Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  “Miss Mary Eliza Philipse. A pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you, Colonel Washington.” Her hair was lifted demurely with a small lace veil to cover the upsweep.

  “George.” The vision before him nearly took his breath away. “George would be fine.”

  As she neared him, her pace quickened, causing her to stumble and fall … into him. He enjoyed this moment that her shoulder kissed his chest and his hands wrapped around her. This, plus the scent of lavender from her skin, left him feeling weak in her presence.

  She straightened and arrived at the window seat, where she gently placed herself. “Colonel George, my apologies.”

  A throbbing in his heart. George tried not to stare at her. He realized he was as he found his seat.

  Tea steeped in a silver pot embossed with the seal of the Philipse family, a lion emerging from a coronet, with its tongue sticking out of its mouth. A delicious hint of citrus combined with coconut emerged as his cup was filled three-quarters. The wisps of steam rose and curled in the sunlight coming through the window.

  The conversation lulled before it even began.

  He watched as she placed a cloth napkin between the porcelain and her hand. The cup was blue and white and depicted a leaping deer.

  “Have you seen the family of fawn by the river?” She began with a nervous twitch in her voice.

  He motioned a nay with his head.

  “I understand Frederick took you on a tour of the manor property.”

  The lands seemed to go on infinitely. Lord Philipse gave him much of his time after the church service, providing him a tour of the property, which had taken generations of Philipses and nearly a century to amass through purchase agreements with the Iroquois and Ottawa tribes and good standing with the British Empire. Under their proprietorship were businesses of commercial trade and milling. On the estate were located great revolving wheels and milldams for the growing flour industry, as well as the largest of greenhouses. At the family’s dock, he was shown where the sloops brought goods from East India for trade. On the empty parcels, young farmers leased acres, benefiting from the fertile soil. George, too, owned a small parcel in Virginia—his mother’s land is how he always thought of it—but few options for farming. It was certainly nothing compared to the Philipses’.

  “They just arrived this week.” A quaver in her voice emerged. “The deer.”

  “I did have a view of your library.” The sheer volume alone impressed him. Without a formal education, he relied on books. “It seems for all of us a knowledge of books is the basis upon which other knowledge is to be built.”

  And off she went, articulating her feelings about the literary genius of the classic authors. “I look upon their writings as fine art.” She told him how she spent a significant part of her time in her library. She conversed without hesitation, much different from her first greeting: “It is my presence to be in your pleasure.” A darling beginning.

  He admired her lips while watching them move as she conveyed details of Herodotus’s legend of the Phoenix. “Out of the ashes. Out of nothing comes life,” she told him. He listened carefully to the rhythm of her cadence. While her eyes under lengthy lashes fell to her tea, he found himself taken by her voice, which had a melody to it. “According to one of my favorite playwrights, Joseph Addison, ‘Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body,’ and I agree.”

  Her face expressed such serenity, her composure was of the majestic sort, and yes, her frame was exquisite, but it was her mind that strengthened his affection for her. Education perfects what nature’s hand creates. Thus distracted in her precious company, George forgot that tea is hot. He cowered after feeling a burn on his lip, almost spilling the beverage.

  “Colonel!” Her eyes opened wide. She reached over, touching his knee. “George!” She shook her head. “Was the tea brewed too hot?”

  With her hand upon him, he wasn’t sure he remembered what pain felt like. “I am fine.”

  “I will have another pot made.”

  “This is fine.” The concern she showed for him was quite apart from what he was used to. “Please continue.”

  She moved her hand back to her teacup. Her voice had a flutter to it as she began to speak again. “If I may say, it may be your writing that I have found most profound.”

  “Mine?”

  “Your journal … The Journal of Major George Washington. I have read it several times.”

  At no time had he thought anyone would read his scrawl. “You’ve read my journal?” He had expected only a quick review by Virginia’s Colonial governor. “I did not in the least conceive … that it ever would be published, or even have more than a cursory reading.”

  “It was printed in its entirety in our New-York Mercury. And not only published here in New York. An acquaintance of mine in London wrote me that she, too, had read it.”

  Mary Eliza Philipse read his journal! He was informed in a meeting of the General Assembly that it was published. Now he was learning this was not just in Virginia. In no way was the writing prepared for print. “I can do no less than apologize … for the numberless imperfections of it. There intervened but one day … for me to prepare and transcribe from the rough minutes I had taken.”

  “I found no imperfection.”

  She read it. That was done. How could he even offer an explanation? It was printed without his consent, without even time to correct its flaws. “I had no time to offer it in a more proper form or to correct or amend the diction of old.”

  “I felt quite anxious for your well-being as I read it.” She sat quietly listening, her head tilting at times as he began speaking of the wearying journey down one creek where they were obliged to carry their canoes to get over the shoals.

  “We remained in the water half an hour or more.”

  “I was captivated by your bravery through your travails.”

  This surprised him, that she would have any interest in the journey to the French commandant. He went on about how the horses grew less able to travel every day, with the cold increasing fast and the roads becoming much worse due to the deep snow. She seemed absorbed by his account. “After completing that journey,” he added, “I feel I have a strong enough constitution to survive the most difficult of trials.” He never had such a long conversation with a woman about such.

  “Had you been educated in skills of survival?”

  If only he had had such an opportunity. He preferred not to discuss his lack of education in any area. “I saw that every stratagem that the most fruitful brain could invent was practiced. I can’t say that ever in my life I suffered so much anxiety as I did in this affair.”

  She continued to have queries for him as to what he ate, where he slept. She asked specific details about whether there was a heavy current in the river, whether it was dark, and whether he was afraid in the water. He answered each of her questions honestly.

  “And as for you, Miss Mary Eliza Philipse, I would imagine you an esteemed writer.”

  A dimple on her cheek appeared. “I would be honored to offer an affirmation on that account; however, I have written nothing more than a few lines of poetry.”

  A dimple only on the right. Whether there was one on the left, he still did not know.

  “I would enjoy much satisfaction in hearing these lines.”

  “It would be my honor to share one with you, George, but from what I see behind you, there is a footman awaiting your presence in the foyer.”

  The time was a few minutes after five o’clock, and the agreeable interview between the pair had gone on for more than one hour. A coach was awaiting the colonel’s presence for a meeting scheduled at King’s Arms Tavern.

  His heart was succumbing to a tender passion. Could it be the infancy of a courtship? He hoped it so.

  * * *

  GEORGE AND BEVERLEY approached the front of the two-story building at the southeast corner of Whitehall and Bridge streets. A sign with a lion and a bird battling for the
crown was affixed to the heavy door they opened. The great hall released a scented medley of smoke, rye whiskey, and roasted beans.

  It sounded as if the place was serving up a meal of high-volumed swearing inside. The noise helped distract George from his thoughts, which were completely engrossed with the interview with the belle. The journal. She read it! Without his knowledge, it was printed. He wrote it for the governor’s perusal only. He would be sure that type of thing would never happen again. Every word from this point forward would be fit for print. And even with that, their discourse seemed to move in a pleasurable fashion. He wondered if their time together went too well. Affairs of the heart had not ended well for him up to this point. He recalled what he had come to believe—there is no truth more certain, than that all our enjoyments fall short of our expectations; and to none does it apply with more force, than to the gratification of the passions. He believed this firmly … up until now.

  “How d’ye,” said a white-swelled woman in greeting. She was holding a tray of jumballs shaped into an intricate knot. George’s stomach jumped. He was fond of spiced shortbread.

  “Mrs. Baron, good day.” Beverley led the way.

  “I’ve already filled your bumpers at the far corner, gentlemen.”

  “The first coffeehouse in the New World, Colonel,” Beverley said, turning to him, “right here in our New York Colony, dating to the last century.”

  In a booth sat Mary’s brother, who introduced another Delancey, the sheriff’s uncle, Oliver. They exchanged mutual salutations. George took a seat next to Oliver.

  “Oliver, I must tell you.” Frederick sipped his drink. “The colonel can dance better than the finest of gentlemen.”

  “You’re very kind,” replied George. “Trained by your friend Fairfax.”

  “The good governor?” asked Frederick.

  “His nephew, George William Fairfax.”

  “We had the honor of hosting Governor Fairfax, along with George William and his lovely wife, Sally. They spent a number of merry days with us upon the governor’s return from the Indian Council at Albany. Sally and Mary got along swimmingly.”

  A green velvet privacy curtain enclosed the booth.

  “George William?” Oliver put down his drink. “The West Indian boy?”

  They looked to George.

  Frederick added, “His visage appears to indicate a Creole parentage.”

  “Yes,” George stated. “His grandfather served as chief justice of the Bahamas.”

  Outside of this, not a drop of serious talk ensued during the “meeting” Frederick asked him to attend. Instead, Mrs. Baron brought in a game board, and they took in a hit at backgammon. Frederick beat Oliver twice, and George won two games against Beverley.

  “You see this antique.” Frederick pointed to Oliver. “He needs your fashion sense, Colonel. A dandy he is not.”

  “Do you not favor my frock?” Oliver held up a sleeve.

  “’Tis pitiful with its trolly lolly upon the arms. Just wretched.”

  “At least it is made of domestics,” Beverley pointed out.

  George felt the need to say something witty. “I might add that I do not conceive that fine clothes make fine men, any more than fine feathers make fine birds.”

  “’Tis true. Take the alarming appearance of the raven,” said Frederick. “Yet a bird of valor.”

  “The raven indeed.” Beverley pulled on the bell rope. “Fill up the bumpers!”

  Trifling chat continued. George kept in mind the edict from his discipline book: Drink not too leisurely nor yet too hastily. Before and after drinking, wipe your lips. A hearty bowl of oysters arrived at the table. Manhattan Island was a seaport with a steady flow of small trade, he was told. The oysters were considered some of the best in the colonies. Another heaping bowl arrived, and then another. It’s unbecoming to stoop much to ones meat, keep your fingers clean and when foul, wipe them on a corner of your table napkin. He denied himself the pleasure of more than just a few. This was not an occasion for indulging, and certainly not one for slurping oysters from shells. This was an evening to form a proper impression on a family wealthier and more educated. He did not want to appear an unrefined man, especially with the considerable matter still to be discussed.

  The night went on without a bit of conversation upon the subject at the forefront of George’s mind. ’Twas a meeting that did not satisfy his doubts. Their conversation, yes, was pleasant, however trivial. George wasn’t expecting to sleep well this night.

  Chapter Ten

  A Morning’s Light

  The day seems now to dawn upon us, but Clouds and tempests may yet arise to endanger our Bark …

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  Now, being the morning afterward, Mary felt anxious. She heard her brother’s coach return; it was well into the night, too late to ask about the particulars of the meeting. Her brother and George—what was said? Had he even mentioned her? She was so very eager to find out, but it was only dawn.

  “What shall become of me?” Mary spoke the words aloud while alone in her bedchamber. The Prelude and Fugue No. 2 in C Minor by Bach was playing in her head. Thoughts of the prior afternoon swirled about. She attempted as delicate a walk toward him as she could, wanting to appear genteel. She hoped her footsteps did not echo too loudly as she was often told they did. She even practiced a sashay with Susannah beforehand. “Step softly,” her sister had advised.

  Embarrassment filled her mind as she reflected on the moment she tripped on the rug. She rushed, for she knew she needed to take her seat quickly before the tune’s up-tempo returned. Her nerves took over. She stumbled left. Her shoulder hit his chest, which did give her a touch of his solidity. Built by hands divine for certain.

  Then the moment lasting too long. Could she think of nothing better to ask about than deer? Why not ask about his military position? His expertise in field command? His home in Virginia? No, instead she brings up deer! A thousand and one times she pictured him. Any sense became ruffled in his presence. Just his physical mass appeared as if it could wrap around her and protect her from the world.

  She was overly gregarious about literature. She was sure of it. While often her greatest deficiency was conversation, sometimes without the ability to articulate a syllable, she went on without hesitation with him. He hardly said a word on the subject. He just looked at her with a heavy eyelid in a romantic sort of way. Blue with a touch of gray. She sighed at the memory.

  She placed her hands on the ornate wallpaper next to the fireplace. The fire from the birch logs rose to warm her hands. Watching the flame, she let her fingers move along the wall as she imagined what it would be like to place her hands around George and feel his lips on hers. Oh heavens! His lips. The tea was too hot. She should have let it cool before it was poured. She hoped he did not suffer a burn.

  The stove plate on the floor at the front of her hearth caught her eye. The engraving, an Old Testament passage with no spaces between letters, cast in relief in a slab of iron, was created long ago to ease her mind when sorrow roused a maelstrom of emotion within:

  ICHHABEDENRABENBEFOLENDICHZWERS

  DIBD K17C

  Today she did not want to give thought to the seventeenth chapter of the Book of Kings and the passage “I have commanded the ravens to feed thee.” It reminded her of her broken will and the shrill call of the raven. If it weren’t for those birds, she might not have been rescued those years ago—the day Elbert vanished in the river’s current. If not for the raven, she would have been left to die, as she should have been. She didn’t like ravens.

  She stared at the words for a time. Her eyes moved to a cleanly cut piece of birchwood that she reached down to pick up and used her strength to place over each of the letters in the metal. When the letter I was still peering out, she looked upon it with disgust. Heat struck her hands as she maneuvered another log to cover the letters on the metal slab completely.

  She was tired of rereading these mournful chapters of her lif
e. Tired of being afraid, of crying herself to sleep, of the nightmares. She wanted to think of the mingling of sweetness and gallantry, of generosity combined with charm, of the man who was helping to restore her one heartbeat at a time. George did not look upon her face with pity, as did so many others. It seemed he might know nothing of her past. When his eyes gazed into hers, she felt alive with the hope of a destiny still to be discovered.

  With a newfound breath within, Mary walked toward the window. Her feet stopped at the shelf. She checked the position of the newspaper, the one that had printed George’s journal. Relief. The paper was neatly placed, with writing away from the cursed.

  Glancing out the window, she espied something unexpected. Temperance and François. What a splendorous sight! This was the first time she ever saw Temperance holding a man’s hand. She was always so busy in the kitchen, she seemed to have little time for beaux. Temperance smiled widely as she bid him farewell; she looked happy. So happy. Mary was happy for her. Love. Everyone needs more of it in their lives.

  * * *

  FOOTSTEPS IN PERFECT even tempo sounded from the stairs. A knock at the door. It was Temperance. “Mr. Angevine has asked me to advise you that five articles of correspondence have arrived for you. Ten more arrived yesterday, one of them an invitation delivered by the sheriff himself, which requires a response. He is a persistent one, that Mr. Delancey.”

  “Captain Delancey.” Mary rolled her eyes. “He’s made certain I know of his title.” The constant requests from him—she paid no mind to them. “Temperance?”

  “Yes, Miss Polly.”

  Mary desperately wanted to ask her about son petit ami, but she refrained. “The banquet was more than any of us could have asked for.”

  “The evening was my pleasure. The food that remained was placed in packages, as you suggested, and taken to the church for distribution to the need-filled.” Temperance’s face had a beautiful glow to it.