America's First Daughter: A Novel (43 page)

On the road, my sister asked, “Are you hoping it’s a boy?”

“A son would be helpful to Tom, but I think in his secret heart, he prefers daughters.”

“I hope mine is a boy. Then Francis will have a brother and maybe Jack won’t feel as if he needs more children.”

My jaw tightened at that, trying to bite back harsh words for my sister’s husband. Why was it that women were expected to restrain our every passion for the sake of propriety, but men couldn’t do it even for the sake of the women they loved? I knew that in getting another child on my sister, Jack had done only what a husband has every right to do. But the last two had almost killed her, and she was terribly afraid. Polly would never blame Jack; no one would.

But I was her sister—and I blamed him.

“I think Betsy Hemings might have him,” my sister said.

I dragged my eyes from the chariot window to fix them on her. “Who?”

“Jack,” she said, as if I were quite a dullard. “I think my maid would welcome him into her bed, but I don’t think my husband would put a hand on her unless I was dead.”

I stared in numb shock at what she was implying—no, what she was saying outright.

“Jack is the best beloved of my soul,” she continued, furrowing her brow. “So it hurts to think of him with another woman. But if I should die in childbirth, Betsy might be a comfort to him. Better for my children, too.”

“Maria!” I cried so savagely that the baby inside me kicked.

I didn’t want my sister thinking this way. Not about dying and not about making another Hemings slave-mistress. But she was thinking of my mother’s example when she said, “If I die in childbirth, I don’t want a Gabriella Harvie over my children. Better that Jack should take a concubine. I’m not brave enough to broach it with him, but if I were a good mother, I’d at least plant the idea in Betsy’s head. Maybe I should mention it to her mother.”

Betsy’s mother was, of course, Mary Hemings Bell, the proprietress of the store we were to shop in.

“Have you lost your wits?” I asked, having half a mind to tell the driver to turn the carriage back around. Fortunately, my sister seemed to have abandoned the idea by the time we reached Main Street.

Polly and I, both round as eggs, waddled our way into Mary Bell’s store, just in time to hear a man at the counter say, “Chocolate drops.”

I confess, even if I hadn’t been flustered already, I was in no way prepared to see William. My hands went straightaway to my bonnet to make certain it wasn’t askew, but my sister let out a girlish squeal. “Mr. Short! Whatever are you doing back in Virginia? Why last we heard, you’d gone off to New York, and then Kentucky to see your brother.”

“Been there and back again,” he replied with a tight smile, holding up three fingers to the proprietress to indicate how many bags of chocolate drops she should make for him. “Now I’m on my way to Richmond.”

“Why didn’t you send word?” my sister asked. “We’re staying at Edgehill. You should winter with us there, like old times.”

I knew perfectly well why he didn’t send word. We’d said farewell at Monticello a year ago. He hadn’t intended to see me again, I thought. Certainly, not so soon. And as much as I might welcome William’s company, it’d be beyond inappropriate to have him stay with us while our menfolk were away.

So I protested, “You presume on the man, Polly!”

“It’s Maria,” she said, rolling her eyes at me in exasperation. “At least come for supper, Mr. Short.”

He winced. “Please forgive me, but my business makes me quite unsociable. I hope you’ll accept these confections as my apology. Or at least consider them an offering to two goddesses of motherhood.”

Polly was delighted, digging into the bag of chocolates at once. But I was made entirely self-conscious; I never wanted him to see me so fat and swollen. “Thank you, but I shouldn’t want to overindulge.”

“Whereas I make a habit of it,” Mr. Short said. “Is there a place we can take some coffee or tea together as we did in Paris?”

My sister laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll find Charlottesville wanting if you’re hoping for those tables that sink down into the ground and come back up with pastries on them . . . oh, I do miss strolling the galleries of the Palais-Royal. All of us, and Sally, too.”

Mary Hemings Bell studiously did not look up from her counter at the mention of her sister and France.

William said, “Shall we take a walk then, ladies?”

“Oh, no,” my sister said at once. “You two go ahead. I’m too tired for that. I’ll stay and chat with Mary.”

There was no way for William to know why the prospect of Polly having a private word with her maid’s mother should give me pause. But he didn’t give me even a moment to object. Instead, he laced his arm in mine and said, “Let’s walk then, Mrs. Randolph. I’ll go slow, so as not to tax you in your delicate condition.”

“There is nothing delicate about my condition,” I assured him. I fell into stride beside him on the main street, determined not to let him think I couldn’t still match his steps on the cobblestones. “Nothing delicate at all. There’s a reason our husbands are so happy to have an excuse to be absent until after the children are born.”

Mr. Short laughed. “You plan to hole up the whole winter at Edgehill with only a houseful of women and girls?”

“And my son, of course. Jeff is the ten-year-old man of the house, now. He’s been riding out each day to check on the property. He fancies himself quite a man grown.”

“He seemed like a very earnest boy. Like his father.”

It was strange to hear William’s assessment of my husband, and a good one at that. “Yes, but he’d hate to hear it. Jeff aims to be just like his grandfather, one day.”

“Don’t we all?” William smiled, wryly.

It was a subject entirely too close to old pains. But still, I asked, “You’ve ambitions to be president?”

“Nothing so lofty. Just the minister to France.”

“You’d go back to Paris? Given all the danger, given the state of the revolution, now with Napoleon—”

“What other American knows the whole of what has happened there, start to finish, better than me?”

No other American,
I thought. Not even my father. “Then you’re here in Virginia to mend those fences you spoke of?”

William cleared his throat. “Alas, I’m not sufficiently regretful for having kicked at Mr. Madison’s delicate fences. I confess, I’ve seldom disliked a man more than I dislike Madison.”

It was strange to hear; no one but Federalists disliked Madison. And most of them hated my father much more. “But—”

“Don’t let it trouble you. I’m certain the feeling is mutual. And I’m sure you’ve had enough of conflict after your time in Washington City. I’m told you quietly conquered the place during your winter campaign.”

I felt myself blush for his characterization of it. How was it that he always saw me as some sort of warrior? And how was it that I never minded? “I hope I did some small good.”

“Margaret Bayard Smith sings your praises,” he said. “You may count yourself a success when a newspaperman’s wife says that you’re one of the most lovely women she’s ever met, with manners so frank and affectionate that you put her perfectly at ease.”

Margaret’s husband was a Republican, so she was apt to praise me, but still my cheeks burned with peculiar pleasure. “Given such a recommendation, Mr. Short, I’m confident enough to advise you. If you’re seeking a diplomatic post, you must reach accord with our secretary of state.”

William’s gaze slid from mine and landed at our feet. “Your father is the president. If he wishes for me to serve as an ambassador, I’m pleased to serve in that capacity. Madison’s approval shouldn’t be required.”

But it would be,
I thought. Mr. Short ought to have known it. Surely he did know it. And I suddenly suspected his unwillingness to swallow his pride was a ruse. He was, for some reason, postponing a return to Europe. I traitorously wondered if it had to do with me.

It would be better if he left. Better for him. Better for Rosalie. And better for me.

Because I was unsettled every time we met. Unlike Jack Eppes, I would never risk all that I loved for fleeting desire. But it would be better never to be tempted in the first place.

Washington, 23 January 1804

To Martha Jefferson Randolph from Thomas Jefferson

The snow is still falling with unabated fury. I expect Mr. Eppes will leave in order to be with Maria at the knock of an elbow in February. On Friday Congress gave a dinner on the acquisition of Louisiana. As much as I wished to have yourself and sister with me, I rejoice you weren’t here. The brunt of the battle falls on the Secretary’s ladies, who are dragged into the dirt in every federal paper. You’d have been the victims had you been here, and butchered more bloodily. Pour into the bosom of my dear Maria all the comfort and courage which the affections of my heart can give her, and tell her to rise superior to fear for our sakes.

M
Y SISTER’S CHILDBIRTH
was no knock of an elbow.

As the bloody child tore itself out of her, Polly’s screams drowned out the howling winter wind. Though I was scarcely recovered of giving birth myself, I held my sister’s hand, mopped sweat from her brow, and coaxed her to breathe when she was too tired to do even that. When the childbed fever ravished her, she had no milk for the child either, so I took my sister’s newborn to my breast with my own. Two precious baby girls. Mine dark-haired, dark-eyed, and plump as a piglet. My sister’s pale, ghostly, and fragile as a flower. I cradled them both in my arms until I was so tired and sore and weary I could no longer feel my arms at all.

But still I held the baby girls. Because it was the only thing I could do for my sister, who tossed and turned in pain that radiated from her empty womb, while she whispered, “Jack . . . where’s Jack?”

I suppose he must’ve set out from Washington City as soon as he got my letter, but it wasn’t until almost the end of February that Jack Eppes walked his half-frozen horse up the road. My son ran out to take the reins, and Jack took giant strides into the house. “Is she—”

“She’s asking for you,” I said, and watched him dash to her, leaving puddles of muddy snow on the wooden stairs in his wake. My sister loved him, and his kisses on her forehead brightened her mood. She seemed happier still to see him take his newborn daughter from my arms and cradle her in his own.

And I began to hope.

At least, until the morning she rasped, “Patsy, take me home.” Perhaps she meant Eppington. I couldn’t be sure. But a journey that far would certainly kill her. Monticello was closer. The air was healthier there. And we could dose her with my father’s sherry.
Yes,
I decided. Now that the spring thaw had come, we’d take her home to Monticello.

She couldn’t sit a horse, nor could I risk her in a bouncing carriage. So we put her down upon a litter, and slaves carried her the entire four-mile journey. Jack and I followed on foot with all the children, splashing across a muddy stream, and scrambling up a thorny and overgrown mountain path with a fierce determination to make my sister well.

Dear God,
I prayed.
Make her well.

But I’d prayed this prayer before and reneged upon my bargain with God, and I feared retribution was now at hand.

“Make your sisters keep up,” I said to my eldest.

“Momma, they won’t do as I say unless I holler,” Ann said. “And you told me a lady should never holler.”

Maria whispered from the stretcher upon which she was being carried. “Your momma never has to holler to get anyone to do her bidding. She just fixes you with that sensible gaze, speaks in dulcet tones, and you’re simply overcome by the superiority of her rank.”

I was so unbearably relieved to hear my sister in good humor that I didn’t take umbrage. And more relieved to see Sally come running out into the dreary spring weather to greet our ragtag band of refugees. I’d sent word ahead, so she’d made up a bed for my sister on the main floor, complete with budding spring flowers in a vase on the side table. Wearing an old housedress with her dark hair braided straight down the back, Sally took the children from my arms, then helped me wash my sister of the sweat and grime of our journey before tucking her into bed.

“You’re giving us a terrible fright,” Sally scolded my sister.

“Papa,” my sister said, softly. “Is he . . .”

“He’s riding from Washington City right now,” Sally said. “So we can have a happy reunion.”

“Is Papa coming?” my sister asked, as if she hadn’t heard.

Sally and I did everything for her, in silent conspiracy that no one else should. When my father finally arrived, Maria wanted to be dressed and upright. For twelve days, every morning she woke up and declared that she was on the mend. But on the twelfth night, her fever burned so hot and her pain was so great that she couldn’t speak without her lips trembling on every word.

That’s when she pleaded with Sally and me to dose her with double the laudanum. I knew then that she was dying, well and truly. So did Sally, who looked to me, those hard amber eyes finally softening with anguish. It was Sally who had seen my sister safely across an ocean. Sally who was, in some ways, a sister to her, too.

But I was the one who held the bottle of laudanum.

“Please,” my sister begged, writhing in pain. And when I gave it to her, she sighed softly at my brimming tears. “Courage, Patsy. We mustn’t cry. We must be of good cheer. Our papa is burdened with such sorrows that we must never burden him with our own.”

Those words broke my heart.

Snapped it in two.

For they were
my
words, spoken after my mother’s death, when we were both still little girls. Words I hadn’t thought she remembered. Heavy words that I had pressed on her delicate shoulders and made her carry all her life.

And they were also the last words I ever heard my sister say.

S
ALLY AND
I
WERE BOTH WITH MY SISTER
in the early morning, when the nightmare scene of my mother’s death played itself out again. The frail and delicate beauty, pale and gasping upon her pillow. The grieving husband, weeping against her hand. Hemings servants gathered round. And me—in my Aunt Elizabeth’s place—holding my sister’s newborn daughter at the precise moment she was made an orphan in my arms.

The nostalgic horror of it all sent my father stumbling back, fleeing into another room while weeping into his handkerchief. But I stood there, deaf and dumb as a stone while everyone else wept. I couldn’t accept the loss of my sister—my beloved sister—who was my child before I had any others.

My little Polly.

The loss of her couldn’t be borne. And I couldn’t make myself let go of her baby when Jack reached for the child. Jack wanted his daughter. It was only natural. His wife was dead and this baby, her namesake, was a living connection to her. So I ought not to have hated him for tearing the infant away from me.

But I did. Oh, I
hated
Jack Eppes.

And when he took that child from me, I thought my knees might buckle. But Sally’s hand slipped into mine, squeezing tight, as if to keep me upright. And we stood there by Polly’s bed like two honor guards, determined that no one else but us would prepare my sister for burial.

I washed her hair, dried it, then combed it to the grim music of the carpenter’s hammer outside, as he made her coffin. Sally found a pretty dress for my sister to wear. I gathered a bouquet of spring flowers and returned to find Sally mending my sister’s garments in the places they’d been worn, swiping at her eyes so that she could see her own needle.

They were all crying. The servants. The menfolk. The children.

But I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry because my sister had bade me not to. I didn’t cry when they put my sister in her coffin. I didn’t cry when they lowered her into the ground near my mother. I didn’t cry when they shoveled dirt on top of her.

Nor did I cry when my father clutched at me by the fireplace, murmuring, “I’ve lost the half of all I had! Now it all hangs on the slender thread of a single life. On you, Patsy. Only you.”

He no longer had the strength, I think, to rage violently in his grief. There’d be no smashed glass, no overturned lamps, no splinters of tables left in his wake. And no pistols, so long as I was there. It was as it had been at the beginning. Papa and I were forged together in sadness, and were still forged, such that no other person in this world was so dear. My life, too, was suspended by the slender thread of his. So I understood the truth of what he was saying.

And yet, it was not the whole truth of it either.

I had a family and he had his mistress, and with her, they had children. And I was never so grateful for Sally as I was that night when she relieved me at my father’s side.

I began to retch the moment I returned to my room. I heaved drily into a pail that my husband held under me, nothing coming up. Alarmed to see me in such a state, Tom said, “Let me get you into bed.”

“No,” I said, refusing to let him tend me. I couldn’t lean on him. I was in too much pain. I could neither sit nor lie down anywhere without agony. Instead, I paced, panting like a horse that’d been run too hard, until I was struggling for every breath the way my sister had struggled for hers.

“My poor Patsy,” Tom said. “You’re having a fit of hysterics.”

Dragging in a ragged, desperate breath, as I tried to escape the cage of his arms, I snapped, “It’s nothing of the sort. I ate radishes and milk together for supper, both of which are unfriendly to my stomach.”

“It can’t be healthful to hold the pain the way you do. You’re a woman. There’s no shame in your tears. You need a good cry on my shoulder, Patsy.”

“Would you mind terribly fetching me some peppermint?”

With a frown, he sighed, then went down the stairs. I shut the door behind him, gasping, suffocating in my own garments and struggling to tear them off. Something finally tore inside me, too, and I began to sob.

I sobbed as I’d never sobbed before, falling to my knees amidst the shreds of my garments, shattered by the knowledge that I’d never see my sister again. She’d been twenty-five years old, now gone from me forever. And it was a pain like nothing I’d ever felt before—one I scarcely knew how to survive.

“I
T’S SO HARD TO LOSE A SISTER
,” Nancy Randolph was saying.

She’d come to Edgehill ostensibly to offer her help in my time of grief. Now she was trying to draw me out past the usual pleasantries because the Randolphs seemed to want to speak about
everything
.

But I was a Jefferson and I could scarcely hear my own infant daughter Mary’s name spoken aloud without bleeding anew for the sister I’d named her after. Condolences came from all over the country. We even received one from Abigail Adams. But I didn’t want to think about the loss, couldn’t bear to think about it, so I just stood there, hanging laundry while my infamous sister-in-law nattered on, insensible to the fact that I was barely listening.

“I know it’s not the same,” Nancy said. “But I’ve lost my sister Judy, as sure as if she’d died. Truly, I have. She harbors nothing but bitterness against me now.”

I imagine I might be bitter, too, if my sister had fornicated with my husband, then killed the bastard born of that incestuous union, and exposed us all to scandal and poverty. Nancy had no one left alive to blame but herself.

So I said nothing. Just hung a petticoat on the line.

Handing me another wet petticoat from the basket, Nancy said, “John’s causing mischief between us.”

John Randolph, she meant. The only surviving brother at Bizarre. John was a sharp-tongued dandy who’d lately taken to calling himself
Randolph of Roanoke
. I disliked him immensely because he’d also taken to criticizing my father’s presidency. But I didn’t see how he could be to blame for the estrangement of Nancy and Judith, and I said so.

“I’ll tell you how,” Nancy explained. “John falsely accused me of carrying on with slaves in my sister’s house as if I lived in a tavern. He’s saying I poisoned Richard, and he’s giving Judith the excuse she needs to turn me out.”

For years now, I’d held my tongue about the scandal at Bizarre, even though my blood still ran cold at the thought of a dead baby hidden under a woodpile. Now, with grief eating me alive, I couldn’t hold my tongue one moment longer. “Does Judy need an excuse, Nancy? We all know the kind of desperate acts you’re capable of!”