The Family Greene (11 page)

"Oh, Pa!"

"People don't know, you see," he said, "what we endured at Valley Forge. The friendships we formed. The uncommon agony we tolerated. It bonded us forever."

He turned to me then. He smiled at me, and once again I saw the strength I had always seen in his face, the strength I had always depended upon.

"So what do you think of this place, then?" he asked, giving the conversation a new turn.

"Oh, Pa, it's lovely. It's the most gorgeous land I've ever seen!"

I hugged him. And he returned the hug. But it was more than any old ordinary hug like he'd ever given me. It said more. He held me longer, with more meaning, with unspoken words that said, "It'll be all right, daughter. I know
you
understand. I know I can always depend upon you to believe me."

W
HEN WE RETURNED
to Mulberry Grove all seemed well. Mama was cheerful and able to be around and about as usual. Anthony Wayne was there, visiting,
lifting her spirits.
The house was in order, and Pa, having inspected the gardens, immediately pronounced them "delightful."

That very afternoon, while Pa and General Wayne were out tramping about, George, Nat, and I sat with Mama by the window that overlooked the Savannah River and told her about our trip and the land where our summer retreat would someday be.

"And we've all picked out our rooms already," Nat told her. "Cornelia's is on the fourth floor. In the tower."

I wished he hadn't said that, because Martha was playing the piano across the room, softly, even as we spoke. She stopped abruptly when she heard that.

"Not fair," she said. "I didn't get a chance because I wasn't there. Maybe I would have wanted that room. I am, after all, the oldest girl!"

And she dashed out of the parlor angrily.

Later, we had a welcoming-home supper and Martha did not come to table.

"Where is she?" Pa asked.

"In a pout," Ma told him, "because she learned that Cornelia already picked out her room from your drawing and she did not get a chance to pick out hers."

Pa sighed. "Have I come home to this, then?"

General Wayne tried to conceal a smile. "She's been put out, of late, because you would not take her on the trip, Nathanael. I would consider it a favor if you would allow me to go and fetch her."

"No," Pa said. "A man of your stature should not be made to beg a spoiled little girl to do what she is supposed to do. George, go and fetch your sister. And tell her if she does not come down immediately, she will find matters most disagreeable. And if she pouts upon coming to table, she will eat in her room for a week."

"Yes, sir." George went, and within five minutes, he had Martha in tow.

Somehow, George could always make sense of matters to us. Martha not only came to table, she apologized for being late and she behaved most admirably.

But later that night I paid for it.

When I was readying myself for bed that beautiful June night, Martha came into my chamber.

"The room on the fourth floor will be mine," she said. "If I went on that trip, I would have chosen it. As the oldest girl, I have that right."

I was fixing the pillows on my bed. "Pa said I could have it. I chose it first."

"We'll see." She stood there like a vision of innocence itself, in her summer nightgown, which was trimmed with ruffles. "The house isn't even built yet. A lot of things can transpire between now and the time it is built."

"What does that mean?"

"Just that a lot of things could change in the course of time." She eyed me steadily. A warm breeze came in through my open window and stirred the folds of her long nightgown.

Now, of a sudden, she appeared downright ghostly, standing there. I shivered, feeling a premonition of fear. "What are you talking about, Martha?" I demanded again.

"Mr. Miller said Pa will never live at Dungeness. You heard him."

"Mr. Miller is a fool."

"I'm going to tell Pa you said that."

"I don't give a cat's meow. He's jealous of Pa is all."

"What do you care? Pa isn't your pa anyway."

Something dropped—no,
smashed
—inside me. "What? What are you saying now?"

Her smile was no smile at all, but some evil line of glee the devil had sketched across her face.

"I said he isn't your pa. I know it to be true. It's about time you were told."

I moved toward her.

She stood fast. "Do you want to know who is?"

I could not answer. I did not have to.

"You were conceived at Valley Forge. Mama flirted like crazy at Valley Forge."

Here it was again. Valley Forge. Funny, Pa and I had just spoken of it.

"Your pa is Anthony Wayne. Eulinda told me, and she knows because she was there at Valley Forge, and Mama told her."

The floor moved under my feet. Everything was stuck in my throat so I could not swallow. I thought I was going to faint. I felt my face go white.

But ... but Pa had told me all about Valley Forge. And how Mama had been so lighthearted all the time and had lifted the spirits of all the officers and how he trusted her and even General Washington approved. And how they all bonded because of what they had been through!

"You lie!" I hissed.

She laughed. "Eulinda doesn't. Why do you think Anthony Wayne looks at you the way he does when we're all seated at table? Why do you think he's always telling Pa what beautiful children he's raising? He means
you! His
daughter! And no, to answer your next question, Pa doesn't know. Mama never confided in him. And you'd better never tell Pa, either, or Mama will kill you."

Now she scowled. "And Mama doesn't know I've been told. Or that now I've told you. She needs to keep her secret."

At the door of my room, she turned, smiling like her old self.

"Why do you think you have hazel eyes when the rest of Pa's children don't?"

Somehow, I managed to speak. "Because Mama's aunt Catharine has them."

"Posh. Of course Mama told you that, didn't she? Well, now I'm telling you this. It's time you were enlightened, since you think you have something so special with Pa. So remember it."

I could think of nothing sensible to say.

"And remember, that room in the tower is mine. I want you to tell Pa you have decided to give it to me, to keep peace in the family. He'll love you for that. Or Eulinda may decide, someday, to let it slip out to Pa that you are not his daughter. You know how she is. She talks so much."

Again I felt my face go white. "It would kill Pa."

"It would not kill him. He's been through so much that hasn't. He'd just dismiss her. She wants to go back north, anyway."

"Why would Eulinda do such for you?"

"I told you, she wants to go back north. The other slaves here found out she's being paid and give her a bad time of it. They steal from her. So I give her a few guineas now and then to save up for her trip north, that's why."

"Where do you get them?"

"Wouldn't you love to know?" And with that, she left my room.

I
DID NOT
sleep all that lovely June night.

It is torture not to sleep, to lie there in bed and hear the whole house settle down and finally go quiet, to then hear the night birds and the occasional barking of the dogs and the terrible silences that mock what lies in your heart.

Then there is the chiming of the clocks, hour after god-awful hour.

And my thoughts.

General Wayne my father!
I had always liked Wayne, always admired him. But my father? That would take a whole world of getting used to!

But Pa said he trusted Wayne!

No, it cannot be. Martha is just punishing me. Eulinda is lying.

Mama would never do such a thing. Pa said he trusted Wayne. Eulinda is lying.

It became a chant in my head. Then a prayer.

Why do you think you have hazel eyes?

Because Great-Aunt Catharine has them.

An owl hooted just outside my window. The clock in the downstairs hall chimed three in the morning. Then nothing.

***

I
DID NOT
speak at breakfast, except one sentence to Mama.

"You do not look well, Cornelia," she said.

"I did not sleep well, Mama," I answered.

Pa eyed me carefully but said nothing.

After breakfast, as I trailed after him into his study, he turned. "What is it, Cornelia? Is there something bothering you that you wish to tell me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, I am listening."

"Pa, I want to give my tower room to Martha. She wants it. And as the oldest girl, she has the right to first pick."

He scowled. At first he did not understand what I was talking about. Then he collected himself and nodded. "The tower room," he repeated gravely. "You want to give it to Martha."

"Yes, sir."

"The house is a long way from being built yet, Cornelia."

"Yes, sir. But she wants me to tell you, right off."

The scowl deepened. "Are you girls fighting again?"

"Oh, no, Pa. We were just discussing it and she let me know her preference. And I wanted to keep peace, as you like. So I said she could have it and I would let you know."

He did not believe me. My pa was too smart. His eyes bore into me, seeing through to my soul, so I had to lower my gaze.

"What is really going on here, Cornelia?" he asked. "What has Martha done to you? Or threatened you with? Why did you not sleep last night?"

"Oh, no, sir. Nothing is going on. Like I said, I just want to keep peace between us, like I know you want, Pa. Nothing is going on."

"You aren't lying to me, are you? You know I cannot tolerate lies."

"Oh, no, Pa. I would never!"

"All right. I know you don't lie. Very well, then. You may tell Martha the tower room is hers. But I want you to spend the day in the house and take a nap this afternoon. Those are my orders. I don't like the way you look. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir. Understood."

Still, before I left the room, he gave me a perplexed look, as if he did not believe me, or as if there was something I was not telling him. And it hurt me not to be honest with Pa. And I hated Martha with a vehemence for making me enter into this deceit.

F
OR DAYS
I stayed to myself. I pleaded feeling wretched. But I found that staying in the house, as Pa had ordered, gave me an excuse to keep away from others. I did not want to associate with anyone.

Mama pronounced that I had nothing serious and allowed me to occupy the window seat where she usually sat and rested. It was the one that overlooked the Savannah River. She liked to sit there and watch my brother George swim. Sometimes, with the help of several Negro boys his own age, he launched rafts and poled them at the river's edge.

Mama would watch nervously. She had a horrible fear of water. She was afraid of drowning, she told me. And I had to admire the way she never imparted that fear to George.

On the eleventh of June, Pa and Mama took a trip to Savannah to see the Pendletons. He had been an aide of Pa's since the siege of Boston in the war. He had spent four years as a prisoner of the British, and then been on Pa's staff in South Carolina. They planned on staying with the Pendletons a day or so, then going on to visit the plantation of Mr. William Gibbons, another friend of Pa's.

Before they left, Martha went on a morning horseback ride with Pa.

It was always a special privilege when one of us was invited on a horseback ride alone with Pa. If we'd been naughty, it meant we were forgiven. If he wanted to "hold forth" on a subject that pertained to one of us specifically, he would use this time to do it. And if he felt he'd been neglecting one of us, this could be a reason for it, too.

I was wild with trying to ponder the reason, and when she came back, Martha's nose was so far in the air that sparrows could make a nest in it.

***

A
ROUND THE FIFTEENTH
of June, I was sitting at the window seat, where I'd been languishing since Mama and Pa had left, watching my brother George and the Negro boys, who seemed to be having so much sport. I promised Mama I would watch George while she was gone and fetch someone if he got into trouble on the river.

General Anthony Wayne was staying with us, left in charge by Pa.

George was nearing twelve now, his shoulders broadening, growing already into a young man, well able to take care of himself.

I sipped tea, I read. I enjoyed my solitude. And my spirit was still low.

I had not seen Martha for four days now, except at table, for General Wayne insisted we keep the routine of the household going and take meals together, even with little Louisa. She pleasured him, Louisa did. He had great patience with her toddler ways.

Of course, we must have conversation when we dined.

Martha and I made a good attempt at it, although I think General Wayne saw through our falseness.

Otherwise I stayed away from him. Oh, I was polite. I called him "sir" as I was supposed to. I answered his questions; I smiled when the situation called for it. I obeyed his instructions without question. And then I went back to my place at my window seat.

He left me alone and went about his business, which was to see to the running of the plantation for Pa.

I was lying on the window seat on the afternoon of the fifteenth, propped up by pillows, a book in my lap.
Tristram Shandy.
Although I was excused from school because of my poor health, I still had to keep up with my reading.

I had closed my eyes, my book in my lap, for afternoons the sun favored that side of the house. And I felt rather than saw someone standing over me.

"Well, and I thought you were supposed to be reading." The voice came softly.

The last person in the world I wanted to see!

"Open your eyes, Cornelia. You aren't sleeping. What have you done that you're avoiding everyone and pretending to be sick?"

I felt the book being taken off my lap. Oh, God, he was too clever by half for me. I opened my eyes. He was pretending to flip through the book. "
Tristram Shandy,
" he said, disapprovingly. "Isn't this a bit advanced for you?"