Free Washington's Lady by Nancy Moser

beer. And my George was victorious. How he managed to gain a seat in the House as an afterthought, while heading to war . . .
    I fear he did it to impress me. Did he not know that I needed no more impressing?
    And yet . . .
    I also sensed the flame of ambition in his breast. And anxiety and passion. For some reason my George felt compelled to achieve. To overcome a meager childhood?
    I knew better than to hold him back by comment or suggestion. For a person to feel complete, he had to believe he had attained all he was meant to attain. I had no full notion of where George’s aspirations would take him. As for my own? I wished to be by his side and in our home during each victory or defeat. I wished for us to be a family. And I wished for more family. Two, perhaps three more children? I relished the notion of a house brimming with this precious blessing.
    As spring turned into summer, life carried on.
    Until the day I was reminded of death.
    It was a beautiful summer day, though hot to the point of weariness.
    And tempers.
    It was a day when working inside, which offered shade but limited movement of air, was of marginal advantage over working in the sunny tobacco fields with benefit of full breeze.
    Even the children chose outside over in, flitting from the porch to the shade of the trees out front. I watched them from the window and took comfort in the sounds of their voices and laughter when they slipped out of sight. Amanda was supposed to be watching them while she weeded the day lilies.
    I was making new breeches and shirts for the workers. They wore them through so quickly, it often was a struggle to keep up. I prided myself in small stitches, knowing the better I sewed them this first time, the better chance I had of not repairing a rent seam tomorrow. I had tried to teach servants this art, but they took little pride in fine work—or speed. I paused a moment to watch one such servant, Hildy, to see what made her production so tedious.
    She took an inordinate amount of time threading the needle, squinting, and holding it far, then near.
    “Are you having trouble seeing the needle hole?” I asked.
    She blinked, as though clearing her eyes. “Didn’t use to.”
    “How old are you now?”
    “Forty, best as I know.”
    “You need spectacles.”
    She looked shocked. “No one has those.”
    She was right. None of our slaves had spectacles. And yet . . . “They are not needed for large work, but this . . . I need you to help with fine work. I will see you get some on our next visit to Williamsburg.”
    Hildy grinned. “That would be fine, mistress. Real fine.”
    I went back to my sewing, glad for the busyness, yet wishing it were a chore that used my mind more than it did. Perhaps I should have worked on the correspondence today, the ordering of supplies. That would have been a better choice for this eighth day of July.
    This anniversary of death.
    There I went again, thinking about it, marking the date with this horrible memory of Daniel’s end. I had no one with which to share my misery. Some of the house servants were aware—I could tell by Amanda’s and Cully’s kind eyes that morning that they had remembered—but the children had no concept of time and date. And I did not want them to know. It did no good to commemorate tragedy. It only served to keep it alive.
    And yet . . . I knew. I remembered. And I suffered.
    Alone.
    It was not too late to do the correspondence. I could leave Hildy to the sewing. I was just about to do so when I heard the sound of horses and a wagon driving up the road out front. My first concern was the children. With a glance I saw Jacky and Patsy were safe, digging in the dirt by a tree. My second concern was whether we were gaining visitors. Had the windows in the guest room been opened this morning? If not, that room would surely be as hot as Hades.
    But just as I made to go check the windows, I saw that it was not a carriage. It was a delivery wagon. I relaxed and