Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  I heard a horse out front and met him at the door. “You return,” I said simply. I knew better than to ask many questions regarding his maternal visits. The information was best obtained on George’s own terms and time.

  He kissed my cheek, then walked through the house and out the back door, overlooking the river. There, he sat. And sighed. And rubbed his face.

  “It is done. She is moved.”

  “Is it a nice home?”

  “Not nice enough. She says she is abandoned by all of her children.”

  “But Betty and Fielding are close by.”

  “And ten grandchildren who should bring her joy.” He shook his head. “She does not understand joy.”

  Or appreciation.

  “She insists she is going to die any day now, and will be buried in an unmarked grave.”

  It was a common strain of her whining. That, and her constant desire for more money. George had been more than generous. To no avail.

  I tried to think of something to cheer him. “The looms! I should tell you about the looms. We have spun the greatest multitude of thread and have woven enough fabric to clothe all the slaves and servants—at no cost.”

  “That is wonderful, Martha. Your industry—”

  “We have used our creativity well. We have woven cotton broadcloth, checkered dimity, and wool in stripes and plaid.”

  He smiled. “No matter where I go or what I encounter, I can always count on you. What would I do without you?”

  I leaned over his chair to kiss his lips. “Suffer. Suffer most cruelly.”

  *****

  Patsy pinned her hair back and looked in the mirror. “I am so glad you are having our portraits done again, Mamma. The last one of me was when I was only two, and it is odd looking. The face . . .” She looked at her best friend, Milly Posey, who was helping with her hair.

  Milly finished the sentence. “You look just like your brother.” She turned to me. “Why is that, Mrs. Washington?”

  “Looking back, I believe our portraits—odd though they are—were the extent of Mr. Wollaston’s ability. He knew how to paint that face.”

  The girls laughed and Milly said, “How lucky you are you bear it little resemblance.” She stepped back. “You are beautiful, Patsy. The pearls in your hair are a crown.”

  Patsy turned at her dressing table to look at me. “They were Mamma’s. They are the Custis pearls she wore in her hair upon her wedding day to Poppa.”

  I blew her a kiss. “You do them great justice. And I like that both of us wear them in our portraits—as well as the same pearl necklace. It binds us, two as one.”

  With one last glance to the mirror, Patsy stood. “I think I am ready for Mr. Peale now.”

  The girls exited the bedroom, their giggling and banter continuing down the stairs. I was glad for the joy Milly brought into the house. To see Patsy behaving like a normal sixteen-year-old girl was a pleasure. And a relief. George was also pleased with the girls’ friendship—for their sake, yet was not pleased Milly was the daughter of John Posey. John was a shiftless man who did little and owed George much. That Milly might find evidence of a finer life and good work practices in her many visits to Mount Vernon was a benefit which made him acquiesce to Milly’s presence.

  I straightened Patsy’s dressing table and followed the girls downstairs. There was much commotion in the parlour as Jacky finished his seating and Mr. Peale positioned Patsy in hers. Mr. Peale had already finished my miniature—a work created at Jacky’s insistence—and a grand portrait of George would be accomplished soon. I was firm about his being portrayed in his Virginia militia uniform. He agreed to letting me have my way, though he was moody during the posing. He had just had some teeth removed and was in great pain. His teeth always caused him distress. I was glad Mr. Peale would only be with us two days.

  Jacky sprawled on a settee, one leg over its arm. “Try to be pretty for the man, Pat.” He turned his mischievous smile upon the painter. “How old are you, Mr. Peale?”

  “I am thirty.”

  “A little old, but . . . are you married? For you see, my sister is not and—”

  “Jacky!”

  Mr. Peale arranged the black ribbon of Patsy’s necklace. “I am honoured you think me worthy of your sister, Master Washington, but I am happily married.”

  “What is your wife’s name?” Milly asked.

  “Rachel.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Yes, we do. In fact we have—”

  I felt the need to save the poor man. “Enough, children. Let Mr. Peale do his work in peace. Jacky, come with me.”

  With great reluctance Jacky followed me into the hall. “You must not tease your sister so. Did you not see how she blushed?”

  “She should blush,” Jacky said. “She needs a beau, yet by her own words tells me she has none, not even a stray lad or two come to call. You are not holding her captive here, are you, Mamma? For she is a handsome girl. Her eyes are quite mesmerizing and her lush eyebrows are quite coveted.”

  I had to smile. “Since when did you become expert on feminine beauty?”

  It was Jacky’s turn to blush. “I am eighteen, Mamma.”

  Enough said. I changed the subject. “When are you going back to Reverend Boucher’s?” I moved toward the dining room to check on the setting for supper.

  Jacky took my arm. “Why are there no men calling on Patsy? Besides her good looks, she is wealthy. Surely that is a draw to many a young man.”

  I found it hard to have discussions with Jacky since he had grown to manly size. Although I would admit to never having authority over him, now, having to look up at him . . .

  “We have decided it is best not to encourage beaus. Your sister’s health is precarious. And you know how embarrassed she would be if she would have a fit while being visited by an eligible young—”

  “So you prevent all possibility? That is not protection but restriction, and constriction. It makes her a hostage to her condition.”

  I had no defense he would understand. For I knew, in a place where mothers knew, that my daughter would not live long into adulthood. So rather than have her inflict the pain of widowhood upon a husband, I chose to keep her a happy girl, free of complicated commitment. Besides, I was not certain she was capable of safely being a wife, in . . . fulfilling a wife’s duties.

  “You are not going to answer me, are you?”

  I lifted my chin, trying to portray a confidence I did not feel. “I am not.”

  “You are wrong, Mamma. When are you going to learn you cannot keep us children forever?”

  He walked away before I had to answer that unanswerable question.

  *****

  After three long years, Jacky—Jack to everyone but me—was graduating from Reverend Boucher’s school. I had never been completely certain Reverend Boucher was the proper man to have control over my son—such as control was possible. For I was not blind to Jacky’s faults, and in times of reflection, I even admitted that perhaps his untamed ways were because I had been too lax with discipline. The Bible said, He that spareth his rod hateth his son. I did not hate Jacky, but I could admit that I may not have helped him. At the time I thought I was loving him. I was loving him, in the best way I knew. Perhaps I was too aware of the pain my Daniel had borne under the unloving punishment of his father. That I had opted for love and little punishment which now caused its own pain . . . I grew weary of the implications.

  “Does any parent ever get it right?”

  George looked up from his desk. “What, my dear?”

  I had not meant to speak aloud. I held the latest letter from Boucher. “I was reading another missive from the reverend.”

  “What has Jack done now?”

  I wished to admonish George for his quick
words, but could not. For ’twas too true. Jacky was always in trouble. I consulted the letter. “He writes that Jacky ‘appears illiterate amongst men of letters and he seldom goes out without learning something I could have wished him not to have learned.’” I sighed and looked to George for his response.

  “It is time we got him to a college, to a place where a true atmosphere of learning amongst young men eager to learn will affect him in a positive manner.”

  To my horror, a laugh escaped. “Forgive me.”

  “I agree Jack’s escapades ’twould play well as a comic farce, and the possibility that he will suddenly transform into a scholar . . .” I regained composure. “We must try.”

  “That, we must. And we shall.” He leaned back in his chair. “The College of William and Mary in Williamsburg is the closest but—”

  “Which makes it preferable.”

  “But not the best for Jack.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “Its students are well known to be rowdy, and with the proximity of the taverns, directly across the street . . .”

  Oh. I moved to other alternatives. “Reverend Boucher has previously implored us not to let Jacky go to the College of New Jersey. He deems it a nest of radical patriots.”

  “Boucher supports the crown, even during these despicable tax acts, so any group that sees differently than he . . . I was leaning toward King’s College.”

  “Where is it located?”

  “New York City.”

  “New York? So far,” I said. “And a big city. I am not sure—”

  “But by being a big city it is populated by young men from many locations and backgrounds. It might be good for Jack to be exposed to a wider range of people.”

  “It could also lead him to discover new ways to misbehave.”

  With a shrug George sat forward again, going through the mail that had accumulated while we had been gone for the spring session of the House. I knew the discussion regarding Jacky’s schooling was not concluded.

  Then suddenly George said, “Speak of the . . . Look at this, in the pile—a letter from Jack.”

  “How did we miss it?”

  George opened it, scanning the page. “I see his penmanship has not improved . . . but . . . oh no. No!”

  “George? What does he say?”

  “He is engaged! To Eleanor Calvert, aged fifteen.”

  I reached across the desk, needing to see the words myself: You will like her. Eleanor is a beauty and is from a good family. Her father is a son of Lord Baltimore. We are very much in love and hope that you will rejoice with us upon this happy announcement.

  “Happy? He is but eighteen!”

  “He is not of age. This only proves he is undisciplined, inconsiderate, unconscionable—”

  “He must come home. We must speak to him in person.” George took out a piece of paper and quill.

  *****

  We were rather surprised Jacky agreed to come home to speak to us. My biggest fear was that he and Eleanor would run away and marry before we had the chance to make them see reason.

  Patsy was the first to hear his approach. We expected him on horseback, but instead she informed us, “He is not alone. He has come in a carriage—a fine carriage.”

  My stomach turned. Surely he would not have the audacity to bring Eleanor with him. I removed my apron and moved to greet . . . them?

  “It is two men with him,” whispered Patsy from the front window. “Older men.”

  Reverend Boucher? But no. Patsy had met the reverend. She would have said if it were he.

  The mystery was solved soon enough. Jacky entered, his face flushed with excitement. He removed his hat with a sweep of a hand, hugged me, and kissed my cheek. “Mamma! I am so glad to see you.

  And I you. However . . . “Who are your guests, Jacky?”

  “Please call me Jack, Mamma.” He moved to present them. “This is my future father-in-law, Benedict Calvert.”

  I believe I smiled. Somehow.

  He kissed my hand. “So pleased to meet you, Mrs. Washington.”

  “And this—” Jack moved to the older gentleman—“is Sir Robert Eden, the governor of Maryland.”

  I did not smile. I could not smile, as the shock was too great. I must have curtsied because Sir Eden bowed and offered a greeting—though I could not have repeated it.

  While Patsy was introduced, my mind wandered to our next obstacle: George.

  *****

  I spotted George coming toward the house from his daily rounds. I stood, said, “If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” and exited the parlour. I made my way out the front of the house and intercepted my husband.

  “George!” I said in hushed tones, motioning him toward me.

  “Eustis said Jack has arrived? In a carriage?”

  I pressed my hands upon his chest, forcing him to stop his stride. “He has. And he has brought two visitors.”

  “Not . . . ,” he said. “Certainly not Eleanor.”

  “Not Eleanor.” I took a fresh breath and told him the names.

  “That little conniver!”

  “They are the most charming of men, dearest. And Jack is on his best behav—”

  “We order him home in order to stop his marriage, and he has the audacity to bring reinforcements? Without our knowledge? I knew Jack to be immature, but I did not think him a coward.” He sidestepped me and strode toward the front door.

  I ran after him. “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going to greet our guests.”

  Just the way he said it . . . this would not be pleasant.

  *****

  Jacky was oblivious—or if not so truly, became well-rehearsed at assuming such a state. And though George was gracious to our guests—actually enjoying a discussion with the governor about George’s proposal for a Potomac River navigation project—I could tell by the tautness of his neck he was seething inside. There was no mention made as to the engagement.

  Our guests claimed they were on their way to Williamsburg on business and were traveling together because they were good friends, but we all knew they came at Jacky’s suggestion, as his buffer against our anger.

  He wished for me to call him Jack? No. I would call him Jacky, for he acted like a child and deserved a child’s name. That I was to some measure to blame for this . . . this master of manipulation, grieved me greatly. As to his poppa’s condition? Jacky remained oblivious—

  Until Calvert and Lord Eden moved on. At that time George ordered Jacky into his office, closed the door, and told him what was what. I was not invited to the foray, but stood at the door and listened. I did not have to strain. George was adamant and did not allow Jacky to speak—for we both knew how adept the boy was at bending his words toward attaining his own will.

  I admired my husband for his determined resolve against the marriage, even as I remembered the disdain and pain inflicted by my own reluctant father-in-law, John Custis. I was only sixteen and Daniel thirty-eight when we became betrothed. And yet, as diverse as our ages were, ’twas a better situation than this, in that Daniel was a mature man past the imprudence of a passionate youth. My Jacky’s character was enthroned with recklessness. Yet the pain John Custis had caused by disputing the match; were we causing Jacky such pain?

  “We do not disapprove of Eleanor, per se,” George was saying, “as her family has station . . .”

  There was the difference. Daniel’s father had disparaged the Dandridge name quite loudly, for anyone to hear. We respected the Calverts. Although Benedict was the illegitimate son of Lord Baltimore, we did not hold that against him. Not many colonists could delve into their upbringing without exposing some modicum of impropriety. But the advantage gained by Eleanor was far greater than the other way round. Jacky was a rich youn
g man and would be even richer at the time of his majority. I was not against marriage. Only to their immaturity and age, and—most stringently—the manner in which the engagement was made. Respect was an essential ingredient to adulthood, one both Jacky and Eleanor had to learn.

  George’s voice caught my attention again. “Your mamma and I have decided to enroll you in King’s College. We will go there, you and I, next month.”

  Jacky was allowed a response. “But that is more than two hundred miles—”

  George continued. “It is decided. In the meantime, I will write a letter to Mr. Calvert, that you will deliver to him, hand to hand. And then you will await his reply and bring it back to my hand. Do you understand?”

  There was a hesitation, but then—blessedly and to my great relief—Jacky replied, “Yes, sir.”

  I moved away from the door to give them the image of privacy. The door opened and Jacky came out. Our eyes met. With great restraint I did not open my arms to him, nor even make a step in his direction. With a nod, he brushed past and out the door.

  George appeared in the doorway. “You heard?”

  I nodded. “I am sorry you had to be so harsh. Jacky—”

  “It was time someone was harsh, my dear. Past time.” He put a hand on the door. “If you will excuse me, I have a letter to write, to Mr. Calvert.”

  “What will you say?”

  “Enough, and perhaps a bit more.”

  He shut the door between us.

  *****

  George read me his letter aloud.

  “. . . I should think myself wanting in candour was I not to acknowledge that Miss Eleanor’s amiable qualifications stand confessed at all hands, and that an alliance with your family will be pleasing to his. This acknowledgment being made, you must permit me to add, sir, that his youth, inexperience, and unripened education are, and will be, insuperable obstacles in my eye, to the completion of the marriage. To postpone the marriage is all I have in view. Not that I have any doubt of the warmth of his affections, nor, I hope I may add, any change in them; but at present I do not conceive that he is capable of bestowing that due attention to the important consequences of a marriage state and am unwilling he should do it till he is. If the affection which they have avowed for each other is fixed upon a solid basis, it will receive no diminution in the course of two or three years. If, unfortunately (as they are both young) there should be an abatement of affection on either side, or both, it had better precede, rather than follow after, the marriage.”