If the Men Won't, "The Ladies" Will: Mount Vernon, Part I

What were her thoughts the day Louisa Cunningham spotted the derelict mansion on the grassy rise above the Potomac? She’d been visiting her daughter in Philadelphia and was probably preoccupied, worried about Ann Pamela’s declining health. Ever since a riding accident caused a spinal injury when she was 17, Miss Cunningham’s symptoms had worsened, and in 1853, in her mid-thirties, she was an invalid, tormented by chronic pain. While discomfort, mercury-laden purgatives, and laudanum would have agitated humans of any gender, her physician, a specialist in women’s “nervous diseases” recommended she rest and avoid mental stimulation. For an intelligent, once active young woman, those instructions must have been a stultifying sentence. 

As was tradition, at a certain point, when the steamboat bearing Ann Pamela’s mother chugged by on the river - the wind luffing her long skirts, gulls crying, water slapping the hull – the captain clanged the ship’s bell in tribute. One can imagine Mrs. Cunningham’s smile of anticipation fading as she turned her head and gazed at the peeling paint and rotted fences of George and Martha Washington’s former home, Mount Vernon. 

But her dismay led to inspiration: a way to engage her daughter while serving the country. Miss Cunningham had long been fascinated by George Washington, and despite the doctor’s orders, it was precisely mental stimulation, a mission, that might intrigue and uplift her.   

Unlike his famous great granduncle, John Augustine Washington III, the current owner of Mount Vernon, had been unable to manage the estate. Even though enslaved people continued to provide the labor, this particular Washington was unequal to the challenges posed by crop failure, erosion, and lawn-trampling, souvenir-stealing tourists. He wanted to sell but recognized the property’s symbolic importance to America’s foundation and wished to preserve it. Surely the Commonwealth of Virginia or federal government would be willing to invest the $200,000 Mr. Washington had decided to ask?

No. Both declined.   

The pain-plagued Miss Cunningham, however, embraced the cause, saying, “If the men of America are allowing the home of its most respected hero to go to ruin, then why can’t the women of America band together to save it.” She solicited women of means, contacts, and determination and formed the Mount Vernon Ladies Association (MVLA) to raise the money required for the purchase.

When Miss Cunningham and her committee launched their initiative, women could not vote, and married women could neither buy nor own property. Female intellect, desires, and efforts were generally dismissed or patronized. Despite the legal limitations on all but white, land-owning men, The Ladies persevered… and succeeded. The MVLA raised the money and bought the property. They have preserved, maintained, and owned it ever since. 

                                                                        

I’d never been to Washington’s home nor heard of the MVLA, and when my high school roommate, Andy, mentioned that she was on the board of Mount Vernon, I asked if I could hitch a ride during one of her trips down. Graciously, she agreed and extended an invitation to several other former classmates. Six of us were able to go, and we settled on dates in early May that coincided with a Revolutionary War Weekend at the estate.

Andy and I drove south together, and as we neared our destination, we swung past the Mount Vernon Inn, the walkway to the visitors’ center, and a series of parking lots. I saw no glimpse of the mansion itself as we pulled up to a locked security gate. Andy spoke into an intercom and was greeted by a disembodied male voice. The gate swung wide to admit us, and I surmised that this was not the usual entrance for most visitors. 

While planning the excursion, Andy had said we’d be staying on the property. 

“On the property?! At Mount Vernon?!” I could barely contain my glee.

“Yes, in the Quarters. It’s nice. Plenty of room.” 

In the days ahead, there would be much to learn about the enslaved who’d worked for our first president, but despite the name, our accommodations had not once been theirs. If only it had, for the Quarters were lovely, with comfy bedrooms, a living room, and a well-stocked kitchen. This was the residence of the regent and vice regents, “The Ladies” of the MVLA, when they came to meet and work. At that time, I didn’t know their story nor the critical role they continue to play… much less that Andy was the vice regent for Massachusetts.  

The afternoon was warm and sunny, but the forecast for the rest of the weekend was grim, so once everyone in our group had arrived, we headed out for a stroll around the mansion grounds and gardens. 

It has been over fifty years since the six of us were at school together. A host of movements – anti-war, feminism, civil rights, environmental activism – colored those times, and as girls, we were buoyed by the conviction that our generation would get it all right. For a while, it seemed we were making headway, and then… Well, it has not gone as we believed it would. So much has changed, yet, as I looked into the dear faces around me, I still saw the girls they had been. And on that day, reflected in each, was the same euphoria and near disbelief I was feeling, that we were together … at Mount Vernon.   

We strode briskly along in our vests, sweaters, and slacks: weather-appropriate, twenty-first century garb; not the norm, it turned out, during a “Rev War Weekend.” Outnumbered we were by those in capes, breeches, tri-corn hats, and sweeping skirts as hundreds of re-enactors bustled about pitching tents and arranging displays of antiques and colonial reproductions. We were excited about the tours Andy had lined up for the following day… as well as a chance to visit those vendors.