Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  “’Tis upstairs, I believe. In your chamber.”

  It was odd for George to be upstairs at that time of day, especially with the weather so warm. Although all the windows and doors were kept open to capture the breeze, we rarely ventured to the hotter second floor until the sun had set.

  I paused in the hall outside our bedchamber. The door to our room was nearly closed, and I heard movement inside. Without a sound I pushed it open enough to see. George stood before the mirror, adjusting the line of his militia uniform.

  My heart leapt to my throat. I forgot my quest for silence and rushed into the room. “You have not been called away again, have you?”

  It took George a few moments to grasp my meaning. “No, no. I am not going anywhere.”

  I released the breath I had been holding. “Then why the . . . ?”

  He retrieved a letter from the dresser. “I know I should not take stock in such things as much as I do, but I received a letter from my Virginia Regiment, congratulating me on my retirement.”

  “How nice of them.”

  He cleared his throat. “In it, they call me the soul of the corps.” He swallowed and his forehead furrowed. “It touched me greatly.”

  “As it should, dearest. They obviously respect you very much.”

  “And I them. No one can appreciate the pangs I felt upon leaving such a regiment, one that shared my toils and experienced every hardship and danger by my side. I hold them with true affection for the honour of being called to lead them. If I acquired any reputation, I derived it from them. I humbly accept the love and regard they show me. It is my reward. And my glory.”

  “You are a true leader, George. Men follow you. That is not a condition many men can claim.”

  “I only wish I had served them well all the time.”

  The way he said it implied a specific event.

  “There was a time . . . ?”

  He seemed to blink away a memory, then looked at me. “I cannot speak of it. I will not.”

  His face looked so pained. “George, I am sure you were the best of leaders. You can be no other. The letter from your troops reveals as much.

  He shook his head. “If only it were so.” He took a fresh breath and removed the blue coat. “’Tis silly to try this on. If not for the letter, I would not have done it. In fact, I do not know why I have e’en kept it.” He held it up for his own viewing. “I designed it myself and had it made especially.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  He let the coat drape over his arm. “You and I are both aware of the effect clothing has on one’s bearing, as well as upon one’s status. A wrongly worn coat or dress can alter a reputation. Clothing speaks and people listen.”

  “Well said and well worn, my love.” I sat in the chair nearby. “Do you miss the military? Is this plantation enough for you?” Am I?

  He stroked the coat that draped his arm. “I don’t miss the frustrations of it, never having ample supplies or weaponry. Just getting the men to stay and fight was a battle. And as far as trying to train them? The attitude of a colonial is one of independence. A positive attribute on most occasions, the trait is a detriment when uniformity and following orders are required. Plus, the home responsibilities of each man were a constant lure that kept them from any true commitment to a fight.”

  “Yet they still followed you.”

  He shrugged. “E’en that was marginal, for as mere militia I had no true power. Though I achieved the highest rank in all of Virginia, though I was the ranking officer, any British officer—of any rank—could contradict my orders.”

  “That is hardly fair.”

  “It is a travesty. It is the true reason why I can leave the military behind. No matter how hard we fight or how brilliant our strategies might be, they still consider us inferior.”

  “Then you belong here, where you are truly the master of your domain.”

  He smiled. “Flattery will get you most anything, my dear.”

  “As intended, my love.”

  *****

  I sat outside upon a rocker overlooking the Potomac. I watched Jacky and Patsy playing tag upon the grass. Jacky was relentless in teasing his sister. He could always outrun her.

  “Let her catch you, Jacky!” I yelled.

  He ignored me and ran faster, seeming to slow down but pulling away as soon as she drew close. Only when Patsy began to whimper did he truly stop so she could tag him.

  Jacky pulled his sister to the ground, and they tumbled upon the grass. I stood, ready to intervene against injury, but their laughter allowed me to return to my seat.

  The scene was idyllic: high upon this hill, with cool breezes coming off the water. It was far different from the flat and damp land surrounding White House.

  George appeared around the corner and, upon seeing me, came to join me. He sat. “You enjoy the view, my dear?” he asked.

  “In a manner twofold.” I extended a hand toward the children and toward the majestic view.

  George began to rock. “I have always taken high comfort that Mount Vernon is most pleasantly situated in such a high, healthy country. Its latitude lies between the extremes of heat and cold. And the river . . . it is one of the finest in the world, stocked with abundance of all kinds. We are edged with ten miles of clean tidewater.”

  Three of his words returned for further scrutiny: high, healthy country. “It does seem a healthy place. By now in the season it would be muggy and hot at White House. In many ways, ’twas not a healthy place for the children. The diseases born in marshy water were a constant worry.”

  “You need fear little of that here.” George took a deep breath. “Smell that wonderful air. Such freshness bears only the best of health.”

  I gazed at the children, who were hunched down, heads nearly touching as they looked upon some sprig of clover or ladybug nestled in the grass. Perhaps here I could learn to let the worry subside.

  Perhaps.

  *****

  “John Parke Washington!”

  I heard George’s bellow coming from his study. I rushed downstairs in time to see Jacky scurry behind a chair in the dining room. I left him be and moved to find what my husband was angry about.

  I entered the study. George stood at the wall behind his desk. “Where is Jacky?”

  I did not tell him. “What did he do?”

  “Look! Look at this!”

  He pointed to the wall, which had been drawn upon. Grand pictures of horses and soldiers and guns and trees.

  “He is improving,” I said.

  George’s mouth dropped. “Surely you do not approve of such disregard, such wanton disrespect for our home?”

  “He’s not even five, George.”

  “Five or fifteen, he has no business being in my private study, desecrating a wall—”

  “It is hardly desecration. It can be cleaned. Or painted over.”

  He stepped toward the door. “Which is exactly what I am going to make him do, after punishing—”

  I stepped in front of him, stopping his movement. “You will not punish him.”

  “I will not what?”

  An attempt to stand to my full height had little impact in front of George’s mass. “I am his mother. I will talk to him and explain—”

  “This is not the first naughty act he has accomplished, Martha. That boy runs wild. Just last week when you thought he had run away, you wanted us to search by the river, certain he had drowned.”

  “’Twas a valid fear.”

  “Not for most mothers, because most boys of nearly five know their boundaries and are considerate enough to abide by them. The children need rules, Martha. E’en at three, Patsy can take responsibility for her actions. She cries like a baby when she does not get her way. ’Tis not right. A chi
ld needs to be taught they do not know best, taught that sometimes their parents must induce limits, for their own good.”

  My breathing had grown pronounced. “How dare you tell me how to raise children! You, who have had none, against me, who has borne four—and lost two.” I felt my chin quiver. “Until you have held a child in your arms and seen the life fade from his eyes . . . My children are everything to me, and if I wish to indulge them in order to assure their happiness, I will do so, and no one—not e’en you—can stop me!”

  We stared at each other . . . a standoff.

  When George spoke, his voice was composed. “Happiness stems from leading a life of control, knowing the margins of society, and making wise choices. Letting the children run amok, out of control, will ultimately lead to their future unhappiness. And ours.” He touched my shoulder. “And for your information, the children—and you—mean everything to me.”

  I was chastened by his words. “I did not mean to imply you don’t mean anything to—”

  “I know you didn’t. But if we are going to live together in a loving, peaceful household, then we need to work together to attain and maintain that peace.” He pointed at Jacky’s drawing. “This must never happen again.” He dropped his arm and sidestepped me, entering the hallway. “Now, where is he? Jacky?”

  I hurried after him. Although in essence I knew everything he said was correct, I did not want poor Jacky to be distressed or afraid.

  “Jacky? Oh. There you are. Come out from behind the table, young man.”

  Jacky stood, his eyes clearly fearful.

  “Oh, George . . . ,” I said. Jacky ran into my arms and I comforted him. “There, there.”

  I heard George sigh. “There is no ‘there, there’ to the situation. Did you draw upon my wall, young man?”

  Jacky didn’t answer and held me tighter.

  “Let go of your mother, Jacky. Stand up like a man and accept responsibility for your actions.”

  With difficulty I let go of him and was relieved when he did indeed stand alone.

  “Did you write upon my wall?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Did you?”

  I could not suffer the moment any longer. “He did. We all know he did.” I tried to apply a sterner voice. “You should not do that, Jacky dear. If you need writing paper, I will make sure you have—”

  “He has plenty of paper at his disposal. This has nothing to do with a lack of paper. It has to do with a lack of respect for the property of others.”

  Jacky was back, clinging to my side.

  “He will not do it again, George. I am sure he will not.” I lifted Jacky’s chin to look at me. “You will not, my dear boy?”

  Jacky smiled and shook his head.

  George tossed his hands in the air. “Dear boy? You coddle him. He is not a dear anything when he acts this way.”

  “He is always dear to me, and he has said he will not do it again.”

  “He has not said anything. He has not said what I am waiting to hear.”

  Ah. I stroked the top of Jacky’s head. “Tell your poppa you are sorry.”

  “I am . . . I am sorry.”

  “There,” I said. “He is sorry and all is well. Now go off to play, dearest, and I will be with you—”

  George shook his head. “It is not all well. There is something that needs to be done to rectify your naughtiness.” He looked pointedly at Jacky. “You know what needs to be done, my boy. You know what needs to be done in order to make it right. I expect you to make the appropriate reparations.”

  “He does not know what reparations means, George.”

  “He knows. He knows exactly what I mean. Don’t you, Jacky?”

  Jacky didn’t move, shake his head, or nod.

  George strode to the foyer and donned his hat. “I must go check on the north fields. When I get back I expect all will be as it should.”

  “Why not take Jacky with you?” I asked. “He so enjoys riding—”

  His look made me stop. He went outside.

  Jacky let go. “I hate when he is angry at me.”

  “He is not really angry. But you need to try harder to be a good boy, and—“

  Jacky ran for the front door. “I’m going outside.”

  “But, Jacky, you need—”

  And he was gone.

  I looked back to the study. I had hoped he would do what his stepfather asked. I too wished for peace in the household. If only we agreed upon how to achieve it.

  *****

  Three hours passed in which I was consumed with overseeing the curing of meat in the smokehouse. My legs were tired and I longed for a moment to rest them. I entered the main house from the back, and upon passing by George’s study, I remembered his implication that Jacky should clean the wall.

  I prayed my son had done so.

  I entered the room and was confronted with the drawings, untouched. George would be returning from the fields soon . . . . There was only one thing to do.

  I went outside to the pump and filled a pail with water. I gathered a cloth and soap and returned to the study.

  I got upon my knees and began the work.

  *****

  Later that evening, I overheard George telling Jacky, “I am proud of you, son. Don’t you feel the better for making amends and cleaning the wall?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Jacky said, “Yes, sir.”

  I felt a twinge of resentment, and another of an odd emotion: fear. It was disconcerting that Jacky had taken credit for work he had not done. And the ease with which he had accepted praise for it . . .

  I let the twinge pass. If it would bring peace to the house, I was willing to let it slide.

  *****

  It came. It finally came.

  Before we moved to Mount Vernon, we had spent much time in Williamsburg while George attended the meetings at the House of Burgesses. During my free time I had come up with an idea of a gift for my new husband. One afternoon, with the children in tow, I had sought a notable jeweler and made my order. I had hoped to receive it before the session of the government was concluded, but George became suddenly concerned about the spring sowing, and we had left early to make our way to Mount Vernon.

  Although I had wished to delay, I could not very well say, But, dearest, I need to stay because I have ordered you a gift. ’Twould have ruined the surprise, and as a plantation wife, I knew that green earth and crops waited for no man.

  Or woman.

  But now, the gift was created and the delivery made. But how to best give it? ’Twas not George’s birthday till February, and even Christmas was too distant. And our anniversary was in the January in between . . . . There was no special occasion looming.

  Except that I loved him and wanted him to have it.

  Perhaps ’twas reason enough.

  And so, I waited for a day in which we were not too busy and he was not too exhausted over his hard work. I waited for a day when things went well, when he had no pressing worries upon his mind. I waited for a time when we were alone. And on that day, in that time . . .

  George set his boots outside the door to our bedchamber for his servant to make clean from the day’s dust and dirt. He shut the door and stretched. Then, with a groan, he pulled upon his shoulder.

  An idea surfaced.

  “Come,” I said, moving behind the bench of my dressing table. “Sit and let me rub your shoulders.”

  “Gladly. You have the mightiest, tiniest hands in the county, my dear. My shoulders thank you in advance.”

  He sat upon the bench and I began kneading his sore muscles. “They are tight as knots,” I said.

  “They do not always agree with what I ask them to do.” He hung his head forward and moaned slightly. I did
my best to make good work of my goal, knowing tomorrow my hands would ache for the effort.

  George was not greedy. After but a few minutes, he lifted his head, reached a hand back toward mine and said, “Thank you, my dear.”

  It was time. Quickly, I said, “Just a moment more.” I reached back to the place behind my jewelry box where I had hid the present. I quickly unclasped the silver chain and reached it round his neck.

  “What? What is this?” he asked, putting a hand upon the pendant that hung low against his chest.

  I connected the clasp and moved to see the result. “’Tis a locket I had made for you while we were in Williamsburg. Open it.”

  His large fingers made trouble of it, but he managed to release its catch. “’Tis a picture of you.”

  “I had it painted one afternoon while you were at a session. I had the locket made to fit.”

  He gazed upon the miniature, a bit beyond an inch in length. “Though it does not do the subject justice, ’tis a nice likeness.”

  “I think he made my eyes too close together, but the nose and mouth are right.”

  “It is lovely,” he said, pulling me onto his lap. “I will wear it always. This way, whether near or far away, we will always be together.”

  “Near or far? You are not planning to go—”

  “No, no. I am here for good. Of that you can be certain. There is nowhere else in the world I wish to go, nor anything else I wish to be but your husband.” He took my hand and placed it upon the locket, which lay against his heart.

  I had made a good choice.

  In so many things, in so many ways.

  Six

  I felt his lips upon my cheek.

  “Mmm” was all the response he required each morning when he arose at four, leaving me to sleep. He shaved, dressed in the clothes Ned had laid out for him the night before, and descended to his study to put in many hours of work before breakfast.

  Of late he was worried about tobacco. The soil at Mount Vernon was not of good quality because the crop of tobacco was hard on the soil, and the demand for, and price of tobacco, were both undergoing a decline. Tobacco was now bringing half the price it had a year ago, and by the time all took their cut, we only received twenty-five percent of what it was sold for—and from that we had to pay production costs. George had ordered many books from England written about new agricultural methods. He had studied them intently, knowing changes had to be made if our plantation would prosper. He had mentioned both wheat and corn because there had been bad wheat harvests in Europe, creating a need. George was much interested in trying out new seeds, and kept meticulous records. He also had the affairs of my White House plantation to attend to—land, crops, slaves, and overseers spread over many counties. As I was relieved of this burden, his burden was increased manyfold. Plus, there were the numerous London factors to attend to . . .