Washington's Lady Read Online Free PDF Page A

Charles appeared, the sage brocade of his coat a pleasing complement to the deep green of his waistcoat and breeches. He looked the essence of the upcoming spring.
    I ached for spring. Renewal. Hope. New beginnings.
    He bowed and I offered a curtsy. “Nice to see you, Mr. Carter.”
    “I have stayed away too long. Let me just say . . . I do not mean to begin our conversation on such a sad note, but I do feel it incumbent . . .” He studied his fingernails. “I was sorry to hear of the death of your sister Frances. She was but fourteen?”
    “Thirteen,” I said. “Too young.” First my baby Frances, and more recently my sister of that name . . . “Will you please sit down?” I rang the bell and asked Mirella for tea and scones. I was not certain of the hour. How long had I slept? I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly one in the afternoon.
    Charles pointed at my timepiece. “How unusual.”
    “Daniel had it made for me. A well-run house runs on time.” I rose to show it to him. “See how the numbers are absent, and in their place the letters of my name.”
    “Martha Custis. Just enough,” he said.
    “Just.”
    “’Tis always advantageous to know how time passes.”
    I was not convinced he was correct. For when one grieved too much, time passed too quickly. Could I ever win such a race?
    He squirmed upon his chair. I knew why he was sitting before me. He had made it clear in other meetings and through correspondence since. And though I had not answered him plainly before this time, at this time I was ready to—
    “You know why I have come?” he asked.
    I was shocked by his directness. Yet perhaps it was best. He had proposed at least twice before in his life. He had experience. Two wives now dead and buried.
    “I do know,” I said.
    “Would you do me the honour of being my wife, Martha?”
    I was glad he had not knelt before me, for ’twas far easier to reject him with space between us. Perhaps he feared his elderly knees would not make the gesture gracefully. He was twenty-four years older than I.
    “I am sorry, Mr. Carter, but I cannot.”
    He looked genuinely surprised. “Whyever not?”
    Because you are an old man, because you have twelve children—nine girls and three boys. The eldest daughter is nearly my age, already married with a child of her own . . . you are a grandfather. And your father is at least as tyrannical as was John Custis. I will not willingly enter in with tyrants.
    To his face I was more diplomatic. “I am not yet ready to love a second time.”
    He opened his mouth to speak, and I stared at him, daring him to say love was of no import to him—as in truth, I believed it was not. The man required a mother for his vast family. Although I adored children, I had no wish to voluntarily take on a dozen. All at once. I wished to have my own. With a man nearer my own age who at least had a fighting chance of being there, of helping me bring them into adulthood.
    I stood. “How long will you be staying with us at White House, Mr. Carter?”
    He blinked, clearly flustered. But then he rose to his feet and said, “Why, I . . . I have business in Williamsburg. It is best I press on.”
    “I understand,” I said. I held out my hand. He kissed it, nodded his good-bye, and left.
    I looked at the door and waited for regret to reach me.
    It did not.
    Good.
    One down. Many to go.
    Being the wealthiest widow in Virginia was not an easy occupation. Mr. Carter was not the first to show his intentions, nor would he be the last. In many ways my position was one to be envied. There was only one richest anything, and among Virginia widows, that title was mine.
    Yet attached to the position were obstacles. With women still in the minority in the colonies—with many succumbing to death through childbirth—our gender was in high demand. It was the norm to marry two or three times within a lifetime. As far as being a woman with a fortune? I was expected to remarry in a timely