Washington's Lady (3 page)

He packed his supplies and donned his outerwear. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Custis.”

I saw him to the door, my mind reeling with the decision I had made. I had honestly intended to put a few items up for auction yet keep the majority. To have it be the other way around . . .

Without forethought, I ascended the stairs, realizing upon reaching the landing of my intention to start from the top and work my way down.

I opened the door of my father-in-law’s bedchamber and found my insides quickening, tightening, rebelling at being in the very presence of anything that had been owned, touched, and chosen by John Custis.

I had never entered this room. As John had died before our marriage, I never witnessed his presence here, and yet even after his death I had never wished to enter, as if by doing so I would reawaken the animosity and yea, even the evil its previous owner had so freely doled upon us.

I did not wish to enter now, so assigned the room to the auction block.

I moved on to the bedchamber where Daniel and I had oft stayed, and found myself smiling. This one room, which had seemed ours alone, held no memories of John Custis. With as quick a determination as I had made in John’s room, I made in this one: I would keep its contents in its entirety. I cared not that the dresser was not carved with the precision of the one in the master bedchamber. I cared not for quality at all, only for the sweet memories the space elicited.
Those
were of the highest quality indeed.

Leaving the sanctum of our room, I paused briefly in the room where our children had stayed. Yes, its contents could also be kept.

At the end of the hall, I opened the door to a small room. There was but one narrow window at its end, yet in the dimmer light I made out a mishmash of belongings, unneeded for the moment. And certainly unneeded by—

My eyes fell upon a cache of paintings, leaning against one wall. I flipped through the outer few, finding them to be portraits. Were these John’s ancestors? Certainly there were not any from his detested wife’s side of the family. Except for taking over his wife’s Parke fortune, John Custis had wholly wiped them from his conscience.

Now it was my turn to return the favor.

I left the room, willing the contents to the auction. It seemed cold, giving away portraits of those who had come before. And yet . . . there were no familial ties between these people and my children. John Custis was never a grandfather to them. That he died before they were born would not have changed that fact. I could not imagine his ever being a true grandfather, ever bending down with open arms to have grandchildren run into his loving embrace.

With a softer heart I thought of my own father, who had been the ideal grandfather. All four of my children had cuddled in his arms, fallen asleep against his shoulder, and bounced upon his knees. That he was now gone . . .
that
was a tragedy.

One of many.

My children had known one grandfather and one grandmother, both bearing the Dandridge name. They had no bond to this side of the family at all. If it were not the penchant of the Parke-Custis family to embrace conflict, their father would have been a happier man.

In fact, if not for their inherent strain and stress (which they shared with great generosity), he might still have been alive.

Anger accompanied me as I descended the stairs to the public floor. I made quick work of the parlour’s contents, finding no desire to sit where my father-in-law had sat, or prod a fire with a poker he had touched.

In the dining room, my eyes were immediately drawn to the window’s ledge, where coloured wine bottles were displayed in a line. I remembered Daniel explaining that his father had collected handblown bottles and took great stock in them. He had even ordered some made for himself, having his seal set into the glass. They
did
sparkle nicely in the sunlight . . .

I found myself admiring the floral china in the hutch, certainly brought at great expense from England. Its delicate painting must have come from his wife’s side of the family. I could not imagine the stubby fingers of John Custis ever holding so fine a teacup.

Next to the china were a set of sixteen wineglasses. I held one to the light. It was not European made, but of fine quality nonetheless.

I set it back, realizing that, most likely, the glasses had never been used. We had never used them, so who . . . my father-in-law had no friends. Friendship was a phenomenon requiring affection and determination. It required a deftness of careful effort. It required giving, listening, and being emotionally and even spiritually intertwined, one with another. It involved caring. These were all attributes that had died in John Custis long before his death—if they had ever been present.

I closed the doors on the hutch and saw some delft tea bowls on a serving cart. I studied one and realized it was rare and exceedingly fine.

These have value. I shall keep them.

Cruel memories interrupted my thoughts: John Custis disparaging the Dandridge family in the streets of Williamsburg. Our family name was of the greatest value.

I thought of Daniel’s life, taken too soon because of the browbeating and the unmerciful, vicious attacks by the owner of these rare bowls. Daniel’s life was of the greatest value.

And these valuable bowls . . .

Suddenly I grabbed the bowls and set them on the cloth covering the dining table. I reopened the hutch and removed the sixteen wineglasses, adding them to the lot. And last, I emptied the windowsill of my father-in-law’s wine bottles. They clinked and clanked against the porcelain and glasses, falling down upon each other in a most discourteous manner. My lifelong dictum to “be careful lest they break” was put to the test as I gathered the four corners of the tablecloth and slung the heavy load upon my shoulder.

I heard breakage.

I ignored it and moved toward my destination.

Awkwardly I opened the back door but had to drop my load upon its step, my shoulder rebelling at the weight.

More breakage. Fueled by the sound, I lifted and dropped the bundle again and again from higher heights, then lower, shaking it in between. The pitch of the breakage rose as the pieces grew smaller.

My heart pounded, my breath was labored. And yet I smiled.

I carried the burden through my father-in-law’s beloved garden to the well nearby. I let it drop to the ground beside it, the tablecloth opening to reveal the inner destruction. One bowl had escaped. This would not do.

I plucked it from its victory, leaned o’er the well, and tossed it against the stone side. I welcomed its splintering. It fell into the water far below.

I spotted a bottle where my father-in-law’s seal accosted me. These bottles had been created and filled at his commission, and he had been vain enough to have them apply a seal sporting the Custis coat of arms.

It mocked me. He mocked me. He cared more about wine and gardens than his own family . . .

I found a sharp pebble at the foot of the well and scraped it across the seal till it was unintelligible.

You’re being childish.

With fresh ferocity I tossed the bottle into the well and relished the
pluop
sound when it met the water below.

Looking upon the rest of my handiwork, convinced by inspection that not a single piece was whole, I lifted the tablecloth to the edge of the well, held the outer corners, and let the pieces fall away. I shook the cloth, making sure the water would get its full offering.

As a final gesture, I let the cloth follow its booty, watching it flutter and float to its death in the dark depths below.

I stood at the well a moment, leaning over its cavern, my breathing constrictive within my corset. I thought of saying something vile and biting into the well—one last adieu to a man who had never done good for anyone.

But I held my tongue.

For I knew the well would echo my words back at me. I could not risk it.

Instead I plucked a pink rose from a bush, drew in its heady fragrance, and left the premises, locking the door behind me.

*****

“I think that is a grand idea,” I told my brother Bartholomew.

He looked surprised. “I really do not need so elegant a house, Martha. I only wished to let one that was better than the flat where I currently live but—”

“I am very glad to have you rent Six Chimneys,” I said.

Very happy indeed.

My father-in-law’s public condemnation of our family returned to my ears:
“I would rather throw all my possessions into the street than have the daughter of John Dandridge have them.”

He never said anything about the
son
of John Dandridge.

I waited until the door to Daniel’s study—now my study—clicked shut. Then I said the words I had been aching to say: “Good riddance!”

Elias Finch, the overseer at White House, had just left my presence. If I were a man, I might have kicked him out. Perhaps I should have done so even amid my petticoats. Such a sight might have grabbed his attention, forcing him to take notice, to take me as seriously as he ought.

I had heard rumours of his cruelty toward the slaves. His drunkenness. The fervor needed to accomplish the work of a large plantation could be misguided. I had often overheard Daniel chastising the overseers, trying to get them to recognize that pushing too hard, or exacting too harsh a punishment, would only lead to runaways, or even worse, a revolt. Productivity could not be won at the cost of common sense and safety.

Did I reach Mr. Finch through my attempts? As a woman I had so little recourse. I had no masculine physical presence with which to threaten—and at but five feet in height, I had little physical presence of any means. I could only cajole and urge strongly through words.

Was I successful?

Time would tell.

Time . . . I had too little of it. Between my household duties, the children, and the added duties which had been Daniel’s, I had nary a moment to eat, let alone have a thought that was not linked to some ought-to or must-do.

What I ought to do is sleep. Perhaps just a moment . . .

I leaned on the desk and rested my head upon my arms.

*****

“Ma’am? Mistress Custis?”

I opened my eyes and sat erect in a single movement. Cully, our butler, stood on the other side of the desk. I pressed a hand against my hair. “Yes. What is it?”

“Mr. Carter is here to see you.”

Charles Carter. I had known him most of my life. He was from a wealthy Virginia family and was an esteemed member of the governing body, the House of Burgesses. His father (Robert “King” Carter—who earned that derisive title through aggressive action) owned three hundred thousand acres and over a thousand slaves.

Charles was . . . interested in me.

As a woman.

As a wife.

He had sent word he would be visiting, but in my busyness, I had forgotten. I wondered how many days he would stay. Distances were too great not to linger.

Especially when one had good motive to delay.

I pushed back from the desk and stood. “Send him in.” I pressed my hands against the folds of my dress to ease them into place and pushed my corset downward so I could breathe. Presently, Charles appeared, the sage brocade of his coat a pleasing complement to the deep green of his waistcoat and breeches. He looked the essence of the upcoming spring.

I ached for spring. Renewal. Hope. New beginnings.

He bowed and I offered a curtsy. “Nice to see you, Mr. Carter.”

“I have stayed away too long. Let me just say . . . I do not mean to begin our conversation on such a sad note, but I do feel it incumbent . . .” He studied his fingernails. “I was sorry to hear of the death of your sister Frances. She was but fourteen?”

“Thirteen,” I said. “Too young.” First my baby Frances, and more recently my sister of that name . . . “Will you please sit down?” I rang the bell and asked Mirella for tea and scones. I was not certain of the hour. How long had I slept? I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly one in the afternoon.

Charles pointed at my timepiece. “How unusual.”

“Daniel had it made for me. A well-run house runs on time.” I rose to show it to him. “See how the numbers are absent, and in their place the letters of my name.”

“Martha Custis. Just enough,” he said.

“Just.”

“’Tis always advantageous to know how time passes.”

I was not convinced he was correct. For when one grieved too much, time passed too quickly. Could I ever win such a race?

He squirmed upon his chair. I knew why he was sitting before me. He had made it clear in other meetings and through correspondence since. And though I had not answered him plainly before this time,
at
this time I was ready to—

“You know why I have come?” he asked.

I was shocked by his directness. Yet perhaps it was best. He
had
proposed at least twice before in his life. He had experience. Two wives now dead and buried.

“I do know,” I said.

“Would you do me the honour of being my wife, Martha?”

I was glad he had not knelt before me, for ’twas far easier to reject him with space between us. Perhaps he feared his elderly knees would not make the gesture gracefully. He was twenty-four years older than I.

“I am sorry, Mr. Carter, but I cannot.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Whyever not?”

Because you are an old man, because you have twelve children—nine girls and three boys. The eldest daughter is nearly my age, already married with a child of her own . . . you are a grandfather. And your father is at least as tyrannical as was John Custis. I will not willingly enter in with tyrants.

To his face I was more diplomatic. “I am not yet ready to love a second time.”

He opened his mouth to speak, and I stared at him, daring him to say love was of no import to him—as in truth, I believed it was not. The man required a mother for his vast family. Although I adored children, I had no wish to voluntarily take on a dozen. All at once. I wished to have my own. With a man nearer my own age who at least had a fighting chance of being there, of helping me bring them into adulthood.

I stood. “How long will you be staying with us at White House, Mr. Carter?”

He blinked, clearly flustered. But then he rose to his feet and said, “Why, I . . . I have business in Williamsburg. It is best I press on.”

“I understand,” I said. I held out my hand. He kissed it, nodded his good-bye, and left.

I looked at the door and waited for regret to reach me.

It did not.

Good.

One down. Many to go.

Being the wealthiest widow in Virginia was not an easy occupation. Mr. Carter was not the first to show his intentions, nor would he be the last. In many ways my position was one to be envied. There was only one richest anything, and among Virginia widows, that title was mine.

Yet attached to the position were obstacles. With women still in the minority in the colonies—with many succumbing to death through childbirth—our gender was in high demand. It was the norm to marry two or three times within a lifetime. As far as being a woman with a fortune? I was expected to remarry in a timely manner.

Although my friends and family had introduced me to dozens of eligibles who, in theory, might have been perfect for me, I had no interest in any of them. I owed it to Daniel to marry prudently, to someone who would appreciate, not decimate, his family fortune. And I owed it to myself to marry someone my own age, someone I could love and adore, someone I could partner with in every way. Someone who could give me my own new babies to love.

I sat at the desk once again, the papers of the estate before me. Yes, I was weary of handling everything alone. Yes, I longed for the companionship and mere conversation of a man I could love. It was lonely here at White House. I was surrounded by my children and servants, but with Daniel gone there was no adult to talk with, to confide in, to advise me.

Yes, I was ready to marry. But not to just anyone. The right one. I prayed God—I trusted God—would bring him to me.

Soon.

*****

I was more than happy to attend the afternoon social at the Chamberlaynes’ home. The Chamberlaynes were dear friends. Richard and his wife, Mary, lived at Poplar Grove, just west of White House. Richard’s brother Edward and his wife, Rebecca, also lived on the property, as did their sister Elizabeth, who, though twenty-three, was still unmarried. I had gone to school with Elizabeth and her sister Anne. Alas, Anne had died in childbirth two years previous. In an irony of our little community, a year later my dearest sister, Anna Maria (whom I called Nancy) married Anne’s widower. I had not been able to attend their wedding, as I had just given birth to my Patsy, but their marriage further bound our two families. And because of this bond, I was eager for both me and the children to be in the presence of such lifelong acquaintances and their guests.

The family home at Poplar Grove (and a large warehouse on the property) was faced with a brick that always impressed me with its permanence and stability. It was so different from the white clapboard used on my childhood home at Chestnut Grove and our current home at White House. The brick laughed at our Virginia’s variable weather. Even though it was a more expensive prospect due to the labor-intensive work of the brickmaking, there were obviously advantages, to say nothing of the status of owning a brick home. Six Chimneys in Williamsburg was made of brick . . .

My thoughts soon left issues of architecture and genealogy behind as we were enveloped in the hospitality of our neighbours. In the warm springtime, all the children ran off to play as we adults enjoyed some refreshing lemonade and animated conversation. For a while I was able to forget the dictates and responsibilities of White House and just be a young woman. It was a joy I thoroughly embraced.

But then an unexpected visitor came to call. I had met the dapper Colonel Washington at various soirees in Williamsburg and, of course, had heard tales of his heroism fighting the French and Indians out west. Those western borders were held precariously. I had heard Daniel speak of horrendous violations endured by many of the brave settlers. I had also read portions of a journal Colonel Washington had written about his exploits. Apparently it had been published on both continents.

We gathered in the foyer to receive this new guest. I had not remembered him to be quite so striking. He stood well over six feet, towering over me and the other ladies—and even most of the men. His torso was sturdy, his hands and feet enormous. His hair held a reddish cast and was pulled into a ribbon. His nose was large, his eyes a pale blue. The only weakness about him was his face, which was a bit gaunt and pale as though he may have been ill of late, and scarred, most likely from a bout of the smallpox.

“I am so sorry to intrude, Richard,” he said to our host. “But when Bishop and I found ourselves at William’s Ferry, I thought of you and . . .”

Richard patted him on the back. “You came to visit, as you should have.”

A servant took the colonel’s hat. Richard turned to the rest of the party and made introductions. Most had met under previous circumstances, and sincere greetings were made amongst the circle. We moved back into the parlour, and Richard relinquished his chair to Washington, taking another for himself.

“So, George. Tell us, what news of the war?” Richard asked.

Richard’s wife, Mary, had other concerns. “Enough, my dear. Let George get a breath in first. You do not look well, George.”

The colonel’s blush was a welcome addition to his pallid complexion. “I have suffered for months from . . . a delicate complaint.”

By his hesitation I made my own conclusions. It was most likely dysentery, the bloody flux that was often the bane of soldiers forced to eat and drink in the wild.

“I was in Williamsburg seeking the aid of a physician there, for I can brook no more of it.” He scanned our faces. “I detest being of no use.”

“Never!” said Edward, our other host.

A servant appeared at the edge of the room. “Dinner is ready, mistress.”

Mary rose. “Shall we?”

*****

“You did not partake freely,” I told the colonel as he and I returned to the parlour after our afternoon dinner.

“Not for want of its deliciousness,” he said. He waited until I sat before taking a chair nearby. “I am careful to eat prudently until I am completely cured.”

“May that be soon.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Custis.”

Our heads turned toward the entrance to the room as we heard the double doors being pulled shut. I caught a glimpse of a grinning Mary before the doors closed.

“It appears we are being manipulated,” I said. “Please forgive Mary. She—”

“Truly, I do not mind,” he said. Then he hesitated. “Do you?”

It was time for me to blush. “No, I do not.” I did not say so to flatter him but because I did appreciate his company. He was a fine conversationalist, and as dinner had progressed, I’d found myself drawn to him in a way that was most . . . intriguing.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “Your husband was a fine man.”

“Thank you. The eight months since have been arduous. Busy and arduous.”

“A great plantation is not meant to be run by one, alone.”

“You speak from experience, Colonel?”

“Certainly not to your extent. I rent a small plantation called Mount Vernon from my brother’s widow. It is on the banks of the Potomac.”

“How far?”

“One hundred twenty miles, to the north and some west,” he said.

“A goodly distance. Add another twenty-five miles to Williamsburg and—”

“The distance is gladly traveled, especially in the direction of home. Although business with the militia and the army often takes me to see the governor in Williamsburg, I find the distance far shorter in the return direction.”

I smiled. “The place draws you back?”

“Draws me home.” He moved to the outer portion of his chair, his eyes bright. “It’s as though the land and I share the same blood and sinew, and neither one is complete in absence of the other.”

“Does the land share this opinion?”

“I can only assume it does, because under my care it thrives.”

“You both thrive, one with the other.”

“Indeed.”

He looked toward the fire, which had been stoked for our benefit against the cool spring evening. “I have many plans for Mount Vernon. The war has taken me away, and it has suffered in the absence of . . . of . . .”

“Someone who loves it?”

“I have lost livestock, outbuildings have crumbled, and the crops were not brought in to prime amount. And the house . . . I am having the roof raised and a second story built.”

“The roof raised? How does one accomplish such a feat?”