America's First Daughter: A Novel (2 page)

S
ONS OF A REVOLUTION FIGHT FOR LIBERTY.
They give blood, flesh, limbs, their very lives. But daughters . . . we sacrifice our eternal souls. This I am sure of, as I stand in the quiet emptiness of my father’s private chambers.

I’m here now because my father is dead and buried.

And I’m left to make sense of it all.

My gaze drifts from the alcove bed where Papa drew his last breaths to his private cabinet beyond to the adjustable mahogany drawing desk he brought from Paris so many years before. Light filters down on me from the skylight built into the soaring ceiling and plays off the mirrors to make me feel as an actor upon a stage, playing a secret role.

Even knowing that he’ll never return, I hesitate to settle into the red leather swivel armchair upon which my father struggled to write his letters, fewer and fewer every year. His hands, his eyesight, and his endurance all failed him in the end. But never his intellect;
that
he had to the last.

From between the pages of a leather-bound book on his revolving book stand, I find a sketch. A drawing of an obelisk monument and tombstone to be inscribed with what he wished to be remembered for—and not a word more.

T
HOMAS
J
EFFERSON

A
UTHOR OF THE
D
ECLARATION OF
A
MERICAN
I
NDEPENDENCE

OF THE
S
TATUTE OF
V
IRGINIA FOR RELIGIOUS FREEDOM

AND
F
ATHER OF THE
U
NIVERSITY OF
V
IRGINIA

I brush my fingertips over the sketch and imagine the coarse granite that will bear these words and stand eternal guardian over Papa’s final resting place. Alas, memories are made of more than inscriptions in stone. They’re made, too, of the words we leave behind. And my father left so many.

Most of his meticulously ordered, copied, and cataloged letters are stored in wooden cabinets here in his chambers. It will take time to go through them all, but time is all I have now. So I start with the earliest letters, warmed to hold the fading pages in my hands, overcome with pride at seeing his confident script soaring so eloquently across the yellowed paper.

A glass-paned door opens behind me from the direction of the greenhouse where my father’s mockingbirds sing, and I swivel in the chair, startled to come face-to-face with my father’s lover. Sally Hemings doesn’t knock, nor does she apologize for the intrusion. She strides into the space as if she belongs here. And she does. For as much as my father cherished the seclusion of this sanctum sanctorum, almost until his last breath, this was her domain.

But now Thomas Jefferson is gone, and Sally and I have come, at last, to the final reckoning between us. We stand, two aging matriarchs amidst his books, scientific instruments, and a black marbled obelisk clock—the one over his bed that counted down the minutes of his glorious life and now counts down the moments until we will follow him.

Sally, who bears a tawny resemblance to my lovely, petite mother, wears a crisp white apron over the gown she sewed from colorful calico. And she surveys the space much as I did moments ago. Silently, I rise to my feet, towering over her in my dark and somber gown, with hair that has gone from red to reddish brown—the image of my father.

In the reflection of the gilt mirror, we are matched reflections of the ghosts in this room. But it’s my father’s presence that we both feel now. I suppose some might say she was his beautiful mulatto slave wife and I the plain white wife of his parlor. We both birthed children for him: hers of his bed and his body; mine as a daughter of his bloodline, for his legacy.

He loved us both.

But only his love for me can be remembered.

Standing self-possessed as an ancient priestess, holding a bundle of relics collected from her life with my father, Sally informs me, “I’m taking these.” A jeweled shoe buckle Papa wore as the American minister in France. An inkwell that serves, perhaps, as a remembrance of the immortal words he wrote. An old discarded pair of spectacles. Holding them tight, she doesn’t say why she wants them. Perhaps it’s because it was through those spectacles that he looked at the world and saw her.

I see her, too.

With black glossy hair shot through with only a little gray, the long length pulled back in a chignon at her neck, Sally possesses a beauty that hasn’t faded. Is it sadness in her expression for the loss of a great man who left us both alone and in ruin? Or is it defiant triumph?

I cannot know, so my gaze drops to the bundle in her hands and I nod. She’s entitled to the spectacles. She’s entitled to more than he gave her—more than
I
can give her.

She nods, too, the culmination of a lifetime of conversation between us—sometimes spoken aloud, sometimes in passing glances and measured silences. But now we have nothing left to say. Sally looks one last time at the alcove and my eyes follow the direction of hers, taking note of how his bed sits between his private dressing room and his study—caught between his private and public life, just as he was.

Just as Sally and I have been.

Finally, she shakes her head, as if pulling herself from a memory, and steps toward me. With quick, deft fingers, she unlaces the ribbon at her hip where the key to this room has dangled for nearly forty years. She surrenders it to me, just as my father surrendered to me the fate of everything and everyone that once belonged to him.

Our hands meet in the exchange of the key—her bronzed fingers against my pale, freckled ones—and it feels like a circle closing. We’ve made this whole journey together, from the time we were innocent children on my father’s mountain when this grand house was a mere shadow of itself. I meet her eyes wondering if she knows the sin I’m about to commit and if she would give her blessing, or if she dreads it like I do. But Sally’s eyes are like hardened amber in which secrets are preserved but trapped beyond reach.

She doesn’t grant permission, nor does she ask it anymore.

She merely walks away.

And I let her go, because she’s a part of the story that must remain untold.

I’m then alone again in the quiet of this sacred place where my father’s belongings remain exactly as he left them, as if awaiting his return. The silence is suffocating in both its finality and protection, like a cloak that shelters me against a storm, that protects my very nation.

Returning to his desk, I take my seat once more. And I set my mind to the task I and I alone must do.

For my father was the author of our Independence. His pen unleashed one revolution after another by declaring
that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.

Deceptively simple words—the greatest words he ever wrote.

Perhaps the greatest words anyone has
ever
written.

Words that inspired men to pledge their lives and fortune to the cause, that inspired women to make countless sacrifices, and that inspired nations to embark upon an experiment of freedom. My father’s words gave voice to a movement. His voice was the voice of a nation. A voice that changed the world.

Who am I to censor that voice?

I am a daughter who must see to it that he is remembered exactly the way he wanted to be. I recall the instructions he’d written for his tombstone:
and not a word more
.

Which is why I light the wick of a candle in one of the holders—ingeniously, and somewhat dangerously, fastened to the arms of my father’s chair. And with shaking hands, I hold one of his sacred letters above the flame. In so doing, I feel the heat, as if a prelude to hell’s fires awaiting me.

But I have defied God before.

My heart is already heavy with sins and secrets and betrayals. I’m stained with the guilt of slavery. I have counted as a necessary sacrifice the blood of patriots. I have denied the truth written upon my own skin in the black and blue ink of bruises. I have vouched for the character of men without honor. I have stayed silent to avoid speaking the truth. What is one more silence when it preserves all we have sacrificed for?

That
will be my legacy.

The service I render my country.

For I’m not only my father’s daughter, but also a daughter of the nation he founded. And protecting both is what I’ve always done.

Charlottesville, 29 May 1781

From Thomas Jefferson to the Marquis de Lafayette

I sincerely and anxiously wish you may prevent General Cornwallis from engaging your army till you are sufficiently reinforced and able to engage him on your own terms.

B
RITISH!
B
RITISH!”
These words flew with blood and spittle from the gasping mouth of our late-night visitor, a rider who awakened our household with the clatter of horse hooves and the pounding of his fist upon the door. “Leave Monticello now or find yourself in chains.”

Still shaking off the fog of sleep, my eight-year-old heart could’ve kept time with a hummingbird’s wings as I stared down from the stairway to where my father greeted our late-night guest wearing only a pair of hastily donned calfskin breeches and a quilted Indian gown of blue. “Are you certain the British are so near?” Papa asked.

Standing in the open doorway, bathed in the light of a slave’s lantern, the rider panted for breath. His bloodstained hunting shirt was slashed at the shoulder, leather leggings spattered with mud. And his face . . . oh, his face. It was a grotesque mask of burrs and blood, red and cut open in a dozen places, as if he’d been whipped by every branch in our forest during his frantic ride. “Tarleton and his dragoons are very close, Governor Jef ferson,” he said, still gasping and wild-eyed. “Neither the militia nor the Marquis de Lafayette and his army will arrive in time to defend us. You must go now or be captured.”

My scalp prickled with fear and I clutched the railing tighter. The men of the household—many of them members of the Virginia legislature who recently sought refuge at Monticello—stumbled into the entryway in various states of undress, some shouting in panic. My little sister Polly whimpered, and I put my arm around her shaking shoulders, both of us still in our bed gowns. I softly shushed her so I could hear the conversation below, but I already understood more than the adults thought I did.

How close are the British soldiers? How many? And what will they do if they find us?
These questions raced through my mind as more of the plantation’s servants spilled into the space, as anxious as we were, though perhaps in a different way. For I’d heard the men say the British promised the slaves freedom.

Sally, my friend and playmate, and a slave girl just my age, tucked herself into the far corner. Her amber eyes were carefully shielded, hiding whether she felt fear or excitement. My mother, however, wore her alarm like a shroud. Though she’d taken the time to dress in frock and mob cap, her skin was pale, her hazel eyes wide with panic. “The British? How near?” Mama asked, the candlestick shaking in her hand.

Only Papa was serene in the face of the coming danger. Looking from the men to Mama, he straightened to his full height—and he was the tallest man I knew, with ginger hair and piercing blue eyes that shone with fierce, quiet power. He held up his hand to silence the room. “Worry not, my friends. The mountains and darkness will delay the British,” he said, the certainty of his words calming the panic. He turned to the servants and spoke with a reassuring authority that reminded us all he was master of the plantation. “Martin and Caesar, secure the valuables. Robert, ready a carriage to take my wife and children away after they’ve had some breakfast—”

“There’s no time, sir,” the rider dared to argue. “The British are already in Charlottesville. They’re coming to burn Monticello.”

Burn
Monticello? My gaze darted about the brick-walled rooms of our plantation house—cluttered even then, in its first Palladian incarnation, with Papa’s cherished artifacts, marble busts and gilt-framed paintings, red silk draperies and a pianoforte, books and buffalo robes. Would all of it go up in a blaze of fire?

My father and mother exchanged a tense glance. Turning to his visitors, Papa said, “Gentlemen, you must forgive my lack of hospitality and reconvene elsewhere. Make haste. My servants are at your disposal.”

The room erupted in a flurry of motion. The slaves hurried about hiding the valuables. Metal clanked from the direction of the dining room, the sound of the silver forks, spoons, cups, and candlesticks being stuffed into pillowcases. Mama called Polly and me down to her. We rushed to her side, and she swiftly bundled Polly into her arms, snatching me by the hand and rushing us out into the damp night. My heart galloped as my bare feet scrabbled on the cold ground and I could
feel
my mother’s answering pulse pounding as she tugged me with a cold, clammy hand.

Mama had been in poor health since the recent loss of a baby, and she couldn’t hide her trembling from Papa as he hurried us to our carriage. “Hush,” he said, though she’d not spoken. Pressing his forehead against Mama’s, he murmured softly to her and I wished I could hear what he said. All the commotion—heavy feet trampling our flower beds, horses whinnying and jangling in their bridles, and men stuffing papers into saddlebags—obscured whatever words my parents shared. But anyone watching would know that their whispered words were laced with passionate devotion. Then, Papa kissed Mama and released her into the carriage.

“Papa!” I cried. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

“Don’t fret, Patsy,” he said, reaching into the carriage to stroke my cheek and brush away a tendril of ginger hair, just like his. “I’ll secure my papers then follow on horseback.”

But the rider had warned us to go
now
. The British would capture Papa if he stayed. I wasn’t supposed to know that the king had branded my father a traitor nor that the British would hang him if they captured him. But more than once I’d overheard the legislators’ fiery speeches ring through Monticello’s halls, so fear crawled into my throat. “Come now, Papa. Or they’ll catch you. They’ll catch you!”

“Never,” he replied with a soft, confident smile. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. “My escape route is well planned. I’ll take Caractacus. There’s no faster horse in Virginia.”

The thought of him alone with enemies all around, the thought of us fleeing without him, the terror of never seeing him again—all of these horrid imaginings had my heart pounding so fast it was hard to breathe. I clutched at him. “Surely you won’t send us alone.”

Papa grasped a large satchel from the hands of a servant and passed it to my mother. “Be my brave girl. You won’t be alone,” he said, then called over his shoulder to a figure in shadow, and a reedy young man appeared at his side. In the faint light of the rising dawn, William Short, my mother’s kinsman and one of the many men who idolized my father, stepped forward.

William.
How strange it is to realize now that he was always with us. From the very start. From that first frantic moment when I learned what it truly meant to be the daughter of a revolutionary, William was there, at my side. . . .

In his twenty-second year, William Short boasted of being one of the youngest elected officials in Virginia, but he was no militiaman. He seemed a strange choice to guard us. Even so, Mama gave no protest when Mr. Short alighted our carriage with a sprightly hop, and without further ado, commanded our driver to be off.

“Ha!” the driver shouted at the horses and our carriage lurched forward onto the road leading away from Monticello. Leading away from Papa, who stood tall atop his mountain, unwilling to yet surrender.

O
UR CARRIAGE JUMPED
and bumped down the rough road, southward. Thrown together inside, we clasped one another tight, my right hand in Mama’s, my left arm hugging Polly. A stunned, scared breathlessness rendered all of us quiet. With her knuckles white around the handle of a satchel of our belongings, Mama lifted her wavering voice to finally ask Mr. Short, “Where will we go?”

“John Coles’s place on the Green Mountain,” he replied, a wary eye on the road. The certainty in Mr. Short’s voice calmed me a little. Mama released a shallow breath, as if the words provided her a bit of ease, as well.

We’d taken supper at Mr. Coles’s Enniscorthy estate before. The memory of thick ham steaks and rye bread ought to have made my stomach rumble, for we’d not had breakfast, but the ache in my belly wasn’t hunger. To my terrified eyes, the tree branches flying past the carriage window reached for us like the gnarled hands of death. And in the faintest glow of morning, unable to tear my gaze from the blurred view, I gasped at every red flower or rock in a ruddy hue. “Is that a redcoat?” I asked Mr. Short. “Are the dragoons ahead of us on the road?”

Squinting to see, Mr. Short replied, “The dragoons wear green. Worry not, Patsy. We departed in time.” He peered over his shoulder at me, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and winked. Ordinarily, that kind reassurance would’ve lured a returning smile, but I saw the nod he gave to Mama and feared he only told me what I wished to hear.

Another hour passed before we heard the thunder of horse hooves behind us. When we did, Mama gasped and pushed me and Polly down to the carriage floor. While my sister cleaved tight to my chest, I saw the glint of a pistol in Mr. Short’s hand.

“Stay silent, whatever comes,” he said, his voice thin and shaky.

Still, Mr. Short’s arm was steady as he pulled himself up to the window of the carriage, ready to fire upon our enemies. Blood rushing past my ears, I waited for the blast.

Instead, the young man blew out a breath. “Mr. Jefferson!”

Relief flooded through me so hard and fast that I bit back a sob. I popped my head up over Mama’s shoulder, never happier to hear Caractacus’s furious whinny. The stallion’s brown coat was slick with sweat and the froth on his lips told us how hard Papa must have ridden him to catch up with us.

“Halt!” Papa cried.

As the carriage slowed and Papa rode up to the window, my mother rose up, shaking with relief. “Pray tell me it’s a false report.”

“I cannot.” Papa sat tall in the saddle like the skilled horseman he was, the leather saddlebags beneath him bulging with papers and the violin he never journeyed without. My eyes scoured over him for any sign he’d come to some harm, but he appeared only a little winded. “British horses have come to Monticello. I rode up Montalto and saw them in my spyglass.”

I gasped. Why had he remained behind so long? When everyone else was fleeing in a mad dash, had my father gone up the adjoining mountain to look for the enemy by himself? Whatever he saw convinced him to run. More than that, to worry that we might still be in danger. “I’ll ride ahead to scout for enemy soldiers,” Papa said.

Mama shook her head. “But—”

“Don’t stop for anything,” Papa told us. “If you
are
stopped, say you don’t know me. Say you’re from another state. Say you’re passing through to see a kinsman.”

Tears stung the backs of my eyes. He was asking us to lie—a thing forbidden by God’s laws. To ask it, he must’ve believed Mama would be safer if she were another man’s wife. That I’d be safer if I were someone else’s daughter. Perhaps anyone else’s daughter.

Mama looked away, as if in agony at the thought of denying him. And my mind rebelled at the very thought.

“Patsy,” my father said, reading my mind as he so often did. “You can pretend, can’t you?”

His question was more a command. I nodded even while my heart ached. But Papa was relying on us.
Yes. I can pretend
. Not only because he asked it of me, but because, for the first time in my life, I understood that a lie could protect those I loved.

My father rode off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. The carriage lurched forward a moment later. When would we reach safety? I didn’t remember Enniscorthy being so far. Fear and anticipation made me wonder if we’d
ever
get there, but at long last, morning light filtered through the trees and made a welcoming picture of the big two-story plantation house nestled amongst the mountains.

Enniscorthy.

Climbing from the carriage, my body felt battered and bruised. Mama fussed with my hair beneath my nightcap, but Mr. Coles and his family cared little about our disheveled appearance and quickly ushered us into their home. In the room provided to us, Mama instructed me to wash in a bucket of water while she sponged the dirt from the road off Polly. Then she found clothes for us from her satchel.

By the time she had tugged a white frock dress over my head and tied it with a pretty blue sash, Papa had arrived. He gave us all cheerful kisses atop our heads, as if the British hadn’t just chased us from our home. And then we sat down to a meal.

Mama, voice still wavering, thanked the lady of the household again for our food and shelter. With a trembling hand, she fed Polly spoonfuls of porridge, but took for herself only the tiniest bites, washing it down with sips of tea that our host vowed had been honestly smuggled, without tax or duty paid upon it to the British.

Mimicking my mother, I tried to be dainty and nibble at my food, but Papa and Mr. Short gulped down hearty portions of eggs and smoked sausages and bread. The last had been scarce since the start of the war and the prices of food quite high, which made us even more grateful for the hospitality when we were invited to stay. But Papa said we weren’t far enough away yet from the reach of the British dragoons.