He had added to the main house and the surrounding buildings before he and Patsy had married, but now together they were about to begin the addition that he had always wanted. Construction was going to start on two wings, one at either end of the main building. One of those wings would consist of a combination dining room and ballroom. The other would have a library with a private staircase over it leading to a new suite for him and Patsy.
The additions were necessary. On that first night when he’d brought Patsy home, he had had an insight into the fact that Mount Vernon would become a social mecca. How very right he’d been! Indeed he often felt that he operated a hotel and should put his occupation down as innkeeper.
It wasn’t just the many neighbors and friends along the Potomac who came. His brothers, his sister Betty, the dozens of assorted nieces and nephews, the friends Jacky brought home from school, the young girls and cousins who clustered around little Patsy—together they made for an endless array of parties and socials and merry evenings of singing and music in the parlor.
Often he sighed for a quiet night and knew the wish to be dishonest. He enjoyed the young people just as much as Patsy did and was unceasingly amazed at the quiet efficiency with which she kept the great house constantly shining and the meals constantly delicious, no matter how great the strain on her hospitality.
Just as he had expected, Sally and George William came to Mount Vernon more than he and Patsy went to Belvoir. Fourteen years had not removed the merry twinkle from Sally’s eyes. She sometimes lamented her thinness, sighing over the fact that it made for lines and wrinkles, but George never found her less attractive than that long-ago day when he’d first seen her on the staircase at Belvoir.
Once he had feared that attraction, but now he welcomed it. The knowledge that Sally and George William were to be guests for dinner gave a sense of anticipation to his whole day. She could still amuse him and challenge him. She would forever be his favorite dancing partner, although he took care never to dance with her too often at any ball. But the deep measure of his happiness and contentment abided in his life with Patsy. All these years she had soothed and filled the restless, unvoiced yearning that he could still remember from youth and young manhood.
Once he had been intrigued by the almost offhand grace with which Sally ran Belvoir. Now he couldn’t imagine having completed all the plans for Mount Vernon if Patsy had not been as caring and concerned as he. How many nights had he spent hours thinking aloud, talking about the wisdom of assuming yet another mortgage to add to the property, or going into debt with the London agents to purchase draperies or carpeting or fixtures. Always her opinion had been a verification of what he wanted to do; always she had helped assume the responsibility for an expenditure that might result in a need for economy; always she had shown her total faith in his judgment.
In every way except one—in all these years Patsy had never really allowed him to share in raising her children. George knew his wife would have been astonished at that thought. She always consulted him on every detail of the minor decisions about Jacky and Patsy. But in a major crisis if there was a choice between what he felt was right and what the children wanted, his opinion was always discarded.
Once he had hoped that when more children were born, he would be able to share fully in the joys of parenthood. But Patsy had had no child of his. That second winter after their marriage she had been very ill. Maybe that was the reason for their lack of issue. Sometimes George wondered why neither his home nor Belvoir had been blessed with an heir. He comforted himself with the knowledge that the Almighty had reasons for the slightest occurrence in human lives. Surely the Almighty had had a reason for this all-important withholding.
He knew that he had transferred the love he might have offered his own offspring to little Patsy and Jacky. His wife would always be first in his life and indeed that would have been true even if he had had a houseful of heirs. But after her, her children were dearest to him.
George accepted the fact that he was human enough to resent Patsy’s blindness to his feelings. He admitted to himself that she put her children’s welfare before his. But they were growing up rapidly and soon, in all probability, would be embarking on lives of their own.
When Jacky turned eighteen, it was quite obvious that he was in something of a rush to take on adult responsibilities. George managed to pluck him from a romantic entanglement in one school and get him settled in King’s College. Then to his disgust Jacky met Nellie Calvert and promptly proposed. His mother reacted with mixed pleasure to the announcement, but George was dismayed and angered. He had nothing against Nellie, who was a fine and pretty girl, but Jacky needed to keep his mind on his schooling. He was showing signs of turning into an irresponsible lighthead, and in a few years he’d be in control of a large fortune. He should achieve maturity before sealing his future.
George could not prevent the early engagement, but he did make it quite plain to Nellie’s father that he would not hear of marriage until Jacky had completed his college education, which would take nearly four years. Jacky went back to school, seemingly satisfied with the arrangement, and Nellie came to Mount Vernon for a long visit.
One June morning shortly after her arrival George got up with an unexpectedly lighthearted feeling. It seemed to him that just as summer had burst forth overnight, so many of the nagging issues of the past year had been resolved. Nellie was a delightful girl and perhaps the engagement would keep Master Custis from too much socializing with other young ladies. As long as the marriage was delayed until his graduation, George was even willing to concede that perhaps the engagement might be a steadying influence in Jacky’s life.
During the past year George had been worried about another matter, too. More clearly than many, he understood the grave implications of the growing hostility between the Colonies and England. Many times, he had wondered if the breach was widening too rapidly to be healed. But on the morning of June 19 as he looked out the window and observed his long-desired English country garden, he would not let himself believe that in the end the differences would not be settled.
He knew he hadn’t changed too much since the days of his military command. Oh, granted, his hair now had a little gray and the lines around his mouth had deepened, but he still felt as physically fit as he had a generation ago. One couldn’t be outdoors most of the day and run to fat or flab.
Patsy came in from her dressing room, smoothing the lace edging on the collar of her morning dress. He smiled at her. “Mrs. Washington looks very fine indeed.”
Her laugh was rueful. “Mrs. Washington is remembering when she was only slightly slimmer than her daughter is now. George, she really does seem better don’t you think?”
“I do, most certainly.” George wished the hearty reassurance in his voice were honest. At sixteen little Patsy was the beauty of the county. She had the dark Custis hair and the chiseled profile of that handsome family. She had never lost the touch of wistfulness that had endeared her to him that long-ago afternoon in the Chamberlayn parlor, and she had never become any stronger than she was in those baby days when her mother fretted so terribly about her health.
Little Patsy was still frail. Her frightening spells came too easily. There were too many parties that she could not attend. Too often they started out for a festive day and returned home because she had slumped over, exhausted and trembling.
George thought of the countless times he had carried her up to her room after those spells, of the way she would cling to him and the frightened way she would finally whisper, “I think I’m all right now, Poppa.” In the past weeks there had been fewer of these attacks. But much as he might try to comfort her mother with heartiness and optimism, he himself was constantly worried about his stepdaughter.
Still, he realized that his sense of optimism on this morning was extending to include Patsy’s health. “She is most certainly improving,” he repeated firmly, “and before long, I have no doubt, I’ll be playing the role of the ste
rn parent when the first young man requests her hand.”
“Oh, she must not marry too young,” Patsy cried. “I won’t have it. It’s all right for Jacky but she’s not ready for that kind of thing yet.”
“In heaven’s name, what is that kind of thing?” George asked, and his laugh joined hers as they started for the dining room.
Nellie Calvert was already at her place at the table. Pretty Nellie was obviously still living in a world peopled only by herself and Master Custis. Her greeting was to say that Jacky had described just such mornings as this and how much he enjoyed a ride along the Potomac before breakfast.
George ignored the implication of how wonderful it would be if Jacky were home now. God knows there wasn’t the slightest chance of making a scholar of the boy, but he had to have some schooling and discipline if he were to manage properly his very large inheritance.
Little Patsy came into the dining room. Her skirts rustled as she bent down to kiss her mother. Then her arms went around his neck. “Good morning, Poppa,” she murmured as she kissed his ear.
He looked at her closely. She had good color and her eyes were sparkling. Her blue gown reflected in the caramel color of her eyes. “How pretty we are this morning,” he commented. “Did you sleep well, darling?”
“So soundly I might have been dead,” little Patsy laughed. But somehow the words sent a chill through him.
Nellie’s young friend, who was also visiting Mount Vernon, joined them, and George commented that he rarely had the pleasure of breakfasting with three such lovely young ladies. At Patsy’s raised eyebrow he corrected himself quickly. “Four such lovely young ladies,” he said as they all laughed.
After breakfast he was glad to excuse himself and go out to the fields. It was obvious that the conversation was going to be on future wedding plans and gowns and slippers. With the wedding four years away he envisioned many such conversations in the months to come.
When he returned home, he was delighted to find his brother Jack there with his wife, Hannah, and two of their offspring. George greeted his brother affectionately, his wife with an unconscious touch of reserve. He suspected the unannounced visit was not for the joy of seeing him and Patsy but because Jack’s wife wanted to get a good look at Nellie Calvert. She knew that he and Patsy were concerned over the quick engagement.
But still, it was a pleasant and happy afternoon, made even more so by the fact that little Patsy appeared to be in better health and spirits than she had been for a long time.
At four o’clock when they left the table, she went to her room to get a letter she had received from Jacky at college. Soon after, she was seized with one of her usual fits and collapsed. It was Nelly who heard her fall.
It wasn’t like one of little Patsy’s usual spells, when she became flushed and shaken. This time she was so quiet, so still, her breathing scarcely was discernible. Her life was like a frail candle in a ferocious wind. One single movement might snuff it out.
With infinite care, George picked her up and lifted her onto the bed. Patsy frantically called for help, but he had seen death too often to be deceived. He sank to his knees beside the bed, took little Patsy’s hand in his and, with tears running down his cheeks, his voice broken with sobs, began to recite the prayers for the dying.
In less than two minutes, she was gone. His tears fell on the curls that clustered on her forehead as he kissed her and rose to his feet. Patsy, her face gray with anxiety, reached for her daughter’s hands and began rubbing them. Then, realizing that little Patsy was no longer breathing, she looked imploringly at him.
He took his wife in his arms as her first anguished sob broke against his chest. He nodded to the others. “Leave us alone,” he commanded quietly. When the door closed behind them, he began to cradle Patsy’s head against his shoulder, but with a shriek, she slipped out of his embrace and threw herself across the still form on the bed.
July, 1773
Mount Vernon
IN THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED THE DEATH, George tried every device to lift Patsy from her deep depression. His own heart ached sorely for the gentle girl whom he had loved so dearly, but he never even contemplated his own loss as he spent every possible moment trying to distract the grieving mother.
He enlisted the help of the Fairfaxes and nearly every day Sally arrived with a tempting dish from Belvoir to try to induce Patsy to eat. Sally, being Sally, could always manage to cheer and George watched with gratitude as slowly but skillfully she planted the thought that little Patsy had died at a joyous time in her life, before she became a real invalid, before she had to face the painful knowledge that her ailment would have precluded marriage and children.
When Patsy spoke of the tragedy of her child’s lifelong poor health, Sally would counter with a dozen happy memories of parties and dances when little Patsy, beautiful in a new gown, had been the center of attention. She would reminisce over the girl’s joy in her pony and the wonderful surprises that were always in the boxes from England. “Sometimes she would weep when she was ill,” Sally said, “but in all the years I never once saw her weep because she was unhappy. I used to think that if we had been blessed with a daughter, I should have wanted to give her so much happiness.”
George William would often come over at the end of the day to accompany Sally home. He seemed to understand George’s feelings and wordlessly managed to convey a sympathy that was a balm to George’s troubled spirit.
One evening, nearly a month after the death, they were having a glass of wine together in the study and George William said matter-of-factly, “It is hard for you, too. How I used to envy you the adoration of that pretty child. Well, they say a father is naturally attracted to a daughter and she to him.”
“And what do they say about a stepfather?” George asked bitterly, then could have bitten his tongue over the words.
George William shot him a look of sympathy. “I would guess that most people would say that a stepfather probably knows the same pain of loss as a natural father, but will never be credited with it. But time is a remedy for everything—for grief, for lack of understanding.”
George slowly turned the stem of the wineglass and stared at it. “I am afraid that the remedy for my wife’s grief is to bring her son home from college. She seems to feel that with Jacky here she will be able to bear her loss. You see, Jacky, being a Custis, can truly share her sorrow.”
“If Jacky leaves college now, he’ll never go back.” George William’s words were a statement that left no room for discussion.
“No, he won’t,” George agreed. “But his mother feels that it might be well for him to marry soon. Then there will be grandchildren for her to help raise. She is already saying that when Nellie and Jacky marry she would like them to live here or build a home nearby. But if Jacky wants to reside on one of the Custis plantations, she can always visit them often.”
George William put his glass down, came over, and touched his shoulder briefly.
George looked up with a grateful smile. “You realize there isn’t another person I would discuss this with. And yet, who knows, it may be all right in time. These are simply troubled days on every level.”
“On one level I believe that all will be well eventually,” George William said. “Patsy will come out of her grief and turn to you. You must give her time. But on the level of the Colonies and England I’m very much afraid that we are sailing on a disaster course.”
“Which makes it harder and harder for you.” George knew how difficult the political climate was for George William. As the possible heir of Lord Fairfax he was caught in the crossfire of antagonism between England and the Colonies.
“Well, by the time we return it will probably all be over with and resolved.” Then, as George stared at him apprehensively, George William walked over to the fireplace and leaned an elbow against the mantel. “We have decided to live in England,” he said. “As you know, my future expectations are completely dependent upon my relations with my family there
. The separation of miles often causes an emotional separation. Then too I hope to get some treatment at Bath for this arthritis before it gets too much worse.”
George had known that someday the Fairfaxes would go to England and perhaps even reside there. But it was unthinkable to lose them now.
“How soon do you contemplate leaving?” he asked.
“In a few weeks. I was about to tell you last month when . . . when the tragedy occurred, and I haven’t wanted to bring it up since then. But now I must.”
George thought of the twenty-five years that had passed since he and George William went on that first surveying trip and came back fast friends. Over the years they’d traded tools and horses, argued politics, hunted together, and spent countless evenings in each other’s homes. The thought of losing this great friend and Sally . . . and Sally . . . brought an ache almost as final as the one caused by little Patsy’s death.
“These are indeed sad times,” he said heavily. “You only tell me now that you are going and I find my mind leaping to the happy day, perhaps years away, when you shall return.”
George William nodded. “If there is one single consolation in this move, it is that we will be removed from the position of having to take sides for or against the mother country. In England, I will be able to be a reasonable voice in high circles speaking for the cause of the colonists. Here I am too ill to fight for the Colonies, if fighting should come, and I would be forced to alienate either family or friends by taking sides. Soon it will be impossible to speak a moderate word for England in America. But in England, I believe I can be a colonist demanding for my countrymen their rights as Englishmen.
George said, “Yes, a few genteel voices, speaking for us, cutting through the belief that we are crude barbarians rather than Englishmen, might make a great difference.”
George William went to the decanter and refilled both their glasses. He raised his in what was almost a toast. “Long ago I made a prophecy that you would become a great military leader. I was right then. Now I make another prophecy that if this rebellion becomes a full-scale revolution, you will be chosen to lead it.”