The Family Greene (19 page)

He polished up my French, along with teaching me dancing.

As a young woman I could observe, more distinctly, that General Wayne was still in love with Mama. And that he still wanted to do things for her, to win her love over all the others.

When he visited, he often took walks with me. He confided in me like a grownup now.

His plantation was failing, he told me. He was going to run for national Congress as a representative from the Forty-first District from Georgia.

"If I make it, I can help your mother with her appeal," he told me.

My heart broke for him.

I had come upon a letter he had written to her, which she had left upon her ladies' desk in the front parlor. Mama had let me see it.

I pledge the honor of a soldier,
it said,
that I will repay you with compound interest upon your personal demand, in any Quarter ofthe Globe.

He was not talking about money. Mama had gone to New England at the time. And his grief was not to be borne at their parting.

He had known her for so many years—did he still not understand the depth of her cruelty? What did Mama have to do to prove it to him?

***

S
HE DID IT
in the spring of 1790 when she took another trip north with me and Louisa. As we were readying for the trip, I realized that we had not seen General Wayne for at least a week, that he did not know we were going.

"He'll likely be around," I reminded her. "Aren't you going to leave word for him? Say goodbye?"

"I owe him nothing," she told me. There was bitterness in the words.

I stopped what I was doing, which was helping her pack. We were in her room. I looked at her. "Mama?" I asked.

"And I owe you no explanation," she snapped.

"I wasn't asking for one," I flung back at her. But I had been and she knew it.

She threw to the floor some gloves she had in her hand. She sat on the bed she'd once shared with Pa.

"Oh, Cornelia, I know you like him. And he favors you. But all these years I have been patient and sympathized with him because he was estranged from his wife. I understood his need to seek out all his sweethearts. He is a man. I understood his needs, Lord knows. Even his on-again-off-again romance with Mary Maxwell and other girls in Savannah. None of it was serious. I knew that."

She paused, bowed her head. "And heaven knows, he put up with my transgressions. But now, for some reason, Cornelia, I can no longer put up with his."

I said nothing. I wanted to ask her if she loved him, but I did not dare.

I wanted, more than I wanted to breathe at the moment, to ask her if he was my father. Because the thought, the question, never left my mind. Never, over the past few years, did I ever stop thinking of it. Never did I stop wondering or hoping to find out.

But I understood what General Wayne wanted me to know.

That if I knew the truth, that if he was and I knew it, I would never again think good of my mama. And he did not want that.

So there he was, protecting her again.

And if he was not my father, then nobody lost anything. But he would not tell me that he was not, either. He would not give me that. I had to earn that myself, he'd told me. I had to learn to love and trust the people concerned enough to believe it was not so.

But after what Mama had shown me over the past few years, I could not summon the love and trust for her. I just could not do it.

So there was General Wayne. And there was always the possibility that he could be my father. And I must live with it.

"I still think," I told Mama, "that you should have told him goodbye."

Because,
I added to myself,
all you are doing is hurting him. Going out of your way to hurt him. And we only do that to people we love.

After all, I was a young woman now. And as a young woman you know such things.

G
ENERAL WAYNE
was elected to Congress in 1791.

"Has Wayne gone?" Mama asked me.

"Yes, Mama."

He'd left half an hour ago, driven to Savannah by his man, Joshua, on his way to Philadelphia, the new seat of government.

He'd come to bid Mama goodbye. They were on good terms again, though not as good as before, never quite as good as before.

I'd listened while he'd told her how he'd severely bawled out his son, Isaac, for not continuing on with his education. Isaac was twenty, and Wayne was bitterly disappointed with him. And I thought,
I never want him to be that disappointed in me.

He'd picked up little Louisa, who was seven now, and whirled her around and kissed her, then came over to me. He stood me in front of him, took my measure solemnly. "You are growing up," he accused.

"Yes, sir," I said.

He scowled his disapproval. "You weren't supposed to grow up," he said, "and you are too pretty by half. Does your mama allow you to associate with young men?"

Then, not waiting for my answer, he looked at her. "Caty?" he asked.

"She goes to dances, properly chaperoned," she told him.

He nodded solemnly. "Behave yourself," he admonished. "Don't disappoint me." He kissed my forehead.

I went outside to watch him leave. I waved him off.

When I returned to the house, Mama was sleeping on the settee. I let her sleep for a while, and when she woke, she asked me if he'd gone.

***

I
N THE MONTHS
that followed, Mama received letters from Wayne in Philadelphia. He had initiated a resolution on her behalf about her claim. He had secured votes in her favor, and then, by spring, she heard there was a movement in Georgia to unseat Wayne in Congress.

In mid-March, a vote was passed and he was unseated, and Mama lost one of her best friends in the House of Representatives.

Wayne came home to Georgia, and we did not see him for weeks.

There were rumors that he did not go out of his house, that he did not work his plantation, or go to the post office for his mail, that he was not paying his bills or his taxes.

"Mama," I begged, "we should go and see him. Assure ourselves that he is all right."

She said no. She was not angry with him, she promised me. She just did not wish to see him at the moment.

"Let me go, then," I begged.

"I absolutely forbid it!" she said. "A young girl does not go calling on a man alone. I absolutely forbid it!"

I worried for General Wayne. I worried for Mama, for she took to her room and cried.

It rained and it rained that spring. The rain pinged off the windows and splashed into the river ominously.

Because Mama was served her meals in her room, Louisa and I had to eat at the table with Phineas Miller, which meant we had to be courteous to him and keep up a conversation. After all, he was still the manager of the plantation, and he still tutored little Louisa on the side.

I received a letter from my brother George in France, the only thing that kept me sane during this time. He wrote that he was in "good health and spirits and as saucy as he pleased." He had, as I knew, been a guest at the Lafayette home on the Rue de Bourbon, but now, he wrote, he was with Lafayette's son, George Washington, in a boarding school run by Monsieur Frestel.

"Here, Madame Lafayette would pay us a daily visit," he said, "but no longer can, since a revolution has erupted and crazed mobs are out in the streets. Don't tell Mama. She will fret."

Crazed mobs in the streets?

I knew there were no crazed mobs between our plantation and that of Anthony Wayne's. I knew Mama was going, in two days, to Philadelphia, to see to her claim before Congress.

What else did I need to know?

A
FTER MAMA WENT
away again to Philadelphia, I left
a note for Phineas Miller, saying that I was going to a friend's for the day. At least he could not complain to Mama that I went off without telling him, leaving him in a state of anxiety without knowing what had happened to me.

Then I went to the kitchen and asked Alexis for some fresh-baked bread to take with me. She wrapped up two loaves, then gave me a third—some gingerbread—awarding me with a secret smile when she handed it to me.

But she said nothing, asked no questions.

Did she know I was going to see General Wayne?

If she did, she would not tell. She had always liked Wayne, making his favorite dishes when he came, making sure he got extra-special portions of everything.

When I arrived at the Wayne plantation just before noon, the place seemed eerily quiet, almost deserted. And then I saw the peacocks on the lawn and the horses in the pasture. But only three of them, instead of a dozen. Had he sold the others off?

When I dismounted my horse by the barn and handed fter MAMa went away again to Philadelphia, I left him over to Joshua, he said yes, the general was home and I was to go right inside.

In the kitchen, Lila grinned when she welcomed me. "Good, company. Jus' what that man needs. Go right on in, chile. I'll make fresh coffee. Don't be taken 'back by how he looks. He jus' bein' careless 'bout himself these days."

It was what Mama would call an understatement.

General Wayne was slouched in a chair in front of the hearth. His head was resting in one hand. He was unshaven, with about two days' worth of beard. His shirt was open at the collar. His boots were unpolished.

At his feet were three of his dogs. On top of his chair was his cat.

On a small table beside him was an empty cup of what had likely been coffee. Beside it was a small bottle of liquor.

The dogs roused themselves when I came into the room, growling threateningly.

The general came awake in an instant, drew himself to his feet, saw me, and quieted the dogs. "Hush." And when they did not hush, he spoke sternly. "Quiet," he said. "Down!"

They obeyed.
Anybody would obey that voice,
I thought.

He drew himself up tall, like the soldier he was. "Cornelia," he said. "Come in, child. Is everything all right at home?"

"Yes, sir," I went into the room and sat in the chair where he gestured I should sit.

He became aware of his appearance of a sudden, ran his hand through his hair, then over his face, and then looked sheepish. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess. I don't like you seeing me like this. I represent the perfect opposite of the discipline that is instilled in every soldier."

"It's all right, General Wayne. You have a right to look however you like in your own house."

He appeared surprised at my answer. "You are quite grown up. And understanding," he said. "You are going to be quite a woman someday, Cornelia."

Lila came in then with fresh coffee, fruit, and the gingerbread. He smiled, seeing the gingerbread. "I'm surprised your mother let you ride over alone," he told me.

"She didn't. Mama's gone to Philadelphia. If she knew I'd even come to call on you, she'd be furious. She forbade me to come. Much less alone."

"Is that so? And why is that?"

"Because," I said bravely, "we heard how you were living." And I told him about the rumors.

He said nothing for a moment. Just stirred his coffee meditatively. "The rumors are true," he admitted. "I've been morose and melancholy, and I've hidden away from the rest of the world. My conduct has been shabby. My spirits have been on the ground. I've been an unhappy man, Cornelia."

Tears came to my eyes and, by sheer willpower that I had never been able to summon before, I refused to let them overflow. "I'm sorry, General Wayne," I told him.

"If my son acted in such a manner, I'd shake some sense into him until he came 'round," he said. "Then I'd slap his face, just for good measure. But I can do nothing for myself."

I offered nothing. I just listened, for it was all I could do.

"It isn't just my being unseated in Congress that's rendered me this way," he confessed, "though that was a blow." He lowered his head. "James Jackson, who lost to me in the election, led the impeachment proceedings. He convinced the others that my election was a fraud."

He looked up and smiled at me sadly. "Your father always hated politics. I should have followed his way of thinking. But no, Cornelia, it isn't just that. Something else put me into the doldrums."

I came alert.

"Child," he said, "I found out in the county courthouse in Savannah that your mother and Phineas Miller have recorded a legal agreement concerning a prospective marriage."

I just stared at him for a moment. "They are getting married?" I knew I sounded like the village idiot.

He nodded yes.

"Sometime in the future, not now. The document says that Miller disclaims any property from the Greene estate. Your mother can't get married now. Her status as a widow is most important in her petition to Congress.

"And," he added, "to me. Just knowing of that document was enough to push me over the edge."

"When do you think they will wed?" I asked.

"Knowing your mother, I'd say not for a while yet, not even if her petition is agreed upon by Congress. Women become the property of their husbands once they wed, Cornelia. Your mother is not likely, anytime soon, to hand herself over to be anybody's property.

"A woman has to hand her children over to her husband, to be held under his jurisdiction. Once wed, women can't take part in any court action, keep any earnings. God,
they have no rights!
So I wouldn't worry about it. Not just yet."

"But you admit, you've got the miseries over it."

He scowled. "She's signed a marriage agreement with him, Cornelia. Our relations are finished."

He shrugged. "One good thing has come out of my miseries, though," he confided. "My son and daughter, having heard of my state, have both written to me. And I haven't heard from either of them in quite a while. Their letters were very endearing."

"I'm glad, sir."

He nodded. "You shouldn't have come here alone," he chided, giving the conversation a turn. "If your mother finds out..." He shook his head sorrowfully.

"She won't, sir. You won't tell her, will you?"

"I'd only have to whip you again."