He thought of the cloying heat of that summer ten years ago when he and some fifty-five other delegates had gathered in this city to recast the Articles of Confederation and to consider the state of the union. Somehow during that summer a miracle had taken place.
The representatives of thirteen states had come here jealously guarding their individual prerogatives, fearing and mistrusting each other. And somehow, after they had closed the shutters against street noise and the incessant flies, they had managed to ignore the discomfort of the airless, hot room and put themselves to the awesome task before them.
They had debated and argued, adopted unmovable stands and then compromised, despaired and found new hope, until in the end they had achieved the stunning document that John Adams was now swearing to defend.
Eight years before, George had been painfully aware that many of his own actions would set precedents for his successors to follow. In a way he had charted the course of the Presidency as he had once charted a wilderness in Virginia. So long ago . . . so very long ago . . . nearly five decades now.
John Adams was swearing to defend the Constitution of the United States, but George was listening to the cultured voice of George William Fairfax as they began their month-long expedition into the wilderness.
1748
The Shenandoah
THE EXPEDITION WAS UNDER THE SUPERvision of James Genn, an experienced surveyor. George made a number of attempts to become friendly with the man but found him brusque and taciturn. Genn also seemed thoroughly awed by George William Fairfax, and never addressed him without stringing his sentence with phrases like “if you please, sir,” “as it pleases you, sir.” At the end of the day Genn would quickly go to where his helpers were gathered, even though he could have elected to spend his rest periods with George William and George.
As a result George and George William were thrown together for company. George quickly got over his shyness with the young heir and just as quickly stopped calling him “Mr. Fairfax.” By the time they’d passed Powell’s Creek on the third day, they were on an easy first-name basis and the seeds of a lifelong friendship had been sown.
Actually, George knew that he had no reason not to be at ease with George William. Ferry Farm might not have the grandeur of Belvoir but he was a gentleman’s son and had a gentleman’s desire for a comfortable bed and good food. After a hard day’s riding he was able to deplore some of the vermin-infested lodgings with as much disdain as his sophisticated companion.
On some of the evenings George William told him about his fiancée. “You’ll not believe how lovely she is until you see her. Dark hair and flashing eyes and the slimness of a sprite. And quick-witted—my God, how I hate a woman without a mind. Thanks to her father’s training Sally is probably better informed than most of our men, and I include the Harvard graduates. She dances like an angel and there I confess she leaves me behind. This blasted rheumatism doesn’t suit itself to the ballroom.”
He spoke lightly about the rheumatism as he did about everything, but it was a very real ailment. On damp mornings he’d get up rubbing his knees and grimacing as he moved. After a while the stiffness worked out but it always returned.
George admired the way his companion dismissed the discomfort as being unworthy of discussion. He admired equally the way young Fairfax always managed to look fastidious even in the comparatively plain clothes that he wore during the expedition. George found himself increasingly anxious to meet the much-praised Sally.
After the trip was over he went back to Ferry Farm. The thirty-two days had convinced him of his liking for the surveyor’s occupation and he began working in earnest, even applying for a license to William and Mary College. Inwardly he felt restless and driven. He wanted to do everything, know everything. He frequently took long rides by himself, carefully examining his own emotions. What was the cause of his dissatisfaction? Nothing . . . everything.
He simply wasn’t happy at Ferry Farm. His mother was a grossly untidy housekeeper and it set his teeth on edge to see the chaos of the house, the haphazard service at the table. He disliked the plain, poorly sewn clothing she had made for him. He felt inadequate at social gatherings, probably because he danced poorly and knew none of the fashionable games. There was no merriment or games at home.
Resolutely he set about correcting what he could. With his first earnings he ordered new shirts and new waistcoats. George acknowledged to himself that he had two models now. He still wanted to be like Lawrence but Lawrence was quiet. It had become important to acquire some of the easy grace of George William.
The next step was to prevail on some of his numerous young cousins to teach him whist and loo. He found the games boring but deliberately practiced until he became accomplished in them.
It was months after the expedition before he returned to Mount Vernon. When he rode up the familiar path, he had a sense of having passed a certain barrier. This time money he had earned was jingling in his pocket; this time he was wearing clothing of his own selection. He grinned to himself. This time he probably wouldn’t even trip over his own feet.
As usual Mount Vernon seemed to reach out to greet him. It was dusk when he arrived and lights still shone in all the downstairs rooms. A roaring fire licked hungrily in the hearth and Lawrence had a decanter of wine waiting.
The brothers greeted each other enthusiastically, and Lawrence praised George’s appearance, even before bringing him to the bedroom to see Anne, who had given birth to a new baby girl.
George kissed his sister-in-law affectionately. She was always so kind to him and had that air of careless grace that so intrigued him in the entire Fairfax family. She proudly showed off the new baby, a beautiful flower-like infant. But even to George’s unskilled eyes, the baby seemed frail.
It was as though Anne could read his thoughts. “She looks so tiny but I know she’s sturdier than the others.” Her voice was a plea for reassurance.
George gingerly held a finger out and the baby closed her fist over it. “She has a fine grasp,” he remarked, and it was the right thing to say. Anne smiled happily.
The next day, at Lawrence’s suggestion, they rode over to Belvoir so that George could meet George William’s bride, Sally. The wedding had taken place several months earlier.
George selected what he considered the finest of the waistcoats, collars, and shirts and dressed carefully. But when he and Lawrence rode up the tree-shaded path that led to the main entrance of the magnificent brick mansion, he felt strangely awkward and shy. Suppose George William’s bride didn’t like him. Suppose she considered him callow and uninteresting. He repressed a desire to give a tug to his reins and send his horse back in the direction of Mount Vernon. Instead he dismounted, surrendered the animal to a groom, and, at Lawrence’s side, mounted the steps of the wide veranda.
George William must have seen them approaching because he came to open the door himself, smiling his welcome. “You cut a finer figure than you did on the trail,” he told George, laughing.
George nodded in self-conscious admission of his new clothes.
And then she came. Down the winding staircase, her footstep light and with one slim hand holding the banister. She was wearing a white gown with a green bodice, and the green seemed to be exactly the shade of her eyes. Her dark hair was piled softly on her head except for the cluster of curls at the nape of her neck. She smiled adoringly at George William, then turned to Lawrence. “So at last you have brought your brother to meet me,” she said.
She extended both hands to George. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I’ve heard so much about you. George was stunned. My God, the unbelievable beauty of her—the sparkle in her eyes—the slimness. He felt too tall, too broad. He was flustered and confused and shy and at the same time completely at home. “I can’t imagine why, ma’am,” he stammered.
She shook her head in mock severity. “That’s no kind of answer,” she told him. “It’s very important to have a sense of your own w
orth. My husband tells me you ride your horse with the skill of an Indian. You have the instincts of a great surveyor. You have a writer’s ability to keep a journal. You’re an excellent accountant. He even said that you swear like a sailor at bad accommodations.”
George felt himself blushing furiously. “I assure you, ma’am . . .”
She smiled. “Now you’re not supposed to apologize. I meant it as a compliment. But in conclusion George William has already told me that you have the mark of greatness on you, and I trust his judgment.”
“Madame,” George said, “if his selection of a wife is the measure of his judgment, I would trust my future to him implicitly.”
Lawrence and George William burst into laughter. “You see my brother is growing up rapidly,” Lawrence said.
George William nodded. “I shall have to keep a stern eye on Sally’s sisters when they come to visit.”
George did not bother to correct his friend. He realized that he was still holding Sally’s hands. She gently withdrew them but he knew that from that moment on he’d never be the same. What did it matter what her sisters were like? What any young woman was like was of no importance.
Sally was two years older than he. She was married to his good friend. She was forever unattainable.
And he was in love with her.
March 4, 1797
7 A.M.
Bath, England
IT WAS A COLD, BLEAK MARCH MORNING and the English resort of Bath was gray and misty in the early morning fog. Sally Carey Fairfax awakened slowly with the knowledge that soon she would pick up the burden that had been mercifully lifted while she slept. In a moment she would come to the full realization that she was alone. George William had been dead for months, but for an instant before full awakening she could still pretend he was with her.
Or better still she could pretend that they were all young again, all at the beginning. She sighed and turned her face so that the pillow brushed away the tear that slipped down her cheek. Her body, so slender in youth, was now too thin. The flawless complexion that had been the envy of her friends had become finely lined, the thick black hair was now completely white under her nightcap.
Before she slept she’d been reading the paper and it had announced that a new President was being inaugurated in the former Colonies—the United States of America. The paper had announced that the first President, George Washington, would be leaving public office at noon.
Sally opened her eyes long enough to glance at the clock ticking on the mantel. That was now. At this moment at home a new President was being sworn in.
Now he would be going back to Mount Vernon. She smiled unconsciously as she thought of the gentle sweep of the Virginia countryside. She thought of how she and George William had raced their horses across the land between Belvoir and Mount Vernon to collect young George for the hunt. She remembered the evenings they’d all spent together by the fire, planning their futures, discussing the future of Virginia and the Colonies.
Oh, those were the happy years, she thought, the happiest years, the ones that began when as a bride of eighteen she’d been mistress of Belvoir and George had lived with Lawrence and Anne at Mount Vernon.
She could still remember his shyness, his awkward movements, and then the unexpected grace he’d shown when she insisted on teaching him to dance. Already touched with the rheumatism that was to scourge him, her young husband had smilingly declined to join them but had watched with warm approval as she and George tried the steps in the ballroom.
Even then young George had had that something, that special mark that promised what he would become. “It’s a good thing I loved my husband so,” Sally thought. “If I had loved him less . . .”
Tears welled in her eyes. She and George William had talked about going back to Virginia but Belvoir had been ruined during the war.
She laid her hand on the empty pillow beside her. But her thoughts were not so much of the husband she had so recently lost as of the man who right now was participating in a ceremony in Philadelphia.
Was he still as straight as when he rode over the plantation with her? Was he still courtly? Had he given up dancing yet?
Dear God, how she had loved to dance with him.
What was he like now? . . .
1751–1753
Mount Vernon
and Barbados
THE TRAGEDY THAT HAD SHADOWED Anne and Lawrence would not depart. The baby still kept a grip on life but was extremely delicate. It was obvious to everyone, except perhaps Lawrence and Anne, that this baby would not survive much longer than her predecessors.
And as Lawrence and Anne hovered anxiously over her cradle, another cross came. The hard, racking cough that had plagued Lawrence for nearly three years had worsened. He lost weight steadily and the doctors feared that he would not last in the damp winter climate. He was told to leave immediately for the West Indies.
It was unthinkable that Anne could leave her child, so George volunteered to accompany his sick brother.
George went to Belvoir to say good-bye to Sally and George William. The concern in their faces both comforted and saddened him. “It is a hopeless journey,” he said bluntly.
George William poured the wine carefully. “I’m afraid so.”
“Take care of Anne and the baby and Mount Vernon. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” He put his glass down and walked over to the window, embarrassed by the emotion he knew was in his face.
Then Sally’s soft hand was on his arm. “It’s very hard for you.”
“Yes . . . Lawrence has been . . . since my father died . . .”
“No matter what happens, you’ll still belong here.”
Would he, he wondered, would he? How much of the Fairfax kindness was for him alone? How much because he was Lawrence’s brother and Lawrence’s wife was a Fairfax? Would he always lose the people who were dearest to him?
He became aware of the hand on his arm. Or never have the one who was dearest of all?
In bleak misery he turned away and started to leave.
George William stopped him. “You’re staying for dinner. It’s not to be discussed.”
Sally’s servants were well-trained. The dinner was hot, bountiful, the mutton properly seasoned, the wines delicate and light. George William easily kept the conversation on the crops, the assembly, the governor, the looming trouble with the French over the forts along the Ohio.
Finally, over coffee he seemed to take measure of the more relaxed mood of his guest and spoke bluntly.
“My dear friend, I think that we must all realize that Lawrence’s days are numbered. If what we fear should happen, I think it best that Anne come home here with her baby. Mount Vernon needs a master’s hand and would be impossible to run alone. But it needs to be run. And it will fall to you to do the job.”
Mount Vernon . . . somehow he’d never thought of it as anything but Lawrence’s home. “I want Lawrence to live to be master of Mount Vernon,” he said stubbornly.
“George, be honest. It’s not like you not to face the truth. It may look unseemly even to discuss this now but I think you will need courage in the days ahead. It is you who will have to watch Lawrence fail. In those dark days that are coming, try to think of the future. Try to think that one day you will be back with us, in your place near us—and your place is Mount Vernon.”
For the first time since the realization of Lawrence’s fate had sunk in, he felt a measure of surcease. Would he always draw his strength from that land and that house, which was really so small compared with the one in which he now sat?
But an hour later, when he left, after George William’s firm handclasp and Sally’s sisterly kiss on his cheek, he knew he had the strength for whatever the immediate future brought.
And he had need for that strength. The boat journey was long and immensely tiring to Lawrence. To George it was exhilarating to stand on the deck and watch the sailors at work—to see the variety of tasks and to muse over what his own life w
ould have been if he’d been allowed to go to sea. He confessed to himself that he no longer regretted the fact that he hadn’t gone.
Barbados was warm, cheerful, and brilliantly colorful. Lawrence seemed to revive somewhat and even accepted an invitation to dinner from an old friend, Major Clarke, whom he’d met at Cartagena.
The evening with Major Clarke had a lifelong effect on George. When he and Lawrence arrived for dinner, the major apologized for the fact that his family would not be able to join them at the table, saying casually that his daughter was suffering from smallpox. The news made George somewhat apprehensive but Lawrence didn’t seem to mind and the evening turned into a very pleasant one.
The following week George himself was far from well and was grateful that, for the time at least, Lawrence seemed to be in good spirits and coughing less. Then exactly fourteen days after the dinner at Major Clarke’s George awoke with a raging fever and desperately sore throat. Even before the doctor came, he knew he’d somehow contracted the smallpox.
For days he was critically ill. Then as the fever slowly abated, he came to realize that he’d be marked with ugly pustule scars for the rest of his life.
George tried not to let it matter, but Lawrence noticed and commented on his depression. “You may yet thank the day that you’ve had this blasted pox,” Lawrence told him. “Certainly if you should join the militia and ever see service for His Majesty, you’ll be considered one of the lucky ones. The pox is a scourge to any army and those who have immunity don’t mind bearing a few beauty marks.”
“Hardly beauty marks,” George said wryly, and was glad he wasn’t home. He missed Sally with an ache that seemed a part of his very being but was vain enough to be grateful that she couldn’t see him while the scars were still so raw and deep.
Then he forgot them because the first promise of Lawrence’s rally soon began to fade. The coughing became incessant. The little weight he’d gained vanished.
Mount Vernon Love Story: A Novel of George and Martha Washington Page 3