Free Washington's Lady by Nancy Moser Page A

left it to Cully to disperse the goods. But then I found renewed interest . . . could it be my wedding clothes? I had not expected them until the autumn, but such schedules were varied and unreliable.
    I heard Cully talking with the driver, heard their voices but not their words. I watched as both men moved to the back of the wagon and peered inside. Then suddenly, Cully shook his head violently. He pointed back down the road.
    “Back? I ain’t goin’ to take it away.” The man lowered the back gate of the wagon, readying to remove the cargo.
    Cully pointed again, more vehemently. “Go! We cannot have that here. Not today.”
    They exchanged more words, their voices rising. Whatever were they arguing about?
    I walked onto the porch and proceeded down the front steps. When the men saw me, they halted their argument and Cully hurried forward, as if to intercept me.
    “Sorry, mistress. I got it handled. It ain’t nothing you have to—”
    I sidestepped his concern and spoke to the driver. “What are you delivering today?”
    His face turned red and he suddenly acquiesced, as if upon seeing me, he conceded to Cully’s side of the argument. “It is a mistake, ma’am. Sorry to bother—”
    My curiosity would not be appeased but through full knowledge. I walked around the man to the lowered gate. There, half covered with a length of burlap, was the source of the argument.
    Cully was by my side. “I am sorry, mistress. I told ’im to take it back to Williamsburg. It don’t go here on any account. And specially not to—”
    Today. On the anniversary of Daniel’s death.
    I looked at the man. “Pull it forward so I can fully see it.”
    The man grabbed hold of a hunk of burlap and pulled the cargo on top of the lowered gate.
    “A fine tombstone, this,” he said, patting its corner. “Come all the way from England. Marble, they tells me it is.”
    It was a fine tombstone. Just as I had ordered. One handsome Tombstone of the best durable Marble to cost about £100 . . .
    Cully was looking at me, not the tombstone. “I told ’im to take it back. Take it to the cemetery at Queen’s Creek, where he . . . where it belongs.”
    I nodded. Cully was right, of course. The tombstone did not belong here. Daniel was not here.
    “Didn’t mean to upset you, ma’am,” the driver said. “Just doin’ what they told me to do.”
    I nodded. “You will be paid for your trouble,” I said. “And fed.” I turned to Cully. “Take this gentleman to the kitchen and see what you can do for him.”
    “Thank you, ma’am. My apologies for the muddle of it, but—”
    I waved him away.
    Cully looked at the wagon. “He should move it, yes, mistress?”
    “No,” I said. “Leave it here for now.”
    Cully raised an eyebrow. I did not need to give him an explanation. “Go.”
    I waited until the two of them had rounded the side of the house, then—
    Seeing me alone, the children came running. “What came?” Jacky asked. “Something for me?”
    I sought Amanda and found her watching the scene from the flower bed by the porch. “Amanda? Take the children inside for a cake, or some nuts.”
    “See, Mamma! Patsy see!”
    I drew the children to my side and kissed their heads. “Not now. It is not for you. Go with Amanda and she will get you something to eat.”
    The promise of food appeased them, and I was left alone with the unhappy cargo. I read the inscription to see if it was as I had ordered: Here Lies the Body of Daniel Parke Custis Esquire who was born the 15th Day of Oct. of 1711 & departed this Life the 8th Day of July 1757. Aged 45 Years.
    It was correct. I ran my fingers across the chiseled letters that honoured the life of my husband. Yet seeing it now, I realized it said too little. A name. A date of birth and death. An age. Perhaps I should have added something sentimental: Beloved husband and father . Yet at the time I had written the order, I had not felt sentimental. Only overwhelmed.
    “I am sorry,