Washington's Lady (14 page)

“So there is a cure.

He let a breath go in, then out. “I don’t think so.” He brought my hands to his lips and kissed them. “But we will find one, my dear. I will send for Dr. Laurei immediately, and if he cannot help, then I will send for Dr. Rumney, and another doctor and another. I promise we will find the answers we need.”

My husband always kept his promises.

*****

Dr. Laurei and I stepped out of Patsy’s bedroom. His face was grave.

“Will she be better?” I asked.

“Has she suffered such a fit before?”

“No,” George said.

“Any other oddness or loss of contact with the here and now?”

I could speak to
that
symptom. “She is known to fall asleep at odd times.”

His eyebrows lifted. “How so?”

“Once she was playing with a doll, then suddenly seemed to stare into nothing. When I looked away, then back at her, she had fallen asleep. And she was not tired. I know she was not.”

George nodded. “I have seen her so at supper. And one time seated by the fire. She has always been a quiet, pensive child, so I didn’t think anything wrong. Too wrong.”

He had suspected something? Why had he not said anything to me?

Dr. Laurei continued. “I have no experience with this condition, but I will return to Alexandria and consult my books and others in my field. Then I will bring you medicines.”

“So there are medicines that will cure her?”

He seemed confused. “I am sorry, Mrs. Washington. I am not aware of any cure.”

I could not speak. But George asked, “What can we do when such a violent episode occurs?”

“You can move things out of her way, put a cushion beneath her head.”

“But she choked,” I said. “I feared—”

“I have heard of various iron rings to bite upon. I will look into it.” He put one hand on each of ours. “I am sorry ’tis not better news. I will do my best to help her. I promise I will.”

Another promise to be fulfilled.

*****

Dr. Laurei came again and brought with him various bromides and methods to rid Patsy’s system of the poisons. He bled her. As another seizure was not forthcoming, we believed her better.

She was not. After a time the seizures returned. We requested the presence of other doctors, but none offered anything but conjecture and experiments. One even had the audacity to try to attempt comfort by saying Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, and Joan of Arc were epileptic. I cared not a whit for this fact. My daughter was afflicted. Only she mattered.

I had been accused of being a hovering mother before, and now . . . my state of anxiety increased. How could it not? But then came the day when my worries were amplified beyond measure.

I was seated at Patsy’s bedside after one of her fits. She slept and I kept watch—over what, I was uncertain.

George slipped into the dimly lit room. “How is she?”

“Other than the fact she is sleeping, I cannot answer your question. What are we going to do?”

He lowered his head as he shook it, and I noticed a piece of paper in his hand.

“What is that?” I asked.

He raised it up, lowered it, then raised it up again. “’Tis a letter,” he said.

“I can see that. Who is it from?”

His sigh was deep. “Your mother.”

By the look on his face I knew the news was not good. “Please, George, just tell me. I am in no mood for foul news.”

“Mood or not . . .” He did not raise the letter to read it, but did tell me its contents. “Your little sister, Mary, has died. A fever is all that is said, but you know how that symptom covers many afflictions and—”

I moved from my bedside vigil and nudged him into the hall. I shut the door. “Let me see.”

George had not withheld any information.
Your dear little sister has died. A fever overtook her last Saturday and after three days, she succumbed.

“No, no,” I said. “This can’t be. She was the same age as our Patsy. She can’t be—” I did not allow myself to finish the sentence, for I knew too well death could do as it wished.

“I am so sorry, Martha,” George said as he pulled me into his arms.

I pushed away from him. “Mary cannot die! If she dies, then our Patsy . . .” I knew it didn’t make sense to claim one with the other, but I didn’t care.

“What can I do to comfort you?” George asked.

I put my hand upon the doorknob. “There is no comfort for a child’s death. I
know
.”

“I know you do.”

I opened the door a crack, then stopped the movement. I looked into his eyes. “You wish to know what you can do? Cure my daughter.”

“Our daugh—”

I shut the door on him and went back to Patsy’s bedside. There would be no more dying in this family. I would not allow it.

*****

George did what he could. My insistence that he cure Patsy’s affliction softened as I witnessed his efforts and expense to do just that. Our prayers became repetitive and I sometimes wondered if the Almighty might grow weary of them. Yet until God gave me a healthy child . . . He would just have to endure our supplications.

Unfortunately, there were other issues that forced our attention and worries, the main one being finances.

I will admit to having exquisite taste. ’Twas a condition shared by both of us. And I must also admit to compensating for what we could not do to heal Patsy by buying her gifts. To see her squeal with joy when tiny kid gloves were delivered, or a silk dress to match mine, or pretties for her hair. We bought her a tea set and silver-plated spoons. And for Jacky . . . there was a miniature coach and six horses with a toy stable. We also endowed him with a gold-plated toy whip.

Anything purchased for the children came out of their portion of the Custis money. This was my idea, as George
was
a generous man and offered otherwise. And, of course, I had offered my money toward the betterment of Mount Vernon. No one was more pleased than I that our lands had increased from seventeen hundred to ninety-eight hundred acres. And George had done well with Jacky’s holdings, doubling their value. In all honesty, we were taken by surprise when told all my cash was used. Yet, although our tastes
were
extravagant, there were other determining factors.

Although the tobacco crop taken from Jacky’s Custis lands brought in twice the price as the Mount Vernon tobacco, one ship carrying our tobacco went down in the Bay of Biscay, and privateers took the goods from another. And the factors continued to tweak and twitter our money away as
they
saw fit. As we could only trade with England and no other country—by law—frustration became a close acquaintance. Plus, most of the goods we ordered were delivered to White House first because that is where the Custis factors were used to sending it. We then had to pay for transport to Mount Vernon. Oh, the letters we sent trying to rectify this change of address! Deaf ears. Deaf, or arrogant, or apathetic ears.

And even if we found a market for our goods within this land, each colony held their own currency for trade. Pounds sterling were used in common, but they were rare to find. George and his friends contended this was so arranged to keep us from trading with each other. Our England was adept at handling colonies and keeping them in line.

Personally, we were land rich and cash poor. ’Twas not an unusual trait for gentry, but it did add to the stress of our lives. Many a time I found George at his desk with papers and bills spread around him, trying to manipulate the numbers for our livelihood. The last time . . .

He let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair with a
humph
. “’Tis not their fault,” he said.

I stopped dusting the books on the shelf nearby. “Whose fault?”

“Our factors. The merchants back in England. Their prices have been raised because they are being taxed to pay the country’s debt for the Seven Years War.”

“Which war?”

“The Seven Years War. That is what they have named the fighting within Europe while here we fought the French and the Indians here. Apparently, Britain is in debt to the tune of one hundred million pounds and partially blames us.”

“So Englishmen are taxed?”

“They are. It is said the unfairness of the taxation has forced forty thousand Englishmen into debt—forced them into debtor’s prison.”

“Hardly what the government wished.”

“And as such, and with the rebellion among the populace there, they have withdrawn many of those taxes.”

“That is good,” I said as I dusted a copy of Plato’s
Republic
.

“That is bad,” George said. “For the crown still needs money to pay off the war. And so they have decided to tax us.”

“Us?”

“The colonies. They say it is because we need to pay for the troops stationed here to defend us. Personally, I would like them to leave. We have proven—with the bravery of our volunteer troops—that we can defend ourselves. We no longer wish to be under their control.”

“I am sure they would beg to differ.”

He shrugged. “We all know any tax has more to do with past debts than new ones. It is the first time in fifty years Britain is not at war. I accuse them of having too much time on their hands.”

I left the books alone and took a seat before his desk. “What kind of tax are they inflicting upon us?” I asked.

“The proclamation that called it into place is called the Stamp Act. All papers here in the colonies are taxed and a purchased stamp is placed upon them: newspapers, documents, every printed piece of paper, and even playing cards.”

“That is absurd.”

“Indeed. Although I have never admired taxation, I accepted it when it seemed a natural part of trade, but when it seems extraneous and is being used to pay for debts England has incurred . . . They have already taxed molasses, food, and wine.”

I assessed the full impact of his words. “There can only be disadvantage if we refuse to pay.”

George shrugged. “’Tis not just our disadvantage. Taxes which cause us to buy fewer items from England will hurt those who manufacture those items. Who is to suffer most in this event—the English merchant or the Virginia planter?”

“I care most about the latter.”

“We pay either way,” he said. “And if we do not pay . . . the Stamp Act declares we will be punished in court, without a trial by jury.”

I thought of the poor quality of goods we often received and the prices that continued to rise. “I am weary of paying, constantly paying . . .”

“As are we all.”

“But what can be done about it?”

“I am not certain, but when the House meets in May, I am sure we will hear talk of it.”

“You don’t embrace dissension, do you, George?”

“These colonies have existed for one hundred fifty years. We have prospered, created our own representative governments, have built towns and farms and societies rooted in virtue and personal liberties. British cities reel with murder, poverty, crime, and societal inequities. We have done it better. Why can they not see that and leave us to handle ourselves?”

I smiled at his passion and leaned closer, offering a whisper. “Treasonous thoughts, husband.”

He looked shocked. “Not at all. I don’t wish for trouble, just to be left alone to deal with things as we know best.”

“Kings are not keen on letting go.”

He looked back to the papers littering his desk. “I cannot think of that now. I must handle today, today.”

“But Jacky. We were going to discuss Jacky’s future.”

“I cannot deal with Jacky’s incorrigibility, Patsy’s illness, unfair taxes, overdue bills,
and
this plantation, my dear. Not today.”

Today, tomorrow . . . I knew from hard experience troubles were tenacious. More tenacious than I?

We would see.

*****

Two months passed. In May, George traveled to Williamsburg for the session of the House of Burgesses without us. I feared for Patsy and did not feel it would be wise for the children and me to travel. I
would
miss the balls and social events, but sacrifices had to be made. My duty was here. At home.

George was gone a month and when he returned I was more than willing to hand the running of the plantation back to him. Although, during this absence things
did
run in a smoother manner because, late of last year, George had hired a distant cousin, Lund Washington, to manage Mount Vernon. He had worked previously for a neighbour and came with high regard—which he deserved. Five years older than we, I found Lund to be an amiable bachelor and a fine asset to the estate.

Usually when George returned from a governmental session, he was weary of mind. But this time he fairly jumped from his horse as he rushed into the house.

I met him at the door. “What is wrong?”

He shook his head, handing me his hat and gloves. “Action has been taken against the Act!”

The only
act
of recent mind was the Stamp Act. “The session voted on it?”

“Of a sort.” He noticed the dust on his boots and legs. “Outside. Come out. I am fouling the house with the dirt of the road.”

We withdrew to the stoop, where he proceeded to brush off his clothing with a handkerchief as he gave his discourse. “For three weeks the House discussed nothing of more consequence than ferry permits and wolf bounties. Most members left and were on their way home—as was I. Only thirty-nine of the one hundred sixteen remained.”

“When . . . ?”

“When a new member—nine days new—stood before those still present and offered some resolutions. If only I could have been there to hear . . . . I received word Henry’s zeal holds a power to mesmerize.”

“Henry what—what is his last name?” I asked.

“His last
is
Henry. Patrick Henry.”

“By your reaction I take his zeal to be of a positive nature?”

He stopped brushing to consider. “I am not certain as yet. But perhaps he is just what we need in this time. He offered forward five Stamp Act Resolves, which”—George smiled and shook his head—“which were nothing less than bold and courageous.” His eyes sparkled as he faced me. “They stated as colonists we have the same rights as the English, in particular the right to be taxed only by our own representatives. Since we have no representation in England’s Parliament, they should not tax us. We should not have to pay any taxes except those which our Virginia House decrees.”