Norm Ledgin's Blog, page 9

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…
 
18
My responsibilities to Thomas had grown, much to my joy. I was becoming his helpmate.
My man of virtually no vanity now turned his head one way and the other at the bedchamber mirror. He asked, “Are you certain I don’t look foolish? I dislike everything that wigs on a man imply—false leanings, pomp, a desire to impress for small advantage.”
“Oh, pish-posh, Thomas. You’re going to Versailles and must look as distinguished as they expect of the American Minister. It’s right for the occasion, and it’s right for you.”
“Looks and feels like a small animal resting on my head, ready to come awake and crawl down my face.”
“Well, then, when you return from this special audience, close it in a hat box to prevent its leaping around.” No, he didn’t appreciate my joke. He was too absorbed with the seriousness of the occasion. This next to last day of July he was to deliver to France’s Foreign Affairs Minister momentous news—that a solid majority of states had ratified the United States Constitution.
Ours was a nation now on equal footing with France, brought into being largely through support by France. It was the sovereign entity for which so many had hoped and which Thomas had anticipated so forcefully in the Declaration of Independence.
And, as leapt to my mind often, it was a nation boasting “freedom” though many of its people were in bondage. I was selective in raising that sore point, lest he tire of me as a common nag.
Thomas faced enough problems in his appointment with Comte de Montmorin today. An ominous question would hang over the proceedings: What has been the cost to France’s financial stability for the new nation she’d midwifed?
Thomas flicked his fingers over the shirt front. “These ruffles make me appear effeminate.”
I laughed. “Send anyone who thinks so to me. I’ll be happy to confirm your manliness. No, dear, this is the fashion, and not only among diplomats. You look quite handsome.”
“I suppose I should thank you for serving as valet while Petit writes up the household accounts. Evidently I have little consciousness of style.”
“You have no consciousness of style, Thomas. That’s one reason I’m your femme de chambre. As for other reasons—” I broke off and winked beside him at the mirror. I did get a chuckle out of him.
I recognized Mr. Short’s rhythmic knock at the door. He’d brought Thomas a portfolio for the Versailles meeting. “Espagnol will drive, Sir. The carriage is ready.”
“Thank you. Would you please help M’sieu Petit complete the monthly accounts?”
“I’ve met with him,” Mr. Short said, “and the report will be on your desk not later than Friday.”
“Yes, well. I’m off.”
I’d planned to follow Thomas down the Langeac’s main stairs and out to his carriage, but William Short gave a sign to detain me. “I should warn you,” he said in the doorway to Thomas’s suite.
The secretary said he’d overheard Patsy last Sunday in the garden, complaining of Thomas’s attentions to me and especially mine to him.
“What exactly did she say?”
“I’m not sure you want to hear it all.”
“Let me set your mind at ease on that, Mr. Short,” I said. “I do want to hear it all.”
He looked about and, in a confidential tone, said, “She accused you of ‘clinging’ and called you a ‘she-cat in heat.’ And she told her father she resented his seeming acceptance of your familiarities. She added she was having trouble explaining all that to Polly.”
I thought about that a moment, then asked, “What effect did that appear to have on Mr. Jefferson?”
“He ordered her to change the topic or return to the house.”
I breathed a deep sigh. “Let me know,” I said to the secretary, “whether your young lady in Saint-Germain requires seamstressing you can bring me. But please don’t mistake my offer as a bribe for more of such disclosures. I don’t wish to compromise you. I want only to show gratitude.”
Mr. Short bowed slightly, started to leave, then turned back. “Would you please, Miss Sally, use your influence with Mr. Jefferson to recognize our expenses here outrun the allowance from our government?”
I knew Thomas tended to overspend, but this was the first time anyone had addressed me with the problem. “I’m not sure of my influence to that extent,” I said, “but I’ll raise the subject.”
He set his lips firmly, nodded, and bowed again. I got the impression he considered the topic a losing battle. When he left I mulled the situation and decided to be cautious about bringing it up. Thomas prided himself on keeping expense records, but that wasn’t solving the dilemma.
Except for Sundays, when the girls were at home from the convent school, I’d spent more time in Thomas’s suite than in my own room. For a few months we’d shared the alcove bed in his suite and taken more baths together, all of which I’m certain inspired tongue-wagging among servants.
At first Jimmy refused to speak to me. One day I stormed into his kitchen. When I was sure no one else was about, I fairly shouted at him, “This is the life I’m making with Mama’s encouragement. Grow accustomed, Jimmy, as I would to anything you might choose. Don’t wreck my happiness.”
He asked, “Do you fancy yourself in love with him?”
“Not ‘fancy’,” I replied “but with a certainty of heart and soul till the day I die.”
He nodded. “I just don’t want you hurt.”
“Then you mustn’t injure me by estrangement.”
That helped. Soon after, he put a white rose on my food tray as a peace offering. I wore it pinned to my bodice the rest of the day. Jimmy was at last acting like a Hemings should, and I was proud.
It was very late when Thomas returned from Versailles. He’d stayed there for a small repast and would take only white wine when I offered to bring something from the kitchen. Though he looked worn from his visit with the Foreign Affairs Minister, he said he was “blessedly” free of a headache. And despite problems with his wrist, he wanted to play the violin for me.
As the dear man romanced me with music, I sewed by lamplight. He seemed keyed up and disinclined at first to share what had transpired at Versailles. At last he put away the violin, slumped in a comfortable chair to sip wine, and grew chatty.

What did former Chief Justice Burgersay about the Second ...

What did former Chief Justice Burger
say about the Second Amendment?
         
In last week’s blog, Norm furnished all comments in correspondence between Founders Thomas Jefferson and James Madison on the underlying purpose of a Bill of Rights reference to “the right to keep and bear arms.”
It was all about militias, for the Founders believed (in the period 1787-89) a standing army was an evil the new nation should forgo.
The resulting and ratified Second Amendment was awkward grammatically—a Madison misstep—but the “right” clearly hung on maintenance of a “well regulated militia.”
Supreme Court findings to the contrary, the Second Amendment persists as one of the most arguable features of the Constitution.
In the view of the late former Chief Justice Warren Burger, it “has been the subject of one of the greatest pieces of fraud, I repeat the word ‘fraud,’ on the American public by special interest groups that I have ever seen in my lifetime.”*
 
*The MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour, December 16, 1991.  
 
 
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
 
17
I rang for a servant and met Nomeni in the hallway. “Quietly, please,” I said in broken French, “prepare bathwater for Mr. Jefferson and two or three scented candles. I’ll lay out necessary towels. Tell M’sieu Petit I said no one may come near the Minister’s suite the rest of the day. If he’s hungry, I’ll attend to that myself. Now, vite, vite.”
I raided a guest supply for additional towels. When I returned, all was ready in the bathroom. I heard Thomas get up. He would soon come in to pee. I scooted into a storage closet and disrobed in the darkness, then turbaned my long hair and wrapped myself in a large towel.
I emerged silently, but Thomas had left the bathroom. I peeked into his study and bedchamber and saw him at his desk. Perhaps he was bidding Maria Cosway adieu. I shrugged and returned to the closet, sitting on a hamper to wait. My heartbeat drummed in my ears.
At last I heard the splash of his entering the tub. I opened the door a crack. He was naked, seated in the sunken tub, eyes closed. His head rested on a folded towel. He was enjoying a soak.
Hearing me step into the tub, he opened his eyes. I set the towel on the tiled floor, giving him a view of something mulatto I was confident he’d never seen in this form. I reached for a container of soap and began making bubbles in the water, noticing he’d become aroused.
With a cloth I fell to washing him, starting softly with his genitals as I’d heard my sisters suggest in the event any of us was ready to commit ourselves to love. While Thomas showed surprise at my approach, he didn’t remain passive for long.
He kissed me with great passion and touched my breasts. By motions I invited him to feast on them. As he did so I felt charges that reminded me of Dr. Franklin’s descriptions of electricity from his lightning-struck kite. The sensation tended to lift me from the water, so I suggested Thomas rise, spread towels, and lie back.
In that instant a seizure gripped me. I quailed, never having engaged in lovemaking much less initiated a seduction. I recalled everything the girl-talk back home was leading me toward, but the reality made my teeth chatter.
Without a word, Thomas took over. He invited me to further kissing to calm me. We played in order to become more familiar with each other, first with our hands and soon with our mouths and tongues.
I no longer trembled but became a pantheress in heat. Groans erupted from me involuntarily. At last I rolled back on the towels and left this planet. I’d climaxed before by my fingering, but never like this.
I recalled my own words, It’s called love.
In the flickering candlelight he suggested we finish our ablutions, dry off, and move to his bed.
I was still a virgin, now sitting and staring in wonder at the instrument of his masculinity.
“I can’t wait,” I said, my voice quavering. I raised my arms to invite further embrace. “I want you so much. I can’t wait. Please.”
He rose into position as I lay back once more. Though he covered my body with his, he supported his weight with strong legs and arms. His entry was slow, teasing at first. I locked my feet at his back to pull him deeper. I felt my hymen break. Oh, God, what a sensation.
I was Thomas Jefferson’s woman, then and forever.
And if there were to be fearsome consequences, let them come.

What did the Founders intendon the ‘right to keep a...

 What did the Founders intend
on the ‘right to keep and bear arms’?


          The first mention between Founders James Madison and Thomas Jefferson of what evolved into the Second Amendment appeared in a letter from Paris by U.S. Minister Jefferson Dec. 20, 1787, simply urging “protection against standing armies.”
          Jefferson followed up that point to Madison July 31, 1788, “to abolish standing armies in time of peace” with this general elaboration:
     “If no check can be found to keep the number of standing troops within safe bounds, while they are tolerated as far as necessary, abandon them altogether, discipline well the militia, and guard the magazines with them. More than magazine guards will be useless if few, and dangerous if many. No European nation can ever send against us such a regular army as we need fear, and it is hard if our militia are not equal to those of Canada or Florida…I hope therefore a bill of rights will be formed to guard the people against the federal government…”
An enclosure in Madison’s Sept. 21, 1788, reply included this oblique reference as part of a developing wish list to resolve matters the Constitution itself did not address: “Trial by jury, liberty of the press, and no standing army.”
On June 30, 1789, Madison in writing Jefferson enclosed a rough draft of “the Bill of Rights” dated June 8. The draft included the following:
     “The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed; a well armed, and well regulated militia being the best security of a free country: but no person religiously scrupulous of bearing arms, shall be compelled to render military service in person.”
On Aug. 28, 1789, Jefferson (not yet having left Paris) replied to three letters of Madison’s including that of June 30. His only suggestion within the context of exchanges on the subject of a standing army vs. reliance upon state militias was the following: “All troops of the U.S. shall stand ipso facto disbanded at the expiration of the term for which their pay and subsistence shall have been last voted by Congress…”
Congress on Sept. 25, 1789, sent to the state legislatures proposed Constitutional amendments including the following, which survived the process as the Second Amendment:
“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State,    the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”
The effective date of ratification was Dec. 15, 1791.
Source:  The Republic of Letters: The Correspondence Between Jefferson and Madison, 1776-1826, James Morton Smith, editor; three volumes (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1995)
 
 
 

Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
16
I’d developed what some might judge a sneaky habit—reading Thomas’s correspondence and journals. But he was so open about leaving them around, I’d have been foolish to resist. All he was involved in, every breath he took, had become important to me.
He arrived from his travels exhausted in the wee hours of Thursday morning, the 24th of April, a date I’ve etched in my memory. He went directly to bed. As he slept not far from where I sat, I pored over his travel descriptions.
Near Mainz, Germany, the role of peasant women had become a fascination—
The women do everything here. They dig the earth, plough, saw, cut and split wood, row, tow the batteaux, &c. In a small but dull kind of batteau, with two hands rowing with a kind of large paddle, and a square sail, but scarcely a breath of wind, we went down the river at the rate of five miles an hour.
In Virginia the performance of menial labor by slave women was de rigueur, but had Thomas ever noticed? I couldn’t recall that he had in Notes on the State of Virginia. Perhaps seeing white women at such tasks would adjust his perspective of women generally, regardless of color. Was that too much to hope for?
Thomas and Espagnol had sailed down the Rhine from Mainz to vineyards near Rüdesheim. He’d obtained fifty vines he hoped to root in his garden here at Langeac and, if luck held, to enable viniculture for German wines at Monticello.
Fundamentals of agriculture in various forms as well as mechanics and architecture had absorbed Thomas after they’d departed The Hague and Amsterdam. He’d written extensively and sketched in his notebooks, including a representation of a plow with a new form. He referred to it as a “moldboard plow” and expressed the hope it would prove superior to standard plows now in use.
Ah, I found a later observation, from eastern France on his roundabout return, in which the topic of women picked at him with astonishing results—
The women here, as in Germany, do all sorts of work. While one considers them as useful and rational companions, one cannot forget that they are also objects of our pleasures; nor can they ever forget it. While employed in dirt and drudgery, some tag of a ribbon, some ring, or a bit of bracelet, earbob or necklace, or something of that kind, will show that the desire of pleasing is never suspended in them….Women are formed by nature for attentions, not for hard labor.
I intended to ask, in the spirit of my becoming his rational companion, whether he’d mind my sharing that last line with my black sister slaves on the plantations.
I chuckled to myself and read on.
Oh, goodness. Oh, my.
Familiar with Thomas’s style, I was stunned to see a word I didn’t recall his ever having used in his writings. The word was “mulatto,” often used to cite my color as a quarter-Negro.
And he used it not once but repeatedly in his descriptions of the terrain. Had he been thinking of me while viewing spring colors of the countryside? My blood rushed in a pleasant way. My scalp tingled. This was what he’d written in one place—
The spot whereon the good wine is made is the hill side from the church down to the plain, a gentle slope of about a quarter of a mile wide, and extending half a mile towards Mayence. It is of south-western aspect, very poor, sometimes gray, sometimes mulatto, with a moderate mixture of small broken stone.
I was there with the poor aspect and the broken stone, but I was there. And, from just a few days ago—
The plains of the Marne and Sault uniting, appear boundless to the eye till we approach their confluence at Vitry, where the hills come in on the right; after that the plains are generally about a mile, mulatto, of middling quality, sometimes stony. Sometimes the ground goes off from the river so sloping, that one does not know whether to call it high or low land. The hills are mulatto also, but whitish—
Seldom has reading anything taken my breath away. But this was a revelation, that my sleeping giant had carried such a thought of me to an extent it would literally color his writing.
I set the notebooks aside, noticing that Mr. Short had opened and stacked incoming letters from the time Thomas was away. The topmost was a note from Maria Cosway—
Your long silence is impardonable….My war against you is of such a Nature that I cannot even find terms to express it.
Little did she realize that her inconstancy had cost her the leading place in his affections. The man needed warmth, the closeness of a companion sincerely interested in his work, the reliability of an attentive sweetheart and lover. In other words, he needed me.
We were coming onto late afternoon. I expected Thomas would stir himself awake shortly, and he would most assuredly wish to bathe.
It was time.             I rationalized, as I’d recently turned fifteen, it was time.

Sally in Kindle available free for three more days &...

Sally in Kindle available free
for three more days       

You may “buy” the Amazon Kindle version of Sally of Monticello: Founding Motherwithout charge on any of three designated days before Christmas: December 19, 20, or 21.
 
 
Please see a feature on Norm and Sally of Monticello on http://www.thewriterslens.com/  
 
 
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
15
Early March, 1788, and Thomas’s departure for The Hague was imminent. Did I have the nerve to carry out my scheme, or would I faint at Thomas’s feet?
I’d already confided to Espagnol. His knowledge of languages and horses had led Adrien to select him for this trip. It could last a month or more.
However, I’d conspired with neither the maître d’nor Thomas’s secretary. Adrien and Mr. Short would have balked. I planned simply to tell Thomas, “I’m going with you.”
I’d read the copy of Thomas’s letter to John Adams. The carriage would arrive from the repair shop tomorrow at three. Thomas would set out Tuesday morning and meet Mr. Adams at The Hague Friday night. I believed that schedule optimistic, but I didn’t care so long as we could snuggle at the inns on the way. I’d already started packing, lightly but with clothes that would survive frequent laundering.
This was an important mission for the two envoys. Final terms of a Dutch loan were in the balance. Mr. Adams was the better negotiator, but Thomas’s presence would make a more favorable impression. And I would enjoy seeing John Adams again.
Laws and customs back home would make it impossible for me to travel with Thomas, so it was best to make my opportunity here and now.
These two revolutionaries no doubt found relief in James Madison’s monitoring ratification of the Constitution, a process now under way. Thomas said Mr. Madison had promised state leaders he would give a Bill of Rights priority in the new Congress.
Thomas’s main worry now was the turmoil rising in Paris. Even Jimmy and the staff of the Hôtel de Langeac chattered about the spreading unrest. Louis Sixteenth continued his doltish heavy-handedness. Defiant parlementairesremained under threat of arrest. Hungry out-of-work citizens demonstrated in the streets.
France’s money crisis was due in large part to its support of the American Revolution. Thomas wanted the Dutch loan to repay the French. And he hoped on his return to present the French a written plan for effective administration and relief of the distressed.
Through a doorway to the parlor I observed Thomas, seated and listening to Patsy play the harpsichord. The tuner had returned yesterday, his fourth visit since the instrument arrived. Polly was also in the parlor, reading. Gazing on this domestic scene, I wondered when I might spring my surprise on Thomas.
At last he rose, applauding Patsy’s spotty performance. He announced he would retire and see them before their return to the Abbaye in the morning. Would he hug and kiss his daughters good night? He did not. I added his reticence to the list of changes I planned for him.
I hurried to meet him in his combined study and bedchamber. When he entered, I was prickling from head to toe and blurted, “I’m going with you.”
He stopped, stared at the floor, then looked up questioningly. “Why would you want to do something so inappropriate? I’ve arranged further schooling for you while I’m gone. And M’sieu Petit will need you here.”
His response crushed me. And his use of “inappropriate” converted my act of love into a childish whim.
Thomas strolled toward his bureau, shaking his head. He turned. “Why now, Sally? Wouldn’t it be better to wait?”
I breathed deeply and found courage again. “I hate being separated from you. Like Polly I felt strange after not seeing you for three years. Then I was weeks at Père-Lachaise. And now you’ll be gone a month or more. This way I can also see Mr. Adams again without Abigail, not to mention places I’d love to visit.”
Thomas opened a bureau drawer where I’d placed lilac-scented sachets with clothing he would pack. I’d also put in extra combs, a fresh jar of shaving lather, and a bottle of eau de toilette. “Thank you, Sally, for the amenities for my journey. Very thoughtful. I’ll reciprocate with candor for yours.”
“For my what?”
“Your trip. I’ve decided you may come with me to Holland and Germany—”
I thought I might jump out of my skin. I gasped, ready to rush at him for embraces and kisses, until he added, “—if you can stand the odors.”
“Odors?”
“Yes, up close, therefore worse than anything rising in the city. Terribly disagreeable ones, owing to primitive facilities for bathing at the inns, not to mention onions and garlic in their foods that cause frequent flatulence in the carriage.”
“Oh, my.”
“Indeed. And we won’t always find facilities for relieving ourselves. We may squat by the side of the road. But Espagnol and I will be there to shield you from embarrassment.”
I hadn’t considered the rough side. I wasn’t ready for Thomas to know me that well.
“So,” he said, almost cheerfully, “run along and pack your things. But keep in mind laundering facilities will be severely limited.”
I’d had time to reflect that I may have been slightly manipulative from the day I arrived in Paris. Now he was turning it around on me. He expected to discourage me, that I’d back away from the travel plan.
I called his bluff. “I have an extra jar of shaving lather. Do you think Mr. Adams would appreciate my taking it to him as a gift?”
Thomas compressed his lips and shook his head. I knew he was about to end this playacting. I hoped he wouldn’t patronize me. I wanted us on equal footing.
“Sally, let’s stop and discuss this as adults.”
Adults.I rose to that. “You’ve described the travel conditions accurately?”
He raised his right hand as though swearing an oath. “I have.”
I groaned softly. “I should stay behind. Being with you under such circumstances could damage a relationship before it finds footing.”
“Exactly.”
I moved toward a chair near his desk and sat. “My plan wasn’t entirely self-serving. I’d hoped my presence would show support for your work. Regardless of my attitude toward Abigail, she does set an example for keeping up with her husband’s duties and standing beside him. I’ll give her that.”
“I realize you’re capable of understanding what I do, that you wish to help bear the burden of my work. It’s beyond anything I’ve known in a relationship.”
I wasn’t going to pursue that by diminishing Martha Wayles. Her frustration over Thomas’s work absences from Monticello was still sharp in my memory. I chose a cozier course to round off our evening’s conversation. “It’s nearly springtime.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“We’ve shown patience, and restraint.”
“Yes, we have,” he said, “making the feast of life that’s spread before us more appetizing.”
His words seized me like a giant but gentle hand.
“Oh, Thomas. What a lovely little speech.”
I must write Mama. Freedom in France meant freedom to love as I chose, so long as I was certain my love—my giving—would be returned by this man. Such a dear man.
What else could possibly matter?
 
 
 

Kindle version of Sally free five days &...

 
Kindle version of Sally free five days
         
By all means get the benefit of saving and “buy” the Kindle version of Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother without charge on any of these five designated days before Christmas: December 13, 14, 19, 20, or 21, 2012.
  
More Jefferson-Bashing
By Authors Who Reveal
Incomplete Researching
 
          The New York Times op-ed piece, “The Monster of Monticello,” by Albany Law School’s Paul Finkelman November 30, 2012, is “a surprising reliance by the Times on poor scholarship and hyperbole,” according to Norm Ledgin, author and Thomas Jefferson lecturer.
          Finkelman’s article came on the heels of appearances around the U.S. by author Henry Wiencek, whose book, Master of the Mountain, attacks Jefferson on slavery and racism.
Ledgin confronted Wiencek October 25 at the Plaza Library, Kansas City, MO, and on one point of relevant research drew Wiencek’s admission, “I hadn’t run across that.”
          In the midst of media attention to Jefferson and slavery, CBS aired a Good Morning America treatment December 2 that was well researched and fair, in Ledgin’s opinion.
          His response to Finkelman’s piece was this letter to the Times:  
Focusing on Thomas Jefferson’s failure to free his slaves obscures issues such as his mortgaging them to stay afloat. He couldn’t free what he didn’t have clear title to. A year following his marriage he inherited his father-in-law’s debts, then paid them twice when the revolutionary nation’s credit sank. Raised with a sense of duty among Virginia’s gentry, he entertained lavishly, covered others’ financial obligations, and often paid slaves he referred to as “servants.”
As for early racist views, subsequent letters and acts in and out of office indicated his readiness to recant. Perhaps redemption lies in his having contributed prominently to the nation’s mixed-race heritage by a faithful 38-year alliance with his late wife’s half-sister, Sally Hemings.
Norm Ledgin
   
 
 
Please see a feature on Norm and Sally of Monticello on http://www.thewriterslens.com/  
 
 
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
14
Thomas and I had reached the parlor, as yet unoccupied and warmed by a crackling fire. “Let’s talk before the others arrive,” he said. He pulled one of the matched chairs around to face another, and we sat.
I drew out a hankie to dab at my cheeks.
“Here.” He gave me a large handkerchief that I used to greater effect, blowing my nose. He sat back. “Compose yourself and say what’s on your mind.”
I closed my eyes a moment and took deep breaths. Then, “By the time you return from your travels in spring, I’ll have had time to think.”
“Think about what?”
“About why, when your mission here is completed, I should return with you to Virginia, to slavery.”
He drew in his lips and glanced away. From that I knew my freedom here had occupied his thoughts. “I’d hoped there’d be no question,” he said.
“I don’t like competing with Maria Cosway.” I dreaded sounding shrewish, but Mr. Trumbull’s presence forced me to reveal my jealousy.
He cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. “You’re not competing, rest assured. I’ll afford her dignity if there’s further contact, but she no longer warrants my primary attention.”
That matched all rumors, but it wasn’t quite enough. I swallowed hard and said, “And I? Am I prominent in your plan?”
Thomas lifted his chin, gazed at the ceiling, then flashed a smirk of puzzlement. “My plan. Is there something specific you want, Sally?”
“I— I want my late sister’s position in your heart, and I intend to earn permanency.” Oh, I wish I’d rehearsed this. My own heart was doing somersaults.
Slowly he began to nod. That was maddening, for I couldn’t tell whether he simply understood or was giving assent. I needed clarity. “Thomas, you know what’s been flying through the air between us.”
The nodding continued. I loved him but wanted to smack him. I’ll die here if you don’t say something, Thomas Jefferson.
“Martha, my dear wife,” he said at last, “still occupies my heart though she’s five years gone. All that she ever was to me is locked in here.” He clenched his right hand and put it to his chest. “If you’re competing with anyone, it’s she, not Maria Cosway.”
I shifted in my chair. “Am I premature? Do you need more time? I was sure the affection had become equal on both sides.”
More nodding.
I will smack him if he doesn’t stop that.
“You’re more in my thoughts than you know,” he said. “Looking back these past five months, I realize you’ve been artful about putting yourself there.”
“No, I—”
He held up a hand. “I don’t mind, really. I was slow to recognize your assertiveness for what it was, but now that I understand, it flatters me.”
It was time for me to keep quiet and hear this out.
“I’m thirty years your senior. You could have any man you want, standing under your yellow parasol at the corner of Rue de Berri and the Champs-Élysées. You’re probably the most exquisite creature who ever walked the boulevards of Paris.”
Thumpity-thump. Where was he going with this?
“I do need more time, but not because affection is lacking, Sally. Let’s get through this winter sans souci, light-heartedly for the holiday and to help me endure serious matters of state. And there’s my approaching travel to put behind me. Meanwhile, about you—”
I feared leaking in my underthings for being under such strain of emotions. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. I wanted him to hold me, never mind who might enter the parlor.
“—I have all sorts of reminders. Your attentiveness, your concern about my appearance, about whether all my wishes are met. I think about your sweet breath, your scent, and I often picture the look of you. I even have your father’s debt to remind me that we’re locked by family ties as well as by—by—”
I ignored the humour noir to jump to the essence. “By love, Thomas. It’s called love.”
A grin accompanied his resumed nodding. Infuriating, yet this was my prize sitting before me, the reward of my evolving passion. I couldn’t change him, so— Well, that wasn’t entirely true. About some things I could—and resolved that I would.
“Come springtime,” he said, “I’ll be in a position to act responsibly about your future—our future. Not just as a Master but as a gentleman. As a man. Come springtime.”
Suchself-control. He was teaching me to be patient, to adjust. To grow up.
I rose and touched my lips with my fingers, then reached to touch his. I whispered, “Come springtime,” then left the parlor in a swirl of skirt rustles and difficult breathing.
God help me, I was on fire, unmindful whether I might someday perish from flames in the process.

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…
 
13
“Forever Abigail,” Thomas mumbled.
We were in the entrance hall of Langeac. He’d sat to read letters just delivered by the artist, John Trumbull. Mr. Short was settling our new guest in his room, where Jimmy and I had helped carry some of the artist’s paraphernalia.
Christmas would soon be on us, so my return from Mont Louis was timely. I would free our maître d’, Adrien, from the extra shopping the holiday required. My speculation regarding Thomas’s sour face was that Abigail had placed yet another order for Parisian yard goods.
“A materials order?” I asked.
“Specifying colors, textures, yes. The woman trivializes my role as Minister, expecting me to go gadding about making purchases for her.”
“I’ll take care of it, Thomas.”
Still frowning as he looked up, he let his face relax into an unmistakably grateful smile. He handed me the hundred-twenty francs Mr. Trumbull had carried from Abigail—and the letter. “Petit’s helper, M’sieu Espagnol, is at your disposal as a driver.”
“I assume you’d like me also to buy presents for the girls. I have money I can advance.”
“Yes, thank you. As I must entertain Mr. Trumbull today and devote a good portion of tomorrow to writing Mr. Madison, I consider you a godsend, Sally.”
My body tingled, and I blurted, “May God let me so remain.”
I hadn’t yet voiced a concern involving Mr. Trumbull and wasn’t sure this was the time. It was he who’d introduced Thomas to the Cosways. The topic of Maria was sure to rise between them. Rather than be seen growing weepy in the entrance hall, I resolved to find a more private opportunity to make discreet inquiry.
Thomas rose to leave as I was scanning Abigail’s letter.
I cried out, “You’ve been reappointed. We’re to stay longer in France. And Abigail writes they’ll leave London.”
“Yes, but I’ll see Mr. Adams at The Hague, by Amsterdam, before he sails for Massachusetts.”
“About Mr. Trumbull, Thomas—”
“Walk with me to the parlor. He’s to rejoin me there after he finishes unpacking.”
“He propped canvases in the hallway by his room. I saw the one where you and Mr. Adams are presenting the Declaration, though it’s unfinished. And it’s smaller than I’d have supposed.”
“He plans a very large copy. It’s a scene that never occurred, but he believes history will demand such fiction.”
Walking with Thomas was difficult. Each of his long-legged strides required two of mine. I feared running out of breath. “Jimmy observed the man is blind in one eye. My brother can’t understand how he paints pictures, nor can I.”
“The infirmity doesn’t diminish his work. He uses his good eye to greater effect for detail.”
“The painting of the Declaration troubles me. In the place where he’s to complete your image, you’re standing on Mr. Adams’s foot.”
Thomas stopped and turned to me. “Surely you misinterpret what you saw.”
“I noticed also that others in the picture are wearing matched clothing, which you rarely do. I dread that Mr. Trumbull’s good eye for detail will paint you in mismatched clothing like a stockman’s, with wild, sandy-red hair. The tallest man in the painting will look like merde. That means ‘shit.’ See how my French vocabulary grew at Père-Lachaise?”
I’d startled Thomas. He touched my face, turning my chin gently for a better look into my eyes. “Where is this preoccupation with Trumbull leading, Sally?”
Tears welled and ran. “It was he who introduced you to Maria Cosway, n’est-ce pas?”

 

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…
 
12
Three weeks into my quarantine I received a letter from Marie de Botidoux, a classmate of Patsy’s I’d befriended at the Abbaye de Royale Panthémont. She wished me well in my stay at the Père-Lachaise clinic, then passed on a remarkable story. Because it was mostly in French, I sought help of a female attendant.
As the delicious gossip opened, Patsy left school part of last Thursday afternoon. Adrien Petit picked her up, took her to Langeac, and later brought her back to the Abbaye. Her mood upon leaving was a happy one, but upon her return she expressed hostility—toward me.
From details Marie furnished and having more time to myself than I knew what to do with, I tried my hand at scribbling a short stage presentation. Something I imagined whimsically might be worthy of performance at the Odéon:
Thomas is seated at a harpsichord that had just arrived from London and was freshly tuned, a long-awaited present for Patsy.
“Oh, Papa. Papa,” cries Patsy while hurrying into the parlor, one hand on her flat bosom and the other extended in high drama to claim her precious gift.
Thomas rises and gestures his craggy-faced firstborn to sit and play, if not at the level of her late mother’s musicianship then in a manner demonstrating her cadaverous hands could at least find the keys.
She pauses to ask that he consider accompanying her on the violin, as he often did when her mother played. He nods, failing to realize he is accommodating her pretensions for assuming fully the place of this author’s departed sister, Martha Wayles. He remains too naïve to understand this is an undiagnosed sickness of Patsy’s.
For the entertainment of Thomas, Mr. Short, M. Petit, this writer’s brother Jimmy, and such Langeac servants as might resign themselves to poorly performed Handel or Haydn, Patsy then struggles through a piece or two and receives undeserved applause.
Thomas approaches the instrument and delivers a suggestion, which innocence leaves him ill-equipped to understand may be a menacing proposal. “While you are at school, Patsy, it would be a pity for the harpsichord to remain idle. Perhaps we should offer Sally the opportunity to learn to play and practice.”
An eruption occurs rivaling Vesuvius and burying the afternoon’s joys in ashes. Patsy’s negative response includes shouts of “darky” and “Nigra,” indicating that her Aunt Sally is of too low a caste even to be in the same room with the harpsichord.
Compounding the outburst is her inappropriate scolding of Thomas. Patsy expresses dismay that her widower father is rumored so human as to have taken carnal knowledge of Mrs. Maria Cosway, much to her and Polly’s embarrassment. And then, “Is Sally Hemings to be next?”
At that point, Thomas—in a subdued but firm tone—directs her to shut up.
(This drama has an equally unfortunate second act.)
Patsy carries a narrative of the episode to the Abbaye to spread among classmates, including Marie de Botidoux. That Sally Hemings, whom these cosmopolitan peers of Patsy’s have met, might foul the ivory keys of an underutilized harpsichord by touch of her slightly darker fingers is a notion they greet with incredulity.
Patsy as the fool receives the audience’s hissing and a thrown rotten tomato.
Make that two or three tomatoes.
Curtain.
Audience cries of “Auteur. Auteur.”
I wrote a note of thanks to Marie for her greeting. I didn’t feel comfortable mentioning the situation involving the harpsichord. I urged her to write again to let me know how all the girls including Polly were getting on.
Actually I welcomed Marie’s disclosures so that I’d be clear where matters stood between Patsy and me. If I’d thought what came from Abigail Adams’s tight Yankee mouth was hard and unfeeling, it was nothing alongside destructive words from Martha Jefferson, whom I’d underestimated.
I filed the letter away and sank comfortably, even a bit happily, into my bed. There, grinning in moderate self-satisfaction, reminding myself not to yield to immoderate smugness, I pulled Thomas’s latest letter from under the pillow.
Beyond his plans for the New Year—tutoring for me that would coincide with his extended travel, mention of cities he would visit such as Amsterdam, Cologne, Heidelberg, Strasburg—his letter included a single line that warmed my heart.
You, Sally, have become as inviting a muse as fine wine,            tantalizing at the taste, calming in the effect.

For a man seemingly incapable of voicing affectionate sentiments, Thomas had no trouble putting them on paper. That we were so separated in age had become a fact no longer worth pondering, for I was a woman he was now taking small steps to court, and he’d become the eternal husband of my dreams.
Thomas also promised, upon his return from Holland and Germany, that we would explore the gardens and fountains and shops in the more alluring parts of Paris.
Oh, what a place for two people to fall in love.
Adding a dimension not even Betty Hemings had anticipated, here in France Thomas and I were equals, capable of choosing each other freely. Regardless of what lay ahead, the fact of my temporary emancipation at such a critical juncture would never change.
That awesome truth would embolden me during this long seclusion, and it had already set me to imagining steps Thomas and I might take to grow closer in the coming winter—Patsy’s jealousies notwithstanding.

NY Times Editor/Reviewer‘Hungry for More’ About Sally&nbs...

NY Times Editor/Reviewer
‘Hungry for More’ About Sally
            The cover story of The New York Times’s Book Review on Sunday, November 11, 2012, was an evaluation of Jon Meacham’s The Art of Power, an acclaimed treatment of Jefferson’s political methods.
          Jill Abramson, executive editor of the Times, authored the generally favorable review. At one point she observed, “When Meacham offers revealing details…the book comes alive, and Jefferson does too. But other opportunities are missed. Sally Hemings has only a few walk-on scenes, leaving the reader hungry for more on this fascinating, and troubling, relationship.”
          A lifelong friend, Leslie A. Nash, Jr., of Wynnewood, PA, emailed Norm a suggestion for relieving Ms. Abramson’s disappointment. Norm then overnighted her a copy of his carefully researched new novel, Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother.
 
 
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…
 
11
I trembled.
According to memoranda, my entering the clinic at Mont Louis took place November 7. I was to remain for an undetermined period. For that and raw fear, I trembled.
Thomas held my upper arms to steady me. “We’ve waited too long,” he said.
I misunderstood and cried, “You mean I may die?”
“No, you don’t have smallpox, Sally. I meant you should have been inoculated long before now. Especially as you’ve been visiting the Abbaye and going freely about the city.”
I blubbered, “The procedure’s more dangerous than I’d thought.”
“I wish James had set your mind at ease. He had this done in Virginia ten years ago. And Patsy and Polly have been through it. Yes, there’s danger, but you’re a strong young woman. Your body will fight it. That’s the point of inoculation, to build your resistance.”
Hearing Thomas refer to me as a young woman was a great comfort. I sniffed and wiped my tears. I’d left wet spots on his vest.
The richly appointed Père-Lachaise receiving room of the Drs. Sutton contained onlookers, but I sank toward Thomas anyway for closer assurance. The French didn’t seem to mind a redheaded white man’s pairing with a woman of light color. I wondered whether they recognized him.
I wished Abigail Adams could see us like this. Better yet, Maria Cosway.
I felt Thomas’s lips touch the top of my head. I dared use his first name. “Thomas, forgive me for behaving like a frightened child. I’m sorry. You must know, you’re a god to me. I take everything from you in complete trust.” I felt his heartbeat accelerate.
For me there was now little question where our futures lay. My hopes infused me with courage. “Let’s go in,” I said, “and get this done. I’m ready.”
The Drs. Sutton—Robert, Sr., the father, and his six sons, most prominently Daniel—had been prosperous in England before bringing their inoculations to Paris, as Thomas had explained. I expected they would charge him a great fee because of his status as a foreign minister.
“I’ll be present for the procedure,” he said. “Afterwards, for your stay here, I’ll see you’re provided with books and the most attentive care. You’ll exercise at their direction, eat special foods, rest as required. You should practice your French liberally during this period.”
I looked up to catch his gaze, holding my clasped hands near my mouth. “And you’ll visit?”
Thomas covered my hands with his and squeezed gently. “I doubt they’ll allow that. It’s a quarantine.”
I nodded. “You’ve been gone so much. Mr. Short is at Saint-Germain when not keeping Ministry appointments. M’sieu Petit shops or visits his people at Champagne. Jimmy is off to cooking school. The girls study at the Abbaye. The servants have their petite clique, so I’m more alone at Langeac than I like. After I return from here can you see your way clear to give up Mont Calvaire?”
He shook his head slowly. “The retreat serves a purpose. I’ve accomplished much with minimum distraction. The final report from Mr. Madison will arrive soon from Philadelphia. I don’t know yet about Mont Calvaire.”
I freed my hands and placed them on his chest. “Will you see Mrs. Cosway there?”
Thomas frowned. “That’s not a topic I wish to discuss at this time. For now we should concentrate on the inoculation.”
I drew in my lips, frustrated.
We followed an attendant to the doctor’s examination room. There I went behind a screen to change into a special gown exposing my upper arms. I made sure my petticoats rustled for Thomas’s benefit, hoping he was forming mind pictures. I was at long last determined to replace the fickle Mrs. Cosway in his thoughts.
Dr. Daniel Sutton made a small incision under my left shoulder and transferred a contaminated thread to the wound. My internal disease-fighters would establish immunity, the doctor explained. He added that he subjected his patients to extreme measures of hygiene because of risks that had brought down many, including Louis Fifteenth.
I endured the procedure bravely, eyes open, to impress Thomas. His references to me as a young woman continued to ring. I would no longer act like a child. How else to secure his love that I now craved—and then keep it?
A female attendant applied a bandage and arranged privacy for me to dress. When I left the room Thomas accompanied me to the area of the clinic where I was to stay for several weeks’ observation. I peeked at the bill he held and was shocked to read this was costing him two hundred-forty francs.
As we stood, both apparently uncertain whether to part ceremoniously or casually, I took another leap. “Please excuse my earlier mention of Mrs. Cosway, but as your sister-in-law I’m concerned for your happiness. Would you deny me that?”
He lifted his eyebrows, and said softly, “Not at all.”
“I’ve overheard you speaking of closure a year ago. You mentioned having written her some fictional argument between your head and your heart.”
“That’s true, though unintended for your hearing.”
I sensed this was more than simple forbearance. Were we now on a man-woman footing? “Thomas, you needn’t face a life of loneliness, in spite of your promise not to remarry. There are other options.”
“I’ve begun to consider that,” he said, adding hesitantly but clearly, “and—your role.”
My heartbeat went into full gallop.
I wanted to add that I wouldn’t hesitate to return to Virginia for the right reasons. But it would have been foolish to play all my cards prematurely.
I said, “You’ve suggested how I might spend my weeks in quarantine. May I suggest how you might spend part of that time?”
“Of course.”
“This morning I left a copy of Rousseau’s account of Pygmalion and Galatea on your pillow at Langeac, in the original French. I understood much but not all. Will you read it? It’s on a different plane than the racy Tristram Shandy you’ve so enjoyed.”
He nodded. “I know the story, but I promise to read it. Is there special significance in your choice?”
I wasn’t going to debate this. I grabbed his lapels and pulled him toward me. I kissed him on the lips. His response reflected surprise but was reciprocal nonetheless. This was awkward for him, but I wasn’t sorry to have been impetuous.
When we separated, his stony visage wore a grin. Just a small grin, a hint of joy.
As he turned and strolled down the hallway to pay the charges, he hummed.
Fortunately, there was no railing or low wall for him to try and leap over.

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…
 

10
With my parasol shielding me from the sun, I meandered through the nearby Tuileries Garden. I found a food stand there and had a peach tart and tea. I also used a public toilet. I made my way to the Champs-Élysées and strolled in the direction of the Hôtel de Langeac.
A near-collision of carriages startled me. Someone shouted my name. Thomas was directing a cabbie to pull alongside me. The maneuver had almost caused a crash.
“Get in,” he commanded.
I lowered the parasol and cocked my head to show puzzlement at his tone.
“Get in,” he repeated, this time alighting and offering a hand up. I accepted, closing the parasol and stifling a temptation to remark how gentlemanly he’d turned after his curt command.
When we were seated in the carriage and he’d directed the driver to continue, I asked, “Have I done something to displease you? You seem agitated.”
“No, I was returning from Mont Calvaire and was attracted by the bright parasol, then surprised to see it was you, wandering along.”
“Wandering? You imply I didn’t know where I was going. I was headed back to Langeac.”
“Perhaps you don’t realize, new dangers are developing in the streets, with mobs stopping people and harassing them. Just last evening at Mont Calvaire I shared with the author Barthélemy an incident I witnessed on the road to Versailles.”
“What sort of incident?”
“A crowd of twenty or more young people intercepted a carriage bearing the Queen’s crest. They shouted obscenities. Evidently they thought Marie Antoinette’s friend, Madame de Polignac, was aboard.”
“The servants at Langeac told me she’s similarly despised.” I wanted to add, and more than a friend, but I wasn’t supposed to know about such things.
“As it turned out, it wasn’t she in the carriage but another lady. I shudder to imagine what they might have done had it been Polignac.”
I drew out my fan and flipped it open in a single move, glad I’d been practicing. I raised my chin and fanned swiftly, as ladies do when presented with such images.
 “Jimmy has made me aware of such dangers, Mr. Jefferson. He drew a diagram to show where I may walk safely.”
“A diagram. May I see it?”
I stared ahead, embarrassed, still fanning. “I forgot to carry it with me.” Then, in my defense, “You suggested I could stroll about the city in my free time. I took you at your word.”
“The situation in Paris grows perilous,” he repeated in a tone implying my head was disappointingly thick, “or James would not have set limits.”
Did I dare test? Was I setting a trap?
“I asked Jimmy to come with me, but you’re keeping him very busy. Anyway, thank you, Mr. Jefferson, for feeling, well—” I was afraid of being coy like actors at the Odéon. I meant to be genuine. “—protective toward me.”
“Henceforth,” he said with much throat-clearing, “I’ll either grant James time to escort you or accompany you myself.”
Oh, my.He wanted to be with me.
Heat rose in my face in a way I’ve been told copied Martha Wayles’s blushes.
I, Sally Hemings, might stroll through Paris with the great Thomas Jefferson. I pictured myself taking him by the arm. That’s what the little Cosway bitch had probably done. But she’d since forfeited the honor, by all evidence.
Thomas was aware, I was certain, that as inheritor of John Wayles’s slaves he’d long served as a father figure to several Hemingses. He cleared his throat again and fairly stammered, “Don’t make more of such an offer than there is.”
I dimpled a held-back smile and knew he saw that.
“No, Mr. Jefferson. I won’t presume. But I will anticipate such escorting. I’d love to see shops and gardens at the Palais Royal. And Notre Dame Cathedral. I think you relish being a guide, as at Monticello. Your enthusiasm for that is a delight to witness.”
We looked straight up the Champs-Élysées. He was silent, though his breathing quickened. I sensed he was pleased by today’s chance encounter, not at all headachey.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed his glancing at my profile. He did so frequently, and at one point he shifted his arms as though to reach and draw me to him. I braced myself. But then he relaxed, and the rhythm of his breathing slowed.
I posed my lips slightly so they would appear fuller. I knew he wanted to kiss me. I just knew. The woman Mama wanted me to be would have sensed it unmistakably. I sensed it with more than reasoned certainty.
Still staring ahead, I said, “I know you enjoy looking at me, dear brother-in-law. But perhaps we’re simply not ready, as you say, to make more of that than there is.”
 
 
 

Norm Helps Osher/KUBreak New Ground &nbs...

Norm Helps Osher/KU
Break New Ground
           Residents in the area of Ottawa, Kansas, will have an opportunity to take part in the popular continuing education course about Thomas Jefferson the University of Kansas sponsors.
          Offered as part of the Osher Lifelong Learning series, Explaining the Perplexing Thomas Jefferson will be on the schedule at Ottawa April 9, 16, and 23, 2013—all Tuesdays, 6:30 to 8:30 p.m. The site will be the campus of the University of Ottawa.
          Norm Ledgin is the “explainer” for these courses. This will be the fifth on this topic he has taught since early last year.  Norm says he was “floored” by response to his latest presentation at Maple Woods Community College, Clay County, MO, where some evaluations indicated the six-hour course “should be longer.”
          For registration in this Spring course in Ottawa and information on others, the contact person is Jane R. Live at the toll-free number, 877-404-5823.
 
 
Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
(complete novel available on Amazon Kindle and in paperback)
The story continues…

 
9
Early in September I pictured Thomas in his retreat at Mont Calvaire. Langeac servants had described that place as a rough-looking monastery and inn, smelling of beer. There was nothing to recommend it, they’d said, except the food. If Jimmy and I prepared the hearty stews the brothers at Calvaire served daily, M’sieu le Ministre might think twice about “retreating.”
In Thomas’s absence Mr. Short managed diplomatic affairs alone, at a cost in time he’d have spent with a young woman at Saint-Germain. I overheard him grumble to Adrien that Thomas was likely receiving the Cosway woman at the retreat.
My blood started heating up until M’sieu Petit answered, “C’est fini—je crois.”
Finished, he believed? That still left me simmering.
The temperate days of late summer inclined me to explore Paris, but Jimmy cautioned me. I was to be careful about speaking to strangers. I was to avoid certain neighborhoods where gangs of unemployed young men—and women—ran wild. They often stopped carriages and took the horses.
“To sell?” I asked.
“To eat,” Jimmy replied.
There, in the kitchen, I sat and fanned myself, trying to drive away such images. My brother added that danger to friends of Marie Antoinette prevented their traveling openly in gaudy carriages.
“To avoid harassment?”
Jimmy shook his head. “You said you want to be a lady? I’d better not describe potential consequences of noblewomen’s carelessness.”
I fanned more rapidly.
Parisians, inspired by America’s overthrow of British rule with their government’s generous support, were dividing into camps moving toward violence. The awakening poor were emboldened to confront wealthy supporters of the profligate monarchy. Best not to be caught in the middle.
“I’ll give you a list,” Jimmy offered, “of places you may go, preferably by carriage.”
“I can’t walk?”
“Not everywhere. And don’t go near the Seine. People of all ages go in and out of that foul water naked to swim. I’ll diagram a map where it’s best for you.”
“Wouldn’t you like to come with me?”
He made a face that said I should know better than to ask. When he wasn’t cooking in the Ministry he was attending chef’s school. By his silence he may have opened the way to my asking Thomas. My heart began to keep time with my fan.
“I have something for you,” my brother said. From behind a cupboard he drew a yellow object—a parasol. It was exquisite—a match to accessories of mine.
“Oh, Jimmy.” I rose to hug and kiss him. “You shouldn’t have spent your pay on me.”
“I didn’t. A visitor left it in my room, and I haven’t determined which one. Just take it.”
In a way I was glad he found women to calm his volatile nature. Best for a young man’s health, despite Mama’s misgivings. “When Jimmy left for Paris,” she’d said, “I feared Dr. Franklin would set him a bad example. That old man falls into bed with any willing female. I hope your brother doesn’t catch a disease.”
I’d shuddered over rumored effects of those diseases—men’s parts falling off and such.
After I changed my clothes and was about to leave the building, one of the friendlier servant girls pressed a newspaper clipping into my hand. An advertisement—the Comédie Française was performing at the Odéon.
I craved laughter, a rare phenomenon in this mausoleum. My language skills weren’t so advanced that I might understand the show, but joy was infectious. Though alone, I decided to go. Perhaps there was safety in being part of a large audience.
A moment after I stepped from the hired carriage at the Odéon, a middle-aged couple approached to ask in heavily-accented English whether I was American. My clothes style and skin color had attracted their attention. For the next hour and a half, Molière’s play proved more enjoyable for their explaining much of the humor.
Afterwards they asked whether I’d join them for a ménage à trois, which I agreed to, believing we three would stop at a café. His wife nodding cheerfully, the husband gestured in anticipation, describing activity far from the meaning of manger, to eat.
I’d allowed an assault on my innocence by jumbling words. Were all Parisians obsessed with fleshly pleasures? I lost myself in the crowd, resolved to become a better language pupil.