Washington's Lady (12 page)

Sally placed her hands into her lap, letting them find company, one with the other. “There is rumour of mixed blood in the Fairfax line. George William’s father wed a woman in the West Indies. It is intimated she may have been of . . . of mixed heritage.”

She waited for me to comment. “Oh” was all I dared say.

She stood and began to pace between the chairs and the fireplace. “People in England do not understand, do not have any tolerance for even a hint of . . . If it
were
true, by now the association would be so diluted it makes no difference to me, nor should it to anyone, but those people in England . . .” She stopped her movement and faced me, her lip curled in distaste. “They flaunt themselves as superior and above our lives here, and hold the treasures we need at arm’s distance, as though only those without taint might dare step across the ocean and touch—” Her face had grown red, her words fierce. She returned to her chair. “Forgive me. I have no tolerance for such things. Did you know a few years ago, after my father-in-law died, George William took more than one trip to England with the purpose of showing all those cretins he is not a Negro’s son? He had some aunts who were positive he would turn dark upon puberty.”

“I had no idea.”

“And then there is the issue . . .” She shook her head. “Lord Thomas does not like me. Not one bit. On my honour I know of nothing I have done to offend him except by achieving guilt through the unpardonable offense of being female.”

“Has Lord Thomas indicated you and George William will
not
be his heirs?”

“Of course not. He dangles his title and treasure for his pleasure. At the moment, we serve a purpose here, managing his riches. We are the only heir who resides in the colonies. The others are willing to take the spoils, but have no wish to leave their soft English beds.”

I didn’t know what to say. Although I longed for more children—for George’s children—I had not the pressure nor consequence of barrenness Sally endured.

She seemed to remember the core of our discussion and put a hand upon my knee. “Forgive me. I rant and rail upon things you did not need to hear. You are worried about future children. I feel for you, Martha. I truly do. For George is a gentleman through and through, a man of not only physical but emotional, spiritual, and intellectual stature. As such I cannot imagine why God would not want his—and your—progeny to cover the earth.”

Suddenly, I realized the immensity of her concession. The support it extended in spite of their . . . history. With one more look at her sincere eyes, her flushed cheeks, her determined jaw, I fully relinquished any residual jealousy to the past. Sally and I were both safely and irrevocably married to our respective Georges. We were neighbours living in a land where every neighbour counted. And most of all, we were women with common aspirations and dreams.

Sally looked toward the door. “Ah. Tea. Very good.”

And it was.

*****

On the way home from Sally’s, I determined, through no proof or sign from above but through my own desire for a logical explanation, that God had not blessed us with children because I was not a good enough mother.

I vowed to remedy that deficit in every way possible.

I would be an exceptional mother.

Our future depended upon it.

*****

Although I enjoyed teaching the children, with George’s doubling the size of Mount Vernon (he purchased over eighteen hundred acres and was on the lookout for more), with his doubling the number of tenant farmers in his Ohio Valley land to eighteen, with his becoming obsessed with three dozen new fruit trees and a desire to create hardy strains of cherry, peach, and apricot . . .

I was exhausted. For each increase in our worth added to the work. Mount Vernon was becoming the essence of a small town, and its administration fell upon our shoulders. I was glad for the help I had within the house—I had grown up in a household where workers were needed in the fields and could not be spared in the house—but even so, the children suffered a lack of attention to their education.

And so we hired a tutor.

Walter McGowan was an amiable Scotsman with a zest for learning and teaching. The children adored him, and I respected his ability to make them keep to their lessons. Jacky was always one to put play before work, yet under Mr. McGowan’s tutelage kept to the books and thrived. Besides the basics in reading, writing, and numbers, Mr. McGowan requested we purchase books on Greek grammar, history, geography, and bookkeeping. It afforded me great joy to pass the parlour and see the children bent over paper or book, or hear them heartily singing their alphabet or answering Mr. McGowan’s questions. The tutor’s accent was delightful, though I did worry just a bit when it began to rub off on the children. When Patsy said, “Nay, I canna go to bed yet, Mamma,” and Jacky said, “I dinnae know where my shoes maeght be,” I nearly said something to Mr. McGowan, but ended up not. He was a good influence, though if the children asked me to cook haggis and neeps and tatties, I would have had to decline.

Yet as a member of Virginia society, I knew that book learning was only part of the knowledge required. Music held a vast place in every family’s life, and ours was no different. Although George could not carry a tune and had never learned to play an instrument, he was adamant the children received a proper musical upbringing.

This was accomplished in many ways. Firstly, we employed the services of a traveling musician, Mr. Christian, who visited Mount Vernon and the homes of our neighbours three or four days a month.

He taught our children to dance, and Mr. Stedlar (a German who lauded himself as a “musick professor”) joined in to teach the children to sing and play instruments. So successful were these sessions that neighbour children were added to the group, culminating in evening dances where the adults joined in. I always enjoyed these times. They were the highlight of every month. Although dance was not my passion, it
was
George’s, and he took full advantage of each occasion. He was much appreciated by all the ladies.

George supported these efforts and even ordered Patsy a flute and a spinet from London. For Jacky he ordered a violin, but knowing the instrument maker would send their worst violin once they knew it was coming to the Americas, George wisely asked our factor, Mr. Cary, to imply it was an instrument for him. There were ways to work within the system, flawed though it was.

I was very involved in the vocal aspect of their education, having received a wonderful book of English songs called
The Bull Finch
. The first time George ever wrote my married name was when he inscribed it to me the first year we were married. Mr. Stedlar had been of assistance helping us determine which melodies went with the words. Oh, if only the books would supply more than the lyrics!

One evening I sang a new song I had learned called “Gifts.” I sang it for George because it imbued his philosophy of life—and more. I stood by the spinet and cast my eyes right upon him. Then I sang . . .

Give a man a horse he can ride,

Give a man a boat he can sail;

And his rank and wealth, his strength and health,

On sea nor shore shall fail.

“Give a man a pipe he can smoke,

Give a man a book he can read:

And his home is bright with a calm delight,

Though the room be poor indeed.

“Give a man a girl he can love,

As I, O my love, love thee;

And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate,

At home, on land, on sea.

I received applause, and capped the moment by moving to my husband’s side and kissing his cheek. I whispered, “‘As I, O my love, love thee . . . .’”

He blushed.

I so enjoyed the power of music.

*****

The years passed.

’Tis such a relentless statement, yet true. Our life at Mount Vernon became a journey upon a familiar road. We grew to know the ruts and curves, yet were occasionally surprised—but still managed—the detours, delays, and trees fallen in our way.

Having barely known each other before marriage, George and I came to close acquaintance. One might think this was a given after years of marriage, as inevitable as fire creating ash, or an apple tree apples, but I knew from speaking with other women friends that it was not necessarily so. Two souls must desire close bonding for them to be bound. We had the desire. The procurement of the end result . . . ?

As expected, there were adjustments to be made—some willingly, and others with more reluctance.

I heard one of George’s friends state that George was a master of himself. This was true.

Too true.

George had a temper. Only rarely did I witness its fury. The time in question came after a worker had been caught stealing—not from us, but from another worker. To worsen his situation the man lied about it. I watched from a distance, but I could still hear my husband’s shouts of anger. And then, when the man had the audacity to shrug, George jumped from his horse and took him by a wad of his shirt and nearly lifted him off the ground.

I could not hear the words said with face nearly touching face, but when George let go, the man stumbled and ran away. Obviously, enough had been said to eradicate any chance of another shrug—or act of theft and deceit.

At the time, I had not realized Jacky was in close proximity, but upon seeing the man run away, he came close to me and said, “Poppa will not get that angry at
us
, will he?”

I could honestly say, “Never” but did use the moment to say, “Lying and indifference are as unconscionable as stealing, young man. You must strive to be a man of honour, to do your poppa and me proud at all times.”

Jacky nodded fervently.

My husband’s anger didn’t bother me. Nor did his penchant for wanting things done in
his
time, in
his
way. He seemed to know what everyone was doing. One time he became convinced his workers could get more lumber each day from the trees they felled. They had the audacity to disagree. So George spent an entire day observing their work (with watch in hand) and found they could produce five more feet of lumber a day. A four percent increase. That they did so in the imposing presence of the master of the plantation did not surprise me.

Although he was the master to others, it did not take George long to realize I did not react well to barked orders. Only once did I have to remind him, “I am not one of your soldiers, George.” His apology had been profuse and the offense was not repeated.

No, I was not bothered by his strong nature; in fact, I was heartened by the depth of emotion it represented. My husband was a man of distinct virtues, and expected the same virtues from others. If he had a tendency to be relentless in the pursuit of the goals he set for himself (and for others), if he oft showed a critical nature, I knew it was due to the high standards to which he held everyone—of the foremost himself. Most plantation wives complained of their husbands not helping enough. With George, he oft helped too much—he needed to have a hand in everything.

Yet if I had any real complaint regarding his nature it would be the distance which seemed ever present. Although I knew life touched him deeply—both the good and the bad—it could not often be witnessed through his bearing and countenance. I knew that many thought him cold and aloof. Impassive. At first even I thought he owned those traits. But as the years passed, I grew to see that this barrier to emotion was one that was carefully placed and maintained, partly to benefit the witness and partly to benefit George himself. ’Twas as though a fire burned within him that he dared not fuel through any cleft or fissure in character lest it consume himself and all others in his path.

I respected this control, and yet . . .

One evening, when I knew he had experienced a foul day, he sat by the fire, staring into it. He could have been a statue for the lack of movement in his bearing. Only by the twitching of the small muscles that lined his neck and jaw could I see the battle he fought within.

After watching him as long as I could bear, I knelt beside his chair and put my hand upon his. “Tell me what happened today. I heard there was a fire at the Muddy Hole Farm.”

Fires were never welcomed, of course, but I had heard all was under control. The damage to the outbuildings was not too great.

“Is it something else?” I asked. “Was there something else that disturbed your work today?”

He did not even look at me but continued to grace the fire with his attention.

“Please, George. Tell me what bothers you so.”

He swallowed, but with difficulty. He was holding something back.

I tried another tack. If imploring words would not incite him to share his concerns . . . I stood and said, “I am your wife. I work as hard as any man on this plantation to make it what we want it to be. If you choose not to share with me the situations and conditions that affect us all, then—”

“My brother has died.”

“Who? Which . . . ?”

“Austin. He died of tuberculosis.” For the first time, he looked directly at me. “He was only forty-two. My other brother, Lawrence, died of the same disease at thirty-four. My father, at only forty-nine.”

And George had just turned thirty . . .

“I often have coughs and breathing ailments,” he said. “They dog me. Are they my destiny? Will they be the death . . . ?”

He did not finish the sentence. I knelt beside him again. “There is nothing to say you will die as they have. You take great pains to keep yourself healthy. And you are not alone. I am here to watch over you, and I will not let anything happen to you. By God I will not.”

The faintest of smiles came—and went, as despair and fear returned. I watched his face struggle to contain them.

I put a hand on the back of his head. “George. You do not need to hold your worries inside.”

“I do.”

“No, you do not. Not with me.”

With his nod of reluctant agreement, he allowed me to take him into my arms, where I made every attempt to make all things right.