Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  “I am at your pleasure, Mademoiselle.” He leaned near her. “As for my crème, I shall be sure to dulcify it for you.”

  It seemed to Mary that the chef found Temperance’s superciliousness quite engaging, while Temperance nearly winced at the close proximity.

  She interrupted for Temperance’s sake and looked right at the dessert in François’s hand. “Splendid! As we await snowfall outside, you have brought a touch of radiant frost inside.”

  “A day for celebration, Mademoiselle Philipse!” François happily responded, still holding the tray of snowballs.

  “Miss Polly, good day.” Temperance approached her with a long dish holding small sampling bowls. “Just for you, I have created an orange pudding, as well as a lemon pudding, a millet pudding, carrot pudding, quince pudding, apricot pudding, white pear and plum-apple pudding.”

  “The sweetness that brings me to the kitchen every time.” Mary noticed Temperance’s nervousness around François. Naming each pudding—it wasn’t like her to do that.

  “Rice pudding, custard pudding, bread pudding, chestnut pudding, prune pudding,” added Temperance. For the last, she handed Mary a specially crafted blue-and-white Canton bowl containing Mary’s favorite. “For our Miss Polly, the pretty almond pudding.”

  “They’ve arrived!” The heiress examined the porcelain she suggested be ordered for the special occasion from Ching-te-chen. With the family’s influence, the East India Trading Company shipped with urgency the entire table set for the banquet. “And without breakage?”

  “Not a one, Miss Polly.”

  “If you please,” said François, bringing over additional samples of his own. “For you, crème au chocolat, crème de café, crème au zeste d’orange, crème de vin du Rhin, crème croquante, crème à la fleur de vanille.”

  “Merci beaucoup. Je suis impatiente de tous deguster. At present, the pretty almond pudding will do my stomach just fine.”

  “Then all of them we shall display. A fine table it shall be!” François returned to his pot as well as to his serenade.

  Temperance walked with Mary as she enjoyed the sample of pretty almond pudding.

  “Your admirer’s eyes remain on you,” whispered Mary.

  “He is impossible.”

  “Impossibly handsome.”

  “Impossibly French.”

  Temperance walked Mary through the many dishes that would be served during dinner, beginning with Mary’s special request, the salamongundy—a salad dish of edible flowers, herbs, small onions, string beans, boiled eggs, grapes, and lemon-roasted chicken with an oil dressing beaten with vinegar, salt, and pepper.

  The guests would be treated to a culinary extravaganza this night. For years, Mary helped Temperance write and rewrite recipes to attain the perfect combination of flavors. Now Mary reviewed the menu, hopeful the dishes would be to Colonel Washington’s liking.

  “Scotch collops, leg of lamb, rump of beef, roasted duck, and loaf of oysters,” Temperance added. “The French influence for Lord Frederick will be in the lapereaux aux truffes and the côtes de boeuf à la Sainte Menoux. Your brother has asked that catsup be served as well.”

  “Catsup?” Mary could see that Temperance was pleased with her work. “A perfect choice. Papa, too, would have enjoyed that.” The offerings were more than Mary could have imagined. This was the first time in longer than she could remember that the home was so filled with activity. Since the devastating loss of Mary’s sister Margaret, her father, and, of course, her mother, the manor had never been so alive. “Everyone would have relished in this glorious feast.”

  Tenderly, Temperance took hold of Mary’s hand. “Miss Polly, a proud night is before you.” Temperance knew more than most about the Philipses, their joys and their grief.

  Trying to regain her composure, trying to find her calm, her eyes began to fill. “I find it difficult to rejoice when we have been through much sorrow.” Her whole being was thrust into an anxious state. She exited the kitchen. Her pace quickened as she moved into the hall. Furniture was being moved out of the foyer to make space.

  Those crowds! She thought of the poking and prodding, the bumping of shoulders, the accidental and intentional brushing of a hand here, a hip there, the hollow chatter, meaningless queries, and the hall stifling from the fetor of hair powder. She knew scores of eyes would be on her on a night like tonight. The questions would be endless: Why had she not attended any recent balls or banquets? A crush of people would soon fill the room. The barrage she imagined made her feel dizzy.

  Her legs grew weak. She pictured her shoes slipping through muddy ground. A chill ran through her. That night—the one when she lost her mother—plunged her spirit into a depth so deep, she had never recovered. It didn’t matter that one of the guests was the hero of the South. It didn’t matter that the dancing master’s freedom might depend on her. Her brother’s wishes were inconsequential. What occupied her thinking was the horde, her unease, and especially the disquieting presence of the man of her nightmares; just the smell of him triggered her return to the torment.

  She needed to run. Hide. Get away. The same as she had done time and time again.

  * * *

  PALE BLUE.

  She liked that color best.

  Mary often lost track of the hours when she was in here, painting. She came to this room in the cellar when she needed to escape. It was a place to hide from the distress that often disturbed her countenance.

  She delicately dried nature and gently glossed over death with the color on her paintbrush. This was madness; she knew that. Blossoms bereft of life she brought back to brightness with the stroke of her brush.

  “Every flower must emerge from the darkness to bathe in the light,” she remembered her mother often telling her on those mornings they gathered blooms at Hudson’s Hook and tied them into a bunch with a red satin ribbon. Spring was her mother’s favorite time of year. And Mary fondly recalled her younger sister with them, vivacious and exuberant, frolicking about with her bare feet on tender grasses.

  Years later, Mary cut wildflowers to be placed at Margaret’s bedside when the sickness took hold of her. Day after day, Mary held a handkerchief, careful to conceal her emotion, while sitting outside the door of the bedchamber, the one Mary was ordered not to enter. Every day, she would sing her sister a melody. She sang it now:

  If to me as true thou art

  As I am true to thee, sweetheart

  We’ll hear one, two, three, four, five, six

  From the bells of Aberdovey.

  Hear one, two, three, four, five, six

  Hear one, two, three, four, five and six

  From the bells of Aberdovey.

  Margaret would clap along—one, two, three, four, five, six—albeit feebly. Until one day there was silence. A deafening emptiness fell upon the home.

  “I remember that song.” Mary hadn’t heard Frederick come into the cellar room. As he spoke, he crouched to avoid garlands of dried autumn leaves she’d placed above the entry. A few leaves fell loose. “You wouldn’t leave her door until you heard Margaret clap her hands to six with you. On a night like tonight, the little rascal would have been dancing till the sun rose. What of the time she pulled the peruke right off of Lord Livingston?”

  The moment came clear in her mind.

  “Robert the Elder ran from the center of the room, chasing after her for it,” she said.

  “Right in the middle of the minuet.”

  “On his face was dread, with not a hair upon his head.”

  His rhyme about the curmudgeon always made her laugh.

  Frederick placed his hands in his pockets. “You are aware, Polly, that you cannot remain hidden away forever.”

  She turned back to her brushstrokes. He did not understand her. How could he? How could anyone? She felt as if her soul had been shattered, and its broken shards with their jagged edges piercing her heart. Over the years, Mary attempted to carry on by building an impenetrable wall to block her emoti
ons. Many times her brother tried to relieve her misery. And for that she was grateful. He always told her their deaths—Elbert’s, Mother’s, Father’s, Margaret’s—were not her fault. Mary knew the truth. She could have reached for the flower from Elbert. She could have stayed away from her father and from Margaret. Mary knew she was not just the cursed one; she was the one damned to stay alive.

  “I know I’m not Father. I would do more for you if I knew how.”

  The woe that gripped her had remained for so long.

  For too long.

  She arose.

  In the distance, the bells of St. John’s Church sounded. Eric Arthur pledged he would watch for the hero’s arrival. His signal to her would be one lasting chime, give it time to echo, and follow that with two more in quicker succession.

  “Come, Polly, your tomorrow awaits you,” said Frederick. “First, however, we may need to remove this nature from your hair.”

  “Mine? Wait until you see the mess you’ve made of yours.”

  The bells sounded again.

  One slow followed by two fast.

  Colonel George Washington had arrived.

  Chapter Six

  The Hero Washington

  … I do not think vanity is a trait of my character.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  George’s horse left the dirt and moved onto the cobblestones of Albany Post Road in the town of Yonkers. The colonel rode atop a superb chestnut bay. The coaches following behind him were elegantly covered with an embroidered coat of arms on the material. The crest displayed a bird that looked like an eagle sitting atop a white shield of stars and stripes, and beneath the shield, the name George Washington was hand-stitched.

  Trailing pine from a line of evergreens welcomed George to the New York Colony.

  He listened to the clangs coming from the belfry of an enormous stone church. One slow followed by two fast.

  “He comes. He comes.” George could hardly believe his ears, until he heard the townspeople shout his name clearly. “The hero Washington, he comes!” The hero Washington. He never would have expected to be recognized in such a way. Quite a site of pageantry it was. George watched what seemed to be hundreds of people lining the path to greet him.

  The cheers grew louder. “The hero Washington has arrived!” Throngs of people applauded him and those riding with him, including Mercer and Stewart. Mercer seemed more interested in gazing at the belles. George reminded him of a rule he himself followed: Play not the peacock, looking everywhere about you to see if you be well deck’t.

  “He comes! The hero, he comes!” Young ladies threw flower petals before him.

  A lady with pointed spectacles hanging on a chain loudly shouted from just feet away.

  “The most handsome man mine eyes have ever beheld!”

  “One touch of him!” exclaimed another lady with hair piled high above her head as she pushed through the crowd. “I must have just one touch!” Her actions became so intense that at one point a child in her path, a little girl with ginger hair, fell to the ground. In a panic, others hollered at the woman. George stopped the cavalcade until the child was upright. Without hesitation, the girl raced with one leg limping to embrace the woman with the pointed glasses, and cried out, “Huzza!”

  Before him now lay the handsome estate of the Philipse family, surrounded by massive mills with cascading water. The powerful rushes fell to the grand Hudson River. A Georgian-style mansion by the water’s edge looked even more impressive as he drew closer. It exuded wealth from its symmetrical design and classic detail. Two formal entries were accented with pilasters. Three floors high, the house had eight windows across the front and five windows at the side of the second floor. Large chimneys reached into the sky. A viewing rail sat upon the roof.

  The cavalcade stopped before the path that led to the mansion. A bronze tablet, polished to perfection, caught George’s attention. It was situated to the left of the walkway, engraved with the family’s coat of arms, a crowned lion issuing from a coronet. Today George felt polished to perfection as well. Refined. A man of honor. It had taken him years of hard work to achieve this. New Yorkers, he thought, were a fine people indeed.

  George dismounted. A kindly fellow received him. “We are honored with your arrival at the town of Yonkers-on-Hudson, Colonel Washington. Joseph Chew’s the name. I shall tend to your horses. If I might further assist, please make me aware.”

  As he was about to answer, someone with a familiar face approached. George quickly tipped his hat to Chew before greeting Major Beverley Robinson. Fifteen years it had been since seeing his good friend.

  “Colonel Washington, my congratulations on your success with command of the Virginia Regiment.”

  “We’ve certainly come a long way, friend, from throwing rocks across the Rappahannock.” George could recall clearly the days they spent on the farm together, riding horses, and trying not to get into too much trouble with George’s mother.

  “If I remember correctly, it was only you who got them straight away to the other side of the river.” Beverley pretended to toss one in the air.

  “A long wait for the ferry will do that.”

  “It was rocks then. Today we could use silver dollars.” Beverley patted his coat pocket.

  “Silver dollars? Those would remain safe in my pocket.”

  A grinning Robinson escorted George to the dignitaries lined up to greet him. As George approached them, he followed his rule for meeting the dignified classes: In pulling off your hat to persons of distinction, as noblemen, justices, churchmen and company, make a reverence, bowing more or less according to the custom of the better bred, and quality of the person.

  “May I introduce Colonel George Washington. A man of such strength that I’ve witnessed him throw … a silver dollar across … the Potomac River.”

  Before George were the distinguished gentlemen of the town. He could tell this from their voices, which were as sophisticated as their costume. They seemed to take Beverley’s story as truth. The Potomac was twice as wide as the Rappahannock. George tried to correct him, but the major wouldn’t have it and continued on with introductions to the heads of the Livingston, Jay, Van Cortlandt, and Delancey families. George took note as he approached a Delancey, who was announced as the town’s sheriff. He gave George no greeting whatsoever.

  Chapter Seven

  The Pleasure Ball

  ’Tis true I profess myself a votary of love …

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  Mary could hear the revelry downstairs and it made her worry. What if her spirit failed her? What if she ran off in the middle of a minuet? What if the fog of hair powders enveloped her, dragged her down, and choked her? Please, Mary, no, she told herself. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass her family again. She’d done enough of that.

  She shut her eyes and begged her mind to go blank as the sounds of instrumentalists playing Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major reached her room. She stood as still as possible while the abigails tightened her corset. She found this difficult, for she was trembling inside. With her swift transformation under way, she took in the Chaenomeles speciosa. It must have been Susannah who had placed the flowering quince branches in her bedchamber. The pink blooms combined sweet and fresh and sultry in one bold fragrance.

  The swoosh of her door swinging open startled her.

  Dressmaker Rosie hurried into the room. “Pull it tighter!” She carried precious Lulu on her hip. “He’s a vision, Miss Polly!” Rosie’s bun sat even more disheveled than usual. “A vision!” She tried to catch her breath. “Colonel Washington. The chap came close ’nough for me to ’bout touch him. Almost got ahold of his big paws.” She had a jolly laugh. “We saw the hero. Didn’t we, darlin’?”

  Lulu nodded feverishly, hanging on to her mother tightly. The little girl’s hair was in crooked pigtails, one high, one low.

  Rosie made her way to the gown and placed Lulu down. The child hopped on one foot to Mary and threw her arms aroun
d her, which caused Mary’s hair to come loose from the waterfall braid being completed. All of this caused a scramble not just among the lady’s maids but also in Mary’s conflicted spirits. A vision. Mary always knew he would be. She tried to calm her nerves by taking a moment to fix the little girl’s pigtails.

  Rosie removed Lulu from the gown, sat her on a stool, and placed herself on the floor. Her hands adjusted the hem. “The dress gots to be below the shoulders. Shine ’em up with cream!” Rosie looked up with a large grin. “We want our angel to shimmer.”

  Two ladies followed the instructions, while another continued working on her hair; she placed the curling iron into the fire and twisted Mary’s hair around the heated rod. Mary liked this style, for the subtle waves fell loosely from the braid that pulled her hair away from her face. A fourth lady added a red pomade to Mary’s lips and a light rouge to her cheeks. Mary wondered whether she should have them add more paint to her face, or use less. How could she even know? She’d never worn any before. In the end, she decided to ask that no paint be added to her eyes.

  Rosie slid back to look at her. “A vision. You are the vision.”

  She assumed Rosie was just being kind. She only hoped that, at the least, she would be presentable.

  “We’ve not time!” Susannah sounded frantic as she rushed into the room sideways. Her sister’s dress was so wide that she could not get through the door any other way. “Colonel Washington is here. He’s walking into the manor!” Luxuriously dressed from crown to silk shoe, Susannah, wearing a silvery cerulean-colored gown, held out the boxed gift for Mary to open, the same one Eva presented her at the fitting at the Sherwood house.

  Her cousin knew Mary well—too well. Mary lifted the lid to reveal the diadem. Made of pure gold, the half crown had hand-carved silhouettes in ivory at its points, representing women of the Philipse and Van Cortlandt families. Lady Joanna was at its center with her face carved in perfect detail. Mary felt a sense of peace knowing her mama would be with her tonight. The group carefully adjusted the decorative on her head and secured it.