Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  And Wash was not much better.

  “Master Wash? What did you get for your sums?” Mr. Lear asked.

  Wash bit the end of his pencil, looked at his sister, then flipped the pencil, sending it end over end till it stuck like a thrown knife in the grass. “Twelve, fourteen, eight? What do I care for numbers? I want to go to the wharf. The herring are coming in and I want to watch.”

  Mr. Lear cleared his throat and looked toward me. “Would you not wish to cipher how many fish were caught and in how many nets?”

  “Tons and tons. That is all I care.” Wash ran to me, at six, still small enough to crawl upon my lap. “Do not make me learn numbers, Grandmamma. They hurt my head.”

  I looked to Mr. Lear, who awaited my response. “Numbers are important, Wash. Especially when you take over Mount Vernon. Your grandpapa uses numbers all the time and—”

  “But that is ages and ages from now. Let Nelly do the numbers for me. She does not even have to try.”

  It was true. Nelly had an avid penchant for learning that was sorely lacking in her brother. No matter if it was writing, mathematics, geography, or French, Nelly excelled.

  And Wash did not.

  His little fingers played with the locket at my neck. “Please, Grandmamma? It is too fine a day to be thinking.”

  Although pretending to do otherwise, Harriot had been watching the entire exchange with interest. She chose this moment to sit up. “I will go with him, Aunt Martha. I will watch over him.”

  He leapt from my lap and they were gone, down the hill toward the river. Mr. Lear shook his head, though out of respect he did not look at me. I knew he did not understand my indulgence of Wash. In truth, I did not understand it. Why was I incapable of being stern with young boys? If I was not careful, Wash would turn out as flighty and void of academics as his father had been.

  I also felt Nelly’s eyes. Although I loved her every bit as much as her brother, she had to notice my inability to be stern with him while I held her to high accountability in the domestic lessons I offered toward her womanhood.

  She looked back to Mr. Lear. “Can I learn about Spain today, Mr. Lear?”

  “Certainly. Let me go back to the house and get my geography book and I will show you some beautiful maps of—”

  Eustis burst through the door nearby. “Mistress Washington! Come quick! Mrs. Washington is having her baby!”

  Fanny.

  I ran inside.

  *****

  Fanny’s baby boy was now two weeks old. Her husband, George Augustine—although his cough and consumption were worse—took great joy in this new babe.

  But the boy was not well, and Fanny was weak, and George Augustine was also in bed. My days and nights were consumed with care for them. So much so my husband worried o’er my own health.

  “You must get some sleep, Martha,” he said as he intercepted me in the hallway outside their room.

  “I must get these linens to them,” I said.

  He sidestepped, blocking my way. “Have we not had enough death in the family of late? My brother Jack, your mother, your brother, Bartholomew?”

  “We cannot bar death at the door, George. It will seep through the cracks at will.”

  He held a finger to my face. “But we need not be reckless. We cannot mock good health any more than we mock death.” He took the linens from me. “Now go. To bed with you.”

  “But you need rest too.”

  “I will join you shortly.”

  I did as I was told, but feeling as usual—neither sick nor well—I could not sleep. I rarely could sleep. The to-dos, should-dos, and could-dos of life prevented it.

  *****

  The baby died.

  A pall of sadness spread over the house like a shroud. Even the children seemed to sense that now—above all other times—was the time to be quiet.

  The constant stream of visitors sensed nothing and continued to invade our home.

  Oh, to be anonymous again.

  *****

  “Can they not do it without you?” I asked George.

  He checked the straps on his horse. “They could. But I have given too much, spent too many years, to let others create a system of government without me. We need a government with separate branches that work together: executive, judicial, and legislative. There should be power available to each, yet power that can be checked by the other.” He stopped his work—and his discourse—to look at me. “We are creating a nation unlike any that has ever existed, Martha. We must find a way to unite thirteen disparate states into one mind. We must get it right.”

  I tried to think of some other reason, some way to get him to stay. My eyes fell upon the stable to my left, to a plow being readied for a field. “’Tis time for planting. Unless all miraculously agree and make quick work of it, you will be months away. You will miss the growing season. You are needed here.”

  He too looked toward the stables. The plow toppled, and he took a half step in its direction, then stopped himself. “I have to do this. It is my duty.”

  There was nothing I could do to stop him. “You promise this will make it done? Once the government is established, you will let others do the work and come home to me?”

  “I promise.”

  He kissed me, mounted his horse, and rode away.

  I would hold him to that promise. I would.

  *****

  Tobias Lear snapped the latest newspaper against his knee. “It appears New Hampshire will ratify soon.”

  “They will be the ninth.” George Augustine buttered a piece of bread.

  Eleanor’s husband, David Stuart, reached for the jam. “Nine will make the Constitution real.”

  General Knox wiped a crumb from his chin. “Real and vital.”

  “I am very aggrieved,” my George said as he passed the butter along, “that our own Virginia has not chosen to ratify. I should ride to Williamsburg and give them a piece of my—”

  I rose from my chair. “There will be none of that.” I proceeded to gather the ten newspapers that littered the table. “I am sick to death of politics. Who has said what, who has done what. For ten months I have endured little else as one by one the states ratify.”

  Lucy Knox fluttered her hands. “But it is ever so exciting.”

  I gave her an appalled look. I could usually count on her for lively—interesting—conversation. For her to defect to the side of politics . . .

  “Well, it is,” she said.

  “North Carolina and Rhode Island say they will not ratify until a bill of rights is created,” Tobias said. “The Constitution details the rights of the government, but the rights of the people need attention also. I do not oppose such a thing, but—”

  With great drama I dropped the stack of papers to the floor, inches from the grate of the fireplace. I struck a match and held it aloft. “Though it be June these papers would make great kindling. What say you, gentlemen? A roaring fire on a hot day or a new conversation?”

  “Sorry, my dear.” George held his hand toward me. “Come back and sit down. What would you like to talk about?”

  “I know.” Henry leaned his three-hundred-pound frame closer to the table. “Let us discuss how George will be our first president.”

  Lucy clapped her hands. “Oh, George. Really?”

  “There has been talk,” Tobias said. “The government requires a man respected by all sides.” He turned to George. “The fact you were unanimously elected president of the Constitutional Convention speaks well of your chances at the—”

  My mouth had fallen into a gape. It was my turn to address George. “President? You?”

  He rose from his chair and started toward me. “Now, Martha. It is not a certainty by any means. And there are others—”

  “No,
there are not,” Henry said. “Not any in high contention. ’Tis nearly a sure thing.”

  President.

  So much for retirement.

  “If you will excuse me.”

  I left the room.

  *****

  “Martha. Please open the door.”

  “Can you not respect my privacy, husband? I am busy.”

  I sat in one of the necessaries that was nestled among the tree-lined serpentine walk that edged our circular drive. I had no need for its particular function but only for its solitude. The smell was unpleasant, but after rushing from the house I could think of no other place where I could be absolutely alone.

  George being named president would not ease this deficiency. “Please, Martha. I want to talk to you, to explain, to ease your fears, to—”

  I opened the door and took a breath of fresher air. “Ease my fears? Which means you are not considering it?”

  He pulled me out, closed the door, and placed my hand in the crook of his arm. He walked me down the row of trees, away from the house. He turned into the gardens. Three slaves weeded nearby. “Leave us,” he said.

  And we were alone. I sat upon a bench. I did not much care if he sat beside me or not. “So? How long have you known of this?” I asked.

  He chose to stand, putting his hands behind his back. He also chose to look over my head, into the garden.

  Wise man. My eyes would have burned into his in a way most uncomfortable.

  “There was talk last summer at the convention that if the Constitution was ratified, a president would need to be chosen. A charismatic figure who—”

  “What about Franklin? Adams? Even Jefferson? Choose one of those who enjoy the limelight. Someone who has experience in Europe, for wouldn’t a president need to have such connections?”

  “Although I have not traveled outside this country, European heads have come to me. Have come here, Martha. Stayed in our rooms, supped at our table.”

  “I know. I have washed their sheets and gotten up at dawn to make certain their bread had risen.”

  “Lafayette has told us France is in turmoil. There is a revolution brewing there. They have enough to worry about to care about our attention.”

  “But perhaps they will need our help as we needed theirs? Tit for tat. A president will have to deal with such decisions. If you are president, will you volunteer to fight over there, in aid of the French cause for freedom?”

  “No, no, Martha. I promise—”

  I stood and placed myself inches from him. “You promised before! When you rode away to the convention you promised you would let others do the work of the new government.”

  He tried to capture my hands in his, but I would not let him and pushed away to my own space along the path. “You are fifty-six years old, George. Too old to start something so new, so encompassing, so stressful. Your joints ache, your teeth are practically falling out of your mouth, you are going deaf, and your eyesight is weak.”

  “I have spectacles now. They help.”

  I stomped a foot and tears of frustration escaped. “This is not about spectacles! It is about there being a limit. Have you—have we—not sacrificed enough for this country?”

  He looked to the sky, his white hair a striking contrast to its blue. “We have sacrificed beyond measure, my dear. We deserve to live here in peace. And honestly, I am finally seeing results in our hard work here at Mount Vernon. It has taken years to repair it from the ruins of war, but it is nearly whole again.”

  My words came out as a sob. “Then stay here and finish the work.”

  He took a deep breath and swallowed with difficulty. “There is work to be done for all, in developing the country to find its true destiny, in helping it become a great nation. Are there men more capable than myself? More versed in politics? Wiser, better men? Certainly. But as the commander of the army I became a tie that bound soldiers from all states and backgrounds. There is no other man who has that experience, nor who has loyalty to all states. I unified men before; I can do it again.” He moved to take my hand and this time, I let him. “My largest fear is that without a strong leader from the very beginning this nation will fracture into thirteen sovereign states. The government we are on the verge of establishing will dissipate like fog upon the river, and we will be as we were before, thirteen instead of one. In short, my dear, dear wife, I fear if I do not accept this position, all our sacrifice—e’en the whole of the revolution—will be counted for nothing.”

  I clenched my jaw and shook my head in short bursts. “’Tis not fair, George. ’Tis not fair that one man take on such repeated burdens.”

  He pulled me close. “If this position comes to me, I know it will be accompanied by a feeling not unlike that of a culprit who is going to his place of execution.”

  I pulled back to see his face. “Then—?”

  He pulled me close again. “That being true or not, I must say yes, Martha. The country calls and I must answer its voice.”

  And I?

  I wished to plug my ears.

  *****

  Nine months had come down to this day. In the time it took for a baby to gestate and be born, so came the birth of the presidency. We had heard that on April 6, 1789, the votes of the electoral college had been assessed—and were unanimous.

  My husband had been elected president. The first president of the United States of America.

  You would have thought nine months was time enough for me to accept the notion, to resign myself to that fate, but like a new mother who upon seeing her baby born realizes she still does not have a name for it, so it was with me.

  I had no name for my emotions. They encompassed me completely yet left me blank and vacant. And a good part of me parlayed the absurd notion that if no one came and fetched George away, if I could keep him here at Mount Vernon all to myself, somehow they would forget their decision and leave us to grow old in solitude and tranquility together.

  It was a stupid notion. A fantasy with no basis in logic or fact—or destiny.

  Yet even though I knew someone would come to make the announcement official, even though I knew someone would come to call him to the capital city of New York, my heart and stomach still clenched when I spotted Charles Thomson riding up to the house on April 14.

  Charles Thomson, who had been the secretary of Congress from the time before the Declaration of Independence, who had so meticulously kept a record of all that was said and done during those assemblies. Charles Thomson, a friend with whom we had oft stayed when in Philadelphia.

  But this was not a social call.

  Charles dismounted with the loud “oomph” of less agile bones. As his horse was led away he walked a few awkward steps toward the front door, low moans accompanying each footfall.

  I looked at the clock. It was half past ten. George would be in the fields until quarter to three. It would be up to me to entertain our guest—a responsibility I usually met with little effort. Yet today . . . when I knew what news he bore . . .

  I removed my apron, tucked stray hairs beneath my cap, and opened the door for him. “Charles, how nice to see you.”

  With effort he climbed the few steps to the door. “Martha. ’Tis good to be here. My body does not appreciate such rides anymore.”

  I invited him in and settled into the west parlour. I ordered coffee and scones and wondered if he would mention the news or avoid it.

  He chose the latter—which was agreeable, yet awkward. It was as though we both knew a vast secret yet had silently agreed to talk around it. As we chatted I wondered how I was ever going to sustain the conversation until quarter to three.

  And yet . . . I did it. Blessedly, Charles was an easy conversationalist. He asked about our family, and I asked about his. We reminisced about the early days of the revolution, and I le
t him tell me rousing stories about his escapades with the Sons of Liberty. The children came and went, needing this and that, so the hours sped by in a way that was most relieving.

  And then, George showed up early—at a quarter to one. Had someone sent word of our guest’s arrival? Or had he somehow known? After a quick handshake, George retired upstairs to freshen himself, but returned with great speed, and much out of breath.

  “Well, then, Charles. How nice to see you.”

  The tension being so long extended, Charles rose, reached into his pocket, and handed George a letter.

  Had I been of less stable constitution, I would have descended to the floor, for certainly I did forget to breathe, and certainly my heart pronounced a new unnatural rhythm.

  George looked to me, then to Charles, then to the letter. I saw he too had trouble breathing, and let several breaths come and go before he opened it.

  He read aloud:

  “Sir, I have the honour to transmit to Your Excellency the information of your unanimous election to office of President of the United States of America. Suffer me, sir, to indulge the hope, that so auspicious a mark of public confidence will meet your approbation, and be considered as a sure pledge of the affection and support you are to expect from a free and an enlightened people. Signed, John Langdon, temporary president of the United States Senate.”

  George looked up. “So it is.”

  Charles laughed nervously and clapped him on the back. “So it is.”

  George looked to me. I knew this was an important moment, not just for the country, but between us. Now was not the time to let my fear, my pride, my frustration, or my anger intrude. Now, as always, he needed me beside him, to support, love, and encourage.

  And so, in spite of the turmoil I felt within, I stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek, offered the best smile I could manage, and repeated what had already been said, “So it is.”

  Three little words that spoke volumes.

  *****

  It was April 16, the year of our Lord 1789.

  George was leaving today. Two scant days to make arrangements for our household to move two hundred miles. Although we had known for ten days of his election, I had not let myself acknowledge the finality of the decision until Charles Thomson had come with the letter. And so, I was not ready to leave on the sixteenth.