At his whispered insistence that she go indoors, she said calmly, “These people have stood for hours to see us. Surely we can stand outside for just a few minutes.”
Mayor Calhoun had a speech prepared but, considerately, shortened it and contented himself with giving them the compliments of the Council of Baltimore.
They were on their way early the next morning and the bad weather pursued them to their next stop at Bladensburg. But when they arrived on the fourteenth in the new federal city of Washington, the snow had begun to melt and the roads were a veritable sea of mud. The horses strained to pull the carriage as the wheels sank into the endless ruts. George looked out the carriage window eagerly. He wasn’t sorry that his administration had ended before the government moved to this new site. It was for the Adams family to occupy the residence that would be the new Executive Mansion. He was glad that the task of settling it hadn’t fallen on Patsy’s shoulders.
That afternoon they had dinner with Patty and Thomas Peter, then all went to the home of Eliza and Thomas Law for supper. En route they passed the partially built Executive Mansion and in that area they were rendered a sixteen-gun salute. Patsy studied the dimensions of the house eagerly. “It will be so beautiful,” she said, “and so worthy a backdrop for the office, but I am pleased to be spared the task of making it a home.”
Just what he had thought an hour ago, George reflected. It showed that after forty years of marriage even their thinking had become identical.
Eliza Law and Patty Peter were the older daughters of Nellie and Jacky Custis. At dinner George noticed how delighted his Patsy was to be at table with all three of her granddaughters. The girls were such fine young women and like their brother, young Washington, they each bore a great resemblance to their father.
Of course, of the three girls, George admitted to himself that Nelly was his favorite. But that was understandable, he felt. They’d raised her from babyhood. Patsy was listening intently to the girls as they discussed their decorating efforts in their new homes. Both of the two older sisters were recent brides. Someone joked that Nelly would be the next to choose a husband and then everyone laughed and George knew it was because he looked so dismayed.
“Grandpapa doesn’t want to lose Nelly,” Eliza said.
“Grandpapa is only aware of the trail of belongings Nelly has lost on this trip and thinks she had better wait a bit before she loses her heart, too,” he retorted.
Nelly got up and slipped an arm around his neck. She gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head. “You are just cross because I forgot the parrots,” she said.
Her grandmother’s hearty laugh led the rest.
Later, after they had retired to the comfortable and well-appointed bed chamber, George found that he could not sleep. The nearness to Mount Vernon filled him with such exhilaration that all hope for immediate rest seemed wasted. Quietly, so as not to disturb Patsy, he got out of bed and went to sit in the armchair by the window. At night the stark newness of the city wasn’t visible. At night the silhouettes of half-completed buildings were symbols of promise.
What would this city—this city they had named after him—be like in a decade, a generation, a hundred years? Usually it was better not to know the future, but for this country he would like a chance to see what the next century would bring. Surely there would be struggles and setbacks and failures, but in the end this nation would become mighty. It had the freshness and the vigor of youth. It had the stamina of a dedicated and great-hearted people.
How he had witnessed the heart and courage of that people—at Cambridge and New York, at Trenton and Saratoga, at Valley Forge and Yorktown. He’d watched his men starving and ragged, uncomplaining as they preserved the dream and pursued the struggle. Until, at last, at the great victory at Yorktown, Cornwallis had surrendered his sword.
George sighed restlessly and got up to look out the window. But he wasn’t seeing the moon-bathed federal city. Instead he was in the plain at Yorktown again, with his army assembled, and accepting the British surrender from the officer representing Cornwallis. They had struggled more than seven years from the first days at Cambridge to that October morning in 1781 when the British band played “The World Turned Upside Down,” as their defeated officers marched from the field. The significance of that air seemed to have been lost on the redcoats. It was the music to which the Continentals sang their jaunty tune “Yankee Doodle Dandy”!
In the thousands of eyes that were on him in those fate-filled moments he was sadly reminded of Jacky’s absence.
Involuntarily George tightened his hands into fists. Even after sixteen years it was hard to think of his stepson without experiencing a terrible pang of loss. He thought of the times Jacky had been at his side at Yorktown, serving as his trusted aide. The laziness and indolence of adolescence had been an incongruous contrast to the young man who had matured into a devoted husband, father, and son. The only thing that hadn’t changed in those days was the quick Custis wit. George remembered the hundreds of times that Jacky had managed to make him smile even in the very blackest of moments. But then the ill health that seemed to be a heritage of the Custis children came to the surface as the long hours and privations weakened Jacky’s reserve of strength. Camp fever swept over Jacky in full force and he was taken to the home of Patsy’s sister in Eltham, some thirty miles away. Patsy and Nellie came to take care of him, but then George received a frantic message: Jacky was dying.
He arrived in time to be at the bedside of the boy who had been his son. He held Jacky’s hand as the long, shuddering sighs became fainter and finally stopped. Afraid of what he would see, he turned to Patsy. But she was not looking down at her son’s body. Instead her arms were tight around Nellie, and she was whispering consolation to the distraught young widow. George embraced them both and then had to hurry back to Yorktown. In the midst of his sorrow one comforting thought was like a candle in the gloom. This time Patsy would be all right. This time she would spend her grief by helping to care for Nellie and Jacky’s fatherless children.
The great victory had been achieved but the state of war wasn’t over. Nearly two years of skirmishes and waiting were to follow before the peace treaty was signed and he was able to resign his commission and go home.
Patsy let no hint of the sorrow of losing her only son mar his homecoming. A party air pervaded the house and from far and wide neighbors and relatives were invited to welcome him home. He realized that somehow she had made her peace with the fate that had made her long-ago nightmare of four tombstones for her four children come true.
But Mount Vernon was not to be without children. When Nellie returned to her home, she took her two older girls but left the babies, little Nelly and little Washington, behind. She asked them to care for the younger children, saying that Mount Vernon should have youngsters to enjoy it, and she knew it would please Jacky if his mother and the general were to help raise his family.
Generous, understanding Nellie—how kind she had been to surrender her own natural desire to raise her children. She had remarried a few years after that to George’s great friend, Dr. David Stewart. The Stewarts had a large family now, but Nellie always remained very close to her Custis children.
With understanding and love Patsy had blessed her former daughter-in-law’s second marriage, saying, “She made Jacky very happy and deserves happiness again herself. And, besides, whatever would my life have been if, as a young widow, I had not remarried?”
The very bewilderment in the question made George smile. “And what would I have done if you had not remarried?” he had asked mildly.
“George!” A firm and disapproving voice made him turn around with guilty haste. Patsy was sitting up in bed, frowning. “Come to bed, immediately. You’ll have a chill.”
Meekly the general obeyed, realizing that he was indeed chilled and cramped. He pulled the covers up, aware that this bed was not quite long enough for him to stretch out comfortably, and lamely began an explanation. “I found
I couldn’t sleep and began to think.”
“You most certainly didn’t think about your throat,” Patsy retorted, but now the firmness in her voice was giving way to worry. “See how cold your hands are.” She began to massage them.
“I hadn’t noticed. I was thinking about the war years and how after it was all over I thought I was going home for good.”
“And you looked just as tired then as you do now. But a few weeks at home will be all you will need. And, thank heaven, this time there’s no chance they’ll be trying to call you back. I think you can count on being Farmer Washington, old man.”
He leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes. “I can’t imagine a title I’d treasure more. How I have hated to trade it for others.”
“I remember when Farmer Washington learned he was to be President Washington,” Patsy said. “I think that was one time when I accepted the inevitable before you did. As soon as the Constitution was written, I had not the slightest doubt who would be chosen as the first President.”
“Adams received many electoral votes,” George reminded her.
“Adams never received serious consideration,” Patsy said firmly. “And now, old man, will you please go to sleep? There is still so much traveling to do before we get home.”
“No, Patsy,” he said exultantly, “that’s just the point. There’s so little traveling to do. We’re almost finished with the journey.”
He felt the heaviness of sleep weigh on his eyelids. It would have been interesting to continue to meditate, to go over the last eight years, but he’d have time for that. Already it was suggested that he spend his retirement writing an autobiography. An autobiography, indeed! His limited education would lend itself to no such venture. Let others tell the story for him. Historians would record the tale of his two administrations. Some, like journalist Bache, would find his stewardship a disaster. Others might understand that he had tried according to the light that had been given him and might, indeed, find merit in his efforts and achievements.
Time again, time would tell; time would record and weigh and balance. He had tried his best and he would content himself with that knowledge. Oh, he knew about his failures, there had been enough of those. As he drifted off to sleep, he decided that even his mother would probably admit that he hadn’t too greatly diminished her family’s motto. His last waking thought was the memory of his mother’s voice repeating that motto to her children, “Aspire . . . to . . . the . . . heavens.”
The next morning they started early. Georgetown was waiting to receive them with escorts and parades and addresses. Then came Alexandria and now the excitement made them all speechless. It was windy and cold but the sun was high in the sky. Spring was ready to burst forth behind the last frigid blasts of winter.
Finally they were just a few miles from Mount Vernon. The ferry landing was filled with people waiting for them, but this gathering was different from the others. These were neighbors and townspeople who had come not to receive a President but to welcome one of their own who was coming home for good. They shouted huzzahs and greetings and mounted their horses to escort the carriages on the last lap of the journey.
The road that led to Mount Vernon also led to Belvoir. Patsy’s eyes had a reflective expression. George knew that she was sharing his thoughts. South, then east on this road. How often they had taken it to visit the Fairfaxes. But Belvoir had been destroyed during the war. George William was dead and Sally would probably never return. George felt Patsy’s hand slip into his. How perfect this homecoming would have been if those two old friends had been here to greet them as they had so long ago.
They were on Mount Vernon land, their land. The carriage picked up momentum; the horses literally flew until they were finally within sight of the house. There it was! It gleamed magnificent and proud in the late afternoon sun. Lights shone from every window like welcoming beacons. The carriage rode around the new bowling green as slaves hurried to gather in the courtyard. They spilled out from the stable and the spinning house, from the kitchen and the carpenter’s shop. On the steps the house servants in the scarlet-and-stone Washington livery waved their hands in greeting. Voices called their names and cried their welcome.
The townspeople who had escorted them home scrambled from their mounts and joined in the cheers. Slowly, deliberately, George helped Patsy out of the carriage. He knew that the brightness of her eyes was reflected in his own. Swallowing hard, he turned to greet his friends and cordially invite them in. But they would not come. They shook hands and smiled and promised to return soon. They rode off and he and Patsy greeted the slaves, who fairly beamed with joy.
Old Billy was there to meet them and it was he who had the honor of opening the door to admit them. He began to close it but George reached out and took the knob in his own strong grasp. He gave a final glance at the land—the land that in the morning he would be inspecting and caring for again, then quietly and firmly he closed the door. The sharp winter air left a latent chill in the foyer, but he and Patsy went quickly into the parlor where a roaring fire was waiting to welcome home the master of Mount Vernon.
© Bernard Vidal
MARY HIGGINS CLARK is the author of twenty-eight worldwide bestsellers. There are seventy million copies of her books in print in the United States alone. She lives in Saddle River, New Jersey.
ALSO BY MARY HIGGINS CLARK
Daddy’s Little Girl
On the Street Where You Live
Before I Say Good-Bye
We’ll Meet Again
All Through the Night
You Belong to Me
Pretend You Don’t See Her
My Gal Sunday
Moonlight Becomes You
Silent Night
Let Me Call You Sweetheart
The Lottery Winner
Remember Me
I’ll Be Seeing You
All Around the Town
Loves Music, Loves to Dance
The Anastasia Syndrome and Other Stories
While My Pretty One Sleeps
Weep No More, My Lady
Stillwatch
A Cry in the Night
The Cradle Will Fall
A Stranger Is Watching
Where Are the Children?
BY MARY HIGGINS CLARK AND
CAROL HIGGINS CLARK
He Sees You When You’re Sleeping
Deck the Halls
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Copyright © 1968, 2002 by Mary Higgins Clark
Copyright renewed © 1996 by Mary Higgins Clark
Previously published in hardcover in 2002 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Originally published as Aspire to the Heavens.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
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ISBN: 0-7434-4894-4
ISBN: 978-0-74320-630-3 (eBook)
First Pocket Books printing June 2003
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Frontispiece image © 2002 Corbis
All other images used courtesy of the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association F
ront cover illustration by Tom Hallman
Mount Vernon Love Story Page 16