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

by Mary Higgins Clark

  He was not let off with that. The legislators of the House of Burgesses were called in to trample on the arguments George offered. They raised his pay; they granted an allowance for his table. “The officers,” he repeated, staring at Dinwiddie, “the officers.”

  At last compromise was reached. George was permitted to name his field officers. When that offer was made, he stopped arguing. Compromise, yes, but a workable one. He could go ahead with confidence. His yes was accepted with alacrity, although he heard Dinwiddie mutter something about upstart young officers, meaning himself, he supposed.

  He found that he needed whatever confidence he could muster in the next few months. As soon as he was back in service the old problems returned tenfold. Supplies were hard to obtain. It was one thing for the legislature to vote taxes to pay the expenses of the regiment, quite another thing to collect them. The men were terrified at the tales of the Indians and sharp discipline had to be put into effect to toughen their backbones.

  Still, all his orders lacked teeth without clear-cut military law to deal with deserters and insubordinate officers. He struggled with the problem from August till October. Then he settled his troops at Fort Cumberland and returned to Williamsburg for the session of the General Assembly. There he discovered that the governor had at last recommended that military law be tightened to deal with deserters and draftees who failed to report.

  He stayed a few days at Williamsburg with friends. By now the report of the activities at Monongahela had been enriched with the passing of time. They had not fought three hundred Indians but sixteen hundred. All the British Regulars had fled, or so went the story. General Braddock had been wounded then rescued from the savages by the Virginia troops under Colonel Washington’s command. The British Regulars had left him to be scalped.

  George was honest enough to be distressed, human enough to enjoy the adulation. As some of his aides commented dryly, they would surely have to pay the balance of the exaggerated praise in the next campaign.

  But at the few balls he stayed to attend, George could feel that people were constantly watching him. He had moments of total gratitude to Sally when the ladies complimented him on his graceful dancing. She had taught him well. Always he returned to thoughts of her but he realized that he was looking with rather a new eye at the unattached young ladies. He had a game he played. If one girl seemed more interesting than the rest, he tried to picture her at Mount Vernon. But somehow, no one looked quite right there.

  He met many new people those days. One of the couples was Daniel and Martha Custis. Mr. Custis came up to him at one of the balls. “I want to congratulate you on your assignment, Colonel,” he said. “We are confident you will speedily attend to our border problems.”

  George liked the pleasant, firm-speaking man. Daniel Custis was in his mid-forties and looked it even though his hair and mustache were still dark. George had heard that the Custis town house in Williamsburg was famed for its hospitality and that the mansion on their plantation was a showplace. He knew too that Daniel Custis was reputed to be an excellent though scrupulously honest businessman and planter. He realized that Daniel Custis was not expressing perfunctory interest but genuinely wanted to discuss the border problem.

  “I don’t know how soon we’ll settle everything,” he said. “The French are entrenched. Our policy toward the natives has been poor. There is much hostility.”

  Daniel said, “Colonel, let’s you and I sit down for a moment. As it is, so much fact and fancy get mixed that I find it hard to believe anything I’ve heard.”

  “Certainly,” George said, but then a small hand touched Daniel’s arm. Both men had been too engrossed to notice that Mrs. Custis had come up and was standing by them. A sheepish look came over Daniel’s face. He put his arm around his wife and gently pulled her forward. “All right, my dear, I know I promised not to talk about the border, the French, the governor. What else was I to avoid tonight?”

  “That does it, I think.” The tone was amused and affectionate and George smiled as Mr. Custis presented him. “Patsy, my dear, I’m sure you know who young Colonel Washington is. My wife, Martha, Colonel Washington.”

  “I am honored, madame.” George realized that Mrs. Custis reminded him of a doll his sister Betty had once had. She was tiny, barely coming up to his chest; she had the same pink-and-white complexion and large brown eyes the doll had had. Her light brown hair was shiny and gathered into curls at the nape of her neck. A pink satin ball gown set off her gently rounded figure.

  When she extended her hand, George felt that he had to be careful not to hold it too tightly; it was so small, it seemed lost in his. She acknowledged the introduction then said, “Colonel Washington, surely you did not get away from the trials of war for a few days so that you could refight them in the drawing room. Daniel, my dear, with all the lovely young ladies here, do you really suppose the colonel wishes to talk politics?”

  Daniel looked rueful. “Since I never notice the lovely young ladies myself—with one single exception—I forget that they might be of interest to others.”

  For an instant George felt shut out. The obvious affection between the two, the adoration which Daniel Custis showed when he looked at his young wife—surely she was younger by twenty years—George felt that he was fated always to see and hear affectionate twosomes, to be always only a witness to happiness.

  Then Mrs. Custis looked at him and there was earnest concern in her face. “I promise not to mention the war, but only say how happy we were, Colonel, that you escaped at Monongahela. Your bravery has become legend.”

  George had learned to accept that compliment gracefully. Why then did it sound as though he’d never heard it before? It was just the tone of sweet sincerity. He bowed and again was aware of the great difference in height between Mrs. Custis and himself. There were times when his great size could still occasionally cause moments of awkwardness. But not now. The admiration that showed in the pretty face that smiled up at him made him feel that he was at least a King’s general.

  The music was struck up and George was about to ask Mrs. Custis for the honor when she smilingly turned to her husband. “Now you did promise you’d dance a bit,” she reminded him. To George she explained, “We’re not really very much the dancers, Daniel and I, but there are a few steps I love to do with him.”

  George watched them as they went onto the ballroom floor. Daniel was stiff and Mrs. Custis danced properly and gracefully but without the flair and instinct of Sally. Then he shrugged impatiently. He did have the gift of finding women most charming when they were irrevocably tied to another man. Resolutely he walked over to one of the pretty Randolph girls. A few minutes later they were whirling around the dance floor and he stopped worrying about the war and about Sally and people who rejoiced in each other and simply enjoyed the fact that he was a good dancer and had an excellent partner.

  March 4, 1797

  1:20 P.M.

  Philadelphia

  TO HER ANXIOUS EYE HIS FACE SEEMED strained and tired. Christopher materialized to take his hat and gloves, but when she took his hand, it was cold almost to numbness.

  Shaking her head, she rubbed first one, then the other of his hands in hers. A glint of amusement showed in his eyes. He bent down to kiss her forehead. “It might take a long time,” he murmured.

  They’d had a standing joke about her tiny hands and his enormous ones.

  “Perhaps the fire will do a more efficient job,” she agreed and asked Christopher to bring the general a glass of wine in the study.

  They went upstairs together in silence. But once in the study, he heaved a great sigh of relief as he shut the door behind them. He walked over to the fire and spread his hands, flexing the fingers.

  She pushed his chair a little nearer the hearth, then sat down facing it. With visible relief he sank into the comfortable chair, then smiled at her.

  He answered her unasked question. “It went very well, I think. Mr. Adams spoke handsomely and his addres
s was well received. He’ll make a fine President.”

  “He’s had a fine example.”

  “Not everybody would agree with that,” he reminded her. “Oh, Patsy, I’m glad to be finished. I’m a tired old man.”

  “I’ve been calling you an old man for a long time,” she reminded him gently.

  “But now it’s true.”

  A discreet tap was heard, then Christopher came in bearing two glasses of clear claret.

  As Patsy sipped hers she thought how similar this moment was to the afternoon that had begun it all, back at the Chamberlayns’ house. After Daniel had died and she’d seen young Colonel Washington again.

  “What are you thinking, Patsy?” he asked.

  “See if you can guess,” she suggested.

  “That you’re glad it’s over . . that you’re anxious to go home . . .”

  “I’m not looking ahead right now, I’m looking back. Do you remember the first time we sat by a fire together?”

  “At the Chamberlayns’, you mean.” He looked reflective. “What could you have seen in me? I must have looked the scarecrow to you.”

  “You’d been so ill.” She realized that in a way the gaunt fatigue on his face now was what had pulled her mind back to that long-ago afternoon. He’d had the same weariness, the same pallor then.

  For a moment they were silent, each absorbed in the memory. Then she felt quick tears in her eyes. She knew he understood them.

  “That was the first time I met Patsy and Jacky,” he said. “That’s what you’re thinking.”

  She barely nodded. “I was thinking about them,” she said softly, “and that from that first afternoon, they loved you . . . just as I did . . . just as I did.”

  March, 1758

  The Chamberlayns’ near Williamsburg

  WHEN GEORGE RODE UP THE FRONT steps of the Chamberlayns’ sprawling manor house, Bishop helped him dismount and took the reins to lead his horse away. Both Bishop and the horse had been the deathbed legacy of Braddock. He’d had them nearly three years now and found it hard to realize he’d ever managed without Bishop. Certainly the man’s careful nursing had pulled him through this long siege.

  George was dismayed to feel the weakness that still came as soon as he stood on his legs. Well, at least, by heaven, there was something to show for it this time. Not progress, really, but not the amateur performance of being trapped.

  Progress. He almost laughed at the word. A year and a half of trying to defend the border with not enough soldiers, not enough supplies, with recruits forever deserting. With the newspapers printing articles on the drunkenness of the officers, as though they’d been having a debauchery in the miserable quarters they’d been forced to use. With the contentious old governor and his own problem about who was in command. For the past year his authority had been challenged by a captain in the British Regulars.

  And the illness which sapped his strength so that he could hardly stand. The weeks of doctoring without result. In God’s name, he was disgusted. He regretted the impulse that had brought him to this house. He should have ridden on and gone directly to Williamsburg. Sick or well he had to get back to his post. Certainly in his present frame of mind he wasn’t fit company for anyone.

  He said abruptly, “You’d better eat your dinner early. We’ll not stay long.”

  Bishop was obviously neither offended nor subdued by the brusque tone. “Colonel, sir, you’ll feel better once you been inside a bit. You cold and tired now. You have a nice time.”

  It was for him a fairly personal speech. His concern was more likely to be expressed in his actions and attitude. George smiled wanly, warmed by the man’s solicitude, then turned and went up the stairs.

  He had expected that there would be other guests. The Chamberlayns were a large family and their home was always overflowing. They met him in the foyer. Major Chamberlayn pumped his hand, while the major’s wife kissed his cheek and commented in shocked tones on his gaunt appearance.

  Then they escorted him into the parlor. There were a number of people in the room, but he was not prepared for the person who was sitting quietly in a slipper chair by the roaring fire.

  Patsy Custis was dressed in a black gown, which startlingly set off the creamy whiteness of her flawless skin. The soft brown hair that had been bunched in curls at the nape of her neck when he last saw her was now drawn simply into a bun. Little wisps still curled around her forehead, giving her an appealing, childish look. Her brown eyes, large and wide apart in her oval face, had an expression of sadness quite different from the affectionate warmth they’d shown last year.

  George hurried through his greetings to the other guests then went over to Patsy. He felt the eyes of the others on him but didn’t realize that Mrs. Chamberlayn was deliberately steering them away from the hearth. He was only aware of the quiet figure whose sad face was brightened by her welcoming smile.

  “Mrs. Custis—”

  “Colonel Washington—” Then her expression became shocked. “Oh, but you haven’t been well.”

  She, of all people, to be so concerned. He brushed aside her reference to his illness. It was he who must properly express sympathy.

  “Oh, I’ll be quite all right soon. But may I extend my sympathy on the loss of your dear husband.”

  For an instant there was a suspicion of tears in the large brown eyes but then as she quietly said, “thank you,” Mrs. Chamberlayn stepped up to them.

  “Yes,” she said briskly, “Patsy has had a very bad time and so have you, young Colonel, and now we shall all rejoice that the year is still relatively new and I’m convinced it will be a happy one for all.”

  Some of the others in the room had heard. There was a ripple of amusement as Major Chamberlayn said, “You must realize, Colonel, that my wife is a perpetual optimist. To her the year is still new in March. She can see spring in the air when in actuality there are ten inches of snow on the ground. And she even insists that all the novels she reads have a happy ending.”

  Mrs. Chamberlayn was not even slightly discouraged. “Of course I do. Now you must admit you told me that George would never come, and here he is, if somewhat the worse for wear.”

  George ruefully accepted the judgment of his appearance. He knew his uniform hung loosely on his shoulders, that his color was ashen, his expression drawn. For an instant he had a recollection of the time eight years before when he’d been so sick with the pox and was glad Sally wasn’t there to see the harsh pustules.

  Why was it that now, he, who was so vain of his appearance—in private meditations with the Almighty he admitted to that sin—was not ashamed to be seen looking like a gaunt scarecrow by Patsy Custis.

  Patsy Custis . . . the name brought a question. When the others stopped paying attention, he drew a chair beside hers and said, “Mrs. Custis . . . my curiosity is consuming me. Twice now—at the ball last year and just now—I heard you called ‘Patsy.’”

  There was a hint of a blush. “My father said that Martha was much too formal a name. He called me ‘Patsy’ instead.”

  “It suits you well.” George remembered that the first time he’d met her, he’d thought of an exquisite doll. He remembered too the look of absolute love that Daniel had bestowed on his wife. It would not be hard to . . .

  With a start he realized that the conversation had once more become general and that Major Chamberlayn was asking him about the last year at the Ohio front.

  He leaned forward, slowly turned the glass in his hand, and concentrated on his answer.

  “I think that we could have won this war long since except for the fact that we live too long with every problem before it is solved. I can’t tell you how impossible it was to maintain discipline before we finally got a deserters’ law with some teeth in it. I can’t tell you the difficulties with our suppliers. By heaven, we should deal harshly with those men who fatten their pocketbooks on government money and then deliver meat so foul-smelling it has to be buried.”

  He leaned forw
ard, warming to his subject. “And command. Surely, sir, you know that at the front, in a battle, in a war, on a plantation, in a government, there has got to be a definitive chain of command. Impossible to have the situations such as we’ve encountered, where a captain with a royal commission plays the king to a captain with a Colonial commission even though the governor has designated the latter as commander.”

  He finished abruptly, feeling slightly uncomfortable. He was usually too reserved to discuss his opinions or army affairs like this, but the wine, the comfortable room, the balm of being with good friends had loosened his tongue.

  He needn’t have worried. Major Chamberlayn nodded vigorously. “Of course the trouble originates in England where our King changes with the opinion of whichever counselor has his ear and will not accept as worthwhile any reports he gets from a Colonial.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s quite that bad.” George was shocked. One simply did not criticize the King.

  “I’m speaking the truth,” Major Chamberlayn said. “Mark my words, the clash between Colonial and royal commission is only one of a thousand tiny rubs. And it’s only the beginning.”

  “And before you warm to your subject, we shall call a truce.” Mrs. Chamberlayn rose gracefully. “I see that dinner is ready.”

  George rose too and extended an arm to Patsy. With a smile she accepted it and they went into the dining room together.

  The long table was filled with all kinds of tempting food but George barely touched it. Anything too rich would still send his system into spasms, and prudently he nibbled on dry bread and sipped clear broth. He could see the concern in Patsy’s eyes as she glanced at him from under long lashes. He was seated at Mrs. Chamberlayn’s right and Patsy was next to him.