Dresses. I was thinking about dresses.
Patsy had loved clothes as much as I. But how could I ever wear a pretty gown when my Patsy was not able to join me?
I took comfort in the knowledge my girl was in heaven with our Lord, and yet I still fought with the Almighty over the arrangement.
Everyone said Patsy was better off now; her sufferings were over. Even Jacky had written me . . .
I moved to the drawer of my dressing table, where I kept his letter. Her case is more to be envied than pitied, for if we mortals can distinguish between those who are deserving of grace and who are not, I am confident she enjoys that bliss prepared only for the good and virtuous . . . . Comfort yourself with reflecting that she now enjoys in substance what we in this world enjoy in imagination.
The page easily folded upon itself from much perusal. My Jacky was not an eloquent boy, and yet in this letter, he had proven himself far capable of that trait. Perhaps God had enabled him a temporary gift because the Almighty knew how much the son’s words would comfort the mother.
I would never know, of course, but took pleasure in imagining it so.
I gave the letter the kiss it deserved and then set it back in its place—ready for the next time.
Then I left the room to find George and tell him I would indeed have a dress made for my son’s wedding.
*****
The horses were restless, the carriage ready and waiting.
For me.
George stood in the foyer, readying the clasp of his cloak. Then he held my cape open.
For me.
I did not move to put it on.
“Come now, Martha. A storm looms. We must get on the road. Mount Airy is sixty miles away.”
I stepped away from the cloak—from him. “I cannot go, George.”
He did not respond at first. Then, “Whyever not?”
“I cannot sap the joy from the occasion by attending in my mourning clothes. It would not be fair to Jacky and Eleanor.”
His eyes skimmed my black travel clothes. “Then wear something festive. You had a new dress made, no?”
It was my turn to hesitate a response. “No.”
“No?”
“I could not do it. Not yet. It has only been eight months.”
“But it is your son’s wedding—your only son’s wedding.”
I began to cry. I knew he was right. I knew I should go, and yet I could not.
He moved to comfort me. “Martha, come. You will regret it if you stay.”
“Jacky will understand. He grieves for Patsy as much as I.”
“We all grieve for Patsy. That is not in question. Do you think people will think badly of you if you celebrate the wedding of your son?”
“No, no, I do not do this to appease others.”
“Then whom do you appease?”
An appropriate question. Finally, I answered: “Myself.”
George looked down at me, his disapproval evident. “Your self is definitely at play, my darling. And though I understand your grief, I must say this appears an act of selfishness. Think of Jacky. Think of Eleanor. Think of me.”
Although I wanted to sob and have him take me in his arms, I knew if I did so, he might stay behind with me. And that, I did not want. So instead, I lifted my chin and said, “I don’t need nor appreciate your insults. If I am being selfish by staying behind and showing honour to the memory of my daughter, then so be it. It is something I am intent on doing—alone.” I moved to the door and opened it wide. “Go. Give everyone my best.”
With one last look that spoke of his frustration and incredulity, George kissed my forehead and went outside to the waiting carriage.
I stood with my back against the door that separated us until the sound of the horses and wheels had dissipated into silence.
The silence was suddenly heavy and I yanked the door open, running out on the stoop. The servants stood apart from each other and looked up from their chatting. “Mrs. Washington?”
With a shake of my head I withdrew indoors. Sobs I had held in check threatened. Amanda stood upon the stairs. “Mistress?”
With another shake to my head I hurried past her, up the stairs to our room. There I shut the door.
And wondered what I had done.
*****
“Your brother should be married by now, Patsy.”
I put my hand on the wooden door of the family crypt. As the day—February 3, 1774—dragged on, I found myself useless. Although I tried to distract with chores and busyness, each tick of the clock’s hands, each chime at the quarter hour, brought my mind to Mount Airy and thoughts of the happenings occurring there. On this day.
Without me.
Eleanor and her nine siblings, her parents, her grandparents, George’s sister and brother and their families. Dozens and dozens of friends and neighbours, all drawn together on this happy day.
All but me.
By my own choice.
That was the rub. There was no reason I could not be there. No one had dictated it was too soon to doff the mourning clothes that had shrouded me these past months. No one had scolded and said that wearing the mourning clothes would ruin the event. I could blame no one but myself for my choice.
Reckless choice?
I stroked the door. “I did it for you, Patsy.”
I could almost hear her voice saying, I never asked you to do that, Mamma. I would never want you to do that. Do not do it again.
I nodded, agreeing. I had made a mistake—one large in magnitude, for my son would not get married a second time. I had missed one happy milestone because I had been too enmeshed in a tragic one. A way to overcome the tragic was to focus on the happy. I had forgotten that and caused others—and myself—sorrow and regret.
Yet . . . though I may not have chosen rightly, I had chosen from the heart. And was that ever truly wrong?
I kissed my fingers and pressed them against the door. “I am sorry, Patsy, for using you as an excuse. I will make it up to you—and to Jacky. I promise.”
*****
Mistakes are inevitable. Yet the only way they are tolerable is when we learn from them and become better for them.
So it was with my mistake regarding Jacky’s wedding. The spring of 1774 was better for me. I was better. On the day of the wedding, at the tomb of my daughter, I gained more strength to move forward.
Reason and rationalization entered my consciousness. Looking back upon my intense distress at Patsy’s death, the lingering of the pain, made me weigh that grief against all others. The difference was necessity. When my other children, when little Daniel and Frances died, and even when my husband Daniel passed, I had not had time to mourn in solitude. The logistics of living each day had demanded my attention. I had not had time to wallow and allow the sorrow to spin a smothering cocoon around me. Although I now had many of the same duties, I had more help. And perhaps as a consequence of age I allowed myself the luxury of grief. Perhaps the death of Patsy—so sudden and unexpected after we had been so encouraged by her improvement—had added to the deaths of my Daniels and Frances until it had simply become too much.
Whatever the reason, as Jacky and Eleanor came to visit us often, as I could see the extremity of their happiness, I was able to embrace that emotion as my own. It was a good thing, this happiness. This pursuit of happiness. I knew Patsy would approve.
That I could find happiness even as we dealt with severe financial setbacks confirmed my relief was God-inspired . . .
Our London factors decided to cut off our credit line. George and I admitted we did not take as much notice of our debts as we should, and when crops did not perform as hoped, all was made worse. But without the support of Robert Cary and Company, we would be isolated and have nowhere to sell our goods. The
answer—ironically—came from Patsy.
Upon her death her portion of the Custis fortune was divided equally between Jacky and me. And as a married woman, my portion went to George. Most of her holdings were in cash and Bank of England stock. At first, George was averse to use it, but I insisted. The crisis was diverted as the factors were paid. If she had been alive, Patsy would have been eager to offer the funds, but George would never have done it.
On a lighter note, when George went to Williamsburg in May for the House of Burgesses meetings, I went with him. Surprisingly, I was eager to go and my eagerness added to my joy. And his. For he too had suffered with his own grief, and as witness to mine. He was a good husband. I could not imagine better.
There was much going on in Williamsburg. The governor of Virginia—Lord Dunmore—celebrated the arrival of his wife and daughter from England. We were friends and dined with them multiple times. The governor was quite solicitous regarding Patsy’s death, sending the kindest of letters: I do condole with you for your loss, though as the poor young lady was so often afflicted with these fits, I dare say she thinks it a happy exchange.
Although focusing on Patsy’s freedom from all pain and tears in heaven was hard fought, I did agree with such offerings of comfort. Reluctantly.
But then, in the midst of the session of the Burgesses and the festivities for the coming of Lady Dunmore, news arrived that changed everything.
After a day at the Burgesses, George came home, much distressed.
“Sit, dearest,” I implored as he made his way up and back in front of the mantel—for the tenth time.
“Why do they force our hand? Why can we not work out our differences without this constant tit for tat?”
He often came home this way from his meetings. It was best to let him fume. He would tell me the details as he was ready.
Suddenly, he stopped pacing and faced me. “The king has closed Boston Harbour.”
“Why?”
“Because of the tea incident last December.”
“When the colonists dressed up like Indians and dumped it into the harbour?”
George nodded. “It was a nonviolent protest against the taxation of the tea. That Parliament would remove other taxes yet leave the one . . . such an act was mocking. I supported the action by the Bostonians—which was mirrored in other ports.”
“But if the harbour is closed, then how can Massachusetts survive?”
“It cannot. Which, I am sure, is, the point. Britain has also strengthened the law that we quarter their troops, and makes it possible for a British officer in need of discipline to be tried back in safe territory—in England—as if his trial would be anything but a sham in that venue. These acts are intolerable and are testimony to the most despotic system of tyranny that has ever been practiced in a free government!”
“Those are fighting words, Colonel Washington.”
He paused long enough to let two breaths in and out. “Perhaps they are. We are being forced into such a position, Martha. If need be, I will raise one thousand men, subsist them at my own expense, and march myself at their head for the relief of Boston.”
That was the last thing I wished to see him do. “What did the Burgesses do about all this?”
“We voted to have a day of prayer and fasting to showcase our solidarity with Boston’s sufferings.”
“That is a laudable idea,” I said. “Was it yours?”
“Not mine. But that of Thomas Jefferson, Richard Henry Lee, and Patrick Henry.”
At the mention of Henry, I shook my head. “I do not like the latter. I find him crude and prone to speaking too often and too loudly with too much emotion.” I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “I have also heard talk that he keeps his wife locked in the basement of his house.”
I could tell George wished to refute my words but could not. “She is not well. Mentally. He has little choice.”
I shook my head. “To love and honour, in sickness and in health . . .”
“I am certain he cares for her as well as he is able.”
I was not so sure. I did not trust the man.
George rubbed the space between his eyes. “Martha, this is not about Patrick Henry, nor about any one man. This is about the rights of all men being assaulted.”
I chastised myself for being petty. George did not like gossip and I knew it was not a godly act. “When is this day of prayer and fasting supposed to—”
“You have not heard the last,” he said. “Lord Dunmore—my friend, with whom we have dined often—has dissolved the assembly and called for new elections to fill the seats!”
“But he is our friend.”
“Though not a friend to our Cause.”
“But the ball in honour of Lady Dunmore is tomorrow.”
“I know, I know. And once we were disbanded we met in the Raleigh Tavern and discussed that among many other issues. Most were sure their wives would not wish to attend, but most—”
“Disagreement or no, it would not be right to snub Lady Dunmore.”
He held up a finger. “You did not let me finish. Most men thought their wives would agree with you. And so, I think we should go.”
I was relieved. “It is difficult to keep friendships, civility, and politics separate.”
“Indeed. I have heard people in England think we are a race of convicts, rascals, robbers, and pirates. I prefer to have them think of us as thinking men who only react when provoked, who only wish to be treated fairly and with respect.”
He looked so worried, so downtrodden, that I went to him and wrapped my arms about his waist. “I support you, George. In all you do, I support you—and our Cause.”
He pulled my head against his chest. “May God help us all.”
*****
We did not eat all day.
We prayed.
We entered the Bruton Parish Church in Williamsburg on June 1, 1774, a Wednesday, at ten o’clock in the morning, just as instructed in the resolution drafted by Thomas Jefferson calling for fasting, humiliation, and prayer. This church was familiar to us, as our place of worship when in town.
The white pew boxes were full with the members of the House of Burgesses, their wives, family, and others who wished to partake of this important day. I nodded to our friends as we passed to our box near the cross aisle and slid in, with George coming after. The mood was dignified. There was no shaking of hands or talking. Only a nod here and there in passing.
I had heard Reverend Mr. Gwatkin had been chosen to give the sermon with Reverend Mr. Price to offer the prayers, but the former declined due to a disorder in his breast—but he did write the sermon for Reverend Price to offer us in his stead. I did not question his ailment especially since it would be his words we were to hear—and yet, seeing as how Reverend Gwatkin was the tutor for Lord Dunmore’s oldest son . . . I was certain a portion of his ailing breast might have been due to torn feelings regarding the direction of common sentiments toward the mother country.
I imagined torn feelings were rampant in the minds and hearts of most colonists, and would continue to be so.
Once all were settled, Reverend Price stepped to the pulpit, opened the Bible, and began: “Today I speak from Genesis. Abraham stands before God asking about the Almighty’s plan to destroy the wicked towns of Sodom and Gomorrah. ‘Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked?’ Abraham asked the Almighty. God said, ‘I will not destroy it for ten’s sake.’”
Reverend Price closed the Bible and swept a hand across the room. “We are more than ten gathered here. More than ten righteous people who wish to uphold the attributes and blessings that have made America prosper for one hundred fifty years. Now, when our hard work is being threatened, we must stand firm. We must not let evil conduct quash all that has been accomplished with God’s help. Our brot
hers in Boston have been forced to action against an oppressive tyranny. Miles away, we empathize with their fight, support them with provisions and capital, and pray for them with our whole hearts. With humble supplication we pray that the will of the Almighty will prevail, the oppression of our present will be subdued, and the peace and prosperity of our past will be reinstated with His blessing.”
Amen.
Ten
“Sold! To Mr. Washington.”
From the seat beside him, I shook my head.
“I know, I know. But you and I have seen Sally use that serving cart a hundred times.”
“But we don’t need a serving cart,” I whispered.
Or a mahogany shaving desk, wash desk or tallboy, a set of dining room chairs, a gilt mirror or . . .
Our dear friends the Fairfaxes were not returning from England. The uneasiness of the colonies held no appeal, and since they were no longer the agent to Lord Fairfax, they were not comfortable in America. So . . . the Fairfaxes had left Fairfax County for good, leaving George to auction off their property.
That he had bid on many pieces of Sally’s personal furniture was of interest.
Not that I had failed to recover from any jealousy I felt regarding the bond they shared in their youth—before he met me. Yes, I had seen the ember of a spark even after we were wed, but I was also certain it had never been fanned into a flame. A person cannot help feeling an attraction toward another, but they can implement self-control and honour to never act upon that attraction. I believed, with my whole heart, George never acted in anyway untoward. As friends have said, he was the master of himself.
George leaned toward me, discreetly pointing to the front of the room. “Would you like that cloisonné vase? Sally often had it on the mantel.”
Actually . . . “Certainly,” I said. For Sally and George William did have exquisite taste. And Sally was my friend also.
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