Norm Ledgin's Blog, page 6

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother(complete novel avail...

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
48
I needed an ally of some stature and may have found one. By way of the mails I’ve made an acquaintance in Washington—a young writer, Margaret Bayard Smith.
I wasn’t ready to claim her exclusively on my side after the scandal, however, for she has also befriended Martha. Thomas’s daughters and his six grandchildren have been in the capital for two months and were due to depart for home today, fifth day of the New Year, 1803.
Thomas was publicly silent about James Callender’s month-long barrage in the Richmond Recorder and its copied accounts elsewhere through the fall. Still, I felt the need of a surrogate in case I must mount an appropriate open defense.
The despicable Callender’s words still rang in my memory, drivel such as, “Jefferson before the eyes of his two daughters sent to his kitchen, or perhaps to his pigsty, for this mahogany coloured charmer.”
From that and other disgusting libels I had no idea what lay ahead. At times I was beside myself with fear and recurring notions of suicide, despite my timely defiance before Martha and despite Thomas’s gentle reassurances. He insisted we should “neither confirm nor deny.” He scolded Martha for threatening me with expulsion from Monticello.
On a reasoned impulse I’d turned to Mrs. Smith with a polite letter, making no reference to my sudden celebrity. I’d read the young woman was journaling features of Thomas’s tenure in the President’s House. Because everyone now knew who I was in relation to Thomas—without explicit confirmation—I’d thanked her for contributing importantly to history as though that was my main motive for writing.
Her husband, Samuel Harrison Smith, was publisher of the National Intelligencer in the capital. He’d served Thomas’s interests well, at first championing him and his democratic ideals and more recently defending him and attacking his attackers.
Mrs. Smith was gracious to answer and offer friendship. She detailed a few observations including her first meeting with Thomas. Before the House of Representatives’ determination of the election, he’d called on the Smiths at their home nearby. From her gushing I could tell she was in awe of him.
Mrs. Smith volunteered slight puzzlement over Martha’s and Maria’s current visit with their father, a winter’s sojourn I knew Martha intended as a show of family unity past the scandal. I’d been certain Martha hoped as well to establish herself as mistress of the President’s House, but I skirted reference to that possibility.
Dolley Madison, wife of Thomas’s Secretary of State, had been serving in that role—which, of course, should have fallen to me. She’ll no doubt do so again, for Martha must come home to her husband and have more babies.
I’d also asked Mrs. Smith for news about Thomas Paine, who’d arrived in Baltimore about the same time as my nieces’ arrival in the capital. My Thomas would persuade editors to publish his friend’s progressive views, which were as important to our young country’s development as were Mr. Paine’s inspiring calls to arms in the Revolutionary War. She made no mention of Mr. Paine, perhaps believing I shouldn’t wrinkle my brow.
However, with smooth propriety—without lingering on the matter—she drew a parallel between Thomas’s method for withstanding this Callender scandal and his historic response to an earlier torrent of criticism she’d evidently aired with him. In 1781 he’d fled Monticello ahead of British troops while serving as Virginia’s Governor, prompting accusations of cowardice that he subsequently ignored.
His making a virtual one-man stand would have been senseless. For all anyone knew the Redcoats might have hanged the author of the Declaration of Independence. I remembered as a child helping Great George hide the family silver to frustrate the invaders. I recalled also the unwarranted criticism of Thomas that boiled up from Richmond and dear Martha Wayles’s confusion over his not answering it.
Very touching was Mrs. Smith’s recounting a scene involving Thomas’s ten-year-old grandson, Thomas Jefferson Randolph, whom he called “Jefferson.” The boy had joined them as Thomas was spreading a map of North America. “Grandpapa” summoned him for a look. Young Jefferson pointed to the western coast beyond the vast Louisiana Territory.
 “Is that where you’ll send your secretary, Mr. Lewis?”
“I’m weighing the possibility. Did Meriwether tell you that?”
“Yes, and he seems happy. He said it would be the adventure of a lifetime.”
“What do you think we should do with the Indians, Jefferson?”
“There’s a lot of land, Grandpapa. Can’t we just share?”
“Perhaps with strict boundaries, where they can live and hunt separately.”
“And where will you put the Negroes?”
“The Negroes?”
“Yes, I know you dislike slavery. If they go free, I’d rather they live on these lands than be sent to Africa.”
“And why is that?”
“Then I can visit them. At Monticello I made friends with boys on Mulberry Row. If they go to Africa, I might never see them again. This way I can ride my horse over the mountains to visit them.”
“I’m not ready to send anyone anywhere.”
“But Grandpapa, you already have. Little Thomas was nice to me when I went riding, but now he’s gone. They say you’ve sent him to Kentucky.”
My heart skipped a beat reading that, for Mrs. Smith had obviously included the exchange from knowledge Little Thomas was our son. The viperous Callender had told the entire world and made the boy an object of curiosity for visitors to Monticello. That’s when Thomas and I decided to go through with fostering.
A very hard time for me. Very hard, and coming on top of anxieties over the scandal.
I hid Mrs. Smith’s letter with sequestered notes from Thomas. I’d made a special place in the chifferobe that I believed was secret. Naturally, time and Martha would prove me wrong about that.
 
 
 
 

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother(complete novel avail...

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
47
A copy of the Richmond Recorder lay before me, dated yesterday, first of September, 1802.
“This is a Federalist paper,” I told Martha Randolph. We were in the family sitting room, just the two of us. “What has this paper to do with any of us?”
“Read it.” Her lips were tight, her face drawn and ghost-like. She extended a bony forefinger to tap the paper. “Right there. By Mr. Callender.”
I read.
It is well known that the man, whom it delighteth the people to honor, keeps and for many years has kept, as his concubine, one of his slaves. Her name is SALLY. The name of her eldest son is Tom. His features are said to bear a striking though sable resemblance to those of the president himself. The boy is ten or twelve years of age. His mother went to France—
I skipped ahead and saw my name again.
By this wench Sally, our president has had several children. There is not an individual in the neighbourhood of Charlottesville who does not believe the story, and not a few who know it.
I looked up, meeting Martha’s cold stare. We sat in silence for a long time, what seemed a minute or two. My heart pounded like a drum.
I glanced down and reread the entire account, wanting this thing in front of me to go away. Wanting Martha not to be sitting here with her accusing, hateful stare. Wanting Thomas not to be absent from the mountain today on plantation business.
“Well?”
I jumped in my chair.
I couldn’t answer. I had no words to put to this.
“Do—you—realize,” she began in a steely tone, her face so twisted by hatred that she made herself unrecognizable. She was not my former playmate, my blood niece we used to call Patsy. She wasn’t even Martha but a banshee who’d gotten into the house somehow.
“Do—you—realize,” she repeated, “the immensity of this scandal? My father is the President of the United States. And you have dishonored him by your association with him.”
She got up and paced the room. “I knew in Paris it was wrong. I wish my rebellion had been stronger so that I might have prevented this. But you kept throwing yourself at him. Why?” She halted and turned to face me, gesturing with a fist. “Why? He’s thirty years olderthan you. It’s— It’s obscene.”
I could do nothing more than endure Martha’s rant and listen to my heart course blood through me in a way I’d seldom experienced. I supposed this was what real fear felt like.
She was right that I had scandalized Thomas’s name and Presidency. But she was wrong about— Well, maybe not exactly wrong, but—
Fortunately, I remembered Thomas’s counsel, should our relationship ever create thunder and lightning among others. I kept my mouth closed.
“Surely you have something to say for yourself, Miss Sable Sally.” Martha spat her words. She sat again, crossing her thin arms over her bosom.
Oh, Patsy Jefferson, what a hateful, ugly shrew you’ve become.
“This has gone on too long,” she said. “I’m putting my foot down. I’m having you moved to another plantation—you and your brood. Get your things together. Today. Davy Bowles will drive you wherever I decide.”
“No.” I’d blurted the word and startled myself in doing so.
“What?”
“I’m not going anywhere. I won’t surrender my responsibility to Monticello, to your father. I’m housemistress. He expects me to do my job. You have a home elsewhere, but you can’t seem to manage that or your marriage—or your unwholesome attraction to your father.”
Stupid, stupid—risking my life to repeat that point.
A red fury covered her face quickly. “What gall. What absolute gall. You have no choice.” Now she was shouting. “I’m dismissing you from your job. From Monticello. From this mountain.”
“You can’t do that.”
Defy the harpy. My best recourse.
Martha rose from her chair. “I’ll have you removed by force. The other slaves won’t dare defy me when I order them to carry you off, to put you in the wagon.”
I stood. “I’m sorry this has appeared in the newspaper and that your father will be embarrassed by it. I gather he hasn’t seen it yet. Only he can determine what’s to be done. My guess is he’ll do nothing.”
“He’ll deny it.”
“No, he won’t. Your father will say nothing.”
“He’ll refute it. He can’t let scandal tarnish his Presidency, his family, and not contradict such—such disgustingpublic allegations.” She went to the door, evidently planning to call any servant who happened to be near.
My predicting Thomas’s reaction was more an act of faith than certainty. Recently he’d been plain about his ambitions, wanting to extend his Presidency to a second term. This scandal could throw everything into a ditch, including his dreams for the future of the country.
If Thomas could no longer afford me in his life, should I consider the same escape my brother Jimmy took last fall? End life by my own hand? There were poisons in the garden shed.
Our children would blend with the Hemingses.
The children. Our posterity.
No. I couldn’t do such a thing, either to myself or them.
If I’ve learned anything from this experience, it was the power of words. Not to go against Thomas’s silence but for the children’s sake—the full story must be told after he and I were gone.
I would leave pieces of the truth with Nancy Ann West in Charlottesville, consulting Thomas’s records for dates, busying myself with paper and quill pen.
Let Martha summon whomever she could to throw me off the mountain.
That expulsion would never happen.
I would survive the unwanted fame of Callender’s exposé. And in a test of strength and determination with my blood niece, I would prevail. Virginia’s laws be damned. A higher justice was on my side.
Monticello’s “Sable Sally” would have the last word.
 

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother(complete novel avail...

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
46
Thomas gave me sixteen dollars today, partly to arrange a party for Harriet’s first birthday and partly as reimbursement for small household expenses.
What was more important, he planned to stop in personally for the party in Mama’s house on Mulberry Row. He dearly loved our beautiful daughter and today watched her take some of her first steps.
Mama volunteered to take care of Harriet while the President and I strolled the cherry orchard with Little Thomas and Beverly. The cherries have ripened, and we ate them right off the trees. Some of the fruit had fallen, sending forth a sweet odor.
I cautioned all not to overdo it or they would have problems running to the privy. In fact that sort of thing has been bothering Thomas, but he shied from being more explicit in his correspondence with Dr. Rush.
Thomas was confident his increased diet of fish in Washington had brought on the malady. So if he could control his daily menu and exercise enough, he might bring his bowels under control. Or so he believed. Though I didn’t know very much about the effects of fish on a person’s innards, I was concerned the responsibilities of being President were burdening and affecting him.
This outing in the orchard his first full day back from Washington—a Sunday, the 9thof May, 1802—made my heart beat like a girl’s. If not for the children, we might have run through the grass barefooted. Well, if not for children and the fact Thomas recently marked his fifty-ninth birthday. He ran horses every day but not his own legs.
Because I knew the boys wouldn’t understand what we were talking about, I pressed Thomas to tell me his plan for us in case anything happened to him.
“You mean if I die?”
“Well, I didn’t want to be coldblooded and put it that way,” I said, tucking my chin to my chest.
His eyebrows went up. “And you’re asking me to be more descriptive with Ben Rush?”
I shook my head and clicked my tongue. “Touché, mon amour.”
“I’ve already instructed Martha to give you your freedom, should that happen.”
I sighed. “Freedom. Ironic that it was Jimmy’s death sentence.”
“No, alcohol was his death sentence. For some it becomes a sickness. I’m trying to control my own intake. I probably consume more wine than I should, often on top of hard cider.”
“And beer,” I was quick to add. “Does it make you dizzy? Can the wine possibly be the reason your bowels are loose? From a particular strain of grape?”
Thomas paused in our walk to reach and twist a small dead branch off a cherry tree. “I don’t think so. My consumption of a great variety of wines has been steady through the years, so I doubt that’s the cause.” After a few steps he leaned to me and added, “As for making me dizzy, Sally, only you are capable of doing that.”
I laughed, overjoyed to claim this time with him. Beverly laughed in imitation, not knowing what this jubilance was about, and Little Thomas joined in.
Thomas said he’d obtained vines of a grape called Cape of Good Hope that he’ll plant in the southwest vineyard Tuesday. And by Wednesday or Thursday we’ll pick strawberries—in his garden instead of Mama’s. She’ll sell hers to buy gifts for her army of grandchildren.
Seeing my man so relaxed today, I asked what he liked about being President. Based on past conversations and letters on the burdens of public service, his current enthusiasm seemed to me contradictory.
“I like undoing John Adams’s and the Federalists’ bad laws that sent innocent people to jail. Undoing his last-minute appointments and acts that would have impaired our ability to govern, to dispense justice. Stripping the Presidency of pomp and ceremony reminiscent of the British monarchy. Limiting some of Hamilton’s foolish ventures.”
“Ah, but Thomas, you’re talking about what you’re tearing down. You’re a builder among other preoccupations. What are you putting up?”
He looked at me in a strange way. After a long pause, he said, “My God, woman. You’re better at rhetoric today than when you bludgeoned my book as a girl.”
“Oh, I attract you because I’ve studied and grown intellectually, and you rate me smart? That’s new.”
“Actually, it’s exciting. Another virtue added to your patience, your loyalty, your industry, your fair-mindedness, your honesty. You never lie—”
“Oh, I do lie, Thomas. But never to you.”
Much to Beverly’s excitement, Thomas folded me into his arms and kissed me—out in the open, in the orchard.
After we resumed our stroll, he said, “What I’m building is a dedicated cadre of Democratic-Republican leaders like Madison and Monroe. We’re setting the country on the course it should have taken from the start. We’re disengaging from any connection to foreign wars, like the perpetual feuding between Britain and France. Perhaps we’ll become peacemakers. We’re also looking to the west, willing to deal with the Indians as well as Spain and France to expand our territory.”
“Will four years give you enough time to realize all your hopes? Are you looking to another term?” Truly, I was apprehensive that he might say yes.
For a long moment he didn’t answer. He glanced about the orchards, then looked toward the house and gardens, and he turned to gaze west to the mountains—the view that had inspired him to build here when he was a young man.
He sighed. He said, “Yes. I’ll need another term.”
My heart sank. I tried not to show it, but I heard a small and uncontrollable whimper come out of me.
I looked up at him and suggested, wildly, “Take us with you, Thomas, to serve in the President’s House. I can keep it sparkling clean, cook proper meals for you, prevent your being lonely there.”
“Sally, I meant to add earlier when listing your attributes—your understanding.”
I bit my lip. “I take that to mean it’s not possible.”
“That means I wish I could ignore harsh realities and say I’ll take you.”
“I’m not going to cry,” I said. I was already blubbering somewhat, but I spoke through it.
Thomas pulled a huge handkerchief from a pocket of his breeches to give me. He embraced me again, then placed his arm around my shoulder as we continued to walk. The boys had run ahead.
To overcome the choking in my throat, I whispered hoarsely as we strolled, “Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime,” dabbing at my eyes. I knew he liked the sound of my whispers, the spirit and soul of what I was saying, the deep meaning and commitment, for every so often he tightened his grip on me.
We were sworn to each other for life, without a minister’s blessing. But I wanted that life to last and was afraid his work as President would kill him.
Or take him from me some other way.
 
 
 
 

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother(complete novel avail...

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
45
Mama picked this Sunday, the 22nd of November—six months to the day following Harriet’s birth—for all Hemingses to honor the memory of my brother Jimmy. He killed himself in Baltimore. Mama’s house couldn’t hold the whole family at one time, so the preacher would have to repeat his remarks later.
We were still trying to understand his suicide, but that was less important than Mama’s wanting everyone to pray for Jimmy’s soul. He drank too much, and all we knew was he’d been doing that continuously for several days before he took his life by means still as mysterious to us as his reasons.
My brother had been free and only thirty-six, a very talented chef trained in the French style. He’d been back at Monticello a short time this year, Thomas paying him, till he quit abruptly and took a job as a cook in a Baltimore saloon. That was where he died.
From Washington Thomas wrote Mr. Dinsmore, asking him to tell my brother John and Mama about Jimmy. That was his formal way. I was certain he knew we Hemingses would already have heard from the slave grapevine, even before I received his secret and gently worded personal note.
At the service I held Harriet in my lap and tried to keep sons Thomas from exhibiting bizarre behavior and Beverly from squirming.
None of my siblings could help with my children, because they had little ones of their own to control. I was thankful the preacher was winding down or I’d have started clearing my throat, risking my mother’s harsh looks. Not that I didn’t show respect for Jimmy. I was as angry as I was mournful, because of what I’d overheard the other day.
Up in the main house high-and-mighty Martha Randolph had said to her husband, “See what comes of giving them their freedom? They don’t know what to do with themselves, so they turn to drink and wantonness. I’m outraged that James Hemings’s act has distressed my father.”
Mr. Randolph had been wise not to reply. He’d strolled out the door, with no sign of agreeing or disagreeing with Martha’s judgments. I’d like to think he felt as I did, that she should have shown respect for my poor conflicted brother who, in truth, was also her uncle.
No one knew better than I how Thomas felt about Jimmy. He spoke often of wanting to furnish him opportunities to use his culinary talents for pay. He worried about Jimmy’s volatile nature. They’d traveled in so many places together for so many years, I’m certain there was respect and friendship between them.
Perhaps Martha thought unclearly about this because she had five children as of August. A sixth died early. Five were a lot to handle.
Maria Eppes gave birth four weeks later, and this one appeared reasonably healthy.
Both newborns—Virginia Randolph and Francis Eppes—first saw life at Monticello rather than at their own plantations. Thomas was here to greet his new granddaughter and grandson and returned to Washington the end of September.
Except for my anguish over Jimmy’s death, I continued secure in my position on the mountain and in my relationship with Thomas. He was very attentive to me, considerate at times in the extreme, and I knew that while he was away he was faithful.
About our frequent cohabiting, Thomas wasn’t the type who’d put himself above the law because of holding the highest offices in the land. He was sensitive that our relationship violated Virginia laws.
But I’ve noticed, in more than thirteen years together, he had the power to block certain realities. He often thought and acted in terms of how things ought to be, turning a deaf ear and a blind eye to the way things really were. And, when it suited him, he also did the opposite, shunning his idealism to navigate the messiness of the real world.
I was happy to benefit from his strange way of thinking. But as his mate who observed and pondered his idiosyncrasies, I was convinced that he was of a far different nature than his predecessors, Mr. Washington or Mr. Adams. For example, they were reported to have lost their tempers much more than I’ve ever seen Thomas do. That wasn’t a deficiency, of course, but it was a curious feature of his famous reserve.
Both men eventually misinterpreted Thomas and scuttled once strong relationships with him. Maybe their different natures, more than political differences, accounted for the distance that developed between each of them and Thomas.
Whenever I felt vulnerable as a slave and as a woman—and now Jimmy’s suicide was sapping more of my strength—I was grateful for Thomas’s unique reserve. If a crisis came that might affect the future course of my life, I’d have that quality in him to depend on, to lean on for support.
Or would I?
Thomas has lately questioned his health, his prospects for old age. A persisting problem has struck his bowels. I’ve asked him to start being more candid about it with Dr. Benjamin Rush, to be less reserved in ways that counted.
As a slave, a condition of which I could always rely on Martha Randolph to remind me, my survival depended on Thomas’s well-being. During this memorial to my dead brother it chilled me to realize—the responsibility I’d placed on Thomas for my security and well-being was also a challenge falling to me for his.

Sally of Monticello

 
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…

 
44
Nurse Isabel roused me from my long slumber.
I gave birth this morning in the wee hours, 22nd of May in the first year of the new century, 1801. After one feeding of Harriet, named for the child I’d lost, a heavy sleep overcame me.
Isabel insisted it was time again to feed my lusty newborn. I didn’t realize I’d slept so long. Isabel offered to get a wet nurse if necessary. There were always a few along Mulberry Row.
My “little man” Beverly, three years old and proudly chamber-pot trained, was helpful to Mrs. Sneed, the midwife Thomas hired specially for me. He fetched extra towels from the nearby washhouse. He’s been playing quietly outside the door during my sleep, the nurse said, occasionally tiptoeing in to peek at his baby sister.
When I asked Little Thomas’s whereabouts, Isabel shook her head. “You can stop calling that long drink o’ water ‘little.’ He’s about as tall as they come, like his daddy.” She said he was caring for Bergère in the stable, where he’d fashioned a bed of hay and rags for the poor old dog. Not much time left for her.
Mama came by, beaming at yet another granddaughter. We’ve lost count.
“I can make a list,” I offered, “as Thomas likes to do.”
She waved that off and held Harriet a while, singing to my sweet-looking daughter. “She’ll grow up white,” Mama said. “She can pass.”
Best I didn’t comment on that.
I wasn’t expecting to see my half-brother John, but he popped in with the surprise gift of a cradle he’d made. Everyone agreed he did beautiful work—chairs, cabinets, anything of wood. No wonder Mr. Dinsmore made John his assistant for interior finishing.
For part of last month Thomas was home from Washington, but he had to turn around and go right back to run the country. He took my teasing good-naturedly—about enduring thirty-six House of Representative ballots to overcome a tie vote with Mr. Burr for the Presidency.
During that brief visit I showed Thomas the calling card of a horse breeder and his wife from Kentucky. They were passing through to see her folks in Spotsylvania and wanted to look at the dome.
“Why did they leave a card?”
“They have a nephew like Little Thomas.” I was starting to get emotional. “Helps with the animals. They took in two more feebleminded children. All work in the stables and corrals. ‘They’re happy,’ the Kentucky man said,”—my voice broke in the telling—“because they’re alike.”
Thomas crooked a finger and knuckled the tears gently from my cheeks. “Let me write friends there to inquire about them.” He slid the card into a vest pocket.
Thomas had wanted to be here when I gave birth, but war with pirates from Tripoli interfered. He hoped to return to Monticello when Martha Randolph was to deliver in August.
When I spoke of Thomas in front of Isabel, her brown face beamed and she clapped her hands. That was in anticipation of his plan for smallpox inoculations this summer. She was all a-twitter at the prospect of helping Dr. Waterhouse.
Maria’s ordeal early last year—losing a baby and then suffering effects of childbirth—made everyone on the family’s plantations more sensitive to health measures. Too many infants and small children have perished.
When John was here with the cradle, he said he’d heard from brother Bob in Richmond.
“How goes his hauling business?”
“Doing well,” John said, “and he’s saving to buy property next year. Mentioned sending a note to Mr. Jefferson.”
“Congratulating him?”
“That and a problem down Richmond way.”
“Oh, John, don’t talk about problems. I’m worn out today.”
“Well, Mr. Thomas’ll take care of it. Concerns that Mr. Callender out of jail.”
With daylight getting longer and my having rested well, I finally got up to sit outside. Who should drive up in a wagon and surprise me but Nancy Ann West? With five-year-old Jane carrying a basket of pastries, of course.
Nancy made a fuss over Harriet and wanted to hold her. I didn’t feel uneasy about that. Isabel steered little Jane to where Beverly played, then hovered till she decided everything was all right. She went home to supper.
“You’ll have to get back to town,” I told Nancy, “before it gets dark. You shouldn’t go down that mountain road at night.”
“A short visit, Sally. I had to see the baby when I heard your time arrived. David’s former partner is visiting from Richmond, so I took the opportunity to come up.”
“Richmond,” I said. “John Hemings tried to share news from there. I paid little attention.”
“Probably about that awful Callender. The place is buzzing that he’s out of jail and wants Mr. Jefferson to make him postmaster. Says the President owes him a political debt. The people in Richmond don’t want that man.”
“He was in jail unfairly, Nancy, under the Sedition Act. Thomas has been helping him for supporting the Democratic-Republicans. But I don’t recall any unpaid political debts.”
“Regardless, Callender’s said to be a sneaky, vengeful man. Lately talks to people who’ve visited Monticello. Gossiping. Prying.”
“Prying?” A chill ran up my scalp, and the hair stood on my arms.
Other topics Nancy West raised were lost to me. I wasn’t listening fully.
Prying.
What would anyone be prying about?

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother(complete novel avail...

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…

 
43
Thomas planned to set out for the Federal City, now called Washington, tomorrow—Monday, the 24th of November, 1800.
While confident he would win the Presidency, he believed he’d be in close contention with Aaron Burr when electors began their count. Mr. Burr was a New Yorker aligned with Thomas’s Democratic-Republicans.
Mr. Adams had moved from Philadelphia into the President’s House in Washington. If he failed in the balloting, which seemed certain, he would move again in March—into retirement in Massachusetts. I felt terrible that he’d fallen so far from public favor while President, for I was forever in the man’s debt.
My closeness with Thomas would be interrupted, not solely because he’d be away in public service but because his fame drew uninvited visitors to Monticello by the score. As a result, he may establish a retreat on lands at Poplar Forest, which he visited earlier this month. Could he afford to build there, with all that was still unfinished here?
Flights into his precious “solitude” for clear-headed writing will forever distress me. I’ve voiced my apprehensions. As usual, he has reassured me of continuing devotion.
“You’re a more mature lady than when you arrived in Paris,” he said. “I’m confident you can muster the patience and trust for what lies ahead. On your main concern, it pains my heart as well when I’m without you for long periods.”
Hearing that, I fell into his arms and held him tightly. “Je t’aime,” I said, repeating those words till I made wet spots on his red vest. Tonight will be ours, and probably the last for us before the people of the United States take possession of him as their President.
As for the increased public attention and invasion of Monticello, which everyone seemed to forget was a private residence, some of the curiosity was attributable to the dome. Never before has a house on this side of the Atlantic been topped in such a manner. People were detouring coach trips into Charlottesville to climb the mountain for a look.
I’ve discussed with the new overseer, Gabriel Lilly, some way of controlling public access. He hasn’t been much help. In fact, he’s made me uncomfortable. I’ve heard he’s threatened slaves with whippings. That was another problem for me to keep an eye on.
When the weather warms again, perhaps I’ll station Burwell at the foot of the mountain road to let only expected visitors pass. He knew how to read, so I’ll furnish a list.
Mr. Dinsmore will concentrate work on the master suite in the south wing during Thomas’s extended absences. When it came to laying out the bedchamber, he would have me peering over his shoulder daily.
Martha Randolph was in a tizzy about the approaching election, acting as though she’d be entitled to an exalted position in Washington as elder daughter of a widower President.
Mr. Randolph had begun to show jealousy of his father-in-law. If that helped to reform Martha, then it was high time. In fairness, each had a cross to bear with the other, yet they kept increasing the state’s population on average every two years.
My own baby was due in May.
Regardless of longings by many of us that his absence will bring, there was a sense of excitement over the arrival of a new century and over Thomas’s expected victory. Some were referring to the downfall of the Federalists as a “second revolution.”
As if that spirit weren’t enough—miracle of miracles—Mr. Hamilton was supporting Thomas in this election over Mr. Burr. If the balloting was close, that may become a deciding factor.
“What rallied Mr. Hamilton to your side?” I asked as we retired for the night.
Thomas chuckled. “It goes back a number of years. Aaron Burr had the audacity to defeat Hamilton’s father-in-law, General Schuyler, when the latter tried to keep his Senate seat from New York. There’s been bad blood ever since. I’m flattered—surprised, actually—to be the beneficiary of that feud.”
I feigned breathlessness, putting a hand to my throat. “Thank you for explaining. I’d have consulted the conjurer, because Mr. Hamilton’s conversion hinted of voodoo.”
Full laughter from Thomas now. He was ready for play.
“Is my belly showing?” I asked.
“Three months?” He looked closely, cocking his head this way and that. “Perhaps. I assumed you’d been to Nancy West’s shop and were sneaking special pastries up the mountain. Thus the added weight.”
I reached to slap his bare rump, but he caught my wrist and pinned me to the bed, kissing me with extra passion.
During frenzied lovemaking I heard him mutter something and, as I didn’t catch the words clearly, I responded almost unconsciouosly with “Sir?” That set us to helpless giggling, for my subservient query contrasted with over twelve years’ intimacies. Thomas’s slipping out began another round of laughter, robbing me of breath.
While dousing the lamps, I made a mental note. I hadn’t been to Nancy’s place for some time. A visit there might assuage cravings of my pregnancy.
Thomas was now asleep.
The fire had gone low, and I wanted to watch him in repose. I left the bed to add logs and increase the blaze. When I returned and crept under the covers, I snuggled close to his long body that radiated warmth.
“Au revoir, Thomas,”I whispered. Then, feeling a sob break from deep inside, “Bon jour, M’sieu le Président.”

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42
Little Thomas—taller at ten than I, therefore not so little—loved to play in this place, our favorite cove of the Rivanna River. I had promised that before summer’s end I would bring him here for splashing in the cool, clean water.
Our receiving a copy of the Virginia Argusthis morning reminded me of my promise. My feebleminded son would never have brought it up. The newspaper contained a tribute to Thomas. I was pleased to read that.
Thomas grew thoughtful over the article, then drew out a quill pen and set up his polygraph machine for copies. He began a list of public services in which he took special pride. First on the list was his early effort to improve navigation on the Rivanna, to facilitate the carrying of his and neighbors’ produce to market.
When I peeked over his shoulder, I said, “Listing your achievements will take the better part of today, perhaps tomorrow. My work is caught up, so I’ll be at the river’s cove with Little Thomas before the weather turns.”
The water in the cove wasn’t deep enough for either of us to swim. But we ducked in the shallows and giggled and splashed each other, then we sunned ourselves.
Having groomed horses all of yesterday for Davy Bowles, Little Thomas grew tired of play quickly. He fell into a deep, snoring sleep on the mossy bank.
We had driven here in an open wagon, our faithful Normandy shepherd Bergère in back. The old girl immediately set out exploring the woods by the river, no doubt sniffing for interesting creatures not common on our mountain.
While my son slept, I slipped off the wet undergarments in which I’d been playing and enjoyed the sensation of the water on my skin. I hunched down in the pool formed by the cove and occasionally stood to let the water cascade down my body, still weeks away from showing my pregnancy.
Upon one such rise I glanced up and saw Thomas’s troublemaking nephew, Peter Carr, astride his horse and grinning at me. Peter was the son of Thomas’s sister Martha, or “Aunt Carr,” and his late close friend, Dabney Carr.
I ducked down to my chin quickly and yelled, “Go away.”
Instead of leaving, Peter took his time alighting, tying the reins to a limb, and finding a dry place to sit. “You’re far more beautiful than I’d imagined, Sally Hemings. And I’m not ashamed to let it be known that you’re often in my dreams. More often, from this day forward.”
“Get out of here.” The water no longer felt quite so cold, yet I shook like a leaf.
“Cousin Martha pairs us, I’m told, when prattling about the source of your babies. I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Wouldn’t you relish some loving from a man your own age while your idiot son sleeps?”
“If you leave now, I won’t tell.” My quavering voice betrayed my nervousness. “If Thomas knew what you’re suggesting, he’d give you the thrashing of your life.” I’d wanted to spit the words forcefully, but my trembling made me appear weak, perhaps unconvincing.
“Oh, I doubt he’d thrash me,” he said. “I’m his favorite nephew.”
“Not after writing that Langhorne letter to upset Mr. Washington. Thomas knows you were behind that, and it cost him dearly.” My teeth were starting to chatter. “You should be ashamed for such fakery, for embarrassing your uncle so.”
“You ought to come out of the water, Sally. You’re catching a chill. Let the sun warm your body. It’s all right. I’ve already seen you.”
“N-no,” I managed. “Thomas will—” I couldn’t finish what I wanted to say.
Peter picked up a twig and began breaking pieces off and tossing them into the water. “Uncle Thomas is over that Langhorne thing. He’s very forgiving—and generous. He loves to share. Really, I don’t think he’d mind sharing you with me.”
My legs were starting to cramp from being hunched down so long. I wanted to stand but couldn’t without complete immodesty.
He must have read discomfort on my face, for he said, “Stand if you like, Sally. You can’t stay like that for long. Or would you like me to remove my shirt and breeches to join you?”
“No, don’t.”
He pulled off his low boots, then rolled down and removed his hosiery. He stood and yanked his shirttail out and started unhooking the front. I could see he was aroused and serious about entering the water.
I could no longer hold my position. I stood, trying to cover my breasts and my triangle simultaneously.
“Oh, ho-o-o,” he called. “I’ll consider your self-exposure my invitation, though I need no invitation from a slave.”
Peter was struggling to undo his breeches when I remembered our Normandy. I called out, “BERGÈRE,” putting enough scream into it so she would know I was in jeopardy. At her quick run and leap came a continuous rumbling roar from her powerful body.
She hit him in the side, toppling him, and she started snapping at his flailing arms. I hoped she wouldn’t draw blood or he might insist she be destroyed.
I called Bergère’s name again, this time in a normal tone. She backed away.
Peter stood and retrieved his boots, stuffing them under the rear of the saddle.
Having stretched my legs, I felt I could resume my squatting in the water. I called to him, “I won’t tell Thomas of this, provided you don’t complain about the dog.”
Obviously upset, Peter pulled on his shirt without fastening it, untied the reins, set a bare foot in the stirrup, and mounted his horse. His demeanor projected more shock and surprise than hostility. He was soon gone.
Little Thomas slept through the entire incident.
I left the water, picked up my wet undergarments, and found a towel where I’d set it under the wagon seat. I dried myself, then dressed in my dry outer clothes. All the while the beat of my heart remained rapid from my near-disaster.
Would I have risked a whipping for fighting this white man, or, for the sake of my unborn child, would I have let him take me? In the latter event, judging from the way he romanced young women on Mulberry Row, he’d have come back for more.
To give our dear old dog a grateful, tearful hug I went to my knees.
I woke Little Thomas and guided the sleepy boy to the back of the wagon. I folded a blanket to rest his head and let him continue his nap, alongside Bergère.
Mama had warned me. “You’re uncommonly pretty,” she said after my breasts emerged and my body grew hair in new places. “Those yellow-bright eyes and that long straight hair’ll snap men’s necks around to gawk, so be on guard. White men’ll be after your body like bears after honey. They’ll think you being a slave gives them rights.”
Her warnings had been frightening, till she added, “If I was in your shoes, girl, I’d look ahead and latch onto what may already be your heart’s desire. Pick the right moment and pounce, like you see that kitten playing with that tiny ball of yarn. Then hang on. That’s what I got around to doing with John Wayles, and you’re the final result of thatunion.”
My heart’s desire.
I was so glad Mama sent me to Paris. I was fearful at the time, but now soglad.
Rather than fully protect me, however, did my liaison with Thomas also target me? For others wanting to exercise “rights” with a slave?
How much of what went on in his own family could I tell my gentle man, who wished to see only people’s good side? Bloody little, I supposed.
Thanks to Bergère, I doubted it would be necessary to tell on Peter. But who might try to catch me next?

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Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
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41
Race-mixing was unlawful, but how would anyone stop it?
Shopping this August afternoon in Charlottesville, I witnessed casual exchanges among blacks and whites—and colors in between. And it was “in betweens” like me who gave evidence to the futility of laws that would follow us from 1800 into the new century.
Yes, many whites showed bitter hatred of Negroes, and that went the other way around. But those who showed extreme hostility were fewer than generally believed. Still, some whites rallied mobs for flimsy reasons, and justice turned a blind eye to the outcomes.
By and large the races got along on unwritten rules. Skin color governed who stepped off the walks into the mud to let someone pass and who waited longest at the stores. Going outside the rules brought quick correction, sometimes with tact, often without.
I’ve seen white men set aside rules for light-skinned Negro women. They tipped their hats, not so much as a sign of respect as of flirting. Some women figured a relationship was a ticket to freedom. Occasionally that worked. Most often it didn’t.
Inspired by the government’s counting citizens in every year ending with zero, Thomas showed me a census he’d made this morning of all living on the mountain, labeling the list “my family.” The numbers showed eleven “free whites” of all ages, those in the house and a few workers living on the grounds for the rebuilding. And then there was one line for ninety-three “slaves,” of which I supposed I was one.
If Thomas were to line up everyone on the west lawn by color, there’d be a gradation from white to black, a vivid range of the race-mixing for the hundred and four of us on the mountain.
That was also what went on in Charlottesville and other parts of Virginia I’ve passed through. Growing up on Mulberry Row I got tired of hearing my brothers tell a riddle—“Where do blue-eyed slaves come from?” The answer, of course, had something to do with white men’s penises.
With regard to laws against mixing, there was Thomas’s dear old law professor, George Wythe, in Williamsburg. Wouldn’t you know, he’s long had a black mate, and they have a son? So, what good were legal measures against race-mixing, except to discourage the timid and tarnish the rest of us?
Charlottesville was fast-growing, and quite a few people knew me, most having heard the favorite local gossip. A few who were outspoken Democratic-Republicans asked me whether Thomas was abroad in the land “speechifying,” or whether he was welcoming “foreign potentates” to Monticello.
I laughed with one couple, and said, “Last time I saw Mr. Jefferson he was on hands and knees in the garden, moving tulip bulbs.”
No question that Thomas was campaigning for President, but he did it through surrogates like the editor Samuel Harrison Smith or through letters. Until now there’s never been a “political party,” but the Sedition Act certainly sent factions into battle. I loved and respected John Adams, yet I believed he miscalculated people’s affection for free speech and a free press.
In Mr. Isaacs’s store a woman asked whether Thomas might free all slaves when he becomes President.
“Is that what you want him to do?” I said.
“Oh goodness, no,” she said. “That would be the end of everything.”
I didn’t return comment, for she was evidently another white who feared that freed slaves would retaliate for their long bondage. Years ago, after I confronted Thomas for repeating such fears in Notes on the State of Virginia and for suggesting deportation to Africa, he came around slowly to admitting he’d probably raised false alarms.
When I became a mother it pained me to realize even traces of Negro blood will limit my children’s futures. The more I discussed it with Thomas, the more he agonized and mumbled about the unfairness of it.
One evening I spoke on the subject till I thought my voice would give out, though I tried to sound calm. He looked up from where he sat. A tear ran down his face.
He said, “The Constitution, the consensus of my southern peers, my own way of life are shackles rendering me powerless, Sally. You’ve helped me understand how unstable are the theories on race, how narrow are categorical judgments. But to do more than I’ve already tried?” He shook his head.
I crawled into his lap and wiped his face with the end of my chemise. He said, “Most importantly, you’ve personalized the injustices, and I regret that the audience to your insight is so small, the current potential for broad understanding so bankrupt.”
Later that night as I was falling asleep, Thomas muttered, “William Beverly can pass for white.” I tossed and turned after that, struggling with the implications. Thomas slept like a rock.
As Davy Bowles drove me back up the mountain, the question by the woman in the store called to my mind that episode and other reactions by Thomas to race and slavery.
While President Washington had arranged for his slaves to go free on the death of his widow, Thomas’s ability to act similarly would be limited by financial straits. Mr. Washington was the wealthiest man in America, but Thomas? He cosigned or assumed people’s debts, then borrowed against his properties including human assets—his slaves.
Did moral issues haunt Thomas in his management of a large slave community? It stood to reason they did. Actually, I knewthey did. His principal means of expression, however—his writing—was often dispassionate.
No one will ever feel—not I nor posterity—the heat of conflict raging in a brain that housed the real and the ideal, his awareness that his actions on slavery failed the test of his sentiments. He came close to verbalizing this torment whenever revolutionary General Kościuszko, his friend and admirer, came to visit. The Polish-American warrior was unafraid to confront him on slavery and offered to buy the freedom of as many of us as he could afford. But Thomas didn’t appear to take that seriously.
Perhaps he was compensating for this major contradiction in his principles by taking a kindlier attitude than other slaveholders. He called us “servants” and paid wages to many for learning and using new skills. And then there was his woeful and headache-inducing guilt over being forced to mortgage many in his “family,” trusting that the move was temporary.
Overall, Thomas couldn’t seem to place the challenge of slavery’s solution on the same plane as his Declaration. Confronting George the Third at the risk of hanging was one thing, but lifting the lid on Pandora’s box was quite another.
He would continue to find common ground with all people. He would offer a word of encouragement here, a respectful greeting there, and blithely accept the esteem and loyalty others returned.
Thomas’s main interests were keeping the peace, improving agriculture, writing letters, fostering free expression, establishing education for all, advancing science, enjoying his family, and finishing his house.
Mr. Dinsmore as construction superintendent now had the professional help of my enormously skilled, younger half-brother John Hemings. That was another example of how we might, in time, release ourselves from color-consciousness as naturally and effectively as a butterfly escapes its primitive stages.
Meanwhile, I pondered that my time-of-the-month was several days late. So I was likely carrying another of Thomas’s octoroon babies. I looked forward to birthing this child with good health, and—all things considered—I hoped and fantasized for his or her future.
Time would tell.

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40
“You can’t go in there.”
Martha stood outside the door to Thomas’s bedchamber, her arms crossed. She was blocking me.
The servant Burwell Colbert, my young nephew, guarded a second door nearby, the one to the hallway leading to Thomas’s suite. He wouldn’t look me squarely in the eyes.
Other servants passing through the entrance hall glanced at this scene and quickly moved on.
Maria, who’d arrived home with Thomas today, paced by the door to the dining room and pulled at a handkerchief. Now in late May of 1800 she seemed recovered from her winter birthing ordeal, yet she fidgeted, evidently disapproving of her sister’s blockade.
As calmly as I was able, I asked Martha, “Why can’t I go in?”
“My father won’t be needing you. He faces an electoral contest for President. I won’t allow distractions or activity that will invite scandal.”
I took a deep breath and said, “Martha, move out of the way.” She had the advantage in height, but I had muscle and determination, if it came to that.
She maintained her stance, then started tapping her foot on the floor. She glanced at Burwell, who wouldn’t look directly at her either.
Maria called out, “Oh, let it go, Martha.”
“I will not,” came the reply. Martha squinted at Maria and pursed her lips, as though conveying disappointment.
I said, “I think she made a good suggestion. I’d rather risk a whipping by knocking you away than retreat from my duty to Thomas.”
“Your duty? You call sleeping with my father your duty?”
“My duty is to please him, and that’s what I do. If you want to avoid scandal, don’t start a brawl that will get into the newspapers by the weekend. We servants—we slaves—are Virginia’s best gossips.”
Martha drew several deep breaths, unclasped her arms, then crossed them again. She said, “You will not go in there this evening. I’m relieving you of your responsibilities in this house. From now on you’ll pick tobacco. Tomorrow you and your boys will move from your special quarters.”
I laughed. “Tobacco? You don’t know of reversals your father suffered in the tobacco market? Why not hand me a scythe and have me harvest wheat? That crop seems to thrive.”
“All right,” Martha said, “so I don’t know much about farm operations. But I do know I want you out of this house.”
To break down her stubbornness, I realized I might have to resort to extremes requiring more candor than violence. It was time.
Maria had left the entrance hall. Burwell leaned against the door, perhaps exhausted from working in the nailery all day.
I indicated plain chairs at the east end of the entrance hall and said to Martha in a soft tone, “Let’s sit over there and talk.”
She seemed relieved that this confrontation would take a new turn. She uncrossed her arms. Her heels clip-clopped on the way to choosing a seat. I pulled a chair around to face her.
“Let me explain my place in your father’s life,” I said, “a place you’re mistaken to challenge.”
“I doubt seriously,” she said, “that anything you say can sway me. I’m determined to help my father become President of the United States. Your intrusion into his life is ruining everything.”
I leaned back to look Martha in the eyes. She was uncomfortable because I was behaving not as her servant but as her aunt. When we were children, playmates, she sometimes called me “Aunt Sally” in a teasing manner, for she’s a few months older. In those days it was something we laughed about.
“Martha, there’s talk your marriage is in jeopardy, and it’s not entirely Mr. Randolph’s fault.”
Her mouth dropped open. She sputtered incoherently.
“Mr. Randolph,” I continued, “had a crazy father to put up with. I don’t think your husband ever recovered from the emotional effect of that, and certainly not the financial. Thomas is helping him with yet another mortgage, I hope you know.”
Martha reached in a pocket to yank out a handkerchief. She called to Burwell and, with a hand gesture, dismissed him from his station by the hallway door.
I said, “You want me to continue?”
She nodded, squirming on the hard seat.
“You’ve done well as a helpmate to Mr. Randolph and providing him heirs. I don’t doubt you’ll keep popping out healthy babies like clockwork, and perhaps I envy you that. But it’s apparent Mr. Randolph is tiring of your officious nature.”
“My what?”
“Your bossiness. Like what you’ve just tried at Thomas’s door, blocking my entering. You know he’s expecting me.”
“I know no such thing,” she said, looking away and sniffing, blotting her nose with the handkerchief. “I’ve never liked what goes on between you two.”
“What goes on between us is called love.” I paused to study her reaction, to determine whether she could appreciate an emotion that controlled me and confused her. “Martha, you were present when your father promised your mother he’d never remarry. What did you expect a man thirty-nine to do? Never fall in love again? Give up pleasures of the bed?”
She looked up at me and glared. “Don’tuse such expressions in relation to my father.”
“You’d rather I be plain,” I said, “and call it fucking? It’s what you and Mr. Randolph do to have babies, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s what your father and I do. A natural and healthy activity when two people love each other.”
She covered her face with her hands. “You’re deliberately tormenting me,” she said, her tone weakening from my candid assault.
“You chose to marry Mr. Randolph, but your heart is with your father. I’ve known that ever since we were little. To others—to me—it has the appearance of incestuous desire.”
Martha’s face flamed. She sat erect, bared her teeth, and looked at me as though I was the devil incarnate. “How—dare—you.”
“Your father can’t help that he doesn’t show affection openly, except to grandchildren. Visitors have commented on his apparent shyness toward you and Maria, if it is shyness. Something in his nature inhibits him.”
“I have no incestuous thoughts toward my father. None. Absolutely none.”
I had touched a nerve. I recited Shakespeare to myself, the business about protesting too much.
“Prove it by saving your marriage, Martha. Less dictating. More patience with others’ wants and needs, especially your father’s.” I stood. “I’m late going in there. It’s been five months since we’ve seen each other.”
Martha gazed at the floor, sad-faced.
I hurried toward Thomas’s bedchamber. I could get the better of her now. Newton’s law of motion had been on my side. But as sure as the sun came up she would keep trying to get back at me, possibly try to destroy me.
Pick tobacco, indeed.
 
 
 
 

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Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
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39
In one way I was contented to see Thomas lose himself in politics in the face of tragedy. In another way I was worried his new obsession would result in longer and more frequent separations, for he was bent on becoming President.
It wasn’t vanity that drove him but outrage. The course on which the Federalists have led the country needed reversing, he said, especially as the Sedition Act has resulted in more imprisonments for those who wrote or spoke their mind.
Meanwhile, I did my job in his absence. Staying in touch was more difficult now that he was so greatly occupied with marshalling the Democratic-Republicans. But our bond was strong and now numbered more years than his time with Martha Wayles.
I sought my mother, still my ocean of buoyancy. The challenge was to move beyond death and manage life day to day, as she’d often done. “Mama, I need servants to take Ursula’s place in the laundry. Any suggestions?”
Betty Hemings—“Miss Elizabeth”—once vivacious as well as dominant, was now frequently befuddled by age. She’s been trying to keep her chickens out of her private strawberry patch, trying to sort grandchildren to call them by their correct names, complaining daily of noise from the nearby nailery.
Still, after wrinkling her brow and twisting a strand of grey hair, she advised, “There’s women wearing out from field work. Some young ones can take their place. Before a new overseer comes to replace Great George, you can switch people around, put two maybe three on laundry.”
“Just like that? With no real authority?”
“Honey, just get it done. Nobody’ll come down on you for it. Place has to keep running fresh and clean, right?”
“Ursula also knew best how to cure meat and bottle the cider,” I said.
“Bring in salt and find a damned funnel,” Mama said. “Anyone with half a brain can learn those jobs. Take care of all that, girl, before someone takes care of it for you. If the Master can’t rely on you, he’ll say, ‘Who can I get to run this house proper-like? Hmmm?’ Ain’t that what he’ll say?”
I laughed with Mama and gave her one of my best squeezes.
I remembered Thomas’s saying “nature abhors a vacuum.” I had no idea what that meant till he explained. As head of the American Philosophical Society he often came out with high-flown quotations, but I realized that one was the same as Mama’s telling me, “Just get it done.”
My relationship with Thomas has brought me privileges, but now I faced major responsibilities to go with them. Food storage, or equipping and staffing the laundry—those were small tasks compared with challenges that loomed if Thomas became President. He would entertain many more guests here than before, feed them lavishly, uncork one wine bottle after another, put guests up in the alcove beds he instructed Mr. Dinsmore to build smack against walls.
Did Thomas have the slightest notion how difficult it was to change linens or make a bed that was scrunched against a wall? I was the one burdened with shrugging off servants’ complaints.
“At least,” I suggested to Thomas, “design the one in your suite so you can climb in from either side.” Though he gave little thought to bedmaking, he pulled out drawings to show he’d already considered that design for his south wing bedchamber.
Another feature for his rooms and already in use was the piazza, his greenhouse. It caught a southern exposure to sunlight and accommodated his botanical experiments. My reaction was that a man owning thousands of acres of land needn’t bring bug-attracting plants and dirt into the house.
Fearing I might lose ground if I complained, I finally exhausted my cache of talcum from Paris to sprinkle where ants were invading. That stopped them, and I replenished the powder with whatever was available at David Isaacs’s store. As for roaches and beetles, sprinkles of catnip seemed to work. If Thomas required me to wage war for the sake of a clean house, I could do that.
My sister Critta, who washed floors, complained often that family members and guests were careless using chamber pots. The house had too few built-in privies that relied on gravity, a wash-away below, and venting. The chamber-pot problem would never end. Tired and shrouded in darkness, people in the middle of the night didn’t always pee straight. So I bought stronger soaps than we were able to make and brushes at Isaacs’s store for Critta to use.
I couldn’t imagine who might do that work if my sister should go to serve Maria at Eppington, where life wasn’t so frenzied. Critta had a husband, Zachariah Bowles, and a son, Jamey, and I knew they’ve all been plotting toward eventual freedom.
Despite the fact that reconstruction of the house was incomplete, relatives from nearby plantations created fierce traffic here, some staying for days on end, eating and eating and eating. I must keep supplies ahead of demand, and in this I copied Thomas’s habit of meticulous recordkeeping.
Thomas will return from Philadelphia this spring, headquartering his political activity here as he monitored a scheduled installation of the dome.
My calculation was he’d tolerate a surge of visitors to Monticello until he realized his work was suffering. He would probably look for a retreat as he did in Paris, there to escape not only the well-trafficked Ministry but the then impertinent moi.
My brother Jimmy was traveling in France and possibly Spain. His whereabouts at any given time were unclear. Mama said his letters revealed a drinking problem.
As for my freed brother Bob, he was now in Richmond, operating a livery and hauling business.
Most siblings and half-siblings of mine were either on the mountain or serving at plantations of Thomas’s relations. Whenever we Hemingses gathered at our mother’s Mulberry Row house, it was clear she relished her position as matriarch. With good humor she was always ready to help us shake off tragedies and feel joys of family support.
Even Thomas, inhibited against displaying affection toward his daughters or our sons, derived pleasure from fiddling for grandchildren, grandnieces, and grandnephews. Or he carried them on his shoulders to tour gardens and watch bees and butterflies. At other times, looking up from reading, he quietly observed their romping on the grounds and laughed to himself.
These sights of family happiness, raucous or reserved, made me realize I may have set myself a trap.
William Beverly was a healthy son who’ll be a free man at twenty-one. Would I ever see his children? My grandchildren? I had no doubt he’ll use his promised freedom to remove himself quickly, as far from Monticello as he can go.
I was beginning to dread a future that would lack comforting pleasures of family that I’ve seen others enjoy. My love for Thomas might bring happiness now, but would I have anything else in my old age?
I’d reentered bondage willingly for that love, but was a slave entitled to a normal, secure future? Mama had hers, close to her children.
For me—what?