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.