Free Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Gray by Dorothy Love Page B

artistic pursuits to give much thought to his wardrobe. The walls of his study were lined with pictures and illustrations done by his own hand. The bookshelves held copies of his original plays and musical compositions.
    I loved his lively mind, his lack of pretension, and the absolute self-possession with which he moved through our cloistered little world. “Mother wrote to me that The Rail Road was well received.”
    “It was indeed a successful little play. I hope to mount a production in Philadelphia next year. I am much encouraged to begin work on another very soon.”
    I noticed a large canvas propped against the far wall. “And what is this?”
    “A new painting for the Washington centennial next year.”
    I studied the outline of the large figure dominating the canvas. “Mother said you are composing a new verse for that occasion as well.”
    “That is my intent, but I confess I have not progressed very far.”
    “May I read it?”
    “I have spent the morning wrestling with words, and all I have to show for it is the title.”
    He handed me a sheet of paper written in his curlicued hand. Lines written for the Centennial Anniversary of the Birth of George Washington Feb 22, 1832. By George Washington Parke Custis of Arlington.
    “I’m certain it will be wonderful, Papa, and a fitting tribute to your stepgrandfather.”
    He set aside his paper. “After I’m gone you must look to the preservation of all things Washington.”
    “I will do my best.”
    “They are very dear to this family, but they belong to our country too, Mary Anna. No one must be allowed to forget him.”
    Robert materialized in the doorway, and Papa hurried over to greet him. “Lieutenant. Welcome home.”
    “Thank you, Father.” Robert shook Papa’s hand.
    “My wife keeps me apprised of the doings at Fort Monroe through Mary’s letters,” my father said, “but I am very eager to hear from your own lips how your projects are going. None were hampered by that unfortunate Nat Turner business, I hope.”
    “Colonel Eustis issued an order that restricted us some, but we managed to keep going until the winter weather closed in.” Robert crossed the room to warm his hands before the fire. “How did the apple orchard fare this year?”
    “The crop was not as ample as it should have been. I suspect quite a few bushels fell into the wrong hands.” Papa sighed. “It’s unfortunate that this Turner affair has fanned the flames of discontent among some of the Negroes. Though not as bad here as in other places, or so I am told. However, my dear boy, it’s Christmas, and I do not wish to mar the occasion with such gloomy talk.” He glanced at the mantel clock. “There is time for a walk about the grounds before supper, if you’d like.”
    I knew Papa wanted time alone with Robert, so I did not invite myself along. They collected their coats and hats and went out. I returned to the parlor, where Mother still sat at her knitting.
    “There you are, child. Robert grew restless, and I sent him off to find you. Did I hear the menfolk leaving?”
    “Yes. I think they want to talk politics out of my hearing.”
    “I’m glad we have some time alone.” Her knitting needles caught and reflected the firelight. “You know you can tell me anything that is weighing on your heart.”
    “I do know that, Mother.”
    “Somehow I got the feeling you were holding back in your letters.”
    “That’s because Robert likes to add his own postscripts to them.”
    “Keeping secrets from one’s spouse is a bad practice.” Something flickered in her eyes. Some unspoken truth lingered in the air, as unmistakable as the scent of honeysuckle. “Suppose you tell me what has you so concerned.”
    “I want my husband to give more consideration to spiritual matters.” I sat down and poured myself more tea. “That was the subject of our first quarrel, in fact.”
    Mother unwound more yarn. “You must be patient. Let him come to it in his own