Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray (17 page)

I thought about those questions all the time as I was polishing the silver and beating rugs and dusting tables in the parlor. I remembered the summer I was ten years old and Peter, who was in charge of letting people in and out the door of the house, told
us after preaching one night that Mister Custis had set Maria Syphax free. And gave her some Arlington land and a house besides.

When she got wind of it, Judah set down her sewing and cocked her eyebrows and said it wasn't no big surprise to her and anybody with one eye and half sense could see why he'd done it. I didn't see it back then. I asked Mauma and she told me to shush.

And now Mister Custis had finally listened to Nurse's constant begging to free her daughter. Cassie married a boy name of Louis and they had gone up North. I didn't think for a single minute freedom was going to be a cakewalk, but I was at least as smart as Cassie, and I figured if she could make her way in the world, so could I. There was no telling how long it might take, but my dream still was shimmering out there in front of me, shiny as a new dime.

Thornton grabbed my hand, and we started up the path to the cabin. “You know you love me, Selina Norris. You know you gone say yes.”

“When we get free, then I'll think about it.”

Thornton spat into the dirt. “You just dreamin', girl. You and me? We liable to be dead and buried long 'fore that day comes. Might as well take whatever happiness we can get while the gettin's good.”

“Thornton Gray, stop pestering me.” I held my new poem book to my chest and changed the subject. “I got a letter from Rose last week. From all the way in New York. She went shopping with Miss Mary and the new baby, and Miss Mary bought Rose a new bonnet.”

“Missus Lee got herself another young'un?”

“Yes. Another boy, named after his daddy. He was born right here while Miss Mary was home last year. You don't remember?”

“Too many children to keep up with, I reckon. Seem like she runs home to Arlington ever' year to bring a new baby into the world. How many she got now?”

“Six. Three boys and three girls.”

“Lordy. How many children we gone have, Miss Selina Norris?”

We reached the quarters. It was dark. Yellow light spilled from the windows of the cabins. A bitter wind blew in off the river, and I was getting cold. “Thank you for the poem book. I got to get inside. Mauma will wonder where I am.”

Thornton shoved his hands into his pockets. “You gone tell her I proposed?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, when you make up your mind let me know, and I'll come and get you. We can stay with my pa for a while. Till we can get a cabin of our own.”

“If I decide to marry you, I want a proper wedding. With a preacher and everything.”

“Ah, Selina. Don't be that way. That kind of a wedding is for white folks. And it don't make no difference in how we feel. We gone be just as married as Miss Mary and Mister Robert is.”

Through the door of the cabin I could hear Mauma and Wesley talking, their voices low. Smoke drifted up the chimney and into the black night. “I got to go.”

“Marry me. You know you want to.” Thornton leaned over and stole another kiss. I went inside.

Mauma was putting the clean dishes away. Wesley was reading the Bible Miss Mary gave him last Christmas. Daddy was
already sleeping in front of the fire. There wasn't an iota of joy in any of them. And if they remembered it was my birthday, nobody said a word about it.

I sat down at the table across from Wesley so we could share the lamplight and opened up my poem book. But the words danced on the page and refused to settle into my head. Wesley began reading aloud from the book of Isaiah. Mauma recited the verses right along with him, but something changed in me that night. All I could pray was that I might be spared from such a life as this. A life heavy with longing and burdened by sorrows too mournful to recall.

W
e were going home for Christmas, and I wanted to visit some of my Brooklyn neighbors before we left. On a brisk morning in late November, after breakfast and morning prayers, Robert left for his office on the post. I dressed and pinned my hair as best I could. I was expecting our seventh child, clumsy at everything, and too far along to ride my little mare, Kate. I bundled into my cloak and gloves and summoned Kitty and Rose. “Where are the children?”

“The girls upstairs, playing with they doll babies,” Kitty said. “Robbie is still sleeping.”

“Be sure to give him his breakfast as soon as he wakes. You know how grumpy a hungry two-year-old can be.”

“Don't worry, Miss Mary,” Rose said. “We're keeping an eye on them. I just now saw Rooney outside with Jim, helping pitch hay for the horses.”

“My son is wearing his gloves and coat, I hope.”

“I put them on him myself,” Kitty said. “But I ain't guaranteeing he's gone keep 'em on. That boy is way too full of mischief, if you're askin' me.”

Rooney had grown into a fearless eight-year-old, the most rambunctious of all my brood. I worried constantly about his safety.

I left the house and in the sunless November morning walked the short distance to Mrs. Lane's. A plump, gray-haired woman with bright blue eyes and a ready laugh, she greeted me warmly, and we settled before the fire in her cozy parlor talking of mutual friends and family news and plans for Christmas. She was reciting the ingredients for a plum pie when I heard a noise outside and looked up to see Kitty rushing through the gate and up the walk.

“Mrs. Lane! Mrs. Lane!”

Kitty rushed inside, her eyes wide with fear. “Jim sent me to fetch Mrs. Lee home. Rooney has gone and cut his fingers off.”

I got to my feet and grabbed my cloak. “What happened?”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Mrs. Lane asked.

“I'm all right. I must go.”

“Of course, my dear. I hope it isn't as serious as it seems. And do let me know if there is anything you need.”

We started for home, Kitty holding tight to my arm.

“Kitty, what happened? You know how Rooney is. Was there no one watching him?”

“Jim said he turned his back for just a minute, and the next thing he knowed, Rooney was up in the hayloft playing with the straw cutter. Jim told him to leave the cutter alone and come on down, but I reckon the cutter must of slipped or something. He says they was blood ever'where and he hollered at me to come and fetch you home.”

We ran into the yard, where Jim was cradling a screaming Rooney in his arms.

“Oh, Jim, how bad is it?” I unwound the bloody bandage.

“Sliced off the ends of two fingers, Missus. I got 'em wrapped up in my handkerchief so's the doctor can sew 'em back on. But we got to get Mr. Rooney to the infirmary right quick.” Jim
was already moving along the street. “I done sent for Captain Lee too.”

For the sake of my injured son, I tried to remain calm as I struggled to keep up with Jim. Inside, I was falling apart. Three years before, Annie had accidentally poked out her eye with the scissors and now had sight only in one eye. As if the birthmark was not enough of a cross to bear. And now this.

At the infirmary I held Rooney on my lap while the doctor applied salve and bandaged his hand.

“There.” The doctor stood and patted Rooney's shoulder. “You are a brave and good lad, little Mister Lee. The captain will be proud of you.”

Rooney shook his head. “No, sir. I am a bad lad, and my papa will be disappointed because I should have minded Jim.”

That night Robert and I took turns sitting by Rooney's bedside. In the wee hours of the morning I left to make tea. When I returned to the shadowed room, Robert looked up, and I knew he was thinking of the awful day when our little Annie had lost her sight.

“Oh, Mary. If only children could know how their careless acts overwhelm us with sorrow,” he said quietly, “they could not so cruelly afflict us.”

Rooney whimpered and tore at his bandages. I reached out to still his hand.

Robert sipped his tea. “I saw the girls when I arrived home. Annie asked me whether Rooney's accident means we are still going to Arlington for Christmas.”

“We can't travel with Rooney and risk those stitches coming undone.” I busied myself straightening Rooney's blankets so Robert wouldn't see my disappointment.

Christmas Day began before daylight. Custis and Mary had gone ahead to Arlington. Annie, Agnes, and Rooney woke and began clamoring for their gifts. Robert had filled their stockings, and the parlor soon rang with laughter and bright chatter. Kitty brought in Robbie, who was just barely old enough to know that this was a special day. Robert took him from her arms and carried him around the house to admire the greenery and the brace of glowing candles on the dining room table.

“Today is Christmas,” Robert told his two-year-old namesake. “What would you like for a present?”

“A carriage and some horses!”

Robert laughed and handed him to me. “What do you say, Mama? It seems a modest enough request.”

“Mama, I don't feel like church today,” Rooney said.

“I will stay with him,” Robert said. “Kitty can look after the baby if you want to take the girls.”

I went upstairs to help Annie with the little veil she wore when we ventured into public. She was only six years old, but old enough to feel self-conscious about her birthmark and her sightless eye. Rose came up to help dress Agnes, and the three of us set off for church, our boots crunching on the snow.

The church was beautifully decorated with candles and greenery. I sat between my girls in our usual pew near the front and helped them through the readings and the hymns. That evening Robert and I dined with the Stauntons and arrived home in time to kiss our children good night and hear their prayers. I added my own intercession, that I might be equal to the charge God had given Robert and me.

All too quickly Christmas passed, the new year arrived, and I prepared to go home to await the arrival of our seventh child.
Robert's duties made it impractical for him to accompany me, but the journey was a short one, and he consoled himself with thoughts of my return to Fort Hamilton in early summer.

One afternoon in early January, he came into our bedroom as Rose was folding my things into my trunk. I dismissed her and walked into my husband's waiting arms. I had grown accustomed to having him home every night, and I dreaded our separation.

Robert spoke against my hair. “I am already lonesome for you all.”

“I will miss you too.”

“I want you to spend some time in the mountains next spring. You need to regain your strength. And a visit to the hot springs would do you a world of good.”

I glanced up at him.

“You do your best to hide your pain from me, but I can see it in your eyes, Molly. Promise me you'll go.”

“All right.”

“Just don't stay away too long.” He pulled away to look into my eyes. “I shall be waiting for you, and most eager to kiss my newest child. And you know the rest of these
chillen
cannot do for very long without their papa.”

A week later we were home. I brought the Christmas gifts we had bought in New York for Custis and Daughter. Our son had returned to boarding school, but Mary was still there and greeted me with her usual haughtiness.

“Happy Christmas, dear child.” I handed her the package I had brought. “I missed you so much on Christmas morning, Mary, and so did your papa. He sends you all his love and kisses.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Aren't you going to open your present?” I had gone to three bookshops in New York in search of
The Christmas Annual
for her. It was an expensive book, lavishly illustrated and very popular with the younger set. I hoped it would soften her heart.

She tore away the paper and glanced at it, the disappointment plain on her face. “A book?”

“Yes. It's
The Christmas
—”

“I am almost eleven. I can read the title for myself.”

“Mary Custis?” My mother pinned Daughter with her steady gaze. “Do you not recall the conversation I had with you just this morning?”

My daughter rolled her eyes and planted a cool kiss on my cheek. “It's quite a lovely book, Mother, and I am certain I shall enjoy it. Thank you ever so much.”

She spun on her heel. Holding her back straight and her head high, she started down the hall, her satin slippers peeking from beneath the ruffled hem of her dress. Watching her go, I was struck with a wave of maternal melancholy. My eldest daughter was on the verge of young womanhood and about to enter a private world of dreams and secrets I could never share. It was a natural progression, this burgeoning of possibilities, of private hopes and fears, but as she reached her bedchamber and the door closed behind her, I could not help feeling that something vital had been torn from me.

“Well then,” Papa said, setting Agnes onto her feet. “Come along, my pets. You must be hungry after your trip. Shall we eat?”

As always, George had sent some lovely things from the kitchen, but fatigue and Daughter's cool reception had stolen my appetite. I picked at my food until the others finished and Rose came in to clear the table.

Ever attuned to my feelings, Mother left her place at the foot of the table and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Mary dear, let's sit in the parlor for a while.”

Leaving Papa and the servants in charge of the children, we went into the parlor, where a fire burned merrily in the grate. A leftover ball of mistletoe, decorated with red ribbon, still hung in the archway. The remnants of the Yule log smoldered in the grate.

Mother retrieved her knitting needles from the basket at her feet and settled into her favorite chair. She peered at me over the top of her round spectacles. “You mustn't mind Daughter's behavior. She is headstrong and too eager for her independence.”