Washington's Lady by Nancy Moser Page A

forward to kiss my mouth.
    I allowed it.
    Welcomed it.
    Longed for it.
    Martha Washington.
    It rang quite pleasant to the ear.
    *****
    As soon as George left from his visit, I made my own visit to see my mother in my childhood home at Chestnut Grove. I wanted to be the first to tell her the news.
    Jacky and Patsy went off to play with my little sisters, Betsy, age nine, and Mary, who was the same age as Patsy—just two. For Mother to have a daughter and a granddaughter the same age . . . such was life. My brother William, though still unmarried at twenty-five, was a sometimes resident, being in the military, which often took him away.
    Mother linked her arm through mine. “Shall we walk?”
    It was Mother’s way of telling me she had something important to speak about. As Chestnut Grove was a small home, populated by too many impressionable ears, I easily agreed, for my news was also best told during a walk.
    We eased away from the house, and I noted the loveliness of the bee balm and coreopsis dotting the lane. Once a safe distance from all possibility of prying ears, Mother said, “When is the wedding?”
    I stopped our walk and faced her. “How did you know?”
    She shrugged. “Servants talk; errands bring them together . . .”
    She had stolen my surprise. I felt cheated. Then I realized she had not offered her congratulations. Not even an embrace or a kiss.
    “Undoubtedly you approve?” I asked.
    She began to shrug a second time, but I stopped the movement by putting my hand upon her shoulder. “I will not accept that response. Tell me how you could object. Surely, I cannot imagine why.”
    Mother lowered her chin and stared at me. “Surely, you can.”
    “I do not find any pleasure in these sorts of games, Mother. If you have something to say, say it plain.”
    She took up our walk but did not take my arm. Although I would have rather spoken face-to-face, I followed her lead. “You desire my reason; here it is: you are the richest widow in Virginia. Colonel Washington is . . . much beneath you.”
    “He is a war hero. He has the ear of the governor—of many men in power.”
    “As an underling. As a strappy, eager soldier wanting to be noticed. And as a colonial officer willing to be called to duty. He is not of the British command.”
    I felt my colour rise. “I beg anyone—man or woman—to tell me how his manners, his appearance, his actions, are anything less than those of a gentleman.”
    “People can learn manners and proper dressing.”
    I could not say more, for I knew George had procured the attributes through those very means.
    “His plantation is struggling. I have heard he needs a substantial influx of capital to keep it going. By marrying you . . .”
    “I will be happy to use a portion of my wealth to assist him in achieving his dreams.”
    “His dreams?”
    “My dreams.”
    “So you will live in Mount Vernon?”
    We had not talked about that detail. That large detail. “We will live wherever it is best we live.”
    “What do the children think of him?”
    “They love him. You should see how Jacky waited at the window for his arrival. They need a father.”
    “He knows nothing of fathering.”
    “I know enough for both of us.”
    “But if he is away fighting the French, he will not be around to be a father. Or a husband. Or the master of any plantation—large or small.”
    “He has chosen to go on one last campaign. The new Prime Minister, William Pitt, has seen the potential in the militia and talks of them with the respect they deserve. Many more are joining. Finally, George has a goodly contingent to lead.”
    “So much for his loyalty to you and the children.”
    “So much for his loyalty to our colony. To our king. George heard Brigadier General Forbes is going to take fifteen hundred British regulars and even more than that number of Virginians to fight the French at Fort Du Quesne.”
    “Have we not suffered enough at that horrible place?”
    I bridled on