Washington's Lady (11 page)

“They do not always agree with what I ask them to do.” He hung his head forward and moaned slightly. I did my best to make good work of my goal, knowing tomorrow my hands would ache for the effort.

George was not greedy. After but a few minutes, he lifted his head, reached a hand back toward mine and said, “Thank you, my dear.”

It was time. Quickly, I said, “Just a moment more.” I reached back to the place behind my jewelry box where I had hid the present. I quickly unclasped the silver chain and reached it round his neck.

“What? What is this?” he asked, putting a hand upon the pendant that hung low against his chest.

I connected the clasp and moved to see the result. “’Tis a locket I had made for you while we were in Williamsburg. Open it.”

His large fingers made trouble of it, but he managed to release its catch. “’Tis a picture of you.”

“I had it painted one afternoon while you were at a session. I had the locket made to fit.”

He gazed upon the miniature, a bit beyond an inch in length. “Though it does not do the subject justice, ’tis a nice likeness.”

“I think he made my eyes too close together, but the nose and mouth are right.”

“It is lovely,” he said, pulling me onto his lap. “I will wear it always. This way, whether near or far away, we will always be together.”

“Near or far? You are not planning to go—”

“No, no. I am here for good. Of that you can be certain. There is nowhere else in the world I wish to go, nor anything else I wish to be but your husband.” He took my hand and placed it upon the locket, which lay against his heart.

I had made a good choice.

In so many things, in so many ways.

I felt his lips upon my cheek.

“Mmm” was all the response he required each morning when he arose at four, leaving me to sleep. He shaved, dressed in the clothes Ned had laid out for him the night before, and descended to his study to put in many hours of work before breakfast.

Of late he was worried about tobacco. The soil at Mount Vernon was not of good quality because the crop of tobacco was hard on the soil, and the demand for, and price of tobacco, were both undergoing a decline. Tobacco was now bringing half the price it had a year ago, and by the time all took their cut, we only received twenty-five percent of what it was sold for—and from that we had to pay production costs. George had ordered many books from England written about new agricultural methods. He had studied them intently, knowing changes had to be made if our plantation would prosper. He had mentioned both wheat and corn because there had been bad wheat harvests in Europe, creating a need. George was much interested in trying out new seeds, and kept meticulous records. He also had the affairs of my White House plantation to attend to—land, crops, slaves, and overseers spread over many counties. As I was relieved of this burden, his burden was increased manyfold. Plus, there were the numerous London factors to attend to . . .

He was still much in debt. While he had been in the military, Mount Vernon had sustained itself but not prospered. Although unfortunate, it was expected. Without the landlord present, work was accomplished in its own time and to a lesser degree.

I knew George had overextended himself to make the main house nice for us. Its mahogany furnishings, Wilton carpets, Chinese porcelain, silver cutlery with the Washington coat of arms, and other accoutrements were all very fine.
Fine
was a word George used often to describe the quality he longed to possess. We even ordered a four-poster bed with fluted mahogany pillars for feet posts. It had blue-on-white chintz for the bed curtains, quilt, festoons adorning the cornices, and chair covers. And though I appreciated his efforts (as well as his good taste and his bow to my favourite colour), I regretted I was partially the cause of his current predicament.

And yet, what would I have thought if I had come to a home of only four rooms, with pewter plates, odd pieces of furniture, and natty bed linens? I had grown up with nice things and upon marrying Daniel had been exposed to goods of an even higher degree. That George had surpassed the quality of what I owned at White House was to his credit, but . . . but did I
need
it? Did I long for that quality to such an extent that I expressed a level of disappointment at its lack—albeit unintentionally?

If I was honest with myself, I would have to say yes. If liking fine things was a sin, I was guilty. If preferring a lovely teacup to a spun mug of pottery was against the will of the Lord, then I had apologies to offer.

However . . . when you take any woman off the road and offer her china or tin, silk or homespun, she will choose the better product. ’Tis human nature. It would not take even the poorest of men long to become used to such niceties and to suffer disappointment if they were suddenly taken away. No indeed, the sin did not lie in the enjoyment, but in the worship of luxury at the expense of the worship of God.

Of this sin, I strived to remain innocent. All things—fine or not—belonged to the Lord, and if He should choose to take them all away from us, I would grieve (and ponder why) but finally accept His will as superior to our own. George and I both believed the Almighty had His reasons for all things. We relished the occasion when He let us in on the secret.

Though at other times, I still did not understand why I lost two sweet babies . . . and Daniel.

And yet if I had not lost Daniel, I would not have married George. Not that one man was better than the other, but there was something about George that hinted of a destiny beyond the norm. I had no proof and had received no signs. But my intuition as a woman, as a wife, as a human being with an intellect and sense that had its own level of merit . . .

Mark my words, there was a reason beyond our knowing that caused me to marry George Washington. There was some upcoming fate that would lead both of us—as a pair—to some great challenge.

But as for now . . .

Although I tried to go back to sleep, I could not.

So go the annoying meanderings of a morning mind.

*****

Dawn was usually my alarm clock, but today, mind racing, I arose before its rays reached the windows.

So be it. There were guests in the house who would want breakfast at seven.

After dressing I went downstairs and unlocked the food stores. I removed enough for the day’s needs at the mansion, as well as the food for the workers at the Mansion House Farm and the four other Washington farms nearby: the Dogue Run Farm (named after the Dogue Creek that edged it), Union Farm, Muddy Hole Farm, and River Farm. Each had separate overseers and workers, and all had to be fed. And clothed.

With wealth came great responsibility. My father and mother oft cited the verse,
For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.
My days were full of requirements and those asking for more.

Addie, the cook, must have seen my light, for she appeared, her cap askew, still tying her apron. “Mistress? Has there been a change in plans?”

“Breakfast should still be at seven. Four guests, the children, Mr. Washington, and I.”

I saw her relief that I had not added to her burden. “I will get you some tea.”

“That would be much appreciated.”

*****

No one left one of my breakfasts hungry.

Except, perhaps, my husband.

Mr. Tanner was the first to notice George’s Spartan tastes—while his own plate was heaped with ham, chicken, eggs, spoon bread, biscuits, and hominy doused with molasses. “Are you not hungry this morning, Mr. Washington?”

George poured honey over his cornmeal Indian cakes. “I have many hours on horseback ahead of me. My steed appreciates my partaking of lighter fare.”

“Tea and Indian cakes,” I said. “That is all I can ever get him to eat no matter what delicacies I produce.”

Mrs. Tanner licked her fingers noisily. “I simply must have the recipe for this sweet bread. ’Tis lusciously delicious.”

I nodded. Visitors were often asking for recipes. Many were my mother’s. And her mother’s. I often wished I shared George’s preference for light fare because my family’s penchant for plumpness was not aided by my fondness for the breads. Yet if the host
and
the hostess did not partake of the foods offered, the guests might feel the need to restrain themselves. The duty of any hostess was to ensure her guests ate unto their limit.

“Would you like some more coffee, Mr. Tanner?”

“Yes, please. ’Tis very rich and flavorful.”

“We had it sent from Jamaica.”

“It is excellent.” He turned to my husband. “I would love to hear about your exploits in the Ohio Valley, Colonel.”

I saw a familiar look pull across George’s face. He put his fork down, took a final sip of his tea, and stood. “I would love to discuss it with you, Mr. Tanner, but I am afraid my duties will not wait.”

He kissed me on the cheek and, with a bow, left the room.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Tanner said. She looked appalled, as if George’s departure had offended her.

I had little tolerance for such opinions. I was more than willing to open my house to visitors, however weak the thread that bound us—the Tanners were cousins of George’s sister Betty’s husband—but I would not, could not, let them undermine the to-dos of the day.

In fact, I had my own departure planned. During my first year as a wife, married to Daniel, I had discovered that guests had a tendency to monopolize my time—if allowed. And so, I did not allow it.

One particular time we had guests for a week. My preference was to have an hour’s worth of quiet time after breakfast, alone in my room, reading the Bible or some sermons, and praying. No one was to disturb me at this one time that was my own. And God’s.

But during the second day of the guests’ week-long visit, upon missing my quiet time twice due to their unending ability to chat about absolutely everything and nothing, I created myself a new policy: an hour after breakfast commenced, I retired to my room, leaving the guests with suggestions of good reading material in books and newspapers, a walk in the garden, or a play upon our harpsichord. I made a point of saying I was retiring for a biblical communion with our Lord. I found that no one then—nor since—had the gumption to argue with me.

I glanced at the clock on the mantel. Twenty minutes to go . . .

“Have some more ham, Mr. Tanner.”

*****

I was a worrier. ’Twas not a good trait to own. In fact . . .

I sat in our room during my quiet time, the words of the Bible open before me:
Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?

But alas, I took only partial comfort in the words. For I did not worry about food or clothing. In those needs, my life was heartily complete.

I read the verses again, searching for contentment regarding the concern that haunted my thoughts. Only the last verse offered any hope of peace. I knew I should not worry because it did no good to worry, and yet . . .

Why was I not with child? It was not as though . . . George and I were close, as a husband and wife should be. And I was obviously capable, having given birth to four children in six short years. Was something wrong with me? Or . . . I could not imagine George was to blame—although he
had
suffered smallpox while traveling with his brother in Barbados . . . . Yet what more virile, healthy sort could there be than my George?

Women bore children. It was a fact that was oft complained about for its frequency. Never had I heard anyone complain about a lack of pregnancy. There was no other who would understand. My mother had given birth to nine children, the last, Mary—born the same year as my Patsy. Mother had been forty-six at the time of Mary’s birth. My sister Nancy, married not even three years, had already borne one child and was expecting another. George’s sister, Betty, already had five children and could expect many more. Large families were the bastion of our lives. Not having children was unheard of.

Nearly.

There was one neighbour who might give me insight or comfort or . . . I was not certain what I sought, nay, what I truly needed. Only that I needed to speak to some other woman about my condition—or lack thereof.

And that someone was—had to be—childless Sally Fairfax.

I called upon her alone. ’Twas not my habit to do such a thing with any of our neighbours, and yet this was not a visit where I wished George to be present. Nor the children. Nor even a driver. My plan was to travel the four miles to Belvoir, talk with Sally, and return before George or her George William ever knew of the exchange. ’Twas not that either husband would object to our friendly discourse—we had exchanged visits many times over the past year—but if asked the reason for the visit . . . I did not wish to lie, and though I did not know with certainty Sally would suffer the same compunction, I did not wish to force a lie upon her.

And so I went. Alone. To seek satisfaction of any sort. The entire four miles was spent in prayer, seeking wisdom. Seeking solace. Seeking answers and divine help.

Sally greeted me at the door of the grand parlour. “My dear Martha,” she said, kissing my cheek. “What a wonderful surprise. Do come in.” She turned to the butler and ordered tea and scones, then settled into the blue damask chair near the settee upon which I had settled. “So then. What has brought you out on this beautiful autumn day?” Although on other occasions I had taken pleasure in bantering with Sally, on this day I had neither the inclination nor the ability.

“The subject of children brings me here.”

Her forehead furrowed. “Are Jacky and Patsy all right?”

“They are fine,” I said. “My subject lies in the . . . the lack . . .” Oh dear. I had thought I would feel free with someone as outspoken and bold as Sally to just say it. Just state my concern and be—

“You have been married . . . ?”

“Two years in January,” I said.

“’Tis not that long a time, Martha. I have been married near eleven years and we have no . . .”

I nodded. “Which is why I come to you, to try to understand, to learn what to do, to find solace, to . . .” I took a new breath. “Honestly, I don’t know exactly why I have come, except I knew that you, of all people, might understand my anxiety.”

Sally’s eyes grew blank, as though she had left the room and had entered a place of her own thoughts. “Many times I have asked God why. Why has He not blessed us with children?” She blinked once, returning her eyes to this time and this place. “Especially since the entire Fairfax inheritance—which as you know is extensive—rides upon an heir. Old Sir Thomas never married, hates women, and has no direct heirs.”

“Why does he hate women?”

“He was spurned at the altar in quite a dramatic fashion and as such, will take no brook of the female sex.”

“But surely as a cousin, your George William will—”

“For now we have his favor, but ’tis tenuous. The next generation must be secured, and . . .” She fingered the lace upon her sleeve, looked at me beneath her lashes, then away. “There are other issues—totally unfair and unfounded, but nonetheless embraced by Lord Fairfax and his associates back in England.”

My George had told me the smallest bit of the rumours, assuring me they were not at all true. But it was not my place to reveal this knowledge. If Sally chose to tell me, then I would offer comment. If not . . .