Washington's Lady
Authors: Nancy Moser
Tags: #First Lady, #Revolutionary War, #george washington, #Williamsburg, #Philadelphia, #love-story, #Colonies, #Widows, #Martha Dandridge, #Biography, #Christian, #Fiction, #Romance, #Mt. Vernon, #Benjamin Franklin, #War, #bio-novel, #Presidency, #Martha Washington, #British, #Martha Custis, #England, #John Adams, #War of Independence, #New York, #Historical
Washington’s Lady
A Novel of Martha Washington and the Birth of a Nation
Nancy Moser
Published by eChristian, Inc.
Escondido, California
To my relatives who fought valiantly
for God and country:
To
Jonathan Tyler
,
my great, great, great, great, great grandfather
who fought at Ticonderoga,
was captured by Burgoyne’s army, and escaped.
To
Solomon Young
and
William Chrystal
,
my great, great grandfathers.
One lost an arm, and one was made lame,
both in service to our country during the Civil War.
To my grandfather
Lester Young
,
who fought in France during the “war to end all wars,”
World War I.
And to my father,
Lyle Young
,
who carried on the family tradition
of honor and commitment
in the South Pacific during World War II.
Thank you for your courage, gentlemen,
and for your sacrifice toward so ably
planting and defending
our family’s American roots.
Part I. The Golden Years
Death mocked me.
Daniel’s booming voice was forever still. Never again would I hear his explosive laughter, or his whispered,
“I love you, Martha.”
I walked away from the grave of my husband. Seven short years was not enough. Yet it was not
just
his death that scorned me . . .
I was sick to death of death.
“Dow!”
I held fourteen-month-old Patsy in my arms. “No, dear one. Let Mamma hold you.”
Let Mamma never let you go.
I looked about the Queens Creek cemetery, at all who had come to offer their condolences. Their eyes revealed their compassion, their wish to help. But how could anyone help?
My mother approached, wearing the black of mourning that had become far too familiar within the Dandridge and Custis families. Patsy extended her arms to her grandmother. I relinquished her.
“Come, little one,” Mother said. Her eyes included me. “Let us go back to the house. It is time for a nap.”
A nap would be of great relief—though unattainable. For whenever I attempted sleep I was greeted with the sight of my husband’s eyes as he suffered. Although I had prayed for the best, he had expected the worst.
His throat thick with a virulent infection, he had struggled to speak.
“I am so sorry, Martha. So sorry to leave you.”
I was sorry too.
There would be no nap for a second reason: my son was still ill. Jacky, not yet three, lay abed, still holding on to a fever and the same swollen throat. For a month we had tried to make Jacky better, even bringing Dr. Carter the twenty-five miles from Williamsburg when my own medical abilities proved unworthy. Having just suffered the death of my second-born, Frances, three months previous, I would take no chances.
Nary a week ago Daniel had succumbed to the sickness. No treatment helped. And he died.
My Daniel died.
The doctor said his heart was weak and was further weakened by the fever.
It mattered not what took him, only that he was gone.
And I was left behind.
We reached the family home we used when in Williamsburg, and I put Patsy to bed and checked upon Jacky, who was better of body, though not of spirit. Then I took solace in the study, needing silence and solitude above social commiseration. It was startling to realize being alone was a permanent state.
Perhaps I should have sought the company of others . . . .
Perhaps I should have.
But I could not do it.
There was a soft knock on the door.
Before I could utter a response—tell the intruder to please leave me alone—the door opened. It was Mother.
She entered the room, closed the door of the study with a subtle click, then took a seat beside me on the settee, her black skirts touching mine. “What can I do to help you, daughter?”
Such a simple question, but one I could only answer in a most ungenerous manner. I sprang to my feet and faced her as though she were the enemy. “You can help me by explaining why our family is made to suffer so cruelly. Eighteen years of my life passed with nary a sorrow, but in the past eight . . . First, my brother drowns in the river, then my father-in-law—after finally consenting to our marriage—dies before the ceremony. Daniel and I are blessed with his namesake—who dies at age three. And six months later my own father, your husband, dies from the heat at a racetrack and—”
“It is not wise to dwell—”
“I do not dwell! I speak facts. After Father died, three more children blessed us. Then death found us again—twofold in one year! My dearest baby Frances—only four years old—is ripped away from me, and now, but three months later, my husband?” My final words came amid sobs. “I am only twenty-six! How can I be asked to bear such grief?”
“You are not
asked
.”
Her words, so plainly said, stunned me to silence. No indeed, death had not asked my permission to inflict its wounds. For if it had solicited my opinion, I would have barred it at the door, saying, “Halt! You will not enter here!”
My vehemence fueled a new thought, more than a
mere
thought, a new resolve. I faced Mother and raised my chin with the tenacity that had become a necessary part of survival in these colonies. “I will not allow death to hurt me again! I will not!”
Mother opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, then opened it again. “Then you best not love again.”
I recognized the truth in her words. To love was to risk pain.
Then perhaps I would not love anew.
I continued my vow. “As God is my witness, I will protect what I love. I will enshroud my two surviving children with constant attention, devotion, and protection. Death will not dare approach us, nor make any attempts to breech my fortification.”
“But, Martha—”
I swiped away my tears. “I am done with death! And I swear, it is now done with me.”
I strode from the room and hurried upstairs, pausing at the door that led to poor Jacky. I steadied my breathing as well as my hand upon the knob.
I entered the dim room, the draperies closed against the afternoon sun that scorned us with its brightness. I let my eyes adjust to the light and was about to seek the children’s nanny—whom I had instructed to watch my son whilst I was gone. She was not there. How dare she leave him alone.
And yet . . . Jacky was not alone. For as I edged closer I saw that my dearest Patsy had left her room and climbed in beside her big brother. My two darlings lay snuggled in each other’s arms, Patsy’s head upon Jacky’s shoulder.
I reached to lift her from his sickbed, then thought better of it. Jacky’s breathing seemed easier. Perhaps the comfort of his little sister was a balm beyond the meager medicines Dr. Carter had offered. Brother and sister, bonded by their need as well as their love.
Gazing upon them, I put a hand to my lips, stifling a sob. For beyond my loss of a husband, my children had lost a father. There would be no more games of ride-the-pony or sitting in their father’s lap by the fire as he told stories.
“‘London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down . . .’”
The familiar song came to my lips unbidden.
I forced it to silence.
There would be too much silence in this house now.
The sobs threatened once again. Would they ever leave me alone?
I nodded once. They
must
leave me. I could
not
let them wield their power, for once unleashed, the sobs would lead to despair, which would lead to surrender and—
Death would claim further victory, not against the dead, but against those it left behind.
I moved a chair beside the bed, hoping the soft rustle of my skirts would not awaken my darlings.
This is where I belonged. This is where I vowed to remain, standing guard against all that dared come against my children.
So help me God.
*****
I stood in the parlour of our home at White House in New Kent, Virginia, and stared upon the portraits we’d just had taken. The painter, John Wollaston, had been here when Jacky had first fallen ill. I held nothing against him for his quick departure. A wise man knows when to run from illness.
My darling Daniel had commissioned the paintings soon after little Frances died in April. He knew how important it was for me to preserve the family I had left. Although children’s portraits were rarely painted, Daniel insisted. At first Mr. Wollaston seemed a bit taken aback, but he agreed. So now I had a rendering of my two surviving children. Little Jacky with a hawk poised upon his arm, and my sweet Patsy, all dressed in hoop and silk, though barely old enough to walk.
I looked at the images. In truth, they were not good likenesses: their faces too adult and severe, their heads too large for the lengths of their frames. If Jacky had not taken ill, I would have asked Mr. Wollaston to change them.
If he had been able.
Which I was not certain he was.
I moved to stand before the portrait of my husband. His waistcoat clung too tightly to his midsection as though he were a man more prone to drink and fine fare than the hard work of running a vast plantation.
And his face . . . I looked at my own portrait, then back again. Our features appeared too similar, as though the artist knew only how to paint one adult face and used the same for all, with a change in hair or jewel the only personal adjustment.
I cared not for my own portrait and resolved that it looked little like myself. But what did that matter? Who would care?
But the portrait of Daniel . . . I cared very much that it bore little likeness to the man I married. That I could distinguish the differences now was of benefit, but would my memories of his face falter as the months and years passed, so that I would someday look upon this portrait as his true likeness?
I shuddered at the thought. Yet what choice did I have? It was all that was left of him.
No. That was not correct . . . .
I left the portraits behind and ascended the stairs to our bed-chamber. I closed the door behind me.
I opened the armoire and was immediately assailed by Daniel’s scent. I took a step back, my heart pounding as if he himself had appeared before me.
I put a hand to my bosom, allowing a moment to recoup. How odd that a scent unnoticed when its bearer was alive could find such life once he was gone.
I approached the armoire again. My fingers skimmed the lovely waistcoats that befitted my husband’s status as the third richest man in all Virginia. His ancestors—on both sides of his family line—were the elite of the elite. Over seventeen thousand acres had been under his control, along with two hundred slaves. That he even looked at me . . .
I thought of our wedding and sought out the fine navy coat he had worn for that occasion—the occasion that had nearly not come about. I took it from its peg. Dust lay upon the shoulders and I brushed the offense of it away. The coat was smaller than those newer, for Daniel had prospered as a married man by readily partaking of the culinary delights I brought to our home—though certainly not to the extent Wollaston’s portrait suggested. Before marriage, Daniel had lived as a bachelor far too long and was used to making do.
Making do would never do in my home. I had been raised to be the wife of a plantation owner, and my mother had trained me well. That the accoutrements of such a life brought me great joy was a benefit though certainly not a requirement. Although these colonies were founded on a shared desire for independence and freedom, certain basics of life had to be maintained for the sake of continuity and a well-run passing of day to day. To find joy in the mundane was a gift I strived to keep.
I set aside Daniel’s wedding coat and reached for one I had seen him wear far oftener and more recently. The brown wool flannel was his favourite, and no matter how I had his garments rearranged, no matter how I attempted to hide it, he sought it out and would invariably put it on. Nothing would be said between us, except for the wink he would offer upon his victory.
The memory made me smile and I held the coat to my face, its wool rough against my cheek. I closed my eyes and drank it in. Tears announced their intention to intrude, but I forced them away.
“No! I will not let you overtake me.”
The tears wisely retreated, and once assured they were contained, I hung both coats upon their hooks. I quickly closed the door of the armoire and fastened its latch.
Keeping them safe. Keeping Daniel’s scent contained until I needed it next.
*****
“Your husband had no will. He died intestate.”
I gaped at our friend James Power in utter astonishment. James had been one of the friends who had tried to intervene on our behalf when Daniel’s father had fought against our marriage, a friend then, and now. “How could Daniel have neglected such a thing?” I asked. “With all the trials and struggles we’ve had over his grandfather’s and his father’s wills, I would have imagined he—”
“Perhaps he assumed he had more time.” James shrugged. “’Tis a common misconception.”
“My husband did not deal in misconceptions.”
My statement spoke courageously, yet I knew I exaggerated for Daniel’s benefit. His roots were so knotted with parental and grand-parental animosity that he plunged into our union as a means to finally escape the past and find happiness—and peace. If he neglected to make a will, I suspected it was because of a fear that thinking toward the day we would be parted would jinx the happiness he had finally accomplished.
My Daniel married late in life, at age thirty-eight, the delay not his choice, but caused by the exasperating interference—and contrariness and mean-spiritedness—of his father. While living, John Parke Custis held the honour of being one of the most infamous and disagreeable men in Virginia. This was not only my view but one held by all who gained his acquaintance. He took great pleasure in these traits and oozed bitterness the way a wound oozes the poison that inflames it. He blamed his wife, Frances, for making him so. Apparently they fought hard and often, and though never divorced, they could have been. Perhaps should have been, if the desire for freedom from strife could have overruled the dictates of polite society.
Actually, the divorce issue became moot, as Frances died at the young age of twenty-nine, when my Daniel was but four years old. John all but rejoiced. He never remarried, acted as though all women were of the devil, and spent the rest of his life causing difficulties regarding his children’s quest to find mates. Daniel’s sister was disinherited for going against her father’s wishes, and Daniel would have been too—if I had not won his father over. It seems his objection was rooted in thoughts I was not good enough for his son, my father having only five hundred acres.
Although I disliked even being in the man’s presence, when the elder Mr. Custis began sharing nasty rumours about me, disparaging me and my family throughout Williamsburg . . . when he gave the Custis crested silver to an innkeeper’s wife—stating he would rather toss it in the streets than let any daughter of John Dandridge have it—I could take it no longer. Daniel was so fearful of his father he could not go against him, even though we were engaged and friends urged him to do so. It was by my hand, and albeit by my charm, that the intractable Mr. Custis was won over.
