MAMA RECEIVED her compensation from Congress for all the money of Pa's that he had given out to sustain his troops during the war.
President Washington himself signed the bill.
Mama came home that spring, bubbling with joy. All her money worries were over. Congress had given her the first installment of forty-seven thousand dollars.
Alexander Hamilton himself signed the check.
Mama was a different woman. She spoke about bringing Nat and George and Martha home. She talked about a party.
"How sweet is justice," she said. "I feel as saucy as you please."
She did have a party, and she invited General Wayne. He came, garbed spotlessly, mingling among the guests, behaving as if he never knew there was a legal agreement that bespoke marriage between Mama and Phineas Miller in the county courthouse in Savannah.
Only I saw the pained look on his face when he was standing to the side on one occasion, observing Mama and Phineas dancing.
He left the party early, claiming one of his mares had been starting to give birth when he left. He bowed to Mama and kissed her hand upon leaving.
***
"MAMA, PLEASE," I begged her, "you must do this, please."
"There is nothing I must do, Cornelia. And I do not appreciate you speaking to me like that."
"I am sorry, Mama. But you yourself said that you and we children would have been objects of charity if General Wayne had not kept his seat in Congress long enough to do you such essential services. That it was to his exertions that you owe your independence. Did you not, Mama? Did you not say that?"
"And what if I did, Cornelia? Are you saying I am now beholden to him? You know I do not like to be beholden to any man."
"Mama, I never said you were beholden. General Wayne is the last person in the world who would want you to be."
"So, then, let the matter lie fallow."
"Mama, you can't! He needs a good word put in with the president for him! That's all he needs. And you can do it. You know how President Washington likes you."
"What, bother President Washington with a request so soon again? My dear Cornelia, you should learn now to save your requests to a man for important matters. And make them few and far between, lest the man tire of you."
"Mama, this is important! General Wayne has nothing now! His plantation is failing. He's been put out of Congress. And..."
"And what?" she asked.
Oh, how I longed to tell her that I knew of her agreement with Phineas Miller. That Wayne knew of it and that it was killing him. But I could not. For I had promised the general that I would never let on to Mama that we knew of her plans to wed Miller.
My hands, my tongue, and my heart were tied.
I sighed and turned away, tears coming to my eyes.
But Mama discerned my distress. "What is it, Cornelia? Why are you so concerned about General Wayne?" Her voice had softened.
I bit my bottom lip before answering. I said what I could say. "I observed his face at the party you had, Mama. When you were dancing with Mr. Miller."
"And?"
"He still loves you, Mama."
She looked down at the magazine. "I never did more than flirt with him, Cornelia. Women always have the right to flirt, if it is kept a harmless pastime. Men expect it from us. If we do it properly, it gives us power, and Lord knows we have little of that. But we must learn to do it properly. It's about time you learned how, don't you think?"
I just stared at her. I did not answer. Is that what she calls what she'd been doing with Phineas Miller the day I caught her in the schoolroom with him, so long ago now? And what she'd done with all the others? Even General Wayne? Is that what she dismisses it all as now? Flirting?
"I do not wish to do this thing, Cornelia. If I ask the president this favor, he will grant it. And then Wayne will go far away."
Something fell inside me, smashed into bits on the floor of my soul. She still loves him, too! And she wants him around! Though she might wed Miller, she cannot bear to let Wayne go! She would rather keep him on a line, like a fish, and watch him struggle and suffer! What kind of love is that?
"Mama," I begged, weakly now. "Please, if President Washington will grant your favor, please ask it. In Pa's name. Please."
Then I left the room.
***
GENERAL ANTHONY WAYNE put in for a commission with the president of the United States. He did not know that I had asked Mama to write to George Washington. I did not tell him. If Mama ever did, I do not know.
I only know that he not only received his commission from the president, but was named commander in chief of the army.
He was to go west with the army, to the frontier, to the region of the Great Lakes.
Congress gave him much power and many advantages. They told him that they knew he would conduct a well-administered, well-planned, and well-executed campaign.
They knew he would finally bring peace to the frontier.
He came to see us before he left.
Nat and Martha were home by then, for it was now well into 1792. Mama had not yet married Phineas Miller. I was older now and in possession of a knowledge that weighed on me like a suit of armor.
I knew things inside my soul that often made tears appear for no reason at all, things no daughter should be conscious of, things my sister Martha had yet no inkling of.
We had a special dinner in honor of General Wayne's departure.
Phineas Miller was not present at the table. The fault was mine.
At the cost of my well-being, my good standing with Mama, I had gone to him in the stable the day before and spoken to him.
In the king's English I told him plain that General Wayne was coming to sup the next day to say goodbye. That he was going away for years.
Mayhap for good. That we might never see him again.
There were tears in my voice when I told him this, and I did not try to dispense with them.
"He and my mama have been friends since the old days," I said, "since the war. Since Mama was first married to Pa. Since Valley Forge. It was because of his exertions in Congress that she had her petition answered. Or she, and we children, would be beggars now. She has—how shall I say it?—feelings of delicacy for him. Do you understand, Mr. Miller?"
He said yes, he quite understood.
I said, "Good, then you will also understand why I would be beholden to you if tomorrow evening you told Mama that you almost forgot, but of a sudden you remembered that you had a previous engagement and could not make the dinner appointment. Could you do that? Not for me, Mr. Miller. There is no reason on God's good earth why you should do anything for me. But for my mama. Would you do it for my mama? So she could have one last evening with General Wayne. Remember, they may never see each other again. He is going off to the frontier, to try to tame the wild Indians. Wild Indians aren't easy to tame, you know."
He said yes, he would do it.
I forgave him for everything then. I don't know what I would have done if he'd said no. Likely picked up a shovel and knocked him over the head and rendered him unconscious so he wouldn't be able to come to the supper, anyway.
***
THE DINNER WAS OVER. Outside it was twilight. Somehow I had managed to get Martha and Nat and Louisa away from the table so Mama and General Wayne could linger alone over their coffee.
The March air was soft and warm and in the west the sky still held the red and orange streaks of a leftover sunset. And leftover dreams.
"I think," I proposed to my sisters and brother, "that we ought to go upstairs and leave them to themselves to say goodbye."
I had summoned the strength of the eldest. Martha, having been under the thumbs of the nuns for so long, had become submissive and was no longer threatening.
I, on the other hand, had learned what I must, being so exposed to life here, living under nobody's thumb, not even Mama's. I had learned to be obstinate, persistent, stubborn, self-reliant, and cagey.
The others complied. We went upstairs to our separate rooms.
About nine, according to the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall, we were summonded by Emily.
General Wayne wanted to bid us goodbye.
I went downstairs and watched as the others dutifully said goodbye. They hugged him while I stood aside. They tendered their best wishes, promised to be good, wished him well. Mama was nowhere to be seen. They went up to bed. I hung back in the corner, in the shadows in the front hall.
He started to walk to the front door, and with his back to me, gestured with his arm that I should follow.
I went with him, out onto the front veranda.
We stood there a moment. Priam was bringing around his horse.
"Well, then," Wayne said to me.
"Yes, sir."
"I want to thank you."
"For what, sir?"
In the near dark, broken only by torches in huge iron sconces in the ground, he took my hand. "For whatever you did to get Miller out of the way tonight. And for getting your mother to petition the president for me."
"Sir, I didn't—"
"Shhh. I am the one who taught you to lie, remember. I know lies when I hear them. I know your mother wouldn't have done such on her own, that she wanted me around. I know you wanted me around, too, Cornelia. Real love is courage. Thank you."
I wanted to flee. I was going to cry.
He put a hand on my shoulder. Then he touched the side of my face. "I don't know when we'll see each other again, Cornelia, but I want you to know some things."
I took a deep breath. Is he going to tell me now that he is my father?
No, I decided. Because he's said that real love is courage, that's why.
"You may marry before we see each other again. Be careful in that direction. Remember what I told you of the rights women lose when they wed. That doesn't mean you should not wed. There is no more beautiful thing than a good marriage. Just make sure you pick the right one."
"Yes, sir."
"Write to me, if you wish, and tell me about him. Letters do find their way, you know."
"Yes, sir."
His hand had reached my hair now. He was fondling a strand of it, tucking it behind my ear. "And always guard your honor, Cornelia. I tell you this like a father. The man you choose must respect you."
I nodded. Like a father!
But he would never tell. He would face the most savage Indian before he would tell me. He would not allow me to disrespect my mother because of something they might have done a long time ago.
If it was true, he would not allow me to change my allegiances from my pa to him.
And if it were not true, well mayhap, just mayhap, he wanted me to believe, in a small corner of my heart, that there was the remotest possibility that he was my father.
He would never, never tell.
And now, standing there before him in the near dark, I knew that I did not want him to.
"Goodbye, Cornelia," he said.
"Goodbye, General Wayne."
We hugged. He held me close. The hug said all kinds of things we could never say to each other. And the best part about that hug was that we both knew it, when he turned and mounted his horse and rode off into the night.