Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  * * *

  HER HEAD ACHED with a dull throbbing that did not stop its constant beat for the two days since she agreed to a visit from the kneeler. Today Mary was attempting to create a French dessert. Being surrounded by sweetness helped take her mind off of the day’s miserable task.

  Mary watched as Temperance carefully removed a lovely ring from her finger, a gift from François, and placed it into a box on the shelf above her. It was a posy ring, the kind with a secret inscription hidden inside, that it may touch the skin. She adored the inscription inside Temperance’s ring: Retrouvons-nous à minuit. Mary knew the translation: “Let us meet at midnight.” Mary’s eyes shifted to her own hands. There was no posy ring. She couldn’t even imagine the feeling of receiving such a ring. Mary often imagined what romance would be like. Find a love that makes you feel free. She believed she had found this in George. And yet she waited still for his return.

  “We have not time for silliness, François.” Temperance laughed at his serenade over his pot. “Please tell him, Miss Polly.” Temperance gave her hands over to a full-force kneading in a bowl of dough.

  “Ma chère petite amie. I sing to my pot for to awaken the flavors. And I suggest le pain you are making will need a half pound of butter.”

  “More butter! The French style is excessive.” Temperance rolled her eyes.

  Mary should have been entertaining the guests, but this was, for certain, more enjoyable.

  “François,” Mary asked, “have the clove gilliflowers been steeping for long enough in the lemon’s juice?” Mary wanted to create a perfect marbling effect on the fruit wafers she made from his instruction. François suggested taking the pulp from plums, putting it through a hair sieve, adding three ounces of that to six ounces of fine sugar. Both were heated on the fire until almost boiling. Mary poured the mixture onto glass and let it almost dry.

  “Parfait,” he said.

  With his help, she added the coloring from the steeped cloves, which gently maneuvered through the wafers to add the red effect.

  “Miss Polly, we are fond of you in the kitchen, but should you not be attending the garden party?” asked Temperance. “François will take the dessert wafers out to you when they are ready.”

  * * *

  TODAY WAS THE day she was to thank Captain Morris for his gallantry those months ago. “One for the other,” as Frederick had put it. This would bring J.E. home to Rosie and Lulu and Jeffrey. Mary had no choice, though it seemed too long after that Christmas Eve banquet. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen the man. Not only did he follow her as a guard nearly every day, he sent a new species of flower to the manor each morning with a note explaining its origin and a note requesting an interview. Genu. She thought of how Eva got down on her knees as she said the name.

  Mary, of course, never responded to Morris. Her heart was fixed. But would George come back for her? Not receiving any word from him was sowing doubt as to whether he would return for her. Sixteen months passed. She reminded herself he was fighting a war.

  Mary walked out to see the battledore feathers flying in an utterly confused fashion. Three women—Bernadette Clara Belle, Emily Joyce, and Elle Cole—stood in a circle, playing with the paddles on the velvety lawn near the slope that led to the water.

  Before she could reach them, she was stopped by the sprightly captain.

  “Miss Philipse, if I may,” Captain Morris said. “Might there be a day we could ride together?”

  Mary looked at him, hoping silence would imply indifference.

  “I could ask the other guard to hold back.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “If, in fact, you cared to ride alone, I would be sure to give you that space.”

  She didn’t want him to be kind to her. She wanted to dislike him. But not having the guards would give her a chance to finally ride fast without stopping or riding sidesaddle. It would finally give her freedom. So, she turned to the answer she and Susannah had conjured up for any request from Captain Morris. “Apply to my brother, for he, and only he, will provide you with a response.”

  He smiled wide and buckled, falling an inch short of having his knees touch the lawn. “Alas, the spark of hopeful attention I so desperately desire!”

  “Polly, join us!” called out Bernadette, who was wearing a dress too low at the top for such a game and the same feather in her high hair.

  ’Twas true that Mary was not fond of these ladies, but she felt thankful now for an excuse to move away from him. She had good reason for inviting the belles.

  “And Captain Morris, thank you for your assistance the night of the banquet,” she said quickly with a small smile. She walked toward the ladies. She didn’t look back.

  Play stopped as Mary came into the circle.

  “He’s handsome, Polly, and magnetic!” Bernadette offered the captain a flirtatious smile and wave. “Don’t you agree, Emily?”

  Emily gave a wink to the other officers near Morris. “I will need a moment to admire the dapper fellows before us.”

  “Is it true none of them has presented a ring as of yet?” Elle asked.

  Bernadette, Emily, and Elle giggled. Mary was having difficulty masking her distaste.

  “If any of these men asked, I would give them my hand,” Bernadette said, “immediately.”

  “Solely your hand?” Emily lifted her bosom higher.

  Bernadette shifted her dress lower at the top.

  Mary was miffed. “Ladies, would you consider joining hands with a man who does not possess the whole heart?”

  Elle appeared surprised by the question. “With any of these men, certainly, except for Captain Morris, of course. He has his eyes on someone else.”

  “Should not the state of marriage be accepted with only the most honest intentions?” Mary wasn’t sure why she was even debating the topic.

  “If you find a man willing, you should immediately seize the opportunity, Miss Polly,” said Bernadette with a smirk. “Act up quickly to the nuptial vows, especially true for one who is past the age of prudence.”

  Mary could have fired back a retort. In truth, she knew Bernadette was right.

  Mary needed to end the discussion. “Let us play.”

  With wooden paddles in hand, the four of them, three of them giddy, played the game. Back and forth they went, with one winning, then the other. Bernadette was in a frenzy, trying to hit each feathered birdie. Mary couldn’t have cared less who was winning, but Bernadette was playing as if a laurel-wreath crown were at stake. They played in a round-robin style, two against two, then Elle versus Emily, and finally, Bernadette versus Mary. Bernadette’s eyes narrowed; her face became stern, more serious than Mary thought it capable. Mary found this quite amusing. The birdie flew back and forth in the air and back again.

  The officers began to cheer as the match went on longer than Mary would have expected. Bernadette’s hair flew high in the air, left to right. Bernadette was quick, but Mary was strong, so strong that she at last hit the birdie hard, too hard; it went high, so high and far, they had to look up at it.

  Hair fanning behind her, Bernadette raced for the birdie. She was headed for the slope. Mary ran after her, shouting, “No, Bernadette! No!”

  She wouldn’t listen.

  “Please, leave it be!”

  She didn’t stop.

  “You’re too close.” Mary rushed after her. “Bernadette, no!”

  But Bernadette kept going and leaped. Her hair unwound from the mass atop her head. The feather came loose and launched into the air.

  “Be careful of the rocks!” Mary yelled.

  Bernadette hit the birdie. A shout of triumph emerged from her smiling lips. The grin was quickly wiped away. Her body hit the ground with such force they felt the ground shake. She tumbled and tumbled down the hill. She neared the edge, the one that led to the water, off the stubby cliff.

  Mary screamed louder and picked up her pace. “Please, no!”

  Her heart screamed out: Mama sa
ys it’s dangerous.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Melancholy Things

  I shall be anxious till I am relieved from the Suspence I am in …

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

  Sunset’s reflection rocked gently on the calm waves of the Potomac River. Some of the happiest times of George’s young life had been spent with the Fairfaxes in this very place—Belvoir. The family had given him hope of a firm position in a society otherwise elusive to him.

  He was out of Fort Loudoun, where he felt like an exile. He wished his quick visit were taking place under better circumstances. His late brother’s widow reached her hand up high, placing the backside of it onto his forehead. “You look pale,” Anne Washington said to him. She was wearing all black.

  Speak not of melancholy things, and if others mention them change if you can the discourse. “’Tis truly one of the most beautiful seats on the river.” The air breathed purer for him here.

  They stood on the manicured grounds of the estate. The gardens with tamed bushes in geometric symmetry displayed not a leaf out of place. The property had belonged to Anne’s father, Colonel Fairfax, who died the week prior. The service took place the prior afternoon.

  The last time George had seen Colonel Fairfax, he made one request of George; it was the same as Lawrence’s desire: “Keep the enemy far from Virginia.” George wasn’t sure he could fulfill their wish—not with an incomplete fort, an insufficient number of officers, and the British commanders remaining mute to George’s many requests.

  Now George and Anne were joined by her brother, George William, who motioned for a servant to bring closer a tray with wine glasses and a carafe. “Your name was never far from my father’s lips, ‘George Washington’s good health and fortune is the toast at every table,’ my father would say.” He handed a glass to George. “So now we toast you, Colonel Washington. Glad we are to have you here.”

  Anne interrupted, “He is not well, brother. The best drink for him is pure water.”

  “The best drink for him … sister … is a red Burgundy.”

  A rush of chills spread through George’s body.

  “Are you sick?” Anne asked George.

  “Of course he is sick.” George William’s wife, Sally, approached. She was also wearing black, but with a laced collar that showed skin along the neckline. “When love seizes the heart, separation causes a fever stronger than any medication will cure.”

  George knew there was truth in her words. He hadn’t seen Mary Eliza in a very long time. When he would be able to, he did not know. Every request for an extended leave had been denied. He would need ten days, at the least, to make the journey.

  “Drinks, whether water or wine, cannot cure heartache,” added Sally. “May we discuss the personal matter at hand?”

  “When did Robinson last contact you?” George William took a sip of red.

  “Is this an appropriate time for such a discussion?” George did not drink.

  “Father would want to see you married, see you happy.” Anne turned to the servant and asked for pure water.

  “On July tenth. I had thought they had quite forgotten me.”

  “Have you asked for leave, George?” Anne took the glass of wine from George’s hand.

  “I have. Multiple times. I’ve offered to take the time whenever the service could admit without any detriment.”

  George William took the glass from Anne and gave it back to George. “What was the response?”

  “The colonel, John Stanwix, expressed concern that I should think such a thing necessary, that I would choose to be out of call. After additional requests, I was told no orders from him, nor Lord Loudoun, will move me from my present station.”

  “And any news from New York?” George William asked.

  “Just two weeks ago, a friend wrote to tell me Miss Philipse has had a pain in her face.”

  Sally placed her hand over her heart. “Oh, the heiress waits for her George. Of course she would have a pain in her face. Imagine her longing. Look at you, the handsome and brave colonel of His Majesty’s Army.”

  “The only way to learn the truth is to journey there yourself,” George William added. “You must arrive in person. This type of negotiation must be done … in person.”

  Sally motioned to a servant for a quill and paper. “Darling, certain gifts must be presented on such a visit. We must place an order for you with Captain Dick.”

  George William continued. “There must be conversation with the elders, discussion of your worth, in regard to your estate. Her worth and estate must be discussed. There must be guarantees.”

  “You shall try again.” Anne handed George a glass of water. “It makes no sense to keep you away so long.”

  George knew differently. Nearly every officer in New York and beyond had his eyes set on Mary Eliza. George was coming to the realization that a scheme must be in the works. A letter from a colonel whom he had served alongside in the Braddock expedition made this clear when he wrote that “a very considerable regular force is now in New York, but what they will be employed in is more, by far, than I can inform you.” The letter’s author, Colonel Thomas Gage, was working on the hand of heiress Margaret Kemble. George recalled meeting her at the Yonkers manor; she was Mary Eliza’s cousin.

  “You must try again,” Anne said kindly.

  “Write this down, darling.” Sally waited a moment for her husband to prepare the paper, and began to list the items of necessity:

  A Compleat sett fine Image China

  2 dozn fine wine glasses Ingravd

  Fine Oblong China dishes

  Tureen

  Two dozen Fine Plates

  One dozen ditto soop

  1 ps. Huccabuck Towelling

  1 ps. 9/4 Irish Sheeting 74 yards

  5 10/4 Damask Table Cloths

  1 dozn damask Napkins

  “This must be sent with the utmost expediency,” she added.

  “And I will speak privately with Captain Stewart.” George William looked up from writing, turned and gave a wave to Stewart, who had journeyed with Washington here. “He and I shall discuss a next step. We shall inform you at the proper time. This must be done.”

  He motioned for George to drink.

  George chose the wine.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A Weakened State

  Hence it follows that love may and therefore that it ought to be under the guidance of reason. For although we cannot avoid first impressions, we may assuredly place them under guard.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  YONKERS-ON-HUDSON

  Mary’s head hit the rocks hard. She sensed a bloody warmth on her skin. Droplets fell, one, then another, until her yellow dress was colored red. She ran after Bernadette, watching her body tumble down the slope. When Mary reached her, she clutched onto Bernadette’s arm, but the force of the fall defeated Mary’s strength, the downward thrust too great, causing Mary to lose her balance. Bernadette plunged off the rocky edge, taking Mary with her.

  The screams and muffled shrieks echoed as if they were coming through a cloud. Ladies melted into a woeful mass of sorrow. Officers flooded them. Mary remembered how Captain Morris raced over, ripped off the shirt he was wearing, and wrapped it around her head. The men carried a bloodied Bernadette into the manor. They laid the body in the east parlor. The belles pulled twigs from her hair in between their echoing wails.

  * * *

  IN THE MONTHS that followed, not an ounce of joy emerged in Mary’s spirit. Guilt clenched her in its wretched grip. That day reminded her of what she already knew: She was the cursed one. The letter, the one Bernadette had written her months ago, well, she finally read it after they buried Bernadette in the dirt:

  Dearest Polly,

  You and I share vast amiable qualities, blooming beauties, highly accomplished with qualities that captivate every man who nears us. What we both don’t have is the same, as well—our mothers. This is why
I wear her feather in my hair, the same quill she used to write letters to your mother, her dearest friend.

  When shall our correspondence finally begin?

  ’Tis what our mothers would have wanted. My wait has been far too long.

  Humbly,

  Bernadette Clara

  Riding Valentine helped bring some peace to Mary’s nerves. The farther she rode, the calmer she became; the air cleared her mind, giving her a chance to breathe. Susannah had urged her to ride, reminded her that she was capable of the impossible, for she had survived the unthinkable.

  Today the wind blasted Mary’s cheeks as she nudged the mare into a bright trot on this late-October afternoon. She sensed the mare’s willingness to pick up her pace, so she let her move into a long, bounding stride. They moved fast, as fast as Valentine’s legs would take her. Nearly fifty miles they covered.

  She looked to her left and a little behind. He was there: Captain Morris, keeping up no matter how fast Valentine galloped. It had been discussed—a match between the two of them. The captain had met with her brother on a number of occasions; Frederick did discuss these meetings with her, letting her know the captain guaranteed to maintain her high sphere of society and make her more content than any other woman could hope to be.

  Riches do not ensure happiness. Of this fact, she was certain.

  Her brother tried to convince her that there was much to consider: security of the manor, the church, the milling business, the trade business. Becoming linked with the British in New York would protect their property and protect the townspeople.

  The requests for visits from Captain Morris grew constant. Their British counterparts bombarded her brother with stories of George. “Don’t be fooled,” they told him. “Washington is nothing more than a spendthrift, a debaucher, a gambler. He has no money of his own. No land.” Mary already knew his worth. He was brave and strong and on the verge of greatness—that’s what she truly believed. He wouldn’t be a commander for long, they said, for he had already been censured. Hadn’t she read what was written about him? Of course she had. She wouldn’t believe it; she couldn’t. But for George not to write to her for so long … Maybe there was some truth in what they were telling her.