Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray (27 page)

I could of told Miss Mary why Maria had come. What she was looking for. What she knew. But my lips were sealed.

Some words are best left unspoken. Some secrets are best left buried with the dead.

M
rs. Pinckney lived in a plain-looking house in Georgetown, its unremarkable façade offering no clue to the opulence within. I handed my calling card to the servant who opened the door and stood in the entry hall in my mourning clothes, admiring the tall gilt-framed mirrors and French tapestries lining the walls and trying to calm my nerves. I had not seen Mrs. Pinckney since my wedding celebration. From time to time I had written to her on behalf of the Colonization Society, and she had responded with modest donations. But I wasn't certain she would receive me. Or that she would be amenable to my plan.

“Mrs. Lee?” The girl who had admitted me to the house returned. “Please come with me.”

She led me into the parlor, where Mrs. Pinckney waited behind a gleaming silver tea service. Mrs. Pinckney dismissed her girl with a wave of her hand and rose to greet me.

“Mrs. Lee. This is a pleasure I never anticipated, after more than twenty years. I must say you have hardly changed at all since your wedding day.” She peered into my face. “Though of course you look tired now, my dear, but who can blame you after such a crushing loss? I was so sad to learn of your dear mother's death. She was certainly a bright example to everyone who knew her.”

“Thank you. Of course I thought so.”

Mrs. Pinckney motioned me to a chair and took her time pouring the tea into paper-thin china cups, setting out the sugar tongs and the crystal milk pitcher. I looked around at the room, which seemed to have been arranged for a Beaux Arts exhibition. Every shelf and surface was crowded with Chinese porcelains, bronze sculptures, and a collection of French ormolu clocks. A set of miniature paintings of hollow-cheeked saints and fat, smiling cherubs adorned the fireplace mantel.

“What brings you here?” Mrs. Pinckney asked. “It must be important, since you are in mourning.”

I took the cup she offered, using the moment to compose myself. I hated asking a favor of anyone, especially someone I barely knew, and I felt guilty for what I was about to do. The plan, which had seemed so easy in theory, now filled me with sadness, but I had no other option, and now I steeled myself to follow through.

I sipped the tea, set down the cup, and opened the small cloth bag I had brought with me from Arlington. I took out the carved ivory box my father had given me on my wedding day.

“Do you remember this?”

Her eyes lit up. “Of course I remember. May I see it?”

I handed it over, quashing my distaste at having her touch something so precious and so personal. She opened and closed the gold-hinged lid.

“It is still one of the loveliest things I have ever seen,” she said.

“You once said that if I ever wanted to sell it—”

“Oh, my dear. Is it that bad? I have heard rumors that Arlington is in dire straits. One does hear these things, you know. But I never dreamed the situation would come to this.” She made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “Your father is the most generous host in Virginia, but one does wish he had exercised more financial prudence rather than forcing his only child to give up her own personal treasures.”

“You misunderstand my purpose, Mrs. Pinckney. This has nothing to do with my father or with his management of the estate. I'm selling the box to help a friend with some expenses.”

“I see. Anyone I know?”

“I don't think so.”

She ran her fingers over the box lid. “I would like to think about it.”

I couldn't bear the thought of having to subject myself to further conversations on the subject. And time was of the essence. “I'm afraid I need a decision today.”

“Oh, I see. You have other buyers interested, I expect.”

I didn't correct her. I waited while the many clocks ticked loudly in the silence. Finally she said, “I can offer you eight hundred for it.”

I had hoped for a thousand, but I decided not to push my luck. Nor to prolong the agony of parting with something I so dearly loved, even if in doing so I was contributing to something far more important than my own sentimental feelings. “All right.”

Mrs. Pinckney rose. “Please enjoy your tea while I write a check. I'll be back in a moment.”

The deed was done. The ivory box sat on the side table, the jewels catching the light. I was overwhelmed with guilt when I thought of Papa and of how happy he had been to give me such a beautiful keepsake on the most momentous night of my life. I hoped he would never know I hadn't kept it.

Mrs. Pinckney returned and handed me the check. “I hope your friend appreciates your sacrifice.”

I tucked it away and got to my feet. “I must go. Thank you for receiving me.”

She smiled. “I cannot think of a single person in this town who would not receive the daughter of Mary Fitzhugh Custis. She was one of a kind.”

I left the house, and Daniel drove me home. Papa was in the garden talking with Ephraim, his ratty straw hat pulled low over his eyes. It was high summer, and the vegetable crop was coming in faster than we could harvest it. He looked up and waved as I went up the steps and into the house. I put away Mrs. Pinckney's check, removed my hat, and started down the stairs.

“Miss Mary, is that you?” Selina, carrying a basket of squash and beans, peeked in from the rear hallway.

“Yes. I just got back. I want to walk down to visit Mother's grave.”

“Huh. It won't do anything except make you sad all over again.” She shifted the basket onto her hip. “You want me to go down there with you?”

“Not today. I think I want to be alone with her.”

“At least try not to come back with your eyes all red and puffed up. Miss Agnes and Miss Annie are still taking this death awfully hard.”

“I know it.”

“I noticed there's some roses just opening up this morning. If you want to take some to her.”

“I will.” I collected the shears from the basket Mother kept beside the back door and let myself out into the garden. I snipped half a dozen stems of ruby-red buds and walked down the path to Mother's grave. In the three months since I had put her there, the grass had begun to cover the red wound in the earth. The cuttings
my daughters and I had planted were taking hold. One day her grave would be surrounded by the flowers she had so loved.

I placed the flowers on the handsome headstone Robert had purchased for her. “Guess what, Mother. You were right all those years ago when you told me to be patient with my husband. Last week Daughter and Annie were confirmed. And Robert too.”

I still couldn't quite believe that something I had so long hoped for had finally happened. The previous Sunday night I had sat in our pew at Christ Church in my mourning clothes, the suffocating heat pressing down, watching Daughter and Annie kneeling at the Communion rail. It was a moment of inexpressible happiness amid so much pain, and I reached over to clasp Robert's hand. He kissed the back of my hand, stood, and walked to the front of the church to join his children. Whether he had chosen to be confirmed at that moment in order to ease the pain of my sudden bereavement or to honor the woman he had for so long called Mother, I couldn't say.

I wished that she had lived to witness that glorious event. I could only hope that the full knowledge of it may have swelled the tide of joy wherever her spirit had gone.

From the top of Federal Hill in Baltimore I could see the
Banshee
riding at anchor among sailing vessels and steamships crowding the harbor. A flock of geese winged above the breakwater where the river roiled with wind-whipped whitecaps. Beyond the teeming wharves, the city's monument to President Washington pierced the pewter-colored sky.

Beside me in the carriage, Robert's sister, Anne, fussed with her skirts and retied the ribbons on her bonnet. “Are you sure this is a good idea? It isn't exactly the best day to be out and about.
You're able to visit so seldom anymore, I would hate for you to get sick and spoil our time together.”

“I've looked forward to this visit too. But I've waited for years for such a day as this. I can't let disagreeable weather keep me away.”

The carriage drew up at the wharf, and the driver jumped down to open the door. Anne peered out at the dozens of black families standing near the
Banshee.
A cold rain began to fall.

“If it's all the same with you, Mary, I think I will wait for you here.” She sent me a sharp glance. “No sense in both of us getting sick.”

I left the carriage and made my way to the center of the group. Since July I had corresponded regularly with William Burke and his family during their preparations for beginning anew in Liberia. Our letters flew back and forth as William and Rosabella filed the necessary applications with the Colonization Society, collected letters of reference, booked passage, and outfitted themselves and their children for the voyage. Now at last they were on their way, along with some 257 other freedmen.

“Mrs. Lee, what a surprise to see you.”

The Reverend Gurley pushed through the throng to clasp my hand. He was no longer president of the society, but he still took a keen interest in the activities of all the chapters, including mine in Washington City.

He raised his umbrella to shelter me. “Not the best weather for commencing a journey, but I expect our freedmen are happy to be under way at last.” He glanced around and checked his pocket watch. “I would have thought our sponsors would have arrived by now.”

“How many are going this time?”

“Just three. But they are competent men and well prepared to assist our families in getting settled. This group will make nearly ten thousand people we have resettled so far.”

“It's a start, I suppose.”

“Yes, but we must revive our finances in the new year. Now that Mr. Webster and Mr. Clay have passed on to their rewards, I worry about who will champion our cause.”

I was deeply troubled about that myself. Mr. Clay had expired the previous July. Mr. Webster had followed him just three months later. I feared that Mr. Garrison's continuing attacks upon us in his
Liberator
and other writings might turn the tide permanently against us. “Won't the money the state legislatures have appropriated keep us going for a while?”

Two little boys ran past, jostling us, and the minister took my elbow to steady me.

“Perhaps. But when we are obliged to purchase slaves in order to free them, even the thirty thousand a year set aside in Virginia does not go very far.”

“Mrs. Lee?” I recognized William Burke's voice even before he reached me.

He nodded to the Reverend Gurley, then clasped my hand. “Mrs. Lee, I can never thank you for all you have done for Rosabella and me, and our children.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Lee,” the minister said. “There are our sponsors, arrived at last. I must speak to them. You are welcome to my umbrella.”

He soon was lost in the burgeoning crowd milling about the pier.

William held the umbrella above our heads as the mist grew heavier. “I'm glad you came to see us off.”

“I couldn't stay away on such a momentous day.”

“I have some news I hope will please you,” William said. “I have been accepted to the seminary in Monrovia.”

“Oh, William, that is wonderful news. I'm deeply pleased.”

“It never could have happened if you hadn't given me those secret reading lessons.”

“Lawrence and my mother deserve most of the credit. I was away so much of the time when you were growing up.”

“But it was you who got me started, and you gave me that Bible when I was just sixteen. You convinced Mr. Custis to give us our freedom and gave us the money to pay for this trip.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a roll of bills. “This is what we had left after we paid for everything.”

“You ought to keep it. There are sure to be more expenses once you reach Liberia.”

“Yes, I imagine there will be. But I'd rather you use this to help some other family who wants to emigrate.”

We heard a commotion and peered from beneath the umbrella. The sponsors were organizing the passengers, checking their papers, directing them to the gangplank.

“I reckon I ought to go find my wife.” William handed me the umbrella. “God bless you, Mrs. Lee. I will write to you when we get there.”

“I would like that.”

He turned and was swallowed in the crowd moving toward the gangplank. Soon the last passengers were aboard. The pier was nearly deserted. I looked around for the Reverend Gurley, but he had gone. Only a few dockworkers remained to load the last of the cargo. Behind me, the carriage waited.

Despite the mist and the chill, passengers crowded the deck to wave good-bye. Huddled beneath the large umbrella I couldn't see William, but I took out my handkerchief and waved, my throat swelling with tears as the
Banshee
cleared the harbor and faded into the mist.

1857

I
was headed for my schoolroom, my arms full of books for reading lessons with the servants' children, when I saw Papa trudging up the path from the stables. Four years had passed since my mother's death, but he had never completely recovered from the loss. He had given up his pen and easel, preferring his solitary walks among the clear streams and cool shades of Arlington. He was often gone for hours, lost in the quiet beauty of the revolving seasons and in his own private reveries.

On that bright October morning I set down my books and met him at the door. He was red faced, perspiring heavily though the air was still cool from the morning's frost.

“Are you all right?”

He shook his head. “I'm feeling very strange this morning.”