Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  The carriage hit a rut and jogged when it should have jigged, sending Patsy off the seat. She cried and was upon my lap once more.

  “There, there,” I said. “Everything will be all right.”

  Or so I hoped.

  Although I mourned her pain, in a way ’twas a blessing, for it offered a distraction from my own good-byes. By the time she was settled and happy again, the house was out of sight.

  Just as well. Sometimes it was best not to think too much until the peak moment of sentiment was past.

  *****

  I so enjoyed watching George ride beside us. He was incredibly striking upon his horse—very regal. If this country would but have its own king, he would suit the bill. In many ways.

  Suddenly, he looked ahead, his face on full alert. Then he shouted, “Halt! Halt right here!”

  With much commotion from driver and horses, the carriage came to a stop. Had we come upon something in our way? The spring rains had washed many roads useless, replacing the dirt with rocks and branches that had already hindered our progress.

  “What is wrong, George?” I asked out the window.

  He rode up to me—close. “This is the place,” he said for my ears alone.

  I looked around. We were in deep woods. It did not look like any place I would wish to linger. “I do not under—”

  “We are twenty-five miles from White House.”

  Ah. Yes.

  “I must see. I must get out,” I said.

  George got off his horse and opened the carriage door, pulling down the steps. He offered me his hand.

  “Are we here?” Jacky asked.

  “Not at Mount Vernon, no,” I explained as I descended the steps to the ground. “But we are at a special place.”

  Jacky jumped down, and George took Patsy into his arms. I stepped away from the carriage enough to turn full circle. “Are you sure of the distance?” I asked George.

  “As near as I can determine.”

  I nodded and turned my back on where we had been, and faced the direction in which we were going. To my eye there was nothing unusual or different about the road and woods facing me from those behind, and yet . . .

  George strode toward me. “Now it is all a new world, my dear.”

  It was. “Twenty-five miles from home . . . I have never been farther.”

  “Until now. With me.”

  I leaned my head against his arm. “I would not venture so far for anyone else.”

  He whispered to me, “And I promise Mount Vernon will not be the extent of our world. There is much to see in this great land, Martha. There is Philadelphia and New York City and—”

  I laughed and stopped his listing. “For now I will be content with your home in northern Virginia.”

  “Our home.”

  Our home.

  We got back in the carriage and proceeded on our way. Forward.

  Never looking back.

  *****

  It would take us five days to traverse the one hundred twenty miles from White House to Mount Vernon—normally four days, except for two visits with family along the way.

  The first was with George’s sister, Betty, and her husband, Fielding Lewis, in Fredericksburg. I had met them at the wedding and had been struck by the resemblance between Betty and her brother. She was very tall, and they shared the same nose and mouth. I was told if she donned a hat and cloak, the siblings were nearly indistinguishable. It was amusing to imagine such a scene—which had obviously taken place on more than one occasion with much laughter.

  Although Betty was a year younger than George, she and Fielding had already been married nine years and had four children—though only two sons had survived: Fielding junior, aged eight, and little George Augustine, but two. Betty was about to give birth to number five.

  “Any time,” she told me as we settled into the parlour with our four children playing noisily around us.

  “I envy you.”

  “Children will come, on their own terms, in their own time.”

  “It has already been three months.”

  Her laugh also reminded me of her brother. “Young Fielding was born just nine months from the wedding night. What of your first?”

  “My first husband’s namesake was not born until we were married eighteen months.”

  “There. That is your way. Some time must pass.”

  Perhaps.

  She set a hand upon her expanded belly. “You have also lost two?”

  The grief returned with new teeth. “Does one ever get over it?”

  She shook her head. “Never over it. Past it, perhaps.” She sighed. “Life goes on. Blessedly.”

  “Do you . . .” This was awkward. “Do you find yourself fearful for the two you have?”

  She blinked, as though she had never thought of such a thing. “I am careful, to be sure, but not fearful. Children will be children. Life will wield its worst—and best—upon us. I do not dwell on could-bes. I pray for the best and do my part to create a happy life.” She looked upon me warily. “Is your worry cumbersome?”

  “Sometimes. I do not wish it to be, but I often catch myself hovering too near, watching at the window if they play outdoors, pulling them to my skirts when a horse comes riding close, holding them in crowded rooms for fear of a tipped candle or bumped elbow.”

  Betty shook her head, incredulous. “My, my. A bumped elbow.”

  Upon her lips it did sound like a frivolous fear.

  Her smile turned mischievous. “You wish for something to fear?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I hear you are visiting our mother tomorrow.”

  “George thought it best. Since she could not come to our wedding—”

  “Would not come.”

  Really.

  “If you wish to fear anything, fear her,” Betty said.

  Apparently my face showed confusion, for she expanded her explanation. “Surely George has told you about her, warned you?”

  “He has said she can be difficult.”

  There was that laugh again. “Since God has determined by George’s lack of details his intent to honour our mother, I will only add that prayers regarding your visit will not be wasted.”

  Oh dear.

  *****

  “Martha, don’t grip so hard!”

  I let go of George’s hand, unmindful I had been clutching it with desperation.

  The carriage pulled up to the Washington family home at Ferry Farm, and for this shorter ride, George shared the space with us. He patted my knee and bumped shoulder against shoulder. “’Twill be all right. She does not bite.”

  “I never thought—”

  “At least she didn’t do so the last time I visited her.”

  I shoved his hand away. “You may make fun of me, husband, but I can only gauge my nerves upon the scant information you and your sister have given me. And by that evidence I feel fully justified to owning a goodly amount of trepidation.”

  Jacky bounced in his seat. “We are here! We are here!”

  “Shh!” George was suddenly serious. “As we go into the house, you must both use your polite voices.”

  The carriage drew to a halt and I watched George steady his shoulders, raise his chin, and take a deep breath—as though preparing to go into battle.

  It appeared my trepidation was catching.

  *****

  Much can be measured by the way two people embrace.

  Whenever I greeted my own mother we drew each other close as though taking strength from the physical contact, as well as giving measure of our love and devotion. Give and take. An enrichment and celebration of the bond we shared.

  When George embraced his mother there was no suc
h exchange. His hands barely touched her upper arms and she stood stiff, with her own arms by her sides. Her only concession to his presence seemed to be a slight turning of her cheek to accept the flutter of his lips against it. Once this awkward prelude was complete, George took a large step back as though seeking safe distance.

  Although I had not thought twice about embracing his sister Betty upon our visit, to make such overtures to my mother-in-law seemed wrong.

  And unappealing.

  When her pale eyes turned toward me, I bowed my head and offered my best curtsy. “Mother Washington.” When I looked upon her again, her right eyebrow had risen. Had I not executed the curtsy correctly? Surely she was not affronted because I had not approached her with an embrace.

  At that moment Jacky and Patsy ran through the front door. “I can’t wait outside anymore,” Jacky said. “I want to come in. We want to come in.”

  George reddened. He had asked the children to wait on the porch. Although I wished to object for I always presented the children and myself as one—in this case, on his family’s home ground, I allowed it, and George and I had entered the Washington home alone.

  The children rushed to their usual place by my side, and I put a protective hand about them. I waited for George to make the introductions, but upon a glance, he seemed tongue-tied.

  “Mother Washington, I would like to introduce my children, Jacky and Patsy.”

  “I dislike shortened names. My Betty would do well to call herself Elizabeth as intended.”

  I corrected myself for her benefit. “This is John Parke and Martha Parke.”

  “Parke? What kind of name is that?”

  Why had I mentioned their middle name? To explain we had been forced to include the Parke surname in order to remain in my father-in-law’s will would not impress. Besides, this meeting was not about my past, it was about our future.

  “’Tis a family name,” I said.

  Mary peered upon Jacky. “You one of those ruffian boys who shout and run and cause chaos wherever you be?”

  Jacky pushed himself between the folds of my skirt.

  “He is a good child, Mother,” George said. “And little Patsy is a delightful child. Your grandchildren.”

  She made a face, then said, “Not my blood, nor yours neither,” before turning toward the parlour.

  And though we would have preferred to retreat to the carriage, we followed. The room was small, the furnishings simple, and what little adornment existed was ordered, as though everything had but one place that had been determined the right place and there could be no deviation.

  Mary sat in a rocker by the fire, and George allowed me the chair across the room. He stood behind me. The children climbed upon my lap. The gap between her and us was as cavernous as we could make it. Yet it was not a pointed decision to create the yawning space but a decision of instinct.

  A foreign decision. I, who was at ease with all people, stranger and acquaintance, did not understand this desire to be apart and away. Yet I embraced it as the best course.

  Mary retrieved a long pipe and, taking a reed from the fire, used it to light the tobacco within. The four of us watched as smoke puffed and swelled about her, veiling her as though she existed in another world not quite clear to us.

  She tossed the reed into the fire. Her eyes turned upon me, and with effort, I did not turn away. “So. You are a widow. How long? Details. Tell me details.”

  Although I had no wish to rehash this grief—especially with the children present—I was relieved to have conversation. “My husband was named Daniel Parke Custis. His family owns many acres near Williamsburg. Our home, White House, is—”

  “Seventeen thousand acres, Mother. Daniel was very successful.”

  “So you are rich, are you?”

  I felt the heat upon my face. “I was well provided for.”

  “Humph.”

  She made it sound like a deficit toward character. I tried to explain. “My family and friends have been very supportive and—”

  “Why are you not staying there ’stead of coming up here to Mount Vernon? It will not suit you, you know. Not when you are used to fancy ways and fancy clothes.” Her eyes skimmed my dress. “Some people have no time for such frivolities. Some people must depend on others for their very sustenance.”

  She glanced at her son and he did not contradict her, even though I knew he had recently sent her a generous amount. Somehow I sensed “enough” was not a condition Mary Ball Washington ascribed to.

  From my lap, Jacky looked into my face. “Can we go now?” he whispered.

  “Go . . . ,” Patsy said plaintively, cuddling deeper.

  George answered. “Yes, perhaps we should. I am eager to reach Mount Vernon. I have made many improvements, Mother. You should come and visit, to see—”

  “I have no wish to see that place. Your father left it to a son born through his other marriage. Gave them the best of things, leaving you and me to make do and struggle and—”

  George stepped to the front of me and took Patsy into his arms. “You are welcome to visit anytime, Mother.”

  “You know I hate to travel.”

  “I would send someone to fetch you. I—”

  “Too busy to fetch me yourself?”

  “No, I . . .” He extended his hand for Jacky, who climbed from my lap and eagerly took it. With a short bow to his mother, he said, “Good-bye, Mother. Let me know if there is any way we can be of service.

  “Oh, there will be little to none of that. Not now that you have a new family to care for.”

  Relieved of the children, I stood, offered a quick curtsy, and left, pulling the door shut behind me.

  The driver and servants who had accompanied us scrambled to the carriage and wagon, clearly surprised by our quick exit.

  “Go!” George commanded as soon as we were settled. “Go now. Away!”

  Faster. Take us faster . . .

  Away.

  *****

  As the miles from Ferry Farm increased, our pace settled into one that ceased the violent jarring across road and rut. The children lay asleep upon the seats, each one’s head in a lap as George and I faced each other.

  His jaw remained clenched, but his shoulders had lowered to a more serene state. “We made it,” I said, offering him a smile.

  “Made what?”

  “Made our visit and made our escape.”

  A smile softened his jaw. “Now you see why . . .”

  “I wish to understand why,” I said. “I will only ask this once, and then you need never tell me again, but I do wish to know your mother’s history. I wish to understand this bitterness that emanates from her like heat from a fire.”

  The horse took twenty strides before he answered me. But then, finally, the story began.

  “As you know, my two older brothers were born from a different mother. Father doted on them and took them to England for an education. When he returned to Virginia, he found his wife had died.”

  “How horrible.”

  “It was a blow. Soon after, he met my mother, Mary Ball, who was twenty-three at the time.” He looked at me, then away. “She had never been married.”

  This one fact was telling. In a land short on women, women who were unmarried, even at the age of twenty, made questions arise as to their . . . suitability.

  “My father had heard she was headstrong, but he thought he was up to the match.”

  “What did her parents think of it?”

  “Her parents were dead. And there is some shadow regarding their marriage. There is a rumour her mother was an indentured servant.”

  “Oh.”

  “We colonials value hard work, but you know as well as I that the level of servant who traveled to the Americas to work off their pa
ssage waned as England began emptying its gaols on our shores.”

  “Your grandmother was not—?”

  “No, no. Not a convict, as far as I know. But her lowly beginnings . . . When Grandfather Ball died, his wife remarried multiple times. All this when my mother was a mere child. When my grandmother died, Mother was only thirteen. Though she had some inheritance, she was shuffled between relatives. I have always understood it was not an amiable situation.”

  “She was not loved, did not feel secure.”

  George’s profile was stern. “Upon her marriage to my father . . . that deficit in her life did not improve. Father had many grand plans but was not very adept at making them succeed. And he chose to be gone more than he was home. My childhood was tense. Mother was left with six children—though my baby sister, Mildred, lived but a year. Mother did the best she could, but there was no room in her heart for survival and affection.”

  I nodded, my own heart finding empathy for this bitter woman.

  “When Father died . . . I was the eldest, yet only eleven. Unlike your situation upon Daniel’s death, Father left most of the good lands to the sons of his first marriage. He left Ferry Farm to me, under my mother’s tutelage until it was mine at age twenty-one, but the other children . . . it was as though they did not exist to him.”

  “That is not fair.”

  “No. It is not. Without an estate, with six children, and with her reputation of character, my mother was not a widow who was sought after.”

  “She was—she is—lonely.”

  “I suppose she is.”

  “Yet if she desires companionship, why does she not make it easier for her children to visit, to draw close and offer her the comfort she desires?”

  “I don’t know.” George’s face was drawn with an inner pain. “I wish to love her, Martha. Truly I do. Yet even though I know the reason for her bitter ways, I find that to be in her presence . . . I find it draining upon my soul.”

  I extended my hand across the gap and he took it. I squeezed, offering my commiseration, compassion, and encouragement. “You are a good son, George.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are. For you continue to attempt to bridge the gap between you. You send her aid. You write to her.”