Free Washington's Lady by Nancy Moser Page B

Daniel,” I told the stone.
    Yet with the apology, I gained a thought that might make some amends. I would order a mason to create a brick foundation upon which to set this stone. It would be a strong statement, a small representation of Daniel’s place in this world.
    I nodded to myself, the decision made.
    I kissed my fingers and touched his name. I stood there a moment, my hand upon the cold stone, remembering the warm man who had brought me joy. The feel of his arms as they enfolded me, the smell of his clothes after a hard day at work, the sparkle in his eyes that revealed the affection he felt for me.
    I pulled my hand away from the stone. My memories were what sustained me, not some slab that only commemorated dates and a resting place. The place Daniel truly rested was in my mind. And in my heart.
    I headed back to the house. It was good the stone had mistakenly come here. It was good it had come on this day. Providence did not deal with coincidence. This was God’s way of giving me a note of finality to this day of remembrance, as well as a note of finality to my past.
    The past was not a place I had chosen to live. Its lure continued, but with God’s help, and with the presence of my two children, I had managed to be victorious over its snare.
    And George . . . the addition of George in my life had been instrumental in turning my eyes away from what was and letting me gaze toward what was yet to be.
    With one final glance at the wagon I said good-bye to the man I had known all my life, and looked forward to once again seeing the man I was to marry.
    A man I barely knew.
    My stomach tightened, but I pushed the condition away. Marrying George was the right thing to do. A good thing. Yet good or not, his absence was difficult. How I wished he were here beside me, making me revel in happy thoughts and warm feelings.
    Soon, George. Please come home soon.
    *****
    It was something.
    Although I longed for George to be with me in person, his latest letter—a lovely letter—was some consolation. With the children safely to bed I sat in my room, near the window, making full use of the last rays of the sun to read it yet again:
    We have begun our march for the Ohio. A courier is starting for Williamsburg, and I embrace the opportunity to send a few words to one whose life is now inseparable from mine. Since that happy hour when we made our pledges to each other, my thoughts have been continually going to you as another self. That an all-powerful Providence may keep us both in safety is the prayer of your ever faithful and affectionate friend.
    “Another self.” Such a lovely phrase. One that would do much to sustain me as I waited for our two to become one.

Four
    “You may kiss the bride.”
    Upon Reverend Mossom’s suggestion, George did just that. Our wedding guests clapped as we reluctantly turned away from each other, toward them. Our first moments of married life were met with genuine pleasure—on everyone’s part.
    Including my own.
    I proudly took the arm of my new husband and stepped toward the center of the parlour at White House, letting the well-wishes of family and friends envelop us. Hugs and kisses to the cheek for me, and handshakes and slaps on the back for my George.
    My George. Such a luscious phrase.
    My sister Nancy pushed past others to offer her pleasure. “You look exquisite, sister.” She leaned closer. “And your husband . . .” Her appreciative smile finished the sentence.
    On this special day, I knew both statements to be true. My dress—delivered from England—was lovelier than I had hoped. It was deep yellow, of rich brocade, the skirt open at the front to reveal a white silk underskirt with a weave of silver through and through. Silver lace edged the neck and sleeve. As a pleasant contrast, I wore purple silk slippers with a silver buckle and embroidery, and had a string of pearls running through my hair. I felt much like a queen.
    And George . . . George had ordered his own