The minute the music started at the gatherings, her foot would begin tapping. One evening she curtsied to him and said, “Your Excellency, rumor has it that you are the finest dancer in all Virginia. May I help you prove worthy of that reputation?”
George laughed and jumped to his feet. Nat Greene shook his head at his wife, even while he laughed, too. It had been months since George danced but it was still as natural to him as walking or riding. Even steps that he didn’t know, he could instinctively pick up by simply glancing at the feet of the others on the floor.
Kitty was an exquisite partner, light and graceful. Suddenly he realized whom she reminded him of. Dear God, she was so like Sally twenty years ago. And Nat Greene, unable to enjoy the dancing because of his stiff knee, might have been George William sitting on the side with his rheumatism.
The comparison made George enjoy the dance all the more keenly. The musicians, seeing his pleasure, kept playing long after they normally would have stopped. One by one the other couples dropped out until only he and Kitty danced. Finally, when she was flushed and out of breath, he deposited her at her husband’s side.
“I confess to being a shade out of practice tonight,” he said gravely. “But one evening we must see how long we can go. It is quite good to take one’s measure, even on the dance floor.”
Kitty recovered her breath enough to reply with equal gravity, “Your Excellency, may I assure you that your reputation as the best dancer in Virginia is quite deserved. And in all New England I have never had such a partner.”
It was a rewarding evening. The feeling of good humor and pleasure stayed with George until he retired. Billy had the bed warmed and the covers turned down. Billy was waiting to pull off his boots and take his jacket. But Billy was not the one he wanted there. He wanted Patsy with him. He wanted to be able to ask her whom she thought Kitty Greene resembled, and of course she would know. He wanted to bait her by gravely suggesting that young Hamilton was a distinct asset to the cause. He knew that the man’s combination of cocksureness and haughty manners would irritate Patsy no end. George thought of how much he had always relished Patsy’s penetrating observations about people. They helped to clear and focus his own impressions.
After Billy left the room George sighed and stood up. He was dead tired but restless and suddenly out of sorts. Already it was November and Christmas was coming soon. What kind of Christmas would it be like here, so far from home?
Unless . . . unless, since he could not go to her at Mount Vernon, Patsy could come here to join him. Immediately George rejected the thought as impossible. It was too cold and too late in the year. The roads would be bad and Patsy had never been north of Virginia in her life.
But hours later as he still lay awake, George came to a decision. In the morning he would write Patsy and ask her to come to him.
December, 1775
Cambridge
THE NEXT MORNING WHEN HE WROTE, George was careful to couch his invitation to Patsy in the most negative of tones. He took an almost perverse pride in making it easy for her not to come. He pointed out that the roads were bad and it was late in the season. She was probably enjoying a visit to her sister Nancy Bassett and the company of her relatives. New England would be a cold, snowy place to spend Christmas.
At the same time he wrote a note to Lund saying that he’d invited Patsy, but didn’t expect her.
It would be weeks at least before he could hope for word. George spent nearly every waking hour of those weeks totally absorbed in the grim struggle to hold together his army. Many enlistments ended in December. Here, after months of training and feeding troops, he must now release them without having obtained one single piece of good from them.
The plight of General Arnold in Canada and the disaster of that campaign added to his woes. Wood was so scarce that it was impossible to keep enough of a supply on hand to build barracks and have fuel as well.
At night just before he fell asleep he would finally for a few minutes turn his thoughts away from the war and permit himself to wonder what Patsy’s answer would be. Over and over he relived the moment when he had said good-bye to her. He should have embraced her and not worried about the presence of the others.
Quite against his wishes he felt his temper grow increasingly shorter. He must not take either public or private problems out on his staff. He willed himself to external serenity, even while the slightest exhibition of stupidity or carelessness triggered hot emotion.
Then simultaneously he heard from Patsy and Lund. She was coming, coming as fast as a carriage could be raced along the snowy path from Virginia to Cambridge. In her letter, hastily scrawled, even more badly spelled than usual, she said simply, “If you had not sent for me, I should still have come to you.”
From Lund there was much the same news. Mrs. Washington had long been saying that she would go to the general if he could not come home. Mrs. Washington had all the slaves near collapse with preparing food to take to Cambridge. Mrs. Washington would be on her way in a few days. Mrs. Washington would be accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Custis.
Exhilaration was followed by acute awareness of the Cambridge house as it would be seen through Patsy’s eyes. George thought of his bedroom. He had noticed dust in the corners between the wall and ceiling. That had better be attended to before Patsy got here. During the day when he was busy, she’d need a room to receive guests—oh, the small parlor across the hall. That would do. For Christmas—with any luck she would arrive by then—he’d get the men to cut boughs from the evergreens and mistletoe. Patsy must get the flavor of a real New England Christmas.
Finally he turned to the papers on his desk. Wood was still scarce. The Connecticut regiments could not be prevailed upon to reenlist. A traitor had slipped through to Boston and told the British that this was exactly the right time to attack. There was serious reason to believe that Dr. Church had been sending messages to the enemy.
But George treated each crisis that day with calm assurance. When moments of discouragement came, he had only to think of the carriage that even now was probably close to Philadelphia.
He wrote to Reed to escort Patsy into Philadelphia and attend her during her few days’ stopover there. For the last part of the trip he sent Colonel Baylor to meet and guide the carriage through New England.
He told the ladies—Kitty Greene and Mercy Warren and Mrs. Mifflin—that she was coming, and they assured him that they would see she did not become lonesome when he was busy.
On the evening of December 11 he was in his study, poring over the interminable reports to the Congress. For the past few days he’d had one ear cocked for the sound of carriage wheels, but now he became so absorbed in trying to phrase his words properly that he tuned out extraneous sounds. He needed to make the Congress understand the desperation of their plight, but he must not seem desperate. Discouragement was not the emotion he must give them, rather an awareness of need, with confidence in ultimate victory.
He heard the front door open and the sound of hurrying feet. He rose quickly as a sentry tapped on the door and rushed in. “She is here, Your Excellency, your lady is here.”
George brushed past the man. He covered the long hall in a few strides. The front door was being held open by another sentry. He raced down the steps. The carriage was at the foot of the double stairs. Jacky was standing beside it, handing Nellie out. He gave his stepson a gentle touch and the young man stepped quickly aside.
George lifted his arms up and Patsy stepped from the carriage into them.
He held her against him, his arms tight around her waist and back, her gloved hands folded around his neck. He kissed the smooth cheek and her eyes and lips. She was here. She was here. She had come through ice and snow and danger and risked capture to come to him, but she had come. Whatever his place in her affections, he would accept it. She was always and ever first in his. And she was here. She murmured his name and he tried to say “welcome, my dearest,” but his voice was so low he wondered if she heard.
Keeping an arm around her, he brought her into the house. Finally he left her side long enough to greet Jacky and Nellie. Jacky had become a man, nearly two years of marriage had given him a purposeful expression, a maturity that sat well on his handsome frame. Nellie was as lovely as ever and showed a self-assurance that had been lacking in the ecstatic new bride.
George pumped Jacky’s hand, hugged and kissed Nellie quickly, and turned back to Patsy. She had taken off her cloak and bonnet and was wearing a handsome dark green traveling dress. In the seven months since he’d seen her, her hair had become completely silver. Was it the hair or her manner? There was an indefinable change in Patsy. There was a regal dignity about her as she handed an aide her cloak. There was a serenity that he’d never noticed before. Once she would have been embarrassed at any affectionate display before the children. Now she came over to him and slipped her hand in his, and Jacky and Nellie might not have been in the room.
Billy brought wine in and greeted the newcomers with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “Have you been taking good care of the general?” Patsy asked him, smiling.
She accepted the wine and replied to his assurances, “I think the general looks quite well, although he could do with a bit more rest. I see some unfamiliar lines.” She ran her finger over his forehead gently. “I don’t remember these.”
“There are others that show up even more at my desk,” George said, “and others that reveal themselves when I review the troops, still others when I look from the hill into Boston Harbor . . . but never mind that now. Tell me about your trip.”
Jacky laughed. “Our trip was three weeks of Mamma urging the coachman to hurry. Sir, you can’t imagine how happy I am to deliver her to you.”
George raised one eyebrow as Patsy said, “Be quiet, Jacky.”
Jacky was not to be silenced. “Really, Poppa, ever since the letter came announcing that you would not be returning, Mamma has been driving herself, and everyone else, until I became convinced collapse was the only end. In fact, at Mount Vernon she is every day riding with Lund to see that your instructions are carried out. Every bush you wanted planted, she is there to see it’s put in just the spot you indicated. She’s a veritable foreman at the additions and all one hears is ‘the general will not be pleased; do that over; the general definitely said to trim the corner in such and such a manner.’ When your new private quarters were being fixed, she supervised every tack in the carpet, saying that you would notice shoddiness. When everyone pleaded with her to leave Mount Vernon, for fear of Dunmore, she refused. And I doubt, sir, that if that scoundrel had come to the door, she would have fled. She would have said, ‘George has put his whole life into Mount Vernon, and I shall save it for him.’”
“What weapons would she have chosen?” George asked mildly. He looked down at Patsy, at the faint blush that painted her cheeks, and was not aware of the tears in his own eyes.
The half-bantering tone left Jacky’s voice. “I think love would have been her sword and shield, Poppa,” he said quietly. “Now . . .” He touched Nellie’s elbow. “We will get ourselves settled and rejoin you a little later for dinner.”
Then he stepped to George and grasped his hand. “We have all missed you terribly, sir. If I may, I should like to be of some assistance to you here. It seems entirely wrong for my father to bear the entire responsibility for our forces while I sit idle in Virginia. Perhaps you have some post where I may be of service.”
George looked at the handsome young man who had long ago asked to wear his sword. He had been wrong about the early marriage. It had begun the maturing process that he had longed to see in the youth. Jacky had said “my father.” Jacky had come not simply as an escort, but to help. “I shall be proud to have you with me,” he said. Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow when I ride to the lines, Jacky will ride with me. Tomorrow the army will see my son.
Then the door was closed behind Nellie and Jacky, and he and Patsy were alone. He thought of what Jacky had said, “love would have been her sword and shield.” A tidal wave of emotion swept over him. He blew his nose vigorously, then said, “This parlor . . . I thought you might use it during the day. You could receive the ladies here. I hope it pleases you.”
They were facing each other—she in the center of the room. He had walked with the young couple to the door and was standing in front of it. The color had drained from her face and she was dead white now. She clasped her hands tightly together. “The room pleases me very much,” she said. “I have missed you, George.” They were six feet apart. But it might have been a chasm. The only time he had been this immobilized was that agonizing moment when he held little Patsy in his arms and tried to husband the flicker of life. This moment had that same sense of imminence. Whatever they said now would guide the course of their future. She must understand now how he felt about her. But words would not come.
It was she who spoke first. “Since that morning that you left . . . and I never even said good-bye, did I . . . not really . . . you see, I had been so unhappy that you were going. I needed you. But never considered your needs. Just as you left, I realized . . . I knew that if war came you might not come back. And I knew that I couldn’t bear that. Not ever. But I was so selfish last year. I have always been so selfish.”
He could not move. He could not answer her. Reassuring words crowded his throat. “You were not selfish. You were grief-stricken.” But he couldn’t say them.
She took one step toward him. “All these months I have been thinking. How happy little Patsy was. How happy you made her. When she was ill and frightened, it was always you she turned to. From that very first minute when she reached out to you, when she was just a baby, you protected her. You cared for her. You gave her all the happiness, all the love. You made her life perfect. And when she died I never once thought of you, only of myself . . .”
Another step. Now her voice was breathless. Words were tumbling out. “And all these years . . . Jacky . . . you arranging for the schools, getting him out of scrapes, making a man out of him when I would have ruined him. You know who told me that? He did. He did. And his wedding—wanting him to get married so he’d be around me more, wanting grandchildren, instead of worrying about you when you were so worried. I never gave you a child of your own and you never reproached me, not once. You were sorry for my disappointment, and all alone you have carried so much weight on your shoulders these months . . .”
She was in front of him now, her hands on his chest. She twisted the button on his jacket. “I wanted to come long ago, but I was afraid you might not want me. When you wrote that Mrs. Greene and Mrs. Mifflin and the others were here, and never once asked me to come, I thought that maybe . . . I had become a burden. I would have come soon anyhow. I would have had to. Only the chance to be watching over Mount Vernon for you has given any meaning to my life these months . . .”
The button came off. Absently she tucked it in his pocket then went on. “I have been very difficult and very sharp. Everyone thinks so. I know it. It is just that when you aren’t there, it’s all wrong. I have missed you so much. It isn’t any pleasure to ride or walk or dine or visit, if you’re not there. And so I get cross and notice mistakes and get very irritated.”
She was working on the next button, twisting and tugging at it. “And all I have been able to think, all I have lived with, is the thought that if we are defeated, they would hang you. They would, wouldn’t they? And I simply could not bear . . .” The button popped off. She stared at it, suddenly aware of what she was doing. She looked up at him, startled and blushing. “Oh, George . . .”
And now the frozen emotion was gone. Warmth coursed through his body. Now he could move. Now he could speak. They laughed together as he held her against him. “My dearest, dearest Patsy.” Their tears wet each other’s cheeks as he kissed her. “I am so proud of you,” she whispered. In unison they said, “I love you.”
And then because the others would be joining them soon for supper—Jacky and Nellie and the staf
f officers—she dried her eyes, smoothed her hair, and reached into her pocket for the needle and thread she always carried and began to sew the buttons back on. He sat by her as she did, content and rejoicing.
How many nights they had sat like this at home . . . and they would again. He was sure of it. No matter how long it took, and it would take a long time, no matter what the hardships, and there would be many, no matter how great the pain, and pain and grief were part of war, they would succeed.
Tonight he would tell her about it all. Tonight when they would fall asleep with her head on his shoulder. He would warn her. But she already knew. She could stay until spring. And when the campaign started, he would send her home. But she would be with him whenever it was possible. Newfound energy made him forget the fatigue and the worry and the strain. All his life he had waited for these last few minutes . . . all his life.
She finished her sewing and motioned him to stand up. She held his jacket while he slipped his arms into the sleeves. She said, “The general looks very handsome,” and investigated her handwork. She said, “They’re sewed quite secure, I think. In fact, they’re probably more secure than before.”
“I have no doubt of it,” he said gravely. “And now . . .”
“His Excellency is hungry,” she guessed.
“Starving!” He had never been so hungry in his life, and drifting through the house was the tantalizing aroma of the ham and pies that Patsy had brought from Mount Vernon.
Mount Vernon Love Story: A Novel of George and Martha Washington Page 15