by Dorothy Love
“Miss Mary, is that you?” Selina, carrying a basket of squash and beans, peeked in from the rear hallway.
“Yes. I just got back. I want to walk down to visit Mother’s grave.”
“Huh. It won’t do anything except make you sad all over again.” She shifted the basket onto her hip. “You want me to go down there with you?”
“Not today. I think I want to be alone with her.”
“At least try not to come back with your eyes all red and puffed up. Miss Agnes and Miss Annie are still taking this death awfully hard.”
“I know it.”
“I noticed there’s some roses just opening up this morning. If you want to take some to her.”
“I will.” I collected the shears from the basket Mother kept beside the back door and let myself out into the garden. I snipped half a dozen stems of ruby-red buds and walked down the path to Mother’s grave. In the three months since I had put her there, the grass had begun to cover the red wound in the earth. The cuttings my daughters and I had planted were taking hold. One day her grave would be surrounded by the flowers she had so loved.
I placed the flowers on the handsome headstone Robert had purchased for her. “Guess what, Mother. You were right all those years ago when you told me to be patient with my husband. Last week Daughter and Annie were confirmed. And Robert too.”
I still couldn’t quite believe that something I had so long hoped for had finally happened. The previous Sunday night I had sat in our pew at Christ Church in my mourning clothes, the suffocating heat pressing down, watching Daughter and Annie kneeling at the Communion rail. It was a moment of inexpressible happiness amid so much pain, and I reached over to clasp Robert’s hand. He kissed the back of my hand, stood, and walked to the front of the church to join his children. Whether he had chosen to be confirmed at that moment in order to ease the pain of my sudden bereavement or to honor the woman he had for so long called Mother, I couldn’t say.
I wished that she had lived to witness that glorious event. I could only hope that the full knowledge of it may have swelled the tide of joy wherever her spirit had gone.
From the top of Federal Hill in Baltimore I could see the Banshee riding at anchor among sailing vessels and steamships crowding the harbor. A flock of geese winged above the breakwater where the river roiled with wind-whipped whitecaps. Beyond the teeming wharves, the city’s monument to President Washington pierced the pewter-colored sky.
Beside me in the carriage, Robert’s sister, Anne, fussed with her skirts and retied the ribbons on her bonnet. “Are you sure this is a good idea? It isn’t exactly the best day to be out and about. You’re able to visit so seldom anymore, I would hate for you to get sick and spoil our time together.”
“I’ve looked forward to this visit too. But I’ve waited for years for such a day as this. I can’t let disagreeable weather keep me away.”
The carriage drew up at the wharf, and the driver jumped down to open the door. Anne peered out at the dozens of black families standing near the Banshee. A cold rain began to fall.
“If it’s all the same with you, Mary, I think I will wait for you here.” She sent me a sharp glance. “No sense in both of us getting sick.”
I left the carriage and made my way to the center of the group. Since July I had corresponded regularly with William Burke and his family during their preparations for beginning anew in Liberia. Our letters flew back and forth as William and Rosabella filed the necessary applications with the Colonization Society, collected letters of reference, booked passage, and outfitted themselves and their children for the voyage. Now at last they were on their way, along with some 257 other freedmen.
“Mrs. Lee, what a surprise to see you.”
The Reverend Gurley pushed through the throng to clasp my hand. He was no longer president of the society, but he still took a keen interest in the activities of all the chapters, including mine in Washington City.
He raised his umbrella to shelter me. “Not the best weather for commencing a journey, but I expect our freedmen are happy to be under way at last.” He glanced around and checked his pocket watch. “I would have thought our sponsors would have arrived by now.”
“How many are going this time?”
“Just three. But they are competent men and well prepared to assist our families in getting settled. This group will make nearly ten thousand people we have resettled so far.”
“It’s a start, I suppose.”
“Yes, but we must revive our finances in the new year. Now that Mr. Webster and Mr. Clay have passed on to their rewards, I worry about who will champion our cause.”
I was deeply troubled about that myself. Mr. Clay had expired the previous July. Mr. Webster had followed him just three months later. I feared that Mr. Garrison’s continuing attacks upon us in his Liberator and other writings might turn the tide permanently against us. “Won’t the money the state legislatures have appropriated keep us going for a while?”
Two little boys ran past, jostling us, and the minister took my elbow to steady me.
“Perhaps. But when we are obliged to purchase slaves in order to free them, even the thirty thousand a year set aside in Virginia does not go very far.”
“Mrs. Lee?” I recognized William Burke’s voice even before he reached me.
He nodded to the Reverend Gurley, then clasped my hand. “Mrs. Lee, I can never thank you for all you have done for Rosabella and me, and our children.”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Lee,” the minister said. “There are our sponsors, arrived at last. I must speak to them. You are welcome to my umbrella.”
He soon was lost in the burgeoning crowd milling about the pier.
William held the umbrella above our heads as the mist grew heavier. “I’m glad you came to see us off.”
“I couldn’t stay away on such a momentous day.”
“I have some news I hope will please you,” William said. “I have been accepted to the seminary in Monrovia.”
“Oh, William, that is wonderful news. I’m deeply pleased.”
“It never could have happened if you hadn’t given me those secret reading lessons.”
“Lawrence and my mother deserve most of the credit. I was away so much of the time when you were growing up.”
“But it was you who got me started, and you gave me that Bible when I was just sixteen. You convinced Mr. Custis to give us our freedom and gave us the money to pay for this trip.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a roll of bills. “This is what we had left after we paid for everything.”
“You ought to keep it. There are sure to be more expenses once you reach Liberia.”
“Yes, I imagine there will be. But I’d rather you use this to help some other family who wants to emigrate.”
We heard a commotion and peered from beneath the umbrella. The sponsors were organizing the passengers, checking their papers, directing them to the gangplank.
“I reckon I ought to go find my wife.” William handed me the umbrella. “God bless you, Mrs. Lee. I will write to you when we get there.”
“I would like that.”
He turned and was swallowed in the crowd moving toward the gangplank. Soon the last passengers were aboard. The pier was nearly deserted. I looked around for the Reverend Gurley, but he had gone. Only a few dockworkers remained to load the last of the cargo. Behind me, the carriage waited.
Despite the mist and the chill, passengers crowded the deck to wave good-bye. Huddled beneath the large umbrella I couldn’t see William, but I took out my handkerchief and waved, my throat swelling with tears as the Banshee cleared the harbor and faded into the mist.
30 | MARY
1857
I was headed for my schoolroom, my arms full of books for reading lessons with the servants’ children, when I saw Papa trudging up the path from the stables. Four years had passed since my mother’s death, but he had never completely recovered from the loss. He had given up his pen and easel, preferring his solit
ary walks among the clear streams and cool shades of Arlington. He was often gone for hours, lost in the quiet beauty of the revolving seasons and in his own private reveries.
On that bright October morning I set down my books and met him at the door. He was red faced, perspiring heavily though the air was still cool from the morning’s frost.
“Are you all right?”
He shook his head. “I’m feeling very strange this morning.”
I sent for the doctor, but his condition worsened rapidly. Before I knew quite what was happening, he called me to his side, and I could see that he was failing.
“You are a good daughter, Mary Anna.” He clasped my hand. “My dearest love, besides your mother.”
“And Arlington.”
He smiled then. “And Arlington.”
He summoned his grandchildren, took his leave of them in the gentlest way, and asked for our pastor. But before the elements for administering the sacraments could be prepared, my very kind and indulgent father fell insensible and slipped away.
Unlike Mother’s funeral, which was small and personal, his was a very public affair. The Welsh Light Infantry and the Veterans of the War of 1812 joined a thousand mourners who crossed the long bridge over the river and made their way to Arlington. Six of our servants bore his mahogany coffin to the grave next to my mother’s.
When the service ended I stood for hours receiving the endless parade of politicians, soldiers, lawyers, artists, newspapermen, and plantation owners swarming the lawn.
The pastor sought me out and took my hands in his. “Mrs. Lee. When your dear mother passed, I had hoped it would be many more years before your father joined her. Four years seems hardly enough time to recover from one loss. And now you have lost them both.”
Overcome with grief and exhausted from days of preparations, I could only nod.
He surveyed the milling crowd. “I haven’t seen Colonel Lee.”
“He’s on his way home from Texas.”
“I didn’t realize he had left West Point.”
“Oh, yes, quite some time ago, and very happy to leave it behind.”
“Well, I’m sorry the burden of this death has fallen upon your shoulders, but I suppose that’s the difficulty of military life.”
“One of many, I’m afraid.”
He nodded. “Will you excuse me?”
He crossed the yard, and the mourners began to disperse. I gathered my children and we returned to the house.
Selina was there, taking care of everything with her usual quiet efficiency.
“There’s food on the sideboard whenever you all get hungry, Miss Mary. And I put all the calling cards on your desk. There’s a bunch of telegrams, too, from people who knew Mr. Custis.”
“Thank you. I will get to them as soon as I can.”
“No need to be in a hurry about it. Colonel Lee can help you sort it out when he gets here.”
Unfortunately for my husband, there were much thornier things to sort out when he finally arrived home. As the only one qualified to be executor of my father’s will, he shouldered the difficulties of sorting out Papa’s wishes regarding his properties and the disposition of the slaves. Papa left behind a very injudicious will, in which there was no distinction between the good and the bad, and this rendered our task very difficult.
And there were other worries. Some of the servants claimed that on his deathbed, Papa had promised to free them all. Several of them simply left, slipping away into the night. Others dawdled at their chores, broke things, or feigned illness. Anything to disrupt the serenity that had so long reigned at Arlington.
Wild rumors ran rampant.
“Listen to this,” Robert said at breakfast one morning, rattling his copy of the New York Daily Times, which Daniel had delivered the previous evening. “ ‘It is already whispered about town that foul play is in process in regard to the Custis Negroes on the Virginia plantations; that they are now being sold South and that all of them will be consigned to hopeless slavery unless something is done.’ ”
“But it isn’t true.” I stared out at the bleak December landscape.
“Of course not.” He tossed the paper aside. “The servants know full well that I intend to free them as soon as your father’s debts are discharged. But I will not sit here and let such vile accusations pass unchallenged.”
He excused himself to paper and pen, and a few days later the Times printed Robert’s tersely worded correction of the facts:
Mr. Custis left his property to his daughter and only child, and her children. His will was submitted to the Alexandria County Court for probate on the first day of its session after the arrival of the executor at Arlington and is there on record in his own handwriting, open to inspection. There is no desire on the part of the heirs to prevent the execution of its provisions in reference to the slaves, nor is there any truth or the least foundation for the assertion that they are being sold South. What Mr. Custis is said to have stated to his assembled slaves is not known to any member of his family. But it is well known that during the brief days of his last illness he was constantly attended by his daughter and granddaughter and faithfully visited by his physician and pastor. So rapid was the progress of his disease after his symptoms became alarming that there was no assembly of his servants and he took leave of but one, who was present when he bade farewell to his family.
No sooner had Robert quashed those rumors than an outrageous article appeared regarding plantation owners who sought any means to increase the number of slaves as a way of increasing profits. It included a mock obituary of my father:
Among such was the late George Washington Parke Custis, owner of several properties across Virginia, a man of notorious licentiousness which was strictly Virginian in its impartiality for color.
Markie, who had returned to Arlington as the new year arrived, was incensed.
“Oh, Mary, what an ugly lie. You ought to hire a lawyer and sue the lot of them for libel.”
“Robert says we must ignore everything until the public gets its fill of gossip. I don’t care if they want to say things about me. I’m alive and can fight back. But attacking someone as fine and generous as Papa now that he’s gone is inexcusable. He doesn’t deserve it.”
But the following week I made a discovery that changed my mind.
I was still working on his Recollections, and his desk was piled high with bills, receipts, half-finished poems and plays, untidy stacks of correspondence from his political friends in Washington, and carefully preserved newspaper clippings about his ancestral home.
Making my way through the mountain of paperwork, I found copies of land deeds and bills of sale for equipment for his mills and other holdings. Tucked into the back of a ragged green cloth letterbook was a note signed in Papa’s own hand.
Maria Carter, acknowledged as my daughter on this first day of January in the year of our Lord 1826, is hereby granted complete and permanent emancipation and the parcel of land comprising seventeen acres of land in the . . .
The words blurred before my eyes. Maria Carter, born a slave five years before me, educated at my own mother’s knee, wed to Charles Syphax for these many years, was my father’s child. My half sister.
I didn’t want to know this. I wanted to believe he had been a different kind of man. I put away the ledger, furious at myself for having been so naive, furious at him for having taken his secret with him into the ground. Maria was not the only mulatto at Arlington, but I had never made any connection between them and my father. Now I wondered whether the others were also his children.
The last vestiges of guilt over having sold the ivory wedding box he had given me evaporated. I was glad to be rid of it, for now his entire life seemed to me nothing less than one enormous lie.
31 | SELINA
1859
Spring took its own sweet time returning to Arlington, and my children, who slept stacked head to toe like sticks of firewood in the sleeping loft, suffered from the constant chill. Tho
rnton kept the fire going day and night. Judah brought by poultices and tonics every day or so, and Mauma doctored my babies while I kept house for Miss Mary. Her rheumatism had finally got the best of her despite pills and potions and trips to the hot mineral springs, and now she mostly depended on me to do for her, and on crutches or her rolling chair to get around.
So I was surprised one morning in March to see her making her way across the yard to my cabin. I set down the potatoes I was peeling and went to the door. “Miss Mary, what are you doing out here?”
“I’m worried about your children. Especially Annice.”
I glanced at my daughter, who was sleeping on her side, trying to breathe easier. “She is having the worst time of it.”
Miss Mary handed me a bowl. “I had George make some chicken broth for her, but if she is not improved by tomorrow I will send for the doctor.”
She bent stiffly over my sleeping children, laying her hand against their cheeks. “Oh, I wish I could find more comfortable quarters for you.”
I was wishing the same thing, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it as long as we belonged to Arlington. And it didn’t seem we would be away from there anytime soon.
Colonel Lee spent most of his time going over books of numbers and trying to keep the abolitionists away. But they came anyway, to the fields and the stables, and talked to the menfolks about nothing but how to run away and how we were now free because old Mister Custis was dead and buried. How all we had to do was rise up and demand our freedom. But every time Thornton told me what they had said, all I could think of was Nat Turner skinned like an animal when I was a girl. The terror of it was never far from my mind.
Miss Mary left me to see to Annice, then went back to the house.
The next morning right after prayers, Colonel Lee called us into the parlor.
“You all know that Mr. Custis demanded little of you when he was alive. And now you are all waiting for manumission. In order to speed that day, I must first put the finances of this house in order. This was the wish of Mr. Custis as stated in his will.”