… our Hearts are fired with Love and Affection …
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
Mary’s hand trembled as she sat at a highly polished carved desk in the drawing room of Susannah and Beverley’s town house on the corner of Broad and Pearl streets, with a quill in her hand. A crowd of esquires whose names she did not care to know glared at her as she fidgeted with the unfurled linen scroll in front of her. Frederick and Beverley stood nearby. She put the quill down a third time without a signature. A lady’s maid rushed a glass of water to her. Mary took a sip. Her eyes returned to the document and she carefully read it, as if she hadn’t quite understood each line the first or second time through.
This Joint agreement made on this day between
Roger Morris of Yorkshire, England, on the one part
and Mary Eliza Philipse of Yonkers, New York, on
the Other part, Witnesseth that Whereas there is a
Marriage Intended between the said Morris and
said Philipse. When said marriage Shall take place
and be Consummated, it is the intent of the
agreement that said Philipse will maintain all of the
property, share in the Philipse family milling and trade
business, household furniture, Clothing and Ornamentals
brot to the said Morris at the time of their intermarriage.
In Confirmation of the foregoing agreement the
parties do hereby bind themselves, and their heirs
Executors & administrators to the faithful
performance thereof according to their true
intent and meaning of said agreement. In Witness
whereof the parties have hereunto Set their hands
& Seals.
Signed, Sealed & Delivered to each other.
She held her breath and wrote “Mary Eliza Philipse” next to Roger Morris’s signature. He had signed it earlier in the day without hesitation. The ante-nuptial contract came with the solemn pledge of accompanying Captain Morris to the altar; the vows would be celebrated at the expiration of one week.
It was done.
She jumped out of the chair and rushed from the room. Overwhelming feelings of confusion, guilt, and fear compounded into such a mixed-up mess, she wanted to not be seen by anyone. She raced up the stairwell, into the bedchamber, shut the door, and fell to the floor.
Was Roger Morris an awful man? No. He was a respectable man of good breeding who never failed to declare his sincerity with the best of intentions. Had he kept his word? He had. He protected the town, kept her family from the awful scenes of war. The order to quarter troops in the Sherwood house was reversed and J.E.’s enlistment voided, allowing Rosie’s husband to return home.
Still, Mary shuddered at her answer. Polite society told her that what she was about to do was for the best. George was never coming back for her.
THE HORSE RIDE from the port to the Robinson town house proved difficult; George could hardly see ahead of him with the heavy fall of snow driving thickly. Still, he kept up his pace, for it had been so long since he heard her speak the words, “You are a true gentleman.”
Through the tumult of the winter’s night, George could make out the image of a lion on a shiny black-and-gold chariot. He arrived, dismounted, and walked through the white-covered path, leaving his large footprints, each nearly twelve inches in length. The time was late, too late to make a call upon a lady. He knew the rules of civility. It was not good manners to do so. He paused for a moment by the door.
Forget rules, he thought. His lovely had already waited too long.
He removed his riding gloves and knocked at the door. He waited for a long minute. He knocked again. The door was answered by Susannah. He had forgotten how much she resembled Mary Eliza Philipse. He was glad to see her. She, on the other hand, appeared stunned to see him. He had no opportunity to offer a greeting.
“Miss Philipse is indisposed,” she blurted out to him. “Please wait here.” She walked away with an elegant, straight posture yet scampering footsteps.
So George stood, brushing snow from his tricorn hat as he waited outside the front door. Snow continued to fall on him. The door remained open. He could hear a conversation coming from a room at the end of the hallway. A man in a red coat emerged from it and quickly marched toward him. A messenger, he assumed. George stopped him and peered at a packet in the person’s hand. “What are you delivering from this place?”
“They are the nuptial papers, sir,” was his answer.
“Nuptial papers?” George’s heart sank. “Where are they to be delivered?”
“I’ve been ordered to take them directly to the residence of our commander in chief, Lord and Victor, John, Earl of Loudoun.”
“POLLY. POLLY. YOU must rise!” Susannah raced into the bedchamber with her voice breaking as she whispered.
Mary lifted her head from the bed pillow. Her sister looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
“HE … is … here,” Susannah said slowly, deliberately.
“He?”
“Colonel Washington is in our entryway.” She ran through the words and threw her hand over her mouth.
Mary shook her head. “It cannot be.”
Susannah nodded frantically, with her hand still over her mouth.
“No! No!”
“Shall I have Beverley—”
“Please no!” Mary climbed out of the quilt. “Do not turn him away!” She looked to the window. It was late, too late for a visit, and the weather treacherous. How did he arrive here? Why today? Why not any other one prior to this? She near couldn’t believe it until she peered out the second-floor window.
George.
She could see him walking away on the snow-covered path into the night. He was leaving. Passion told her to throw out caution and papers and pledges. Reason told her to remain in place. What was she to do?
“Oh, for heaven’s love, what are you waiting for?” Mary said aloud.
WHEN ALL IS lost, only silence remains. Stilled emptiness surrounded him. He could see only darkness, blank air that even the white of snow could not brighten. George walked alone into a trail of wood smoke, the scent that made known it was warming those who had loves to comfort them.
He was alone. He was used to that.
Why had she chosen that man, the insubordinate one? He was certain their marriage was the subject of the nuptial papers.
In the snow-muffled quiet, he heard a voice, her voice, the voice that had a melody to it. She cried out his name. He turned toward the sound and raised his hand to block the snow from his vision. The ache of missing Mary Eliza Philipse struck like a dagger to the core.
Through the flakes, appearing like diamonds shimmering their luster in the moonlight, she was running toward him. Mary Eliza was coming.
Before he could find words to say, his arms opened to envelop her. She leapted onto him. He lifted her from the cold, raw ground and both of his arms wrapped tightly around her, and she pressed her whole body against his. He felt her wholeness melting into his arms as if she and he were one and the same. “Words cannot express—” He held himself from speaking, realizing words would only diminish the intimacy of this moment in time. His face found hers and gently he laid a kiss on her forehead and on her right dimpled cheek and on the left.
Mary could not speak. No letters put together into sounds could explain the deep feelings she had for him. She placed her hands into his snow-covered hair and brought his lips close to hers. She wondered, was it fate that brought him here this night, for the snow blanketed them and the world around them, hiding them from its prying eyes. Just the two of them alone, with not a soul to see their yearning for each other.
George felt her lips just a breath away from his. He touched his nose to hers. He caressed her cheek with his cheek. Their lips nearly touched. Her eyes gently closed.
Quiet surrounded them in an alluring peace. It seemed to Mary that nature was bowing in deference to them. Then a beautiful swoosh emitted a sound. Had it been the wind, or had the world released a sigh? She thought the latter.
No longer able to wait for minds to reason, their lips found heaven.
Enthralled by her, George came to realize a simple truth: She was his; he was hers. What had come before, what would come after mattered not.
Together, they were one.
The clarity that revealed itself allowed him to reognize that one knows no place; the two of them could have been anywhere in the universe, together or separate, and he realized one knows no time; they could have been in the past or the future, for one exists not only for the present but for eternity, and through these truths George opened his heart to fall in love, in the middle of a storm, in the middle of a street, in the middle of a night, because with her in his embrace, he felt complete, understood, worthy; with Mary Eliza, he felt free.
Their kiss did not have an end. It endured even when their lips parted. Keeping her protected in his arms, he carefully walked through the cover of freshly fallen snow. One set of prints made an impression upon the cobblestone path as they approached the doorway. He carried her over the threshold. He had her now and he would not allow anything to disturb this time with her. He moved toward the fireplace in the parlor. He approached a settee by the hearth. Its bright hue welcomed them like warm rays of sun. Upon his lap she lay, his hands cradling her head to his chest.
In his arms, with his fingertips smoothing her hair, deep feelings stirred inside of her. Heat flooded through from the tippy top of her head down to her toes. Blue eyes with a hint of gray studied her. She bit her lip to stop herself from panting. Blue eyes gazing at her with such adoration. Why hadn’t she waited for him? Every ounce of her being had told her to wait. If only George had written to her—at least a letter expressing his feelings—she would have waited and waited. Her face leaned against his hard chest, the beat of his heart on her skin. The pounding. Even-tempoed. Strong. Her ears became buried in the throbbing of it. If she could have remained here in this position forever, she would have been contented, listening, feeling the beat.
She never asked why there had not been word from him, why he had not returned for her.
Many questions he wanted to ask her. Why hadn’t she waited for him? Why hadn’t she responded to his letters? He wanted to ask her all of it, but his love was in his arms, and if this was the last time he would be with her, he would not let conversation interrupt. Heat reached every inch of his body. Her tears flowed. She never moved from within his arms.
He held her closer, as if he understood. Maybe it was true. Maybe he was protected. She would keep it that way. Keep him away from the cursed.
He breathed in her breath. He knew from her tears. She didn’t have to explain. The enemy had won.
NIGHT TURNED TO dawn.
She had fallen asleep in his arms. The last small flame was burning out in the hearth. George rose and gently placed his precious onto the sofa and covered her in a quilt. He walked over to the fireplace, placed white birch logs into it, and waited to be assured the glow did not go dark. From his pocket, he removed a small box. He set the gift on the table before her.
He left this place.
Neither a sad ending nor a happy ending would come to pass.
For them, there was no ending.