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

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “I have no desire to lead a revolution,” George protested. “God knows I would seek no such task.”

  “Nevertheless, you will be given that task. Prepare yourself and your affairs, George. I see it coming.”

  “What do you see coming?” Sally was at the doorway. She looked tired and shadows made her green eyes seem even larger. “Patsy has gone to sleep. I think her spirits are a little better tonight,” she told George, then repeated her question. “What do you see coming?”

  “I see our friend here called back to lead the military,” George William replied.

  Sally nodded. “Remember, long ago, I told you that George had the mark of greatness. And you both laughed.”

  “I remember very keenly,” George smiled. “I believe we laughed because your spouse was expecting a prediction of quite another sort—something about a new carriage.”

  Sally shook her head. “My, young Washington, you do have a keen memory. Now, even in this very unhappy time, I wish to make a prophecy of my own. The sadness will pass and your greatness will be known. I believe it.”

  George looked at her steadily. “And when do you foretell that the Fairfaxes of Belvoir will return from England?”

  There was a sudden rush of tears in her eyes. Biting her lip, she turned from him and reached for the glass of wine that George William was holding out to her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know.”

  A few weeks later Patsy went with him to accompany the Fairfaxes to the ferry that would take them on the first stage of their long journey. George William clasped his hand vigorously, then grabbed his shoulders in a brief hug. Sally’s tear-stained kiss lingered against his cheek. Then they were tiny toylike figures waving determinedly as the ferry vanished from sight.

  Patsy waved her handkerchief, then dabbed her eyes with it. “So many good-byes,” she sighed, “so many.” The family doctor and longtime friend, Dr. Craik, had accompanied them and was standing off a little way. He eyed Patsy sharply but apparently found no cause for comment.

  Wordlessly the three went back to the carriage. As they pulled away from the landing slip, George had a sensation of total loss and depression. He was sure he would never again see Sally and George William. Was it possible that the happy days were completely behind him? These last fourteen years had been very, very happy. Was life henceforth to be only a comparison to a life that was finished?

  He stirred restlessly. No, a chapter was finished but not their lives. He would get on with the additions to Mount Vernon. Working again on the plans would surely give him a sense of accomplishment and purpose.

  If Patsy wanted to allow an early marriage between Jacky and Nellie, he wouldn’t fight it any longer. Something positive had to be done to relieve her grief. If that relief would only come when she could focus her love and attention on a new generation of the Custis family, then so be it.

  In the coming months it would be important that Patsy find some cause for happiness. It would be too much for her to worry about the very real threat to the entire structure of their lives that was looming all over the Colonies.

  March 9, 1797

  The “Sign of the Ship” Chester, Pennsylvania

  MR. O’FLYNN’S INN WAS CALLED THE “Sign of the Ship.” George remembered it as a quiet place with good beds. As the retinue drew up to the establishment, he sincerely hoped that it had not changed in either way.

  Stiff and tired, they got out of the carriage. The roads had been somewhat dryer and smoother than he’d dared expect, but still, it had been a long day, and the jolting and swaying of the coach had obviously fatigued Patsy. She could not hold back the coughing any longer as she stepped into the sharp wind.

  He took her arm and hurried her inside, but to his dismay the inn seemed quite cold and drafty. The proprietor hurried to greet them and made an obsequious speech about how their presence warmed his heart.

  But not your establishment, George thought grimly, and asked if the fire might not be stirred up. “Lady Washington is chilled. And kindly have the beds warmed promptly. Lady Washington is fatigued from the journey. And . . .

  “And Lady Washington is hungry,” Patsy laughed. “Stop fussing, old man. I’ll be fine.”

  Indeed she did look better when they were finally all at table and George relaxed somewhat when he realized that the cooking at this inn would make it worthwhile eating here in furs if necessary. But still, Patsy must not get chilled. She mustn’t get sick—not now. He eyed her sharply every time she turned her head to cough. “You shall retire as soon as dinner is over,” he ordered. “And if you are not much better tomorrow, we’ll stay over another day.”

  “No such thing.” Patsy shook her head vehemently. “The faster I get home, the sooner I’ll be fine. The real solution would be to travel all night to get there more quickly.”

  George looked around the table. “Does anyone have any message for Philadelphia?” he asked. “I must write to Lear about some pamphlets I want him to purchase for me.”

  “Don’t forget to inquire about the livery clothes.” Patsy’s tone gave no hint that he was supposed to have inquired about them before they left this morning.

  “Sir, may I assist you in writing any notes?” Fred Frestal, young Lafayette’s tutor, was a pleasant young man; his deferential offers of assistance were genuine and he did not make them unless he felt there was a fair chance of acceptance.

  George smiled in appreciation. “Indeed if I had more than one page to write, I’d gladly accept aid, but my letter-writing will consist of no more than a few lines of instructions to the Philadelphia household.”

  “I have a line you can add, Grandpapa.” Nelly’s eyes danced even while her tone was somewhat hesitant. “It seems that something far more important than the livery was forgotten, something which would grieve you terribly to lose.”

  George laid down his fork. Nelly’s eyes belied her words. “Pray inform me what we could possibly have left behind in all of Philadelphia that would cause me any grief,” he said.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” Nelly offered. “There are two of them. They are living creatures. The sounds emanating from them cheer your very soul. You love them so much that you wanted to share them with others.”

  “You forgot your parrots?” George asked incredulously. “After all the protestations of love about the things, and that you couldn’t be parted a day from them. And you forgot them!”

  “Not really,” Nelly explained. “I was carrying them myself in their cage and then I laid the cage down for just a moment to run back to my room. I thought I’d forgotten my shawl. But I found that indeed I had my shawl and then I forgot to pick up the cage with the parrots. So you will ask Lear to be sure to bring them with him, won’t you?”

  George nodded. “My only regret is that I have not had the pleasure of knowing that the creatures were not part of our retinue today. It would have given me joy to realize they were safely stranded in Philadelphia.”

  “Oh, Grandpapa,” Nelly protested.

  Lafayette buttered a generous slice of bread. “Have you informed the general about the dog?” he asked Nelly slyly.

  George put his fork down again and stared at his granddaughter. “Did we forget your dog? Or shall I say did you forget your dog?”

  There was just the proper amount of rueful acknowledgment of error in Nelly’s expression and voice. “I’m afraid it shared the fate of the parrots,” she admitted.

  Young Lafayette laughed outright; the tutor could not hide a discreet smile, and Patsy shook her head even while she tried to swallow a chuckle. George was unable to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching. Certainly no meal was dull with a young member of the Custis family present.

  Later that evening after Patsy and the others had gone to bed, George wrote to Lear. He wrote about the mirrors and the livery clothes and the pamphlets. Then with a sigh, he added a postscript. “On one side I am called upon to remember the parrots; on the other to remembe
r the dog. For my own part I would not pine much if all of them were forgotten.”

  They spent the second night in Elkton, the third in Harford. A heavy snowstorm greeted them as they approached Baltimore. The wind howled against the windows of the carriage and the thick white flakes swirled in the late afternoon light.

  George shook his head. He knew that they were bound to have an escort going into Baltimore and he didn’t want Patsy standing out in the cold to hear speeches.

  “Why does it always seem as though the worst storm of all is just when spring is around the corner?” Nelly asked suddenly. “Somehow it seems wasteful and unnecessary.”

  “You mean that it shouldn’t snow if there’s a great possibility that it will all melt soon?” George asked.

  “Something like that, I suppose,” Nelly replied. “It’s just that now I’m ready for spring and I really don’t want to adjust to snow.”

  “There are many things in life you really don’t want to adjust to,” Patsy said mildly, “and I hope the worst of them is the weather.”

  “Oh I know, Grandmama,” Nelly said, “and it really isn’t even the snow itself. It’s just that I’m afraid that if this becomes a blizzard we’ll have to stay over a day and I hate to wait when I want something badly. And I do want to get home badly.”

  Patsy’s smile turned into a deep cough. George watched her intently, but she quickly recovered. “You don’t like waiting or delays. Then it’s very fortunate you were not the commander in chief of the revolutionary forces twenty years ago,” she told her granddaughter.

  “Nor the commander’s lady,” George injected dryly. “Patsy, do you remember the snowstorms in those years? Did it seem that the heavens would ever show blue again?”

  The sound of horses hooves approaching made them all peer out the windows of the carriage. “It must be the escort,” George said, “and from the sound I take it to be a large one.”

  “Perfectly proper,” Patsy said briskly. “There’ll never be one large enough to honor you sufficiently.” Then she laughed. “But we must admit that some of the greetings have been imaginative.”

  George laughed outright and Nelly looked perplexed. “Of course you mean the maidens and their mothers in Trenton—the reception they tendered me when I was on the way to the first Inauguration.”

  “Will you miss having an escort, Grandpapa?” Nelly asked. “I don’t suppose you’ll have one after we get home, will you?”

  “After we get home, Farmer Washington will require no escort,” George said fervently. “And I think Grand-mama will not mind having an old man squire her about on her visits.”

  The Baltimore escort had come upon them. Through the driving snow they could see smartly garbed officers, rigidly upright on their mounts, fall into place to the front and rear of the carriages.

  Nelly’s eyes danced with excitement. “I confess it will be hard to get used to not having an escort,” she said. “I’ve really been used to them for such a long time, ever since I was a little girl.”

  “At seventeen, eight years is a long time,” Patsy agreed. “I was much older when I was first greeted and escorted by an official party. I remember I wrote to my friend Betsy Ramsey that one would think I was a very great somebody.”

  Automatically she began retying the strings of her bonnet, smoothing the hair that touched her forehead, straightening her cloak. “That was the first long trip I ever took in my life,” she said to Nelly. “It was the first time I joined Grandpapa during the war. I went to Cambridge to be with him.”

  She folded her hands in her muff. “The papers called me, ‘the lady of His Excellency.’ I was quite nervous because when my carriage went through a town, so many people lined the curbs. I tried so hard not to let them see that I was quite terrified. But I think on that trip I really understood that if I was to be Grandpapa’s wife, I would have to live up to him.”

  “You hadn’t seen each other in such a long time,” Nelly said. “How wonderful it must have been.” Her eyes shone dreamily. “Someday when I love someone very much, I would not want to be separated from him ever. But if we were separated for a while, I think the reunion would be so wonderful.”

  George looked at Patsy. He was sure the same memories were flashing through her mind. His eyes twinkled as he said, “Oh, your grandmama and I had a very prosaic reunion. Within half an hour of her arrival she was sewing buttons on my uniform jacket.”

  “Buttons!” Nelly looked dismayed.

  And to George’s amusement the faintest trace of a blush could be seen on Patsy’s cheek.

  August, 1773–May, 1775

  Mount Vernon

  AFTER THE FAIRFAXES LEFT, GEORGE tried to keep the schedule he had set for himself. In a state of compulsive energy he mapped out the timetable for the additions to the main house—the library and bedroom on the south and the ballroom on the north. Meticulously he laid out his plans and his exact instructions for each detail of the construction work, as though he already suspected that he would not be here to supervise the job himself.

  No detail of the grounds or buildings escaped him. The kitchen house needed repairs. He had them completed. More spinning wheels and scythes were ordered and other tools and implements inspected. Preparation and foresight . . . Somehow he could not forget George William’s warning.

  The political situation became worse. George found that honor dictated he be an active participant in the breaking of ties with England. Cautiously he counseled the immediate training of the militia. He was a proponent of the day of fasting to dramatize protest at the closing of the Port of Boston.

  Although he tried to spend every possible moment with Patsy after the Fairfaxes left, he always felt as though somehow she was closing him out, excluding him. Oh, he knew that it wasn’t deliberate. But she continued to use expressions like, “if you could only understand . . .” He wrote to King’s College, instructing them to send Jacky home even though he silently protested that his own presence and love should have been sufficient to sustain his wife. But there was no easing of her quiet weeping in the night until he agreed to write.

  Her gratitude when he sent the letter was as much a rebuff as her hurt silence when he had tried to delay the homecoming. It was just that Jacky understood. He was little Patsy’s brother . . . that was why she wanted to see him married . . . so that soon there would be children . . . maybe even a little girl who would look like little Patsy. George wondered where he fitted into the picture.

  Yet, on the surface, life seemed smooth enough. There certainly was no visible sign of the rampant upheaval. There might be strain in the government but when the House of Burgesses met in Williamsburg, most of the members still attended the governor’s ceremonial dinner.

  If warfare came, Mount Vernon might well be a target for shelling from British vessels, but no one who witnessed the lavish outlay of money for additions would guess that fear.

  He and Patsy might be near strangers, each becoming daily more absorbed in a special worry, a special grief, but that growing estrangement was not visible to the guests who filled Mount Vernon or the friends they visited.

  In February of ’74 Jacky and Nellie were married. Patsy would not go to the Calvert home in New Kent for the wedding. She was afraid that she would spoil it by weeping for the young girl who would not be there to be a bridesmaid. George went without her and tried to truly enter the festivities and not burden the young people with his continuing disapproval.

  The fact of the wedding seemed to lift Patsy’s spirits. She took a more active interest in the progress of the construction and listened more carefully to the talk she heard about a break with England.

  The following September George went to Philadelphia as an elected delegate to the Continental Congress. He decided to go in military uniform, then faced the reality that one could not go to a congress that was convening to discuss possible war in the very uniform of the hostile side.

  He chose instead the blue-and-red uniform worn during his s
ervice in the fight against the French and their Indian allies.

  At that session in Philadelphia he was elected to command the county militia companies and the winter was spent in drilling and reviewing them. He was struck by the boyish faces of the eager recruits. He knew how they would harden and mature if war came. With a sense of near yearning he watched the clumsy awkwardness of some of them—youths who obviously had seldom handled a gun. But then the soldier in him took over and he would sharply point out the insufficiencies, the inadequacies, the weaknesses to the drill master. By heaven, if you had an army, you had an army, not a band of clumsy oafs.

  A second Continental Congress had been called for the following May. In the months that preceded it, his dining room became almost a conference hall. Carter and Gates and Lee came; Patrick Henry, Pendleton, Robinson, Mason . . . The talk was quiet and sober. It was on the coming Congress, what decisions would be made, and how much advance preparation could be completed for a speedy enactment of the decisions they felt to be inevitable.

  He would have liked to shield Patsy from these conversations but it wasn’t possible. She listened and questioned and seemed to weigh and measure. Yet he honestly believed that she was not able to conceive of a real war breaking out but was treating the issue more as a family squabble. She was always outwardly composed and even had begun to laugh at the occasional witticisms that relieved the solemn tone of the gatherings. She remained the unfailingly perfect hostess and his guests always complimented him on his table.

  Often the conferences lasted long into the evening and Patsy would excuse herself and slip up to bed. For years they had fallen asleep with her head against his shoulder, both of them enjoying the few minutes of sleepy conversation before one or the other drifted off. Even the nights when she retired first, before little Patsy died, he had automatically slipped an arm around her and drawn her to him. But these nights he retired noiselessly. She always seemed to be asleep, and since waking her might lead to one of the weeping spells that had come so frequently for so many months, he was careful to slip into bed making as little stirring as possible.