Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  On the 18th of February, the New York Subscription

  Plate will be run for any Horse, Mare or Gelding,

  carrying eight Stone Weight, Saddle and Bridle

  included, the best in three Heats, two Miles in each

  Heat.

  In the crisp air, refined fellows who donned cocked hats and rich greatcoats, as well as common folk attempting correct fashion, completely lost themselves. Mary was surrounded by polite society—as they called themselves—emitting not only a whiff of tobacco but also one of mendacity.

  The shouts grew louder as the first lap was completed in two minutes, the third in just over the same. Out of the fifth, the winner was still in question. Which one would capture the treasured prize?

  Mary remained still. She was flanked on every side. She didn’t like crowds, but she had no other choice but to come, if she had hopes of finding her hero. For two days since their time together, her head filled entirely with thoughts of him. If George was in the crowd, she’d not yet seen him.

  The number of other men attempting to attract Mary’s attention was endless, each outdoing the other with their salutations. The poet, Scandal, offered her a rose along with a greeting in rhyme. Another fellow, Daniel Webb, asked Susannah to beg Mary for a moment of her time. The third, Colin Dufresne, got on tiptoe to reach over the crowd to give her an invitation to dine with him. Her reactions to them were pleasant, except to the one with the raised eyebrow, the sheriff. His self-admiration irritated her.

  The vision before her was captivating. It was hard to take her eyes off the horses with the extreme slope in their shoulders. They raced in a cluster. The roar of hooves thundered. One mare of strong muscling and significant bone structure launched, capturing the lead.

  “Onto victory!” she heard Scandal shout. “Into history!”

  “Triumph be yours!” Bernadette Clara Belle, standing by Mary, cried out, When Bernadette lifted her arms to cheer for the Delancey mare, her petticoat, already with a hem inches short of appropriate, rose above her knee. Bernadette never missed an occasion where finery was displayed. Her head was quite comically adorned with a tremendous headdress created of yellow ribbons with vivid red accents that glistened like rubies—Mary surmised they were only colored glass. Oh, and that feather, too, was in her hair, the same one from the ball, Mary assumed.

  “Cub’s in the lead!” exclaimed Bernadette.

  In the lead by a mile, it seemed, the English mare bore the Delancey coat of arms, bright red with a lion and a shield of three spears. As for Old Tenor, he was nowhere.

  The shouts grew more intense—“Cub!” “She’s coming.” “Cub will be victorious!”

  Delancey lost all sense of himself as he screeched, “She’s mine. All mine! The plate is mine!”

  Mary watched as Cub sped with ease to the finish. This was not the end. As onlookers erupted in applause, the animal became startled and took off. The horse bolted through the gate with the rider still on its back.

  Bedlam ensued.

  She watched the sheriff’s usual air of importance dissolve into chaos. He darted from his position, climbed over the oak fencing, and hotfooted it down the course. His hair, always in perfect order, was instead representative of the moment.

  Mary bit her lip to avoid a grin. Gentlemen scrambled to the outside field, where the mare galloped in wild circles. For quite a time, Delancey himself was run amok, chasing the tail. The rider jumped off. Scandal practically grabbed the horse a few times before the mare won this game of cat and mouse, leaving them in the dust.

  After a few minutes’ time, a riderless Cub returned on her own to the track and stopped in the center of it, as if to take a bow and await a bouquet before the guests. The crowd roared.

  This was followed by a dreadfully long ceremony, in which the sheriff waxed grandiloquent about his influence on horse racing, “Triumph is clearly in the hands of the just. Earth hath provided us her abundant favor—this has led to the defeat over the bulwarks of the foe. I take the greatest satisfaction in this day, for I have received the most favorable outcome. We have cut down the hand of the spoiler and ruined his rise. We have become heirs to an eternal achievement.” His speech finally ended as the sun found its repose, but not before he called himself “Father of the American Turf.”

  The winning audience made its way to the Horse and Cart Inn. It was near nightfall when Mary and her family arrived after a short walk. Bold red bunting lined the balconies of the second and third floor of the club, while below hundreds of guests stood awaiting entry. This is where the elite converged with alacrity to enjoy handsome entertainment. The Philipses were escorted around the crowd, in through the rear door and up the stairs to the second floor. The inn was owned by the Delanceys. This caused Mary’s spirits to rise.

  That touch of a kiss lingered upon her hand; George had taken his time in saying farewell. He had been whisked away from her just moments after reciting his poetry. Brother Frederick and the sheriff’s father, Lieutenant Governor James Delancey, had invited him to meet the dignitaries of the town. She hoped to again hear those words, “From your bright sparkling eyes, I was undone,” but alas, his belongings were removed from the manor and carried to the Robinson town house on Pearl Street on the island. He’d tour New York with the Delanceys by day was what she was told.

  Mary had waited her entire life, not for someone like him, but him. In the pages of her mind, she had envisioned his strong chin and broad shoulders—even his voice sounded familiar. When his lids lowered slightly in a most romantic way, she felt as if she had seen that endearing expression before. She was more surprised she hadn’t known him than she was by the profound impression he was leaving on her heart.

  As the thoughts of him whirled about, a soothing voice spoke to her from behind. “Miss Mary Eliza Philipse. Neither time nor absence can impair the warmth of fondness I feel in your presence.” His words left her without any of her own. George turned her around, clutched her bare hand, and lifted it to his lips. The now-familiar tingle shot through her.

  In place of a greeting, she settled her hand into his folded elbow, his strength feeling like chiseled rock and savoring of manliness—soap combined perfectly with brawn. Her nose stayed close to him as she escorted him in a slow walk to the balcony overlooking the Hudson, where they could be alone. Twilight’s reflection rippled upon the river. Above them twinkled a dome of lights. Her hip leaned against an ornate French wrought-iron railing. “Do you believe”—she shifted her gaze upward—“anything can endure longer than the stars in the sky?”

  Before answering, he moved within a space of her. He gently took her chin into his hand. “The chain of sincere love.” His lids dipped. “If strong and lasting, it will endure while sun and stars give light.”

  At this, his face came nearer to hers, so near as to almost touch. Her own eyelids closed as she felt his breath on her lips. The hairs on her arms stood up. She could feel the beating of her heart as the flame grew larger and, in its bright splendor, the sound stronger. Was it a choir she was hearing? Music sounded its rhythm in the fast-approaching moment that Cupid’s feathered dart was striking.

  The loud booming of drums struck a distracting chord, interrupting her bliss. A band in formation marched directly below the balcony, bringing Mary back into proper position. Musicians on celebratory parade traveled by. Mary became flustered.

  George seemed to pay no attention. His face lifted to the cluster of lights above. His finger pointed to a pattern of stars. “Andromeda.”

  She looked up at the constellation. “The chained maiden of mythology.”

  His hand fell on her waist, causing her to stir. “Stars aligned in a perfect sequence.”

  “As the legend goes, she was saved from death by the bravery of her hero.”

  He brought her body nearer to him. “She is in perfect view this night.”

  “Andromeda is displayed in ‘The World in Miniature,’ I’ve read. The entire universe is represented in the exhi
bit. It’s made the transatlantic journey from England. It is now here in our New York.”

  George led her farther away from the door and the noise of the crowd inside. His hand latched on to her waist.

  “A transatlantic journey … it is one I could never take.” She felt comfortable talking with him. “I have a rather delicate makeup when it comes to capacious waters. The only place I have a desire to travel to is Barbados, where my father was born and his grandfather served as governor.”

  “My brother, Lawrence, and I were graciously received on the island of Barbados.”

  “Oh? My father would often speak of the rough seas in getting there.”

  “Rough seas indeed. During the thirty-seven-day passage, we experienced hard squalls of wind and rain, with a fomented sea jostling in heaps. Pretty large swells made the ship roll much and me … very sick.”

  She always pictured in her mind what the trip might be like from beginning to end.

  “Upon our departure from Virginia, we found clear and pleasant weather for a sail, with fresh gales of wind, even saw a great many fish, including dolphin.”

  “A dolphin!” Her palm grabbed hold of the outer part of his arm. “I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing one.” She didn’t want to let go.

  “But soon, even the seamen confessed that they had never seen such weather before. It was surmised there had been a violent hurricane not far distant.”

  “How did you make it to the island?”

  “We were greatly alarmed with the cry of ‘Land’ at four o’clock one morning. We quitted our beds with surprise and found the land plainly appearing about three leagues distant. We weighed anchor and arrived in Carlisle Bay.”

  “That is quite a journey to take. Why, George, did you make such a trip? For trade? Or for repose?”

  His eyes shifted down before answering. “We hoped the warm air would benefit my brother’s health at the time.”

  She touched his hand with hers.

  “The doctors, they had hoped time in the islands, the fresh air, might bring a cure. The white plague claimed him in the summer of ’fifty-two.”

  “My deepest condolences for your loss.”

  “No one entertained a higher opinion of his worth than I.”

  She wished that year, 1752, never happened. Devastation struck the Philipse family, too, during that summer. Both the father who held her like a treasure and her Margaret were taken from her. “I, too, George, experienced a deepest loss during that same time of that same year. My sister, my Margaret…” She tried to hold back tears. “She died of that same terrible disease in the summer of ’fifty-two.”

  George grabbed hold of her right hand and held it tightly.

  “She was so young, so good and just, with a warm heart.” She inhaled deeply. “And Lawrence?”

  “He was a captain and a well-respected member of the legislature. He left behind a widow, Anne. His death left us both numb.”

  “George, my sister, she died alone … all alone.” The memories rushed in of how she would sing outside Margaret’s door and wait for her to clap—one, two, three, four, five, six. “They would not let me near her. They would not let anyone near her. She left this world all alone.” She could not speak further, as grief overcame her.

  “I understand the pain in bidding adieu to those we love,” he said gently.

  “It is my fault, George.” She had never spoken about this with anyone outside of the family. “I was the first to get the fevers. If only … I had stayed away from them. If only … I had kept them back.”

  He wrapped his arms around her.

  She leaned her head upon his chest. “The hurt is so deep, I feel I will not be able to take another day without her. I wait for the day when … I can let go of the pain.”

  Melancholy seeped into her spirit. Mary’s eyes watered.

  Their quiet was a deep quiet.

  He kept her in his embrace.

  * * *

  THE EVENING’S AFFAIR was a protracted one. The longer the evening went on, the more unintelligible sounds from the bumper men reached George and Mary. The aroma of the claret was formidable.

  The two of them reentered the gaming room as Delancey yelled, “To Satan with morality and ethics. Bumpers for all of the guests!”

  This was answered by drunken laughter.

  “A toast to the possessor of the most valued mare,” said Scandal. “Now, take your standing as turf’s king with flair.”

  Delancey bowed with great flamboyance and hollered, “More wine! Bring out the cards! Bring out the dice! The evening is becoming dead. Let’s hope for comedy or dread, something of consequence to happen.”

  Mary could hear the scraping of spurs. Could it be? The man with the raven hair covered in powder seemed to come from nowhere and made his way to the center of the crowd. James Jay’s voice was thick with anger. “If you should witness a prized racehorse surrender the cup to a lackey, would you not presume deception by a cheat?”

  This caused an eruption from the Delancey brigade.

  “Look at this fool, stubborn as a mule!” Scandal mocked him. “Dare you enter uninvited?”

  “Leave him be,” answered Delancey. “When a man is as drunk as he, how can we expect reason? I pity you, Jay.”

  “I will not be indifferent to the treatment I have received,” shouted James, “by the likes of those who have sold their souls to the king.”

  “Dr. Jay, you heathen. You’ve spent too much time with experiments in the dungeon. The work has clouded your mind.” Delancey spun a finger around his head.

  “Your obsession with the lion disgusts me.” James stumbled forward.

  “Jay, your obsession with the glass disgusts us all!” Scandal snickered.

  “If you have anything, even a suspicion to allege against me, you will candidly declare it, in order that I may vindicate myself to you.”

  Frederick and Beverley rushed toward Mary.

  “The time for departure has come.” Frederick took hold of her arm.

  “Colonel Washington, we must be leaving with Polly. A carriage for you is awaiting your departure when you are ready.”

  They did not say another word. Frederick and Beverley flanked Mary on each side, moved her swiftly through the crowd and out the door. Not a good-bye was said between her and George.

  Mary could hear the sliding of the spurs as she was helped out the front door and moved swiftly into an awaiting carriage. The face of her nightmares glared out the window watching her every move.

  “As goes the mother, so, too, the daughter.”

  She would never forget his threat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Hundred Eyes

  Silence … speaks more Intelligably than the sweetest Eloquence.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  From the windows above, soothing sunlight flooded the rotunda. Here, clove mingled with spice to fill the air. Matthiola incana blooms stood tall in a high metal vase on top of an ornately carved wooden table in the center of the room. The Robinsons’ town home on Pearl Street on Manhattan Island was appointed with care throughout.

  As each hour passed, uncertainty remained as to whether Mary Eliza Philipse would receive him today. A pain in her head was the explanation, the reason she did not leave her bedchamber this day. She, as well, stayed at the residence. George knew there must have been other reasons. The abrupt departure the evening before yielded questions.

  George walked past an extensive array of portraits that hung on walls ornately covered in rich silver and gold fabric coverings. He clasped his hands behind his back. George felt eyes on him, faces in frames judging him as he moved with a steady pace.

  Beverly was with him. “The painting of your mother, does it still hang in the entryway?”

  “The one by the hand of Captain Middleton?”

  Beverley nodded.

  “It does.” George’s late father, Augustine, had commissioned the portrait of her. The artist used subtle tones and feathery
strokes on a dark background. The painting caught her likeness, yet it conveyed a softness rarely seen in her. More often, the business of managing the family’s small farm weighed on his mother’s head. “Middleton is the only artist for whom she sat.”

  Beverley paused and turned to him. “You missed it, Colonel; the sheriff ran about like a madman at his own race!”

  “My absence was on account of a tour reviewing the lands of the Hudson.”

  “He would have kept you longer if you hadn’t insisted on returning.” Beverley moved him through the spacious gallery, where a number of paintings of the majestic Hudson hung. They separated the portraits of those lost from those still alive. “I hear Delancey’s aide brought you very near the estuary.”

  “I saw the strong current of the river up close.”

  “Very close, from what I understand.”

  “The pointed fin. Have you seen it yourself?” George asked.

  “Only once, and in the distance. The shark was enormous. Did he mention that the creature took a man in the very spot you visited? The fish lurched forth and grabbed a fellow at the leg and brought him below the waves, near the great rocks in the town of Yonkers. The man disappeared, never seen again, taken by the devil himself. And now you have survived the area we call ‘Spiting Devil.’”

  George pretended to wipe his brow.

  Beverley pointed to a trio of portraits as the paintings moved to depictions of the living. “The hand of John Wollaston. Susannah’s father commissioned the portraits when the three sisters were in their blooming years—chosen as the artist’s first sitters in the Americas. We keep Margaret next to her sisters. Susannah refuses to move her to the other part of the gallery, for she is ‘alive in us,’ Susannah says. The critics reviewed Polly’s painting. ‘Nature and we must bless the hand that can such heavenly charms portray and save the beauty of this land from envious obscurity’ is what was written of hers.”