They’d almost reached Fifth Street, still clinging to one another’s hands in a line like children playing crack-the-whip, when someone shouted, “Here they come!”

Dolley pressed forward, to where half a dozen people jammed the step of old Mrs. House’s big red-brick residence. A gentleman on the lowest step, turning to protest, took a second look at her, changed his glare to an ingratiating smile, and raised his hat. She gave him a dazzling smile in return, and he edged back off the step, gallantly surrendering his place to the girls.

Like a country stream in winter, half choked by ice and snow, Market Street had been reduced to a single narrow channel of brick. Dolley could see the flags, and the mounts of the Pennsylvania Light Horse, even in the wan gloom seeming to gleam like burnished copper and bronze; see the men looking out straight before them with their swords drawn and held upright, and the gold of buttons and braid sparkling bright.

Even had General Washington not ridden in the place of honor in their midst, Dolley was certain she would have known it was he. He wore, not the blue-and-buff uniform of the Continental Army, but the plain black suit of a private citizen—an act of modesty which would not, Dolley suspected, earn him the slightest indulgence from John Todd. The man proclaimed before all the world that he would retire to private life, never more to meddle in the affairs of the nation, the young lawyer had pointed out, when the subject of the National Convention had arisen. To go back so upon his word would be to admit himself a Caesar before all the nation, ambitious for a crown!

But there was nothing, thought Dolley, of the Caesar in this man who came riding down Market Street through the thunder of cannon-fire and church bells. Though he sat straight on his dapple-gray stallion, there was no triumph in his face. He looked, if anything, tired and a little grim, as anyone would, she supposed, after a week’s journey up from Virginia.

But would not a Caesar have stretched out his arms to the welcoming crowd, whose cheers reverberated against the flat pink brick of the house-fronts? A Caesar at least would have looked pleased.

The General looked like a knight calculating what he’s going to need to take with him to fight a very dangerous dragon; a knight who, alone among the clamoring crowd, doubts his own strength to prevail.

Even surrounded by loyal troops and howling admirers, Dolley was startled at how alone he seemed.

Beside her on the step the crowd stirred and pushed as the door opened behind them. Old Mrs. House, who had rented rooms to members of the Congress since the days of the War, emerged, beaming and attired in the half-mourning she’d worn for as long as Dolley had known her. She was escorted by a thin, shy-looking little gentleman in black, whose graying hair was braided in a neat queue. Everyone on the step was jostled back, as those who’d thought themselves secure in possession of higher ground jockeyed for position. Dolley teetered, her heel slipping off the granite step, and as she staggered the little black-clothed gentleman turned with surprising swiftness to catch her elbow in a steadying hand.

“Easy,” he said.

She smiled her thanks as he helped her down and their eyes briefly met: a young man’s eyes, bright blue-gray in the settled lines of old illnesses and lack of sleep.

Then from the street an officer cried a sharp “Company halt!” and Dolley looked around, startled, to see General Washington sitting his horse at the foot of Mrs. House’s front steps, close enough that had she put out her hand she might have touched his knee.

The little gentleman in black turned from her, and with Mrs. House descended the step. Dolley pressed quickly back into the crowd as the General dismounted and said, “Mr. Madison.” He had a voice like Jove, deep and very quiet.

“General.” The little gentleman bowed, tiny fingers like bird-bones disappearing into the General’s large, firm grip. “Please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. House. I’ve arranged lodgings here for you.”

“But I hope you will take your dinner with Mrs. Morris and myself this afternoon.” Robert Morris, plump and smiling in his cherry-colored velvet and powdered wig, stepped out of the crowd almost at Dolley’s elbow. This, Dolley thought, was completely unfair: Mrs. House was a notable cook, but Mr. Morris’s chef was renowned throughout the State.

The General inclined his head. Dismounted, he was the tallest man Dolley had ever seen, and looked just like the engravings: the slight curve of the nose, the tight-lipped mouth, strong chin, wide-set cheekbones under those piercing pale eyes. But as the cavalcade formed up again to proceed to the State House for the official welcome, Morris stepped close to the General and Dolley stood near enough to hear him murmur, “I do hope you’ll reconsider my offer and stay with myself and Mrs. Morris, General. We’re quite counting on you.”

And on Mrs. House’s front steps, little Mr. Madison—whom Dolley recalled was one of the organizing delegates from Virginia—for one unguarded instant wore the protesting look of a schoolboy who is too well-mannered to speak when a larger boy takes from under his nose that last cookie on the plate.



“I’d best go back,” she said, as the crowds began to surge off after the retreating Light Horse in the direction of the State House. “Mama needs my help to put dinner on the table.” The church bells still caroled, and with the sky so gray it was difficult to guess the time, but Dolley had the uncomfortable suspicion she’d been gone too long already.