Mount Vernon Love Story Read online

  A sigh escaped George as he read the letter. Like a cool refreshing breeze blowing away the cloying heat of the day, the letter erased the frantic restlessness, the oppressive emotions of the past weeks. George sat down at the desk, smoothed the note out in front of him, and reached for pen and paper. He frowned in concentration as he tried to remember exactly the inventory of his present furnishings and what new pieces he had ordered from his agent.

  In his meditation he forgot that the mail had brought no letter from Sally. He even forgot that he had been so anxiously awaiting one. His mood was no longer of torment or anxiety but anticipation and planning. He dipped his pen into the ink and quickly began to write:

  “My Dearest Patsy . . .”

  March 4, 1797

  9 P.M.

  Philadelphia

  NEARLY THREE HUNDRED GUESTS WERE present at the farewell dinner. It was held at Rickett’s Amphitheater and preparations were elaborate. The majority of the assemblage gathered at the Oeller’s Hotel next door then marched into the amphitheater to the tune of “Washington’s March.”

  George could feel Patsy’s quiet pride in this final ceremony honoring him. For his part he could only want to get it over. His mind was racing ahead—the serious packing could at last begin in the morning. How many days would it take to finish the task? Three, four, not more than that surely.

  Nelly was lovely, her hair piled on her head, her shoulders and neck creamy above her low-cut formal gown. Already so many young men hovered around her but she disdained them all. Well, give her time. He was in no rush to lose her. He and Patsy liked having the young people around.

  He had heard rumors of a surprise that would be exhibited that night, but he wasn’t prepared for the magnificent painting of himself that was unveiled. It was a transparency by Charles Peale. George liked Peale’s work well, and this portrayed himself in a full-length portrait. It wasn’t a bad likeness either and heaven knows he usually didn’t care for portraits of himself. He did not consider vanity one of his cardinal sins but he did feel that most of his portraits gave him a stiff unbending expression that he honestly didn’t consider typical. Of course the damnable teeth that had plagued him all his life were first in his mind when he was being sketched and maybe that self-conscious look was a tribute to the artist’s skill.

  Patsy didn’t think so. Patsy always sighed that it was a real pity no artist existed who could properly catch the man he was. She was studying the picture and as he glanced at her she squeezed his hand. “My old man,” she murmured, so softly that it would have been impossible for another ear except his to catch the phrase.

  In the Peale painting the figure “Fame” was holding a laurel wreath over George’s head. There were surrounding characters which someone explained symbolized the gratitude of the people.

  In the background of the picture Peale had drawn Mount Vernon. George felt a flash of amusement. If the entire piece was a little too sentimental for his taste, he felt real gratitude that Peale had so successfully caught the dreamlike loveliness of Mount Vernon.

  Then the moment of humor passed and George realized it had only been a camouflage for deep feeling. How kind this assemblage was, how kind the planning and execution of this tribute. There were many who would rejoice with journalist Bache that his administration was at an end, but there were more, many more who would believe that he had done his best.

  He realized that he heartily wished his mother might have been here to share this tribute. God knows there were not many times in his adult life when he’d felt a longing for her presence, but he did know she’d be pleased at this. Long ago he’d told her that he would attempt to live up to her family motto, and the Ball family had chosen a lofty one: “Aspire to the Heavens.”

  Dinner followed the unveiling. Not dinner, really, but a feast. George looked around the crowded table. So many of the people here would be passing from his life forever. Ambassadors changed, elected officials went home, either by their own volition or by the will of the public—surely no society was as flexible as the one consisting of public officials. Many of these people had been guests at the Executive Mansion scores of times. Some few would undoubtedly find their way down the Potomac to visit him again but for the most part this was a real farewell.

  He picked up his knife and fork. Under the touch of melancholy a vibrant exultation began surging like a charge of energy through him. When he and Patsy finished eating, they could decently withdraw. He might even be able to spend an hour or two sorting his papers tonight. If Lear had gotten the crates out, he might even do some actual packing.

  It was not much later that he touched Patsy’s arm. “My dearest?” Her nod was almost imperceptible. But it answered two questions. No, it was not too early to withdraw. Yes, she was quite ready to leave.

  When they stood up to go, the assemblage rose to its feet. The band immediately played and applause and music mingled in the chamber.

  Once in the carriage they both leaned back and sighed. “I hear they have a very stirring toast to make for you,” Patsy said. She frowned in concentration. “It goes like this: ‘May the evening of your life be as happy as its morning and meridian have been gloriously useful.’ Jefferson told me that that was the one selected after many were offered. I think it quite lovely and most appropriate.”

  “The evening of my life will be gloriously useful these next few days,” George commented. “Patsy, I really dread the preparations for this move. We seem to have accumulated so much. The carriages will break under the weight of all that we’re taking with us to Mount Vernon.”

  The coachman turned the horses into the driveway of the Executive Mansion. As the carriage swayed, Patsy leaned against him and then lingered an instant against his shoulder. “You used exactly the same words to me on another journey,” she reminded him. “Can you remember which one?”

  The carriage stopped and Christopher was already waiting to open the door. George paused before descending. “Most certainly, I can,” he replied calmly. He got out of the carriage and reached his hands up to assist her. “It was in the spring of ’59 when I brought the new Mrs. Washington and her children to Mount Vernon for the first time.”

  January 6, 1759

  The White House

  THEY WERE MARRIED ON JANUARY 6, 1759. Somehow he survived—but survive wasn’t the word at all, of course. Maybe it described his coping with the incredible number of people, the festivities, the awkward business of being the center of attention at an affair which had no element of familiarity. He’d gladly face another Monongahela ambush instead.

  But the ceremony itself was quite different. Patsy again reminded him of Betty’s childhood doll as she stood beside him. Even with her hair piled high on her head, she barely approached his shoulder. She wore a yellow brocade dress that parted to reveal a silver-and-white petticoat, violet silk slippers, and pearls. He wore his dress uniform of blue and scarlet. When they exchanged their vows, he was able to forget the assemblage and the fact that he simply could not speak in public; he realized only that her eyes had that wonderful mixture of happiness and gentle concern for him—maternal and child-like—how could a woman mix those ingredients?

  Afterward the party went on for hours. The governor himself attended and half the legislature. George groaned when he realized that the White House was bursting with overnight guests. But finally they were able to slip upstairs. Before they went to their chamber, they stopped to look at the sleeping children. Patsy kissed both foreheads and he almost followed her example but decided against it. God forbid Jacky should wake up at that point.

  Then the door of the bedroom closed and they were alone. Alone. He felt that some move, some gesture was surely expected of him. He felt quite simply frozen and for the first time since he was sixteen hopelessly aware of his great height.

  And, of course, Patsy understood. She came over to him and said casually, “I told my maids not to wait up for me. Will you . . .? Fumbling and awkward, he unhooked the clasps that
held her necklace.

  Then she turned to him and her smile was gentle and loving. “Was it such a terrible ordeal for you?” A decanter was on the table by the fireplace. She poured the pale sherry into two glasses and handed one to him. Settling in one of the fireside chairs, she slipped off her pumps. “My poor old man.” At her affectionate tone he tentatively sat in the seat opposite.

  “I’m so flattered that the governor attended,” Patsy said. “It can only prove his fine opinion of you. He refuses dozens of invitations to lovely parties right in Williamsburg. And here he has taken this trip just to see you married.”

  “There is the chance that he came to honor the lovely bride.” George gratefully realized that he had recovered his voice.

  Patsy shook her head. “I think the bride fitted rather nicely into the long shadow cast by the groom.” She slipped from her chair and walked over to his. Taking his right hand with both of hers, she raised it to her face. “The bride is quite content always to live like that.”

  January–March, 1759

  Williamsburg

  THEY SPENT THE LATE WINTER AND EARLY spring at the Custis town house in Williams-burg where George, as a new member of the House of Burgesses, attended the legislative sessions.

  Williamsburg was very gay that season, a gaiety that reflected the joy in the recapture of Fort Duquesne. For George that social season was a revelation. He enjoyed attending the balls with Patsy on his arm and he soon learned that he’d never really known what was going on at a party before. Long after they returned home from the various social events, they would lie awake, her head on his shoulder, while she gossiped to him about who said what, who was being linked with whom, the nuances and undercurrents that seemed to be the prerogative of the female.

  He learned that Patsy’s information was remarkably accurate. If she heard from the ladies that this one’s husband would support a measure in the assembly, or the governor was displeased with an approaching bill, and this long before His Excellency had so much as hinted at his displeasure, she was inevitably right. George found that instead of tolerantly saying, “My dear Patsy, how could your ladies know about such matters,” he was looking forward to her latest nuggets.

  Once he ruefully laughed, “If I ever find myself in a military situation again, it will be a strong temptation to use a lady as a spy. I’d win the war in a week.”

  He had been afraid that bachelorhood would be a difficult habit to break. He was used to living alone, not being responsible for or to anyone on a family level. To his delight he found that his and Patsy’s personalities meshed so smoothly that it seemed impossible to imagine he had not always shared a life with her.

  He knew that often he was quite silent—the habit, he guessed, of long hours at Mount Vernon when he’d had only servants for company. Or, maybe, that reserve was the result of the ranting sound of his mother’s voice, which in childhood had made him retreat into himself.

  But if Patsy ever found him too quiet, she gave no indication. She would chat on, satisfied with only a nod or an occasional remark. On the other hand, his very calmness was good for her. If she had a weakness, it was her unrelenting worry about the children. If little Patsy refused to eat, her mother could be reduced almost to tears. Jacky was a lively, active child, who would not walk when he could run, and who seemed to delight in terrifying his mother by performing daredevil stunts in her presence.

  Patsy was delighted to turn over her financial matters to the care of her new husband. She told him that she really felt herself to be quite thrifty in household management, although sometimes she was perhaps too extravagant when ordering her wardrobe, but he had only to tell her if he was not pleased—this from a woman whose present holdings far exceeded his own.

  But on the subject of her children, Patsy simply could not allow either suggestion or help. His tentative remark that perhaps if little Patsy were not made so much of at meals her appetite might improve triggered one of his wife’s rare bursts of temper.

  “It is easy to make suggestions when you have not watched a baby slip into fainting spells, not seen her fail to gain weight when her playmates are twice her size, not buried her brother and sister.” The irritation ended on a sob and a quivering lip. George resolved to bite off his tongue before he interfered again with Patsy’s concern over her little daughter.

  But Jacky was quite another matter. George could see no earthly reason why a lad of nearly six should be permitted to terrify his mother by the pell-mell manner he raced down the stairs or to slip away from the personal servant, Julius, who had charge of him, and hide while the whole household searched the neighborhood for him and his mother was reduced to near collapse.

  He returned from the legislature one afternoon to find that the case. Julius was close to tears, explaining and explaining that he just left Master Jacky for a minute, just a minute, because the boy was in bed for his nap, but when he came back, the boy was gone.

  It would have been easier if Patsy were weeping or hysterical, but her drawn, pale face and voice that could not rise above a whisper frightened George more than any outburst could have done.

  For his part he felt not the slightest concern for Jacky. He simply didn’t believe in a kidnapper, nor did he believe that Jacky had left the house and was wandering around Williamsburg. Just the other night the boy had been talking about the hiding places in this house and how he believed that he could hide for a great long time and never be found.

  George called the servants together. They had been going in a dozen different directions, some peering into the street, others aimlessly walking in the yard. He was told that several were searching through the town.

  “I believe that Master Custis is playing a trick on us,” he said. “I believe he is hiding in this house, perhaps even in his room. Kindly search every closet, under every bed, behind every object of furniture until he is found.”

  The servants looked incredulous. A faint touch of hope came over Patsy’s face, then she rejected the thought and shook her head. While the servants scattered, she said, “Jacky would never do such a thing to me—frighten me for a joke.”

  George unhooked his sword belt with a slow deliberate movement. He was fighting for time. This was important. If Patsy could only be made to realize that Jacky’s inventive scrapes were only a reaching out to find the boundary where he must stop, must behave, she might let him help with the raising of her willful son.

  He thought of his mother and the strap she had kept tied to her belt. From earliest memory he had resented both his mother and her free hand with that strap, but in his own way Jacky was clearly showing that he resented unlimited freedom.

  He tried to imagine a camp where every private followed his own whims without fear of punishment from the commander. Chaos—the kind of chaos that young Master Custis delighted in causing.

  A shout came from upstairs. “Oh, Master Jacky—”

  Patsy sprang up, her face flushed, then pale. “Is he . . . he may be hurt—”

  But a moment later Julius was coming down the stairs, holding Jacky by the arm. The servant’s face held a combination of relief and irritation. “Colonel Washington, sir, he just hiding . . . just like you said . . . just hiding . . . in the closet . . . and all this time . . . his poor mamma—”

  “Thank you.” George’s tone dismissed the man and he left the room. Jacky’s triumphant expression changed from mischievous glee to worry as he stared into George’s impassive face. He looked to his mother but now Patsy was crying deep, silent tears that pushed each other aside as they hurried down her face. Jacky started for his mother but George caught his arm and swung the boy around to face him.

  “Where were you?” The tone of his voice would have made a subordinate officer blanch.

  “Oh, sir, I didn’t know you were home yet. I thought you wouldn’t be home for a bit.” Jacky seemed to realize that this time he might indeed not charm his way out of his situation.

  “I asked where you were.”


  “Oh, it was just a game, Poppa.” Jacky attempted an ingratiating smile. “I was just hiding. It was fun, everybody calling me . . .”

  “And your mother’s anxiety. Is that fun?”

  Jacky glanced sideways at his mother then quickly looked back. “Oh, Mamma really doesn’t mind. She knows I just like to play.”

  “Does she indeed.”

  George felt his temper on the verge of going out of bounds. Deliberately he closed his lips together until he could control himself. When he spoke again, his voice was chipped with ice. “Master Custis, go directly to your room. I shall be right up to you, and I assure you, you will not have any desire to practice pranks for a time.”

  Jacky turned quickly and raced to his mother, throwing his head in her lap. In an instant George was behind him. He grasped the boy by one shoulder, raised his hand, and gave Jacky a resounding smack across the seat of his pants. “Up to your room, I said.”

  Wailing, Jacky scurried from the room and George started to follow him. But Patsy pulled at his hand. “You may not punish him—I forbid it—you may not.”

  George looked down at her, unsmiling. “You seriously believe I will permit Jacky to upset you to this degree and throw this home into such a turmoil?”

  “Speak to him, but gently. Explain to him, but don’t frighten him. You must not put a finger on him—ever.”

  “A child cannot grow up without discipline.”

  “I refuse to let you touch him.”

  George felt the anger slowly seep from him. “And I wish I had the right to refuse to let you ruin him.”

  He stalked out of the house. For over an hour he strode through the streets of Williamsburg. Patsy was wrong, wrong, wrong. Yet only the other night she had moaned so piteously in her sleep that he awakened her. And she had confided the dream that recurred from time to time. In it she walked through a graveyard in which there were only four tombstones. She stopped in front of each one. Two were engraved with the names of the two children she had already lost—the lovely four-year-old Frances and her three-year-old Daniel. But the other two were engraved, too. One said Patsy Custis, the other John Parke Custis. “I will bury all my children,” Patsy sobbed as she finished telling the dream. “I know it. I have always known it.”