Washington's Lady (18 page)

George continued. “It is decided. In the meantime, I will write a letter to Mr. Calvert, that you will deliver to him, hand to hand. And then you will await his reply and bring it back to
my
hand. Do you understand?”

There was a hesitation, but then—blessedly and to my great relief—Jacky replied, “Yes, sir.”

I moved away from the door to give them the image of privacy. The door opened and Jacky came out. Our eyes met. With great restraint I did not open my arms to him, nor even make a step in his direction. With a nod, he brushed past and out the door.

George appeared in the doorway. “You heard?”

I nodded. “I am sorry you had to be so harsh. Jacky—”

“It was time someone was harsh, my dear. Past time.” He put a hand on the door. “If you will excuse me, I have a letter to write, to Mr. Calvert.”

“What will you say?”

“Enough, and perhaps a bit more.”

He shut the door between us.

*****

George read me his letter aloud.

“. . . I should think myself wanting in candour was I not to acknowledge that Miss Eleanor’s amiable qualifications stand confessed at all hands, and that an alliance with your family will be pleasing to his. This acknowledgment being made, you must permit me to add, sir, that his youth, inexperience, and unripened education are, and will be, insuperable obstacles in my eye, to the completion of the marriage. To postpone the marriage is all I have in view. Not that I have any doubt of the warmth of his affections, nor, I hope I may add, any change in them; but at present I do not conceive that he is capable of bestowing that due attention to the important consequences of a marriage state and am unwilling he should do it till he is. If the affection which they have avowed for each other is fixed upon a solid basis, it will receive no diminution in the course of two or three years. If, unfortunately (as they are both young) there should be an abatement of affection on either side, or both, it had better precede, rather than follow after, the marriage.”

He stopped reading to look for my approval. “I mention more about Jacky’s eventual wealth, and I invite the Calverts to visit, but this is the gist of it. Do you approve?”

“I am very proud of the letter, and grateful to you for taking the time to word it so carefully.”

He rubbed his hands across his face. “It exhausted me more than a day’s riding round the plantation.”

“With results just as valid and profitable.” I saw a bit of dust on his desk and stood, rubbing the edge of my apron across it. “Jacky will take the letter to Mr. Calvert tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You expect no problem?”

“None. I also expect no dowry. As the second of ten daughters, no matter what wealth exists, Mr. Calvert must be modest in his promises.”

“Our boy. Married,” I said.

“
After
he has gained a proper education,” George said.

Yes, yes. Only then.

*****

Visitors were a pleasure. Although it meant extra work, I was attuned to the job. I felt at my best when surrounded by the delights of friends, neighbours, and family. And though George and I had expressed our doubts about Jacky’s engagement to Eleanor Calvert, as spring progressed into summer, Eleanor became a regular visitor to Mount Vernon—a delightful one. She often came with her mother and a variance of sisters. I welcomed her as Jacky’s fiancée but also as a friend to Patsy. On one occasion the three of us had a glorious time unpacking a shipment of goods George had ordered for Patsy from England the previous summer—before the embargo had caused such orders to halt: dresses of silk, amber beads, a lovely velvet collar with a pearl bow from India, garnet shoe buckles, leather shoes with her name in them, a new prayer book with clasps of silver, two pairs of silk slippers—one gold and one silver—a powder puff and box, a copy of
Lady’s Magazine
, and an assortment of more mundane items like hairpins and thread. To her credit, Patsy was very generous with her sister-in-law-to-be, giving her many items as gifts. As George was generous with our Patsy, so she passed the attribute on to others. I was very proud of her.

On the latest visit, in June, Eleanor had brought along a Calvert family servant named Miss Reed, Eleanor’s governess. Then George’s dear brother John Augustine came to visit from Bushfield, along with his wife, Hannah, and two of their children. The one hundred miles that usually separated us were soon forgotten amid lively talk, delicious food, and fine weather.

Even more than the pleasure of the visit was seeing Patsy in good health. Her cheeks were pink and her laughter merry. After attending Pohick Church in the morning, we settled into a fine supper midafternoon.

“So, Miss Calvert,” said John Augustine. “When can we expect you to become a full-fledged member of our family?”

With a glance toward George and then me, the wise Eleanor said, “As soon as his parents deem it time—the right time.”

John laughed. “Well put, my dear. I see you have learned the art of wise flattery.”

At the table beside her, Patsy put a hand on top of her friend’s. “’Tis not flattery, Uncle John. Eleanor is true and does not say anything that is not in her heart. She—”

Suddenly, Patsy’s eyes grew large. She froze for but a second, then began to shake in such an extreme manner that she fell to the floor.

“Patsy!”

I ran to her side, took the iron ring from her finger, and tried to put it between her teeth. She was flashing too wildly. George came to my aid and we managed to put it where it should be.

“What can we do?” Hannah asked.

“Nothing,” George said as he tried to contain her arms from harm against the floor. “It will pass.”

“She has been so much better of late,” I said, trying to calm the ill ease of my guests. I had to raise my voice above the pounding of Patsy’s legs and feet as they gyrated against the floor.

“She has not had a single episode during our visit,” Eleanor said.

“And now, on such a fine day,” Hannah said.

I was not certain her comment had any meaning other than to be words said in order to say words, but I did not contest them. Yes, indeed, on this fine sunny June day, after being so well . . . I knew Patsy would be appalled that a fit of such a degree was suffered in front of guests. At such times, she was always rife with embarrassment and apologies. I had grown harder against feeling shame. All I felt at that moment was concern for—

As quickly as the fit had come, Patsy stopped all movement.

“There, there, sweet girl. George, carry her to bed.”

I patted her hand and waited for her eyes to open, for them to change from distant to present in the here and now.

But they did not open.

I patted her hand harder. “Patsy? Patsy, wake up.”

George pulled her into his arms, cradling her, trying to rouse her. “Come now, dear girl. All is well. After a short rest you can rejoin the party.”

“She is not moving,” Hannah said.

“The fits wear her out,” I said.

“Shall I send for a doctor?” Eleanor asked.

I leaned over her and gently spanked her cheeks. “Patsy? Patsy, dearest.”

“Let me.” John Augustine knelt beside her and put his head to her chest. We all held our breaths and were silent. He sat upright. “I don’t hear . . .”

I pushed him away and put my own ear to her chest. Pressed against the lovely yellow chintz of her gown, willing my ear to hear—

What was not present.

I sat aright and stared at George. “George?”

George moved Patsy to the floor so he too could listen for her heart.

I held my breath.

He sat up. He shook his head.

“No, no,” I said. “It cannot be. I will not let it be!”

He looked down at Patsy and lifted her to where she had been before, cradled against his shoulder. He stroked her cheek and ran a hand across her hair. “Oh, dear, my dear, dear, girl.”

I shook my head with utter incredulity. “No. I tell you, no! She was fine. She was better.” I looked to George. His eyes had filled with tears. My husband did not cry unless . . .

Unless confronted with true tragedy.

My body froze. I did not breathe. I did not think. Time stood still.

Then, as thought and breath forced their way upon my being, all sorrow sped loose. Sobs attacked with greedy vengeance and I flung myself upon my daughter’s limp frame. I clung to her, willing her to stay with me.

George’s strong arms encircled us both.

But to no avail.

No avail.

Part II. Our Glorious Cause

How can God be good?

How can God be right? For what is right and good about the death of my Patsy?

“Martha?”

I did not respond to our neighbour Sally, but allowed her to enter Patsy’s bedroom of her own accord. She closed the door with a gentle click and sat upon the bed beside me. She put a hand upon the yellow chintz dress I held in my lap.

“I have no words,” Sally said.

Good. Because there were none adequate.

“The funeral was . . .”

As with the death of a child, there were no words for the funeral either. Although we had just returned from the family vault which lay just a hundred yards south of the house, I had little recollection of the words offered by Reverend Massey. I had the vague notion that many of the slaves had come to pay their respects, and knew John Augustine’s family had been present, along with Eleanor, Miss Reed, and Sally and George William, but they were only dim shadows on the edge of my world. In truth, my world did not exist anymore. My world had died with my daughter.

Logically I knew I had a son, but Jacky was away at King’s College. A man. Removed from the realm of my existence.

I pulled the dress to my face, closed my eyes, and inhaled.
Ah! There she is!
My dear Patsy, who never caused me a moment’s trouble. A moment’s worry, yes, but the illness was not her fault, and if I could have bought it as
my
illness, I would have done so. If I could have died in her place, I would have gladly succumbed.

Suddenly, a thought . . . “I should have offered!”

“Offered what, Martha?”

I looked at Sally, having forgotten she was there. “Offered to die for her.”

Her forehead creased in confusion. “I am sorry, I don’t understand.”

The thought took firmer hold. How could I have been so blind? “If only I had offered my life for hers! If only I had prayed to God that He take
me
if someone needed to be taken.” I grabbed Sally’s hand. “I did not offer!”

She clasped my hand between hers. “Martha, dear lady, you cannot think in such a way. God does not take one life in return for another. Even if you would have offered, He would have declined. Patsy’s fate is her own, and though incomprehensible, unchangeable.”

I pulled my hand away.

“You and George did everything possible to cure her, to give her comfort and peace. You could not have done more. Don’t ever think such a thing.”

The tears intruded yet again. “I will always think I could have done more.”

Sally didn’t argue with me but put an arm around my shoulder and touched her head to mine.

*****

I heard their voices in the foyer. “Are you certain you would not like us to stay?”

George answered his brother. “I am certain. You take the others to Belvoir and have a nice dinner and evening there. Martha and I will be best here.”

I heard the door close and the sound of horses and carriage upon the drive.

We were alone.

For the first time since . . .

He entered the parlour, took a breath, and attempted a smile. “So.”

Why was it so hard for me to respond? George was taking great measures to comfort me. Friends, neighbours, and family also tried. They rallied round me with true love and compassion. The house was abustle with guests coming to offer condolences. Eleanor’s father and eldest sister had come to visit. They would take Eleanor and Miss Reed home in a few days. I did not relish their absence.

I feared the silence, and if I had owned the strength, I would have argued with George about his decision to send the others to Sally’s for the evening.
Don’t leave me! Don’t allow the quiet to encase me like a shroud.
Because in the quiet was solitude, and in the solitude, loneliness, and in the loneliness the void. The void that would never be filled.

George strolled beside my chair, brushing his hand against my cheek as he passed. I knew he didn’t know what to say. I knew his pain was severe, and I grieved I could be of no comfort to
him
. Should we not comfort each other?

I was incapable. A selfish grief enveloped me, held me captive, and would not let me free. Yet I felt it was my duty to offer the first words to bridge our privacy. “Has Jacky been notified?”

The relief at my utterance—of any words—was evident on my husband’s face. “I wrote to him.”

“Why has he not written back?”

George sat in the chair across from me. “There is reason. I have heard from the president of the college, Dr. Cooper, and he informed me that when my letter arrived—with its thick black seal—Jack had feared something was seriously wrong, and took the letter to Mr. Cooper to read
for
him. Dr. Cooper wrote that Jack’s response to us may be delayed because the shock was so severe.”

I put a hand to my face. “So I must worry about Jacky too.” It was not a question.

George came to me, kneeling at my feet. He took my hands in his and peered into my eyes. “If there is worry, we will do it together. Please let us do it together. I know there is no answer to the pain. And I know you have suffered more than your share of loss, but—”

I sat aright at his mention of something I had been considering. “Years ago I lost two children, then a husband, and yet the pain of Patsy’s passing cuts the deepest. Not that I did not grieve the others, but back then . . .” What I was to say might hurt him, and yet I needed to say it. “Back then I had prospects of a long life ahead of me. I thought there could be other children with another husband and—” I stopped myself from saying more.

He stood. “And there have been no more children.”

“No. There have not.” It was my turn to stand and take his hands. “I don’t understand why God has not blessed us with our own offspring. But it seems clear it is not His will to do so. A few days ago I was forty-two years old. I have long since realized it is not to be.” I put a hand upon his cheek. “So that is why I grieve so heartily for Patsy. She was, and is to be, my only living daughter. I wished to see her married with children of her own. I wished to grow old with those grandchildren around me. I . . . it is only proper I died before she.”

George took me into his arms, pressing my head against his chest.

His heart beat upon my ear, constant, strong.

And alive.

*****

Since grief knew me well, it settled in like it was visiting an old acquaintance.

Aggravating me. Pestering me. Punishing me.

I knew all the facets of its face intimately. The anger, the feeling of betrayal, the frustration, the hopelessness, the wistfulness, and the utter despondency.

Others tried to help. I could honestly say all that could be done to comfort me
was
done. George ordered mourning clothes and a ring for me that I could not imagine ever removing. Eleanor visited often, bringing along various members of her family. I found her to be a balm, a true blessing. That she was near the same age as my Patsy . . . though I believed I also filled a need within her. As one of ten children, I gave her attention she could not receive at home.

George even invited my mother to come live with us at Mount Vernon, and I knew it was not an empty invitation. He truly would have enjoyed having her with us. But Mother was happily ensconced in New Kent. And her health was not strong—she had never even visited us here—so I accepted her decision as best.

Jacky suggested we move to New York City and get away from this place which suffered so many memories. Surely being around people and the excitement of a city would offer plentiful diversions.

Crowds, noise, narrow streets, and filth. I could think of no place I would like less.

I thanked God I was not an idle woman, for while doing my work—the work that could not be deferred by time nor delegated to another—I found moments of release when I would not think on Patsy. But then the chore would end and the knowledge of her absence would flood over me and I would drown.

George was as wonderful as any husband could be. For three weeks George remained at home with me until the work demanded his attention. Then he invited me to join him on his daily rounds. At first I rejected the notion, but by his persistence, I often went with him. Some days it was a help. Some days . . .

George sat astride his horse, and I sat sidesaddle on my much smaller mare. We were far from the main house, riding from field to field, farm to farm, making certain all was going as planned. All were working. All was growing. I usually enjoyed George’s commentary on the progress of our plantation.

Usually.

George swept an arm from left to right. “We are rotating four crops to keep the soil fresh. Those who follow this practice usually do three, but I am experimenting with four, and may even try up to seven in seven years.” He put his arm down and rested it upon the horse’s withers. “The land must be nourished if it is to sustain itself. I am considering the use of manure to fertilize the crops. I have noticed its benefit in the areas where the animals—”

I could take no more. “I am sorry, George. I must . . .” I kicked a heel into the side of Arrow, and she sped away.

“Martha!”

I called over my shoulder. “I am fine!” I kissed my gloved fingers and lifted them into the air as my adieu.

Then I rode. And rode.

I had no destination but to be away. For everywhere I looked, every sound I heard, every aroma that reached my nostrils—good or foul—reminded me of Patsy. Since a tiny child, Mount Vernon had been her home. She had grown up there, and had delighted in its lush wonders that
I
could still experience, and she, could not. I had tried to create a haven for her, a safe place where she would thrive. That she had not . . . that she had not . . .

I pushed Arrow ever faster, the black of my mourning dress a stark contrast to her white coat. Although George and I often went riding, and though I found speed invigorating, I had not ridden like this since . . .

My mind returned to a time as a young girl when I had ridden a horse into my uncle’s house—and up the stairs. How I had laughed. And how I had earned the wrath of my family. I had been young and carefree—it had been before my marriage to Daniel, when I was sixteen.

Sixteen. Patsy had been sixteen. Only sixteen. Never beyond sixteen.

Tears assailed me and I rode even faster in hopes the wind would blow them from my cheeks. I rode past the slaves in the fields, past the overseer—who belatedly, in seeing it was me, tipped his hat—past fences, past . . . everything that could ever have been seen by Patsy. I needed to find some place she had never been, some place free of
her
.

I spotted a small path leading into the woods, pulled back on the reins to slow Arrow, and took it. Branches, untrimmed by our labours, accosted me rudely, forcing me to raise an arm in my own defense. The afternoon was darkened by a roof of limbs and leaves. A deer, frightened by my intrusion, pranced deeper into the forest. I slowed even more, realizing I was indeed the intruder and must show respect to the intrinsic serenity.

I spotted a clearing ahead and walked Arrow toward it, needing sky, needing light. The trees opened up and I dismounted—awkwardly, as I was used to George’s steady hands to set me to the ground. Arrow immediately took advantage and began eating the tall grasses and bountiful leaves. I took a deep breath and raised my face to the sky. It was vivid blue with clouds moving fast, as if on parade.

On impulse, I descended to the ground and stretched onto my back. I removed an offending stone from behind my ribs and cradled my head with my hands. Thus settled, the world appeared different. The sky was framed with green, as a portrait on a wall. The walls of trees surrounding me and the green of my bed below formed a continuous mass, an encasement holding me, folding round me like a baby’s bunting, making me feel secure and safe.

Here in the woods was a land untouched by man. This place belonged to its Creator and was therefore perfect and right. And I, lying in its midst . . .

I was a creation too. His creation.

Then I felt something—from the inside rather than out. An assurance. A hand upon my heart saying,
You belong to me and I to you.

New tears came, but from a different source than before. These tears sprang not from despair but from a poignant release. A tender relief. I was not alone. God was with me. And though I would never—ever—understand His ways, with the soft touch of His hand upon my heart I felt I could accept them as something beyond . . . everything.

And it was good. Somehow, it was good.

I lay there, purposefully embracing each new breath and letting it out, purposefully letting the feeling embrace me and comfort me and do its work upon me. I removed one hand from behind my head and raised it skyward, extending it toward the heavens, where God lived. And Patsy.

And though I knew it was not so, I seemed to feel the slightest pressure upon my fingers, as though my gesture was reciprocated, that contact had been made.

Suddenly . . . a raindrop. Then three. Eight. A fine rain began to fall from the clouded sky that held only patches of blue. And though I had never been one to allow a rain access, in this time, in this place, I remained on the grass and let it fall upon me. It was as though God were sending heavenly tears to keep my own company.

I closed my eyes and let us cry together.

And be cleansed.

*****

George strode from the house, his face heavy with worry. “Martha! Where did you go? I knew you needed time alone, but you were gone so long, and then the rain . . .”

Eustis held Arrow’s reins and George helped me dismount. As he put his hands upon my waist, my feeling of ease continued. God was with me and so was George.

He set me gently to the ground and looked down at my face. “You seem . . . different.”

“I am.”

“What happened upon your ride?”

“I found a way.”

He looked confused.

“A way to go on.”

I had no idea if the feeling would last, and feared the panic and pain would return often, and with intensity. At the present all I could do was live with
now
.