Mount Vernon Love Story: A Novel of George and Martha Washington

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Finally, one night, George woke to find his brother standing over his bed, clutching at the headboard. He jumped up in alarm. Quickly he made Lawrence lie on the bed, propped him against the pillows, and brought water to him. “You’ll be better in the morning.”

  Lawrence shook his head weakly. “It’s no use, George. I’d hoped, really hoped . . . Some people can lick this but I can’t. George, I want to see Anne. I don’t want to die without seeing her again. Will you go home and get her for me? Sally will take care of the baby—I know she will—George, go home and get Anne.”

  He’d expected that he wouldn’t see Virginia for at least a year, but four months after his departure he was going home again. Lawrence’s words of farewell unwittingly touched a sore spot. “It’s such a long journey and you’re not well yourself, but someday, when you fall in love, you’ll understand how desperately I need to be with Anne now.”

  When he fell in love . . . For hours he stood on the deck of the ship on the return voyage, staring unseeingly at the horizon.

  Anne was staying at Belvoir and he went there as soon as he got home. As gently as he could he told her that Lawrence wanted her to join him. Anne took the news bravely. “My husband is not going to get well.” The words were more statement than question. She did not wait for an answer but said, “George, take me to him at once, please. Sally, you’ll watch the baby.”

  George hadn’t had a chance to do more than glance at Sally. Anne had met him at the door with anxious questions.

  Now he turned to her, full face, and her expression of shocked concern was balm to his spirit. Swiftly she came to his side and ran her fingertips over his face. “You’ve had such a bad time.” Then she looked at Anne. “Of course I’ll mind the baby. High time I had some practice.”

  It was the first time George ever heard her refer to the fact that after a year of marriage she was not yet with child. Then he forgot even her in his concern for the sadness in Anne’s face.

  “Are you really strong enough to accompany me, George?” she asked him. “We did you little favor in asking you to make the first journey.”

  “I’m completely strong,” he assured her. “You can count on me always.”

  George William immediately began making arrangements for the return trip but then word came from Lawrence. “I cannot wait for you to come. And it is useless for me to stay here. I’m coming home to you. If I must die, I want to be with my loved ones. I want to be in my home and see the face of my little one again.”

  The homecoming was a sad one. The shadow of death hovered over Lawrence’s gaunt, gray face, his thin body. Even his magnificent carriage seemed stooped now from the endless coughing bouts. He had little more than a month. He had the lovely Virginia spring and the warmth of the sun on his shoulders as he sat through golden afternoons with Anne and the baby on the lawn overlooking the river.

  Often he talked to George about the future. “You have a head on your shoulders. You will do well. Never be afraid. I rather wish that I could be here to see you progress. Somehow I think Sally is right and that the world shall hear much of you. Now, let me give you a few ideas of what I think you should do.”

  During those months George lost any fear of death that he’d ever had. He watched Lawrence’s quiet acceptance of the Divine Plan, the facing up by the dying man to what the future would hold for his family, the wisdom with which he saw that future.

  “Eventually be a candidate for the House of Burgesses,” he counseled. “It’s necessary for a man to help in forming the laws by which he must live. Someday Mount Vernon will be yours. I hope and wish that Anne will marry again.”

  The end came in July. George and Anne were with Lawrence and could not begrudge his death. It was a relief to see the peace return to the strained and tortured face. Several months after the funeral Anne told George that she was going to live at Belvoir with the baby. Lawrence had left the house to Anne and the baby with George as residuary heir. By now it was obvious that the baby would soon follow her father and her share of Mount Vernon would belong to George.

  It was obvious too that Anne meant it when she asked George to make Mount Vernon his home. “Someday it will belong to you,” she said calmly. “Please take care of it now.”

  “But will you be happy leaving it?” George asked.

  “Happy?” For a moment the patrician calm left Anne’s face. “What is happiness? I have known so much sorrow in this house, yet so much joy, too. I could never live here. There is a life waiting for me, I think, but I will not find it in these walls.”

  And so he was alone in Mount Vernon with only the servants for company. For weeks George wandered through the house, unseeingly. Days he cast all his energy into surveying, but at night he was often too weary even for sleep and would restlessly pace the downstairs floor until dawn.

  But then the winter passed and spring came again. As his heart lightened he began to look at his home with a proprietor’s eye. The way it compared with Belvoir displeased him mightily. There was so much to do, so very much. He began making a list of the first furnishings he would order and a plan of the necessary carpentry and mason work. He didn’t even suspect that he was beginning a task that would give him a major amount of the pleasure of his lifetime. It was then, and always would be, a labor of love.

  Socially he began to venture out more. That spring was gay with balls and foxhunting. George could ride with the finest although he had little taste for the kill.

  At the dances . . . well, he’d had a good teacher. Sally always chose to try the new steps with him. George William’s rheumatism was increasing steadily and he cheerfully relinquished the opportunity of practicing with his wife. “For heaven’s sake, let an old man sit in the corner and talk about our crotchety governor,” he would laugh. “George, be a good friend and try the new steps with Sally.”

  For a time he was stiff and shy. His mother had spent little money on dancing masters for her offspring. But then the native grace and rhythm which made him at home on a mount came to his rescue and he realized that dancing came very naturally. Finally it was Sally who, flushed and breathless, would say, “Dear Lord, young Washington, the pupil has surpassed the teacher. Take Mary for your partner and let me sit with my husband.”

  Mary Carey, Sally’s sister, was so like Sally. For a time George wondered if it were possible that after all he would find happiness with someone who wasn’t Sally but so nearly resembled her. He tried. For a time he lounged on the floor by her chair during evenings at Belvoir. For a time he rode at her side during the hunts.

  Then, one evening at a ball at Belvoir, while they were dancing together, he hesitantly suggested that Mount Vernon had need of a mistress.

  The remark made Mary turn stony-faced. The music ended as she said, “And I have need of a man who loves me well.” She turned on her heel and walked away from him.

  George stood staring perplexed until he felt a hand on his arm. “Whatever is the matter?” Sally asked.

  The moment of disappointment passed immediately. “I think, madame, I have just been refused as a potential suitor.”

  Sally smiled. “I think, young Washington, that if you wish to court my sister, you must act rather more in love, and less like a man who is thinking of adding to his possessions. I would have thought that teaching you to dance was enough. Must I also teach you how to love?”

  The remark had started out to be a light one. But suddenly Sally blushed crimson. The music began and George bowed low. “May I have the honor?”

  Lightly she accepted his arm and they took their places on the floor. The telltale blush had made him reckless. “Do you really think it necessary to teach me how to love,” he demanded, “or don’t you think you’ve taught me too well? Sally, oh Sally . . .”

  “I’m not sure I know you very well at the moment.” Her voice was still breathless and unsure. “You seem quite different and I’m not sure I like the change.”

  He steered her off the floor. Recklessly he
took her arm and started to propel her toward the east door. But suddenly George William was standing in front of them and without his usually genial smile. His glance at Sally was a request for explanation.

  Easily she smiled at him. “I have just learned that our good friend and neighbor is not to be our brother-in-law.”

  George William’s expression became relieved, then sympathetic. “So that’s it. I’m sorry, of course. Mary is a fine girl—like her sister.” He looked full into his wife’s face. “No, not completely like her. There isn’t anyone like Sally.”

  George looked at her, too. The moment of recklessness had passed and he was aghast at his own near folly. If George William hadn’t come along, he’d be outside with Sally now and she would be in his arms. He’d been an instant away from violating all the friendship and trust the Fairfaxes had shown him.

  The musicians were still playing and George William took Sally’s arm. “I can manage this with you, my dear.”

  George stood aside as they passed, then went outside and ordered his horse brought around. As he waited he bleakly echoed George William’s words: “There isn’t anyone like Sally.”

  March 4, 1797

  12:35 P.M.

  Philadelphia

  AND WILL, TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

  . . . It seemed that even the colorless voice of John Adams assumed majesty with the swearing of the solemn oath. The applause this time was subdued but fervent and the attitude of the assemblage seemed almost prayerful.

  Adams returned to his seat. Then rose again and the second President of the United States strode from the hall.

  George watched him go. He’d wanted to congratulate him but the departure had been too quick. He felt a quick flash of irritation. It would have been more seemly for the man to have waited, to have permitted felicitations.

  But that was John Adams for you.

  George sighed. He would do the only thing possible . . . walk over to the Francis Hotel where Adams was lodging and offer his congratulations immediately.

  Adams in his gilded coach would be there in a minute.

  But George rather liked the walk. A sense of freedom swept through him. He was a private citizen now. There’d be no following, no interest in his movements. As a private citizen he’d congratulate the new President and then go back to Patsy.

  Tonight there was the reception for him in the amphitheater but tomorrow, first thing, they’d begin dismantling the house and getting it ready for the Adams family.

  He stirred restively. Why wasn’t Jefferson taking his leave? Good heavens, the man was gesturing for him to go. Absolutely improper. The Vice President followed the chief executive. No private citizen preceded him.

  He shook his head. Jefferson continued to signal his wish that George begin the recessional.

  George shook his head again. Thomas must take precedence. It was a matter of respect to the government, not of friendship.

  Reluctantly the tall blue-coated figure started toward the door at the far end of the chamber. After he was halfway down the room, George left his own seat.

  He found his exit blocked. The crowds thronged around him. There were sounds of scuffling feet and excited chatter but it seemed to him a curious silence somehow pervaded each spot he passed. It seemed that the people were taking his measure, were judging him.

  In public office he’d schooled himself to do what he thought was best and to not be swayed by public comment—either praise or blame.

  He reached the door and turned briskly down the north side of Chestnut Street. Vaguely he was aware that Timothy Pickering was walking beside him. But he didn’t engage him in conversation. He wanted to think.

  What kind of job had he done?

  Suddenly it was like the time that he’d returned from the Braddock campaign, tortured, with self-doubt—when he was first an officer in the militia.

  He brushed a piece of lint from his black velvet jacket.

  The black velvet was a far cry from the first uniform . . . that blue coat, faced and cuffed with scarlet and trimmed with silver. The scarlet waistcoat and silver lace . . . the silver-laced hat and blue breeches.

  Oh, he’d cut a fine figure of a soldier, or so he had thought—and all this before he’d ever been exposed to what soldiering was.

  He glanced back a moment. A crowd had begun to follow him. In heaven’s name why?

  He was at the end . . . not the beginning.

  He’d been decommissioned now. For good.

  Remember the thrill of that first commission?

  It had been after Lawrence died. And after something else.

  Of course.

  It was after the realization came that he had somehow to make a life that didn’t include a hopeless dream of Sally. That was when the appointment had come. The governor had announced that he was to take Lawrence’s place as District Adjutant of His Majesty’s Colony of Virginia and he’d been designated a major in the Colonial Corps.

  A major . . . before he’d ever tried his hand at soldiering.

  He’d fancied himself as cutting a fine figure in his regimental dress but maybe at twenty-one that was forgivable.

  And he had worked hard. He’d taken fencing and drilled for hours. He’d disciplined himself for active service.

  The Francis Hotel was just down the block. He was almost there.

  John Adams was beginning a four-year term.

  How long had he served in the regiment the first time? Between ’53 and ’55. And then he’d resigned because of the eternal wrangling over the chain of command. A Colonial commission meant nothing if a British Regular came on the scene in those days. He’d resigned the commission and gone home to a Mount Vernon that was completely his. The baby was dead and Anne had remarried. He had taken over her inheritance in the property. The house had been forlorn and neglected so he’d begun ordering tools and stock and furnishings.

  This time he’d be going home with Patsy.

  He arrived at the tavern and went inside. But then he stood uncertainly at the staircase. So many people had followed him. It seemed churlish to ignore them. Perhaps he should speak to them . . .

  Not quite knowing what he would say, he reached slowly for the knob and pulled the door open.

  The people waiting outside were still silent, but every face shouted love and compassion. He stared at them for a long moment. For these, at least, there was no jubilee in the ending of his administration.

  Blinding tears came to his eyes. Quickly he turned and went inside. This time he didn’t hesitate but began to climb the stairs resolutely.

  It was time to call on his superior, the President of the United States.

  Just as, long ago, he had first paid his respects to Braddock.

  1755

  Mount Vernon and

  Monongahela

  HE STILL SPENT MUCH TIME AT BELVOIR but the nearly two years of service had done much to mature him. At twenty-three he was not the same reckless fool who within five minutes had proposed to one sister and tried to make love to the other.

  He could sit by the hour in Belvoir now, talking with George William, discussing the worsening situation with the French at the Ohio; the coming of General Braddock to lead the English and Colonial forces; the plight of the settlers in the Ohio region.

  Impulsively he’d written a letter to General Braddock welcoming him to the Colonies and congratulating him on his assignment. Somewhat hesitantly he admitted that fact to George William.

  His friend’s eyebrows shot up. “So you’ve taken to writing letters of welcome to visiting military royalty.”

  George flushed. “I merely wished—”

  George William interrupted. “You merely wished the general to say to Governor Dinwiddie, ‘And who is this Washington?’ At which point the governor would say, ‘Damned fine soldier and insolent enough to resign rather than not have clear command.’ At that point the general, who badly needs good of
ficers, would be intrigued and inquire more—isn’t that what you hope?”

  “No such thing.” But he knew that his tone lacked conviction.

  Sally was bent over her sewing, a slight frown on her forehead. George had often thought that she was the only woman he knew who looked more at home with a book in her hand than a piece of embroidery.

  “My feeling,” she began with emphasis.

  Both men looked at her, smiling.

  “The last time you had a feeling, I found myself ordering a new carriage because your feeling was that the present one was shabby. Out with it, my love, but remember it’s been an ill year for tobacco.” George William’s tone was indulgent.

  Sally assumed an air of great dignity. “This has nothing to do with any purchases. I was about to say that my feeling has always been that our neighbor, here present, is well suited to military life and that much will be heard of him in that field. Don’t ask me why . . . it’s just . . .”

  “A feeling,” George finished for her. “George William, your lovely wife is a dreamer.”

  George William tapped his pipe against the fireplace. When he answered his voice was thoughtful. “Do you know, I’m as sure that she’s right about this as I was that she’d have her new carriage when she started insulting the old one.”

  They all laughed and the subject was dropped, but the next day when George returned to the house after an inspection tour with his overseer, he found a letter awaiting him. It was an invitation from General Braddock to join the campaign against the French and an assurance that any question of regulation of command could be settled.

  For a long time he paced the downstairs rooms. Did he or did he not want this invitation? There was so much to do at home. Both inside and out the plantation clearly showed the effects of his absence during the last military campaign. He’d agreed to buy Anne’s share of Mount Vernon and needed financing. The house needed work. These military campaigns could drag on for years. There was nothing to compel him to go. Then why was he even considering it?