Norm Ledgin's Blog, page 8

Richard Norton SmithOn Our Third President &nb...

Richard Norton Smith
On Our Third President
         
Grateful to Pam Eglinski of Lawrence, KS, Norm again offers this week an hour’s-plus visit with historian Richard Norton Smith and Dole Institute director Bill Lacy.
          Smith spoke in February at the Institute’s series in Lawrence on the first three presidents. Norm managed to rescue a link to his talk about Thomas Jefferson. He found Smith’s remarks informative and entertaining.
Watch Jefferson Feb 18
 


Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
28
Thomas described the colorful sunrise and the appearance of yellow and lavender crocuses this first day of March, 1790. He’d also heard and spotted a mockingbird, his favorite among winged creatures. “Will you ever forgive the vanity,” he asked, “of my accepting this new position?”
I was in a rocking chair, suckling nearly six-weeks-old Little Thomas. “I thought becoming the very first Secretary of State was part of your notion about gentry and noblesse oblige. You carry so little vanity I often wish it were otherwise. Nothing to forgive, Thomas.”
He nodded in apparent gratitude. “And you’re still comfortable here?”
“I’ve loved my new room ever since we discovered how easily you can sneak downstairs at night. You mustn’t worry about us. You’ve an important job ahead.”
“I continue to worry about the plantations, and I’ll miss Monticello’s springtime.”
“Jimmy tells me you two are going first to Richmond, before New York.”
“To settle financial affairs as best I can.”
“I found money for me in the cabinet drawer of your study yesterday. Let me give you a thank-you kiss.”
Thomas leaned to receive my offer. He asked, “How goes it with the boy?”
“Little Thomas sucks me dry and exhausts me. So I’d have to say, healthy as a horse.” And, this time with more emphasis, “You really mustn’t worry.”
“But you were concerned about colic. And from your tone I suspect a problem.”
“Oh, just more crying and passing of gas than usual. That doesn’t affect his appetite. And yet—” I paused, uncertain how to express what was really on my mind about the baby. And how far to go with it.
Thomas read the spines of books I’d borrowed, then turned. “There is something.”
I shifted Little Thomas’s position slightly, checking his grip on my nipple. “Nothing I can truly see, Thomas, but something I sense. I’ve attended enough newborns to notice a difference, but I hate that it might give you cause for worry.”
“Out with it.” He removed his jacket, sat, and set the garment across his lap.
“I want to hear about your sister Elizabeth. She died not long after I was born.”
He frowned. “Why the interest in my feebleminded sister? Surely not—”
“Just tell me about her.”
He glanced about and sighed. “There’d been a series of earthquakes. It was a time of year like the present, only with much rain and some flooding. We’d attempted to teach Elizabeth to make responsible decisions, giving her money for small purchases and the like, but she was prone to panic.”
“And the quakes frightened her?”
“To the point where she made a fatal judgment, taking a servant to escape the commotion by skiff across the Rivanna. We found them later, drowned.”
“And day-to-day, what was she like? How did she behave? Did she speak sensibly?”
“She understood little,” he said, “and spoke gibberish. She was ill-focused.”
“Ill-focused,” I repeated. “Was she able to look into people’s eyes? Did she accept others’ attentions readily?”
Thomas looked down, brought clasped hands to his lips, and pondered my questions. “Now that you mention it, more commonly she looked elsewhere while being addressed, or while attempting to form her words to speak. As for the other—” He shook his head. “—uninvited touching caused her to shy away.”
“I’m being selfish, burdening you with these questions just as you’re leaving.”
“I prefer candor between us, Sally.”
“I hesitate when you seem to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. As for candor, I’m still waiting to hear three words that would mean so much to me. Mama believes your reticence is from your mother, a Randolph. And—I don’t mean to hurt—she says as cold a person as ever lived, sending slave children away from their mothers.”
Thomas rose to put on his jacket. “James will be looking for me.”
“You never speak of your mother, Thomas. Why?”
A slight head-shaking. He wasn’t going to answer that. Instead, “Little Thomas is fussing. Put him in the cradle so I can give you a proper au revoir. Of that much, privately, I’m capable.”
“Send me notes, please, as you did when I was in quarantine.”
“Rest assured. And please don’t suffer pain from evils that are unconfirmed.”
I placed Little Thomas in the cradle, and he was calm. “See, Thomas? The sound of your voice soothed him.”
He grinned. “If you choose to think so.”
We embraced and exchanged long kisses, until we heard Jimmy’s familiar knock at my door. That knock signalled the first of what would be many painful separations in service to the nation Thomas helped bring to life.
 
 

Historian Richard Norton SmithOn Thomas Jefferson &n...

Historian Richard Norton Smith
On Thomas Jefferson
         
Thanks to fellow blogger Pam Eglinski of Lawrence, KS, Norm this week offers an hour’s-plus “visit” with historian Richard Norton Smith and Dole Institute director Bill Lacy.
          Smith spoke in February at the Institute’s series in Lawrence on the first three presidents. Norm managed to rescue a link to his talk about Thomas Jefferson. He found Smith’s remarks informative and entertaining.
          Here’s hoping the link that follows works for visitors to Pursuit of Happiness. (Use Ctrl and give the mouse a left click):
Watch Jefferson Feb 18
 
 
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
Part Two…
 
27
Thomas called to Jimmy to halt the carriage at the base of the mountain. He stepped out, commenting we’d arrived home at Monticello just two days before Christmas. He peered through the bare trees toward the summit and inhaled deeply the winter odor of his woods.
Voices called to one another from somewhere above as he climbed back in.
Polly said, “Don’t forget, Papa. Tell everyone they must call me Maria. No more childish names, now that I’m eleven.”
Thomas and I held back chuckles. She’d long tried to appear older in front of Jack Eppes, her cousin whom we’d picked up at Eppington for the ride to Monticello.
“I suppose,” Thomas said to Patsy, “I should be clear whether you prefer to be known as Martha.”
“I do so prefer, Papa. Thank you. Since docking at Norfolk, our visiting the Randolphs and others has allowed me to assess my position in the family, in life. Our homecoming is a perfect time to honor Mama by asking all to use my given name.”
I glanced out and cried, “They’re coming from every direction. Your servants—slaves.”
On the floor of the carriage Bergère growled. Her two pups born at sea—Armandy and Claremont—grew restless.
Scores of Negroes waved and took shortcuts through the mountain woods to the trail—field hands, groundskeepers, shop workers, Hemings house slaves. Many shouted cries of welcome.
Patsy—now Martha—said, “Oh, my word. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Jimmy slowed the horses as the greeters drew near. Men, women, and children called, “Master Jefferson. Master Jefferson.”
Cheering slaves approached from left and right, some slapping the sides of the vehicle. They directed Jimmy to continue driving up the mountain while they followed. As he neared the summit, several men stopped him. They unhitched the team and led the horses away. Others grabbed the shafts and pulled the carriage the rest of the way on the rough road, despite the load of six people, three dogs, and luggage.
They halted when we neared the house. Great George and Jupiter urged Thomas to step out. Others joined to lift and carry him, depositing him on the front steps. The cheers and calls of greeting went on and on.
Jimmy jumped down to embrace Mama. She next opened her arms to me, shaking her head over the size of my belly.
At the entrance to the house Thomas raised a hand. He nodded and smiled in acknowledgment of the high-spirited welcome. I was sure he’d never considered his slaves would be as glad to see him as he was to see them.
Then I remembered a sour note that had been haunting me the past several days. At the Eppington plantation news reached us. President Washington had offered Thomas the position of Secretary of State. His acceptance would mean months-long absences from Monticello. But I was sworn to be supportive. I touched my locket as though that tiny treasure might inspire courage.
Garlands on the house heralded Christmas and spurred a spirit of peace and good will. I resigned myself, though grudgingly, to Patsy’s—Martha’s—asserting authority over the household. Mama would know how to meet such a challenge. I would copy her deferential playacting.
There was a good side. My seventeen-year-old niece’s pursuit of proprietorship was sure to be short-lived. During a stop coming from Norfolk, Thomas and I had noticed more than a spark of attention between Martha and her third cousin, Thomas Mann Randolph, Jr. He was twenty-one and just back from studies in Scotland.
I sensed a forthcoming union. Should it come to that, Thomas would make wedding gifts of land and slaves—and, it was my fond hope, we’d be rid of her testiness.
So much for my spirit of good will.
“Where will you put me for the birthing, Thomas? Back on Mulberry Row?” We’d entered his suite, where Mama said I’d resume caretaking duties after the baby was born.
Thomas knelt to add a log to the fire. “New quarters are being prepared for you in the house, actually below stairs. I’ve asked Great George to see to that. He told me your half-brother John has been apprenticing in carpentry and will help.”
“John is only thirteen.”
“And in many ways as precocious as you. He has remarkable skills.”
“And your plan, vis-à-vis joining the government?”
Thomas pulled an old volume from a shelf. From a pocket of his jacket he drew a case containing spectacles he’d bought in Paris. He put the glasses on and inspected the cover, then set the book on a table, possibly for repairs. “I’ll be here for the birth of your child, Sally. I’m in no hurry to respond to President Washington.”
My heart went pitter-pat, but I felt obliged to say, “Our child, Thomas.” Then to resolve something that must have become the talk of the mountain instantly upon our arrival, “And how will we confront tongue-wagging?”
He took me by the shoulders and kissed my forehead. “With neither affirmation nor denial. Let them observe what they may, think what they wish, gossip as they must. We’ll guard what we have, something too special for words.”
I rested my head on his chest and whispered, “Je t’aime. Je t’aime.”
I could doubt God and all else, but doubt my love for Thomas, star-crossed as I often felt it could prove to be? Never.
 
 

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…
 
26
The damp October night enveloped us. A heavy mist dimmed the wharf lamps of Le Havre.
On deck Thomas handed Adrien a generous tip and a letter for Mr. Short. The girls were occupied below with Bergère, our newly acquired Normandy shepherd, big with pup. Jimmy was looking over the ship’s galley.
Captain Wright had told us the Anna would sail with the tide after midnight.
I tried to keep down the dinner we’d had at the Aigle d’Or. I should have been accustomed to a ship’s pitching when docked, but this time I was enceinte and trying to maintain balance with a larger belly. I inhaled a wet stink with every breath.
Adrien seemed loath to say goodbye. I kissed him on the cheek. He sniffled. On impulse he embraced me, then Thomas, scurried down the gangplank, and vanished in the darkness.
“A good man,” Thomas said. “Conscientious, and cares deeply for those he serves.”
“Perhaps he’ll want to see America. You should maintain contact with him. Will Mr. Short succeed you as Minister?”
“When Gouverneur Morris arrived in Paris, ostensibly on business, I feared he was testing ambitions. But I’m confident the appointment will go to Mr. Short.”
I breathed a sigh of relief that talent and faithful service would reward the young man who’d been my accidental co-conspirator.
After the ship’s bell sounded, Thomas held his pocket watch close to read it. “I’m confused by which watchstanding Captain Wright uses. It’s ten o’clock. Where are Patsy and Polly?”
“Playing with Buzzy. That’s what Polly calls the dog. What possessed you to buy her? At Monticello you shied from dogs.”
“As a rule they annoy me—loud and destructive. I can’t tolerate their interminable barking when they’re excited. But the Normandy shepherd is one of the most intelligent breeds in the world, so I hope to train her.”
“She’s better company for the girls than I am.”
“I thought you’d all made peace for the voyage, Sally.”
I rested gloved hands on the railing for steadying against the ship’s rolls. “All is well with Polly. But real peace with Patsy has been wholly out of the question since my pregnancy began to show. We’ll never again be the friends we were as young girls.”
The flash of a lighted match startled me. The ship’s captain approached, the match to his pipe bowl that flared red in a series of puffs. “Evening, Mr. Jefferson. Evening, Missy.”
Thomas gave a slight bow. “Good evening, Captain. Is everything on schedule?”
“Right as rain. All’s favorable for the Anna to hie us to Cowes. An easy run.”
“By when?”
“Full day’s sail for this packet. Make port tomorry night. You’ll gain time for sights there and Newport, with the Clermont due a week.”
“We’ll see Carisbrooke Castle at Cowes, is that correct?”
“Poor Charles the First’s brig, before they drug him up to Whitehall and—”  Wright drew a finger across his throat and made a ripping sound with the corner of his mouth. “Mrs. Syms at the Fountain Inn will point you to the Castle, as she done for Mr. Adams and his family.”
“That will help fill our time as we await the Clermont and arrange to reload our possessions.”
“Oh, yes. Extra men on for your things, Mr. Jefferson. Quite a cargo.” Captain Wright puffed his pipe rhythmically. “What news from Paree, if you’re of a mind to speak on it?”
“Do you mean, will there be a broader revolution?”
“That’s what we back-and-forthers to Le Harvey is a-wond’rin’, yes.”
“The major problems for France are hunger and poverty. I’m of the opinion we haven’t seen the last of violence.”
Captain Wright dug his elbow into Thomas’s side. “More head-choppin’, eh?” His laughter bore the growl of a man too much in the tobacco habit. He grew serious and leaned to me, “Beggin’ your pardon, Missy, in your delicate condition.”
I said nothing to excuse his boorishness and resumed staring at the faint reflections of lamplights in the water below. In the gloom we listened to sailors’ calls from the ships and wharves of Le Havre, bells from other vessels, rats scampering in their nighttime food search.
Thomas said, “As captain of a packet connecting with oceangoing vessels, have you ever encountered a Captain Andrew Ramsay? His ship two years back, the Robert, carried my younger daughter and Miss Hemings across from Virginia.”
Wright scratched the back of his head. In doing so he pushed his cap forward. As he reset it, the odor of unwashed hair overrode the foul smell of the harbor. “Ramsay, Ramsay. Leave me think.” Again he lit his pipe, the fragrance of the burning tobacco almost a relief. “No, Sir. But if I do meet up, has you a message?”
“No, thank you, Captain. I’ve written to acknowledge kindnesses to my family, so that account is settled. But there’s another matter—”
I tugged at Thomas’s sleeve. He made this inquiry about Ramsay because of what I’d feared, had Abigail sent me home. My gentle mate may have wished satisfaction of some sort, but I thought it unnecessary and preferred we simply move on. I reached for his hand in the darkness and messaged reassurance by squeezes.
Thomas was capable of thrashing any man, but he wouldn’t have been able to live with it afterwards.
Besides, I could ill afford the risk of being wrong in that. I preferred his remaining a man of peace.
I accepted gladly the responsibility of keeping him on that course. In so doing I was leaving the free, impetuous girl behind me in France and sailing home a committed woman, reenslaved by forbidden love.

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…
 
25
I knew the Ministry reception and dinner would overtax the staff, but Thomas had insisted on it. French nobles such as the Marquis de Lafayette were present. In fact it was he who’d asked Thomas to host the late summer’s event.
The purpose was first to honor the Patriot Party’s progress toward reforms, next to inspire its leaders to prod the National Constituent Assembly further forward.
When Thomas told me he would use the Ministry for accommodating such partisanship, he grinned and called it “shameless meddling by one sovereign state into the affairs of another.”
Adrien Petit pressed all of us into service. Even Patsy and Polly volunteered and helped Jimmy in the kitchen. The occasion required Mr. Short’s presence in the dining room. It was necessary that he monitor political nuances among those gathered and whisper them to Thomas and the Marquis.
I had just handed Thomas an opened bottle of wine when Lafayette leaned to him and said, “Please present a toast. Jean-Joseph Mounier must receive encouragement for a constitution or he’ll scuttle the whole enterprise.”
Thomas shook his head. “I’m most inept, addressing a group formally. You do it.”
Lafayette insisted, and Thomas rose, striking an empty glass with a spoon for attention.
After he cleared his throat two or three times, he raised his glass and mumbled, “I’m honored to sponsor celebration of the Assembly’s adopting the Rights of Man and Citizen.” A few guests at the far end cupped their ears to hear better. “I wish you of the Patriot Party continued success.” He was uneasy. His neck turned red. I feared he would stammer. “You’ve sent a bright star into the sky. It requires vigilance and fueling, so it may serve as a lasting beacon of freedom for the world. Vive la France.”
Guests echoed that, a few adding “Vive le Roi” for the wine-sipping.
Thomas frowned as he sat, clearly disappointed with his delivery. I thought he’d done beautifully and would tell him so at the earliest opportunity. Lafayette covered Thomas’s free hand with his to show gratitude.
Petit approached me and whispered that no one was available to properly greet and escort a late-arriving guest from the entrance hall. Would I please attend to that? I glanced around the table to determine who the guest might be. I bent to whisper in Thomas’s ear.
“Come with me, now. Mr. Paine has arrived. You should greet him personally.”
Thomas nodded and rose, setting his napkin at his place and asking Lafayette to preside.
Thomas Paine turned to us from scanning the tapestries in the entrance hall. A sharp-faced and homely man, he managed a broad smile.
“My dear friend,” Thomas said, and the two “Toms” shook hands. “Come with us for good food, good wine, and celebration of a good achievement by the French.”
“Not this time,” Paine said. “And my thanks for the invitation. I fear causing tension among some of your guests.”
“Nonsense. Tom Paine can bloody well cause any tension he chooses in my house.”
Paine nodded. “You’ve always been a good supporter and ally—a friend in an often friendless world. News reached me you’ll be going home. That’s why I wanted a moment with you.”
“Yes, they’ve granted me leave. I can’t be sure whether I’ll ever return to Paris.”
“You’ll miss the fireworks. More heads will roll. There’s no guarantee one of them won’t be mine.”
“You’ll survive. And you must plan a stay at Monticello at your earliest convenience. I’m sincere in that.”
“You haven’t introduced me to the lady.”
Thomas, embarrassed and slightly flustered, presented me. “This is Miss Sally Hemings, my late wife’s sister. Mr. Thomas Paine, whose pen was as mighty as General Washington’s sword.”
Mr. Paine took my hand in his, bent forward, and kissed it. Blood rushed to the roots of my hair. “I now have more reason,” he said, “to weather these storms so that I may see you again at Monticello, Miss Hemings.”
His smile—his eyes—told me he was looking past my color into my heart. “We wish earnestly,” I said in a quavering voice, and I knew enough about him not to use the word pray, “for your good fortune and continued friendship.”
“And you will be there? At Monticello?”
Mr. Paine was testing me, knowing my status in France. “I intend to succeed my mother as housemistress. Notre maison est la vôtre.”
“You are as gracious as you are beautiful.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
When he left, Thomas said, “You make me proud.”
I blushed from happiness.
On our return to the dining room, the visiting New Yorker, Gouverneur Morris, stopped Thomas to remark, “Was that the atheistic Mr. Paine? Too bashful to mix with the God-fearing?”
Thomas leaned close to say, “Continue to enjoy the wine, Mr. Morris, but please avoid invoking your sectarianism. You may wish to excuse yourself to a guest room and return after a suitable rest.”
When Thomas sat again, Lafayette said, “Your well-stocked wine cellar can save the day, and thus a nation.”
“Rest assured, I have enough wine in the cellar to float a ship.”
“That should guarantee our reaching shore. On another topic, are you certain I can’t encourage you to join our Société des Amis des Noirs?”
My timing was critical. I leaned between the pair to say, “We thank you, M’sieu le Marquis. My brother-in-law should not be undertaking new associations when he’s packing to return to America.”
Later, far into the night and in bed, I said, “Mr. Short taught me a new word the other day: logistics.”
“I suppose,” a weary Thomas replied, “he was talking about getting the harpsichord on board a ship to Virginia.”
“And your phaeton carriage and books for Dr. Franklin. And beds—and crates of wine. Also large pictures and those heavy busts by M’sieu Houdon.”
“Don’t forget my fruit trees. You’ll help me with a list in the morning.”
“Jimmy is still hanging back, talking about staying in France.”
“Please tell him he’ll scratch for a living or perish in the violence. At home, with skills as a chef in the French style, he could train others like your brother Peter. Then I can free him.”
“I’m not sure Jimmy looks far enough ahead, as I try to. The promptness of freedom here is tempting. To any slave, that could rise above everything.”
“But not for you.”
“Separation from you, my love, is a freedom not worth having. My brother has no such tie, as you’re acknowledging by forming a plan for him. As for me, your promise to free all our children when they’re of age is enough.”
Thomas gave a deep yawn. “I’m too tired to be passionate tonight, but I can’t sleep for all that’s on my mind after today’s successful dinner.”
I scooted lower in the bed. “It would be my privilege to relieve you, sweetheart. Then you’ll sleep.”
Was this my passion, or was it at one with self-preservation, writ large that frightful day of the Bastille only six weeks earlier?
I reminded myself that to give love was its own reward. For the moment? That was all I needed to know.
 
 
 
 
 
 

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…
 
24
“You don’t mean to say James is running with that mob,” Thomas said. “Is he insane?”
We stood in the parlor. I’d been thinking that the following day—15th of July—would be precisely two years since my coming to Paris. And thinking also how much more severe the French peoples’ protests had grown in that time.
Thomas had just returned from the home of Éthis de Corny, where news of violence at the Bastille had reached him. To learn that his chef de cuisine had gone to the prison and likely witnessed the killings caused him distress.
I said, “Jimmy is only a spectator, not a rioter. He was curious. I doubt he knew there’d be shootings.”
“For him to take such risks is unconscionable. This violence was inevitable. No member of this household should hazard being caught in it. We must remain neutral and keep our distance.”
“Jimmy knows I’m with child. Over that he feels a responsibility to guard his own safety. He couldn’t have known matters would take a deadly turn. As for being neutral, Thomas, perhaps he takes lessons from you. You’re as partisan for the rioters as anyone.”
I’d gotten to know my man clear down to the marrow of his hypocrisies. My late half-sister had never questioned his self-contradictions to my knowledge, but I took that as a duty.
Thomas looked away and paced. “I’m more concerned about James’s well-being than his violating protocol. We ought to send Espagnol to find him.”
“Espagnol is in the streets as well, and actively partisan. You mustn’t think of punishing him. This is his country, not ours.”
“Who’s here to maintain security? Mr. Short chases the Duchess de la Rochefoucauld. Petit is visiting family again in Champagne. We’ve had burglary attempts here, thanks to this turmoil. And I come home to find three young women unprotected.”
“Calm yourself and let me get your meal. Jimmy is simply late. I can set out cured ham, cheeses, fruit. And wine, of course. The girls have already helped themselves in the kitchen.”
Thomas took a few deep breaths, sat, and nodded. “I want to be informed immediately when James returns. You may minimize his possible jeopardy if it comforts you, Sally, but I remain worried.”
I was in the kitchen not five minutes when Jimmy entered—disheveled, sweating, and stinking. “You’re in a sorry state.”
“They actually cut off heads in the Bastille and carried them out on pikes.”
“Oh, God. I don’t want to hear that while I’m carrying a baby, Jimmy. Clean yourself and go to Mr. Jefferson. He’s been worried, hearing you were at the Bastille. I’m fixing a tray for him.”
What Jimmy had disclosed made the hair rise on my arms. My hands trembled so, I could hardly slice the meat and cheese.
When I set food and wine on the parlor sideboard, Jimmy hadn’t yet joined Thomas. I reported his return and said he was making himself presentable.
Thomas had been writing in small notebooks he carried in his deep jacket pockets. “I hope for approval of my departure from Paris in the coming month,” he said, “and we’ll soon be gone from here. Yet I must visit the Bastille as soon as possible to gather facts, assess the situation, preferably in company with Lafayette.”
Jimmy appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”
“Come in, James.”
“I’m sorry my going to the Bastille displeased you.”
“I was more worried for your safety than displeased, though it’s unseemly that any of us should become involved in these uprisings.”
“Yes, Sir. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”
“Not to lecture you, but you owe Miss Elizabeth and the Hemings family the benefit of your safety, and your safe return to Virginia.”
“You called my mother ‘Miss Elizabeth.’ I’ve never heard that from you before.”
“She’s a most honored woman at Monticello. We all regard her highly.”
“All the same, Betty Hemings is your slave. We’re all your slaves, except here in Fr—”
“I’m considering changing that in a few cases, yours chiefly among them. We’ll discuss it after I’ve thought it through. Meanwhile, take the evening at your leisure.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jefferson.”
Jimmy turned to me and shrugged, then left the room.
I was also puzzled. Was Thomas planning to grant Jimmy his freedom? The prospect caused rumbles inside me, from near where my baby rested.
As Thomas fixed a plate, shouts of mobs not far down the Rue de Berri reached us. I’d come through hearing second-hand reports of violence earlier from Ministry servants, but now the actual noises terrified me. Would any of the poor attack us, regardless of our sympathies?
Might the girls have heard street mobs from their far-corner Langeac rooms? They were trying on clothes Thomas had bought, as he’d recently done generously for me as well. Mine would soon need altering for my pregnancy.
He said, “If the street noises bother you, I’ll repeat a remark Dr. Franklin was fond of uttering. ‘Ça ira. It will be fine’.”
“You’re sure.”
He sat with his plate in his lap and forked bits of food half-heartedly, wine on a table alongside. His appetite normally vanished when he was troubled.
“Thomas? You’re not answering.”
He looked up, a faint tremor in his chin. “It will be fine, Sally.”
I rushed to him, sat on the floor at his feet, and circled my arms around his legs.
“I’m beginning to feel not so sure of that, Thomas.”
“I know you fear for your baby.”
“Our baby.”
“Yes, of course. Ours.” He set aside his plate and indicated I should sit in his lap, my favorite place. I complied.
If anyone were to enter the parlor and see us, so be it. Thomas was my safe haven. As long as he was still alive, he was my safe haven.
Dangers surrounding us and the uncertainties of his future service back home brought into focus a responsibility: As his common-law wife, though only a fearful sixteen and with child, I must bend every effort to keep this man happy and in good health.
But not for his helping to launch any more revolutions, please.
 
 

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…
 
23
Thomas was in a somber mood while directing the coach drivers, Espagnol and his cousin. I pulled at the ends of my handkerchief, uncomfortable over his purpose and especially his method. He glanced away, apparently weary of arguing with me.
Nonetheless, during the ride I tried once more. “You’ve given neither Patsy nor Polly warning they’ll be leaving the Abbaye. They have friends to say goodbye to. This will upset them. You’re failing to take their feelings into account. Why must you do all of this so quickly?”
Except for shaking his head, he didn’t answer. He scanned the buildings on the route to the school. He drew deep breaths of April air, no doubt fortifying himself against a probable onslaught of tears and remonstrations.
Thomas left me to reason that the urgency was symbolic, that none in his immediate family would become a captive of so formal a religion as the Catholic faith. He would never be able to conjure, comfortably, the image of Patsy as a nun.
By way of reassurance, perhaps, he reached to pat me on the knee. I grabbed his hand and held it tightly, then drew it to my lips.
Espagnol and his cousin directed the animals in a quick trot and kept up a fiery conversation so rapid I couldn’t follow, except to recognize it was political. They seemed caught up in the rebellious mood sweeping Paris.
I ventured, “A piece of advice, Thomas, for bearing up under whatever comes. Smile. Go in, see the Abbess, say what you must, do what you must. But please keep a smile on your face.”
When we pulled up in front of the Abbaye Royale de Panthémont, he instructed me to identify myself as “Mr. Jefferson’s servant.” He said I must ask the school’s concierge to take empty trunks belonging to Patsy and Polly to their respective rooms, then I was to start packing. On conclusion of my work, Espagnol and his cousin would carry the trunks out to the coach.
Meanwhile, according to Thomas’s plan, he would meet with the Abbess, exchange pleasantries that included thanks for her role in managing his daughters’ education, and pay outstanding accounts. With no compulsion to explain his true reasons and on a pretext, he would request summoning of the girls from their classes.
He’d forsworn further mention of Patsy’s now stated wish to take the veil. “I’ll just lure them out,” he’d mumbled. A generous supply of fine linens and cambric in soft colors—light greens, blues, yellows, and pinks—was in the coach.
Despite my skepticism Thomas planned to invite them to see the materials. He would then announce that the gift of fabrics was compensation for necessarily sudden withdrawal from the Abbaye. All of us, he would say, must begin preparation immediately for our return to Virginia.
I’d told my naïve mate I didn’t believe his admonition for taking things by the “smooth handle” would work in this instance.
My part in the scheme took over an hour. Had the school not required uniforms, it would have been longer. Most of Patsy’s and Polly’s best things were already at Langeac.
Patsy’s cream-colored petticoats resisted mashing into her trunk until I started over, put them on the bottom, and loaded all else above them. I had to be certain every item I remembered as theirs was accounted for in the packing, else there’d be hell to pay later. Well, of course, there’d be hell to pay regardless.
Sweaty but satisfied I’d been thorough, I returned to my seat in the coach. Espagnol secured the trunks and tied a few loose items behind and on the roof.
I waited. The garish red and yellow of the coach’s interior seemed to scream.
Patsy boarded, looking as though she wanted to kill me. I was the cause of her rebellion that had brought an end to her schooling. I was at the center of her failures.
Polly joined us with reddened and tearful eyes.
Both girls ignored the opened package of linens and cambric spread on the seat beside me. The ruse had been transparent.
Before Thomas joined us, Patsy hissed, “You’ll pay for this, Sally Hemings.”
I looked away, resolved to remain silent.
“You’re nothing but a Nigra whore, messing others’ lives,” Patsy added.
I turned to meet her gaze and firmed my lips against responding, despite my deep wish to give tit for tat. The most mature response under present circumstances was to accept her wrath without a word of reply. I raised my chin and glanced out the window, pretending that everything out there was more important than the fury she’d loosed in this coach.
Thomas arrived, still wearing the forced smile I was sorry I’d suggested. It made him appear comical.
I sighed in relief we could be under way.
During the return ride to Langeac, Thomas spoke animatedly—nervously—of expected approval of his requested leave and their need to flee escalating turmoil.
Patsy said, “I don’t like this at all, Papa. You were unfair to end my stay at school without notice.” Her lower lip trembled. “You’ve disgraced me. I doubt I can ever look any of those girls in the face again.”
Polly said nothing but sobbed loudly as her means of expression.
“To ready ourselves for a return to the United States,” Thomas said, “we will do what we must do.” There were times I felt like hitting my mate to drive home the pointlessness of his platitudes.
Patsy, breaking out in tears and seeming on the edge of hysterics, used at least three hankies and tried to calm herself with deep breaths. At last she asked, “Will you return to Paris later?”
“Likely not,” he said. “In ten days General Washington will be sworn as President in New York. I expect to hear from John Jay of other plans for me than Paris.”
Hearing that, I thanked God silently, saying to myself phrases like “Whither thou goest” and thrilled there would be no ocean between Thomas and me.
I was also aware that I’d made an enemy for life. Though my father had also been Patsy’s grandfather and we shared John Wayles’s blood, by laws governing slavery she might someday have the power to destroy me. And if this day’s bitterness was any indication, she would certainly seek to do so.

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Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
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22
Adrien had summoned Dr. Richard Gem for the girls. Thomas regarded the outspoken Welsh expatriate as the ablest of physicians anywhere. Polly’s “nervous fever” had worsened, and Patsy hadn’t yet recovered from the typhus.
Our maître d’s report of their condition compelled the doctor to brave the terrible weather and come here to Langeac. We were but a week into the New Year of 1789, a winter that seemed to bode suffering if not evil.
Thomas whispered gratitude to me more than once for nursing my nieces painstakingly. I’d recorded changes in their condition, laundered bedclothes and sleepwear, bathed and fed them, and prevented their becoming dehydrated.
I found Thomas in the entrance hall awaiting Dr. Gem, with whom he often exchanged news emanating from Versailles.
“It’s like ice in here,” I said, rubbing my arms.
“I’ll boost the fire,” Thomas said. “Something to work off my uneasiness about Polly.” He added firewood. A servant coming through took over and stoked the logs till the flames roared.
“A winter like this,” I said, “can change Jimmy’s thinking about staying in France.”
“More than once it’s reached eighteen below,” Thomas said, staring into the fire. “The cold falls heaviest on the poor. Montmorin has asked for help—flour from America to relieve the bread shortage. The Curé de Chaillot collects weekly for the destitute and was here today.”
“I know. He said he’d be back next week.”
“Tell me the latest regarding Patsy.”
I sat on a bench nearby. “She’s sitting up and reading but remains weak. She submits to my care despite her resentment of me.”
“Resentment,” he repeated, pacing. “She’ll grow accustomed.”
“To our liaison? I don’t think so, Thomas. Your daughter is obsessed. She insists that you focus on her and Polly and no other person. As Patsy recovers she’s likely to grow more rebellious about us.”
“Does she still follow that Irish cleric?”
“Abbé Edgeworth?”
“He’s the one. When I enrolled Patsy at the Abbaye Panthémont, they promised not to proselytize. Now she’s under the spell of Louis Sixteenth’s trumpeter of mumbo jumbo.”
“Remember your stand on religious freedom, Thomas. If Patsy wants to become a Catholic and a nun, it’s her decision. But I fear you’ll both be estranged, and the blame will fall on me.”
“I won’t allow any of that,” he muttered.
The sound of a carriage pulling up sent the servant to the front door. Dr. Gem, a spry old gentleman, arrived with foot-stamping and arm-flapping to restart his circulation. The driver carried his bag. Thomas approached to shake the physician’s gloved hand in both of his. “Thank you, Richard, for braving this weather.”
I led the procession of worried father and esteemed physician to Polly’s room, where I put a finger to my lips and opened the door.
I backed out and whispered, “Still asleep,” and indicated a hall table where a cut-glass decanter of Madeira and wine glasses rested. Thomas took the cue and poured for Dr. Gem and himself.
“I see you’ve been following my prescription,” the doctor said to me. “Frequent quaffs of Madeira for Polly to wash down the rice. Does she take wine easily?”
“About sixteen ounces a day, never with ill effects.”
“And Patsy? She also takes the wine?”
“Yes. I’ve placed my records of both girls for you at Patsy’s bedside. I’m sure she’s awake.”
“Good. I’ll examine Patsy first.”
“Let me check, Doctor, whether she’s presentable.”
“My dear Miss Hemings, I’m a physician.”
“Just the same, I know Patsy. I’d better announce you.” I entered Patsy’s room and told her to prepare for an examination, then rejoined the men.
Dr. Gem reached into an inside pocket and drew out a folded paper, handing it to Thomas. “Here is the rights declaration I drafted, perhaps not so likely to find acceptance as that by the Marquis de Lafayette. But it’s the best effort of an old man.”
“Thank you. I intend to share this also with Mr. Madison, who’s at work on a Bill of Rights.”
Dr. Gem attempted to whisper his next remark, but I overheard. “No doubt you’re aware of Lafayette’s new group in behalf of Negroes, Société des Amis des Noirs. I’m reminded, seeing—”
Thomas made no effort to modulate his voice in reply. “For abolishment of slavery worldwide? Yes, the Marquis has asked me to join. For reasons you can understand, I remain uncommitted.”
“You’ll come around,” Dr. Gem said, patting Thomas’s shoulder. “I know your deepest feelings.” He entered Patsy’s room and closed the door behind him.
“Will you, Thomas?” I asked.
He looked puzzled. “Will I what?”
“Consider joining Amis des Noirs.”
Thomas clenched his lips and said, “Don’t be ridiculous.” He strode down the semi-dark hall.
I followed with quick steps. “Why not? You and Lafayette working together? You could change the world.”
He stopped and placed his hands on my cheeks. He glanced around, then kissed me. He said, “I no longer wish to change the world so much as enjoy it. Now let’s deal with the health of my two surviving children, and my enjoyment of the world will be all the richer.”
I breathed a deep sigh of resignation, nodded, and pulled him toward me for another kiss.
Some other time, perhaps, I might find the right moment to change Thomas Jefferson’s mind, then most assuredly the world would follow.

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Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
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21
Thomas broke our horses’ canter to a trot, then a walk. We headed back to the Hôtel de Langeac. The mid-November day had started sunny though brisk, but it soon clouded. He said he smelled sleet or snow in the air and would use instruments on the Langeac balcony to record data on the shifting weather.
We turned the horses into the Rue de Berri. I’d practiced riding fully astride as now, rather than sitting tenuously sidesaddled.
Thomas said, “You have a good seat on that mare, Sally. I’m glad your dance instructor suggested this. We’ll ride together at Monticello.”
I frowned, having postponed speaking of a sad encounter with Jimmy. “Once again my brother pressed me against committing myself to return to Virginia.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “James is a bright, honorable young man and a talented chef. But at times he speaks irresponsibly and seems unstable, even reckless. Surely you’ve noticed.”
“Regardless, as the youngest of us six by Mr. Wayles, I’ve long relied on Hemings family advice.”
“I’d sooner you rely on mine. Our relationship is no less meaningful, and I don’t intend to surrender you.”
I studied him a moment. “You speak as would a husband.”
He set his gaze on Langeac, then nodded. “As you’re fond of pointing out, here in France our relative positions are radically different than in Virginia.”
I blurted wildly, “Then liberate us from the old way and old ties. Marry me, Thomas.”
His laughter was more companionable than condescending. “What a world we live in,” he said. “That your innocent heart should leap so far past convention.”
“As yours did in the Declaration.”
He pulled his horse to a stop. I halted mine. We looked at each other for what seemed a full minute.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you belong to the next century, Sally, while I struggle to make sense of this one.”
I nodded. “I shouldn’t have brought up Jimmy’s challenge. But you and I must face it someday. As for anticipating the future, I’m not the first woman who’s tried to pull you forward.”
We resumed the leisurely walk of our steeds. Espagnol waved to us from in front of the Ministry. Thomas said, “You remind me of Philadelphia’s Anne Bingham.”
“Thank you. She’s exactly the one I had in mind. I’m surprised you didn’t succumb to her superior intelligence and beauty when she visited France, instead of—” No need to finish expressing that thought.
Espagnol helped me dismount and led the horses to their stalls. Thomas and I hurried inside. We held our hands to the blaze in the entrance hall fireplace.
By mentioning Mrs. Bingham, Thomas had opened a topic fast becoming one of my favorites. “Did you notice as we rode today, Thomas, the groups at bonfires or marching were nearly half women?”
“Frenchwomen are more involved in politics than those at home. Ours are more concerned with the tranquility of domestic life.”
“In your letters to Anne Bingham, you said women were Amazons here and angels at home.”
“Exactly.”
“And that ladies in America refrain from wrinkling their foreheads
with politics.”
“You have a good memory for my filed copies. I recall using that phrase. What’s your point?”
“Let’s sit.” We settled on the bench where I’d confronted him the day I arrived, but we sat closer than on that long-ago time. “Women back home do think about politics, even if they don’t show it.”
“I never said they didn’t. Do you believe their silence on public issues is a façade? To make men feel more dominant than male intelligence warrants?”
“Thomas, you invited me to ride today in celebration. This morning you wrote requesting leave to go home, and why? A few days ago you signed with Montmorin what will become America’s first foreign treaty—the consular agreement. An achievement of your diplomacy.”
“I didn’t realize you’d given it that perspective.”
I smiled. “Is my forehead wrinkling?”
“Not that I can see, no.”
“Am I an angel or an Amazon?”
Thomas grinned. “I won’t embarrass you with candor on that subject.”
I relaxed and glanced at my skirt, mussed by the strain of my riding form, also needing a good wash and pressing. “Why do you want to go home so soon? Life here has been good for us—the happiest time of my life, and I hope of yours.”
“I’ve been here over four years and should attend to the plantations. I’ll return after my leave.”
“There’ll be a revolution here, won’t there?”
Thomas grimaced and nodded. “I don’t see how it can be avoided. Too many are hungry.”
“It will be bloody, like ours.”
“I expect so, yes. I worry for the safety of my family.”
“And you’ll evacuate them? As you did when you were governor?”
“Yes, in as timely a manner as necessary.”
“And because of your concern, you wish also to evacuate me?”
He turned to me, seeming surprised. “I accept that you and James are part of my family, as you were when children in Virginia. You’re my in-laws.”
“No, Thomas. More than that and in the eyes of God—” My voice broke. “—I’m your wife.” My head pounded for having ventured that. “You said you won’t surrender me. Nor will I let go of you. Am I—” My words were taxing my strength. “—overstating the tie between us?”
Thomas glanced about, then reached an arm around my shoulders and drew me to him. “No, Sally. You’re not overstating. But please remember that commitment when the moment of decision arrives, should James press you to stay in France.”
I sighed in relief. “I assure you, dearest, when the time comes, I’m not likely to forget a thing like that.”
I’d made my decision about returning to Virginia, but something I couldn’t define prevented my sharing it.

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Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
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20
With weather starting to cool early in October, I altered my fashion to hide my new gold locket whenever I chose. The girls were home from school on this Sunday, and I didn’t want Patsy wondering whether her father had bought me such a treasure, which he had this past week.
Thomas and I had enjoyed the relief of autumn, visiting shops along the Champs-Élysées. We strolled arm in arm, passersby glancing at us. A few men stared at my bosom. With a slight grin Thomas said, “We should cover you a little.” He led me into a shop and asked me to select a locket from among the best on display.
As my heart thumped with pride and happiness, Thomas secured the chain around my neck. He allowed me to kiss him on the lips, in plain view of the shopkeeper and a few customers. “Now,” he said, “you’ll be a tiny bit less exposed.”
As luck would have it, Polly stopped by my room and caught me testing the locket’s concealment. She went wide-eyed and gushed. “Did Papa give it to you?”
I wasn’t going to lie. “Yes. Your father is a very generous man.”
I estimated Patsy would come by for a look within ten minutes. Turned out it was under five.
“Let me see,” she said, her lips set firmly.
After I displayed the locket, opening it as well, she huffed and snorted. “I doubt my father bought you that. I think you stole it from one of the shops.”
Blood rushed upwards in me. It was all I could do to refrain from boxing her ears. “Why have you grown so hateful since leaving Monticello? I’m sure they teach you better manners at school.”
Patsy threw me a look that spoke of trouble ahead and left.
I hurried toward the parlor where Patsy had caught up with her father. I stayed in the hallway, out of sight but within hearing. Thomas greeted her by suggesting she play something on the harpsichord, for the tuner had been here again Friday. I enjoyed keeping score—the seventh tuning in less than a year.
Patsy declined and loudly proclaimed I had stolen a locket. Polly must have told her Thomas bought it for me. Evidently Patsy wanted to hear it from him so she could unloose her vocal cannonballs. I pictured Thomas’s looking askance and forming a defense.
“Sally didn’t steal it. I’m shocked you would think such a thing. I bought the locket for her,” he said. “She’s been very helpful, and I sought to reward her.”
I wished he hadn’t added the “helpful” part. In his pursuit of happiness he could have told his sixteen-year-old daughter we were lovers. She knew her Grandpapa John Wayles had done the same with my mother. But confronting Patsy’s imminent onslaughts required Thomas’s temperance and time to erect barricades.
“She needs no reward,” Patsy fairly shouted. “She’s a Nigra slave. Your attentions to each other are the talk of Paris.”
“I doubt we’re that much on people’s tongues,” he said.
“Then you admit you’re sleeping with her.”
“I admit nothing, and it’s none of your business. Now calm yourself and play us a tune.”
I’d shared with Thomas a rumor buzzing among servants that Patsy has hinted at taking the veil—becoming a nun. He’d expressed hope she would reason herself away from that notion, at the same time confessing fear that open discussion might provoke her to decide rashly.
Upon apparent rejection of his request that she play, he fired a salvo I hadn’t expected. “I plan to request temporary leave from here, Patsy. When it’s approved, we’ll all return to Virginia.”
“What about my schooling? My commitments at the Abbaye?”
“I’ll arrange school for you back home. You’ll settle in well before my leave ends and I return to duties here.”
“You would come back to Paris without me?”
“I thought education was your priority. Evidently I misunderstood.”
I left the hallway and darted into a small salon, knowing at any moment she might come storming out.
After she passed my place of concealment in the throes of her blubbering, I made for the parlor.
“Thomas, go to her.” I fingered the locket, hoping I was making the right suggestion in uncomfortable circumstances. “You needn’t say anything. Just comfort her with hugs.”
“You heard?”
“Most of it, yes. She feels abandoned, not over us so much as what you said about leaving her in Virginia.”
Adrien Petit entered, frowning and clasping his hands. “Votre fille, M’sieu Jefferson.”
“What about her?”
“She say, ‘I weesh to return to the Abbaye maintenant’.”
“Now? Not in the morning?” Thomas sighed deeply. “Merci. I’ll attend to it.”
When Petit left I repeated, “You’ll go to her, right?”
“Yes, but let her first have a good cry.”
“A goodcry? That would be in a father’s embrace, something I had to live without. Go now, close her door, and take her in your arms. No one will see.”
He glanced about the parlor and shook his head.
“Trust me, Thomas. To her, you are as to me—the center of our young lives.”
“At times I wish that weren’t so.”
“But it is so. Comfort her now. Perhaps she won’t rush back to school in a snit.”
Thomas hesitated, then nodded and reached for my right hand. He bowed slightly to raise it to his lips and kissed it. He whispered, “For the many ways you influence me, Sally Hemings, I consider you a remarkable companion.”
I accepted his compliment quietly. Deep down my stratagem was to work toward preventing Patsy’s taking the veil, for I hadn’t the slightest doubt she would be doing so because of me.

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19
Thomas described Comte de Montmorin’s receiving him with excessive pomp. I laughed as he tried to imitate the pasted-on smiles of Montmorin’s wigged deputies. He said they smelled collectively like a parfumeriecorrupted by old cheese.
The Foreign Affairs Minister received news of the American Constitution’s ratification with half-closed eyelids and a half-grin. Deputies contributed distracting gasps, murmurs, hand-flutters, and bows at Thomas’s presentation. The mutual bowing worried Thomas that his own wig would fall at his feet.
“I now appreciate,” he said, “the full meaning of sangfroid—a cold detachment. Montmorin is an idler, a nobleman of power he’s unsure how to use. He met my suggestions for drafting rules of consular protocol with ‘Pas aujourd’hui.Not today.’ Either lazy or he’s holding office tenuously. For several months I’ve made no headway with him toward a consular treaty.”
“Or,” I blurted, “awed by seeing a better man, one pure of heart, he takes pleasure in treating you poorly.”
Thomas leaned forward and asked me to explain.
“When you’re with others, Thomas, you’re always the innocent one. By wearing you down, they can make things go their way. In the end it’s a better bargain for them, lesser for you.”
“Are your tutors instructing you in diplomatic negotiating, little Sarah of Monticello?”
“I was raised by an expert. Mama dragged me to Charlottesville to shop for the house. I watched her wear the tradesmen down. She seldom paid full price. She’s as assertive as you are reserved.”
“Elizabeth Hemings should be Minister to France.”
“I’ll write her of your suggestion. You defer because you think everyone is as open as you are, that they’ll meet you halfway. Mr. Short said you take people at face value. When I asked what that meant, he said your good nature—your trust—invites others to prey on you, even in money matters.”
“With my behavior receiving so much of his attention, perhaps I’ve been too generous with Mr. Short’s schedule.”
I grew silent, hoping I hadn’t spoiled anything for his secretary.
Near midnight Thomas announced he owed James Madison a letter and would start it before retiring.
“Should I ring to have the tub filled?”
He shook his head. “Too late to disturb the servants. You can help me through a quick wash, if you’re not too tired yourself.”
I never heard of a man in his position so considerate. Mama said my own father wouldn’t have hesitated to summon slaves at any hour. When she scolded him, he laughed.
After we washed and changed into nightclothes, Thomas lit the lamp on his writing desk. As he wrote Mr. Madison I tidied the suite, then approached to read over his shoulder.
I sincerely rejoice at the acceptance of our new constitution by nine states. It is a good canvas, on which some strokes only want retouching. What these are, I think are sufficiently manifested by the general voice from North to South, which calls for a bill of rights…better to establish trials by jury, the right of Habeas corpus, freedom of the press and freedom of religion in all cases, and to abolish standing armies in time of peace, and Monopolies, in all cases, than not to do it in any.
I couldn’t help but notice what freedom he omitted from his suggestion of rights.
A tear escaped me and dropped on the back of his hand. He set down his quill and contemplated the tear a moment, listening to my soft sobs. He extinguished the lamp and turned to take me on his lap. I buried my face in his neck and brought my weeping under control.
Tired as he was, my man scooped me up and carried me to his bed. Would my dream of universal freedom go the way of my body and soul? Lost to his power?
After my hiccupped sob, he kissed me gently. We fell asleep in each other’s arms.