Norm Ledgin's Blog, page 7

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…
 
38
I asked Martha Randolph whether anyone informed Thomas of Maria’s losing her baby—and especially of her poor health since. Her condition was similar to their mother’s frailties.
“I’m told Maria’s husband was to send a letter from Eppington today,” she said. “That’s all I know.”
Her expression commanded me to mind my own business, despite our blood tie. Perhaps I  looked like I wanted to slap her over the curt tone, for she shrank back slightly. She was likely calculating whether to have me whipped if I did.
Possibly my own recent loss—my baby Thenia soon after I gave birth—had disarmed us both. Her little Cornelia was thriving, so Martha could afford to be more considerate. But what gain if I pressed about her ailing sister? I returned to my work, wondering how long this tension could continue.
Our slave midwife Rachael came back from Eppington shaking her head in doubt whether Maria should have more children. The pregnancy affected her breasts and sent infections into her arms. Rachael hoped the draining that has started might relieve the awful condition. I’ve discussed that with Isabel, our slave nurse, and with John Hemings’s wife, Priscilla. They had the same apprehensions about Maria’s future child-bearing.
I stepped out into this bleak January to stare at leafless trees and reflect on the fragility of life. Spidery limbs fingered a grey sky, as though inscribing a message over Monticello that this was a season of death.
Dear old Great George has passed, and before him Little George, his eldest and a blacksmith. And then—God in heaven—we lost his sweet Ursula. I left a trail of dry sobs, and my insides churned with real pain at every thought of her.
Last month, December of 1799, saw the passing of President Washington at Mt. Vernon. Over a rift with the President that nephew Peter Carr precipitated, the mourning organizers snubbed Thomas. Slighted, he timed his return to Philadelphia so he’d miss the eulogizing ceremony.
But that trip led to another death.
The ever faithful Jupiter, Thomas’s coachman and companion since student days, insisted on driving but got only to Fredericksburg before yielding to illness. He returned here as Thomas continued on. But then he left for the home of Randolph Jefferson, Thomas’s youngest sibling, seeking a cure from a nearby Negro doctor. He consumed a potion, now thought to have been the cause of a collapse and his dying. The “doctor” has vanished.
Jupiter was more like a brother than Thomas had ever allowed Randolph Jefferson to be. Again and again I grunted “hmph” at the ironies of color, of slavery.
Thomas took the loss hard, and I hoped he was considering the ironies as well.
 
 

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…
 
37
The cherry trees blossomed today, 13th of April, 1799, Thomas’s fifty-sixth birthday.
The peach trees bloomed last week. We were enjoying a warm spring, and tobacco and corn were already in the ground.
I “blossomed” again in my belly. And Maria Eppes confided she may be with child. Martha Randolph was carrying her fifth. Like her father, she was strong as an ox and as stubborn. But unlike Thomas she projected an air of sophistication that rang false.
Visitors warmed to Maria quickly, owing to her beauty and to a genuine amiability that grew after her return from Paris. Their judgment of Martha? More than once I’ve overheard a comment that she was becoming old before her time.
There was general cheer that roofing now covered the entire house. Mr. Dinsmore has labored faithfully since his arrival last fall. When I asked him to estimate how much more time was required to complete the house by Thomas’s plan, he bunched his face for a moment, then answered in his Irish brogue, “Roughly ten years.”
Oh, my.That would be 1809. Anything in the approaching century was too difficult for me to grasp.
A personal benefit from house reconstruction has been slightly larger quarters for me and my children in the south lower level, nearer the kitchen. Also, I no longer needed to serve as a spy, though I’d enjoyed the game.
While my new space underwent finishing and painting, Jupiter drove William Beverly and me to the bake shop of a dear friend in Charlottesville, Nancy Ann West.
Little Thomas was under supervision of an older boy, both grooming horses according to Jupiter’s instructions.
I’d originally preferred that Little Thomas remain under my watch or my sisters’ as house servant, doing lesser tasks like opening doors for visitors or fetching things the dumbwaiters couldn’t carry. But he seemed happiest when with the animals.
Nancy West was a free mulatto and a successful businesswoman, a few years older than I. Her children were by David Isaacs, with whom Thomas did business.
David operated a general merchandise store and lived alone in a building Nancy owned on Three Notch’d Road, which was developing into the town’s main street. Her shop was next door.
So as not to make the mixed-race relationship even more conspicuous by flouting the law against cohabiting, Nancy and her children lived separately from David at the edge of town.
There, her three-year-old Jane took possession of baby William Beverly to play on the parlor rug. Nancy had a kettle on for tea and set out small cakes that the children got the better part of.
When we sat she explained that David and their ten-year-old, Thomas, named for her white blacksmith father, were with a few other men arranging an observance of Passover. The holiday was to begin the following weekend. There was as yet no synagogue in Charlottesville such as Richmond’s Beth Shalom.
“Is David very devout?” I asked.
Nancy laughed. “I wouldn’t be in his life if he were,” she said. “Nor would his store be open today. It’s the Sabbath.”
“And you find acceptance in town?”
“We do, yes, so long as we maintain separate households. The community seems supportive as customers, if not friends. If anyone looks down on us, we haven’t suffered. There’s an advantage that we’re both—well, let’s just say, borderline outcasts.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I wish all at Monticello were so tolerant.”
“Mrs. Randolph, right?” Nancy said, shaking her head. “Why doesn’t she settle at one of her own plantations?”
“She and I are in love with the same man. And when he’s not trying to keep the country on a sensible course, he’s on the mountain. That’s why she keeps coming back, like a ghost determined to haunt the place.”
“And the other slaves? Are they accepting of your situation?”
“Some show hostility, even among the Hemingses. In Paris my brother Jimmy and I nearly came to blows. He called me a slut and a fille de joie, because he concluded I’d seduced Thomas.”
“You seduced him?”
“The notion had entered my mind, but it grew delightfully mutual. The man was so unhappy, losing Martha Wayles, then losing his youngest daughter, then being led around by that Cosway woman and breaking his wrist showing off for her.”
“Goodness.”
“Nancy, he was a brother-in-law I’d looked up to throughout my childhood, so it was difficult to see him in such a pathetic state. And at fourteen or fifteen I was on fire with the idea of love. I no sooner arrived than I knew Thomas Jefferson was mine for the taking.”
“And did Jimmy ever come to accept that?”
“I reminded him of Mama’s experience with men, especially John Wayles. In the kitchen at Hôtel de Langeac I faced Jimmy down and said, ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Thomas Jefferson needsme, and I need him. Our father buried three wives before he and our mother turned to each other in the same way. You want to call Mama names for having us? Think about that’.”
“Oh, my.” Nancy looked at me with an admiration that warmed me. “Does Mr. Jefferson know all this?”
“Not in so many words. He has more important things on his mind. And I’d be foolish to complain too much about Martha Randolph. She’s not his problem. She’s her own problem.”
“And your mother? Miss Elizabeth?”
“She encouraged my opening a relationship with Thomas—actually pushed it. She said it would provide the security she’d enjoyed with my father. When Isabel Hern couldn’t go to Paris, Mama helped maneuver everything so I would accompany Polly.”
“She has that much power?”
“She did then, but she’s aging and withdrawing. Now I’m ‘the Master’s lady,’ and I love him, truly. He’s very good to me. I had to let this dress out that he bought for me in Paris, but you can see from the material he didn’t scrimp.”
“Does he tell you he loves you? David doesn’t let one day go by without telling me.”
“Love,” I said, clicking my tongue. “Thomas has trouble using the word.”
“You’ve been together how long—ten years?”
“Eleven.”
“And he’s faithful?”
“Like the sun that comes up every morning, even when it’s cloudy. I know for a fact. I’m an expert on the character of Thomas Jefferson, even though I’m unable to navigate his brilliant mind.”
“Then he loves you. I know you’d like to hear him say it, but we all know how reserved Mr. Jefferson can be. You’re lucky to be his woman. He’s likely to be our next President. Will he take you to Philadelphia, or wherever they’ll end up moving the capital?”
“Oh, no. We confide in so few that he’d want to guard our relationship by every means. If I were to go with him, he might as well print a sign, ‘I sleep with my quadroon sister-in-law’ and hang it on the front door. The situation can’t be so open as yours, Nancy. And what you tell me confirms the rumor I’ve heard, that Jewish men work hard to be good to their wives.”
“I’m not his wife.”
I looked sideways at her and said, “Oh, pish-posh. Of course you are, in the eyes of God. And perhaps in the eyes of this community.”
“It helps that I’m free, though the laws have been up and down over that. Will Mr. Jefferson ever set you free, as he did your brothers?”
“I could have gone free in France. No, I just want to be Thomas’s woman. That was an ambition I’d weighed with Mama’s prodding, then achieved. Unlike you, I have no talent for business. You’ll be a wealthy woman one day.”
“Perhaps that’s possible for you, Sally, considering how vast your man’s holdings are in land and slaves.”
That was the cue for me to stop talking about Thomas. I wanted no one to know my fears about his extravagant ways, about the possible consequences of his overspending, his habit of incurring debt.
For letting that apprehension enter my mind, I could feel a pull in my belly. Did the new baby also sense uncertainties?
 
 

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…
 
36
Thomas arrived home today—the politically contentious year 1798’s 4th of July—upset with President Adams for maneuvering to punish free speech.
I got a few smiles out of him when he saw fat little William Beverly Hemings, our three-month-old. I’d set the baby on the new sofa Thomas sent from Philadelphia.
And I beamed, learning that he plans to be at Monticello the rest of the year. And, wonder of wonders, that he has engaged an experienced housejoiner, James Dinsmore, to superintend construction.
When we were together, when we had long periods of time to look forward to, I stopped moping about indignities and calumnies from Martha or anyone else. I’ve tried not to complain about any of that.
Loving was the only truth for me, rich and full-bodied as wines that made it to Thomas’s table, an all-or-nothing devotion he honored by loyalty and attentions.
I’ve decided to avoid comment on gushy letters I saw back and forth between him and Martha. I understood more about my nieces than they’ve tried to understand about me. Martha’s one and only true love would always be her father.
Did I pity that hulk of a man, Mr. Randolph, for fading in the shadow of the great Thomas Jefferson? I might have, if he weren’t such a queer duck and the fact all men pale by comparison with Thomas, including Mr. Adams and Mr. Madison.
Thomas’s displeasure with the President was primarily over the Sedition Act, expected soon to become law. He claimed it nullified the free-speech and free-press guarantees in the Constitution’s First Amendment. Dr. Franklin’s editor grandson, Mr. Bache, was already under arrest.
“How can it ever be enforced?” I asked.
“Unlawfully,” was Thomas’s answer.
“And what can you do about it?”
“Secretly help violators escape going to prison, as I will try for journalists such as Mr. Callender and others.”
“In what way did Callender commit sedition?”
“He wrote the truth about Hamilton’s affair with a married lady.”
I had difficulty believing what I was hearing. “You can’t mean that’s important enough to put a writer in jail. Besides, I remember hearing a similar story about our friend, the current Minister to France, Mr. Short. Not to mention his predecessor.”
I paused for effect. Oh, I was full of mischief, his return had brought me so much joy. I felt compelled to add, with the Cosway hussy in mind, “It’s a damned epidemic, Thomas.”
He cast a broad smirk my way and said, “Callender’s been agitating against the Federalists for some time. That was one of his more sensational disclosures.”
“Which you no doubt enjoyed seeing in print, widely circulated.”
Thomas gave me a silly grin and a nod, perhaps for knowing that side of him so well. He picked up the baby, kissed him on the head, and set him back on the sofa. “This one looks quite healthy,” he said. He turned, patted me affectionately on the behind, then goosed me and left my room.
Later in the day, having arranged care for both Little Thomas and the baby, I went by his bedchamber to be certain it was orderly. The clothes he wore home were casually folded on the bed. I moved them and deduced he’d changed into work togs.
I couldn’t help but notice he’d stacked books in the adjacent study in a way indicating an impending, concentrated examination. It surprised me that they were books on language, particularly Anglo-Saxon and Middle English.
He’d once told me that as a boy he played with mathematics as a form of relaxation. While he was thus absorbed, his brain sorted greater issues of philosophy and gave form to their abstract meanings. I hadn’t understood what he was talking about then, but I thought I did this time.
He’d added that in his next “escape” for mental exercise he would probe early languages of Britain, tracking the progression of meanings. So it followed that he was dealing currently with something huge behind his freckled forehead.
Thomas has also catalogued various American Indian tongues and dialects. I glanced at a chart and found the material so intensely detailed, I shuddered, wondering how anyone would find its study soothing.
When I left the house and saw him on the grounds, he was carrying several rolls of house plans. I held back because I saw Jupiter ride toward him on a sorrel gelding, his own animal.
As they talked, old Great George approached on foot. Jupiter nodded a few times as though receiving instructions, then trotted off. George handed over money he’d evidently collected for something, then he lumbered away while Thomas made a note in his memorandum book.
I strolled toward him, picking petals from a daisy. “It’s Independence Day, Thomas. Most on the mountain and in Charlottesville are observing the holiday, but you’re transacting business. Why don’t you simply relax?”
“Relax on Independence Day? That would be a splendid idea, if my good friend and your hero, John Adams, weren’t so busy robbing this day of its meaning.”
I knew from his comment what would come next, so I backed off that line. What I surmised was that Thomas would stand against Mr. Adams and his Federalists for President at the completion of the current term of office.
I sighed. He must have seen or heard, for he said, “Don’t despair, Sally. I intend to make it come out right. I’ve invested too much energy not to.”
Should I hope, selfishly, that Thomas might fail? That not achieving the Presidency might force him into retirement, finally? No, for he would seethe endlessly over the direction the country was heading, far off the course he’d visualized when he wrote the Declaration.
I’d rather wait through his long absences during what he called “a continuing revolution” than witness his growing despondent, his falling into a chasm of depression. Let him be Candide, the naïve optimist, for there just might be a chance he would succeed in a few of his dreams and benefit all, slaves excepted.
“So,” I ventured, “you plan to be the next President?”
One corner of his mouth went up and his face creased as he unrolled a sheet of drawings and held it like a scroll. “My, my, Sally,” he said, studying a diagram. “Whatever led you to that conclusion?”

About Thomas’s Daughter, Martha… Cynthia A. Kierner,...

About Thomas’s Daughter, Martha…
 
Cynthia A. Kierner, author of Martha Jefferson Randolph, Daughter of Monticello, will speak Wednesday, June 5, 2013, 6:30 p.m., in the Plaza Branch of the Kansas City Library, 4801 Main St.
          Norm gives her book one thumb up, one thumb down.
“While carrying Martha’s story past loss of Monticello to auction,” Norm says, “Kierner fails to address Martha’s peckishness regarding Sally Hemings. In early rebellion over her widower father’s affair with Sally, Martha ‘threatened’ to become a nun, causing Jefferson to yank her from the convent school in Paris.”
          The Library’s blurb about Kierner’s talk alleges Martha “often assumed the duties of first lady for her widowed father.” Ledgin says Martha made only two relatively brief visits to the President’s House during Jefferson’s eight years there, the first to show family unity after newspapers revealed her father’s affair with Sally.
          Often filling in as first lady was Dolley Madison, wife of Jefferson’s Secretary of State, James Madison. More deserving, except for racial restrictions of the time, Ledgin adds, would have been Sally Hemings.
          That one thumb down is also for “Martha’s repeated lies, denying her papa fathered Sally’s children.  She couldn’t have avoided knowing the truth,” according to Norm, “and the truth was he sired all eight of them.”
   
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
35
The great house of Monticello was empty this first day of 1798. Huge sections of the roof were gone, and openings remained in the outer walls.
There was a great emptiness in my life as well, for my two-year-old Harriet has died of pleurisy. She was the second daughter I’d lost.
Little Thomas, who will turn eight this month, was down with pleurisy for a time, but he recovered. Amazing, how he resembled Thomas in all but intelligence—sandy-haired, freckled, same squarish face, and tall for his age.
Though I was entering my seventh month of another pregnancy, I was in no mood to rejoice about motherhood.
Little Thomas and I vacated our room below the house. We were staying on Mulberry Row with Great George and Ursula, longtime mates. While dark-skinned, unlike most Hemingses, they were “privileged slaves” (an oxymoron, as Dr. Johnson would have it) because they were purchased many years ago for their special skills.
George was a born leader, huge and still powerful in old age, very proud to be the first slave named overseer. Ursula was a supreme pastry chef and a perfectionist as laundress. And she knew how to cure meat and bottle the cider Thomas enjoyed.
Like Mama’s, their dwelling was close to the south side of the house, along Mulberry Row. I had the choice of staying with my mother, but she was uneasy with Little Thomas and said “feebleminded” in front of him. That made me uneasy. My sisters kept her company and let her enjoy “normal” grandchildren.
This was the severest winter I could remember. Thomas wrote from Philadelphia that the rivers were frozen. And he was bored in his job—“ennui in the extreme,” he wrote.
I replied that the weather was restricting shipment of building materials and was barring outdoor labor, so he must let patience govern.
Every so often I visited the room where we stored his precious books. I was careful with what I borrowed and returned everything to its proper place.
I sewed, not always on materials so fine as those for the Jeffersons or for favored slaves, but often on cheap flannels and homespun for field laborers. I also cooked, carried firewood, and helped Ursula bake.
And I attended to Little Thomas, who in many respects was unteachable.
For recreation I conversed with Great George and Ursula and their frequent visitors. I loved those two old dears I’d known all my life.
Both Jefferson daughters were gone from here. Maria married my half-nephew John Wayles Eppes in a quiet October ceremony. Shortly afterward she fell through a hole in the floor of the ripped-up house, not her first such accident, and was still suffering from sprains. She and Jack Eppes were living at Eppington, for there was no house at Pantops, the plantation Thomas gave them.
Martha and Thomas Mann Randolph, Jr., were wintering near Richmond at the Varina plantation, passed down from his ancestors, John Rolfe and Pocahontas.
Mr. Randolph’s property management was unsteady. I often heard that word applied to his family, especially his late father. My Thomas was a Randolph through his mother. It was generally agreed throughout Virginia that this powerful family was innately eccentric.
Ursula’s worries on that score were a factor in a New Year’s discussion I’ll never forget. “What call did Miss Martha’s husband have—that Mr. Randolph—to take my Isaac?” she asked.
Isaac Jefferson, a skilled blacksmith and tinsmith and son of Great George and Ursula, was one of Thomas’s wedding gifts to Maria. But Mr. Randolph changed that. He needed a blacksmith and hired Isaac from his new brother-in-law, John Eppes.
“I’m not comfortable with Isaac working for Mr. Randolph,” Ursula said.
Great George had been trying to play a string game with Little Thomas. He looked up and said, “Now don’t get worked up over which Jefferson daughter Isaac goes with. I don’t recall mistreatment stories from that side of the Randolphs. Isaac and his wife Iris and their boys’ll be all right.”
“I’m not so sure,” Ursula said.
George continued. “Mr. Jefferson sets an example for everyone around here, having slaves trained to make furniture, do construction, cook like Sally’s brother Jimmy. And there’s Jupiter, grew up with Mr. Jefferson and takes care of his horses. You’d think they were brothers.”
“Mr. Jefferson’s special, George. I’m just not sure of the Randolphs.”
I set down my sewing and went to her. I’d always enjoyed the smell of sweet baked goods that stayed in Ursula’s clothes and grey hair, mixing intoxicatingly with her agreeable perspiration odor.
As I hugged her, I said, “Maria and Jack Eppes wouldn’t have let Isaac go if she had any worries.”
Ursula said, “George thinks my fears come from that old conjurer down in Buckingham County. Tells of whippings and families split by slave sales. I see trouble, and some’s about you.”
She put her hand over her mouth immediately. I backed away and looked into the dark-brown pupils of her eyes, seeking explanation. She glanced to one side.
I returned to where I’d been sewing and waited before sitting, peering into the face of an obviously agitated Ursula, hoping to hear explanation. She pulled at her apron. Finally she sighed and said to Great George, “Tell Sally what you heard.”
“What?” he said. “Heard about what?”
“Put that string down. The child isn’t paying attention anyway and wants that spinner on the floor. Now, tell Sally what you heard being said about her.”
“Why do you want to open that line of trouble?”
“I want her to know whippings and separations aren’t everything white folks do to slaves, whether dark like us or near-white like her.”
I asked, “What are you talking about, Ursula?”
“There’s a soul and memories that live on after we go,” she said. “Mr. Jefferson isn’t a religious man, and you pretty much follow his thinking. But you know it’s important how people remember you.”
I nodded, uncertain what was coming next. I ventured the word, “Reputation.”
“Honor,” Great George put in quickly.
Ursula said, nodding, “It’s like a piece of yourself you leave behind. You want it to be right.”
I thought about that a moment. “You know my situation, so—”
Ursula gestured impatiently, “Everybody on God’s green earth knows about you and the Master, Sally. And only narrow-minded people fault you. What I’m saying is more serious.”
Great George said, “For God’s sake, woman. Will you ever make it plain?” He turned to me. “Sally, it’s about Miss Martha.”
“What about her?” I looked from Great George to Ursula and back.
Ursula eyed me straight, lips bunching. “She tells folks, reason your children are white isn’t what goes on with Mr. Jefferson. ‘Couldn’t be,’ Miss Martha says. ‘Not my father.’ Says what you are is loose with every white man that comes up the mountain.”
I sat hard in the chair alongside my sewing basket, like someone knocked the wind out of me—and maybe out of the baby in my belly.
“Lies,” Ursula added, her voice choking, “like you’re some cheap whore. That’s another way to mistreat a slave. Take away her honor. That’s one of the reasons I don’t like Isaac mixed up with Miss Martha and Mr. Randolph.”

 
 

$10 Million Gift SpursRestoration at Monticello WASHIN...

$10 Million Gift SpursRestoration at Monticello


WASHINGTON (AP) — One-time slave quarters will be recreated at Thomas Jefferson's home at Monticello, and more of the Declaration of Independence writer's living quarters will be restored using a $10 million gift from a philanthropist who has a keen interest in the nation's history.
Mulberry Row, the community where slaves lived on the Virginia plantation, will be reconstructed with the funds. Monticello officials plan to rebuild at least two log buildings where slaves worked and lived and will restore Jefferson's original road scheme on the plantation. The gift will also fund the restoration of the second and third floors of Jefferson's home that are now mostly empty and will replace aging infrastructure.
Businessman David Rubenstein, the co-CEO of The Carlyle Group private equity firm, announced his gift on Friday night. It is one of the largest ever to the Monticello estate.
Archaeologists and historians designing the project will follow a drawing Jefferson made in 1796, describing the material and dimensions of the log structures along Mulberry Row. Over the next two years, they plan to rebuild a structure described as being among "servants' houses of wood, with wooden chimneys and earth floors." The 12-by-14-foot dwelling would have housed a single family, representing a shift from barrack-style housing.
It's believed to have housed members of the extended Hemings family, who held important positions at Monticello. Most historians believe Sally Hemings, a slave, had a relationship with the third president and that he was the father of her six children. In the recreated house, curators may also focus on the life of Hemings' younger brother John Hemings, who was a highly skilled joiner and cabinetmaker.
"By bringing back the place, we bring back the people, and we're able to put a face on slavery," said senior curator Susan Stein. "It's actually the lives of people."
Rubenstein told The Associated Press he has become a student of Jefferson in recent years since purchasing several copies of the Declaration of Independence and came to admire the man who wrote that "all men are created equal." Rubenstein visited Monticello about two months ago and decided he could help with projects the estate's trustees had planned to better tell Jefferson's story.
"I think it's important to tell people the good and the bad of American history, not only the things that we might like to hear," Rubenstein said. "And the bad of it is that as great as Jefferson was, nobody can deny that he was a slave owner.
"I think if Jefferson were around today, he would say 'I would like to see Monticello restored as it was.'"
The gift follows major donations Rubenstein has made to preserve U.S. history at George Washington's Mount Vernon estate, at the earthquake-damaged Washington Monument in the nation's capital and elsewhere. He said he's driven, in part, by concern that Americans don't know enough about their history.
Leslie Green Bowman, the president and CEO of the Thomas Jefferson Foundation, called Rubenstein's gift "transformational." It ranks among the top five gifts in the foundation's history since it purchased the estate in 1923 and began restoring Monticello for historical tours.
Monticello officials said Rubenstein understood the needs of the historic site when he toured the empty rooms of Jefferson's house.
"I think his silence said a lot," said Stein. "He was probably staggered that the refurnishing and restoration had not yet taken place."
Curators have only been able to restore one upper room as it would have been in Jefferson's time. Now they can begin restoring the living quarters where generations of Jeffersons lived, where guests stayed and where servants circulated through the house.
Curators also plan to rebuild the plantation's storehouse for iron where Isaac Granger Jefferson worked as a slave in the 1790s. Jefferson sent him to Philadelphia to learn tinsmithing, and Granger later became one of the most productive nail makers. His memoirs were documented in the 1840s.
Monticello has been studying slavery for decades and has provided descriptions of slave life since 1993. Rebuilding sites where slaves lived and worked on Mulberry Row, though, represents a change to include even more African-American history.
"It's a huge step forward that we're including that story as an essential part of Monticello's history," Bowman said. "Jefferson did not live here in a vacuum."
She said Rubenstein's gift catapults Monticello's long, painstaking plans for restoration into action. Officials hope to complete most of the projects by the end of 2016.
The addition of two new buildings where slaves lived and worked will change the way visitors see Monticello, Stein said. The focal point now is a beautiful hilltop house, but there are few reminders that it was part of a plantation.
"People will look at Monticello and be reminded of its real history," Stein said. "Not the history that we imagined but the history that was."
 


Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
34
The Vice President of the United States of America came to my room this first day of 1797’s spring, took me in his arms, and kissed me long and ardently. He’d kept a promise not to waste his time or the government’s time, returning from Philadelphia today after only a month’s absence.
We had much work to do, and to work side by side with my man was a thrilling experience. I haven’t been privileged to do that often enough. A little gardening together here, some on-our-knees strawberry-picking there, and that’s been the range so far.
Once—just once—I got Thomas to help me make his bed, but he couldn’t master it. I’d as soon not have him try that anymore.
Another time he seemed interested in how I folded laundry, especially the long drawers he wore in winter. He was mechanical yet couldn’t perform the simple act of folding his underthings. All thumbs.
In fairness, I must turn that around. He was writing letters as I cleaned quietly one morning. Being farther from Johnson’s two-volume Dictionary than I was, he asked me to look up a word for its spelling, in which skill he was famously deficient.
I read the spelling to him, and he asked me for the word’s Latin derivation. When I responded with “Hunh?” he must have realized he was dealing with an ignorant house slave, because I heard him mutter “Never mind” in a tone of disappointment.
I’ve since borrowed his Latin primer and have grown fascinated with how it helps me understand both English and French.
As for the house rebuilding, what more might I do to help?
When it was possible to be away from Harriet or from duties in the house, I could and did carry hot tea or coffee to the men, often a tray of biscuits and preserves.
I could warn against hazards, such as leaving old planks around with nails sticking up. I’ve done that on several occasions, bringing frowns to workers’ faces, though they went on to correct the dangers. I’ve also held one end of a measuring line while someone read and made a note at the other end.
Great George, now overseer, has cautioned me. When Thomas wasn’t present I “shouldn’t stand around too long near the workmen.” I asked why. George said, “You’re too handsome a woman. They can’t keep their eyes on their work.”
I didn’t flatter myself that I was any attraction, soon to turn twenty-four and having borne three children. But I did notice one fellow slip from a ladder while staring. When I heard his foreman say, “That’s the Master’s lady,” the hair stood on my arms. Now, when I want a secret thrill, I murmur, “I’m the Master’s lady.” causing my neck to tingle and my nipples to rise.
As Thomas’s lady, that made this my house, too, giving me a right to see that all goes well in the rebuilding. Now that Martha and Mr. Randolph were in the habit of coming and going instead of headquartering here, it should have become clear to all that I run it.
Maria has shown no interest in home management. Anyway her first cousin, John Wayles Eppes, has been courting her. It was hard to believe the contentious child Polly, whom I accompanied to London and Paris, is now eighteen and as lovely as my late half-sister. But Maria Jefferson is nowhere near so bright or willful as Martha Randolph, whose bad luck was to become as strong-jawed and lanky as her father.
My mother, Betty, has finally relinquished complete supervision of the household to me. It’s a dubious honor, in view of the fact that much of the house is sitting out on the lawn, waiting to be reassembled.
Meanwhile, Mama has been raising chickens and cabbages and selling them to Thomas. She hasn’t poked into how I’ve been running things, thank goodness. She would live out her life as our dowager queen.
Thomas seemed happiest when reviewing plans he sketched on huge sheets of paper. Then, piece by piece, he would order modification of a wall or have it torn down or direct that it be repositioned as required by some overall scheme he kept mostly in his head.
Because of the way octagonal angles let natural light into a house, I’ve started to comprehend what Thomas was after with regard to a dome, which would have an octagonal base. At first I’d thought he was following whims on much of this project, but all of it was quite utilitarian. The effect would also be as aesthetic as he assured everyone it would be.
One fact important for me to understand, whether or not anyone else did, was that Thomas has been at the building of this house, on and off, some twenty-eight years. The project was his idée fixe, his creative obsession. At the rate he was going, it wouldn’t surprise me to see him perfecting this place the rest of his life.
That kind of dedication told me much about his character. When he formed an attachment to anything or anyone, it became a quiet passion, like a low fire with hot embers that seemed never to cool. He stayed with it, was loyal to it, and—if one can ever understand his form of happiness—took joy in it.
Thomas was, perhaps, too kind, too gentle. I would feel guilty for having been so bold in the bath at Langeac if I’d realized then—beneath a needful vulnerability was a man of deep naïveté, a man without guile. He was so innocent that he believed the made-up tales in his library about an ancient Scot, Ossian, were chronicles of real events.
No one, not even James Madison by my view, understood how the mind of Thomas Jefferson worked. Certainly not his daughters and, I suppose it was reasonable to assume, not even Thomas himself.
We’ve now been mated nine years, and I’ve observed him my entire life. He’d already achieved greatness in the eyes of the world through his Declaration. While he was unambitious for more, his intellect invited challenges that turned him into a selfless knight, but with saner purpose than Don Quixote’s.
As I was so closely tied, I wondered what was to be my fate.

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…
 

33
Martha Randolph gave birth to another daughter here at Monticello today, the 2ndof October, 1796. That news set a few field hands to singing as they unloaded a wagon of produce at the house.
I wished they’d quit what sounded more like African dirges than tunes of celebration, though the former certainly fit the times—the election autumn and Thomas’s unexpected resumption of political activity.
I’d thought him happy in retirement and wondered at my own shortcomings in filling his needs.
I carried an abundance of grief, burying my newborn this year, Edy. And Harriet, born to me last year, has grown weak. My sister Thenia died last year, not yet thirty. She gave birth five times, all girls, and named her last one Sally.
Death was a stalker of childbirth, taking the baby or the mother, often both.
Few men appreciated a mother’s latent fears and cautious hopes while she carried a child—to see it born whole and healthy, to suckle and nourish the infant, to cuddle it and bathe it and hear its baby sounds and smell its baby smells and watch it smile.
No mother was ready for it to die. The sight of a helpless little thing in death was chilling. Mothers who’ve faced such misfortunes have wondered what they failed to do that might have given the child a chance to thrive.
The Hemingses were helping me with sickly Harriet. Still, we might lose her.
Little Thomas was not so little, growing like a weed in body but not in mind. I was thankful so many relatives and friends along Mulberry Row have aided me in keeping watch over him. They’ve tried to give him love as I did, though most of the time he has shrunk from letting anyone touch him. I’ve never understood that.
I’ve been warming to Thomas’s notion of someday placing our son with another family, one with the experience and patience to lead such children toward productive lives, if not happiness.
Earlier this year, acting on promises that had brought Jimmy home from France, Thomas signed Jimmy’s freedom. I was overjoyed to watch him give my brother thirty dollars and his blessing for travel to Philadelphia. Now? Jimmy was thought to be roaming Europe, ever a worry to Mama and the rest of us.
Martha named her newborn Ellen Wayles Randolph. Last year she lost a baby by the same name and has today honored that first Ellen. I shared hopes for the good health of this grandniece of mine.
I’ve tried to maintain the optimism my mother taught me—that by love and devotion and by honesty and hard work, any goal was achievable. And my goal was clear, regardless whether I was destined for blissful motherhood. That was to be Thomas Jefferson’s helpmate for the rest of our lives, come what may and come whatever might happen to me and mine as a consequence.
I haven’t been successful at giving him strong children, but that didn’t discourage me. He’d have been stingy with affection toward them anyway, which irked me.
But what really brought me misery lately were his terrifying fixations. Politics—and then of course the house, for a perfect example.
Today, fresh from assisting the midwife, washing up, serving my gushing in-laws, I went out and stood close to trees turning to fall colors. I tried without success to visualize the dome Thomas has planned for the west side.
The grounds were in a terrible mess and were destined to remain that way for some time. Because it was Sunday the workmen were gone. But stacks of fresh bricks and building materials were everywhere. And, naturally, the costs of tearing down and building up would put Thomas’s finances into a deeper hole.
My mate seemed to have forgotten retirement. I listened to his rants against maneuverings by Alexander Hamilton, who he has long believed was a monarchist at heart. Preoccupation with government, I feared, would suck Thomas from my grasp. And there was nothing I could do about it—except, of course, throw a fit.
Yesterday in my room, where Harriet slept deeply after a restless night, I pleaded with him. “Will you explain why you let your name be put before the electors for President? In competition with Mr. Adams?”
“It has to do with factions, Sally. As a woman, you wouldn’t understand.”
I huffed, “I—beg—your—pardon.” Then I went at him, cussing and beating my fists against his powerful chest. He endured that for nearly a minute. He grabbed my wrists, pulled me in, and—despite  my squirming—kissed me.
I yielded. Afterwards I fumed through flared nostrils. “Help me understand.”
As he explained, disputes rose from Jay’s Treaty, regarded by Thomas’s coterie as too generous toward the British. Hamilton was the culprit. And Madison wouldn’t let Thomas alone. Old revolutionaries were now in a brawl—Federalists on one side including Mr. Adams, and on the other side Thomas’s Democratic-Republicans.
“By all accounts,” Thomas said, “Adams will carry the election. But I’m in contention and may be invited to take the second position.”
“As I recall, the Constitution will require you to preside over the Senate. Monticello will fall into neglect again.”
“I won’t allow that. The Constitution also mandates a pro tempore to head the Senate. That will free me.”
I was agape. “Free you? To come home? Rebuild the house? That’s not in there.”
“Listen to my scheme about the building,” he said. “I want you to meet with Great George. If I return to government, you two will keep a watch that all—all, mind you—goes according to plan.”
“I can’t interpret your drawings, and I doubt George can.”
“I won’t ask that, Sally. There are portions of reconstruction I’ll insist not be worked on when I’m away.”
“Will you detail your essentials for us? I don’t mind yelling at the work teams. Might as well be a fishwife as a spy.”
Thomas laughed. “Send word to me in Philadelphia the fastest way when necessary. If I’m Vice President—a worthless job—I’ll rush back often to see this project through.”
My heart raced in relief. “Thank you. Something in me wants to die whenever you leave.”
And then Thomas said the most curious and beautiful thing.
He took my face in his hands and kissed my forehead. He said softly, breathing into my hair, “Something like bird’s wings flutter inside me whenever I return to you.”
I could have hung like Nathan Hale for this man, though I doubted that would have become necessary.
A spy. I pictured myself uncovering nefarious plots, scribbling secret messages, posting dispatches.
Goose bumps rose on my arms.
 
 
 
 

Thomas Jefferson was born April 13, 1743, in Shadwell, VA...

Thomas Jefferson was born April 13, 1743, in Shadwell, VA—270 years ago today.
 
 
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32
I reopened our oft-visited discussion of slavery in general. “If slavery were abolished, it would be like having Christmas every day for the rest of our lives.”
Thomas said, “Please don’t let your hopes hold sway over your knowledge of circumstances.”
That dizzying comment required explanation, I told him. He settled back on pillows to lecture how the very existence of southern white culture and commerce relied on slavery. He even threw in that old saw about the way Negroes received sustenance and protection as a result of the arrangement.
“The fact that you would attempt to be objective about slavery,” I said, clearly letting the wine talk, “is insulting.”
He stared at me a moment. “Did I not write in Notesthat slavery is degrading to both the enslaved and their owners?”
Too quickly I came back with, “Was it your hope to persuade slaveholders to give up what diminishes them?”
Another moment’s worth of staring. He took a sip of wine, then shifted his gaze to the fire without comment.
I didn’t hold spirits well, so I should have known better. I should have shut up. Instead I blurted, “The entire business of slavery admits of no objectivity. Wrong is wrong. You know that, and no rationalizations will change it.”
 To be fair, Thomas has penned strong criticisms of slavery’s immorality, and he has confessed helplessness to effect change. What I didn’t know until this Christmas Eve was the extent to which his slaves and his finances were tied.
“We can either wrangle in vain over a heavy topic,” he said, “or discuss a more immediate concern, divulgence of which I owe you. It relates to whom I may free and whom I may not.”
Setting down my glass, for I’d had enough of the German white, I said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. We’ll never agree completely on—that heavy topic.” I sat on the bed and tried to look for all the world clear-headed, which I was not. “Go ahead, divulge,” I said, trying to fix my gaze on his.
“You and others have attempted to caution me about finances, my inability to bring them under control. I don’t know how to take charge of money matters any differently than I do. I record everything carefully.”
“Yes, you do. Even to the little gifts you leave for me, though anonymously.”
Thomas shook his head. “Writing everything down doesn’t give me the handle I need, unfortunately. Much depends on my turning a profit, as the nailery should do. I’m now free in retirement to attempt such promising experimentation, yet I fear at times that certain debts may push me further behind.”
“Like the one you inherited from my father.”
“That, which I’d retired till our currency fell in the Revolution and I had to pay again. Then add debts I incur as a result of public service and from meeting the needs of day-to-day existence.”
“You do live high, Thomas. I noticed that in Paris, and it continues here.”
“A great deal is expected of me because of my role as head of a prominent family. I sometimes look upon it as membership in an exclusive society.”
I chuckled at that and observed, “The foolish fraternity of Virginia planters.”
That prompted his snickering. Then more seriously he said, “I try to make it come out right, but my bankers tell me I’m sliding backwards.”
I sought the wine again, then remembered I’d decided to abstain. I said, “We were talking about whom you may free.”
“That’s what I’m getting to, Sally.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My servants—slaves—are among my assets. They have monetary value.”
My stomach roiled at his words and his grave look as he uttered them. I asked, “Would you tell me in simple terms, please?”
“You know how I hire out servants to others who may require special services, tasks that those particular servants—slaves—were trained to perform.”
“I’m familiar with that, yes. It’s been so for Bob and Jimmy from time to time.”
“Well, besides Hemingses, I’m saying field hands, groundskeepers, others have fixed or changing values, monetarily I mean. Not just their labors, but—” He broke off.
“I don’t think I like where this conversation is going, Thomas.”
“I may have to borrow against them. Mortgage them.”
My insides felt a crush that sent me dashing to the adjacent privy. There I gave up the wine and my Christmas Eve dinner.
What Thomas was telling me was that he might not—might never—be in a position to free slaves that the banks could soon own.
I used the wash basin and towel in the bedchamber to clean myself. I stood, barefooted, staring at him. He rose from the bed and set down his glass, beckoning me.
The immediate choice was mine—either to leave the room and brood about what I’d just learned, or to stay with this complex and imperfect man, who had so little control of his life but total control of mine.
Never had I felt more like chattel.
 
 
 
 

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31
There could be no better gift than Thomas’s having freed my brother Bob today, on the eve of 1794’s Christmas.
And he has also pledged to free Jimmy.
The circumstances surrounding Bob’s freedom were complicated, because he’d been working for George Strauss in Richmond and was pledged to more service there. But Thomas today executed a deed of freedom after receiving a payment from Dr. Strauss.
Thomas wasn’t happy with the third-party entanglement, yet by reasoning and reassurance I’ve made him appreciate the significance of this very first emancipation.
Meanwhile, mixed with the good news was the disquieting news that I’d made a mistake with my calendar. I was with child again.
I continued to worry about Little Thomas. Big Thomas and I had a little spat about our son’s condition in the book room this morning, set off by Thomas’s saying, “We may be best advised eventually to put the boy in an institution.”
The hair on my arms stood. “You didn’t do that with your sister Elizabeth. Why would you do that with Little Thomas?”
“I wish we had handled Elizabeth differently,” he said. “She might be alive today.”
I paused to consider that, while still breathing heavily from the shock of his suggestion. “I don’t like those places, Thomas. I’ve heard bad stories.”
“There are alternatives,” he said, accepting me into his arms. “Families that do foster parenting of such children, teaching them tasks by which boys or girls may work off the care given them.”
“For life? That’s another form of slavery.”
“At the proper time, Sally, you and I will decide—together—what’s best for Little Thomas. All right?”
I bit my lip and nodded. Inside me dwelt old aches—leapfrogged by news today about Bob.
Slavery was a recurring topic in our conversations. As gossipers would have it, Thomas and I were too busy making love to talk, but we debated endlessly in private. The discussions cemented our relationship as firmly as lovemaking, perhaps more so.
I may not be the most stimulating conversationalist he has ever found in a woman, considering the cultured flirts and hangers-on who’ve caught his attention over the years. But by my access to his book room before and since Paris and to the periodicals he received, I kept up as well as I could.
He was no longer so condescending as when I’d first challenged his views at the Hôtel de Langeac. Lately, at times, he’s made me feel equal. He has taken me into his confidence and has sometimes solicited my opinions.
Thinking back, I didn’t know where I came by the spirit to confront him over his Notes on the State of Virginia. At twenty-one I now considered myself far more mature, perhaps less daring. Together six years, we’ve settled into the comfortable routines of a common-law marriage.
Not only have I attended to his chambers and clothing but I’ve often cooked for him, served as valet in place of a manservant, kept track of where he has set down eyeglasses, summoned his means of transportation by carriage or horse. I’ve posted his letters, filed copies of those outgoing and letters incoming, reshelved books in their proper positions, organized records and maps for convenience. And I’ve cleaned his privy and helped him bathe.
When he was out on the grounds or gone from Monticello and when I wasn’t otherwise occupied, I continued to educate myself by reading.
Many an evening in winter we’ve talked by the fireside. Because he remembered so many details, he’s been a good teacher. In fair weather we’ve taken leisurely rides on trails through the woods or along the fields, or we’ve walked. He’s told me plans for stock or crops or produce and has seemed to welcome my suggestions.
When in a romantic mood, he has serenaded me on the violin. My calendar mistake occurred following one of those private concerts.
Because Mama will soon be sixty and because I’ve had more training than any of my sisters, I’ve acquired greater responsibilities for managing the household.
In name only, Martha Jefferson Randolph remained in charge—when she was here. But she and her family were no longer a constant presence. And though it was uncharitable for me to think it, I was glad of that. Thomas was, too, for I’ve sensed a developing stress in the relationship with his son-in-law.
And, predictably, Martha also was with child.
The announcement regarding Bob has stirred the Hemingses greatly. There were smiles wherever I turned, as opposed to sour faces over the drudgery of their labors—or taunts for my having achieved special status, though I worked as hard as any but field hands.
For late-night celebration I took the liberty of secreting a special wine, a German white, into Thomas’s chambers, and I uncorked it. After his ablutions, his changing for bed, I surprised him by extending a filled wine glass and wishing him a very happy Christmas, making clear that his freeing Bob had brought joy to many on the mountain.
It was soon after that I committed the error of letting the wine manage my thoughts and my tongue.
 
 

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30
“A dome,” I said, so startled that my stitching slid from my lap.
While so engaged with a needle, I’d been thinking how domestic we’d grown, a couple at home. By the end of 1793, last year, Thomas had finished service in President Washington’s cabinet. He’d declined a second term, yet his industriousness on the plantations brought attacks of rheumatism, as on this late summer day.
From where he lay in bed Thomas held up a sketch for reconstruction of the house. “Yes, a dome. Here, centered on the west side.”
I shook my head while recovering his red pantaloons from the floor. I clucked my tongue to let him know I was dubious.
“Picture the effect from a distance,” he said. “A three-story structure that will look as though it were a grand single-story building.”
I frowned and asked, “What purpose is a deceptive effect? I’ve leafed through your copy of Palladio, and that’s nothow the pictures impressed me.”
“Not meant to deceive. To excite the eye and the imagination.”
 I returned to my sewing and said, “Thomas, you really should accustom yourself to different leg coverings. These pantaloons you brought from Paris will have a short life. Look at this rip.” I showed him a tear at one of the knees.
“Ah, Paris, where hunger and hatred drive people to behead their king and queen.” He grew pensive a moment. “Do what you can. Patch, if necessary. I’m partial to the softness. Lately, with the onset of joint pains, not to mention my runs to the privy with diarrhea and lingering headaches, I need your indulgence. Neither Martha’s family nor Maria is around to pamper me.”
Martha pamper him? The unbridled screams of her little ones throughout the house— Anne Cary Randolph and Thomas Jefferson Randolph—were part and parcel of Thomas’s decision to rebuild the place.
“Indulge you?” I asked. “You don’t deserve sympathy. You overworked yourself, though I warned you. Too many projects in too short a time. Your strength is a wonder, but you should rein it in. After your excesses you often find yourself bedridden.”
“Did you instruct someone to post my letter?”
I pursed my lips and sighed. “It’s Sunday. Not much of anything or anyone moves in and out of Charlottesville. The letter will be on its way to Edmund Randolph first thing tomorrow.” I was beginning to sound like a scold, so I added, “I’m grateful, my love, that you turned down his offer of assignment to Spain. I know your decision will disappoint President Washington.”
“This will let the President know I was serious about retirement when I declined another term in his cabinet. I can’t think how I could have made any plainer the burdens of my sacrifices for public service.”
Thomas lay back on the bed, one knee bent upward for an awkward self-massage.
“Dearest,” I said, “I’ll finish this and rub your joints. I wish we had ice to apply.” I’d noticed ice from town was absent from the morning cold tub for his foot-dunking—his obsession to guard against head colds he caught anyway. We needed an ice house on the mountain.
“No, thank you, Sally. Go on with your stitching. One good thing my rheumatism does is allow me time with you.”
“You’ve been so busy turning the mountain into a brick-making factory, I wondered often when you would take time to relax in your chambers. Now, unfortunately, you’re forced to.”
“It’s been a productive summer, with the nailery up and going. I see future profits in that.”
“Unusual that you would pay the young boys working there. Your kindness to slaves doesn’t go unnoticed. You recall their welcome on your return from Paris?”
“Don’t remind me. That was embarrassing.”
“Oh, you loved every minute of it. Just remember who I am, and don’t try to fool me.” I was so pleased with myself, my heart was near bursting.
Had any other woman calculated, as I had, to simply take the happiness available? To catch and hold the attention of one who was the beat of her heart, the flow of her blood, the nourishment of her body, the essence of her soul?
“I thought we might have reclaimed more used bricks,” he said, jolting me from reverie, “but my estimates were wrong. That’s why we’re making so many new ones from the mountain’s soil, an endless supply.”
“I have trouble visualizing a dome,” I said. “What other surprises do you have?”
“Alcove beds throughout.”
“I knew about those. What of ventilation?”
“From the privies, yes, but I have another idea to cool the rooms—overlapping panels of skylight glass that can be cranked open.”
“What of rain?” I tied off and bit the thread, then sought the next garment for repair.
“The panels must be set just so, and the rain won’t enter.”
“I’ll never understand how you figure out such things. I can barely keep up with your planting ideas, though they’ve paid handsomely. We brought asparagus and spinach to table early this year. The white corn and yellow corn have both thrived. The peas are wonderful. We picked cherries, and we have peendars coming in—peanuts.”
“But we lost the peaches again, as we did the year I went off to New York.”
Remembering Thomas several days earlier in the orchard, I giggled quietly. He’d squired James Madison on that walk. My tall mate wore a ridiculous straw hat that made him appear taller, and he was in soil-stained pantaloons, with shirttail hanging. The head-shorter Mr. Madison, however, was the model of Philadelphia fashion.
I said, “Has Mr. Madison invited you to his wedding?”
“No. It will be a private affair at Harewood, at some distance north.”
“He asked what you thought about it, didn’t he?”
“Of marrying Dolley Payne Todd? He needn’t ask me, and he didn’t.”
I set a work shirt in my lap and identified three places where seams had come open. “She’s not only a widow but a bereaved mother, same as Martha Wayles when you wooed her. Didn’t that coincidence come up?”
He sat up, wincing, then lay back again.
I saw my chance at a topic I’d been mulling, so I took it. “You should delegate some of the overseeing, Thomas. Why don’t you consider someone like Great George for higher responsibility?”
“A slave as a general overseer?”
“Can you think of anyone better suited?”
No answer. It was characteristic of him to be silent when confronted with larger issues. Pretended solitude, to “illuminate” his thinking. Mr. Short told me Thomas immersed himself so deeply in details—of government, laws, nature, architecture, mechanics, what-not—he sometimes missed the larger picture.
Now I’ve forced him again to ponder Master-slave relationships, something I moved beyond in personal behavior years ago, even spurning freedom in Paris. But if I were a free woman away from Thomas Jefferson, would life be better than it is now?
I wished we had an answer for our poor Little Thomas, who never spoke but spun objects silently as though in a separate world, who thought about God-knew-what—if anything.
What might we do for this sweet but pathetic product of our intimacy?
Was Little Thomas God’s punishment? Please, let there be no more of His wrath in store for us.
 
 
 
 

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29
My intuition and calculation told me Thomas would arrive about mid-morning by way of Mr. Madison’s plantation. Probably they celebrated the agreement for the Federal City on the Potomac. By newspaper accounts, Thomas had bargained over the capital with his political rival, Alexander Hamilton, to mollify President Washington.
In anticipation I’d spread a blanket this last full day of 1790’s summer and waited with Little Thomas at the foot of the mountain. I’d sat the baby inside a horsecollar Jupiter had carried down for me as a guard against his rolling around. I let him have rattles John Hemings had made.
The ride from Montpelier was only about thirty miles. If Thomas could refrain from testing and adjusting the plaything he called an “odometer,” the carriage should be along at any moment.
At last they drove up, Thomas bounding out and directing the driver to continue to the house.
Before I could rise fully he lifted and embraced me. I’d seldom seen such a spontaneous outpouring of affection from him and was glad we were away from the sight of all others except the baby.
I’d washed my hair with the scent of gardenia and powdered liberally. But the late-summer morning and the walk down the mountain had made me perspire. He moved from sniffing my hair to nuzzling lower for my natural body odor. He’d often called it “wholesome,” having moved past his unfortunate references about Negroes in Notes.
Little Thomas went on with quiet play, but Big Thomas was in a ruttish mood.
I murmured, “On the blanket? In the open?”
“You drive me insane with desire.”
“My calendar says it would be all right, but let’s wait for more privacy.”
Thomas drew himself up. “Calendar? What calendar?”
“Mama showed me how to keep one, to avoid becoming enceinte.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would you do that?”
“I’m afraid to have another child. Little Thomas isn’t normal.”
He glanced at the baby, who drooled freely while shaking a rattle. “He looks normal to me.”
“And he’s the image of you, Thomas. But I’ve consulted other Hemings women. They’ve examined and played with him. The consensus is he’s slow.”
“Slow?”
“Feebleminded.”
“Has a physician examined him?”
“To what purpose? There’s no cure. At any rate, I don’t wish to bear any more like him and be known as the mother of idiots.”
“I believe you’re being premature in your judgment, Sally. We didn’t realize my sister was feebleminded until she toddled about.”
“I refuse to argue the issue. We’ll wait and see whether time confirms my deep suspicions. Meanwhile, I’d like to stay on the side of safety.” I picked up Little Thomas and the toys. “Is Mr. Madison still committed to bachelorhood?”
“Yes. He’s fortunate his parents still manage the plantation. That frees him to serve in government without the worries I carry here, especially when I absent myself at growing season.”
“We all do our best to turn a profit from your crops and orchards. We’re at the mercy of weather and the markets.”
“And the curse of absentee ownership. I’ll be here till November and will try to get a handle on everything. The seat of government will move temporarily to Philadelphia, where your brother James will join me.”
Thomas gathered the blanket and horsecollar. We started up the trail. He surveyed the lush growth of his woods. A few trees were turning yellow, some tinted with orange, some red. He asked, “You’ll come to my bedchamber tonight?”
“I’ve arranged the baby’s care with Critta. I’ll stay the night if you like.”
“So be it. I like the feel of you next to me. I missed that in New York.”
“No other temptations while you were there?”
“I’m surprised you would ask that, Sally. I thought you knew me better.”
“You’re a handsome man, Thomas Jefferson, when you remember to comb your hair. I picture the ladies swooning over you.”
“None as interesting as you. I don’t wish to involve myself with anyone else, despite the agonies of abstinence.”
“Am I prominent in your dreams?”
Thomas glanced at me, a slight grin playing at his lips. “You’re being extraordinarily possessive.”
“Six months without you will do that. Do you have fantasies of me?”
He nodded. “At times I do, yes. And more than that, when I have trouble falling asleep I think of you. All the wonderful secret places of your body. Your voice. Your sauciness. Your laughter. When we’re apart, it’s as though you’re right there.”
“I belong right there, though I won’t argue that issue either. Everyone knows about us, Thomas, from the Piedmont down to the Tidewater. What disturbs me is that they also know we’re violating Virginia law. Will someone come and arrest me in one of your absences? Put me in jail?”
“No one would dare. My standing here would forbid that.”
“What if something should happen to you? Will Martha protect me?”
Thomas grew silent. We walked most of the way without a word, breathing the joy of our special—though forbidden—companionship. When we reached the summit, Bergère barked and loped across the lawn to us in welcome.
Martha, now with child and turning eighteen next week, stood in the doorway and watched us. After a brief moment, she swung about and reentered the house without offering her father a greeting.