Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  Everything about her was the same as before, everything except for her choice of clothing. As she peered down at herself, in only a nightdress, with moistened fabric from the rain clinging to her skin, a panicked look appeared on her face. Her beautifully arched eyebrows rose high. She stepped back from him and shook her head. An embarrassed tilt appeared on her mouth. Mary turned and walked away from him, toward the door.

  The sound of thunder pierced the room. George turned toward the window. Lightning flashed. When he turned back, her eyes with those slightly tilted eyelashes were staring at him, scanning every inch of him. Her hand touched the doorknob.

  Alone with George. She had waited so long for this moment. Envisioned what he would look like. What he would feel like. Every detail of him she had stored in her mind. Nothing had changed. The same hero of the South was before her. Their years apart mattered not. Nothing felt so right as this. She never let go of her affection for him, never let go of the kiss that had no end. Even now, she felt a oneness between them. His caress upon the nape of her neck—she wanted to experience it again. His lips placing soft kisses on her cheeks, his strength lifting her from the ground. She wanted more. More of him. More of them. She closed the door.

  They remained gazing at each other. It was long ago that he had come to realize a simple truth—she was his and he was hers. Then a soft smile appeared on her face—one dimple on the right, one on the left. He watched her turn the key to lock the door.

  “The world can never know,” she whispered wistfully.

  Mary Eliza returned to him.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Heart of Neutral Ground

  You know the value of secrecy in an expedition circumstanced like this.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  VALENTINE’S HILL, YONKERS

  Never could George remember a time in his life when he was in such a divided state. The war moved George to Yonkers. George made his headquarters on Valentine’s Hill, on the northern pasture of the Philipse property, where he once enjoyed time with Mary Eliza under a meridian sun.

  George stood atop this highest point of town. From here, he viewed Philipse Manor; she was there, safe. He would keep it that way, order his men to safeguard this property, consider it the heart of neutral ground.

  Earlier this day, George traveled with Blueskin along the main roads leading here to make an inspection of them. He ordered they be lined with stone fences. The adjacent fields needed to be divided off with stone as well. He had good reason. Narrow paths would make it impossible for British wagons of ammunition and artillery to pass or would at least slow their pace. He remembered how all those years ago General Braddock had leveled every molehill to allow his wagons to pass. George surmised the British would do the same now—make the roads proper for travel.

  Every other route, he entrenched with a line of camps and ordered troops to slaughter any redcoat who passed.

  The preceding days proved chaotic. Enemies don’t succumb easily. On the Hudson River, the unthinkable transpired nights before. In the waters off Philipse Manor, four British warships, including the Phoenix and the Rose, fired their cannons. George ordered vessels, including one sloop of a hundred tons, the other packed with combustibles, a small craft, and two galleys, to face them—nowhere near the immensity of their warships. It was the best he had. The forces grappled for hours. Conflagration laid waste to two of the Royal Navy’s warships. One sank. The other disentangled itself. The warships retreated. The British dropped down the river, headed for New York Harbor.

  Without any true warships of their own, the American forces proved victorious in this battle, one of the first solely aquatic engagements of the war, here off Mary’s property in Yonkers. His first victory on land, that, too, took place on her property in Harlem Heights. It was as if the finger of Providence had a hand in both, blinding the eyes of the enemy. The British were closing in fast. A few days would determine the course of this war. What became abundantly clear to him was that this contest would not be easy nor swift. How long the duration, he did not know.

  Now George gripped the hilt of his brother’s sword. What the British had done to him, to them, to the colonies, this needed to be rectified. How could a man of virtue hesitate in the least in making the choice to lead this fight? He was more determined than ever to end their hold.

  What he did know for certain was that he was up against an empire whose resources were nothing short of inexhaustible, a force whose fleets covered the ocean’s waters. Soldiers who had harvested laurels across the globe were his opponents. What did he have?

  No preparation.

  No money.

  Not nearly enough men or supplies.

  What he did have was the resolve to win.

  Here on Valentine’s Hill, with a sunrise emitting bold colors of hope, George removed Lawrence’s sword from its sheath. Untrodden ground was beneath his feet. Destiny was calling him to a greater purpose. Where it would take him, he was not certain.

  George placed a knee to the ground and prayed aloud. “The Lord God of Gods, the Lord God of Gods, He Knoweth, and Israel. He shall know; if it be in rebellion, or if in transgression against the Lord, save us not this day.”

  George rose with an unconquerable spirit. Revolution was calling him. He stood ready to fulfill the high destinies that Heaven appeared to have intended for him, and for all of America.

  Freedom was in his grasp.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Let Freedom Ring

  … truth will ultimately prevail where pains is taken to bring it to light.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  HUDSON RIVER

  Cry out. Throw yourself into the water. Shed a tear.

  Nothing.

  Mary just stood there unsteadily, letting herself be rocked by the currents. Her pale fingertips grasped the side of the sailing vessel. She felt the worn, dry wood scraping against her hands. Leaning over the rail, she took a hesitant breath of sea air. Her body did not violently protest as she supposed it would. You fear the water, she thought. On this morning, she stared straight down into the dark vastness, watching a single wave as it rose and as it fell.

  Along the shoreline of what was her home, the autumn tones of the leaves looked like a necklace of gold, curving up and down rolling hills. She never viewed the land like this before, by boat. The property carried farther than the eye could see. She wondered whether she had explored every acre. Nevermore could she place her feet upon the fresh, tender grasses that tickled her toes or put her nose into the fragrant, curved petals that effloresced her hope.

  The days passed now. George moved north of Yonkers. He hadn’t left without a promise. “Not a battle scar will this place see,” his aide told her. “It will remain the heart of neutral ground.”

  Mary escaped alone when the ship’s horn blew—one long sound, followed by two in quicker succession. She knew the day had come. Her entire family scrambled for their lives, not because of the war, but because of the beast. She would not dare name him. She would not give him the dignity. Beverley and Susannah rushed to their estate in the Highlands, where Benedict Arnold was encamped, and pledged to protect them; Beverley planned to start his own regiment, made up of indentured servants and slaves. Sir Tenoe would return to New York to join and wrote Mary that he’d have Liberty to Slaves! embroidered on the uniforms. Frederick would soon be headed east toward Long Island. Temperance and François vowed they would care for the manor as best they could, believing firmly the Philipse family would return. Lulu stayed with Nathaniel Gist, who gave his word that he would keep her safe inside the Sherwood house. This disappointed Mary; however, she had no time to convince Lulu otherwise. Men, radicals, were coming for Mary, coming for the traitors.

  The Act of Attainder would not remain in place, the general’s aide told her. A captain in George’s army, Alexander Hamilton, already spoke out against the New York legislation, which with one vote charged, tried, and convicted her and her family of treason, witho
ut proof. Maybe this law, the harshest ever passed in any colony, would one day be reversed.

  Or maybe all was lost.

  She might have stayed a day or so longer, if not for George’s letter to the family. One simple, cordial line was written to her. She interpreted this as his signal to her to make an immediate escape. If they found her in the colony, the attainder ordered that she be put to death. But leaving this place, how could she leave, leave her mother? Mary remained by the Hudson for this very reason. In the waves is where she left her. In the same waves, she was leaving her again.

  Before her, sunset’s reflection of oranges and pinks set the river on fire. The flames lobbed to and fro.

  What would her father think of everything that had happened? She couldn’t imagine he would have ever let this come to pass. “Be the light, Mary Eliza,” he had told her. Papa, I tried my best. My best wasn’t good enough, she thought. Every day, she recited the pledge she promised him she would say: “You are capable of the impossible, for you have survived the unthinkable.” Maybe Papa was wrong.

  She saw the legal notices, stating judicial recourse was forbidden. Everything would be confiscated—the manors, the land, the mills, the bridge, the barns. Auctioned off to the highest bidder, and just like that, all these would vanish from their hands. The confiscations began with the animals. The sheep fetched thirty-one shillings each. Mary, with her head covered by her cape, nearly ran onto the stage to protest when they were accepting only three shillings for poor Valentine. She was weak and old, yes, but a good horse, solid in physique and gentle in temperament. Mary always felt safe with Valentine, just as she had in the embrace of the one who had given her the mare.

  Wind moved the Gabriel, faster, farther.

  She felt too heartbroken to think further about Valentine or her valentine today. She would put those out of her mind. She closed her eyes, hoping the darkness would wash away the treacherous label forced upon her.

  “Traitor! Traitor!”

  The words repeated in her head. What had she done wrong?

  Nothing.

  Take her home. Take her property. Take every last one of her possessions. With everything gone, maybe she could finally let go.

  Nothing.

  That is what she was. No longer an heiress. No longer a landowner. No longer the belle of the colony. She was nothing. During her entire life, she had always tried to hide from it, shoo it away, ignore it, fight it. None of that mattered; fate is foreordained.

  Forget.

  She wanted to tear pages out of her memory and watch them sink in the depths of the river.

  A sudden breeze sent a chill through her. The hairs on her arms stood up. She was cold. Captain Garvan rushed over to her. Such kindness from a man who knew she could offer him no compensation. Here he was saving her again. In the decades she had known him, he had never asked anything from her.

  Another man never asked for anything but her love. The moments with him she treasured. Would she have to forget even George? How could she not cherish the tender passions that rendered her whole in his arms? No, these pages of her life she would remember and protect. They would not see the river’s floor, nor would the world discover what she desperately wanted to conceal. Not today. Centuries should pass without the truth’s being revealed.

  What she wanted now was in her trunk. She refused to leave the item behind. The captain helped her over to the chest crafted from the land’s robust oaks. He had wrapped the trunk in canvas and secured it with rope to be sure no harm would come to it. Trying to keep her balance, she knelt down next to it, watching him unravel the protective covering. She undid the silver latch.

  She opened it and removed the quilt with frayed edges that lay inside. Mary had kept this safe for decades. The captain smiled. He remembered. He wrapped her in the blanket of blue flowers when he rescued her as a little girl.

  Taking the blanket from her, he opened it wide and waited to embrace her in it.

  About to close the trunk, curiosity begged her to look deeper. Below were her beloved things: her mother’s psalmbook and the diadem with her mother’s face in ivory, which Mary had quickly wrapped in silk. Beneath that was the wooden box Frederick handed to her moments before she made her escape. She hadn’t had time to examine the contents. Within it she expected there to be currency. Instead, she found a pile of folded papers. Dozens of letters. She carefully removed one. As she straightened the folds, she recognized the writing immediately. The script displayed thin upstrokes and wide downstrokes of loops and curves.

  Her mind began to race.

  Papers from George. They were dated 1756. Had they been written then and never delivered to her? She watched as her deep breath dissipated in the air. Had he held these from her—Frederick? She worked her brain hard, trying to remember the details. Mary recalled the heartache as she had waited for George to return, without any word, not a note, that he was alive, that he would return. Negotiations had to be done in person; she remembered her brother remaining firm on this, clearly firm on this. Then Captain Morris, playing guard, staying close. They had deceived her. They had defamed George, vilified him. They had kept them apart so that another could possess her. The truth was clear now. She wanted to turn the boat around and release a fury on her brother. She wanted to race after George and tell him … tell him the truth of what had happened! And what? Stop a revolution?

  Mary’s eyes fell to the writing before her. He’d written the lines from Thomson’s “Spring”:

  ’Tis Love creates their Melody, and all

  This Waste of Music is the Voice of Love;

  That even to Birds, and Beasts, the tender Arts

  Of pleasing teaches.…

  But now the feather’d Youth their former Bounds,

  Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their Wings,

  Demand the free Possession of the Sky.…

  On Ground

  Alighted, bolder up again they lead,

  Farther and farther on, the lengthening Flight;

  Till vanish’d every Fear, and every Power

  Rouz’d into Life and Action, light in Air

  Th’ acquitted Parents see their soaring Race,

  And once rejoicing never know them more.

  Her eyes opened to see them—ravens soaring above. They were flying away, past the Palisades, beyond the earth formation that she had always considered her protector—the guardian’s wall.

  A power greater than her took control. She had to accept this. Accept everything.

  George. He had more to do. Providence, she was sure, had him marked for a great purpose.

  Garvan got down next to her. “Breathe, Mary. Breathe.” He covered her in the quilt.

  The sun’s rays shone brightly on the water ahead. She watched them, the birds, taking possession of the sky, flying far into the light, flying free. This was her chance, maybe for the first time. Yes, the first time. When you are nothing … this is when you will be like a Phoenix rising from the ashes. A new beginning.

  They called her traitor. She’d refuse the title.

  They showed her hatred. She’d find love.

  They took everything, leaving her not even a pence in her pocket, but she knew that no being can be poor who is rich in spirit.

  Underneath the papers was something more. A smaller box, decorated as a gift. Her fingers fumbled with it. This must have been from him. As she lifted the lid, her breath stopped. Inside was the softest of velvet bags tied at the top with a satin string. Carefully, with a trembling hand, she undid the bow. One hand cradled the bag; two fingers reached within. She removed a posy ring. She brought it into the light. Her eyes focused closely to read the inscription along the interior rim. The hidden message came through with clarity—words that touched her deeply. She reread the line as the weight that had held her down for so long, for too long, finally released her.

  She realized her truth and finally knew who she really was. She was Mary Eliza, and she was enough.

  As long as
there was breath on her lips, she decided right then, she would live.

  In her hands, destiny was etched into metal: Where there is love, there is freedom.

  Acknowlegments

  First and foremost, I would like to thank the power of curiosity, for this is what propelled me to search, physically and digitally, through dusty basements and attics, as well as storage units in libraries, museums, historic sites, and churches. Words cannot express my gratitude to the lovers of history who for centuries have kept the records. Through these thousands of documents, this story emerged. Special thanks to the University of Virginia for the comprehensive collection of the Papers of George Washington, the Library of Congress, the New York Public Library, the New-York Historical Society, George Washington’s Mount Vernon, Harvard University’s Houghton Library, the Huntington Library, the Morris-Jumel Mansion, the Philipse Manor Hall State Historic Site, the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, from which fashion throughout the manuscript was drawn, Yonkers City Hall, the Sherwood House Museum, St. John’s Episcopal Church, the Historic Hudson Valley, the Boston Public Library, the Fraunces Tavern Museum, Jeffrey’s Hook Lighthouse, the Hudson River Museum, Old Dutch Church, St. Joseph’s Seminary, the Van Cortland Manor House Museum, and countless others.

  Boundless thank-yous to my wise and brilliant editor, Elizabeth Beier. If not for you and publisher extraordinaire Steve Cohen, this story may have never made it into ink. To the whole team at St. Martin’s Press—Paul Hochman, Michelle Cashman, Leah Johanson, Clare Maurer, Meg Drislane, Donna Sinisgalli Noetzel, Kerri Resnick, Jennifer Donovan, Carol Edwards, Carly Sommerstein, and Laura Starrett—my gratitude. Over the years, numerous individuals have had a profound impact on my career, most especially my longtime agent and dear friend, Sandy Montag. Thanks also to Peter Dunn, David Friend, Tony Petitti, and Janine Rose.