Guardian's Wall

Love is said to be an involuntary passion and it istherefore contended that it cannot be resisted.

— GEORGE WASHINGTON

YONKERS-ON-HUDSON FEBRUARY 14, 1756

Mary Eliza lay upon cold leaves whose color had washed away a season ago, wishing she could bring back the living. Dead things surrounded her; every flower bud hung shriveled. The dull winter had brought only a few flakes. Spring, when fragrance emerged from its cocoon, was her favorite time of year. That was not this time. Today nature emitted not even a scent to smell.

Wan light peeked through the dark cloud hovering above her. She'd been here at Hudson's Hook since sunrise, writing poetry in her head:

Here I lie,
As mine eyes, my heart, wait,
So close art thou and I.
Here I lie,
Where the ravens fly,
And the guardian's wall, my gate.
Here I lie,
As mine eyes, my heart, wait.

The gallop of approaching stallions echoed. She attempted to rise, but alas, guilt confined her limbs like a fetter. The horses halted. She knew who had arrived. Boots crunching across hardened grasses came next. His silly chain clinked louder as he drew closer. She expected her brother to holler. She assumed that was coming. Instead, he just stood there, glaring at her. His murmuring sounded as if impatience was boiling in a kettle.

A long silence followed. She heard another audible exhalation from him. Frederick lay down, leaving just inches between them. "Polly." He never used her birth name. "I have a great inclination to take you back by force!" Agitation combined with steam in his threat.

She added a few more inches between them.

A deep groan released from his lips. His body shifted sideways. "This trial of my patience ... ends now." He spoke through teeth clenched.

She didn't respond. What would she even say? Worrying thoughts had taken up much of the space in her head, for no ordinary winter's day was before them. This night, as the sun found its repose, the Philipse family would welcome the hero of the South to a grand banquet and pleasure ball with beaux dressed in princely garments and belles adorned in royal costumes. For most hosts, it would be reason for celebration. For Mary, it was reason for tumult. In the midst of such crowds, the noisomeness of hair powder lingered like a fog, bringing back the image that forever haunted her: the little boy's eyes filled with horror, filled with fear. The memory caused her to cringe.

She would rather have remained here with her disquiet fading into the season's emptiness. But with her brother about to snatch her from her stillness, she closed her eyes and repeated to herself the words she promised Papa she would say each day: You are capable of the impossible, for you have survived the unthinkable.

Slowly, she rose and retied her riding dress's silk sash into a proper bow. Throughout, she envisioned the man of honor of the evening, the most celebrated colonel of the colonies, riding more than five hundred miles to be in attendance. His name was George Washington.

* * *

THE TRIP BACK to the manor was quiet, except for the clank of the chain Frederick was wearing. Then he began lecturing her. "Two hundred and twenty of the highest-ranking citizens will converge on our home, each of them viewing each of us, including you, Polly."

Mary could not even acknowledge him, not with the confusion of emotions affecting her spirit. Certainly she would want to meet the hero. She already knew more about Colonel Washington than she was comfortable talking about. He was a brave one, unlike her. But the number of guests — 220 — it sat like a weight upon her chest.

If she made the decision, she would be riding Willoughby back to the Yonkers manor. This four-wheeled, horse-drawn, covered carriage was the kind people of quality rode in, always moving at a leisurely pace to make the journey comfortable. She didn't need comfort. She needed air.

The carriage was conveying them along the dirt roads that belonged to her and Frederick and their sister Susannah. Theirs was an immense treasure of land along the Hudson River, stretching from the center of Manhattan Island to parts north in the Highlands, 390 square miles in total. As she looked upon it now, she could see only winter's barrenness instead of a season of torpid inaction when even love's embrace could not force a flower's bloom out of a dormant state.

Mary's brother waved to the elderly fellow with a pile of white hair upon his face and head who was keeping order at the bridge they needed to cross. Other travelers, including farmers with livestock and merchants with their wagons full of goods, formed a long, chaotic line. But the Philipses never needed to wait nor pay the three-pence toll, unlike every other man or animal to cross. They had inherited this, too — a toll bridge twenty-four feet in width, with a draw, the first and only link connecting the metropolis to the mainland. They called it King's Bridge. The franchise had been granted to their great-grandfather by British charter.

Frederick turned back to her and bumped upward as they crossed over the bridge's wooden planks, "As for your attendance, Polly, what is your answer?" Mary attempted to sit up straight. "You summon these men to our home, Frederick, and expect I should...