Washington's Lady by Nancy Moser Page A

he took it. I squeezed, offering my commiseration, compassion, and encouragement. “You are a good son, George.”
    “I am not.”
    “You are. For you continue to attempt to bridge the gap between you. You send her aid. You write to her.”
    “But I do not love her.”
    “Perhaps honour must do when love is impossible.”
    We let go of each other’s hands. We continued to Mount Vernon in worlds and thoughts that were parallel rather than intersecting.
    *****
    We were getting close.
    I could tell by the speed with which we traveled, and the many times George looked from left to right out the windows. He was like a little boy with something to show.
    But this was not a new toy or rabbit. It was our home. It was the object that was rooted at the core of his dreams.
    Suddenly, he took my hand and placed it upon his knee. “We are nearly there.”
    He was breathless.
    We approached from the west and I caught glimpses of gardens with inviting pathways to the side. We ascended the hill and—
    “There it is!” George shouted, pointing out the window.
    I only caught a glimpse before the carriage pulled up the drive. The house was a whitewashed two-and-a-half-story with a red roof. It was not as grand as White House but basked nicely in the afternoon sun.
    “I added sand to the paint to make it appear as stone. I also added the new story.” As we approached, we could not fully see the house, and George seemed ready to burst at this deficiency. “When I stayed here with my brother Lawrence, there were but four rooms and a single hall. Considering the extent of my renovations, some say I was foolish for not tearing down and starting fresh, but I could not do that to all Lawrence had accomplished. I don’t ever wish to wipe away the past but to build upon it and make it better.”
    I was not sure which held my interest more: the upcoming view of our new home or the rapt look upon my husband’s face as he shared his thoughts.
    “I am sure it is lovely,” I said.
    These words brought him out of his reverie, for he looked at me and said, “It makes an attempt but still has far to go. But now I have even more reason to make it shine.” He looked upon the children, then at me.
    The carriage turned round a circle drive. It stopped. George did not wait for the coachman to open the door but pushed it open and exited. He lifted the children out, and then me, placing me gently upon the drive.
    A welcoming door stood before us.
    But nice as it was, grand as it tried to be, the welcoming glee on my husband’s face was far more poignant.
    *****
    It had been a long day. A long trip in distance, emotion, and symbolism—for the children and I had left behind one life and were now ensconced in the next.
    The children were safely tucked into bed, and my body longed for its own soft mattress and pillow. I would sleep well tonight and arise in the morning eager to start afresh.
    I closed the door to the children’s room with a soft click and turned round to see George waiting for me.
    “Come walk with me,” he said.
    I did not feel like walking, yet I could not turn him down. Not on our first evening here.
    He led me down the newly created walnut stairway into the foyer, which was a respectable thirteen feet wide. Wood paneling had been installed, topped with intricate cornices painted in a lovely ocher.
    We made a sharp turn beside the stairs and he led me out the back door of the house. We had not been there yet, having been too consumed with getting our baggage unpacked and the children settled after a meal.
    Once outside, he swept his arm across the vista before me. “Voilà!”
    My hand flew to my breast. “Oh, George!”
    I knew my reaction pleased him, because he drew me under his arm. I was just the right height to fit . . .
    “That is the Potomac River,” he said.
    “It is far wider than the Pamunkey.”
    “Far wider.”
    “And the woods and hills . . . the area around White House is so flat by comparison.”
    He