Washington's Lady (33 page)

“More rousing than Cicero’s
Orations
.”

“I have no doubt.”

He took off his newly acquired spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “There is so much I do not know, Martha.”

“And so much you do. When you are done with your self-education, I would wager you will be the most learned man in all America.”

“You would lose that wager.”

“I
can
guarantee at this moment there is not another being in this land reading this tome.”

He held the book to begin again. “Then I shall be the one.”

While George read, and with fewer soldiers for me to visit and comfort, the house in Newburgh seemed overly restrained and . . . odd. The largest room was the odd dining room which boasted a low ceiling, seven doors, and but one window. And more than those oddities, it held strangers. For as our military comrades dispersed, our guests at dinner came more to gawk and say they had supped with the Washingtons rather than having shared an evening as friends. Although George was quite gregarious and funny with those he knew, with these strangers he generally held his tongue, leaving me to banter on and on, drawing them all into witty conversation. It left me weary.

Christmas dinner, in 1782, was especially exhausting and frustrating. I had been home for the summer—in all hopes George would join me, but in November, he asked me to come north again. And though the last trip north was supposed to be the
last
trip north . . . I went again. I could not help myself. I was his and he was mine and that was that.

During this Christmas holiday we wished to be home with our family, yet were stuck far away, accomplishing little while waiting for others to agree on the terms of peace. Our table, in this dining room that left much to be desired, was full of young officers and their wives, all smiling in a dim sort of way, as if they were too overcome with the occasion and company to speak.

I had learned long ago the best way to keep conversation flowing was to ask others about themselves. I had just asked Colonel MacGregor’s wife about her children when George suddenly stood.

“If you will excuse me a moment?”

With that, he left the room, left those present looking after him, and then to me. Although I had no inclination George was not feeling well, I felt the need to check. I also rose—to a great clatter of chairs as all the gentlemen rose with me—and said, “Excuse me. Let me check on the general.”

The house was not large, and I found him without effort in the room he used as his office. He sat at his desk, quill in hand, his spectacles perched upon his nose.

“What are you doing? We have guests.”

“I am writing to Lund.”

“Now?”

He pointed to his mouth. “I cannot chew properly. My teeth . . .”

“This is not a new problem, George. And what does this have to do with—”

“I have just remembered where I left my two foreteeth—in a drawer in the secret locker of the desk which stands in my study. I need Lund to carefully wrap them and send them right away.”

A laugh escaped and I covered my mouth—too late—with a hand.

“’Tis not funny.” He pointed toward the dining room. “Our guests can see my distress. I know it. I also know they will leave here and tell all who will listen how General Washington chews like a cow.”

“A cow with bad teeth.”

At his look, I went to his side and kissed the top of his head.

“Finish your letter, then come back to the table. I will have dessert served. It is a flan that is easily eaten—even by old men with bad teeth.” I gave him another kiss, this one to his aching mouth. “Happy Christmas, my love.”

*****

“General!”

He continued to put on his coat.

I disliked when he would not listen to me. I moved in front of him and yanked upon his lapels. “George, you should not go!”

He put his hands upon mine and peered down at me. “I must. The soldiers have legitimate grievances. Most have not been paid in years.”

“But they threaten violence.”

He patted his pocket. “I have written a few words to say to them that hopefully will bring a calm end to this issue.”

I was not so certain. Spurned men in need of money wanted cash, not consolation.

*****

I did not stray from the house, even though the harsh winter of 1783 had finally released its bonds. I consoled myself with writing letters home, but paused at each sound of horse outside, or footsteps within.

Finally, the sounds of each held the results I waited for, and George returned from his meeting with the soldiers.

I rushed into his arms. “You are safe!”

“You expected otherwise?” He handed his hat to the servant and led me into the tiny parlour.

“The rebellion, the mutiny . . . yes, I feared harm.”

He sat in the large wing chair he had claimed as his own the past eighteen months. “I will admit to a bout of nerves as I entered. Although most offered respect, I could see their discontent ran deep. And so, I stood before them, and realizing I could not read my notes without my new spectacles, had to pause to retrieve them. I must say I felt quite feeble in doing so, embarrassed at the evidence of my age, but then . . .” He smiled. “Who would have thought this one act could have had more power than my words?”

“I do not understand.”

“Neither did I, but when I set them upon my nose and retrieved my notes from my pocket, I was moved to say, ‘Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country.’ And with that I could see the tension in the room diminish. I quickly said my little speech and left those in charge to arrange a compromise with Congress. I have heard both sides have agreed.”

I shook my head, once again amazed at the ability of my husband to charm, appease, and inspire.

He slapped his hands upon his thighs. “Now. What is for dinner?”

*****

The year was a blur. Perhaps it was because I did not return home that summer. Due to my own bout with illness, I stayed with George in New York—which was a blessing—but I found my lack of time at Mount Vernon sorely distressing.

Yet life went on, no matter where we laid our heads, with some occasions for celebration and some for grief.

In the spring we received word a third child had been born to Lafayette’s wife, named Virginie, after our dear state. George continued to entice his French son for a visit. Also from France was news in April that a treaty of peace was finally agreed upon in Paris, though it would be months before it was signed.

Closer to home, there was news from Mount Vernon. Belvoir, the dear home of our neighbors, the Fairfaxes, was no more. Through accident it had burned to a point beyond renewal. George was especially grieved by this news, as some of his fondest memories as a young man were intertwined with that fine house, now rubbish. We wrote to George William and Sally, long in England, and offered the use of our home during a rebuilding, but they informed us they would stay in England. They also told us they had not received many of our letters during the war, as they were watched and suspected as spies. The inequities of war . . . That we would never see them again grieved us deeply.

But then there was news of a better grain. Eleanor remarried! His name was Dr. David Stuart. It had been two years since Jacky’s death, and we were pleased that without the strain of constant pregnancies, Eleanor’s health had improved. Yet in all honesty we did not find much about Dr. Stuart worthy of her. He was poor and serious in manner—although he did carry the wealth of a good education. But to see her marry a man so opposite of our vivacious Jacky . . .

I wondered if Eleanor agreed to the marriage in order to facilitate a manager for her holdings, as well as a father for her children. I suppose I could not blame her. I was in such a position after Daniel died. Survival can be the greatest instigator of affection.

As the year dragged on, my thoughts focused upon
our
survival. Being stagnant and of little use, especially when we knew there was much to do at Mount Vernon, was the subject of many discussions. And then, adding to our desire to move our lives along, came certain rumblings . . .

I first heard of it at the market, while buying summer fruit.

The woman polished the apples I had purchased before setting them in my basket. “So, Lady Washington. Do you think your husband will accept?”

“Accept what?”

“The throne.”

I offered a laugh. “The throne of what, may I ask?”

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “Why, of the United States. People are talking about him becoming our king.” She spit on one of the apples, rubbed it with her apron, then got a twinkle in her eye. “That would make you queen, I would say.”

I took the basket away from her, done with this discussion. “I will state quite clearly—and you are encouraged to spread the word—I have no desire to be queen, and the only thrones my husband and I desire are the chairs beside our fireplace.” I nodded my good-bye.

She called after me, “If not ’im, then who’s to lead us?”

I did not know. But it was not our concern.

*****

George and I took an evening walk in our new temporary home in Princeton, New Jersey. Congress had moved there after soldier mutinies for back pay raised tension in Philadelphia. When they moved, and with the British finally sailed out of New York City, we were summoned close. It was a hundred miles closer to home, but not close enough. In spite of the lovely autumn there, I knew back home the trees along the Potomac were putting on a stunning show—without us.

We walked in silence, as we often did when finally alone. My arm through his, my sleeve rubbing against his, the folds of my skirt brushing against his leg . . . plenty was being said between us.

Then suddenly we heard, “General Washington!” A man who was sweeping the stoop of a baker’s shop rushed forward and bowed. “Milady.”

We nodded. “Evening,” George said. We kept walking.

It was as though that one word of simple greeting opened a gate. The man ran after us, ran in front of us, forcing us to stop. I held George’s arm all the tighter.

“My brother was killed at Cambridge,” the baker said.

“I am sorry for your loss,” George replied.

My heart softened and I eased the tension on my husband’s arm. “What was his name?”

“Joshua Caddy, milady. A fine man with a wife and two babes.”

“Are they doing well?” I asked.

The man began to answer, but then his eyes darted around us, making us turn. Coming toward us from all sides were many others, most from the shops along the street.

The baker took a step back and called out to all, “Look here! We have the mighty General Washington and his lady! Right here!”

The crowd surrounded us, pressing forward, slapping George on the back, pulling at his hand to shake it, pulling at my free hand to take into theirs.

“I was at Bunker Hill.”

“My father fought at Trenton.”

“You are so tall!”

“Lady Washington, you held my hand at Valley Forge.”

George wrapped an arm around my shoulders, trying to protect me from the surge. What had been one man was now twenty, and though I could not see through the crowd, I imagined more running to see the commotion—and become a part of it.

“George . . . ,” I whispered.

He nodded and addressed the crowd. “Gentlemen, ladies, we truly appreciate your well-wishes,
and
the evidence of your devoted sacrifice to our Cause, but—”

“Huzzah for General Washington!”

“God bless Lady Washington!”

Raucous cheers enveloped us. Overwhelmed us. Smothered us.

I found it hard to breathe.

My heart beat too fast.

I needed to get away.

I tugged upon his arm. “Please, George . . .”

Having the advantage of huge height, he began walking through the crowd—back the way we had come. I latched on to him like an additional appendage, burying my head against his arm.

We broke through and began to walk faster. Blessedly, the crowd stayed behind, caught up in their own revelry. But one shout ran after us, assailing us . . . “Three cheers for King George!”

*****

“But you must address it, George,” I told him, once we were safely back to our residence—I could not call it
home
. There was only one home . . .

“It is just idle talk,” he said, pacing before the fire. “They do not want a king. No one wants a king again.”

“But they do. They know no other way. And you are their choice.”

He shook his head. “There are other men who long for power. Franklin, Jefferson, Adams . . .”

“No one swarms about
them
; no one adores them. No one wants them upon an American throne.”

His head shook back and forth, his brow furrowed. “I just wish to go home and be a farmer again. Be with my family.”

I went to him and halted his pacing. “You must tell them that. Tell Congress; stop these rumours and inclinations before you are put in a position where it is impossible to say no.”

“I am not certain they will listen.”

“Figure a way to make them listen. We must go home, my love. We must be away from all . . . this. I admire their enthusiasm and am glad we are appreciated, but I cannot endure being unable to take a simple walk with my husband without being assaulted by well-wishers. My only consolation was that no one rang church bells or set off cannon to honour our walking by.” It was not an exaggeration. Americans were in a celebratory mood, and when they knew we were passing through their town on the way from here to there . . .

“You know I also prefer small company to large,” he said.

“I do know that. But in order to attain and retain the benefits of ever enjoying small company again, you must tell all who will listen that you will not be king.”

He shuddered. “To even make such a statement sounds presumptuous.”

“It is the term of choice, my dear.”

“We did not free ourselves from one King George to be subject to another.”

I adjusted the ends of his cravat and patted them flat. “Remove yourself from the possibility, George. Some way.”