Mount Vernon Love Story: A Novel of George and Martha Washington

by Mary Higgins Clark

  George groaned. “Dinner should be a pleasant affair indeed. Thank God I’m off for Mount Vernon tomorrow.”

  Betty sighed. “I’m glad for you but how I shall miss you. You love Mount Vernon very much, don’t you?”

  George considered a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Lawrence and Anne are so kind to me but it’s more than that. That land . . . just the way the sun shines on it, or the snow blankets it in white. The way it looks in autumn when the great trees are losing their leaves. It’s the joy of riding across the acres next door to Belvoir and visiting with the Fairfaxes. It’s riding home again late, when evening shadows are touching the house and the sun is sinking and the Potomac is half dark, half gleaming. Yes, Betty, I truly love Mount Vernon.”

  March 4, 1797

  11:55 A.M.

  Philadelphia

  THE FIRING OF THE CANNONS BROUGHT him sharply back to the present. Of course, the cannons were being fired to signify the momentous event that was about to take place. For a moment he thought of the cannons that had purchased this moment—the ones that had shattered the silence of ’74 and ’75.

  There was a great crowd outside the building of the Congress. It parted quickly to let him pass. He began to climb the steps. And then the applause began. It started tentatively, one single pair of hands clapping, then like a flash it swept through the assemblage.

  The sound preceded him so that when he came in sight of the lower chamber of the House, the members were already on their feet. A burst of applause greeted his entrance. It rose in volume and pushed against the ceiling and walls of the great room. It mingled with the ovation which the people outside continued to offer.

  He quickened his pace, anxious to reach his seat so that the tribute might end. “Not for me,” he thought. Not today. But when he reached his place and stood there the tremendous sound didn’t abate; it reached a crescendo then softened and died reluctantly.

  Jefferson was the next to arrive. The President watched as the tall aristocratic figure made his way through the room. He was wearing a long blue frock coat and his even patrician features betrayed none of the turmoil that might well be expected of the Vice-president-elect.

  They had often opposed each other in their views, so much so that Jefferson had resigned from the cabinet. But George eyed his old friend affectionately. He would not admit, even to himself, that much as he and Jefferson had differed in many ways, he could warm to the man far better than he could to John Adams.

  He thought of the day in ’76 when the messenger had come to his New York headquarters, bearing a copy of the Declaration of Independence. He’d opened it slowly. For months he’d been begging for a statement like this and fearing it would never come. Even after a year of conflict some members of Congress still talked about an eventual reunion with England. He’d tried to point out that armies must fight for a cause; they must have a goal. Independence was a mighty word. It made it possible for a man to put up with starvation and misery. It drove out fear. And still many of the lawmakers vacillated about making a final break with the mother country.

  Finally he’d been promised that a formal document would be issued. In the hopelessness of that first New York campaign he waited for it and wondered just how weak and carefully hedged it would be. The news that Tom Jefferson was charged with the responsibility of writing it made him cautiously optimistic. Jefferson was young but he wrote with the bold pen of a dedicated man. Then when he read the Declaration and absorbed the full richness and power of it, the majesty and breathtaking vision of it, he exultantly ordered that it be proclaimed to all the troops. That evening he stood at the door of headquarters and watched the expressions on the men’s faces as a booming voice cried: “When in the course of human events . . .”

  A stirring in the chamber announced the fact that the President-elect had arrived. George knew that Adams had ordered a new coach-and-four for this day. He’d refused to let even Patsy make him comment on the fact, but had been content to remind her that they had had a new carriage at the beginning of the first term in New York.

  Patsy had sniffed that there was something about Adams that made you fairly feel as though he should be riding in front with the groom. Again George declined to answer. In the secret recess of his soul he quite agreed. John was a powerful patriot with a brilliant mind, but there was something about the man’s attitude toward himself, at once obsequious and resentful, that was curiously irritating.

  Adams was wearing a handsome pearl-colored broadcloth suit. His sword gleamed at his waist. But his expression was as dour as ever. A pity Mrs. Adams could not be here, George thought. Only she seems to have the talent for putting John at ease.

  Eight years before, Adams had been embarrassed when greeting George, who was to take the oath of the Presidency. Now once again he seemed embarrassed. His nod was nearer to a bow. He seemed too hasty to begin his Inaugural Address.

  George settled back slightly in his chair. It was understandable, the man was nervous. He thought of his own first Inauguration. He remembered the crimson velvet cushion that had held the large leather-covered Bible . . . the cheers of the crowd . . . his own opening words: “No event could have filled me with greater anxiety than that of which the notification was transmitted by your order . . .” He’d wanted them to know that he entered the office aware that he might fail them. Had he failed them? He hoped not.

  Years ago he’d sworn that he would do well.

  Years ago.

  Just suppose it had all worked out that he had been able to go to sea. How different his life might have been. Nearly fifty years ago he’d wanted a nautical career so desperately but his mother refused him her permission. He sighed deeply. Even now, like a learned response, the pulsing anger of that moment came back—the fury, the frustration, the sense of dead end. He leaned forward a bit but he wasn’t hearing John Adams’ address. The rather flat nasal voice seemed to become more clipped and sharp-toned . . . It became his mother’s voice.

  August, 1748

  Ferry Farm

  IT WAS TO LAWRENCE DURING A VISIT TO Mount Vernon that he’d first confided his ambition to become a seaman. Lawrence had agreed with the idea completely, deeming a career at sea “a useful experience.”

  For George the approval of his half-brother, whom he admired very much, had been the final factor in his decision. Lawrence was everything George ever hoped to be himself—a courtly host, well-read, excellent on horseback, an adventurer, a member of the House of Burgesses. Lawrence had had a brief but distinguished military career as Captain of the Marines on the flagship of Lord Vernon during the siege of Cartagena in ’42. And with Lawrence’s help he might be able to get his mother’s permission.

  Lawrence consented to write a note which George brought back to Ferry Farm. The persuasive note had seemed to do the trick. Begrudgingly his mother gave the long-awaited consent. She even had his father’s old chest hauled into his room and attended to his packing. She did not tell him that in her last letter to her brother, Joseph Ball, in England, she’d sought his advice on the subject.

  Joseph Ball’s answer was exactly in keeping with his irascible nature. He suggested that she might just as well apprentice her son to a tinker.

  When the letter came, it hardened Mary Washington’s wavering uncertainty into solid decision. She came to George’s room, ordered him to unpack, and said there would never be further discussion on the subject.

  George stared at his parent, thunderstruck. He could not believe what he’d heard. Then, realizing that there was not the faintest chance of changing his mother’s mind, he stormed out of the house, not caring that the door banged wildly behind him.

  With lightning speed he saddled his horse. A sharp smack against the animal’s side sent it galloping across the field. Harder . . . Faster . . . The wind stung his face. How dare she? How dare she? The hoofbeats were in cadence with his angry thoughts. Keeping him waiting, half promising, changing her mind . . . finally promising. Then at the very moment he was
about to go doing a complete about-face on the word of an uncle he hadn’t laid eyes on in years.

  The injustice! The unfairness! Faster . . . Faster . . . Faster . . . The horse came to a stone wall and unhesitantly scaled it. Distracted for the moment, George bent down and patted the animal’s neck. “Good girl,” he murmured, then realizing that the horse was sweating profusely, he pulled in the reins and slid to the ground.

  He was on the high country and could look down on the farmhouse. The peacefulness of the scene made the fury slowly dissipate and a sense of melancholy took its place. He realized that being at this spot was not an accident. Subconsciously he’d been heading here all the time.

  The year before his father died they’d ridden here together. That was six years ago, when he was ten, and still smarting from the sting of his mother’s switch across his legs. His father said nothing till they dismounted, then told him, “Your mother is quite right that your temper must be controlled. She seems to feel it can be accomplished by making you afraid to give in to it. I feel that you must govern it for a different reason—because you are growing up and it is unmanly and unseemly for you to have temper outbursts.”

  At that point his father came directly up to him and put both hands on his shoulders. “You have strong feelings, my son. Channel them to good,” he said. “You have passionate anger. Channel that into accomplishing manly deeds.”

  In a way the words had bitten more than the rawhide whip. His display of temper had evoked an even stronger display from his mother. Therefore, he’d reasoned, why should he be punished? But his father’s words, spoken as they were, with understanding and sadness made him say, “I will try . . . I will honestly try.”

  From that day till this one he’d carefully curbed his easily aroused anger. And now how could he channel this feeling into accomplishing a manly deed? He wanted to see the world. He wanted to achieve. He didn’t want to stay here, neither boy nor man, held down, checked, the object of his mother’s whims.

  Despairingly his eyes swept the countryside. This farm would become his when he was twenty-one. Already he’d gotten his father’s rusty surveyor’s tools out of the old shed and had begun to practice with them. Already he’d marked off the boundaries of his own land and had even helped his cousins with theirs.

  And beyond this little cluster of farms lay millions of uncharted acres—virgin territory with rich soil and fine lumber. Surveyors were already beginning to explore it, choosing for themselves the most select property. In a generation they’d be men of wealth and substance.

  The thought repeated itself. Could that be the answer? Could not this magnificent country offer even more chance for high adventure and advancement than a life at sea? Surveying was an honorable profession and a valuable one to a landowner. Slowly George mounted his horse and through the gathering dusk rode home.

  The family ate in the large entrance room that doubled as a dining room. His mother looked up from the head of the table when he opened the door and rose abruptly. “In here.” With a jerk of her capped head, she indicated the sitting room to the left.

  Dutifully he followed her in. Since she did not sit down, he too ignored the stiff leather chairs and remained standing. From his great height she seemed small and for the first time, her steely eyes and tight-lipped expression did not intimidate him. “Madame,” he said, “I humbly beg your pardon.”

  There was no relenting in her manner. “It is well that you realize that you have much to beg pardon for. You are not so old, nor so big, that I couldn’t make you dance to a pretty tune.” Her left hand significantly tapped the whip at her belt. “And do you think I would tolerate any child of mine, of any age, flaring from my presence with doors banging and feet clattering on the stairs?”

  Even the tart, unbending retort could not irritate him now. He was suddenly very sorry for this straight-backed woman and mindful of how difficult life must be for her. Ever since his father’s death, mismanagement had been dissipating much of the value of the great acres of land that was the family inheritance. His mother was simply incapable of commanding the loyalty and devotion of her overseers and slaves. In her constant fanaticism about minute details she utterly overlooked the overall failure of the manner in which her affairs were handled. It was time, he reflected, that as her oldest son he tried to help her instead of constantly judging her.

  “Mother,” he said quietly, “I will never again mention any desire to go to sea. Instead I will direct my efforts to surveying and seek to obtain a surveyor’s license. The more I know about land, the better I shall be able to eventually handle our own property and add to it.”

  If he had expected approval, he was disappointed. “High time you started considering a sensible occupation,” his mother snapped. “Provided, of course, this is not yet another of your enthusiasms. Now come out to your dinner.”

  He held her chair at the table, then took his own place and answered Betty’s anxious glance with a wink. No, it is not an enthusiasm, he told himself. It is a future. He could hardly wait for his next visit to Mount Vernon. Lawrence would want to know . . .

  Lawrence not only applauded the plan, but immediately took concrete steps to further it. Pointing his hand in the direction of Belvoir, he said thoughtfully, “Colonel Fairfax is sending trained surveyors to the Shenandoah Valley on an expedition for Lord Fairfax. It would be excellent experience for you if you were included in the party.”

  George felt his face flush with excitement at the prospect. Unseemly bursts of emotion, he warned himself. He was proud that when he spoke, his voice was level and controlled. “Do you think there might be a possibility?”

  “Let’s ride over to Belvoir and see the colonel,” Lawrence proposed. “He already likes you very much and, after all, he is my father-in-law.”

  Colonel Fairfax was in his study. With a nod to his secretary he dismissed the man and his entire attitude suggested that he’d been hopeful of this visit all day. “Well, well,” he said, “it’s good to see my young friend back with us again. And Lawrence—I trust you’re still being a good husband to my daughter. I haven’t seen her in three days, you know.”

  Lawrence laughed. “Anne is an angel, as usual, sir. And in good spirits, too.”

  The colonel looked serious. “Let us pray the Almighty will allow the baby she is carrying to live and thrive. It’s a crushing heartbreak for a young mother to lose three infants.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Now, young Washington, I’m told your seafaring career has been nipped in the bud. What’s the next step? And for heaven’s sake, sit down. I’m not His Majesty, you know.”

  George laughed and selected a chair that would give him room to stretch his long legs. He had a fleeting hope that he’d finally stopped growing. Six feet three and a half was quite enough body to try to manage. As usual he felt his shyness melt in the presence of the affable colonel.

  “I’ve decided to be a surveyor, sir,” he explained. “I’ve been using my father’s tools this past year and I believe I can do accurate work.”

  Colonel Fairfax slapped his hand on his desk. “Excellent. As a matter of fact I’m sending George William on an expedition to mark my cousin’s acreage down the south bend of the Potomac and into the Shenandoah. They’ll be gone about a month. Perhaps you’d consider accompanying the party.”

  “That’s why I’m here, sir,” George said simply.

  “Then it’s settled. It will be good experience for you and you’ll be good company for my son. Do you agree, Lawrence?”

  Lawrence nodded. “My brother is chafing to become a man. I think he’ll get his initiation with the kind of camping out they’ll be doing.”

  George was pondering the idea of being a companion to George William Fairfax. Secretly he was in total awe of the handsome, suave young man who was seven years his senior. Someday he too would dress with the easy grace of George William; he too would always say the right thing at the right moment; he too would inspire respect and devotion from his underlings
.

  “Yes, it will be good for both of you,” Colonel Fairfax mused. “My son is paying court to Wilson Carey’s daughter, Sally, from over near Hampton. ’Twill be an excellent match and they’ll be living here at Belvoir. But it will be well for George William to have a firsthand look at the family holdings since eventually he will inherit much of them.”

  George thought of the Ferry Farm property that would be his. A scrubby, insignificant legacy compared with these magnificent lands along the Potomac. “I must make my own future,” he thought. Idly he wondered about George William’s future bride. Sally Carey must indeed have many attributes if she had conquered the selective heart of the scion of the Fairfax family.

  March 4, 1797

  12:15 P.M.

  Philadelphia

  APPLAUSE FILLED THE CHAMBER AGAIN. This time it was a tribute to the ideals and hopes the President-elect had offered to his country in his Inaugural Address.

  Then Chief Justice Oliver Ellsworth came forth to administer the oath of office. Slowly Adams repeated after the Justice . . . “I, John Adams, do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States.”

  Now the chamber hall was silent. Crammed so that it would have been impossible for one more human being to press into it, the words, shyly spoken, echoed throughout. “I, John Adams, do solemnly swear . . .”

  The tightness of a facial muscle, the brightness in an eye, the quivering of a nostril—nearly every face betrayed deep emotion, sadness as well as pride.

  But George’s countenance was serene and unclouded as he listened to the words that took the mantle of the Presidency from him and rested it on another man. He had wondered about this moment, about how he would feel. He had even feared that he might have a terrible sense of finality even though he badly wanted the release.

  But instead he experienced only pride—pride at the events that had led his country to this moment, pride at the orderly transition of government, pride at the continuity of the infant nation.