Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  How glorious Mary Eliza would look painted with the brush of Captain Middleton, George thought. He analyzed Wollaston’s portrait further. Her expression displayed something more, something that instantly moved him, mixing admiration with concern. She had laid her heart before him on that balcony.

  In her painted expression, he could see genuine and deep sorrow.

  Elegance weaved with torment.

  Grace intertwined with heartache.

  Beauty combined with anguish.

  “There is sadness in her eyes,” remarked George.

  “Polly has suffered through tragic times. A devastating illness took the life of their father and their Margaret. She’s felt responsible for their deaths, you know … and the others.”

  Be not Curious to Know the Affairs of Others. This was an edict George followed. Her mother—he still did not know the circumstances of her death.

  “She has a brave spirit. The guilt of losing her mother seems to live in every fiber of her being. The passage across the Hudson River is a precarious one,” Beverley explained. “When our Polly was only a child, she tried to save a little boy, the gardener’s son. Precocious, he was. The child jumped into the water leading to the Hudson River by the Yonkers manor and Polly ran after him. They tell me she tried with all her might to swim to him, to rescue him. She has never been able to wipe the tragedy from her mind.”

  “The young boy?”

  “His body never surfaced. The night became even more tragic for the family. Lady Joanna Philipse heard her little girl’s screams and jumped into the water. It is believed the fine lady swam to her daughter and gave her a push that prevented her end.”

  George felt a lump in throat. “Such a tragedy for a young girl.”

  “The Hudson, Colonel, chooses whom it takes. I have heard many stories of that horrific night. If not for the raven, I’m told, our Polly might have died there, too, in the night. Their shrill call from above her nearly breathless body alerted a rescuer to her whereabouts. He found her lying, half-submerged, in tall grasses at the water’s edge. And now we will do anything and everything to protect her, to keep her safe.”

  Now George understood the emptiness he saw in her. A genuine soul untouched by airs and honest about her own limitations. She truly was one of the most exceptional women he’d ever known.

  As he took in Beverley’s words, George felt a strong need to bring Mary Eliza Philipse into his embrace, to protect her, to surround her mind with peace.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The World in Miniature

  The Mind of Man is fond of Novelty.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  A faint sound coming from under her chamber door startled her. Mary quieted her breath. She remained still, though her heart pounded. A man’s footsteps sounded in the hall. Had she locked the door?

  She had kept the covers over her head since her arrival here last night. The bed was her solace, sleep her escape. She didn’t want to see anyone today. Her spirit forbade her from rising. It had been a difficult end to the night. Deep feelings buried inside her were roused, leaving her emotionally spent. And seeing that man brought back the anxiety she so desperately wanted to rid herself of.

  Papers slid below the oak door. She allowed one eye to peek out from under the quilt. The paper on top appeared to be an advertisement cut from The New-York Mercury. Curiosity lifted her from bed. She tiptoed and her bare feet felt the touch of the cool wood below her feet. What she read wiped away her fright and made her mood dance:

  To be seen at the New Exchange, that elaborate and

  celebrated piece of mechanism, called the Microcosm,

  of the World in Miniature. Built in the form of a Roman

  Temple, after twenty-two years close study and application

  by the late ingenious Mr. Henry Bridges of London.

  It will be shown every day beginning at ten in the morning.

  George. He must have been the one at her door. He, too, slept at the town house of Beverley and Susannah. She hadn’t seen him since her departure from the inn.

  On a second paper, in the most beautiful hand, with script displaying thin upstrokes and wide downstrokes of loops and curves, was written:

  Mean-time the Song went round; and Dance, and Sport,

  Wisdom, and friendly Talk successive stole

  Their Hours away. While in the rosy Vale

  Love breath’d his Infant Sighs, from Anguish free,

  Fragrant with Bliss, and only wept for Joy.

  Had George placed heavier pressure on the nib as he wrote the word Love? Mary stared at the deeper, larger strokes on that particular word. She closed her eyes. She fell to pieces in his arms the prior evening. He put her back together and helped her see she was not alone in grief. He understood her and her frailty, which she was never comfortable revealing to anyone.

  “‘Love breath’d his Infant Sighs,’” she whispered.

  She brought the written words closer to her heart. The thought of him looking at her in that tender way made her feel so special, so loved. She raced to the door and unlocked it. No one was in the hall when she opened it. She couldn’t wait another minute. She made her way to the upper floor. She tapped at the door. “It is I,” she said in a quiet voice.

  The door swung open and she leapt into the room, falling on her knees in front of her sister with papers still in hand. “He’s written me the words of the poet Thomson. ‘Love breath’d his Infant Sighs…’”

  “Truly?” Susannah knelt down next to her.

  “‘Love breath’d his Infant Sighs, from Anguish free,/Fragrant with Bliss, and only wept for Joy.’ He’s written me the words of the poem ‘Spring.’ Susannah, I am without words over this, over this man. It is not to be believed the impression he is leaving on my heart.”

  Susannah hugged her. “It may be you who also holds him in gentle sway.”

  “Susannah, I feel as though I’ve been restored.” Mary felt so much changed in her in such a short time, yet she was more herself than ever before.

  * * *

  AS BEVERLEY ASSISTED the sisters in exiting the chaise outside the exhibit hall, statues greeted them. Mary almost became one herself from embarrassment. The merchants appeared frozen in place as she placed her feet, in jewel-embellished shoes, upon the path leading to the exhibit hall. She carried a parasol adorned with feathers to shield her from the sun. That was Susannah’s idea. It is the fashion of the day, she insisted.

  Mary wore her hair braided, with each braid carried over to the opposite side, and upon her nape a swath of hair hung low in the form of a snood. She chose a costume with a soft hue that reflected her delight. The peach-colored taffeta dress embroidered with tiny gray swirled designs was paired with a white petticoat. Upon the sleeves hung white silk frill. Mary felt flushed, not because of the strangers’ glares, but because of the man who was leaving a profound impression on her.

  With a pleasant, dignified air, George neared her. “Miss Mary Eliza Philipse, it is an honor to see you this day.” He was wearing a most fashionable suit of silvery gray silk. She couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought there was a lining in a salmon color. The suit’s opulent buttons shimmered in the afternoon light. Their outfits matched, as if they’d purposely coordinated them.

  She took in his clean scent. “My deepest gratitude for the invitation, George.” She laid her hand upon his offered arm. The feel of him set her insides aflame. They approached the New Exchange, which sat right in the middle of wide Broadway. It was considered the center of commercial importance. The place for the public to rendezvous bore unique architecture. The rectangular enclosed part of it sat high in the air, supported by grand arches. Below them, merchants traded their goods with their carts moving to and fro between the curvatures.

  A sprightly, talkative fellow greeted the four of them near a stairwell to the exhibition house. “Your passage into the World in Miniature!” He handed them highly designed tickets embossed on silver metal. “My name is
Mr. Bridges, but my father often called me ‘Genius.’”

  She found this “genius” amusing, with his hearty greeting and spectacles that enlarged his eyes to double a normal size.

  Mr. Bridges practically marched up the outdoor spiral staircase. Mary followed behind him as George’s hands held her waist. Glee overtook her as she went around and around. She never climbed like this before, feeling as if life were turning her from the end of one journey to the start of another.

  “Welcome to an astronomical phenomena that has traveled the globe,” Bridges announced as he opened a grand door. “You join an elite company of those who have stood in its presence, including the royal family of Britain and Sir Isaac Newton, who spent time with my father’s creation while checking the mechanisms.” His arms spread out wide as he walked to the center of the space. “Ladies and gentlemen, our world in miniature!”

  The golden display stood twelve feet high and ran along the walls of the room: an intricate composition of sculpture, paintings, and metalwork—filled with a visual and musical extravaganza—a representation of the known universe. An amazing variety of scenes moved in exact time to several pieces of music.

  “Open your ears to hear the harp and the hautbois.” Bridges placed his hands behind his oversized ears. “The organ, the spinet, and flageolet combine to produce the music of Signor Corelli and Mr. Handel. Inside the great Microcosm, the mechanisms are carefully constructed to gratify the ear while accompanying each moving scene. The music is coordinated to match with great exactness the vision before you.”

  On tiny instruments, sculptured Muses positioned in a Roman temple played Mary’s favorite aria from Radamisto in perfect tempo. “Our song,” she whispered to George, “‘Ombra Cara.’” She hardly knew where to fix her eyes. Mostly, she wanted to set them upon George.

  The pleasing images were just shy of innumerable. She leaned in for a closer view. Miniature gardens in metal with an orchard of trees and vines in full bloom caught her attention. She imagined sitting with George in such a lively, green, and luxurious place. She thought of him taking her in his arms.

  George spoke quietly to her and she felt his lips gently brush her neck. “To sit under your own vine, your own fig tree…” She adored how the wisps of his hair tickled her cheek as he spoke. “The enjoyment of peace and freedom combined.” Every word he said sounded to her like elegant prose. “I would rather be on my own farm than be emperor of the world.”

  She settled her hand in the bend of his arm again as they viewed the exhibit and its wonderland. Orpheus played his lyre in the forest. Lilliputian horses pulled a golden chariot fit for a king. A whimsical land emerged with birds of fantastical variety, each moving in harmony to the music being played.

  George guided her to the three-dimensional models of the solar system. They watched Jupiter and his four satellites, in exact proportion, completing their proper revolutions.

  “George, look!” She pointed. “Andromeda.”

  “‘But happy they! the happiest of their Kind! / Whom gentle stars unite…’”

  She recited the next lines of the poem. “‘… and in one Fate/their Hearts, their Fortunes, and their Beings blend.’ James Thomson’s ‘Spring’ is a favorite of mine.” Just as the planets abounded, she felt her heart follow, performing its own dance to the diurnal motion. Together, they studied the next piece of art. Two miniaturized wooden ships sailed closer and closer to each other. “It’s been said, ‘How vast the sea proves no obstacle when two ships are destined to meet.’” Her eyes met his. They remained here for a few heartbeats.

  “Shall I show you the most exceptional part?” announced Mr. Bridges. “Ladies and gentlemen, the inner genius of the World in Miniature.” The maker’s son unlocked the sides of the exhibits to show the internal mechanisms: wheels of minute size whirling in synchronic time. Each of the scenes’ pinions cranked and spun and pumped. “The clockwork of the exhibit is so exact that the orbits complete their mutual transits while following the velocity of ten months’ motion in ten minutes. My father spent his life creating this marvelous structure. And when it was finished. exceeding his expectations, he continued making considerable improvements. Twelve hundred wheels and pinions in unison. In harmony.”

  Mary stood amazed by the work and the word harmony. It felt right—the two of them together—Mary and George. Their thinking, their doing, their being, in sync … in perfect harmony. As they walked toward the exit, her spirit teemed with enthusiasm.

  They departed the exhibit and started down the spiral staircase. The aide to Lieutenant Governor Delancey was standing at the bottom with what appeared to be letters in hand. For the first time she could see what she had pictured in her mind; well-defined muscles at the sides of George’s face clenched along his jawline.

  “Colonel, my apologies for this interruption. I’ve been requested to deliver these to you with expediency.”

  George was given two scrolls of correspondence. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Mary and her family. “My attendance on a matter is necessary. I must settle some important business.”

  Mary’s emotions sank. The worried look that appeared on his face distressed her. What is in those letters? she wondered.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Defiant One

  There is nothing more necessary than good intelligence to frustrate a designing enemy.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  Insubordination. Or worse. The letter infuriated him. George gave a specific command to Captain Roger Morris; he refused to comply. First, George asked as a fellow aide-de-camp. Then he asked as a colonel. Both times, Morris acted injurious to the cause, denying George access to the journals concerning the military’s movement leading up to the Battle of Monongahela.

  George would have written the details himself if not for the bloody flux. He had volunteered to serve in the Braddock expedition, yes, to serve king and country, but in truth, he had a selfish motivation, to gain knowledge of the military arts. He was very clear to the parties involved that this was his desire. Yet now he remained with nothing tangible.

  He unrolled the letter from Morris to reread it:

  Dear Washington

  I own, I am at a loss what to say in answer to some particulars in your Letter; & shall only appeal to your Judgment, from what I say.

  My orderly Books, being lost I could not gett an authentick, one that was proper, & therefore was obligd from Necessity, to omit, what I would have complyd with, with Pleasure, if I had had it in my Power.

  I must now conclude to desire you to forbear your Judgment, till I am convicted by Proof, or very strong Presumption, of what I am sure at present I am innocent of—

  I am as I always was Your very well Wisher, & obedt Sert

  Roger Morris

  George’s temper flared. Morris! He remembered how colorfully the Brit sang before sending those men to their deaths. The soldier with the floral boutonniere! George rolled the letter.

  Who was in charge—a British officer of lower rank, or a soldier of the Americas of higher standing? A meeting with the commander in chief should answer his questions of whether he had justifiable command over British officers. George needed to deal with the matter immediately. The second letter granted his request to meet with the general in person in Boston to answer the question once and for all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He Cannot Tell a Lie

  … I hope I shall always possess firmness and virtue enough to maintain (what I consider the most enviable of all titles) the character of an honest man.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  The coach was conveying them to the Yonkers manor—Mary sat next to Frederick, Susannah nestled close to Beverley.

  “About the town with a Southern officer,” Frederick said in a teasing manner.

  Mary wanted to pay no attention to him.

  “The Delanceys tell me there was quite a scene in front of the New Exchange.”

  She tried to take her mind off her d
iscontent with Frederick’s prying by thinking of George. Her feelings for him were becoming inexpressible.

  “How is it that you conduct yourself in such manner?” her brother continued. “I appreciate being informed.”

  A deep sigh came from her lips. “Frederick, the colonel traveled five hundred miles on horseback to be here. The least I could do was accept an invitation from him.”

  Her brother turned to Susannah and Beverley, “The Delanceys believe him to be phlegmatic in his address.”

  Susannah sat up straight, with hands folded. “I believe his countenance is marked by caution and watchfulness.”

  Mary copied her sister’s seated position. “The faculty of concealing one’s own sentiments is a requisite of a statesman, is it not?”

  “It is a common feature in commanders of the military,” Susannah backed her.

  Beverley affirmed with a nod and added, “He is an honest man. To this, I can attest.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Frederick.

  “If I may offer an example from our childhood, one involving a sorrel beloved by his mother, but of a fierce nature, which resisted any attempt to be reined.”

  “His mother’s horse?” inquired Frederick.

  “What is she like?” Susannah leaned on her true. “His mother.”

  “Compared to my own parents, of her, I was a thirteen times more fearful.”

  “How else would we expect her to be?” Mary felt the need to defend the woman.

  “She is a lady who demands discipline and morality from her children,” said Beverley.

  “I hear she is a beautiful woman,” Mary noted.

  “And what of the horse?” prodded Frederick.

  “It was believed there was not a person who could ride this furor of an animal. Of course, George was of a different opinion. Upon his request, my brother, John, and I assisted in trapping the animal into a closed space and pushing a bit into its mouth. With that, Washington sprung upon its back and tore off into the fields. The power of George’s strength could tame even its grandsires. He held on to the wild steed with all his might. The conflict went on for longer than our comfort could have imagined. We soon regretted taking any part in this enterprise, for the struggle between man and horse became near terrifying as the horse used all of its energy in one forceful effort that resulted in a violent plunge to the ground.”