Washington's Lady Read online

  John Custis’s will was no better. He died before we married, leaving part of his estate to a young man called Mulatto Jack, who, it is said, was his son. Jack’s mother was a slave, but with this will, John emancipated Jack. His freedom, and the inheritance he was promised, caused all sorts of problems that had the potential to extend beyond our family to the entire Virginia colony. A great fear within the Tidewater and beyond was that slaves would obtain power and revolt. To add to the complications, my father-in-law wished for Jack to live with us—in our home. This would never do. Beyond our own opinions, and his being a likeable sort or not, society would not permit it. In short, the law of the land made it impossible to execute the terms of the will. Being a slave, Jack could not own property, and because of the wording of John’s will, even if free, he could not live on the property bequeathed to him. There seemed to be no solution.

  But then . . . Jack died mysteriously before the issue was fully settled. Which, of course, settled the issue. I did not wish the boy dead, but I did acknowledge his passing allowed the difficulty to be set aside. As I was expecting our first child at the time, it was a relief.

  The other requisite in my father-in-law’s will was that only those who had “Parke” in their names could ever inherit. Thus our children all claimed that surname as a middle name. I would take no chances when remedy was so easily attained.

  Yet, though hard to fathom, the difficulties in the will of John Custis were not caused by any error or omission but on purpose. To cause trouble. And he succeeded, for I truly believe a great part of my husband’s death can be attributed to the pressures, peeves, and peculiarities of his family. Weakened by the illness that claimed Jacky for so long, Daniel’s heart simply gave up and gave in to the stresses of being Daniel Parke’s grandson and the son of John Custis.

  I found this drama disconcerting, for I was raised in a happy home with loving parents. Poor Daniel. That I had been able to bring him some semblance of familial and wedded bliss was consolation. At least he had enjoyed seven years of peace.

  “Mrs. Custis?” James queried.

  My mind had drifted to past places that elicited apprehension and anger. I could not change the past—nor the fact my husband had chosen not to think about the future. I had to deal with the present.

  Presently.

  I closed my eyes and opened them again, ready to look upon the subject at hand. “So, James. There is no will. Where does that leave us?”

  “English common law says your husband’s estate will be equally divided between you, Jacky, and Patsy. One third each.”

  “And how exactly is that done?”

  “An inventory will have to be taken of each chair, plow, acre, and bag of seed.”

  With over seventeen thousand acres spread over five counties . . . the task was beyond daunting. It was too much. I could take no more.

  “Are you unwell?” James asked.

  That morning I had felt a bit feverish. It seemed as good a time as any to succumb. “I believe I am under the weather. Perhaps another—”

  James rose and helped me to my feet. “Another day. Certainly. At your convenience.”

  He should not say such a thing. For dealing with yet another will—or lack thereof—would never be convenient.

  *****

  I was genuinely sick; I did not playact the illness. That I chose to call it such upon hearing the latest news about the will was appropriate.

  Did I not deserve to retire to my bedchamber for a few short days to rest and recover and let the world rush by without me? I had witnessed the effects of stress upon my husband’s health. Was it not prudent for me to intercept such symptoms before I too suffered dire, unchangeable repercussions?

  I heard a knock on the door. I adjusted the bed linens to make myself presentable. “Come in.”

  In preparation to accost my visitor, my eyes looked upon the spot far above the door’s knob but quickly adjusted to a much lower level as little Jacky and Patsy came into the room. “Mamma?”

  If anything could make me well, it was the sight of my children. “Come in, sweet ones.” I sat against the pillows and patted a place on either side.

  The children quickly accepted my invitation. Jacky lifted little Patsy to my right side, then ran round the bed to take his own place on my left. They cuddled close and I reveled in their huggable presence, their smell of the summer outside, and their mere being.

  Once settled, Jacky asked, “When are you going to be well?”

  “Mamma down,” Patsy said.

  Jacky nodded. “We want you downstairs. It’s no fun without you.”

  Patsy nodded. “Papa.”

  I held them even closer. Yes indeed. By yielding to the sickness I had left them completely alone. I was feeling better. Not strong, but improved.

  “You are right, little man. It is time I get up.”

  I was just pushing away the bedclothes when there was another knock on the door. “Yes?”

  A servant, Amanda, appeared. “You have a letter.”

  “Bring it here.” I broke the seal.

  “What does it say, Mamma?”

  It was from a dear friend, Robert Nicholas. I read silently:

  It gave me no small pleasure to hear with how great Christian patience and resignation you submitted to your late misfortune; the example is rare, though a duty incumbent upon us all.

  Guilt assailed me. In the past few days I had set no example of any good kind.

  “Mamma, down!” Patsy said.

  Amanda shushed her. “Let your mamma read, little miss.”

  I went back to the letter. Robert further reassured me of his continuing friendship—and help. But he also offered a suggestion:

  I imagine you will find it necessary to employ a trusty steward; and as the estate is very large and very extensive . . . you had better not engage with any but a very able man, though he should require large wages, nothing appears to us very material to be done immediately, except what relates to your tobacco; if it is not already done, it will be necessary that letters be wrote for insurance and that we, or some other of your friends should be acquainted with the quantities of tobacco put on board each ship that we may get the proper bills of lading . . .

  The tobacco! The mainstay of our plantation, and yea, most plantations in Virginia. I had grown up amid the growing, sowing, and selling of this crop. There were things to be done.

  Immediately.

  Yes indeed, it was time to get up. And be well.

  Our lives and livelihood depended upon it.

  *****

  I sat at Daniel’s desk, in his study, and reread the letter I had just written:

  Virginia 20th August 1757

  Gent

  I take this Opportunity to inform you of the great misfortune I have met with in the loss of my late Husband Mr. Custis, your Correspondent.

  As I now have the Administration of his Estate & management of his Affairs of all sorts, I shall be glad to continue the Correspondence which Mr. Custis carried with you.

  Yours of the 16th of March Mr. Custis rec’d before his Death with his Account Current inclosed wch I believe is right; and he had put on board the Ship King of Prussia Capt. Necks 28Hnds of Tobacco and wrote to you for Insurance for it, I now inclose the bill of Lading for the Tobacco which I hope will get safe to your hands, and as have reason to believe it is extremely good, I hope you will sell it at a good Price, Mr. Custis’s Estate will be kept together for some time and I think it will be proper to continue his Account in the same manner as if he was living. Please to send an Account Current when the Tobacco is sold I am gentlemen Your Very hbl Servt

  Martha Custis

  I smiled at the last few lines. I hoped this letter going to London—and the two others I would send to our other factors in Liverp
ool and Glasgow—would act as a subtle warning that just because Daniel was gone, they had better not cheat us. If they did, the Custis plantations would go elsewhere.

  Perhaps. I realized my threat was limited, as we were dependent on these British factor companies to handle our crop, sell it for us, and return to us the proceeds (after taking their own compensation, of course). There was no way for us to know if we were being treated fairly, and actually, we all assumed we were not. But as mere colonies, five thousand miles from our mother country, we had little alternative. As the colonies were prohibited by law from selling to any nation but England, and from shipping our products on any but English ships, we were at their mercy. As we were also at the mercy of pirates, privateers, and inclement weather, which could cause shipwrecks. Putting our tobacco upon a ship and seeing it leave port always caused a stitch in the stomach and elicited many prayers for its safe delivery. And fair treatment.

  Yet Daniel and I had discussed focusing on another crop. Tobacco was labor intensive, it depleted the land in a most horrible way, and we recognized it might be advantageous to grow something that was of more dire need within the colonies themselves. People did not need tobacco. It was a cheap pleasure.

  But one does not easily detour from the path of many past successful generations. And so I proceeded in the course my forebears had so carefully constructed before me.

  I set the letter aside with the other two, feeling quite proud of myself. I was certain James had never intended I act as my own steward in such matters. That it caused me to feel a bond with Daniel . . . that with so much beyond my power, I longed to assert this small margin of control . . .

  I was willing to let others help. I left my various overseers in place, assuming they would continue as they had. I employed the services of my younger brother, Bartholomew, at twenty, an attorney. He sought the advice of two more sage counselors, who agreed with my intent to act upon my own behalf—with their kind and wise instruction.

  Also, regarding income, Daniel had often loaned money, charging interest. I continued to do so and kept careful records. I signed various powers-of-attorney to expedite stock and money, paid our debts, and dealt with our taxes. And the inventory, needed to hasten the division of the estate into thirds for myself and the children, was being carried out through men appointed by the court. (In this, I was well relieved to be avoided of the burden.) In the three weeks that had passed since being drawn from my sickbed by the necessities of our estate, I had accomplished much.

  And accomplished it well.

  Daniel would be proud.

  *****

  I put the key in the door and swung it wide. I hesitated but a moment, letting my eyes glance upon my father-in-law’s Williamsburg home, Six Chimneys. Daniel and I had stayed here periodically when balls, concerts, and parties had drawn us to the city. In my mind’s eye I remembered him coming down the stairs, dressed in a new satin coat and breeches he had instructed be made of blue—my favourite colour.

  “Ma’am? Is something wrong?”

  I had forgotten about Mr. Bowen, the solicitor I’d hired to come with me this day. Without answering him, I entered the house.

  My house now.

  He followed me inside and closed the door against the brisk autumn air. “A stately place,” he said.

  Indeed.

  I stepped into the parlour and my eyes were immediately drawn to the portrait of my father-in-law above the mantel. His eyes looked down upon us—in every connotation of that phrase. “Take that for the sale,” I instructed Mr. Bowen.

  Mr. Bowen removed his tricorn hat and cloak, draped them on a settee, and sat at the desk by the window. He took a bound book of lined paper and quill from his leather pouch. He removed the top from the inkwell and scribbled a notation. Then he looked up at me. “You sure? Ain’t that the owner?”

  Not anymore. “I am the owner.”

  “Yes’m.”

  My eyes glanced over the furnishings of the room. Legally, two-thirds belonged to my children. They would have to trust me to do what was best. And what was best was . . .

  “Auction the lot of it.”

  Mr. Bowen blinked twice. “Everything?”

  “I will choose a few things here and there and mark those to stay. But the rest . . .” I just want done with it. I moved toward the door. “I am sorry to get you out on such a blustery day, Mr. Bowen. It appears I have miscalculated my need for an accounting. The shorter list will be what stays, and that will come on another day.”

  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, findi
ng 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.