Washington's Lady (21 page)

The white pew boxes were full with the members of the House of Burgesses, their wives, family, and others who wished to partake of this important day. I nodded to our friends as we passed to our box near the cross aisle and slid in, with George coming after. The mood was dignified. There was no shaking of hands or talking. Only a nod here and there in passing.

I had heard Reverend Mr. Gwatkin had been chosen to give the sermon with Reverend Mr. Price to offer the prayers, but the former declined due to a disorder in his breast—but he did write the sermon for Reverend Price to offer us in his stead. I did not question his ailment especially since it would be his words we were to hear—and yet, seeing as how Reverend Gwatkin was the tutor for Lord Dunmore’s oldest son . . . I was certain a portion of his ailing breast might have been due to torn feelings regarding the direction of common sentiments toward the mother country.

I imagined torn feelings were rampant in the minds and hearts of most colonists, and would continue to be so.

Once all were settled, Reverend Price stepped to the pulpit, opened the Bible, and began: “Today I speak from Genesis. Abraham stands before God asking about the Almighty’s plan to destroy the wicked towns of Sodom and Gomorrah. ‘Wilt thou also destroy the righteous with the wicked?’ Abraham asked the Almighty. God said, ‘I will not destroy it for ten’s sake.’”

Reverend Price closed the Bible and swept a hand across the room. “We are more than ten gathered here. More than ten righteous people who wish to uphold the attributes and blessings that have made America prosper for one hundred fifty years. Now, when our hard work is being threatened, we must stand firm. We must not let evil conduct quash all that has been accomplished with God’s help. Our brothers in Boston have been forced to action against an oppressive tyranny. Miles away, we empathize with their fight, support them with provisions and capital, and pray for them with our whole hearts. With humble supplication we pray that the will of the Almighty will prevail, the oppression of our present will be subdued, and the peace and prosperity of our past will be reinstated with His blessing.”

Amen.

“Sold! To Mr. Washington.”

From the seat beside him, I shook my head.

“I know, I know. But you and I have seen Sally use that serving cart a hundred times.”

“But we don’t need a serving cart,” I whispered.

Or a mahogany shaving desk, wash desk or tallboy, a set of dining room chairs, a gilt mirror or . . .

Our dear friends the Fairfaxes were not returning from England. The uneasiness of the colonies held no appeal, and since they were no longer the agent to Lord Fairfax, they were not comfortable in America. So . . . the Fairfaxes had left Fairfax County for good, leaving George to auction off their property.

That he had bid on many pieces of Sally’s personal furniture was of interest.

Not that I had failed to recover from any jealousy I felt regarding the bond they shared in their youth—before he met me. Yes, I had seen the ember of a spark even after we were wed, but I was also certain it had never been fanned into a flame. A person cannot help feeling an attraction toward another, but they can implement self-control and honour to never act upon that attraction. I believed, with my whole heart, George never acted in anyway untoward. As friends have said, he was the master of himself.

George leaned toward me, discreetly pointing to the front of the room. “Would you like that cloisonné vase? Sally often had it on the mantel.”

Actually . . . “Certainly,” I said. For Sally and George William did have exquisite taste. And Sally was my friend also.

A friend I missed.

As the disagreements between England and her colonies grew, how many other friends would I lose to political loyalty?

“Sold!” said the auctioneer, holding up the vase. “Again, to Mr. Washington.”

And his wife.

*****

Our guests were to bed and we were on our way toward that same location. As George washed his face and arms at the washstand—Sally’s washstand—I took the coat he had worn at dinner and hung it upon its hook.

A letter fell from the pocket.

My first reaction was not worthy of me—or George. But first reactions seldom are. My first reaction was to think he had kept a letter from Sally, and because she had been on our mind of late . . .

As penance for my unwarranted thought, I picked up the letter and took it to my husband. “Here,” I said, holding it toward him. “This fell from your pocket.”

He gave it but a glance, then said, “Open it. It is from Jack.”

“It’s not one I have read?”

“No,” George said while drying his face. “It was sent directly to me.” He nodded toward the letter. “Please.”

I opened it and read:
I am at a great loss of words to tell you the level of esteem I hold for you. You have been my father in every way. I have nothing but affection and regard, both of which I possess in the highest degree for you. I shall strenuously endeavour by my future conduct to merit a continuance of your regard and esteem.

I heard George’s laughter. “You are surprised?”

“I am stunned. The boy . . . to have him express his feelings so eloquently.” I folded the letter and handed it back to him. “It makes me proud.”

“Why do you think I carry it with me?” He crossed to the armoire and placed the letter in the pocket of the coat he would wear tomorrow. That done, he faced me. “Although I did not agree to their marriage at first, I must admit it might be the best thing that could have happened to our Jack.”

I put a hand to my chest, feigning this additional shock.

“Do not make fun of me, Martha.”

“I
will
make fun of you. But note I am pleased by your acceptance. I have but one question.”

“What is that?”

“Since, in your frustration at having to give in to the arguments put forth by myself and my family regarding the children’s marriage—”

“Pressure. Steady, relentless pressure.”

I shrugged. “Since you allowed your frustration to be played out in a new project of adding additional wings to our house here at Mount Vernon, I was wondering . . . since you now agree with us in all entirety, since your frustration at not getting your way is abated . . . are you going to tear down the new wings? For they are no longer needed for their original purpose.”

He slipped under the bed’s coverlet. “I did not build the wings because I did not get my way. I would not—”

“You would. And you often do.” I got into bed beside him. “There is merit in directing such feelings into new projects. I do not fault you. I was just wondering if your zeal to build would continue without its source.”

He blew out the candle.

*****

As spring progressed into summer and then into fall, we all came to terms with one fact: times were changing and there was little we could do to stop it. It was not a matter of fighting or not fighting, as Britain continued to change the rules and show themselves increasingly intolerant and aggressive. They sent more soldiers to Boston, tried to make us accept taxation by making comparisons between how much we were taxed versus their citizens at home (they
did
suffer worse than we) and then refused to let soldiers who fought in the war against France claim the land in western Virginia, as promised. Our mother country showed itself to be a bully and dishonourable to her word, forcing us to action—or to fall down in surrender.

If she thought we would do the latter, she did not know her children well. Although we began by offering action as individual colonies, we soon came to see the only way to beat a bully was to band together. And so, when our compatriots in Massachusetts called a meeting of all the colonies—a Continental Congress—George became a delegate for Virginia along with six others, including Patrick Henry and our neighbor Edmund Pendleton. Before heading off to the meeting in Philadelphia, these men came for a visit at Mount Vernon.

I was happy to do my part in providing them a safe haven to discuss the issues that plagued us. The pressure upon their shoulders to act, and act wisely and prudently, was enormous. If I could offer them solace with good meals, warm beds, and a homey environment, then I was wont to do so. If only I could do more.

When it came time for them to leave the next morning, I stood outside to see them off. I felt tears threaten as these men—with so much to lose—were heading off with a willingness to sacrifice everything for the sake of a better life for us all.

And George . . . sitting tall in his saddle, his chin set with a deep-rooted determination to do his best. I trusted him above all men. If anyone could help us weave our way through this horrid gauntlet, it was he.

“Thank you, Mrs. Washington,” said Patrick Henry.

“Yes, thank you,” added Edmund. “Your hospitality and graciousness are a balm to our troubled souls.”

“I am happy to do it,” I said. “I hope you will stand firm. I know George will.” I stepped back to let them begin their journey. “God be with you, gentlemen.”

I watched until I could see them no more, then said a silent prayer for their journey and their objective.

It would be but one of many.

*****

I sat at the dining table with George’s cousin, Lund, going over issues of the plantation.

Lund read through some meticulous notes he had kept for George’s benefit until he returned from the Continental Congress. “George had said he would like the bricklayer’s house moved several hundred yards to the east. He believes it will be more efficient at that location. So I have moved it two hundred fifty yards and . . .” His voice trailed off “Your mind is not on bricks, Martha, nor much else other than George, I would guess.”

I nodded. “It has been difficult to know that serious issues are being attended to in Philadelphia and only learn about them secondhand from newspapers and letters from George.” I reached over the table and put a hand on Lund’s. “You have been invaluable to us both—as usual.”

“I am glad to help.”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Although the running of Mount Vernon has kept me busy in hand these six weeks, it has not done as much for my mind.” I looked toward the window.

“He will be home soon.

“None too soon.”

*****

The winds of November blew hard and cold.

I didn’t care.

George was home again.

Yet after our initial greeting on the morning he arrived, his time had been diverted to the must-dos of the plantation. Lund had his ear most of the day, and though I resented their companionship, I understood the need of it. I would have my time alone with him. Eventually.

It was dark evening before I had my chance. George found me sitting before the fire in the parlour. He entered and closed the door behind him.

If it could have been bolted, I would have done so just to ensure his continued presence. He moved behind my chair and kissed my head. I raised my hand to gain his and we remained there a moment like two connected subjects sitting for a portrait.

When I heard him sigh, I said, “So? Tell me.”

“We have made an effort.”

“A valiant one, no doubt.”

He moved to the fire and poked it to new flame. “We
all
have borne so much. We have long and ardently sought for reconciliation upon honourable terms. Yet it has been denied us. All our attempts after peace have not only proved abortive but have been grossly misrepresented. We have done everything that could be expected from the best of subjects, but the spirit of freedom beats too high for us to submit to slavery.”

I took a deep breath. “There is no choice but rebellion.”

He shook his head. “None of the colonies will ever submit to the loss of the valuable rights and privileges that are essential to happiness. Without them, life, liberty, and property are rendered totally insecure.” He looked from the fire to my eyes. “More blood will be spilt on this occasion than has ever yet been recorded in the annals of North America.”

I found my hand resting upon my bodice. “There will be war?”

“We are halting all imports from England December 1, and if Britain does not repeal the Intolerable Acts, we will cease all exports next year.”

“We are cutting ourselves off.”

“We are taking a stand against their tyranny. And yet . . . we went to the Congress with no sense of unity—feeling wary, timid, and skittish of each other. We went believing the rebels of Massachusetts were hotheads.”

“But now?”

“We have made every attempt to think and act as one.” He sat in the chair next to mine. “We are warning the people to prepare for a fight. We must not be caught unawares. We must support Massachusetts as one unit.”

“It is a new concept.”

He nodded. “And one that is still confused in its intent. Ironically, before parting we gathered for one last dinner and toasted our England.” He raised an arm in a mock toast. “‘To His Majesty, King George. May the sword of the parent never be stained by the blood of its children.’”

“Thirteen brothers rising up against their parent.”

“We do not wish it so. But we must receive some consolation. We have asked the crown to remove its military presence from Boston. If they will agree, then . . .”

“They will not agree.”

His shoulders dropped. “It is doubtful.”

The thought of fighting. I shuddered and turned conversation to the personal. “How did
you
fare at the Congress?”

“I listened more than I spoke.”

“As you do.”

He smiled. “Patrick Henry told me if one wanted eloquence, Mr. Rutledge of South Carolina was the greatest orator, but if one wanted solid information and sound judgment, I was the greatest man on that floor.”

“Bravo, my dear.”

“Of course he also said my thinking was slow in operation.” He cleared his throat and changed his voice to match Henry’s. “‘Being little aided by invention or imagination, but sure in conclusion.’”

“How dare he!”

George shrugged. “I took no offense. Henry may be brusque in manner, but he is right in content. Where he attends the Congress to impress and raise people to action, I feel no need to impress. I attended to learn. You know I do best debating issues one on one. I do not feel at ease before large groups.”

“You manage well enough.”

“It helps if I know my audience personally. I made great effort to get to know every delegate. A fine group of men they are, though disparate in opinion. Most delegates from Pennsylvania and New York came with instructions to find resolution with England, while the other colonies are less loyal to the mother country, but in varying degrees. ’Tis like getting a yard full of chickens to agree on which seed to pluck from the ground—and when.” He nodded once. “By the by, our own Virginian Peyton Randolph was elected president of the entire Congress.”

“A good choice?”

“Absolutely, though they are all able men. Men of great interest and bearing.”

“Any man in particular?”

“Actually, yes. John Adams. An attorney and planter from Massachusetts. Where I listen, he is happy to speak—more than he should at times.”

I wondered more about this man. “Is he married?”

“Very much so. His wife is Abigail and seems very much involved in the Cause. They have five children. He talked much about them.”

I felt a twinge of jealousy—for the prodigious children and for Abigail’s involvement. For the one I had no cure, and as to the other . . . I was as involved as I could be considering the distance involved.

George sat back in the chair and I watched his shoulders relax. “John and I make quite the pair. He is—by his own words—short, thick, and fat with a voice wont to boom where mine tends to softness. Our friends laughed at our disparity, and feared we would suffer great arguments between us.”

“This did not happen, I assume?”

“It did not. I enjoyed him immensely, as I believe he enjoyed me. For one thing, he impressed me, for he has the education I lack. He went to Harvard.”

After our experience with Jacky’s aborted education, I knew the tenaciousness and strength of character required to earn a degree.

“John countered my admiration with his own appreciation of my soldiering abilities. Apparently he feels guilty for not fighting against the French. He also is quite in awe of our land. Our forty thousand acres compared to his forty.”