Washington's Lady (31 page)

“You are recovering well enough on your own.”

No thanks to anyone but the Almighty.
“I will share. I promise.”

“Mrs. Mortier is the wife of the British paymaster. She is the enemy.”

“She is the widow of the paymaster. She has suffered in this war. And she does not send this gift as the enemy, but as a woman offering aid to another woman. She sent the package and letter under a flag of truce. Surely we can honour that.”

“You cannot keep any of it, Martha. You cannot. If word got out . . .”

It could do damage to the Cause.

For one brief moment I wished to pitch the Cause and enjoy my lemons.

But I could not. Duty ruled me now, as it always had, as it always would.

With one last whiff of the lemon, I handed it back. “Write her a kind note, will you, George? You can word it to cause no offense, yet keep our honour precious.”

He studied me a moment, wondering if I was offering sarcasm.

I lay back upon my pillow and let him read between the lines.

The aroma of the fruit lingered as he had the boxes taken away.

Lingered but alas did not remain.

*****

As I suffered, so did George, but for another reason.

He stood before the mirror one morning, his mouth open, his large hands trying to arrange the implements of torture that lived in his mouth.

His teeth had always been his detriment and were getting worse. Soon after we were married I had offered him the use of my homemade tooth powder, showing him how beautiful it made my own teeth. And he had used it but to no great result. For whatever reason, his teeth continued to decay. Over the years he had ordered many of them removed and replaced with false ones of bone or ivory. They were set into the sockets of the original teeth, and held in place with wires that gave him great pain.

With a sigh he stood erect. “These blasted things. I cannot get the wires to stay in place. They cut at my mouth.”

“I thought you sent a letter to a dentist in Philadelphia, requesting some pinchers to help bend them.”

“They have not arrived as yet.” He turned to me. “Your fingers are smaller . . . will you try?”

Of course. I got out of bed and did my best to bend the wires so they would cause the least harm. But seeing his mismatched mouth, and seeing the gray of his remaining teeth . . . it seemed inevitable they too would have to be pulled.

No wonder my husband did not smile often. I grieved he should have to suffer so, on a continual basis. Did the war not cause him pain enough?

“There,” I said. “Is that better?”

He moved his mouth about. “It still . . . but yes. Better. Thank you, my dear.”

If I could have given him my own teeth, I would have.

Truly.

*****

I returned home from New York in late June, not completely recovered from my illness, but eager to be home. I spent my fiftieth birthday on June twenty-first on the dusty road. A milestone.

I did not feel fifty—most of the time. But most importantly, I did not look it. Although vanity was not a virtue, I admitted to owning such a vice—at least to some degree. It brought me great joy when people misguessed my age. Although no one would mistake me for a woman in her thirties, I was often guessed at five years younger. As the years progressed this became more important to me. Odd how as a young woman one desires to be thought older, and soon after, one wishes for the appearance of youth to linger as long as possible. Men have no compunction regarding age and are allowed to do so with grace, while we women are forced to fight the process. It is not fair. Not fair at all.

But it was what it was. And I was what I was. Fifty and going home to meet my newest grandchild, born April 20, 1781. After giving birth to six girls, Eleanor gave birth to a son: George Washington Parke Custis. I found Eleanor in a weakened state, and the boy also a bit sickly—probably because Eleanor could not nurse him well. The wet nurse she had used before, Mrs. Anderson, had come to help. And if a babe could be made well by his grandmother’s hugs and kisses, then I did my best.

By fall he was healthy enough to be nicknamed Mr. Tub, though we also called him Wash or Washy. He was the apple of his sisters’ eyes and they gave him much attention. Watching them fawn over him, I was reminded of the closeness Jacky had experienced with his little sister, Patsy.

Dear Patsy. I often walked down the hill to the family crypt and sat with her. Although I would have liked her here—she would have made a doting auntie—I was glad she had not been here to suffer through the war. Would she have been strong enough to endure it? Or would it have led her to an early death in its own way? Perhaps it was better for her to have gone so quickly, at a family meal, during happier days.

I did not let my thoughts linger too long in such what-ifs. For I was home, and wallowed in that joy.

Yet . . . on the night of September 9, I had just checked the doors and was headed up to bed when I heard horses approaching.

My first thought was:
the British?

I hurried up the front stairs. “Jacky!”

He appeared at the top of the stairs, having stoked the bedroom fires against the chill of the night.

I did not need to say anything, for the sound of the horses had grown louder. He hurried down the stairs, took up a musket, and moved into the parlour to look out the window.

“Papa?” Little Betsy called from the stairs.

“Shh, child,” I said. “Get back in the room with your mother. And shut the door.”

I retreated to the parlour and picked up the fireplace poker, wishing once again I had learned to shoot a gun. I would not let them take us without a fight. I would not.

I moved toward the window next to Jacky. “How many?” I asked.

Suddenly, he started to laugh—which I thought was an odd reaction to danger. But then, I too found my emotions change from fear to glee.

I ran to the door and flung myself outside as my husband leapt from his horse.

“You are here? You are here!”

He enveloped me with his embrace and swung me around. “Hello, my dearest. I have missed you.”

He set me down and I took a step back. “Why? How? Is it over?”

He looked to the other horsemen—that I had not even noticed in my joy at seeing him. “Soon,” he said. “Hopefully soon.”

I recognized Billy Lee, George’s faithful valet, and David Humphreys, one of his aides, as well as a half dozen men I did not know.

David dismounted and tipped his hat. “A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Washington.” His eyes scanned the exterior of the house. “And in far better surroundings, that is for certain.”

“I will give you a fair tour tomorrow, David,” I said.

“It appears I will need a tour myself.” George’s eyes grazed over the changes he had ordered but had never seen.

At that moment Jacky came through the door with Eleanor and the girls. “Poppa!” Jacky said, falling into his father’s arms.

“My boy, my dear boy.” George released him in order to see the rest. He kissed Eleanor on the cheek, and then looked upon the grandchildren he had never seen. “It appears you have been busy indeed.”

“Are you Grandpapa?” Betsy asked.

George knelt down to greet them. “I am. And you must be Betsy.”

She nodded. “This is Patty. And this is Nelly.”

“Such lovely girls you are.”

He stood and saw Mrs. Anderson coming out with his namesake, five-month-old Wash.

Jacky did the honours. “And this,” he said, taking the baby in his arms, “is George Washington Parke Custis.”

I was thrilled when little Wash smiled at George, who held out a finger that Wash was quick to take.

“Glad to meet you, little man.”

My eyes filled with tears at the homecoming. But at the whinnying of a horse, I realized our guests were waiting.

“Come in everyone, come in. Welcome. Welcome home.”

*****

Over the next few days our guests, which included French general Chastellux and Viscount Donatien Marie Rochambeau, head of French forces in America, took over the dining room. The large two-story room (which George deemed perfect) had been constructed in his long absence. I was pleased to put it to such good use, finding pleasure in being hostess to these patriots, feeding them, coddling them, and making them a home in lieu of the homes they had left behind years before.

As for our own years that had passed . . . George had not been to Mount Vernon since May 4, 1775, when he had left with a group of his contingents to attend the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia. He had left here as a simple representative, and over six years later had returned as the commander in chief of the American forces.

Forces on the verge of victory?

That very outcome was planned upon our dining room table.

Although I did not sit with the men as they strategized, I was allowed to hear plenty during meals, and from George in our time alone. It seemed the British general Cornwallis had grown weary of Nathanael Greene’s cat-and-mouse war in the South and had taken over Williamsburg, but had since moved his army of six thousand to nearby Yorktown, where he had set up a camp and fortifications.

Finding out this news, George and his northern generals had come up with a plan that if successful—would surely be considered brilliant. The plan started when George pretended to be getting ready to attack New York City, where the northern British troops were centralized. As hoped, the British had moved their reinforcements by land and sea north to stave off the attack. Meanwhile, George sent one hundred cannon, and the combined French and American troops—eighteen thousand strong, the largest yet, south to surround Yorktown. And upon the sea, we would receive the aid of Admiral Comte Francois de Grasse, who was sailing from the West Indies to help. The plan was to have him block the York River where it entered Chesapeake Bay, providing Cornwallis and company no escape.

I brought the men a fresh batch of scones and winked at Jacky, who sat under the windows, taking it all in.

General Rochambeau was speaking. “Time is
essentiel
,” he said in heavily accented English. “Admiral de Grasse is only ours until the fifteenth of October. He is concerned . . .” He turned to one of his aides. “
La saison des
ouragans?
”

The aide translated. “Season of hurricanes.”

George nodded. “He has promised us twenty-nine warships, three thousand troops, guns, and over a million pounds—in cash.”

The aides made whooping noises.

George laughed. “Such an offer must be accepted, yes?”

I left the room with an empty plate and a heart made lighter by my husband’s laughter—and grand plans for a great victory.
The
victory that might end the war?

It was my fervent prayer.

*****

“But Mamma, Poppa, I wish to go along.”

Eleanor spoke first. “No, Jack, I need you with me. We have four children. I am not well. You have not gone to war before. Why now?”

“Because it is nearly ended.” He turned to George. “Is that not true, Poppa? I hear you and the others talk about this upcoming battle as if it will bring about the surrender of the British. I wish to see. I wish to be a part of that.”

I was glad when George closed the door of the family dining room. I too did not want the other soldiers to hear Jacky’s plea. “Yes, we hope for surrender,” he said. “It is not guaranteed by any means. We are simply in a good position and will pray Providence smiles upon us. But it is still war, Jack. And you . . .” He glanced at me. “You are not a soldier.”

“I know how to shoot. You taught me how to shoot.”

“Shooting game and shooting a man—who is shooting at you—are very different.”

Jacky seemed to accept this because he said, “Then give me some other job to do. Can I not be one of your aides? I just wish to be
there
, helping the Cause.”

It was my turn to speak. “It is dangerous
there
.”

Jacky pounded a fist upon the table, making the teacups titter. “It has been dangerous here!”

I could not argue with him.

Jacky pushed his chair from the table, nearly toppling it. “I will go! You will not prevent me from being a part of this victory. I refuse to have the war end and not be able to say I helped the Cause of freedom.”

“But Jack . . . ,” Eleanor said.

He glared at her, at all of us. “I am going.”

He yanked open the door, leaving us to the jostling of his wake.

“George?”

He fingered the handle of a cup, then pushed it away. “I admire his desire. I understand it.”

“I do too,” I said, “but that does not mean it is prudent for him to leave his family to help at this late date.”

“He wishes to help. That is admirable.”

“I do not wish him to go,” Eleanor said.

George put a hand upon hers. “I believe he is going whether any of us wish him to or not.”

He was right. We all knew Jacky. Jacky did what Jacky wished to do.

“So,” I said. “Can you give him a duty that will keep him safe?”

George pondered the air above our heads. “I
could
make him an aide. Give him messages to deliver. Keep him busy far away from the fighting.”

I sighed with relief. “As long as he is safe.”

His look was stern. “There is no complete safety, Martha. You know that.”

I nodded, understanding. I had traveled during wartime. I had camped near the soldiers, I had held their hands and listened to their anguish.

Suddenly, Jacky popped his head in the door. “Mother, could you put together some sort of uniform for me? I do not fit in, dressed as a civilian.”

I looked to George, who shrugged, then back at my impetuous son. “I suppose I could find something.”

Jacky practically glowed with excitement.

Oh dear.

*****

I only had the pleasure of my husband’s presence for three days. On September 12, he and the others—including Jacky, dressed in a navy coat and tan breeches, with the sash of an aide-de-camp across his chest—said their good-byes. The men were in high spirits. George had even sent a message to Lafayette, who was already in Yorktown, saying, “I hope you will keep Lord Cornwallis safe . . . until we arrive.”