Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  He wanted to carry a kiss to her and give her assurances of his fond regard. He took both of her hands in his. “I’ll sleep among my most inveterate foes and with gladness never wish to wake.”

  At this very moment, a realization came clear—one that she never imagined, for she never knew romance in real life, always thinking it a matter of fiction that played out in a poem or a song, but now, as she thought of the wonders of what it would be like to share his bed, as her one hand let go of his and her fingers threaded through his loose hair while staring into his blue-with-a-touch-of-gray eyes, as she fought to keep her lips from reaching up to devour his, as she shifted her gaze to her riding dress, which had slipped off her shoulder, as she lifted her dress back in place, and as she watched him move it back off her shoulder, a truth emerged from the deepest depths of her heart: Mary Eliza Philipse was in love with George Washington.

  Her cheek grazed his hand and her creamy skin lingered there—the feel of loveliness in the flesh. His adoration grew fierce at her touch. A light wind moved her hair just so. He moved his fingers to the loose strands and put them back in place. She closed her eyes at this. She looked blissful. He spoke to her quietly. “’Twas perfect love before, but how I do adore.” She was completely still, despite the curve of her lips, which ushered in an angelic smile. He placed a kiss upon her dimpled right cheek. Another kiss he laid upon the left dimple. Gently, he kissed every part of her face.

  Again and again, softly his lips touched her skin, leaving a sensation each place he lingered, until she dissolved into his tender passion.

  Her lips parted to meet his.

  Below the brightness of the meridian sun, two breaths became one.

  Part III

  The Deception

  Chapter Twenty

  Friend or Fiend?

  The turning points of lives are not the great moments. The real crises are often concealed in occurrences so trivial in appearance that they pass unobserved.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  WINCHESTER, VIRGINIA

  George paced the floor of the room he rented at Cocke’s Tavern. For four pounds a month, he could lay his head amid the clamor of the evening’s bumper men playing fives and the odor of bumbo and ale seeping through the walls. In the day, he conducted his business here.

  His personal secretary had accompanied him on his return to Virginia. “You know nearly every military man is resolved to serve under the new general and finding every stratagem possible to journey to New York to do so.” John Kirkpatrick laid a new scroll flat to transcribe a letter.

  George would have liked to do the same—journey to New York. His British superiors turned his requests down. Months passed since the day his treasured one shed tears upon their parting at that place he fondly remembered as Valentine’s Hill. His mind filled with thoughts of her, every detail of her, down to the softness of her skin at the nape of her neck. Little time was possible for good-byes. He yearned to be back in that northern colony to visit his lovely. He wished he had something to remember her by. A miniature—wouldn’t that be fine—a portrait miniature that he could place in his pocket and carry with him everywhere he went.

  His confidant, stable master Joseph Chew, had pledged he would keep the colonel abreast of Mary Eliza’s comings and goings. George wished he could have waited on her for days more; however, an order from the British forces required his return to Virginia. The decision was made to build a fort. “Barbarities daily committed by the French and their Indian allies” is how the crisis was described. George was placed in charge of the construction in the “town of Winchester, in the County of Frederick, Be it Enacted, by the authority aforesaid, That the commander in chief of this colony, is hereby impowered and desired to order a fort to be built with all possible dispatch in the aforesaid Town of Winchester, and that his honor do give such orders and instructions for the immediate erecting and garrisoning.”

  George began the work the day he arrived in Winchester. Now, months into the mission, he knew that just one fort would not be sufficient. This was dangerous territory. The enemy lurked within miles of this place. George proposed a chain of fortifications to be built on the frontiers, in Augusta and Bedford, and one in Hampshire. George also pleaded for additional men as well as additional supplies.

  Even more crucial was getting approval to march against the enemy and stop the incursions once and for all. The prospects for this improved: A new British commander arrived in the colonies to replace the prior general, who refused George’s request for an offensive maneuver. It was this new commander to whom George now wrote.

  “Must we include the full title, Colonel?” Kirkpatrick was seated at a small desk by the window. He dipped his quill in an inkwell and waited.

  “It is expected.” George’s heels made even-tempoed thumps as he walked with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “‘The Right Honourable, John, Earl of Loudoun—General and Commander in Chief of all His Majesty’s Forces in North America and Governor and Commander in Chief of His Majesty’s Most ancient Colony and Dominion of Virginia’?” Kirkpatrick waited for a reply. “I shall add ‘the most pretentiously recrementitious holder of titles of Great Britain.’”

  George held back a grin as he asked Kirkpatrick to read back what he’d written in a first draft. Kirkpatrick cleared his throat and began, first reading Loudoun’s title in its entirety again, with a smirk, followed by the body of the letter:

  We the Officers of the Virginia Regiment beg Leave to congratulate Your Lordship on your safe Arrival in America: And to express the deep Sense We have of His Majesty’s great Wisdom and paternal Care for his Colonies in sending your Lordship to their Protection at this critical Juncture.

  Full of Hopes that a perfect Union of the Colonies will be brought about by Your Lordship’s Wisdom and Authority, and big with Expectations of seeing the extravagant Insolence of an Insulting Subtle and Inhuman Enemy restrained, and of having it in our Power to take our desired Revenge: We humbly represent to your Lordship, that We were the first Troops in Action on the Continent on Occasion of the present Broils, And that by several Engagements and continual Skirmishes with the Enemy, We have to our Cost acquired a Knowledge of Them, and of their crafty and cruel Practices, which We are ready to testify with the greatest Chearfulness and Resolution whenever We are so happy as to be honoured with the Execution of your Lordship’s Commands.

  Kirkpatrick drew a breath. “What would you like as the final salutation?” he asked. “‘Your most obedient Servant’?”

  George signed most letters that way. “If I could have a moment on that matter.”

  Kirkpatrick rose from his seat. “Take time, then. Decision making, like coffee, needs a cooling process, as you always say. I’ll pour myself a cup of George in the meantime. Would you care for one, Colonel?”

  While most Virginians began the day with a mug of ale or beer, Washington favored coffee. “Black, please.” Cup of George. George knew he never said that, but just shook his head. Kirkpatrick was indeed a card.

  George pondered the various possible endings for the letter to Lord Loudoun. “Obedient servant” didn’t seem the most appropriate. Instead, he told Kirkpatrick, “‘In behalf of the Corps, George Washington, Colo.’”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Andromeda

  … to this hour I am held in darkness …

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  YONKERS-ON-HUDSON

  The portrait artist placed a bouquet of roses on Mary’s lap as she sat in the west parlor with autumn’s golden light seeping though the window. “Every daughter is her own kind of flower.” She thought of her mama. “What kind of flower am I?” she recalled asking her mother as Mary’s nose settled into a bloom to inhale its perfume. “Oh, my Polly, you are a beautiful rose.”

  Out of all the flowers she could be, did she have to be a rose? The rose is a diabolical bit of nature, Mary had come to realize, a complicated flower—much like the charms of life that entice and
betray. The rose’s alluring perfume draws one in, only to have sharp thorns puncture the skin.

  The lace around her neck made her skin itch. Mary tried to keep still. She scratched quickly, put her hair back full in front of her, and made sure not to cover the lovely lily of the valley that was affixed to a brooch at the bustline of her gold gown.

  Three hours crawled by with the painter stroking the canvas, stepping back, asking Mary to sit still, sit up straight, adjust the roses. He painted for another hour.

  Susannah’s lips pursed. “Wilting will commence if you have her sit much longer.”

  Mary wasn’t sure if she was speaking of the flowers on the brooch, those in her lap, or maybe Mary herself. “May I see it?”

  The painter nodded. Mary rose from her seat. She shook her foot several times, for it had taken a nap. She carried the roses with care. She planned to place them into an arrangement to deliver to Lulu, Rosie’s little girl.

  Susannah smiled, her full teeth showing as she stared at the canvas. “Captain Middleton. She is breathtaking!”

  Mary leaned her head around to view the canvas. Odd. She didn’t remember smiling during the sitting, yet he painted dimples on both her right and left cheeks. The dimples had been passed down to her from her mother, her wavy chestnut hair as well. The painting before her displayed a radiant, blushing beauty. She had to look at it twice, for she could hardly believe it was a likeness of her.

  Maybe she was beautiful? Or—more likely—it was the result of a fine brush in talented hands. She never heard of James Godsell Middleton before. In fact, the only other portrait she knew he painted was of the mother of the man Mary tried not to think about every minute of every day. This was the information, at least, that Susannah learned from her true.

  It was George, she believed, who commissioned Middleton. The painter, though, would not confirm the payer’s name. “A gift from an admirer” is how he put it. She hoped George would smile, too, when he saw it. The moment when they would be together again filled her thoughts entirely.

  She examined the portrait more closely. On her brooch, the painter stroked tiny buds into the shape of the constellation of Andromeda. Mary walked away to hide her giddiness.

  Andromeda!

  She came back to the painting again to be sure. Yes. Painted specks in the shape of the chained maiden. First the dimples, then the constellation. She was certain the portrait was commissioned by George. And the artist was beginning a portrait miniature from the large painting. He would say only that it was customary to have a miniature made from the same. She wondered if he would deliver that to her George. Six months now passed since she had seen him in the flesh. She would wait for him to return. Theirs was a perfect felicity.

  “The New-York Mercury has arrived!” Temperance called out to the sisters.

  “The wedding announcement is expected to be printed today!” exclaimed an elated Susannah as she received the two publications from Temperance. One of them, she placed to the side. As for the other, she turned the pages until settling on one of them. Susannah read aloud:

  Last Thursday night, Colonel Frederick Philipse, Esq.,

  of Philipsburg, in this Province, was married to

  Mrs. Elizabeth Rutgers, Widow of the late Anthony Rutgers, Esq.,

  and Daughter of Charles Williams, Esq., Naval Officer for the

  Port of New York; a very agreeable Lady and possessed of

  every Virtue and Accomplishment that can adorn her Sex

  and make the Marriage State truly happy.

  “How lovely for them! I wish you would have danced on that night.” Susannah’s disappointment with Mary was clear.

  Mary danced—one dance—with her brother on his wedding night. She refused to dance with the other men who asked, many of them military officers.

  “Just because you dance with someone doesn’t mean you are ruining yourself for Colonel Washington, my sister.”

  “I danced. Did you not see my minuet with our dear brother?”

  “It seemed every bachelor was waiting for a chance to waltz with you.”

  That would not be. The feelings of her heart were unalterably fixed. Mary caught a glimpse of the other newspaper brought into the parlor. The Virginia Gazette. How perplexing, she thought. “Who delivered this to the manor?”

  Susannah shrugged.

  “May I see that other publication?” requested Mary, knowing the colonel who captured her heart commanded the Virginia Regiment.

  Susannah carried it over to her. Mary placed down the roses, and took the publication to the light of the window. Nearly the entire front page was taken up by one article:

  An effeminate Creature, that spent all his Time in the

  Company of Women, Feasting, Rioting. Certainly,

  Censure cannot be silence; nor can the Public receive much

  Advantage from a Regiment of such dastardly Debauchees.

  They employed themselves in nothing but Banquets, Games,

  Parties of Pleasure and Carousals. Public Rewards were

  bestowed on those, who gave the most magnificent Entertainments; and even to such Cooks of Genius, as were best skilled in the important Arts of inventing new Refreshments to tickle the Palate.

  Mary realized the author was comparing the commander of the Virginia Regiment to the most scurrilous military leaders in history. An assault on George? Her George? How could it be! She couldn’t believe what else was written about him: “Sensual Indulgencies were his daily Employ,” she read. “Their Country calls; and see! the Hero runs to save her.” Save her? Could they have been speaking … of her? Written anonymously, signed L. & V. An anonymous coward! It had to be … or someone else. The article continued with a passage from Virgil:

  Quis metus, o numquam dolituri, o semper inertes

  Tyrrheni, quae tanta animis ignauia venit?

  Femina palantis agit, atque haec agmina uertit?

  Quo ferrum, quidue haec gerimus tela inrita dextris?

  At non in Venerem segnes nocturnaque bella,

  Aut, ubi curua choros indixit tibia Bacchi,

  Exspectare dapes et plenae pocula mensae—

  Hic amor, hoc studium—

  She translated the passage in her head as best she could. She moved herself to her bedchamber to be alone. Feelings of dread creeped through her. She looked again at the passage. Mary covered her mouth with her hand to stop a scream and rushed to her shelf for a book with an English translation of the Aeneid. After swiftly turning page after page, she found it:

  What fear, what cowardice has filled your hearts,

  O, sluggish Tuscans, O you, who are never ashamed?

  Can a woman drive you to scatter and turn your ranks?

  Why bear our hand with useless swords and spears, steel not made to fight?

  But you are not slow to love or for battles of the night, nor when

  the curved pipe proclaims Bacchus’ dance.

  Wait then for the feast and cups on the plenteous table,

  Your passion, your pleasure is there.

  Was she to blame? Others might have taken her attention to him—and his to her—and turned it into salacious gossip. She stepped back from the newspaper and remained still. An esteemed colonel reduced to this with the stroke of an evil pen. Hatred in ink. He must be devastated to have read such an offensive article, she thought.

  She knew better than to believe any of it. Not George.

  She looked down to see her laced glove stained red. Blood. The sight made her queasy. She tried to shake her head to clear it of its dizzy feeling. A thorn must have punctured her skin. This reaffirmed what she already knew.

  A rose has thorns.

  Could it be her curse beginning to defeat him? Censure George? She prayed it would not be so. She knew she should have shunned him. That would have kept him protected. The newspaper—she neatly folded it and quickly moved to place it on the shelf of her bookcase above the other, words away from her.

  A disturbance overwhelme
d her and she felt faint. She dropped her body into a chair. She looked again at the publication to be sure it was in proper position on the shelf—writing away from the cursed.

  Right there, she fell down to her knees in prayer:

  Please, angels, take up my fight. Protect him. Keep him safe. Please, angels, listen to my prayer. Protect George from the enemy. I’ve hurt too many. I am the one who deserves to be punished. Don’t let him be cursed by the cursed. Please, angels, don’t give up on his plight; don’t leave him alone, for a rose … for a rose has thorns.

  Worry, when it got ahold of her, caused her mind to begin playing its tricks. Inner demons, they weaken your faith. They put strange thoughts into your mind. Inner demons don’t fight fairly. Like a nightmare, they strike even in waking hours. She was trembling. Think of nothing. Empty your mind, she told herself. Terrifying images would often haunt her when she lost herself in despair. She had gotten glimpses of the frightening pictures in her head throughout her life. Lately, they were darker than ever, clouding her rationality. Drag me. Punish me. Leave me to rot. She should have been the one taken.

  A thick white fog rolled toward her, turning dark as it crept over filthy ground. From it, a little hand emerged, reaching for her in desperation. She couldn’t get to him. She couldn’t save him. A beast with a crooked finger pulled her away, covered her mouth until her throat closed from the dust, her air taken away, plunging her into nothingness.

  The night that changed her days was becoming clearer. She was remembering what happened, why she ran outside when her mother said to stay put, why she was always terrified when the man of her nightmares came near her.

  She rose from her kneeling place, walked downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed hold of a knife, and entered the darkness of the cellar.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Invisible Enemy