Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

“My gratitude for all you’ve done.”

  * * *

  THE MORNING WAS chilly, requiring Mary to put on a woolen riding coat. Around her waist, the brown fabric fit snugly and fell wide at the hips. She wrapped herself up with a silk scarf. She put on leather gloves and a riding hat. “You are capable of the impossible, Mary Eliza, for you have survived the unthinkable,” she murmured, remembering how her father said it with such inspiration. She had promised Papa she would say it each day.

  She hurried down the stairs and out to the back porch. The winter air enveloped her in its coolness. The sun was low on a clear horizon. A soft wind blew from the northwest, bringing with it a trace of hay. She practically skipped toward the stables. Riding always made her feel alive. Her breath left a trail a smoke. She could hear Mr. Chew speaking loudly.

  “She has a pretty large swelling under her belly.”

  “In foal, you suppose?” Was that George she could hear with him in the stable?

  “I suppose, or occasioned by the buckling of the girths too tight,” responded Chew.

  George’s voice alone made her feel giddy. She regained her composure as she entered.

  “Gentlemen, a good day to you both.”

  “Miss Philipse, good day. Would you kindly take a look at Colonel Washington’s horse? I believe her in foal.”

  Mary was glad of the request, for it kept her from wanting to stare at the commanding presence before her. “May I ask the name of this fine mare of yours?”

  For a moment, George seemed incapable of an utterance. After a hesitation, he spoke. “Diamond.”

  Mary looked at him quizzically.

  “Her name. Diamond.”

  “A lovely name.” Mary gently placed her hand on the filly. “Diamond. Shall we place her with the gentle mares on the hill at the north, Mr. Chew?”

  “I will see to it. He’s named every one of his horses, Miss Polly.” Chew pointed to them. “Each of them hath a name.”

  He names each of his horses, how endearing, she thought.

  Mary approached another one of George’s horses, a chestnut bay.

  “This is Woodfin.” George followed her. “A horse that carries the English crown upon his shoulder … and my Jack, spotted like a fawn upon the side of his neck. This horse has come a long way after being injured in a fall.”

  “Oh, the poor creature.”

  “How did he recover, Colonel?” asked Chew.

  George patted the horse. “I followed Gervase Markham’s directions as near as I could.”

  “Markham has the surest ways to cure a horse’s malady in the known world,” added Chew.

  Mary smoothed her hand across its hide. “Which remedy was used to effect a cure, Colonel?”

  “I had the horse slung upon canvas and his leg fresh-set—walked him on three legs, with the sound leg tied up very sure with a garget, to require him to put weight on the lame leg. When I let down the lame leg and let it stand on the ground, I heated a little water and clapped it onto the swelling that remained. I then tied up the lame leg again and repeated the same.”

  “What about the bloodletting, Colonel? Tell her about the bloodletting.”

  She saw George signal with his hand to Chew to discontinue that conversation.

  “Let me introduce you to the rest of the team.” He walked with her to the next horse. “Rock was bred in Pennsylvania. Not a spot of white on his dark brown coating, standing strong and fourteen and a half hands high. Prince is near a twin to Rock. This here is Buck. Crab belongs to Captain Mercer. This fine bright bay is the largest horse of the group and has not been named as of yet.”

  Mary enjoyed his introductions.

  “What do you think of the name Bale?”

  “That will suit him just fine with his coloring.” Mary replied. “A rather tall horse.”

  “Fifteen hands high, yes,” he responded.

  He paid such kind attention to his horses, unlike the sheriff, calling them “specimens.” How ludicrous!

  “And a remarkably large hind, wouldn’t you say?” asserted Chew.

  “Mr. Chew tells me not to dare ride with the finest equestrian of the colony.”

  “And who might that be, Mr. Chew?” she asked coyly.

  “I must apologize for telling the colonel of your prowess on horseback.”

  “Very kind of you, Mr. Chew.” Mary added another blanket on the horse before lifting herself up to sit sidesaddle. “You’re welcome to join me, George.”

  Not even a second passed before George mounted Woodfin. His buff wool riding coat trimmed in a light green silk was quite elegant with its coattails down the back. She quite liked his fashionable boots, black at the bottoms with brown turn-over tops. She also could not help but notice the outline of a coin in his left-hand pocket and his leg’s strength through his buff-colored buckskin breeches, which fit like a second skin on him.

  The pair moved the horses in a sedate walk out of the stables. 1W was branded on his horse. W for Washington, she was certain. 1W—the same as Willoughby, but for a different reason. Her father gifted her this mare. She recalled his words that day: “I have branded her with a one and a W, for I have only one wish for my Mary Eliza,” Papa had said to her. “My wish for you is freedom … to let go and allow love to find its way to your heart.”

  “Would you care to see the deer park?” she blurted out to George. Not again, she thought, after the word was already out of her mouth—deer!

  He nodded, not taking his stare off of her.

  “Quite easy in hand is your Woodfin,” she said to fill the quiet.

  “As is your Willoughby.”

  “I believe in caring for him with tenderness.”

  “I experienced the tragic loss of a horse in my youth.” A sympathetic tone surfaced in his voice. “Now I treat all with a discipline of proper care and a good amount of exercise.”

  Arriving at the park within minutes, Mary pulled back the reins. They dismounted. Westward, upon a sloping path to the river, the family of deer was before them. “Not a person is allowed near them. Frederick takes fine care of them. Never has one been hunted on our property. They are in their first year. They still carry the light yellowish brown tone.”

  “And I would imagine the younger they are taken, the easier they are raised.” He looked directly into her eyes. “The view adds a romantic and picturesque appearance to the whole.”

  The use of the word romantic impaired her rational thinking.

  He began to speak again, thankfully. “And what of the deer distinguishable by the darkness of their color?”

  She shook her head to clear her mind. She knew this answer. “From England. Near a dozen have been brought here from different parts of the world. Frederick holds the office of Keeper of the Deer Forests. It’s been passed down for generations in our family. He formed our deer park himself, yet he often laments the damage to the gardens.”

  “At a loss, I would be, in determining whether to give up the shrubs or the deer!”

  As she laughed, a ringlet fell to the front of her face. George reached over, placed his fingers upon it, and took time in moving it away from her cheek.

  Happy emotions spun around inside her head. She searched for something to say to him. “Would you care for some dirty chocolate, George?”

  She watched him cock his head before he answered yes.

  He placed his hands around her waist to assist her in mounting Willoughby. Her lips let out a sigh. After he mounted, she prodded her horse into a canter. The two rode to the manor.

  * * *

  GEORGE WHISPERED TO her after they had dismounted. “I hope you have not forgotten my request.”

  “What would that be?”

  He spoke into her ear. “To hear your lines of verse.”

  Jitters simmered up inside. She responded the only way she knew how—by moving quickly past him. She walked to the nearest door. It was the one to the lower level. They entered from the side entrance into the dim cellar, which exten
ded under the southern portion of the manor below the west parlor.

  What she noticed caught George’s attention with light from a small window shining onto them—columns of ten-shilling and ten-pence pieces in neat linear formation, filling the rectangular working tables.

  “The counting of toll moneys begins in about an hour from now,” she said. “Much work needs to be done, for King’s Bridge is the only crossing to the mainland.”

  George was silent, staring behind the tables at the canvas bags filled with coin piled on top of one another.

  She felt the need to explain. “Charity and humility. That is where true worth comes, not from coin.”

  He took a moment before responding. “One thing is more envied than wealth.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “The circle of an amiable family … in a situation free from cares.”

  His words, “free from cares”—that is how she felt in his presence. She guided him up the stairwell. “If you would, please follow me, George.”

  “A demand I so ardently wish for.”

  She tiptoed up the stairs. He copied her manner of walking, which made her chuckle. They quietly made their way to the first floor of the manor.

  “If you would kindly find a seat in the parlor. I will be in the kitchen to have our beverage made.” Mary hurried to see Temperance, who quickly answered her request. She measured a pint of milk and brought it to a boil with a stick of cinnamon in a chocolate pot. When the liquid was hot, Mary sweetened it with Lisbon sugar and added cocoa pieces. The mixture emitted the most pleasing of scents. She watched Temperance pour this into cups with two handles, one on each side. Mary hoped this might offer more protection for the colonel, as she didn’t want to have another burning incident.

  To the second floor, Mary scurried to get out of her riding clothes and find a poem. Which could she choose? Most of them harped on sorrow, on gloom. Might there be one? Please let there be one, she thought. One that would be acceptable, maybe one of no measurable importance, of a jovial nature.

  Had she even written a poem like that? She shuffled through the papers on her desk. Was there not a moment of merriment in her world she could have made the subject? Each focused on guilt, on regret. He did not need to know the truth about her, not now. If he knew she was cursed, he would certainly run from this place.

  Chapter Eleven

  Poetry’s Intimacy

  I feel the force of her amiable beauties in the recollection of a thousand tender passages …

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  George stood by the window, holding his two-handled porcelain cup. Although tempting his nose and tongue, he hadn’t touched the dirty chocolate. He focused now on the view across the Hudson to New Jersey. Like stoned fingers, a rock wall rose more than one hundred feet from the ground. What a strong encampment that place would make, he envisioned. War had not come to this place. If it did, troops would be protected by nature’s camouflage and by the rushing river. And if units were stationed on this side of the river as well, not an enemy’s boat would get north of this town.

  The steam rose in a swirl from the surface of his drink, reminding him of the incident with the last hot beverage he drank with her. A bit of a burn lingered on his lip. He did enjoy how her hand felt on his knee. Her touch was gentle and her expression of concern sincere.

  Now he could hear Mary Eliza’s voice from just outside the entryway. She began to read verse aloud. Her poem? It must be. About a bluebird. She arrived. Her soft pink gown revealed the skin below her neck. She had changed out of her riding clothes. He smiled at the thought. She would look lovely, he fancied, in anything she wore, or didn’t wear.

  She read from a linen paper with a whimsical tone to her voice.

  Alas! The bluebird to a sill arrives,

  Into his reflection he peered to see whether still alive,

  In his breast, the pit-a-pat of his heart yielded delight,

  For a beauty in the fairest form which had enchanted his sight,

  With an adjustment to his peruke he designed,

  To yield an affirmation if the divine creature was so inclined.

  “And that, George, must clearly be the finest piece of literature you have ever heard.”

  For an instant, he couldn’t decide which was lovelier, the poem or its author. Then her eyelashes fluttered and she curtsied, and he knew.

  “The finest, yes, regarding a bird and his peruke.” He laughed, which astonished him. It wasn’t like him to laugh aloud.

  As he laughed, she laughed with him, adding, “Possibly the only one written upon that account.”

  “Your poem is very acceptable, as it not only displays your genius but exhibits sentiments … expressive of the benevolence of your heart.”

  “In truth, it is pure fiction,” she said with a smile so wide it revealed the truth. The left. Yes. One dimple on her right cheek. Another on the left.

  A new opportunity presented itself for him to speak eloquently, unlike his morning with her. He wasn’t even able to voice a greeting in the stable. Diamond? This was all he could utter to her! A simple “Good day” would have sufficed. He was not going to let another chance go by with the heiress. “Fiction is, to be sure, the very life and soul of poetry—all poets and poetesses have been indulged in the free and indisputable use of it. To oblige you to make such an excellent poem, on such a subject, without any materials but those of simple reality, would be as cruel as the edict of the pharaoh which compelled the children of Israel to manufacture bricks without the necessary ingredients.”

  “If only I knew a hero who could provide the subject for literary greatness.”

  He took a sip of the chocolate, careful of the heat touching his lips this time. “Heroes have made poets, and poets heroes.” He noticed a blush surface on her cheeks. “You could choose Alexander the Great. He is said to have been enraptured with the poems of Homer.”

  “If only I had lived in such an age.” She picked up the cup with both hands.

  “An age proverbial for intellectual refinement and elegance in composition, where the harvest of laurels and bays was wonderfully mingled together.”

  “We still have great poets in this age who have brought intimacy to their work, as the Countess of Winchilsea does.” Mary recited a stanza of her “Letter to the Same Person”:

  Love without Poetry’s refining Aid

  Is a dull Bargain, and but coarsely made;

  Nor e’er Poetry successful prove,

  Or touch the Soul, be when the Sense was Love.

  Oh! Cou’d they both in Absence now impart

  Skill to my Hand, but to describe my Heart …

  Savoring the last sip of the beverage, he took her in—all of her, even the trace of bashfulness she seemed to carry about her own beauty. He glanced around briefly, taking in the luster of this place and the sweets of domestic enjoyments. What more could a man ask for than to reside in a pleasing country seat with an enchanter who had regard for him? Many other suitors would revel in the opportunity to be in his place. The affluence of the family. The influence in society. And yet here she was alone with him, reciting poetry.

  “I believe it’s time to hear your writing, George.”

  Mary Eliza Philipse—he was enamored of her. No paper was necessary for his poetry. He started to speak. “From your…” He stopped himself. Being that he was feeling confident that he had piqued her interest, he rose from his chair and sauntered over to her. She seemed near startled when he placed himself in close proximity to her on the long cushion. His thigh grazed hers. She drew a quick breath and rustled her gown. He removed the cup from her palm and placed it down onto its saucer. Porcelain clinked porcelain.

  Shifting his body toward her, he took both of her hands in his and relished the softness of her skin. He’d written the poem long ago, but now was the first time it was fitting to recite to someone:

  From your bright sparkling Eyes, I was undone;

  Rays, you have, m
ore transparent than the sun,

  Amidst its glory in the rising Day,

  None can you equal in your bright arrays;

  Constant in your calm and unspotted Mind;

  Equal to all, but will to none Prove kind,

  So knowing, seldom one so Young, you’l Find.

  Ah! woe’s me, that I should Love and conceal,

  Long have I wish’d, but never dare reveal,

  Even though severely Loves Pains I feel;

  Xerxes that great, was’t free from Cupids Dart,

  And all the greatest Heroes, felt the smart.

  Her face brightened in this very moment as a flower emerging from the darkness to bathe in the light. “George, you are a true gentleman.”

  To be a gentleman, act a gentleman.

  Finally.

  Affirmation.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Winner’s Cup

  … I consider storms and victory under the direction of a wise providence …

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  NEW YORK CITY

  At precisely five minutes after four, tensions ran high. Voices rose into a frantic roar with shouts of elation and worry—“Run!” “Hurry!” “They’re coming!” Any vestige of refined manner vanished in the one moment the dirt began to fly and a beat erupted like the thunderous roll of drums. Speed and endurance were the only way to survive the heat—three of them, to be precise.

  Just off the riverfront, with a cold breeze leaving a chill, a spectacle never before seen in the colony was unfolding at a sanctuary, not produced for a peace but for a rush.

  A six-horse race was under way on Delancey’s newly built private track, the first in New York, positioned west of Broadway at Church Farm, near Trinity Church. The track was surrounded by oak fencing. The crowd standing behind it stood at least ten deep.

  An unusually large wager was set for today: three hundred pounds. The winner’s award was the silver cup, a double-handled presentation vessel with a dome cover and engraving. The race would match Delancey’s newest Thoroughbred, Cub, to the rest of the lot, including the most revered of New Jersey’s horses, Old Tenor. This was the inaugural race. The announcement was published in the New-York Gazette: