Washington's Lady (7 page)

I vowed to do less of it.

May God help me.

*****

How could I not worry? Although I had dispensed of my worries regarding George’s sincere affection and intention to marry me, with him away to the west, fighting the French, and the Indians that fought at their sides . . .

What if he did not return?

His stories of previous defeats and slaughters offered no comfort. Had he not already done his duty regarding Fort Du Quesne? Must he be on the forefront again?

The answer was . . . yes.

When George had heard that General Forbes had plans to advance against the French fort, he volunteered with vigor—and pluck. He wrote to those in charge and asked for a command that was distinguished in some measure from the common run of provincial officers. As he owned the most experience regarding fighting the French in that area of the wilderness, his offer was accepted and he received command of a brigade.

Upon stopping in Winchester to gather troops, George discovered that he was just in time for an election for the Virginia House of Burgesses. Even though he was going to be gone before the election commenced, he convinced some fellow officers who were to stay behind to campaign for him. They did, in rousing colonial tradition, with casks of rum, wine, and beer. And my George was victorious. How he managed to gain a seat in the House as an afterthought, while heading to war . . .

I fear he did it to impress me. Did he not know that I needed no more impressing?

And yet . . .

I also sensed the flame of ambition in his breast. And anxiety and passion. For some reason my George felt compelled to achieve. To overcome a meager childhood?

I knew better than to hold him back by comment or suggestion. For a person to feel complete, he had to believe he had attained all he was meant to attain. I had no full notion of where George’s aspirations would take him. As for my own? I wished to be by his side and in our home during each victory or defeat. I wished for us to be a family. And I wished for more family. Two, perhaps three more children? I relished the notion of a house brimming with this precious blessing.

As spring turned into summer, life carried on.

Until the day I was reminded of death.

It was a beautiful summer day, though hot to the point of weariness.

And tempers.

It was a day when working inside, which offered shade but limited movement of air, was of marginal advantage over working in the sunny tobacco fields with benefit of full breeze.

Even the children chose outside over in, flitting from the porch to the shade of the trees out front. I watched them from the window and took comfort in the sounds of their voices and laughter when they slipped out of sight. Amanda was supposed to be watching them while she weeded the day lilies.

I was making new breeches and shirts for the workers. They wore them through so quickly, it often was a struggle to keep up. I prided myself in small stitches, knowing the better I sewed them this first time, the better chance I had of not repairing a rent seam tomorrow. I had tried to teach servants this art, but they took little pride in fine work—or speed. I paused a moment to watch one such servant, Hildy, to see what made her production so tedious.

She took an inordinate amount of time threading the needle, squinting, and holding it far, then near.

“Are you having trouble seeing the needle hole?” I asked.

She blinked, as though clearing her eyes. “Didn’t use to.”

“How old are you now?”

“Forty, best as I know.”

“You need spectacles.”

She looked shocked. “No one has those.”

She was right. None of our slaves had spectacles. And yet . . . “They are not needed for large work, but this . . . I need you to help with fine work. I will see you get some on our next visit to Williamsburg.”

Hildy grinned. “That would be fine, mistress. Real fine.”

I went back to my sewing, glad for the busyness, yet wishing it were a chore that used my mind more than it did. Perhaps I should have worked on the correspondence today, the ordering of supplies. That would have been a better choice for this eighth day of July.

This anniversary of death.

There I went again, thinking about it, marking the date with this horrible memory of Daniel’s end. I had no one with which to share my misery. Some of the house servants were aware—I could tell by Amanda’s and Cully’s kind eyes that morning that they had remembered—but the children had no concept of time and date. And I did not want them to know. It did no good to commemorate tragedy. It only served to keep it alive.

And yet . . . I knew. I remembered. And I suffered.

Alone.

It was not too late to do the correspondence. I could leave Hildy to the sewing. I was just about to do so when I heard the sound of horses and a wagon driving up the road out front. My first concern was the children. With a glance I saw Jacky and Patsy were safe, digging in the dirt by a tree. My second concern was whether we were gaining visitors. Had the windows in the guest room been opened this morning? If not, that room would surely be as hot as Hades.

But just as I made to go check the windows, I saw that it was not a carriage. It was a delivery wagon. I relaxed and left it to Cully to disperse the goods. But then I found renewed interest . . . could it be my wedding clothes? I had not expected them until the autumn, but such schedules were varied and unreliable.

I heard Cully talking with the driver, heard their voices but not their words. I watched as both men moved to the back of the wagon and peered inside. Then suddenly, Cully shook his head violently. He pointed back down the road.

“Back? I ain’t goin’ to take it away.” The man lowered the back gate of the wagon, readying to remove the cargo.

Cully pointed again, more vehemently. “Go! We cannot have that here. Not today.”

They exchanged more words, their voices rising. Whatever were they arguing about?

I walked onto the porch and proceeded down the front steps. When the men saw me, they halted their argument and Cully hurried forward, as if to intercept me.

“Sorry, mistress. I got it handled. It ain’t nothing you have to—”

I sidestepped his concern and spoke to the driver. “What are you delivering today?”

His face turned red and he suddenly acquiesced, as if upon seeing me, he conceded to Cully’s side of the argument. “It is a mistake, ma’am. Sorry to bother—”

My curiosity would not be appeased but through full knowledge. I walked around the man to the lowered gate. There, half covered with a length of burlap, was the source of the argument.

Cully was by my side. “I am sorry, mistress. I told ’im to take it back to Williamsburg. It don’t go here on any account. And specially not to—”

Today. On the anniversary of Daniel’s death.

I looked at the man. “Pull it forward so I can fully see it.”

The man grabbed hold of a hunk of burlap and pulled the cargo on top of the lowered gate.

“A fine tombstone, this,” he said, patting its corner. “Come all the way from England. Marble, they tells me it is.”

It was a fine tombstone. Just as I had ordered.
One handsome Tombstone of the best durable Marble to cost about £100 . . .

Cully was looking at me, not the tombstone. “I told ’im to take it back. Take it to the cemetery at Queen’s Creek, where he . . . where it belongs.”

I nodded. Cully was right, of course. The tombstone did not belong here. Daniel was not here.

“Didn’t mean to upset you, ma’am,” the driver said. “Just doin’ what they told me to do.”

I nodded. “You will be paid for your trouble,” I said. “And fed.” I turned to Cully. “Take this gentleman to the kitchen and see what you can do for him.”

“Thank you, ma’am. My apologies for the muddle of it, but—”

I waved him away.

Cully looked at the wagon. “He should move it, yes, mistress?”

“No,” I said. “Leave it here for now.”

Cully raised an eyebrow. I did not need to give him an explanation. “Go.”

I waited until the two of them had rounded the side of the house, then—

Seeing me alone, the children came running. “What came?” Jacky asked. “Something for me?”

I sought Amanda and found her watching the scene from the flower bed by the porch. “Amanda? Take the children inside for a cake, or some nuts.”

“See, Mamma! Patsy see!”

I drew the children to my side and kissed their heads. “Not now. It is not for you. Go with Amanda and she will get you something to eat.”

The promise of food appeased them, and I was left alone with the unhappy cargo. I read the inscription to see if it was as I had ordered:
Here Lies the Body of Daniel Parke Custis Esquire who was born the 15th Day of Oct. of 1711 & departed this Life the 8th Day of July 1757. Aged 45 Years.

It was correct. I ran my fingers across the chiseled letters that honoured the life of my husband. Yet seeing it now, I realized it said too little. A name. A date of birth and death. An age. Perhaps I should have added something sentimental:
Beloved husband and father
. Yet at the time I had written the order, I had not felt sentimental. Only overwhelmed.

“I am sorry, Daniel,” I told the stone.

Yet with the apology, I gained a thought that might make some amends. I would order a mason to create a brick foundation upon which to set this stone. It would be a strong statement, a small representation of Daniel’s place in this world.

I nodded to myself, the decision made.

I kissed my fingers and touched his name. I stood there a moment, my hand upon the cold stone, remembering the warm man who had brought me joy. The feel of his arms as they enfolded me, the smell of his clothes after a hard day at work, the sparkle in his eyes that revealed the affection he felt for me.

I pulled my hand away from the stone. My memories were what sustained me, not some slab that only commemorated dates and a resting place. The place Daniel truly rested was in my mind. And in my heart.

I headed back to the house. It was good the stone had mistakenly come here. It was good it had come on this day. Providence did not deal with coincidence. This was God’s way of giving me a note of finality to this day of remembrance, as well as a note of finality to my past.

The past was not a place I had chosen to live. Its lure continued, but with God’s help, and with the presence of my two children, I had managed to be victorious over its snare.

And George . . . the addition of George in my life had been instrumental in turning my eyes away from what was and letting me gaze toward what was yet to be.

With one final glance at the wagon I said good-bye to the man I had known all my life, and looked forward to once again seeing the man I was to marry.

A man I barely knew.

My stomach tightened, but I pushed the condition away. Marrying George was the right thing to do. A good thing. Yet good or not, his absence was difficult. How I wished he were here beside me, making me revel in happy thoughts and warm feelings.

Soon, George. Please come home soon.

*****

It was something.

Although I longed for George to be with me in person, his latest letter—a lovely letter—was some consolation. With the children safely to bed I sat in my room, near the window, making full use of the last rays of the sun to read it yet again:

We have begun our march for the Ohio. A courier is starting for Williamsburg, and I embrace the opportunity to send a few words to one whose life is now inseparable from mine. Since that happy hour when we made our pledges to each other, my thoughts have been continually going to you as another self. That an all-powerful Providence may keep us both in safety is the prayer of your ever faithful and affectionate friend.

“Another self.”
Such a lovely phrase. One that would do much to sustain me as I waited for our two to become one.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Upon Reverend Mossom’s suggestion, George did just that. Our wedding guests clapped as we reluctantly turned away from each other, toward them. Our first moments of married life were met with genuine pleasure—on everyone’s part.

Including my own.

I proudly took the arm of my new husband and stepped toward the center of the parlour at White House, letting the well-wishes of family and friends envelop us. Hugs and kisses to the cheek for me, and handshakes and slaps on the back for my George.

My George. Such a luscious phrase.

My sister Nancy pushed past others to offer her pleasure. “You look exquisite, sister.” She leaned closer. “And your husband . . .” Her appreciative smile finished the sentence.

On this special day, I knew both statements to be true. My dress—delivered from England—was lovelier than I had hoped. It was deep yellow, of rich brocade, the skirt open at the front to reveal a white silk underskirt with a weave of silver through and through. Silver lace edged the neck and sleeve. As a pleasant contrast, I wore purple silk slippers with a silver buckle and embroidery, and had a string of pearls running through my hair. I felt much like a queen.

And George . . . George had ordered his own wedding clothes: a cotton velvet suit the colour of a bluebird, with an ivory waistcoat and gold buckles on his shoes and breeches. His clothes were a bit tight, for even though he had given his exact measurements and specified in his order the suit was needed for a tall man, that definition was subjective, as few men were as tall as George. The tailors must have been disbelieving of the measurements, and they merely made the clothes the way they preferred. And yet tight or not, his blue and my gold complemented each other—a condition I prayed would continue toward more important matters beyond fashion.

It being my second wedding, a small affair would have been understandable. But from the beginning I had decided on a full-fledged event. It was important for all our friends and family to see how committed we were to our new life as man and wife. A minor ceremony with a handful in attendance could have signified the practicality of many second marriages. The inevitability. I, however, wished to signify there was nothing inevitable about our union but the grace of Providence working to achieve it. The wealthy widow Custis and the heroic Colonel Washington were two individuals to be reckoned with, as a pair united by God . . .

The new governor of Virginia, William Fauquier, was next to congratulate us, looking quite regal in red robes, flowing wig, and intricate sword. “Congratulations, Colonel. Mrs. Washington.” He looked at his wife standing beside him. “We extend best wishes to you both.”

“It is not ‘colonel’ anymore,” George said. He looked down at me and smiled, for he had resigned from the military and looked forward to our civilian life—together. The seven months we had been apart was far too long and I vowed it would never happen again. “My soldiering days are over, Governor.”

“We will see about that,” the governor said. “Though hopefully, with God’s mercy, we will have no more trouble with the French.”

The quest to take Fort Du Quesne had been successful just that November, and the fort had been renamed Fort Pitt after our prime minister. Apparently overwhelmed by the incoming presence of nearly four thousand colonial and British troops, the French had retreated, exploding gunpowder and burning the fort in their wake.

But at the moment
that
victory had little to do with us. The past was past, the future was—

The children broke through the crowd and crushed us with exuberant embraces. They were also dressed in new attire, looking very much like miniature adults. I picked up Patsy, and George scooped Jacky into his arms.

“Are we married yet?” Jacky asked.

“We are,” George said.

“Then, can we eat?”

He laughed. “We most certainly can.”

I looked at the guests who had thronged around us. “Jacky is right. It is time to celebrate our wedding. On this January 6, 1759, on this Twelfth Night, we say good-bye to the reverence of the Christmas season and invite you to revel in our happy day. Please enjoy the reception in the dining room. If you want for anything, please let me know.”

As we let the children down, George leaned close, with words for my ears alone. “I want only you.”

I kissed his cheek, wanting the same. But that would come later. Right now we had a celebration to attend.

*****

The dancing went on for hours, the chairs of the parlour moved aside to make room. The cold of the January night was not felt inside, and there were more than a few faces flushed with the heat of the dance.

All joined in, even the children. The more reserved minuets gave way to our favorite reels. There was something about the rhythm of a reel that made it impossible to sit by, uninvolved.

George was an excellent dancer, but upon dancing our first dance as man and wife, a memory from a Williamsburg dance many years previous came to mind. “I do believe we have danced before, husband.”

“Surely not, for I would have remembered it.”

“Surely we have, for I never forget true grace.”

“You flatter me.”

“Of course. And I intend to add to my list of flatteries as the night wears on.”

His blush was delightful.

*****

As one of the guests of honour, I did not handle the hostess duties alone. Mother was there, as were my little sisters, Elizabeth and Mary. And Nancy came with her husband, Burwell Bassett, along with my brothers, William and Bartholomew. The siblings of George who were able to attend, traveled a distance to be with us: his half-brother Austin and his wife, John Augustine and Hannah, and his dear sister Betty and her husband, Fielding Lewis.

Beyond family, friends from both parts of Virginia were in attendance, making the day merry. Days, most likely, for everyone was invited to stay over and continue the festivities. Every corner of White House was taken, as well as places in the outbuildings for the men. No one would be turned away from our hospitality.

Yet being the center of attention was exhausting. I took a moment in the foyer to lean against the wall. I closed my eyes and let the sounds of music, laughter, and conversation swell and parry.

One voice broke through from the other side of the wall. “Washington got the better deal of it. All this land and money. I hear he is ambitious. Taking over what Daniel started will set him for life.”

“Taking over everything that was Daniel’s.”

They snickered.

If I had not been so weary, I would have created a pointed comeback, but as it was, I left the wit behind and rounded the corner, placing myself directly in front of the two men—acquaintances from Williamsburg.

“In your discussion regarding what my husband
takes
, I believe you need to remember what he has given to these colonies in which we live. Did you know while fighting the French and Indians he was so courageous and heroic the Indians stopped firing upon him because they believed he
could
not fall? They feared him and thought he was protected by spirits and could not be killed by mere humans.”

One man swallowed with obvious difficulty. “I didn’t know that.”

The other gentleman shook his head.

“I thought not.” I sighed. “So . . . I think it would be wise to note that a gentleman as extraordinary as my husband, a man impervious to bullet and death, whose life is obviously blessed by Providence, will surely not be broken by the opinions of ignorant men who have most likely never faced anything more dangerous than saddle sores or the threat of a stray ember from their evening fire.” I smiled sweetly. “May I get you more cake, sirs?”

They wisely declined.

*****

“I am sorry your mother was not here.”

George didn’t answer. Was he asleep?

I rose up enough to see his face. “Did you not hear? I am sorry your mother was not with us.”

“I heard you.”

Ah.

I settled in against his shoulder and changed the subject. “I think we should move to Mount Vernon.”

It was his turn to move in order to see
my
face in the moonlight. “But you were not sure. You love your home here. Your family is close. The soil is of better quality, you are nearer a port for trade, your estate is far more vast than mine, you—”

“I wish to move to your home.”

“When did you make this decision?”

I was not certain. In fact, I had not wholly made the decision until I heard myself say the words. Yet . . . I remembered the rude comments of the two men at the reception regarding how George was marrying me for my wealth. That he would benefit—for now legally, everything I owned was his—was inconsequential. Any man who would marry me would benefit. It was a fact I could not change. But that didn’t mean others should think he offered me nothing. Beyond the man he was, he had a plantation where we could live. Yet beyond even that, he offered me a dream. His dream would become my dream. As I had helped Daniel fulfill his hopes of a vast plantation, I would help George fulfill his. I could not ask him to merely manage the fruits of another man’s purpose. He had his own. And my purpose . . . was to be by his side as a helpmate and partner.

In every way.

Although we did not know each other well, I sensed one of the traits George admired in me was my gumption and work ethic. He did not choose me above all other women hoping I would sit in the corner and look beautiful (neither the idle sitting nor being beautiful was possible); he chose me to be an integral part of his life.

“Dearest?” he said.

“I make the decision now. The plantation here is well established and can run without us. But Mount Vernon . . .”

He laughed. “Needs us. Yes indeed, she needs us very badly.”

“And we need her.”

Our eyes held until he leaned over and kissed me. “This is but one reason I married you.”

I showed him another.

*****

In but a few days we will celebrate our third month as man and wife. It was time we left White House and headed north to Mount Vernon.

We would have left sooner but had to spend several weeks in Williamsburg while George was sworn into his post in the House of Burgesses. That this ceremony was accomplished on February 22, his twenty-seventh birthday, made it doubly special. I was utterly proud of him and had the distinct feeling there would be few times, few actions, that would not elicit that emotion. We met wonderful people there, and George was impressed by Patrick Henry and a neighbor, George Mason. He observed everything, soaking in all details regarding how our government was run.

I had already said my good-byes to my family. Mother and Nancy were tearful, yet understood my desire—my need—to leave. They helped me determine what goods to take: my mahogany desk; six beds with all their curtains, spreads, and linens; ninety-nine napkins; some tables and chests; two cases of knives and forks; over sixty glasses; two sets of china; a tea set . . . things a bachelor like George may not own. It was my responsibility to assure we could entertain properly.

Many of our possessions went north on a barge, for the rough roads would wreak havoc on my fine breakables. For our own portage the carriage was made ready, with another wagon following behind full of clothing and household items. Also coming with us were a number of house servants: my maid, a seamstress, a laundress, a cook, a waiter, four carpenters, and the children’s maid.

Two children, Tiggy and Susan, were also coming, to wait on and play with Jacky and Patsy. George did not enjoy the cramped quarters of a carriage, so he planned to ride his horse alongside. He definitely was a man who enjoyed the fresh air and felt few places as natural as astride a horse.

Finally ready, the carriage pulled away. Jacky was immediately on his knees upon the seat, peering out the window. “’Bye, house.”

Little Patsy—always one to mimic her big brother—climbed off my lap to the seat beside me and repeated, “’Bye, house.”

The carriage hit a rut and jogged when it should have jigged, sending Patsy off the seat. She cried and was upon my lap once more.

“There, there,” I said. “Everything will be all right.”

Or so I hoped.

Although I mourned her pain, in a way ’twas a blessing, for it offered a distraction from my own good-byes. By the time she was settled and happy again, the house was out of sight.

Just as well. Sometimes it was best not to think
too
much until the peak moment of sentiment was past.

*****

I so enjoyed watching George ride beside us. He was incredibly striking upon his horse—very regal. If this country would but have its own king, he would suit the bill. In many ways.

Suddenly, he looked ahead, his face on full alert. Then he shouted, “Halt! Halt right here!”

With much commotion from driver and horses, the carriage came to a stop. Had we come upon something in our way? The spring rains had washed many roads useless, replacing the dirt with rocks and branches that had already hindered our progress.

“What is wrong, George?” I asked out the window.

He rode up to me—close. “This is the place,” he said for my ears alone.

I looked around. We were in deep woods. It did not look like any
place
I would wish to linger. “I do not under—”

“We are twenty-five miles from White House.”

Ah. Yes.

“I must see. I must get out,” I said.

George got off his horse and opened the carriage door, pulling down the steps. He offered me his hand.

“Are we here?” Jacky asked.

“Not at Mount Vernon, no,” I explained as I descended the steps to the ground. “But we are at a special place.”

Jacky jumped down, and George took Patsy into his arms. I stepped away from the carriage enough to turn full circle. “Are you sure of the distance?” I asked George.

“As near as I can determine.”

I nodded and turned my back on where we
had
been, and faced the direction in which we were going. To my eye there was nothing unusual or different about the road and woods facing me from those behind, and yet . . .