Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  “’Twould be my pleasure, Miss Philipse. My wish for a merry Christmas to you and your family.”

  Mary noticed Margaret adjust her hair ringlets as they approached a strapping Englishman with dark eyebrows that stood out against his powdered hair. Thomas Gage was his name.

  Eva’s face filled with giddy anticipation as they approached the next man. Mary always found him to be an interesting-looking fellow with waved hair that flared like a bell.

  “It is he! It’s Scandal,” whispered Eva.

  He spoke to them in rhythmic verse. “Let me sigh, for nothing can be more delightful to the eye, nothing more penetrating to the heart than seeing the glorious women of this colony from whom I’ll never desire to part.”

  After Eva’s hand was sufficiently kissed, Mary had to pick her up from a curtsy that lasted longer than necessary.

  “I understand congratulations are in order, Mr. Pownall,” Mary said to him.

  “Lord Loudoun has been gracious to add Secretary Extraordinaire to my title,” he bragged.

  This greeting was followed by one with Delancey, who was dressed in a showy and gay manner for the evening. Mary tried to move past him quickly or else be caught up in his stare, accompanied by a single lifted eyebrow.

  The next officer was quite fashionable, buttoned up, light brown hair combed neatly and tied back, and smelling significantly scrubbed. His nose was large, shifted to the left, and had a serious mark on it. “In this moment, my heart takes flight.” He flashed his ivory. He fell to his knees, saying, “Genista triquetra,” with an animated expression as he merrily kissed her gloved hand not once but three times.

  Mary winced and pulled her hand away. “Sir, please.”

  He rose and spoke with a British accent. “When a lady possesses every grace and beauty as is possible to attain, do you not believe she should be praised for such a fine choice in flowers?”

  Mary’s brooch—a yellow flower whose formal Latin name was Genista triquetra. The fellow was right. Genu, from the Latin word meaning of the knee. She was quite surprised he knew of it, but now she understood his reason for kneeling.

  “Your charm alone affects me so.” Loudly he made this proclamation. “I do declare, here and now, if you deny me the pleasure of one dance with you this evening, you will send me to the grave.”

  “Sir, I must present a nay in that regard, for I hardly know you.”

  “My name is Roger Morris, captain in His Majesty’s Army and at the service of the finest belle of the ball.”

  “It does not become me to bear witness to such public proclamations.” Mary hurriedly moved past him and right into Bernadette Clara Belle’s towering structure erected at the apex of her head. The entire circle of maidens by Bernadette’s side, including Emily Joyce and Elle Cole, was on a parade of pretension, showing off the mountainous monstrosities that called their heads home. If Mary could measure Bernadette’s hair, she presumed it would equal a yard high, being that it was buttressed with gauze, ribbons, and that feathered quill again. She had seen garish fashions before, but these heaps might very well take the cakes. She stood in amazement, gazing at the bigness that literally stood up on its own.

  “You never afforded me a correspondence in response to my letter to you.” Bernadette emphasized the s sound in her speech with her usual coquettish tone. For years—it seemed forever—Bernadette had not had a kind word to say to Mary. Now, suddenly, she decided to attempt a connection.

  Mary delayed a response, for she was still astonished by how such a pile could remain balanced upon Bernadette’s head. The letter, she had never read, assuming it a disingenuous attempt at friendship. She wondered whether Bernadette used the feather on her head to write it. “Yes, while my spirit had a willingness to write, the flesh would not guide my quill,” said Mary.

  Eva and Margaret faked a smile to Bernadette and moved Mary into the hall. Once they were away from the crowd, Eva began to joke about the military men they met in the reception line.

  “I surmise none of these lads has made an impression on our Captain Polly Philipse. Therefore, we shall now determine those killed, wounded, deserted, and discharged from Captain Polly’s regiment during this, the Campaign of 1756.” Eva pretended to write upon an imaginary scroll. “And what shall we make of that valiant nobleman who bows before his captain?”

  “The Morris fellow’s forehead was nicely sized,” added Margaret. “I believe a sign of distinction.”

  Mary laughed. She was surprised they didn’t comment on his nose.

  “Our Earl of Loudoun?”

  Mary shook her head.

  “Very well. Although I believe he would be interested in mustering occasionally. He did offer you an invite to the mansion … at any hour. I shall give, now, the conditions of the others, and if you disagree, please acknowledge.” The two of them listened to Eva’s silliness. “What of Colonel Stanwix?”

  “He nearly looked devastated by Polly’s reaction to him.”

  “What was my reaction to this Stanwix fellow?”

  “You hardly noticed him,” noted Margaret.

  “I didn’t hear a word the man said to me.”

  “I would say wounded and taken by surprise,” offered Margaret.

  “And what of our sheriff, Captain Delancey?” Eva looked at Mary.

  “Outlawed!” Mary couldn’t help but offer her assessment of him.

  “Tell me where the charmer is on the list.” Margaret stared at the officers’ line.

  “Colonel Gage?” inquired Mary.

  “Colonel Gage. Just the name affects me so.”

  “Let us place him in the regiment of Captain Margaret,” suggested Mary.

  “There is no doubt he will have you on the dance floor this evening,” Eva assured her and turned to look at Mary.

  “Pownall?” asked Eva with a glint in her eye. “Or shall we go by his pseudonym, Timothy Scandal. He is a Secretary Extraordinaire, indeed. The finest writer in all of the colonies. He is the scholarly author of the political letters printed in our newspapers. He’s proficient in Latin, as well, which clearly I am not, even in the English language.”

  “Yes, but after seeing your minuet, Eva, he is ‘likely to desert’ the Captain Polly regiment and for certain join that of Captain Eva.”

  “I only hope of it. And now we return to the condition of our Captain Roger Morris.”

  “Discharged,” asserted Margaret. “No, no. Wounded.”

  “Ah, yes, but the one who kneels, it seems, has an adoration for her which runs deep.” Eva’s lips went crooked as she put on her thinking face. “I will mark him down as ‘shot through the heart.’”

  Shot through the nose would be more appropriate, thought Mary.

  Attention was being drawn to the grand staircase as the Delanceys called for the crowd to enter the foyer.

  The lieutenant governor, with his son the sheriff at his side, made the announcement. “May I introduce our Lord and Victor, John, Earl of Loudoun, our general, our commander in chief over all our forces, regular and provincial, and governor general of Virginia.”

  “How many titles does one man need?” Eva whispered.

  Mary tried to prevent a guffaw from being released from her mouth as Loudoun walked to the center of the room. After polite yet dull applause, he began to drone on about his dominions. He spoke in a patronizing tone.

  Before Loudoun uttered his final word, the kneeler approached Mary. “I would be the most crestfallen officer in the world if you should not allow me one dance this night.”

  The first chord was struck. She saw Sir Tenoe on the floor, leading as dancing master.

  Mary found herself with Captain Morris in a moment’s time as the crowd moved them to the center of the room. She tried to separate from him; however, he became more emphatic with his requests. “You shall plunge me into a evening of wretchedness! I shall cry aloud as you banish me into a dismal abyss!” exclaimed Morris.

  In order to not make the awkward situation wors
e, especially with the importance of the event for Sir Tenoe, she reluctantly began to move with him, although resisting conversation. His teeth were fully on display. The singer erupted into “Love’s but a Frailty of the Mind.”

  “My first opportunity,” Captain Morris practically sang out, “to dance with the one on whom is fixed the chief happiness I wish to enjoy in this world.”

  At least he wore no hair powder. She felt thankful for that. She caught Sir Tenoe’s eye; he nodded his approval.

  She kept a distance between herself and the captain as the two of them moved about the dance floor. He had a gaiety to his step. Her eyes kept falling on his pinned flower. She didn’t recognize the species. She was curious to ask about it, but to question this fellow might lead to further conversation, which she wanted to avoid.

  “If there’s delight in love,” the singer crooned, “’tis when I see that heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.” The final verse.

  Mary decided to speak. “Please, give me leave to acquaint you with the fact that I have no intention of courtship. I am quite content with my present situation.” She hastily made her escape; the moment of release was liberating.

  It wasn’t even a minute’s time that passed before a group of little boys grabbed hold of her. “Miss Philipse! Miss Philipse!”

  What a pleasant surprise it was to find her young friends at the ball. She recognized the boys one at a time, nodding to each. “Mr. Livingston, Mr. Livingston, Mr. Jay, how do you do this evening?”

  Henry Livingston Jr., with cute chubby red cheeks and hair so blond that it could be considered white, darted toward an adjacent parlor with his hand still in hers and sat her down on a bench near the fire. “’Tis the night before Christmas!” he said.

  “Oh, Henry, it certainly is.”

  “My cousins, Robert and John, have tired of listening to my rhymes.”

  “Of what subject are you composing? Something that makes you happy?”

  “Tonight. Tonight makes me happy, ’Tis the night before Christmas.” She could see his mind working hard. “And all through the house,” he continued, “nothing was astir. Not even a horse.”

  “That doesn’t rhyme at all,” Robert interrupted.

  “I find your rhyme thoroughly enjoyable,” Mary encouraged Henry.

  “I am now eleven years of age, Miss Philipse,” announced John.

  “Mr. Jay, you just had a birthday?”

  “I did.”

  “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “A justice of the peace, just like your father, Miss Philipse.” John Jay stood up straighter.

  “Me, as well.” Robert’s posture followed suit.

  “A noble profession, sirs. I shall call you by different names from henceforth: the Honorable Robert Livingston, the Honorable John Jay, and the poet Livingston.”

  “Thank you, Miss Philipse,” they chimed in unison.

  “Have you seen my brother this evening?” asked John. “He has been looking for you.”

  A shudder came over her. She turned quickly to look over her shoulder, scanning the room for the beast with the green eyes hard as glass. Her throat went dry as she turned back toward the boys. The day had come. She had to confront him. She had to bring herself out of this darkness. This was the only way. She knew now what had happened that night, the one that marked her life before and her life after. James Jay was responsible. Address him. Find a release from the weight of it, she encouraged herself. There was no other way forward. She thought of how Sir Tenoe fought and fought when evil confronted him. She had to do the same … for herself. With that, she got up and straightened her stance. “And I am looking for him as well.”

  It didn’t take long for her to find the subject of her fears. He was standing alone in the corner of a hallway just outside the room where she had been with the boys. Her hands trembled. She clasped them together to stop them from shaking. She remembered the pain of that day so long ago, in the room of the cellar at the manor, as he pulled her hair and wouldn’t let go. “You will be my queen, and I your king” had been his words to her. The smell of his hair powder—she could never get his stench out of her. She was just a little girl at the time. She remembered running from him, his spurs sounding as he chased her. She had closed the door to the cellar, holding tightly to the knob. He fought from the other side of the door.

  Now she approached him with purpose in her walk, and she pointed her finger into his face.“YOU! It was YOU who caused the nightmare that lives with me every day of my life,” Mary cried out to him. She finally found the voice to put an end to his tyranny over her. “You who made me fear the water, fear the dark, fear the unknown. It was you. You tormented me over and over again. I was just a little girl. Then, the day you dragged me into the room in the cellar. Held my face into the floor for so long I could not breathe. I had to run for my life, until I found myself outside, alone on the south porch. You caused me to run. My mother would be alive if not for you. I lost her because of you.”

  “Oh, my dear Polly, I am deaf to your words, for I hear only a yearning in your voice.” James Jay lifted a hand to her face, and with the other, he placed a tight grip about her waist. His hair powder was thick and crusty at his scalp as he grabbed her and pushed her into a darkened room. “You affirmed it, my darling.”

  * * *

  IT HAD BEEN dark then, too. So dark. She was scared. Her little arm hurt when he pinched her. She held the doorknob as tightly as she could. Keep him away. He was coming for her. The door pulled open. She tried to close it. He won. He grabbed her and dragged her down the cellar stairs, into the tiny room with the small window. He pushed her down. She covered her eyes. She wanted him to disappear. He yanked her hair back as he held her down into the hard ground and repeated the words to her: “You will be my queen, and I your king.” She was too scared to yell. He said it again, then screamed at her, “Affirm it! Affirm it!” His face covered her face. She breathed in his hair powder. She gasped for breath, taking in dust; it covered her tongue and throat. She couldn’t yell. “You will be my queen, and I your king. Affirm it!” “Yes,” she whispered. He let her go. She ran outside, where Elbert found her, and by the river he picked a flower to make her happy.

  * * *

  NOW A FOG BEGAN to envelop her. Her body shuddered. She struggled to get free. Tears flooded her eyes and shut her throat. Her vision blurred. Her hand fought him, pushing him from her. She fought until she couldn’t breathe. His hand was over her face. The darkness won. The drag of his spur upon the floor followed as she felt him lift her up. The shutting of the door was the next sound she heard, until he spoke in a wet whisper close to her face. “Whether it be in life or in death, you are mine and always will be.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Doubtful Spring

  I am left like a wanderer in a wilderness.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  WINCHESTER

  The temperature dropped near twenty degrees, leaving the air miserably raw, much like his mood, since he spent the Christmas season in near desolation. His reputation had been damaged by a still-unknown scribbler and his hopes of a holiday in the North dashed. George stood at the edge of a six-foot-wide hole in the ground, glaring into its empty depths. It seemed a lost cause.

  “Can’t say there will be any likelihood of a spring,” Lieutenant Charles Smith said as he placed down an empty bucket. He’d been digging for water for months now. He was one of the few officers who didn’t complain over lack of money, lack of clothes, or lack of protection. Smith continued to serve at the fort for another reason: His military status would likely keep him from conviction.

  “How many feet?” George designed the well on paper and figured Smith’s oversize hands were strong enough to use the hand tool to create holes in the limestone. After all, Smith’s fist killed a man with just one punch; the fellow died on the spot.

  “The hole is near ninety feet deep.” Captain Stewart was overseeing Smith’s project.
/>
  Not a drop of water in it.

  “Fill it with gunpowder and detonate. Continue to one hundred feet,” George instructed them.

  The only drop came from above. A misty rain fell for days, making everything damp, like his optimism. His mouth was dry.

  Not reaching water added to his troubles at this fort. The other more pressing issue was war. Twenty people were killed just twelve miles from the garrison. George sent a detachment to find the savages—without success. How could he secure a frontier of more than 350 miles with minimal manpower? He was using every means in his power, but the effort was in vain.

  Even protection of the fort itself was unacceptable. George was in need of twenty-four cannons. Twelve-pounders protected it now, and only a few. As he looked up to the bastions, he knew they were nearly defenseless. An attack with a half-pounder could destroy it and destroy them. Maybe he was capable of an hour’s defense. Maybe.

  The blank sky was welcoming deep, dark clouds. George headed back to his space inside the partially built fort. Sweeping winds picked up quickly, pushing the rain against the single window of the room. He felt choked by these four walls, so tight, and by his circumstances. On his desk, he rolled out the designs for the fort. Fully constructed, it would include four bastions and barracks for 450 men. But now, even the mission itself he questioned. Why did this place exist other than to keep a colonel and his men trapped in a barren and dangerous frontier with ambiguous orders?

  Adding to that frustration, the announcement of the name change a day earlier; it nearly infuriated him to be stationed at Fort Loudoun. This Loudoun—this newly appointed governor of Virginia—never responded to George’s welcome letter six months prior nor stepped foot in Virginia! How could Loudoun protect a colony when he knew nothing of its defenses or its terrain?

  George moved to a small table by the fire to eat the last of the pickled white plums Mary Eliza had sent to him in a hand-carved trunk with a brass lock. Her gift of preserves, tipsy cakes, and catsup of different flavorings—including mushroom catsup—provided the only enjoyment in the months that passed in winter’s cold.