It is the next generation, thought Martha, who’ll have to pick up the pieces if we go to war, either with England or, God help us, with France on England’s behalf. It was for them that George had issued his Proclamation of Neutrality, and neither England nor France seemed to understand the meaning of the word: He who is not with me is against me.
“But don’t you see, the French will help us clear the British out of the Great Lakes forts!” Pennsylvania Governor Mifflin’s voice carried over the subdued chatter as footmen, liveried in white and scarlet, came in to light the candles. “They’ve refused for years to live up to the treaty terms that demand them to leave—”
“And you think having the forts in the hands of those lunatics in Paris is going to be an improvement?” countered Robert Morris. “It’s all very well for the French to swear they’ll be our allies, but considering they can’t even keep their own people from murdering one another I doubt they’d be much help to us if the British came back.”
Across the room, Washington signaled Steptoe with a glance and the two of them moved in on the trouble-spot. Before they could reach the Governor and the merchant, however, the drawing-room doors swung open and Citizen Genêt stood framed in them, clothed, not in the long-tailed coat and knee-breeches of polite society, but in trousers, top-boots, and a coat of such military cut as to give the impression of a uniform. A young man—thirty—of medium height, he was, Martha supposed, good-looking enough, except his skin was bad, his teeth worse, and his manners more deplorable than either.
“Citizen Washington!” Édouard Genêt had a voice trained to cut through the hubbub of gatherings and, presumably, frenzied mobs. Martha saw George’s eyes open wide in startlement at this completely undiplomatic form of address, and, at his elbow, saw Jefferson wince. She could almost feel sorry for the man. He had spent the past three months praising Genêt and trying to smooth over the feelings of those he’d offended—and trying to mediate between the Cabinet, the Congress, and Genêt’s increasingly threatening demands.
“You have toyed with me, avoided me, and set your face against the obligations of your country long enough!” Genêt cried, striding forward. “I must and will speak to you, and remind you of your duty—and your country’s duty—not only to the nation to which you owe your liberty, but to Liberty Herself.”
Stunned silence fell on the room. Jefferson, looking as if he were about to become prey to one of his worst migraines, started to move toward Genêt, but Washington raised his hand. His face wore that calm, stony expression that was worse, Martha knew, than shouting rage.
“Please come into my study, Monsieur Genêt,” he said in his most even voice. “I’m sure we will be more comfortable there than among all these people.”
Martha thought for a moment that Genêt would stand his ground—the Frenchman looked like he’d have preferred to make a speech in front of an audience rather than have a private interview—but since he was about to get the conversation he’d demanded he couldn’t very well complain that he didn’t like the venue. As James opened the door for them to the private quarters at the rear of the house, George bowed to the room and said, “If the company will please excuse me.”
In the silence, the quiet closing of the door was like a gunshot. Martha suspected that every person there, had he or she been alone, would immediately have rushed to the study door and put an ear to the keyhole.
She knew she would have.
Instead, she signaled Nelly with her eye, calling her like a general beating commands to troops with a drum in battle. Picked out others she could trust in the room—the lovely Ann Bingham, at twenty-nine Philadelphia’s most prominent hostess; Hamilton’s graceful wife Betsey; Helena Pennington, the wife of one of the wealthiest Quaker merchants; Elizabeth Drinker, virtual queen of Philadelphia’s Quaker society; Elizabeth Powel and Maria Morris and others who ruled the city’s society. Whether their husbands were pro-French or pro-British, these ladies knew, exactly and instinctively, what they had to do, what any woman of proper upbringing would do in a like situation in her own drawing-room: break up the political claques before the entire gathering degenerated into a shouting-match.
Beside her, Adams had turned bright pink with fury and Hamilton’s blue eyes fairly snapped. “Did you see Jefferson’s face? I swear the man is in the pay of the French!”
“Nonsense, Hammy, if Tom were in the pay of the French he wouldn’t be in debt.” Martha laid a gently restraining hand upon the golden man’s elbow. “Now tell me honestly, do you really think when the year 1800 rolls around, there will be any buildings in the new Federal City for us to occupy? Or will poor Mrs. Adams—” She turned with a smile to her husband’s Vice President, “—be obliged to hold her receptions in a tent?”
Hammy looked as if he were about to rail at her: How could she possibly speculate about domestic architecture when Philadelphia stood on the brink of erupting into flaming riot with an invading force of French sailors? But furious as he was—and Hammy had a vicious temper—the Secretary of the Treasury knew better than to shout at any lady at a reception, much less the wife of the man who had been his Commander in Chief for almost twenty years.
“I’m sure it won’t come to that, Lady Washington,” he replied, with a steely rictus of a smile. “The rest of us may be dwelling in tents, but I’m sure the Senate will organize a barn-raising, as they do on the Ohio frontier.” And he inclined his head to his lovely Betsey, who appeared at his side to take his arm.
Martha had lived on a plantation long enough to know that the best way to keep a bull from charging is to bring his favorite cow into his line of sight. She turned her attention to Adams. The room was quieting down, though no one left. After some twenty minutes the inner door opened again and George returned, escorting Édouard Genêt with every appearance of cordiality through the room—unobtrusively permitting him to talk to no one—and to the head of the stairs. There, after a firm handshake, the footmen took over and saw him out.
Within minutes, Jefferson, Jack Eppes, and Maria made their good-nights. Jefferson was pale and looked ill. “And why shouldn’t he?” demanded Hamilton snidely. “He’s been urging everyone in the Cabinet for weeks to give Genêt money to fund a French expedition against Canada and Louisiana.” He spoke loudly enough to make certain Jefferson heard. Martha saw the Secretary of State’s back stiffen, as he paused in the doorway, but Jefferson didn’t turn back.
In his wake, Aaron Burr and young Steptoe Washington departed together, heads close in soft-voiced talk.
Martha didn’t learn the content of the conversation with Genêt until late the following day, and by that time, she had other matters to worry about. After the reception was over and Oney had undressed her, locked up her jewels, and brushed the powder from her hair, she spent most of the night sitting up with Pollie. She, the maid, and Tobias took it turn and turn about, to sponge the sick woman’s body with cool water, or as cool as they could manage from the well. By morning Pollie seemed to rest a little easier, but there were times when she barely seemed to recognize those around her. Just after full daylight Dr. Rush arrived and bled her. It didn’t seem to relieve the fever, but she did sink into sleep.
Martha would have liked to do the same.
Every woman who had been at the reception, however, came to call, and Martha got all the political clamor she—and they—had succeeded in quashing the previous evening. This morning, at least, she was spared red faces, foul language, and the danger of anyone calling anyone out. “It isn’t as if M’sieu Genêt doesn’t know any better,” sniffed Lucy Knox, the Secretary of War’s stout, outspoken wife. “Ann Bingham tells me his father was the head of the Bureau of Translations under the King, and his sister a lady-in-waiting to the poor Queen.”
“I was barely able to shut my eyes all night,” gasped Eliza, “for sheer terror through the dark hours…”
“You certainly gave a good impression of being able to,” said Nelly imperturbably. “You snore. Will you have swee
t cakes, Mrs. Knox, or bread and butter?”
“I do not snore!”
“I hear you through the wall.”
“Mrs. Washington.” James the footman appeared in the doorway, imposing in his livery and snowy powdered wig. He’s coming up on his six months, thought Martha, in a combination of annoyance and regret. Due to Pennsylvania’s law that any slave dwelling there would be declared free after six months, she found herself obliged to send each of the servants back to Mount Vernon periodically on a variety of trumped-up errands. It played havoc with her housekeeping and irritated her at a deeper level, that the laws of property would be one way in one state, and different in another. Wasn’t that what the new Constitution was supposed to fix? It was particularly maddening because she didn’t want to be living in Philadelphia in the first place. The British had never paid them for slaves they’d carried off during the Revolution, either.
“Yes, James, what is it?”
The footman stepped close—which in itself told her there was some sort of problem that would need sorting out—and held out his salver to her. The single card on its polished surface read, Mrs. John Todd. “Two ladies are here asking to see you, ma’am. A Mrs. Todd, and a Mrs. Payne.” His face was absolutely immobile and his voice without inflection.
Something was definitely amiss.
“Eliza, dearest, would you take over for me?” Martha asked. “I shall see Mrs. Payne and Mrs. Todd in the dining-room, James.” Even with all the additions she and George had requested to the red-brick mansion, there still wasn’t really enough room for their extended family, especially when Pattie and Eliza came to visit.
The question of tea for the newcomers would, of course, be decided when she ascertained who they were. It wasn’t only rioters bent on demanding war with France who came to the door of the red-brick house on High Street. As had been the case at Mount Vernon, old soldiers who had served with George would sometimes appear, or visitors from other towns whom Martha had never seen in her life.
Martha seated herself at the family dining-room’s small table and folded her hands. A moment later James ushered in a tall, powerfully built woman in the rusty black of home-dyed mourning: cotton chintz in the cut of a respectable working-woman’s dress. Behind her, the young woman who was clearly her daughter—and taller still—was also in mourning, though her gown was more fashionably cut and of far better fabric. The black must have been hellish in the morning’s heat, but it complemented the younger woman’s porcelain-fair complexion and jewel-blue eyes, and the sable curls neatly confined under a plain cap. Certainly the softer modern lines suited her extremely advanced state of pregnancy.
More advanced, Martha judged, than was proper for a woman to be walking abroad, unless the matter were quite serious indeed.
“Mrs. Washington.” The older woman held out her hand. Properly gloved, Martha saw, though the glove was worn and mended, and, like the dress, home-dyed black. It left smudges on Martha’s lace mitt. “I am Mrs. Payne; please excuse me, that I have no card.” A Virginian, by her soft drawn-out vowels, and well-bred. “My daughter, Mrs. John Todd, the wife of a lawyer of this town.”
“I see thee stare in amazement, Mrs. Washington,” added Mrs. Todd, with a fleeting sparkle in her blue eyes. “But if there can be Quaker generals, surely there can be Quaker lawyers.”
And Martha smiled back, though Mrs. Payne’s lips tightened at her daughter’s wit. Tightened resignedly, as if in losing battle against an incurably spritely nature. The mother went on, “For two years now I have operated a boardinghouse on Third Street; a number of gentlemen of the Congress have rooms there, and many more take their meals with us. Among them is thy nephew, Mr. Steptoe Washington. ’Twas there that he came to know my daughter Lucy.”
Martha shut her eyes. It was an opening line straight out of a romantic novel, the kind that involved some calculating harpy—frequently a boardinghouse landlady—turning up on the doorstep of a silly young man’s wealthy family crying the seduction and rape of her daughter.
Yet one look at Mrs. Payne’s lined face and grief-filled eyes told Martha this was no entangling madame out for a wealthy family’s hush-money.
“What’s happened?” she asked gently. “How far has it gone? And James,” she added, raising her voice slightly, “please bring tea for myself and my guests.”
When the servant left, Mrs. Payne silently handed Martha a note.
Dearest Mother, said the rather unformed hand. By the time thou readst this I shall be far from home, and a married woman.
“My daughter is fifteen,” said Mrs. Payne. “We found her bed empty this morning. This note was on the sideboard as we cleared up after breakfast.”
Into Martha’s mind snapped at once the image of her nephew, handing a note to little Aaron Burr. Of the two men leaving together, almost furtively, in the wake of Jefferson’s departure. “Is Senator Burr one of your guests?”
Mrs. Payne seemed startled at the guess. “He is so indeed, and a good friend of our family. Colonel Burr is one of the few men I’ve met who doth share my opinion on the education of young women.”
And how many other notes, Martha wondered, suddenly effervescent with wrath, has the Senator carried between my nephew and his landlady’s daughter?
She leaned across the table and took Mrs. Payne’s hands. Hard hands, beneath the glove-leather, probably work-calloused the way Abigail Adams’s were by years of lye soap. “Mrs. Payne,” she said, “I promise you, you have nothing to fear. Steptoe is a harebrained boy, but he’s no seducer. His word is his bond.”
Which wasn’t entirely true, at least as far as his gambling debts were concerned. But in this case George would jolly well see to it that Steptoe’s word was his bond, even if it did mean bringing another under-aged child—and the daughter of Aaron Burr’s landlady at that!—into the family, as Jacky had long ago done.
“If he has promised marriage to your daughter, he will indeed hold to it.”
At this Mrs. Payne turned her face aside and wept. Disengaging her hands, she rose quickly and hurried from the room, leaving Martha disconcerted.
The pretty Mrs. Todd rose, as if to follow her, then turned back. “Mrs. Washington, I thank thee, more than I can say, and my mother, too. I know thy nephew’s a well-meaning boy—I am often at Mama’s house, and know many of her guests. ’Tis not that Mama is ungrateful, to thee or to the President, for whatever thou canst do on Lucy’s behalf. But Mama—She is a good member of the Congregation of Friends, and hath spent her life trying to lead us in the path of righteousness. And for marrying outside the Congregation, Lucy will be ‘read out,’ ejected from the Meeting and from all the Society. In saving her daughter’s honor, my mother hath lost her child, and I my sister.”
She held out a gloved hand to Martha: black kid, newer than her mother’s, and leaving no mark where it touched. “Nevertheless I thank thee, ma’am. And though I see in thine eyes that thou hast thy doubts—as who would not, for Steptoe is but a boy—I can at least promise thee, that thou wilt have for thy niece one of the sweetest jewels that ever God made.”
When the two ladies had gone Martha returned to her drawing-room, excused herself to the ladies there, and drew Nelly aside. “I need you to come with me to your cousin Steptoe’s lodgings—and not a word to the others, please. We’ll take Richmond with us, I think. Goodness knows, after last night, what sort of trouble may be brewing in the streets.”
But as they walked the three or four blocks to Steptoe’s lodgings the streets were quiet, though men clustered around the doors of the taverns favored by the Democratic-Republicans, and angry voices could be heard inside. When George had refused to pay the French the whole of America’s war debt to fund an invasion of Spanish Louisiana, broadsides had begun appearing. They called the American people to rise against Washington’s “despotism”—to overthrow it, if necessary, in the cause of a liberty that only a strong alliance with France could provide. The freedom of this country is not secure, trumpeted
the Columbian Gazetteer, until that of France is placed beyond the reach of accident.
God only knew where it would end. It was said that the French Queen was in one of the most wretched prisons of Paris now, awaiting execution. The whole world, it seemed, stood on the brink of flames.
At Steptoe’s lodgings, the landlord informed them that young Mr. Washington had departed early that morning. He would be gone some weeks, he had said. No, he hadn’t said where.
“Harewood,” said Martha grimly, as she, Nelly, and Richmond retraced their steps back toward High Street. Harewood Plantation—originally owned by George’s younger brother Sam whose death back in 1782 had thrown the care of Steptoe, Lawrence, and Harriot onto George in the first place—lay in the western part of Virginia, in the Shenandoah Valley. It was a week by carriage. “When your grandpapa returns we’ll see about sending a messenger. Not Mr. Lear,” she added, her face clouding. Since Dr. Rush had left, Martha had been upstairs to Pollie’s room two or three times, and found the girl whispering with fever, even in her sleep.
“Will Pollie be all right?” asked Nelly. Walking at Martha’s side in her schoolgirlish white muslin, she had already, Martha reflected, the demeanor of a young woman. And then, more softly, “Will everything be all right, Grandmama?”
Martha tried to remember the things that had troubled and frightened her when she was fourteen. Her father’s constant worries about his debts to British factors and whether the tobacco-crop would cover them; the never-ending fear of a slave uprising, or of individual slave vengeances. The fact that, at fourteen, she was being fitted with the corsets and dresses of womanhood with an eye to finding her a husband.
Patriot Hearts: A Novel of the Founding Mothers Page 23
