Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  Valentine took her to the grove of quince trees. This place reminded Mary of happier times. They had spoken about love, planned their lives with their trues—the three sisters, back in childhood, Susannah, Mary, and Margaret. She recalled the moment as she rode near the manor gardens that, at their best, flowered with buds of every color. Hours had been spent together sitting in the grasses, the paths lined with flowers, emitting fragrance that invited summer into each breath. The three young girls would gather a blanket and a basket of cakes to delight in the afternoon’s warmth, while listening to the gentle murmurs of the rivulet. Margaret played her mandolin. Susannah sang. Mary attempted to dance to their music.

  The afternoon of arias descended into levity as they imagined their future loves. Mary and her younger sister would blush as Susannah serenaded the two with verse from Dryden;

  Love has in store for me one happy minute,

  And She will end my pain who did begin it;

  Then no day void of bliss, or pleasure leaving,

  Ages shall slide away without perceiving.

  One happy minute.

  Maybe that is all that love had in store for her.

  Her moment of bliss. Had it already passed? She adored the time she had spent with George. The days she was in his arms, she had felt brave and free. Her thoughts became murky without word from him. Did he even want her? Nineteen months without him had crawled by. Layers of ache found a permanent place in her heart. George, she believed, might be better without her by his side. He had more to do. In him was a bright hope. She had seen it in his eyes.

  Captain Morris, astride his white horse, reached her and Valentine. They rode side by side now. Each day brought new pressure on her to find a match; she was beyond the usual matrimonial age. Twenty-seven years old. “Past the age of prudence.” Bernadette had been correct. Mary shook her head to get the thoughts of that day out of her mind. The tumble. The muffled screams. The bloody hem of Bernadette’s dress dragging in the mud. The cursed one had returned.

  Living in the manor with Frederick and his bride? Mary couldn’t do that much longer. As for a single woman living in New York alone? Unheard of, her brother told her—unacceptable.

  She reluctantly took the visits from the captain, starting with one a week, then two, and now three a week. He assured her that his ambitions were solely felicitous and his views honorable.

  The horses slowed by a row of oak trees that had moss drooping lazily from their branches. “If curled properly, ’twould make a tolerable periwig,” the captain joked.

  She found that amusing. She had become weary.

  Mary thought of the letters Captain Morris had sent her. Each came with a new floral bouquet. Most of the notes were silly words of love. She hardly paid any mind to them. Then she read one that made her question how she had become so bitter.

  My Dearest Flower

  Upon my departure from you, I frequently search deep within for the reason why I cannot make you the happiest creature on the Earth, for you give me the greatest delight I can imagine having.

  When you announced love was nothing more than a jest, I could hardly think of how to respond. I will therefore try again to find the way to your heart.

  Roger Morris

  Captain Morris helped Mary dismount. They arrived back at Philipse Manor.

  He fell to his knees before her, clasped his hands together, practically pleading with her. “Miss Polly, suffer me not to be in woebegone want for just one smile, one spark of hope. My adoration for thee cannot be exceeded by another. I feel such deep affection for you. I ask that you offer me one spark of hope.”

  She said nothing.

  “I give you my honesty that if you choose another, I will be undone. My affection is for you and only you.”

  Her spirit was weak. She reached out and allowed her hand to settle into Captain Morris’s.

  ’Twas true love is nothing more than a jest.

  Chapter Thirty

  A Night’s Ride

  To guard against this evil, let us take a review of the ground upon which we now stand.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  STATEN ISLAND, NEW YORK

  A light snow fell on the close of a winter evening with a purple-hued sky. The sun was setting not only on the day but on George’s spirit. A sharp wind bit his face. The freeze clung to his nose. He charged along frost-heaved roads lined with trees that had lost their dress months ago. Woodfin under him galloped as if knowing the necessity of finding a faster pace. Hooves thundering over the dirt released the sound of steady speed. George bounced his heels back to take further command of the horse. At least the horse bent freely to George’s will. If only his life acquiesced with the same ease.

  He disembarked from the ferry that brought him from Perth Amboy, New Jersey, to Staten Island, New York, at five in the evening. Nearly fourteen miles still lay ahead of him. He hadn’t much time to board the next. York Ferry would take him to Pearl Street by nine in the evening.

  He wanted to turn off his thinking and stop his brain from analyzing the evil he surmised had transpired. After leaving Belvoir and returning to Fort Loudoun, he had again asked for leave. George made numerous requests to Colonel Stanwix, even to the governor. The responses were the same as they had been since the beginning:

  I cannot Agree to allow you Leave. You know the Fort is to be finish’d & I fear in Your Absence Little will be done.

  The denials swam in his head as he rode faster.

  Surely the Commanding Officer Should not be Absent when daily Alarm’d with the Enemys Intents. I think you are in the wrong to ask it.

  He hoped the letter he had written to Beverley had been received.

  For a year and ten months, George had remained trapped. How much longer did he have to wait? He picked up speed. He was traveling solely in the company of his horse. The gifts Sally had ordered for him never arrived. The order for items had been sent in September!

  George would rather have not read what Captain Stewart’s hand had written months later, from Fort Loudoun—addressed to Colonel John Stanwix. He remembered every word of Stewart’s letter, having committed it to memory:

  Sir

  For near Four Months past Colo. Washington has

  Labour’d under a Bloudy Flux which till of late he

  did not conceive could be productive of those bad

  consequences it now too probably will terminate in,

  at least he would not be prevail’d upon in any Degree

  to abate the exertion of that steady Zeal for the Interest

  of the Service he in so emenent a manner has always been

  remarkable for, however about two weeks ago his Disorder

  greatly encreas’d and at same time was Seiz’d with Stitches

  & violent Plueretick Pains under that Complication of

  Disorders his Strength & viguour diminish’d so fast that

  in a few days he was hardly able to Walk and was (by the

  Docr) at length prevail’d upon to leave this place as change

  of air & quietness (which he could not possibly enjoy here)

  was the best chance that remain’d for his Recovery …

  … he expresses much concern for his omission of not giving

  you previous Notice of the necessity he was under of leaving

  this place and as he’s not in condition to write himself desires

  me to inform you of the reasons of it which I have now the

  honr to do …

  George traveled without stopping.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  His Visit

  … our Hearts are fired with Love and Affection …

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  Mary’s hand trembled as she sat at a highly polished carved desk in the drawing room of Susannah and Beverley’s town house on the corner of Broad and Pearl streets, with a quill in her hand. A crowd of esquires whose names she did not care to know glared at her as she fidgeted with the unfurled linen scroll
in front of her. Frederick and Beverley stood nearby. She put the quill down a third time without a signature. A lady’s maid rushed a glass of water to her. Mary took a sip. Her eyes returned to the document and she carefully read it, as if she hadn’t quite understood each line the first or second time through.

  This Joint agreement made on this day between

  Roger Morris of Yorkshire, England, on the one part

  and Mary Eliza Philipse of Yonkers, New York, on

  the Other part, Witnesseth that Whereas there is a

  Marriage Intended between the said Morris and

  said Philipse. When said marriage Shall take place

  and be Consummated, it is the intent of the

  agreement that said Philipse will maintain all of the

  property, share in the Philipse family milling and trade

  business, household furniture, Clothing and Ornamentals

  brot to the said Morris at the time of their intermarriage.

  In Confirmation of the foregoing agreement the

  parties do hereby bind themselves, and their heirs

  Executors & administrators to the faithful

  performance thereof according to their true

  intent and meaning of said agreement. In Witness

  whereof the parties have hereunto Set their hands

  & Seals.

  Signed, Sealed & Delivered to each other.

  She held her breath and wrote “Mary Eliza Philipse” next to Roger Morris’s signature. He had signed it earlier in the day without hesitation. The ante-nuptial contract came with the solemn pledge of accompanying Captain Morris to the altar; the vows would be celebrated at the expiration of one week.

  It was done.

  She jumped out of the chair and rushed from the room. Overwhelming feelings of confusion, guilt, and fear compounded into such a mixed-up mess, she wanted to not be seen by anyone. She raced up the stairwell, into the bedchamber, shut the door, and fell to the floor.

  Was Roger Morris an awful man? No. He was a respectable man of good breeding who never failed to declare his sincerity with the best of intentions. Had he kept his word? He had. He protected the town, kept her family from the awful scenes of war. The order to quarter troops in the Sherwood house was reversed and J.E.’s enlistment voided, allowing Rosie’s husband to return home.

  Still, Mary shuddered at her answer. Polite society told her that what she was about to do was for the best. George was never coming back for her.

  * * *

  THE HORSE RIDE from the port to the Robinson town house proved difficult; George could hardly see ahead of him with the heavy fall of snow driving thickly. Still, he kept up his pace, for it had been so long since he heard her speak the words, “You are a true gentleman.”

  Through the tumult of the winter’s night, George could make out the image of a lion on a shiny black-and-gold chariot. He arrived, dismounted, and walked through the white-covered path, leaving his large footprints, each nearly twelve inches in length. The time was late, too late to make a call upon a lady. He knew the rules of civility. It was not good manners to do so. He paused for a moment by the door.

  Forget rules, he thought. His lovely had already waited too long.

  He removed his riding gloves and knocked at the door. He waited for a long minute. He knocked again. The door was answered by Susannah. He had forgotten how much she resembled Mary Eliza Philipse. He was glad to see her. She, on the other hand, appeared stunned to see him. He had no opportunity to offer a greeting.

  “Miss Philipse is indisposed,” she blurted out to him. “Please wait here.” She walked away with an elegant, straight posture yet scampering footsteps.

  So George stood, brushing snow from his tricorn hat as he waited outside the front door. Snow continued to fall on him. The door remained open. He could hear a conversation coming from a room at the end of the hallway. A man in a red coat emerged from it and quickly marched toward him. A messenger, he assumed. George stopped him and peered at a packet in the person’s hand. “What are you delivering from this place?”

  “They are the nuptial papers, sir,” was his answer.

  “Nuptial papers?” George’s heart sank. “Where are they to be delivered?”

  “I’ve been ordered to take them directly to the residence of our commander in chief, Lord and Victor, John, Earl of Loudoun.”

  * * *

  “POLLY. POLLY. YOU must rise!” Susannah raced into the bedchamber with her voice breaking as she whispered.

  Mary lifted her head from the bed pillow. Her sister looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

  “HE … is … here,” Susannah said slowly, deliberately.

  “He?”

  “Colonel Washington is in our entryway.” She ran through the words and threw her hand over her mouth.

  Mary shook her head. “It cannot be.”

  Susannah nodded frantically, with her hand still over her mouth.

  “No! No!”

  “Shall I have Beverley—”

  “Please no!” Mary climbed out of the quilt. “Do not turn him away!” She looked to the window. It was late, too late for a visit, and the weather treacherous. How did he arrive here? Why today? Why not any other one prior to this? She near couldn’t believe it until she peered out the second-floor window.

  George.

  She could see him walking away on the snow-covered path into the night. He was leaving. Passion told her to throw out caution and papers and pledges. Reason told her to remain in place. What was she to do?

  “Oh, for heaven’s love, what are you waiting for?” Mary said aloud.

  * * *

  WHEN ALL IS lost, only silence remains. Stilled emptiness surrounded him. He could see only darkness, blank air that even the white of snow could not brighten. George walked alone into a trail of wood smoke, the scent that made known it was warming those who had loves to comfort them.

  He was alone. He was used to that.

  Why had she chosen that man, the insubordinate one? He was certain their marriage was the subject of the nuptial papers.

  In the snow-muffled quiet, he heard a voice, her voice, the voice that had a melody to it. She cried out his name. He turned toward the sound and raised his hand to block the snow from his vision. The ache of missing Mary Eliza Philipse struck like a dagger to the core.

  Through the flakes, appearing like diamonds shimmering their luster in the moonlight, she was running toward him. Mary Eliza was coming.

  Before he could find words to say, his arms opened to envelop her. She leapted onto him. He lifted her from the cold, raw ground and both of his arms wrapped tightly around her, and she pressed her whole body against his. He felt her wholeness melting into his arms as if she and he were one and the same. “Words cannot express—” He held himself from speaking, realizing words would only diminish the intimacy of this moment in time. His face found hers and gently he laid a kiss on her forehead and on her right dimpled cheek and on the left.

  Mary could not speak. No letters put together into sounds could explain the deep feelings she had for him. She placed her hands into his snow-covered hair and brought his lips close to hers. She wondered, was it fate that brought him here this night, for the snow blanketed them and the world around them, hiding them from its prying eyes. Just the two of them alone, with not a soul to see their yearning for each other.

  George felt her lips just a breath away from his. He touched his nose to hers. He caressed her cheek with his cheek. Their lips nearly touched. Her eyes gently closed.

  Quiet surrounded them in an alluring peace. It seemed to Mary that nature was bowing in deference to them. Then a beautiful swoosh emitted a sound. Had it been the wind, or had the world released a sigh? She thought the latter.

  No longer able to wait for minds to reason, their lips found heaven.

  Enthralled by her, George came to realize a simple truth: She was his; he was hers. What had come before, what would come after mattered not.

 
; Together, they were one.

  The clarity that revealed itself allowed him to reognize that one knows no place; the two of them could have been anywhere in the universe, together or separate, and he realized one knows no time; they could have been in the past or the future, for one exists not only for the present but for eternity, and through these truths George opened his heart to fall in love, in the middle of a storm, in the middle of a street, in the middle of a night, because with her in his embrace, he felt complete, understood, worthy; with Mary Eliza, he felt free.

  Their kiss did not have an end. It endured even when their lips parted. Keeping her protected in his arms, he carefully walked through the cover of freshly fallen snow. One set of prints made an impression upon the cobblestone path as they approached the doorway. He carried her over the threshold. He had her now and he would not allow anything to disturb this time with her. He moved toward the fireplace in the parlor. He approached a settee by the hearth. Its bright hue welcomed them like warm rays of sun. Upon his lap she lay, his hands cradling her head to his chest.

  In his arms, with his fingertips smoothing her hair, deep feelings stirred inside of her. Heat flooded through from the tippy top of her head down to her toes. Blue eyes with a hint of gray studied her. She bit her lip to stop herself from panting. Blue eyes gazing at her with such adoration. Why hadn’t she waited for him? Every ounce of her being had told her to wait. If only George had written to her—at least a letter expressing his feelings—she would have waited and waited. Her face leaned against his hard chest, the beat of his heart on her skin. The pounding. Even-tempoed. Strong. Her ears became buried in the throbbing of it. If she could have remained here in this position forever, she would have been contented, listening, feeling the beat.