Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  I put a hand to my mouth, squelching a combined sob and laugh. “It is lovely, old man. Lovely in words and intent. And lovely to my ears.” I bypassed the desk and went to him, finding a place in his lap. “As you commend the interests of the country to the protection of almighty God, I commend the rest of our lives to His care.”

  “Amen to that.” He bent his head against my chest. “We are going home, Martha. We are finally going home.”

  *****

  Renewed by his intention, I went home without my George, letting him have his last hurrah before Congress with decorated barges, cannon salutes, cheering crowds, and even a ball where he danced with each and every woman there—’tis said there were three hundred—allowing them each to “get a touch of him.” Let them touch all they wanted. He was mine and had promised me his presence by Christmas.

  By tomorrow at the latest.

  Although I trusted my husband’s word, I knew he was in the hands of others who cared not one whit for our Christmas, nor that a house full of family awaited him here. I had heard Congress was meeting especially in Annapolis, awaiting George’s communication, but hoped they would not delay because some dignitary wanted George to come to dinner, or some band wished to play an extra song in his honour. It was my turn.

  Mine.

  As Christmas Eve darkened, Nelly—to be five come spring—sat upon her knees on a chair by the window. My sentry, watching for her dearest grandpapa.

  My memories returned to her father, also aged five, peering out a window in Chestnut Grove, waiting impatiently for the coming of the same man—my beau, George Washington . . .

  “Come, little one. You have been there all day. It is near bedtime.”

  “But you said he was coming,” she said.

  Two-and-a-half-year-old Tub jumped up and down beside his sister. “Gampapa. Gampapa!”

  I took him into my arms—which, with a weight worthy of his nickname, was no small feat. “He will be here.”

  “Do you prom—?”

  Nelly stopped her question and looked outside. “A horse! I hear a horse!”

  I moved the curtain wider, for I too . . .

  And then I saw him, riding hard and fast toward us.

  “He is here! He is here!” I yelled. I ran out the front door and down the few steps to the drive. I waved feverishly and he waved back, fairly leaping from his horse into my arms.

  “Hello, my dearest. I have missed you!”

  “You are here.”

  “I am home.”

  *****

  We were a happy family—a large family—to my great delight.

  I was at my best with children around. To have a house full of surrogate daughters was my greatest pleasure. And my pretty little boy, Tub, Washy . . . I doted on him as I had doted upon Jacky. I could not help myself.

  He, in turn, doted on his grandpapa. He loved to dress like George, in coat and hat—to which I added a jaunty feather—walking next to him, his entire tiny hand encasing but one finger of his grandfather’s.

  Fanny, my sister Nancy’s only daughter, aged seventeen, was with us, as was George Augustine, the son of George’s youngest brother, Charles. He had been an aide to our dear Lafayette. He was not well, and suffered from a horrible cough that made us fear consumption. George sent him to the West Indies in hopes of a cure, but he returned to us not much better. Yet he was a good young man, and George had hopes of handing over the managership of Mount Vernon into his control. Someday. After twenty years in that position, Cousin Lund spoke of getting his own land. And Fanny . . . if I could read my young girls correctly, Fanny had hopes of marrying George Augustine. ’Twould be an agreeable match.

  Niece Harriot—three years older than Nelly and daughter of George’s late brother Samuel—also came to live with us. To our dismay she was a wild child with horrible grooming and deportment, the result of being brought up in a household torn by the constant upheaval of five marriages and a father who was lazy in work and in the bringing up of his children. We paid for two of her brothers to go to boarding school, and the oldest brother—at fourteen—worked; and stayed with his stepmother—who had a young child of her own. I hated to admit defeat, but I was often overcome with Harriot’s inability or unwillingness to take heed to my instruction, and occasionally—needing a reprieve from my frustration—I sent her to Fredericksburg to stay with George’s sister, Betty. Since opening a school for girls in their home, she seemed quite capable of dealing with surly children. Though she too sent Harriot back when she had quite enough of the challenge.

  Our two older granddaughters, Betsy and Patty, who lived at Abingdon with their mother and new stepfather, Dr. Stuart, came to visit frequently. I was very conscious of making certain my babes, Nelly and Washy, maintained a bond with Eleanor. Especially since she quickly became pregnant with more children—and began to suffer the same weakness that went along with that particular condition.

  I thrived in the chaos of children.

  George . . . did not.

  I did my best to allow him quiet when he was in his study—his domain that was not to be breached without invitation.

  He was overwhelmed by the task of revitalizing a plantation sorely strained by eight years of war. We did not blame Lund. He had done his best, and had tried to follow our instructions, but it is a truth uncontested that the eyes of a master—in residence—cannot be equaled by any other whose heart may not be so deeply entrenched in the land. We loved Mount Vernon. Others only worked there.

  Lund had also been forced to deal with the deprivations of war. Money ran out. Workers left. Slaves ran away to join the British. Work stopped. Inflation negated any profit, and Mount Vernon had become a plantation desperate to make ends meet within its own needs and could not even think of looking beyond itself toward trade.

  Our finances were in dire straits.

  “We are in trouble, Martha,” George told me one morning as I brought him coffee in his study.

  I turned the cup so the handle was easily accessible. “It will be all right. It always is.”

  He put a hand upon mine. “No, Martha. We have no money.”

  I blinked at him, uncomprehending. “Then we shall sell crops and make some.”

  “The land has not been tended well for years, the equipment is in disrepair, the workers have grown lax and have forgotten everything they had been taught. If pressed, I am not certain about the whole issue of slavery. I have seen the benefit of workers in the North producing more because they have the incentive of pay. Yet I do not know how to change hundreds of years of tradition when we have no money for wages and need the workers.” He took a new breath. “The worth of our property has been cut in half. And our markets . . . England has no wish to buy from us, so we must start anew and find new buyers. Somewhere. In addition, we owe Lund eight years in back wages. Toward that debt, I have given him several hundred acres and a little cash.” He looked out the window. “Acres I have.”

  “Indeed. You should be very proud. Eight thousand acres at Mount Vernon and twenty thousand in the Ohio Valley.”

  “Twenty thousand acres full of squatters and unpaying tenants. Acres I have, cash, I do not.” He looked at me. “Did you know I had to borrow several thousand pounds from the governor of New York before we left? And he is not our only creditor.”

  My stomach tightened. I did not know. I did not wish to know. “Perhaps you should have taken pay for your position as commander in chief.”

  He sat back in his chair, looking defeated. “I could not renege on my offer. Expenses only. That is what I told Congress when I accepted the job.”

  “But times changed. You had no idea it would last for eight years. You could ask them for back pay.”

  “I cannot. There are soldiers waiting for such pay. I cannot press in front of them and demand my due. They need
it more than I.”

  “Do they? You said we have no money.”

  He did not speak.

  I tried to think of ways to help. “What about your wartime expenses? Have you applied for those?”

  He pulled a page from the bottom of a stack to the top. “I am doing so. I am also asking them for compensation for your expenses.”

  I was surprised at this. “Do you think they will pay?”

  His eyes were tired as he took my hand. “I could not have done my job without you by my side. Your presence was a requirement.”

  I squeezed his hand. “I was happy to be there.”

  Most of the time.

  He pointed to the paper. “The entire amount of your expenses is only one thousand sixty-four pounds—for eight years. To postpone the annual visit home I contemplated between the close of one campaign and the opening of another—to never get home even one year . . . I feel this expense is incidental and the consequence of my self-denial. Your self-denial. You offered great service in our winter camps beyond companionship and encouragement to myself. The soldiers . . . your comfort and aid to them was invaluable. Without your nimble fingers sewing and sewing and sewing . . . and the supplies you brought north from the stores of Mount Vernon . . . even when we had little to give, we gave what we had for the Cause. I do not think they should deny me one hundred thirty pounds a year for such a—”

  “Shh,” I said, disliking the flush in his cheeks. “It will be all right.”

  He stared down at the papers spread before him. “I am not certain how.”

  “God will provide, as He has done until now.”

  George did not respond.

  “He will, George. We must believe it so. He spared us and our home. There must be purpose in that. Mount Vernon will prosper again. I know it.”

  “I only hope I am here to see it.”

  What? My heart skipped a beat. “Are you not feeling well?”

  He shrugged, then held out a hand and began counting upon it. “We must face facts, my dear. My father died at forty-eight. My grandfather at thirty-seven. My half-brother Lawrence died at thirty-four, and Austin at forty-two. My brother Samuel was just forty-seven. The men in my family die young. At fifty-two I have outlived them all.”

  “But—”

  “Sometimes I feel all there is left is to glide down the stream of life till I come to that abyss from where no traveler is permitted to return. It is as though I am now descending the hill I have been fifty-two years climbing. Though I am blessed with a good constitution, I am of a short-lived family—and might soon expect to be entombed in the dreary mansions of my fathers.” He sighed heavily. “But I will not repine. I have had my day.”

  I stood there, unable to speak—for a moment. Then I found my voice. “Stop it! Stop such talk right now.” George looked shocked at my outburst.

  I put my hands upon my hips. “What? Did you expect me to meekly agree with you? Agree your life is all but over? Concede to death without a fight?” I poked a finger into his shoulder. “You, who mocked death more than once, are now willing to surrender? What kind of man are you?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but I did not let him. “You are no man I know. I refuse to tolerate such conversation. You will not speak of dying now or ever!” I pointed to the mass of papers upon his desk. “You will not leave me with all this to handle, and a house full of children, and the stream of constant guests, and the crops, and the workers, and the full completion of the wings we had built upon this house in our absence. When would you like me to do all this? Shall I get up at two and wander about the house and grounds in the darkness, hoping, by some miracle of God, I have time enough and strength enough to get it all completed? I will not have it. I will not!”

  He leaned back in his chair and a smile escaped. I allowed his amusement because I knew he had listened to my words. He always listened . . . whether he would heed my requests was variable.

  I decided upon one more action before the moment passed. I reached for his hand and pulled. “Come with me.”

  “But I have work—”

  I held fast and did not give him option. He removed himself from his chair and let me lead him to the outside, to the covered veranda that had been built the length of the house on the river side.

  He stepped over a pile of scrap wood being used for various fixes. “Martha, I have seen the progress of the repairs. I do not—”

  I stopped before a bench I had seen the workmen rest upon. “Sit,” I commanded.

  “Sit here?”

  I pressed upon his shoulders until he succumbed to my wishes. “Now move over. For I wish to sit beside you.”

  “’Tis a bit cramped,” he said with a smile.

  “I will assume you refer to your own girth, not mine?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Once we were settled, I linked a hand through his arm and with the other pointed to the Potomac beyond. “Is it not beautiful?”

  “Yes, of course. Which is why I am so adamant about finding wise solutions to our problems.” He began to rise.

  I yanked him down again. “The first solution to any problem is to count our blessings. We are home. We are together under our own vine and fig tree. All else is incidental. “

  I felt his body relax. For the first time, he truly allowed himself to gaze upon the sloping green before us, the gray of the river below, and the mass of trees edging its banks. He raised his face to the sky and closed his eyes. “We are blessed . . .”

  Remember that, George. Above all else, remember that.

  *****

  George found me in the dining room finalizing the table for three o’clock supper. “Who is the couple in the parlour?” he whispered.

  “Mr. Quarrier from Richmond and Miss Eliza Tomkins from Philadelphia.”

  He raised an eyebrow, awaiting more explanation.

  “I do not know them either. Apparently Mr. Quarrier had a nephew who fought a battle somewhere, at some time, and was just passing by and wished to pay his respects to General and Mrs. Washington.” I adjusted his fresh cravat. George always returned to the house from his rounds across Mount Vernon at quarter to three in order to freshen himself for supper.

  “Strangers.”

  “Until now, yes.”

  “Are they staying the night?”

  “They have given such indication.”

  “But the house is full.”

  “Which is why it is a good thing we are having extra bedrooms put in the attic.” I brushed a speck off the tablecloth. “Last year we had six hundred seventy-seven overnight guests.”

  “You counted?”

  “I did. And with only half a year gone, we appear to be testing that mark for this year. Perhaps if we put a shingle out, ‘Washington’s Inn,’ and charged a fee, our money problems would be over.”

  “A hefty fee,” George said.

  “As for now, I am having pallets set in the hall.”

  George looked over his shoulder toward the parlour, but leaned low for my ears alone. “Mr. Quarrier does not look to be the sort who is used to a mat on the floor.”

  “If his tastes deem him otherwise, then I will ask him to go elsewhere—and pay for his lodging and sustenance.” I straightened a knife and spoon just so. “The expense of guests, George . . . they all believe we have a great plenty.”

  “And are willing to part with it, at their will.”

  My thoughts sped to the rigid schedule I had been forced to implement in order to take myself through the day-to-day regime of constant guests. “The authoress Catherine Macaulay and her husband, William Graham, are coming tomorrow.” I took a step closer and lowered my voice. “Much younger husband, I have heard. She is forty-seven and he, but of age.”

  George shook his head. He did
not like gossip. “Will you have a pallet made for them, my dear?”

  I picked up a stack of extra napkins to take back to the pantry. “Unless a guest leaves, or you are willing to give up our bed.”

  “I choose the former, my dear. Unless you will relinquish your spot beside me?”

  “Do not tempt me. The way you awake in the morning, so suddenly, with a rush . . .”

  “Old habits from the front. I still awake ready to confront some wartime essential.”

  “Weary we are, and relaxed, we are not.” I found his eyes. “Will we ever be allowed to relax?”

  He kissed my cheek. “The perils of fame, my dear.”

  “I thought with fame came fortune,” I replied.

  “Alas, only in novels.”

  Seventeen

  Knowing the children needed education, we hired a tutor, William Shaw, who was also assigned to help George with clerical duties.

  But as Mr. Shaw preferred pleasure to work, and though we gave him many chances, we eventually let him go on his way. Tobias Lear from New Hampshire took his place and proved very satisfactory. Finally, I had someone who could truly help me and not aggravate our arduous days.

  Being spring, Tobias took the children to the back lawn for their lessons. Spring was the best time of year at Mount Vernon. I relished the fresh air and had the doors and windows flung wide.

  “Done!” In one motion, eight-year-old Nelly set her pencil upon her portable writing desk and handed her paper to Mr. Lear, who looked it over intently.

  Soon he proclaimed, “Perfect, Miss Nelly. Once again, perfection.”

  I set down my mending and applauded from my chair on the terrace. “Well done, dear girl.” I looked to Harriot, who was lying on her back, using the desk as a pillow. Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.