accept them as something beyond . . . everything.

  And it was good. Somehow, it was good.

  I lay there, purposefully embracing each new breath and letting it out, purposefully letting the feeling embrace me and comfort me and do its work upon me. I removed one hand from behind my head and raised it skyward, extending it toward the heavens, where God lived. And Patsy.

  And though I knew it was not so, I seemed to feel the slightest pressure upon my fingers, as though my gesture was reciprocated, that contact had been made.

  Suddenly . . . a raindrop. Then three. Eight. A fine rain began to fall from the clouded sky that held only patches of blue. And though I had never been one to allow a rain access, in this time, in this place, I remained on the grass and let it fall upon me. It was as though God were sending heavenly tears to keep my own company.

  I closed my eyes and let us cry together.

  And be cleansed.

  *****

  George strode from the house, his face heavy with worry. “Martha! Where did you go? I knew you needed time alone, but you were gone so long, and then the rain . . .”

  Eustis held Arrow’s reins and George helped me dismount. As he put his hands upon my waist, my feeling of ease continued. God was with me and so was George.

  He set me gently to the ground and looked down at my face. “You seem . . . different.”

  “I am.”

  “What happened upon your ride?”

  “I found a way.”

  He looked confused.

  “A way to go on.”

  I had no idea if the feeling would last, and feared the panic and pain would return often, and with intensity. At the present all I could do was live with now.

  It would have to do.

  *****

  Sally embraced me, then kissed both cheeks. “I will miss you,” she said.

  “And I you. England is so very far away.”

  “Too far,” George William said. He pointed to some trunks on the Belvoir wharf that were being loaded onto the ship that would take them to the mother country. He looked incredibly weary. “Since Lord Fairfax has replaced me as his agent here in America, all is lost.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “This Robert Martin, this spendthrift, rake, and man of questionable constitution . . .” George William sighed. “Hopefully the Towlston estate in Yorkshire can be obtained as my true inheritance. We must have some income.” He looked to my husband. “You will try to rent Belvoir for a goodly sum, yes?”

  “Of course,” George said. “You can trust me to do my best for it. And for you.”

  George William embraced his best friend. “You are the best of men and the best of friends. If only this horrible nonsense in the colonies would end here and bring some loyalty back to our king. I simply cannot tolerate such treasonous goings on.”

  Sally patted him on the back. “’Twill be better for us to be in England until all this annoying dissension has blown over.”

  As we finished our good-byes and waved from the dock, George said to me, “I fear there will be no ‘blowing over.’”

  “Then perhaps it is best they go to England. They will be safe there.”

  “But away from us . . .” With a final wave he put his arm around me. “Let us go home.”

  Another loss. Would they never end?

  *****

  Summer burned itself out and autumn slipped into its place, with me unawares. One day I woke up and noticed the trees had turned orange and red. When did this happen?

  It was a sobering moment, realizing time continued whether I cared to notice or not.

  What truly made me notice autumn—and made me attempt to enjoy it—was when Jacky came home from King’s College.

  His embrace was full and sincere. “Mamma, I am so glad to be home to see you and Poppa.” He let go to shake George’s hand. Then he pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to his father. “Read it. It is from Dr. Cooper, the president of the university.”

  My heart dropped. Had Jacky been expelled? Surely not, for he was all smiles.

  George opened the letter and read aloud, “‘I am very pleased to inform you that young Jack Custis has commended himself in his studies and has shown an admirable purity of his morals. You should take great pride in him, as we do, at King’s College.’” George lowered the letter, his face incredulous.

  Jacky laughed. “I deserve that look—my past deserves that look.”

  I wrapped an arm around his waist and hugged him. “We are indeed proud. Such a letter! We knew you could do great things.”

  George appeared to be reading the letter again, as though he could not believe its contents. Then he folded it and placed it in the pocket of his coat with a pat. “Yes, Jack. This is great news. When you go back to school—”

  “I am not going back.”

  His words hung in midair. We did not know how to catch them.

  He looked from me to George, then back again. “Eleanor and I want to get married. Soon.”

  George was the first to speak. “We have grown to love Eleanor. She is a fine girl, good in action, thought, and heart, but she is still too young. And you . . .”

  “I have proven myself.”

  “One semester is not proof. The proof would come in completing something, in attaining a degree.”

  Jacky plopped himself upon the white settee in the front parlour, crossed a leg, and draped an arm across its back as though totally at ease. That the portrait of his poppa in his militia uniform hung behind his shoulder was notable, surrounding him front and back by his father’s presence.

  He bit the tip of his thumbnail, then said, “It is not as though I have to impress someone to gain employment. I have a position waiting for me, running the Custis estates. I have my birthright.”

  George opened his mouth, drew in a breath, then closed it.

  Oddly, although I had settled on the children waiting a few years, the suggestion the marriage might occur sooner rather than later appealed to me. Greatly. Since Patsy’s death I had gained a new disdain for wasted years.

  But I knew I would need to approach this new opinion gingerly. “Perhaps it is time for a wedding,” I said.

  I had anticipated George’s reaction, and received as much. “Martha! Surely you cannot—”

  I stood and motioned to Jacky. “Please leave us.”

  The grin that pronounced across his face was so certain I w
ould be on his side that I nearly called him back to seating and agreed with George.

  But alas, I did not. I let him go.

  Which he did.

  Closing the door behind him, leaving me alone with . . . our opposition.

  George came close and lowered his voice, obviously sharing the certainty of Jacky’s ears just outside the room. “How could you give him hope like that?”

  With great resolve I did not make a space between us. George’s towering frame could overwhelm—I had seen him strike fear into the constitution of a slacking worker by standing just so—but I stood my ground.

  “Did you and Jacky conspire for this moment?” he asked.

  “No, we did not. Up until he made the announcement, I was resigned to having his marriage be years away—as we had discussed.”

  “Exactly, Martha. As we had discussed. And settled. E’en Eleanor’s father agreed to a delay.”

  At this point I returned to my chair. I turned Patsy’s mourning ring around my finger—a recent habit I had no intention of breaking. “I assure you, I had no premeditation for considering a change of plans. But the fact Jacky has done so well at college—receiving a written commendation from its president tells us his time there bore fruit.”

  “New fruit. Unripened fruit. Untested fruit.”

  I acquiesced with a shrug. “He has proven he can apply himself. Marriage will mature him e’en more.”

  “But he is not ready for marriage! Do you think his wild ways have been contained in a few months? Who knows what mischief he visited outside the eyes of Dr. Cooper. King’s College is a large establishment, not the small school of Reverend Boucher, where the reverend could keep close tabs on Jack’s exploits.” He thought of something else. “Since Jack managed to behave wildly under the close scrutiny of Reverend Boucher, it only follows he would have perfected his methods, enabling him to do quite whatever he wanted in New York, beyond the eyes and ears of those in authority.”

  His logic made sense, and at first I felt beaten, but then I saw a way . . . . “I agree with you.”

  “You do?”

  “I agree Jacky’s untamed ways have probably not been reined in—more likely covered over with deft practice.”

  “Then you agree he could still find himself in dire trouble. He has not matured enough to—”

  “Then I agree he could still find himself in dire trouble that may ruin his life.” I leaned over and patted the arm of the chair beside me, wishing George to sit so we could talk more intimately. Once George was nearby I continued. “I know how it is with headstrong, lusty boys like Jacky, boys with wit and charm, and yes, those used to getting their way. They attract those of the opposite sex with great alacrity. And there, my dearest George, is my main argument toward marriage.”

  It took him but a moment to join the direction of my thoughts. “Another girl.”

  “Yes. One far less suitable in character and family than our dear Eleanor.”

  He looked across the room as though considering. Then he looked back to me. “But if his ways are thus . . . marriage may not stop his . . .”

  “Philandering?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Yet being away from the temptations of New York City, being back in the limited confines of White House, out in the country, busy with running a plantation . . . the opportunity for misbehaviour will be limited, and so, Jacky’s chance at having a successful marriage will be increased. We will be saving him from himself.”

  “But he is still only eighteen—almost nineteen—and Eleanor seventeen. His youth, inexperience, and unripened education are and will be insuperable obstacles to the completion of an early marriage. If Jack gets married before he has ever bestowed a serious thought of the consequences, all will suffer. I feel quite adamant about this, Martha.”

  “As do I. Now, if you will excuse me, I have supper arrangements to complete.”

  I was not running from the confrontation. I was merely—wisely—leaving in order to regroup, in order to win the battle.

  Surely Colonel Washington would appreciate my strategy.

  *****

  Reinforcements often determine the victory. And so, in the matter of Jacky and Eleanor’s marriage, I enlisted as many as possible. But, as is the essence of a good tactic, I did so under cover, surreptitiously writing to family—Custis, Dandridge, and Washington—as well as to neighbours, friends, and even to Reverend Boucher. In the pursuit of success one must not keep any stone unturned. To reinforce the power of their loyalty to my cause, I had them address their volleys directly to George. There would be no letter written to me that I would have to read aloud to my husband. No indeed. For that would be like sending a spray of bullets through a hedge of thick brush. I wished for George to receive their hail of support directly.

  He was not amused.

  One day he sought me out as I oversaw the washing in the washhouse.

  “Mrs. Washington? If I may speak to you, please?”

  I saw he held more than one letter in his hand. My stomach wrenched. Was this the moment when the outcome of the battle was at hand? I turned to Trudy and pointed at a shirt. “Make certain you embroider our guest’s initials in their garments so they don’t get mixed.” Then I donned my cape and followed him outside. We walked away from the house and entered the snow-covered lower garden. We walked slowly. He wished to have this discussion out-of-doors?

  So be it.

  The December air was cold but not bitter. The snow under our feet was packed hard from the comings and goings of many feet. I slipped, and his hand immediately steadied me, placing my hand in the crook of his arm. Although my slippage was sincere, I recognized the act of his gallantry and our physical connection to my advantage.

  “You wished to talk to me?” I said as the rhythm of our gait was settled. Within these few steps, my feet were cold. His boots offered protection, but my cloth slippers, with their slim soles, allowed the cold to permeate into my toes. Yet I did not complain. The happiness of my Jacky—and his Eleanor—was at stake.

  He held the letters before me. “I have received these.”

  I recognized my mother’s handwriting, and that of his sister, Betty. “How nice. Is the family well?”

  “They do not speak of their own condition, but focus completely on the condition of Jack. They talk exclusively of the advantages of a timely marriage.” He looked down at me. “They use familiar arguments.”

  I didn’t dare look at him but concentrated on the path before me. “Perhaps the arguments are familiar because they are true and hold logic.”

  He stopped our progress and faced me. For the first time I wavered in my resolve. Perhaps I should complain of cold feet . . . . I glanced at him, then away. I pulled my cloak closer and offered a shiver that was timely but not forged.

  He put a finger under my chin and raised it as he often did when he had something he sorely wanted me to hear. “Are you certain you never studied military tactics and methods of war?”

  I tried to contain a smile but was only partially successful. “I don’t know what you mean, Colonel Washington. Surely you, as the commander of many men—”

  “Surely I, as your husband, know when I have met my match.”

  I let a smile fully escape. “So you will agree to their marriage?”

  He lifted the letters between us. “What choice do I have against Jack, who has his own inclination; the desires of his mother; and the acquiescence of almost all of his relatives? As he is the last of the family, I dare not push my opposition too far. And so I yield—contrary to my judgment.”

  Although I wished to leap into his arms and kiss him, I knew his defeat was keen and was best accepted with dignity. I raised his hand to my lips and kissed it instead. “He is the last of the line, George. The future of the Custis land—and Mount Vernon—dep
ends upon his settling down and taking responsibility.”

  “And having children.”

  I blinked at his words.

  “Do not dare say this was not a factor in your strategy, Martha, perhaps e’en the true spoils of your victory. With Patsy’s passing . . .”

  “I do long for there to be children in my life. The joyful product of a good match made with the approval of two great families—three great families: Custis, Washington, and Calvert.”

  He laughed. “No more flattery is needed, my dear. I have surrendered. Victory is yours.”

  Ours. For in my heart I felt this marriage would bless us all.

  *****

  “You could put aside your mourning clothes, dearest. No one would fault you,” George said.

  I stood at the armoire in our bedchamber, peering at the clothing inside. Jacky and Eleanor were to be married on February 3, and I was trying to decide which dress to wear—or whether to have a new one made. George had already given Jacky money for his wedding clothes.

  I ran a hand along the lovely satins and brocades. I so enjoyed lovely dresses, and George had said I could have my heart’s desire in a new one made especially for the occasion.

  I let my hand stray to the bodice of the black mourning dress I was wearing. The trim on the front was frayed. Although I had ordered many black dresses made after Patsy’s death, their constant use over these many months . . .

  My eyes returned to the happy colours of my other dresses before falling back upon the black. Happy. Sad. The vivid dresses seemed to dare me to choose. You have had enough mourning. Choose us! We will make you happy.

  I shook my head at their temptation. They would not make me happy. I was not sure anything would. Not completely.

  Have a new dress, Mamma.

  The memory of Patsy’s voice accosted me often. Things she would have said came to me unannounced. Sometimes when I heard someone in the hall outside a room, I would look up and think, “Patsy is here!” But then I would remember she could not be there, and when someone else came in, I suffered disappointment and pain as grief sliced open a fresh wound.