Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  “What of George?” Mary burst out.

  “Unharmed and without even a bruise,” Beverley told them.

  “And the horse?” Mary was completely engrossed in every detail.

  “Died right there before us.”

  The sisters gasped.

  “George was devastated,” Beverley asserted. “Never again did he treat a horse with less than extreme tenderness and care.”

  Mary adored how he named each one of his horses. So this was why.

  “What tale did you tell to his mother?” Frederick leaned back.

  “We planned out several stratagems.”

  “I would suspect.” Frederick folded his arms.

  “Though George had little interest in our lie making. At breakfast the next morn, Mrs. Washington asked us if we had seen her favorite steed. When there was no answer, she asked it again. George replied, ‘Your sorrel is dead.’”

  Mary leaned forward, truly fascinated. Strong and brave and honest. This man was gaining possession of every part of her heart.

  “A look of shock appeared upon his mother’s face. ‘Dead!’ she snapped. ‘How could this be?’ George went on to tell her the whole story, how the horse had been beyond controllable, how he had asked us to aid him, and how in his fight for mastery of the horse, the sorrel fell to the ground in a violent fit and died right there.”

  Susannah brought her hands to the sides of her cheeks. “And what was the mother’s reaction?”

  “She turned red as a beet. After a minute’s time, she spoke, saying she regretted losing her favorite horse but rejoiced in knowing her son always spoke the truth. My brother and I can attest to this: George Washington cannot tell a lie.”

  “Hmm. I wonder whether I should test this theory,” countered Frederick.

  Mary rolled her eyes. The last thing she needed was for Frederick to interrogate George.

  Frederick shifted his eyes to look out the window. “It’s unfortunate that his military position requires him to journey to Boston.”

  “George is leaving us?” Mary’s heart dropped like a lump of lead. “When?”

  He kept his focus outdoors. “The Delanceys tell me the colonel received a letter, requiring him to leave for New England on the twenty-third.”

  “Of this month?” She felt a queasiness well up.

  “Yes, Polly.”

  “Beverley, is not his birthday the day prior, on the twenty-second?” asked Susannah. “Is this not true, my true?”

  “The twenty-second, yes. Well, this is according to the Gregorian calendar. His authentic date of birth, I believe, is on the tenth or the eleventh.”

  “This calls for a celebration, Frederick.” Susannah’s eyes lit up. “A ball.”

  “Another ball?” Frederick turned to look at her. “It would not be appropriate on the heels of the other.”

  “There must be dancing on his final night, Frederick,” chimed Susannah.

  “I cannot approve.”

  “We could invite a select group for a small private affair of kind entertainment without the show of ceremony,” Susannah suggested.

  Mary tried to hold back the thrill that raced through her, knowing George might be in the manor once more. Would he kiss her hand again? Might she feel his lips upon her own? It was almost too much. She had to get a yes from Frederick. She just had to. She knew just what to say.

  “And, Frederick, we could send an invitation to Mrs. Rutgers.” Mary knew Frederick had grown fond of the woman. She saw his eyes linger as his dance with Elizabeth ended the night of the ball. “Elizabeth.”

  Was that redness she saw flash on Frederick’s cheeks? She knew an affirmative answer was coming.

  “Very well.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bread and Butter Ball

  Oh Ye Gods why should my Poor Resistless Heart Stand to oppose thy might and Power At Last surrender to cupids feather’d Dart.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  YONKERS-ON-HUDSON

  For his birthday of his twenty-fourth year, he could think of no better way to mark it than with Mary Eliza Philipse. He would put aside military matters at least for today. So, wearing a brilliant red woolen coat accentuated with a turned-up collar, he looked the part of a man on the precipice of greatness in his red-and-ivory-striped waistcoat, a white silk cravat about his neck. His breeches were ivory, with vertically lined gold buttons down the sides.

  George arrived at Philipse Manor just past five o’clock in the afternoon. Each day spent with her he relished. Her ease in conversation. Her intelligence. Her humility. For these and so many other reasons, he was succumbing to love’s passion. His fortune, he knew, was not sufficient to maintain her in the manner to which she was accustomed. He needed to be assured his devotion was enjoyed by her. Without such, if feelings are not reciprocated, the heart struggles. He learned this once before and pledged he would never again. The lowland beauty, she tore apart his spirit.

  With Mary Eliza, he felt something more. She seemed to truly enjoy being with him, even dancing with him, and hearing his mediocre poetry; he’d never recited a poem to anyone before. His lack of education and his lack of wealth did not seem to matter to her; maybe she didn’t know. Either way, he realized he’d never felt this way before about himself. Confident. Accepted. Yes, with her, he felt he was enough. With Mary Eliza Philipse, the dawn shined bright and propitious.

  * * *

  IN MARY’S BEDCHAMBER, the ladies dabbed perfume of lavender-steeped water to her neck just before the dressmaker, Rosie Sherwood, added a sheer white mull fichu with a ruffle to the bodice of Mary’s dress—a last-minute request. Mary believed the neckline was too plunging without it.

  Music was playing one floor below the bedchamber. Sir Tenoe had made the request of Mary that only joyous songs be played this night. She had agreed. This would be Tenoe’s first ball since being declared free. He would also be introducing a new dance to the colony, one that he taught her. “The Waltzen,” it was called.

  Singers burst into the chorus of Handel’s Messiah. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.” Little Lulu, sitting on a stool, hummed along to the muffled music, not knowing the words of the verses in the least, but “Hallellujah” she sang out perfectly.

  The young girl stared at Mary with eyes wide. “Are you’s getting married today?” Lulu asked, interrupting her mother’s work.

  Rosie’s eyes peered over pointed spectacles at Mary, the corners of her eyes wrinkled from smiling. “He is a tall, handsome-bodied, manly man, isn’t he, Miss Polly?”

  “That he is,” Mary agreed. A nervous excitement came over her. “And Lulu, today’s not the day.” Just the thought of a wedding caused Mary to want to spin around with her arms out wide. “When I do get married…” She paused. “Well, if I get married, we will dress you up, Lulu, as a princess for the banquet.”

  Mrs. George Washington. What would that be like? Mary wondered. Euphoria wrapped in bliss, she imagined. Mary never pictured herself a bride before meeting him. He would, of course, have to choose her. That would have to come first. He would have to ask her brother to negotiate a settlement, then ask her to be his. Negotiations! Those took time. She remembered how long it took before Beverley and Susannah signed an agreement. Maybe time a colonel leading a regiment of the South did not have, if he even wanted to propose, if he even wanted her to be his true. But if he did, and if she said, “Yes! Yes! Yes!,” well, she would walk down the aisle into the arms of her Prince Charming. Mary was so elated to see George, she felt her heart could jump out of her skin.

  * * *

  GEORGE VIEWED THE belle as she walked rather quickly down the staircase to greet him. The fabric of her gown matched the tones of his costume, red-and-white shimmery striped silk. As the light of a sun’s ray through the window landed on her, her décolletage was visible to him.

  When she reached him, dimples on her left and right cheeks greeted him. He realized, here and now, that the time apart from her had pa
ined him. “Mary Eliza Philipse.” He slowly kissed one hand and the other.

  She sighed. “The days have been dreadfully long without you.”

  He followed her through the foyer. She wore her hair up in a style that displayed her smooth neck and shoulders. Her upswept waves wrapped around a floral crown that he was admiring as she turned toward him.

  “Do you like it?”

  George nodded.

  “The Myosotis.” Mary lightly touched the small blue flower buds. “Legend states that the wearer of the forget-me-not will never be forgotten.”

  Forgotten she would never be, he thought.

  She smiled with a blush and continued into the parlor, where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. Her aroma lingered as she walked, so redolent of what beauty should smell like.

  Frederick approached with a woman standing close by him. “Colonel Washington.” Frederick reached over and gave him a firm grip. “Have you been acquainted with Mrs. Elizabeth Rutgers?”

  George greeted her politely.

  “Would you care for a beverage, Colonel? Ale? Wine?” asked Frederick.

  “Wine and bitters, please.”

  Frederick hesitated. His brows lifted. “Together?”

  George didn’t think much of his drink choice. He often combined Madeira with lemon juice, nutmeg, and a sprinkle of sugar.

  Frederick shrugged his shoulders and turned to a man George recognized from the other night at the banquet, the French chef who had worn a toque. He wore it still.

  “François, if you would, wine and bitters for the colonel. For you, Polly, as well?”

  She said yes. Both of her hands were wrapped around George’s bent elbow.

  “Colonel, you bring us a new way of thinking,” Frederick acknowledged. “Wine and bitters, interesting.”

  The drinks were delivered with a stirrer made of a feather with its bottom half cleared.

  “’Tis a peacock’s tail?” asked Frederick.

  François handed the beverages to George and Mary. “Do you not approve, Lord Philipse?”

  “My thanks for the cock tail.” George gave the chef a nod.

  “A cock tail for me, as well,” said Frederick. “And one for Beverley. Beverley, would you care for a cock tail?”

  Beverley looked perplexed but nodded in agreement.

  After they received the cocktails, Frederick beckoned them and the few other invited guests to gather: “A toast to our guest of honor,” declared Frederick. “On this, your birthday of the twenty-fourth year. We wish you success in your endeavors! And now, we shall partake in the games of the evening.” Frederick led the group into the drawing room, where tables were set up.

  George offered Mary a chair. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from her as he watched her frame delicately take a seat by a kindling fire. It appeared her heart was growing attached to him. True devotion. This is what he wished for. In the composition of his own heart, he knew, there lay a great deal of inflammable matter. Dormant. Asleep. Now, with the torch put to it, it might burst into a blaze.

  George and Mary were teamed up against Susannah and Beverley. The four of them sat before the walnut gaming table with their hands atop it, settling in for the long haul. The wells were filled with gaming chips.

  “It is about time I can take revenge for the losses of my boyhood.” Beverley dealt out fifty-two cards, facedown, each player getting thirteen.

  George hadn’t played cards with Beverley since their days at Ferry Farm. Friendship with the Robinson brothers, as he saw it, was like a slow-growing plant that withstood the shocks of adversity. George knew well to be courteous to all but intimate with only a few, and to let those few be well tried before you gave them your confidence.

  Beverley revealed the trump card—the suit of clubs. “I believe I will have to make up for John’s losses as well.”

  “Your brother is a gentleman for whom I entertain the highest respect and greatest friendship.” George noticed Beverley’s ante. George was not fond of gambling; moreover, at this table, the stakes were high: Five shillings equaled ten days’ military pay.

  The card game went on in white-knuckle fashion, with wins for one team and then the other.

  Each took a turn in winning a trick by showing the highest card. George had a heart. He won this trick. Mary grabbed George’s arm. “Tied! Three tricks for them. Three for us!”

  “This must be the tensest game of whist we’ve ever played, Polly,” Susannah exclaimed.

  The play went on. Twelve tricks were completed. “Who shall be the grand winner of this measly prize?” quipped Beverley. It came down to the last round.

  Measly. Not so for George. He turned the last card faceup. The heart would be the trump card for this round. Play continued. Mary nearly jumped out of her seat with excitement at her card. Victory was theirs. “I’ve never enjoyed a game of whist as much as this!”

  “It seems Providence protects you again, my friend.” Beverley reached his hand out to George. They shook hands.

  “It is infinitely wise and kind.”

  The dancing master, Sir Tenoe, entered the parlor. “Let the dancing begin!”

  The musicians were playing brilliantly, the sounds echoing through the manor.

  George and Mary walked through to the dining room, where the banquet table was set for a royal gathering. George had no appetite for viands, instead choosing just a piece of bread with butter.

  “Are you not hungry for supper, George?”

  Tonight, he was not, although his nose enjoyed the feast. What he desired most was to take Mary Eliza Philipse into his arms. “I appreciate an evening where music and dancing are the chief entertainment.”

  “At the least, we can share a bit of bread.” Mary broke off a piece of the upper crust from his hand. She reached into George’s breast pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, and in it she wrapped the bread. “There is no need for formality”—her brown eyes under raised brows shot him a look—“among intimate acquaintances.”

  George wanted to plant his lips on hers right then and there.

  Mary led him to the foyer, away from the others.

  “Be it remembered that pocket handkerchiefs served the purposes of tablecloths and napkins and that no apologies would be made for either.” He took a bite of the bread in her hand. “Shall we therefore distinguish this night by the style and title of … the Bread and Butter Ball?” He spoke with his mouth full.

  “I am fond of both.” She twirled to the doorway of the dance floor, motioning for him to follow. “And, of course, fond of one of the guests, as well.”

  The dancing master called out, “Tonight we introduce to the colony the most graceful of dances: the Waltzen.”

  “May I have this dance, Mary Eliza Philipse?”

  A dimple on the right cheek and one on the left.

  All his eyes could see was her. All her eyes could see was him.

  * * *

  HIS BREATH TOUCHED her lips as their bodies came ever so close. His left hand settled at her waist. His right hand took her left hand into his. The instrumentalists struck the first chords of “Air on the G String.” Her body pressed against his. The form of lyrical movement in the dance had her in a dreamy state, and her heart was swaying toward him even further, giving wings to reciprocal endearment.

  Following the three-quarter time, they moved continuously on the floor with a whirl that propelled her into constant motion. Their feet moved in three beats in a perpetual flight. It left Mary dizzy, not as much from the turns as from the proximity of her lips to George’s neck. She had never known how handsome a gentleman’s neck could be. He had a fine one, muscular. She wished she could place her lips upon it, just to confirm her thoughts; she wouldn’t dare.

  His powderless chestnut hair was pulled back. She was glad of her evening shoes with their raised heels, which brought her lips closer to his. She inhaled him—clean, manful, with a hint of bergamot, combined into one scent. She could never tire of dancing with him.<
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  * * *

  SHE COULDN’T TELL how long they had been hand in hand, body against body. With him, time could not be counted in any rational sequence, but melded into one big beautiful moment. They soon found themselves on the outside of the northern doors, still moving to the music of the instrumentalists. Even the coolness of the air did not lower her body’s temperature.

  Her brother also was there, and he quickly moved toward the two of them. “Colonel Washington, I must ask you this. I’ve been told you cannot tell a lie.” Frederick might have had a glass too many. “This is the truth?”

  Mary near leaped in between the two of them. She couldn’t believe her brother’s audacity.

  George answered politely. “I hold the maxim no less applicable to public than to private affairs, that honesty is the best policy.”

  “Does it not concern you that others may have an unfair advantage, knowing of this attribute?”

  “I believe that worry is the interest paid by those who borrow trouble.”

  Before Frederick could ask another meaningless question, Mary quickly led George away, rushing him toward the staircase. It must have been her heel that caught a plank on the floor, for suddenly she found her herself tripping and falling up the stairs.

  “It is the first time I have ever seen a person fall up the stairs!”

  She burst into giggles from his remark. Normally, she would have been flustered by her clumsiness. She needn’t bother with airs around this man.