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Sally of Monticello: Founding Motherthe story continues.....

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
the story continues...
 
Part Four…
 
68
Thomas’s pocket was open to all.
I lay awake nights worrying over the likely consequences.
By day his debts often gnawed at him. Nights he slept soundly,
then rose to new spending—blind to its effect on the larger
predicament.
Whenever I made a face about his largesse, he either responded
with little reassurance—“Sally, don’t fret.”—or ignored my
foreboding.
We’ve just said farewell to John Pernier, servant to Louisiana
Governor Meriwether Lewis, this Sunday, 26th of November, 1809.
Thomas gave him ten dollars and a letter for President Madison. In
Washington Mr. Pernier will press for back salary—money that Mr.
Lewis’s violent death last month interrupted the servant’s receiving.
Opinions about Mr. Lewis’s passing were mixed in his native
Albemarle County. His death warranted mourning, of course, but
suicide carried a stigma. I should know. My brother Jimmy’s drunken
act of taking his life eight years ago spread a blanket of silence on his
memory.
Often—too often—I felt responsible. Jimmy would probably
have remained in France if it weren’t for me.
The accommodation I made with Thomas didn’t take my brother
into sufficient consideration. Jimmy felt responsible for my safety,
especially as I was big with child. So he returned under a separate
arrangement with Thomas that was less liberating than freedom in
Europe would have been.
When that Callender person used me to attack Thomas in the
Federalist newspapers, I considered poisoning myself, at first. I didn’t
care about stigma. I thought if my existence brought down his
Presidency, I deserved to die. But my man weathered the scandal
magnificently, using his reserve as an impenetrable wall of protection
and inspiring me to rely on my own strengths.
I was also fortunate for access to his vast library. I’ve sought not
only information but answers to troubling problems, answers that
neither Thomas nor I could rely on religious clerics to provide. The
accumulated wisdom of the sages comforted and grounded me.
I flattered myself that reading hundreds of Thomas’s books over
these many years has been the equivalent of a university education.
Perhaps I simply wished to keep up with—or ahead of—Abigail
Adams.
I’ve learned suicide is often a selfish “solution,” creating new
problems for loved ones. What might they have done differently? How
could they survive such a horrible loss and still keep their sanity?
There was nothing the bereaved could say to one another that would
make anyone feel better. The suicide “victim” became an ever-present
ghost.
If there was an excuse for suicide, it must be connected to a fatal
condition. Debilitating illness, or a slave with no other escape from
intense cruelty, perhaps also reasoning that the act will rob his owner
of several hundred dollars’ worth of property.
The late Mr. Lewis had family links to the Jeffersons. Thomas’s
sister Lucy married Meriwether’s kinsman, Charles Lewis. The couple
moved to western Kentucky.
Some people suspected Meriwether Lewis was murdered, that it
wasn’t suicide. He was en route from Natchez to Washington and
stopped overnight in a Tennessee inn shy of Nashville. So far the
murder notion wasn’t gaining much purchase. Consensus from
descriptions was that a strange fit seized him, lasting through the night
before he took a gun to himself.
Thomas never received the final expedition report Mr. Lewis
had promised, but he gave the young explorer land and made him
Governor anyway.
That was Thomas. Not only his pocket but his heart and his
house were open to all.
I had hoped he’d allow his sister Anna to move in, because he
hadn’t much faith in Martha Randolph’s haughty way with servants.
But Martha has so far put her foot down about “Aunt Marks.” She
called the woman “totally incompetent,” then abandoned Edgehill and
plopped her huge family here for God knows how long this time.
That was Martha.
To others my role might have seemed ambiguous. But I knew
what I was supposed to do. And I did it, working around Martha’s
mercurial temper and biennial birthings to keep the house running
smoothly.
Oh yes, another little Randolph would arrive in two months.
Martha hoped for a boy so she could name him Meriwether Lewis.
And I would have another white grandnephew or grandniece who’d
probably never give proper respect to our blood relationship. But I’d
be quiet about it and try to give the child a great-aunt’s affection.
That was me. The house slave others tolerated because of
Wayles family connections, yet the one they depended on as true
house manager. I was the “dusky” aunt who must remain cheerful
while unentitled to normal family life.
Mr. Pernier’s visit today was depressing. I’ve concluded that Mr.
Lewis’s problem was he never found a good woman. Someone with
whom he could relate so intimately that even his reported fits would be
accepted and his worth validated by her devotion.
And brother Jimmy’s problem was that he never found a good
partner. Someone to help make his goals a prime motivation, not
secondary to circumstances his younger sister placed herself in
willingly.
I didn’t want to think any more about death today. Three of my
babies—
 
 

Complete Kindle e-book of Sally of Monticello will be ava...

Complete Kindle e-book of Sally of Monticello will be available on Amazon FREE for two more days,
Saturday and Sunday, Dec. 14-15, 2013.
 
*
Recommended  reading:
     Playing the Game , by Sara Rickover
(intrigue, backstabbing, incompetence, a murderer aboard—the stuff of which corporate chaos is made)
She Rides with Genghis Khan , by Pamela
Boles Eglinski
(suspenseful action involving a cool pair on a quest along the ancient Silk Road, by the author of Return of the French Blue)
414 Pine Street , by Rita Roth
(coming of age in the Great Depression—for pre-teens who think theirlives are tough)
The Trailer Park Princess and the Middle
Finger of Fate , by Kim Hunt Harris
(a gritty mystery/comedy featuring a flawed but devotedly Christian heroine)
Father’s Fried-Egg Sandwiches, by Pamela
Boles Eglinski
(newly-published anthology of family recollections by the author of Mother’s Red Fingernail Polish)
Wizard Dawning and Wizard’s Sword, by
C.M. Lance
(sci-fi lovers will marvel and chuckle every step of the way through books 1 and 2 of this saga)
Jazz Town, by Beth Lyon Barnett
(powerful story of early influences by black and Jewish subcultures on Kansas City’s jazz heritage)
God’s Little Miracle Books I, II, and III, by
Sally Jadlow
(Christian inspirational works by the author of The Late Sooner)
and there will be others in future postings.
 
*
 
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
the story continues...
 
67
“This recently retired President of the United States,” Thomas
said, “has been in every way faithful two decades to Miss Sarah
Hemings of Monticello—Sally. And thus he shall remain till death.
That he can say unequivocally.”
I dropped the sponge into the water to embrace his soapy,
slippery shoulders. I pressed my lips for a prolonged wet kiss, my
tongue seeking his. I backed away to follow the constantly refocusing
gaze of his strangely greyish hazel irises to say, “Accept my
interpretation or not, Citizen Thomas, I love you, too. And so it shall
be, till death.”
“Settled, finally.”
“Oh, no,” I said, “for I’ll one day earn greater explicitness. I’m
attentive, tutored as a lady à la mode Française, just thirty-six. You’re
hale and hearty, strong as a bull, have all your wits about you—I
think.” I didn’t like babbling like this, but I had him trapped in the tub,
so why not? “We have years ahead—here, together, for you can’t go
any higher than President, can you? There’ll come a time in retirement
when you’ll express deepest feelings to me and do it proudly.”
“My actions aren’t eloquent enough?”
I recovered the soapy sponge, held it over his greying red hair,
and squeezed. “Not quite, you stubborn Mr. Gangle-Limbs.”
Sputtering, he tried to laugh. Blindly he wrested the sponge from
me, dipped it, and with a squeeze flung water at me.
“You’ve soaked my dressing gown.” I removed the garment and
tossed it aside. I reached and pulled at his wrists to help him from the
tub.
“Careful,” he said. “That dislocated wrist helped bring us
together.”
He was fully aroused. Despite the splashed slipperiness of the
wood floor, he steered me to the alcove bed.
Instead of positioning to straddle him, I lay back and invited his
dripping body to fresh lovemaking. After such a night as we’d
enjoyed, my desire for more surprised me.
Someone knocked at the door of the bedchamber.
“Sally?” It was Betty Brown’s voice, kept low. “Madison peed
in his bed again. You’d better come help.”
I groaned. “Where’s his Aunt Priscilla?”
“Don’t know. You come, hear? Your little boy needs you.”
“Soon as I can. Comfort him meanwhile, please Betty?”
Thomas stretched out beside me. “What a mess we’ve made of
this bed. And the floor.”
“That’s why Virginia gentlemen have house slaves,” I said. “To
clean up their messes. Welcome home, Master.”
“It’s not like that. Not at all.”
“I know, dear. I’ll also tease you till death.”
“I’m afraid you’ll tease me to death. And that your lust will kill
me.”
“My lust?” I sat up.
“You heard correctly. Towel me, please.”
I did so, vigorously as he liked. “For possibly the dozenth time
I’ll ask, since you’re being patient with me in this. Was it my
resemblance to your late wife that caught you in Paris?”
I detected his fighting an inclination to show impatience. “I was
startled, after last having seen you as a slip of a girl. But you were her
half-sister, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. But—well, there were
personality differences such as your nettlesome assertiveness. Is that
the sort of admission you’ve been manipulating me to make?”
“Nettlesome. Oh, my. I must look that up. Yes, but you still
carry a debt that three words will repay.”
Thomas rose and sought his clothes. After donning
undergarments, he drew on corduroy breeches and slipped on his shirt.
He sat on the Campeachy chair’s edge to draw on boots, humming a
Corelli air under his breath. He paused to glance at me. I was on my
haunches on the bed, holding the damp towel, still naked and watching
his every move.
He said, “Does my so-called debt of words still matter after so
many years?”
“Of course.”
He buttoned his red waistcoat and reached for his blue jacket and
a memorandum book and pencil. “Now you be patient with me. I’ll tell
you something you deserve to know in celebration of my final
homecoming.”
He strode to the door and grasped the handle. He turned,
smiling. “The day you arrived in Paris, I saw in your golden eyes
intelligence and good character. Remarkable character. You were
fourteen, same as I when I inherited ownership of slaves. Our meeting
again erased years from my middle age. I was smitten, instantly.”
I suppressed a whimper by covering my mouth.
“Now,” he said, “wash up, dress, and attend to your needful
children.”
“Our children,” I said, throwing him a kiss. I dropped the towel
and placed hands over my breasts, parting fingers to expose my
nipples.
Thomas shook his head and chuckled. He opened the door to
leave, cautious that no one was near to observe me en déshabillé.
The newly retired President of the United States had just granted
me a great gift upon coming home for good: “Smitten instantly.”
That surpassed even the letter copy he shared after yesterday’s
arrival, disavowing to abolitionist Henri Grégoire his libels against
Negroes in Notes on the State of Virginia. Perhaps my standing up to
brother-in-law Thomas straightaway earned me both glories.
I lowered my body into the tepid, soapy tub water and applied
the sponge, heart pounding and conscious of little else but our time in
Paris.
 
 

Complete Kindle e-book of Sally of Monticello will be ava...

Complete Kindle e-book of Sally of Monticello will be available FREE on Amazon December 11 through 15, 2013.
 
 
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
the story continues...
 
66
“People will wonder,” I whispered.
We lay in the alcove after too little sleep, listening to robins’ offkey
warbles at first light—Thursday, 16th of March, 1809—the
morning following his final arrival home.
After a moment Thomas said, “Let them wonder. It’s enough we
enjoy it.”
“I don’t mean the present. I mean in the future, in what will be
history.” I yawned, then blinked purposely to wake. I moved to rest
my head on his bare chest. “Anyway, I’m glad it’s Mr. Madison’s turn
to be President. A fabulous turn of events for me, because now you’re
home for good.”
He ran a hand over my hair, down toward the small of my back.
The scent of our night’s lovemaking was heavy.
“We’ll need the tub,” he said.
“Let’s stay like this a while. I’m listening to your heart, enjoying
my repossession.”
He sighed. “The clock above us grows more coercing by the
minute. I should bathe. Martha will be furious if I’m not ready to greet
well-wishers. They’ll come in hordes, despite muddying from late
snow.”
I chose not to spoil our coziness by commenting on Martha.
“Don’t they realize,” he said with more wakeful animation, “a
man tires of so many years of public contact? That he wants to rest at
home and enjoy his family?”
I leaned and kissed him on the lips. “Poor, weary old buzzard. I
can testify you’re still game as a rooster for a man soon sixty-six.”
“Forgo testifying, please. I suppose you expect me to credit your
guidance these past twenty years.”
“Absolutely.” I scooted from the bed. “And that would now be
twenty-one.” I found my slippers, positioned his, stoked and fed the
fire, and made for the adjoining privy.
Thomas was propped on one elbow when I came out shivering. I
returned to the fireplace, still naked in the pre-dawn light and mussed
from sleep and repeated copulating.
“Look at you,” he said in a low tone. “Extraordinarily fair of
face. Firm in all your parts. As breathtaking as you were at fifteen.”
“Not quite, my love. But thank you.” I thrilled at his admiration.
I posed for a second and sucked in the tummy I’d worked to restore
after each of my eight births. “I’d still like to think that, for you, there
had to be more than my face and parts.”
He stuck out his lower lip and nodded in amused confirmation.
I ran a hand down to a messy tangle. I crossed the room to pull
the bell rope for bath water that servants below were heating. I helped
him extricate his long legs from the bedclothes, then found my
dressing gown and tossed him his. “Will you ride the bay before
breakfast?”
“Diomede? Yes.” Thomas slid from bed to the popping of
several joints. “Please don’t forget the foot basin.”
While he was protesting the coldness in the privy, I pulled metal
tubs into position, one of them shallow for cold water that a servant
would also bring, to serve the daily ritual of chilling his feet.
“Cover yourself, Thomas. They’ll have the water here shortly.”
His dimpled half-smile showed he still enjoyed my directing.
Evidently he’d missed that in the President’s House.
Building the fire to a roar as a pair of servants poured the water,
I announced the breakfast menu. “After your ride and your meeting
with Edmund Bacon, you’ll have cold baked ham, a choice of freshmade
breads, fruit preserves, and coffee. Will that do for your first
breakfast in retirement?”
“Perfectly,” he said. “Bacon, then ham.”
I waved the servants out and said, “After that the guests will
begin to swarm.”
I’d arranged Thomas’s talk with the overseer before breakfast
rather than after. Bad news of the plantations’ finances could upset his
stomach.
He lifted his feet from the cold dunking and moved to the tub,
settling in and gasping with satisfaction. As I reached for the sponge
and soap, he protested. “I can still bathe myself. I’m not that old.”
I cooed in response. “I’ve missed the joy of sponging you,
having you at my mercy. I can poke, squeeze, and tickle. But—” I
pouted. “—even at the launch of your final retirement into my care, I
may never make you tell me what I want to hear.”
This was a sticking point I’d been careful not to press past
teasing. Now home to stay, he might—or might not—feel the barb of
his inability to convey love openly. He could write of it to Martha. Her
claim was highest and her need pitiable. But make open display of
hugging or other affections? Only with grandchildren.
The threatening fact of our cohabiting unlawfully intensified my
want of spoken or whispered endearments. But I’d learned the
abstraction “love” seemed to elude his complete understanding. The
concept that was celestial in its regard by most people continued to
render Thomas awestruck and dumbstruck when trying to lift the word
from his tongue.
To make my pleas I awaited private moments such as now—if
this was privacy, for most on the heavily peopled mountain knew too
much about us. In response Thomas set aside my soft petulance with
patient charm—today with something startling.
 
 
 

Sally of Monticello: Founding Motherthe story continues.....

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
the story continues...
 
65
I’ve received satisfaction over the cowardly John Quincy
Adams’s anonymous authorship and distribution of that “Dusky Sally”
parody, though it required waiting till 1809. Thomas trapped Quincy
during Mr. Madison’s 4th of March inauguration ball—quite deftly.
I learned of Thomas’s clever defense of me through Margaret
Bayard Smith, who was both witness and “heart-drummingly
privileged” to dance with the retiring President, my Thomas.
The assertive writer and publisher’s wife—younger than I but, as
I’ve learned, addicted to hats to offset her plain face—has apparently
harbored a secret passion for Thomas. I vowed not to show jealousy
over their time together in the capital. She planned a social call to
Monticello this summer, and I hoped for no sign of envy’s coming
from her side. But that was beyond my control.
Her account of Thomas’s skillful retribution—
Former Senator John Quincy Adams approached, quite
unexpectedly, for none had thought the Federalist to be
interested in sharing the glories of Democratic-Republicanism.
He extended his hand first to Mr. Jefferson, who took it in both
of his to shake vigorously, and then to the grandson, whom the
President confusingly addresses as “Jefferson,” and the lad did
likewise.
Young Mr. Randolph had ridden in the inaugural
procession alongside his grandfather. He was so proud, words
fail me for adequate description. His effort at friendship with
Payne Todd, our new President’s stepson, appears to have
flagged because of dissimilar interests. By her look, Dolley
Madison counts that as a loss, but the dear woman has other
obligations commanding her attention.
Mr. Jefferson inquired, “Quincy, what brings you to
Washington? I thought you’d retired from all this. How are your
parents? And Louisa?” Senator Adams replied that his parents
are now “reclusive farmers” and that his wife continues to offset
what he called “my paucity of grace.” As for his presence in the
Capital, he revealed President Madison may have a diplomatic
appointment, perhaps counting more on Louisa’s charm than
that of Quincy, who has none.
Then, as I wondered whether Mr. Jefferson would venture
this, “Are you still excited by poetry?” Behind my fan I
pretended disinterest, that Mr. Adams might wish to escape our
deducing the awful parody, which mentioned you, was of his
authorship. He replied he’d been reading Virgil’s Aeneid,
whereupon Mr. Jefferson acknowledged Virgil as “that
pampered young Roman” in bold parallel to Mr. Adams the
Younger.
Our retiring President saw his opportunity to thrust his
verbal lance. He said, “I find the mysterious old Greek, Homer,
superior. While scholars dispute connections, the Iliad and
Odyssey leave no doubt of authorship with me. One always
recognizes a hand from style, wouldn’t you say?”
Quincy Adams blushed and took his leave. Seldom have I
seen anyone retreat so like a dog with its tail between its legs. I
don’t know where President Madison plans to send him, but I
hope it’s far, far away.
Margaret Bayard Smith had the advantages of marriage to a
newspaper editor and publisher, but she was perceptive and talented at
journaling in her own right. I decided that upon any occasion of the
Smiths’ receiving Thomas’s hospitality here at Monticello, I would do
all in my power to make them feel most welcome.
 
 

Sally of Monticello: Founding Motherthe story continues.....

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
the story continues...
 
 
64
“How do I look, Thomas?” I made a turn in his book room.
“Has Martha asked you to Anne’s wedding as a guest or as the
housemistress?”
“She never said. I believe she expects me to take a servant’s
station. But I’ve decided I’m a guest. Why do you ask? Does that bear
on how I look?”
Thomas shook his head. “No. You take my breath away when
you shine up like that.”
“Is the bodice high enough not to draw attention? For a
September wedding, I—”
“You’re the paragon of propriety. And you’ve arranged your
hair differently.” He drew a volume of Shakespeare from a shelf.
“It needed trimming or I’d soon be sitting on it. You’re not
going to read now, are you? I hear someone at the harpsichord in
preparation for the ceremony.”
Thomas returned the book. “I’m just a bit nervous, I suppose.
My first grandchild is getting married.”
“And my first white grandniece. I’m unsure whether to prefer
Martha had made my role more explicit or whether I took the correct
initiative.”
“Perhaps she thought ceremony arrangements might be
necessary for all the Hemingses by John Wayles. Not easy to—”
“All? Brother Peter’s in the kitchen baking muffins. Sister
Critta’s attending to Maria’s surviving child at Eppington, for he gets
those awful spells. Bob is free in Richmond. And Jimmy—”
Thomas held up a hand. “I know. I lapsed. Yes, Martha as
mother of the bride might have made it clearer.”
“Anne is wearing the expensive gold watch you bought for her
seventeenth birthday. Did you also give her the gold chain you had
Dolley purchase?”
“Yes, and I’ve reimbursed Dolley. Has she ever sent you—”
“The gift for naming Madison? No, but people forget things, and
you give me everything I need. Sometimes you’re too generous.”
“Dolley’s been very helpful in Washington. Perhaps that’s gift
enough for both of us.”
“When you go into the parlor, Thomas, do so without me. We
can’t enter together. As the music is to continue for fifteen minutes, sit
here a moment. I want to ask you something.” I took a chair by the
east window, and Thomas sat opposite. “What do you know about the
bridegroom?” I asked, chasing his wandering gaze till I caught it with
mine. “I’m puzzled why Martha let things go so far so quickly.”
“Bankhead? Twenty years old. From a good home. Father’s a
physician. And the boy will read law with me after they’ve
honeymooned.”
“Read law? That doesn’t jibe with the Charles Bankhead I’ve
heard about. I’m still on the slave grapevine and distressed by his
reported habits.”
“Such as?”
“Excessive drinking. Rides his horse into taverns and raises pure
hell.”
“I don’t believe it. He seems a dedicated young man, utterly
devoted to Anne.”
“I wish I’d known earlier what’s said about him so you might
have discussed it with Martha.”
“I think you’re worried over nothing.” He rose. “I’m going in.
Don’t raise alarms unnecessarily.”
“I appreciate your optimism, Thomas. But Anne is kin to me as
well as dear to you. I’ll try not to show my displeasure over her union
when I stand in the background. Frankly, I think this is headed toward
disaster.”
Thomas shrugged, shook his head, and left the suite through the
entrance hall. I left the same way about ten steps behind. Davy
Bowles, dressed in house-servant livery, stood by the hallway to the
north wing. He would open doors for the brief procession.
Before joining others in the parlor, Thomas paused. He looked
through the glass door, where Martha and her husband were visible.
They appeared as though there could be no happier day in their lives
than this, on seeing their firstborn wed. Their other children were
dressed in finery and behaving remarkably well. Martha and Mr.
Randolph must have laid down the law.
Burwell Colbert was the only servant in the parlor, standing
guard at the dining room entrance so that none would dash for
refreshments prematurely.
Through the door Thomas returned a wave to his younger
brother, Randolph Jefferson, and one to Dr. John Bankhead, the
bridegroom’s father.
I couldn’t tell who was playing the harpsichord because so many
blocked my view. Perhaps after the ceremony, when Burwell opened
the dining room for the reception, Thomas might accompany the
harpsichordist on his violin.
Anne and Charles would each, with their respective attendants,
exit a north wing bedroom for the wedding march through the entrance
hall, into the parlor. Thomas had tested his double-door invention this
morning and operated it now, opening one side to enter the parlor. The
other door swung open as though by a miracle.
Grandpapa President seemed generally pleased, and so was I—
except for what I knew of the bridegroom.
 

Sally of Monticello: Founding Motherthe story continues.....

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
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63
“This must be the last, Thomas. My eighth birthing. And I need
a next-generation Thomas near me, so I’ve named him Thomas
Eston.”
“I’m honored. And I think it’s wise you keep a menses calendar
that I promise to respect.” He seemed embarrassed, as though
regretting he’d been at me so much. But I’d assured him on numerous
occasions that my sexual hunger was equal to his, causing me to forget
the calendar. He glanced about. “Are you comfortable in these
enlarged quarters?”
“Yes. Now that my belly’s empty, it should be easier to move
around.” I turned my head on the pillow and thought back on this latest
ordeal of giving birth, muttering, “Tu n’en connais pas la moitié.”
“Peut-être. Well, no. You’re right, I can never know the half. As
for the name, I’m losing count of the family Thomases. To avoid
confusion, we should refer to this new fellow as Eston. I’ll enter his
birth in the farm book. Let me see, yes, twenty-first of May, Aught-
Eight.”
I turned back. I wanted to offer to make a list, as I did for
Mama’s grandchildren. I had no strength to volunteer anything at the
moment.
Thomas asked, “Are the other children being helpful?”
“Beverly has grown into a little gentleman, for a young man of
ten. He’s excited as you are about science and music. He’s a great
help. And Harriet is a dear, trying to be a second mommy. She does
very well for only seven. Madison? Something of a terror, but he’ll
outgrow it.”
Rachael, the midwife, carried my newborn from the adjoining
room and placed him at my breast for nursing.
Thomas sat on the edge of the bed. “I plan to return to
Washington in about two weeks. Before I do, I’ll leave twenty dollars
in my drawer. I’m telling you now to relieve your mind about extra
expenses because of the baby.”
“Thank you, my love. You’ve never mentioned whether your
teeth are giving you more trouble.”
“Not at the moment, but I’m keeping watch lest I fall apart. I
was afraid I’d lose the tooth. Repeated rinsing seems to help.”
“Good. Go attend to what you must and come back later.” Then
I whispered, hoping Rachael wouldn’t hear, “I know you’d enjoy
having a little, if this one doesn’t suck me dry.”
Thomas chuckled. “You do send a powerfully inviting odor of
mother’s milk.” He rose and left. I heard his footsteps, up the stairs to
the main floor.
Before long came the strains of his violin. So that was what he’d
planned.
From the sounds I gathered he was standing on or near the south
terrace, serenading our baby and me. Because he knew I loved the tune
but not the sad lyrics, he played “Barbara Allen” for us. I closed my
eyes to listen as he wound through several choruses with variations.
I’ve heard visitors remark that before his wrist injury Thomas
was one of the best violinists in America. Since Paris he has turned to
fiddling for his own and the family’s amusement and for teaching. He
loved giving lessons to Beverly and would no doubt do the same for
Madison and Thomas Eston. My beautiful Harriet preferred making
music by singing.
Isabel relieved Rachael’s watch for my lying-in. The baby had
fallen asleep, so she took him to his cradle in the next room and
suggested I rest. My brain was busy with thoughts of the children’s
futures.
My baby-faced young man, Beverly, entered with polite knocks
on the door. “Mama? Did you hear Papa playing for you?”
“I did, son. Where are the others?”
“Harriet’s helping in the kitchen. Madison’s watching Uncle
John make a chair. I’ve just come from there.”
“Mind he doesn’t get into mischief.”
“I’ll go right back, if you’re worried.”
“No, stay with me a while. I want to talk to you.”
Beverly sat on the bed, careful not to be bouncy. “When we have
these talks, you sometimes scare me, Mama.”
“About your someday going free? Why would that frighten
you?”
He scratched his nose and gazed at a print of a Paris scene on the
wall. “I don’t ever want to leave you, Mama. If I have to go away, you
should come with me.”
“Life isn’t like that, Beverly. You and Harriet can pass for white,
and when you’re grown up that will open wonderful opportunities for
both of you.”
“Is being white so important?”
I thought long and hard on that one and tried to get a fix on my
son’s wandering gaze. I inhaled deeply and let out a long sigh. “In
America, being white is everything. You won’t know how lucky you
are till you go free.”
Beverly’s lower lip trembled. “Where will I go? I don’t know
anyone away from Monticello. All my friends and kinfolks are here or
around Charlottesville.”
“Son, listen. I don’t ever want you to think I’m just going to turn
you loose on the world to get rid of you. We’ll arrange a safe place for
you. I love you deeply and can’t for the life of me imagine what your
freedom will do to me, except maybe tear me up, that I may never see
you again.”
“Oh, Mama—” He was close to tears.
“I’m talking to you now to caution that you keep up with your
studies. When you’re a man you’ll need a trade—like carpentry or
making music—to find your way in the world. You’ll meet a nice
young woman and get married and have children of your own. Your
children need never know they have colored people’s blood.”
Beverly bit his lip and nodded. A few tears escaped, and he
knuckled them from his cheeks. He mumbled, “It’s hard, Mama.”
“Come here. It’s all right, I won’t break. Give me a hug.” When
I had him close in my arms, lying down with me, I said, “It’s hard for
me, too. Very hard. But the sharper you are about the skills you take
with you, the sooner the hardness of it will go away.”
“For you, too, Mama?”
“I’ll worry less. Yes, for me, too.”
The truth of it? God, how I dreaded the permanent separations
that lay ahead.
 
 
 
 

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62
Thomas would scold me if he ever found the stash of hidden
letters in my chifferobe. He’d more than once told me to destroy notes
and letters he sent me, but I couldn’t. I was sure no one would find
them and misuse them to our embarrassment.
Besides, I continued scribbling my thoughts and recollections
and depositing them separately with Nancy West for a yet
undetermined purpose—unless one counted the preservation of truth. I
began that after Callender’s humiliating libels fired a hellish fit in
Martha and a determined resolution in me.
Nancy came closer than anyone to understanding my fear of
general society’s reducing me to what Thomas has called a
“nonperson.” Except for her being a freed slave and having an
extraordinary talent for business, we had much in common—in our
sentiments if not our circumstances. We’ve struck a bond destined to
endure.
Before tucking Thomas’s latest letter with others, I reread
portions. He’d written it following the New Year’s reception in the
President’s House, a greeting to 1808 that Dolley Madison, Etienne
Lemaire, and Thomas’s secretary, Isaac Coles, had organized.
His notes and letters were often amusing, informative, and
affectionate—
Margaret Bayard Smith’s handling a canapé while
speaking and gesturing animatedly is a test of listener attention.
The balanced cheese must yield either to motion or gravity. But
in a contrapuntal rhythm Maestro Bach might have envied, she
combines her social chit-chat with the morsel’s total
disappearance. While her silent chewing furnishes a clue where
it went, it does nothing to help one recall what she’d said.
Mrs. Smith promises that she and her husband will visit
Monticello. She would like to see its south-wing “sanctum
sanctorum,” as she has named my quarters from description.
She said you’d been in correspondence and looks forward to
meeting you.
Samuel Smith pressed me on the embargo, fearing it would
alienate port city Democratic-Republican votes from Mr.
Madison later this year. I repeated my view that it was a better
way than war, to exact from the British a price for attacking our
vessels.
I was about to declare an embargo on political talk when
Samuel brought up the federal ban on importing slaves effective
with the New Year, South Carolina included and
notwithstanding its delegation’s protests. Samuel’s reminder
discomforted me over my states’ rights views, so I likened it to
the weakness of Constitutional authority for purchasing
Louisiana. Perhaps I’d let the wine do my speaking, for Mrs.
Smith proclaimed loudly, “Tout ou rien, Mr. President. All or
nothing. You don’t reconcile at all. The hallmark of a leader.”
Fortunately, as I felt myself blush, the musicians began
tuning up, and all attention turned. I believe Dolley Madison
had something to do with that.
While I enjoyed this portion of Thomas’s letter for his making
me feel as though I’d been present at the reception, I turned to the
closing paragraphs and their more personal and tender words.
I begin the final year of public service, which has become
a tedious engagement of my dwindling time on earth. The dead
of winter cannot deter my thoughts of warmth ahead—of
retirement to my gardens, of enjoying my growing family, of
riding over the mountainside, of music and books, of you.
There is no sadness in my shortly bidding adieu to the
service of others, in which I have been occupied the better part
of my life starting at Williamsburg. You know all this and my
strongest wishes for retirement, yet I write in this way because,
simply, it lifts my burden to do so. Whether or not I am to be
judged effective in all things is of little consequence when I
credit myself with the Declaration and the Religious Freedom
statute. Had I achieved nothing but these, I would have felt
discharged from obligation to my fellow citizens.
It is late, and we have had a successful celebration to
greet the New Year. My thoughts turned to you often, wondering
after your health as you carry yet another. I expect to be at
Monticello when the new one is due, and I hope that gladdens
your heart as it does mine.
We have traveled a long road together. I am not unmindful
of your trepidations regarding my longevity, but again you must
accept credit for keeping me in reasonable health (except for a
current tooth-ache) and in the most optimistic of spirits. Every
man—every person needs a closeness such as that we enjoy, in
order to feel properly wrought, or, as you have observed,
completed. Your determination to perfect me is a source of great
amusement, but at the same time it humbles me to know you are
right in many respects, for that job needs doing.
In approximately a year I will give what remains of my life
over to you to manage. You have done well for my happiness,
and I have no doubt your proficiency as my watchful keeper will
continue. Be assured of my deepest affections and of great joy in
your forthcoming knock at the elbow.
À bientôt.
Goodness, he was back on the elbow.
Men.
 
 

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61
This summer of 1807 would be the saddest in memory.
Mama had reigned over seventy-five or more descendants.
Everyone associated with Monticello felt her influence. We witnessed
decline, but the finality of her death shocked and numbed us all—as
though an earthquake had shifted the mountain.
I felt my grief was special, but not in a way to diminish anyone
else’s. Where would I turn for her wisdom, her strength, her guidance?
If not for Mama’s maneuvering, I wouldn’t have gone to Paris and
captured the affection of such a great personage as President Thomas
Jefferson. My Thomas.
I wasn’t sure who would lead the Hemingses. Mama would have
wanted us to settle on that. To govern so many would require a strong
personality like Betty Brown, my half-sister from Mama’s union
before John Wayles and personal maid to Martha Wayles. If people
thought Mama was stubborn, they hadn’t yet tested Betty Brown.
My older sister’s experience drew me to consult her in house
matters, but she seemed contented with my overall management. I’d
fallen into the role by special training and self-education and vacuum filling. Another factor was my being Thomas’s woman and the only
Hemings to be assigned quarters in the house, though they were near
the kitchen.
Thomas said his mother’s passing over thirty years ago hadn’t
excited the sorrow he encountered today, Wednesday, fifth day of
August, on arriving from Washington.
I hooked my arm in his to walk along Mulberry Row. I told him
our strolling together would be symbolic of his grief—that the
Hemingses’ loss was also his loss.
Light-skinned and dark-skinned members of the Hemings and
related families nodded, bowed, or curtsied to Thomas for mixing with
them. He paused frequently to shake hands and say, “I’m sorry for
your loss,” or “Miss Elizabeth was a great woman.”
I said to Thomas, “Mama was thirty-eight when she had me,
then had two more in her forties with other men after my father died.
At thirty-four I prefer to call an end to it, Thomas. I’m not the woman
she was, strong enough to build an empire, albeit of slaves.”
“While motherhood suits you, it’s not the calling it was for her.”
“And because you’ll free our children and they’ll leave, my
focus will turn to you. I’ve weighed this and decided, if anything
happened to you I’d not allow another man near me, I swear.” Still
holding his arm, I looked up at him in search of a reaction.
He nodded. “It has always pleased me that we’re exclusive with
each other. But you’re a young woman. You should seek your
happiness if I stumble into a grave.”
“Never. I’d have to be out of my mind. I’m Thomas Jefferson’s
woman. I’ll always be that and nothing else. There isn’t a man in the
world your equal. Do you think I could settle for a candlemaker or a
wheelwright?”
“Either of them might be a better provider, given the state of my
finances.”
I glanced away. “We swore in Paris to be bound for life,
Thomas. I didn’t mean for the life of our relationship but for the rest of
mine.”
“That’s very flattering, and more of a commitment than any old
man deserves.”
“Oh, pish-posh to talk of being old.”
We approached the west lawn. He asked, “How goes it with you
and Martha?”
“As long as she’s at Edgehill nursing Benjy, all goes well.”
“The news from Eppington shattered me,” he said, his voice
breaking. “Though we expected Maria’s namesake baby would
succumb, I feel the loss of a helpless grandchild regardless. Or a child,
as happened repeatedly with Martha Wayles and you.”
“You comforted me through each of those times.” I reached to
squeeze his hand. “And you’re helping me today.”
“I’ll go to Edgehill to meet the new Ben Franklin Randolph.
You’ve seen him?”
“No, but I hear he’s delicate and of some worry to Martha. I
can’t believe how readily she spawns, considering the unreliability and
temper of her husband.”
“He’s likely to spend more time at home, now that he’s out of
Congress. I wish he’d hold a firmer grip on his plantations.”
I released his arm and turned on the steps of the west portico.
“Let me stay with you in the alcove bed tonight, your first night home this summer. I need your comfort after losing Mama.”
“Your children?”
“Our children. They’ll be cared for. One of Mama’s legacies
was to see none of us would run out of family to rely on.”
Thomas smiled. “I’m glad you retain your sense of humor. If I
ever saw the playful girl in you disappear completely, I might have
cause for concern.”
“Are we back on age difference? If so, Old Man, I promise you a
rollicking good time later. Death’s visit somehow instills in me a spirit
for life.”
My capacity for turning sadness to joy was an important part of
Mama’s bequest. Her lessons would prove life-sustaining through
heartbreaks yet to come.

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60
“Please don’t make a huge fuss for my birthday tomorrow,”
Thomas said. “You know how I abhor lavish ceremony.”
We were in my bedroom where I’d given him a proper
homecoming. He’d risen and dressed by the time I woke. For my
added expense of his sixty-fourth birthday fête, he set ten dollars atop
the household twenty dollars on my dresser. He weighted the bills with
fifty cents for the nail maker, Ben, who’d cleaned the privy sewers.
“You think the fuss is for you, Thomas? It’s for others to enjoy.
If you don’t like being the center of everyone’s attention, go riding and
we’ll celebrate without you. Home one day, and you’re turning
grumpy. That’s not like you.”
“While you slept I lay thinking how diminished my prestige and
power have grown. The renegade Burr persists in western
misadventures. I can’t get Meriwether to share the entirety of his
expedition findings, though I’d arranged generous recompense.”
“Well, I’m glad your peevishness isn’t over something picayune,
like that terrible parody.”
“The parody.” For a moment he seemed uncertain. Then, “Yes,
the parody. I’d hoped to keep that from you. How did you come to
know of it?”
“I read the papers regularly, Thomas. How could I not know of
it?”
“I blame myself for that awful doggerel,” he said, “ignoring
rather than confronting the proposal to rename the Columbia River for
Meriwether. Yes, he reached the Pacific, but by land, not a water
route. Many count his failure as my failure.” Thomas slipped his
billfold into a jacket pocket and shook his head.
I hoisted a bit from where I lay and took a folded paper from the
nightstand beside me. “I have the parody here. I’m famous again.”
“You kept a clipping?”
“Of course. The writer compared me with a queen, though
hardly my favorite.”
“Let me see it.” Thomas read aloud:
“Good people, listen to my tale
“‘Tis nothing but what true is
“I’ll tell you of the mighty deeds
“Atchieved by Captain Lewis
“How starting from the Atlantick shore
“By fair and easy motion
“He journied, all the way by land,
“Until he met the ocean….”
He looked up to observe, “The spelling is as atrocious as mine.”
“Skip to the good part,” I suggested.
“Let Dusky Sally henceforth bear
“The name of Isabella;
“And let the mountain, all of salt
“Be christened Monticella—”
“That’s enough,” I said. “I don’t disagree with your free press
beliefs, my love. But this is the kind of shit we get from unrestrained
print. Take that from Dusky Sally.”
“I’m truly sorry. I have my suspicions as to the author.”
I sat up in bed. “Tell me, please. If it’s someone we know, we
can have the National Intelligencer fire back.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that. As you yourself have suggested in the
past, let it drop. But the style is familiar. This writer has published alltoo-
similar material.”
“Goodness, Thomas. You’ve got me goose-bumpy. Who?”
“I believe it’s the work of a sitting senator.” He glanced at his
pocket watch. “I must meet with Mr. Bacon.”
I gazed into the near distance. Then in a flash, “Abigail’s son.
That little weasel. I wish Lemaire had spilled scalding soup in his lap
when you entertained him and his gabby Louisa.”
“I once believed John Quincy Adams might break from his
father’s conservatism and come into our progressive circle. Even as an
avowed Federalist, his loyalty to that side is shaky. If this parody is his
doing, I blame his tendency toward pedantry.”
“No, Thomas,” I said, rising. “The man’s a coward, publishing
anonymously. I’m used to the ‘Dusky Sally’ reference but—” I
snickered. “—not comparison with Queen Isabella for dispatching an
explorer. That damned female tyrant boasted of taking only two baths
in her life, the day she was born and the day she wed Ferdinand.”
“Your reading is thorough.”
“She’s Nancy West’s favorite villainess for what the Inquisition
did to the Jews. Which reminds me, Nancy and David have a new
baby boy, Hays Isaacs. I’ll pair some of this money with my own for a
small gift, if you don’t mind.”
Thomas glanced around the dresser surface. “Where’s that
ointment jar from Paris? You normally keep it next to the bell Martha
Wayles gave you.”
“It’s not there?”
“No. And you’ve prized it as a souvenir.”
“It’s gone?” I jumped out of bed, frantic. “No. No. Oh, God.
Madison must have got on a chair and taken it to dig in the dirt. Now
it’s April the child’s had such inviting weather—”
“You’re sure it wasn’t Harriet who got hold of it?”
“She’s more responsible. She’d have noticed papers in it.” My
tears flowed.
“Papers?”
I blubbered, “Little Thomas’s fostering assignment.” I dug
Thomas’s handkerchief from his pocket. “And the Kentucky people’s
card.”
Thomas set his lips firmly and took me in his arms. “It was all
the record we had,” he said. “I neglected to file with authorities. Stupid
of me, and I don’t remember the details.”
I wiped my tears and blew my nose. I whined, “Our only link.”
He took me in his arms. “Don’t anguish. I should be able to trace
those people. I’ll do what I can. Please rely on your reservoir of
strength.”
I held him tightly to keep from collapsing, then breathed deeply
to calm myself.
He nuzzled my hair and said, “I’ve depended on your strength at
times to see us through challenges. I learned long ago, Sally, you’re
nobler than any queen.”
Kind words or none, as a mother I was in a condition of self-hatred
for such carelessness.

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59
Thomas was in the book room when I rushed into his suite the
first day of August.
“The new man, Mr. Bacon, is fast becoming so popular on
Mulberry Row that Mama left her bed to show him around.”
“Miss Elizabeth? Really.”
“That’s what Mr. Bacon called her at first, but you know Mama.
She still gets flirty and said, ‘Call me Betty.’ I just let her talk, happy
to see her excited about something besides chickens and greatgrandchildren.”
Thomas said, “I sensed from my earliest conversations with
Edmund Bacon that he’d be the right overseer for us. He’s young and
enthusiastic, a quick learner, at ease with people. And he’s native to
Albemarle County.”
“He made a suggestion I’d like you to consider. He wants more
responsibility for Burwell Colbert in the house. Raise him to a sort of
maître d’.”
Thomas closed a book I recognized from Greek lettering on its
spine and returned it to its proper place. “How do you feel about that?
You’ve been in charge of the house for some time. Will it complicate
things for you?”
I sat in a chair by the window and stared out. “No, I’ll have more
time with my children. I doubt I’ll see Beverly or Harriet after they’re
of age and you free them. They’ll run north. I want these years to
count for us. And despite knowing he’s better off, I miss Little
Thomas. Of course, Madison’s too young for me to think about
separation.”
“And you believe Burwell can handle the job?”
“Oh, yes.” I turned to face him with a smile. “Remember, he’s
my half-nephew, so I can use family ties to guide him. Mr. Bacon
showed insight.”
“The best news is that your mother is up and about. Perhaps
she’ll become active again.”
“I hope so. I often wonder whether my having taken her job in
the house contributed to Mama’s becoming old. She was so dynamic.”
Thomas pulled a chair beside me and sat. We looked out at the
east lawn. “I’m already being asked,” he said, “to run for a third term.
I expect there’ll be pressure as the New Year approaches.”
My mouth flew open. It was only 1806, and more than two years
remained of his term. “Oh, Thomas. No. Your Presidency has been so
costly. You’re deeper in debt than ever.”
“Well, I’m hoping Bacon as overseer can change that.”
“But still, enough is enough. You’ve been looking forward to
retiring and passing the mantle to James Madison.”
He nodded. “And that’s still my plan. But I wanted you to know
what the Democratic-Republicans have been up to as it affects us.”
“Us?” I raised hands to my burning cheeks. “This is the first
time you’ve taken me into consideration in planning your political
life.”
“No. It’s the first time I’ve told you, Sally.”
“My heart is beating so fast I can hear it. But if you want my
opinion, my desire in this matter—”
“Calm yourself. You’re running out of breath.”
“Please don’t let anyone talk you into a third term.”
He nodded and smiled softly.
“Besides,” I added, “I know how you’d fear being accused of
establishing a regency.”
“That’s a strong point with me.”
“Well, that settles it then, right?”
Thomas laughed. He gestured that I should sit on his lap. I lost
no time in doing so. We gazed out the window together.
“You’re a man of history, Thomas,” I whispered. “You’ve
achieved so much. Books will be written about you. But after that
outburst by Callender, I’m sure historians will prefer to ignore me.”
“Our relationship is widely frowned upon, but that won’t affect
us. If you had a choice in the matter, what would you like historians to
say about you?”
I resumed staring out the window. “That a foolish girl—a slave
girl—fast became determined to capture the heart of a great man. Her
dead sister’s husband, old enough to be her father. And when the
opportunity arose, she leapt.”
“Leapt?” he said. “Is that what you call that night in Paris?
Leaping?”
“I felt like a maturing cat coming into heat, so yes. I leapt. All
over you. Oh, God, how my heart beat to near-explosion. I feared you
might reject me, put me in my place.”
“The sight of you that evening eclipsed any such thought. Any
reasoning at all.”
His recollection took me back to that first time as well. I was
compelled to add, “Though you have your strengths, I see years
overtaking you ever since Maria died. I worry. I don’t know what I’d
do without you, Thomas. Don’t leave me.”
“Just continue to take good care of me. Now that Bacon is
overseer, I can turn my mind to something constructive when I leave
the Presidency. Keeping busy is the best tonic to assure longevity.”
I held his face and kissed him again.
“Well,” Thomas added, “second best, after you.”
“I’ve been talking with David Isaacs and others in town,” I said.
“We have exactly the right challenge, after you come home from
Washington for good.”