America's First Daughter: A Novel (33 page)

I couldn’t get enough of looking at her. During her time with Papa in Philadelphia, she’d somehow transformed into a beautiful girl of fifteen with a heart-shaped face, bones like a bird, and a tiny waist that would be the envy of every woman in Virginia. My father shook Tom’s hand, and Tom managed to smile—he’d been dreadfully ill that summer, as though the family scandal had sickened him to the core. But at his smile, my father’s return, and Polly’s embrace, I felt whole again.

Everything was right. Safe in the warm glow of my father’s love, I hadn’t the faintest urge to tell him anything more than must be told about the recent unpleasantness.

Meanwhile Sally, who hung back in the hall, twisted her hands anxiously, as if it took a real effort not to run to Papa, too. Papa noticed her, I was sure, but turned away as he settled into his favorite chair in the parlor and said, “I have news. . . .”

President Washington had personally asked him not to resign as secretary of state, but he felt that his term would soon come to an end. First, however, he hoped to negotiate for the release of Lafayette from prison.

Polly piped up with, “Hopefully Mr. Short can help. He’s been appointed minister to the Netherlands, but he’s had contact with Lafayette.”

The sudden pain William’s name caused caught me entirely unawares. I’d forbidden myself to think of him. I was a wife and mother and I loved my little family. I
loved
Tom. But I’d never told my husband about William, and the unexpected mention of him now, with Tom sitting close beside me, holding my hand, made me acutely aware of the lie of omission. I nearly burned with it.

But my curiosity pricked at me even more sharply. Affecting nonchalance, I asked, “I thought Mr. Short was to be the minister of France.”

“That post went to Gouverneur Morris,” my father replied. “Some say it’s for the best. Mr. Short has, after all, become disenchanted with Paris since the king and the Duke de la Rochefoucauld were executed.”

The duke, much like Lafayette, had helped give birth to France’s constitution. Why was the revolution now eating its fathers? I wondered if such a thing could happen here.

Polly said, “After the duke was executed, Mr. Short was quite frantic for the safety of the widowed duchess. He proposed marriage to her, to rescue her from the violence in France, but she refused him.”

I doubted that William’s motives in proposing marriage were entirely altruistic, as I’d heard too many rumors of his love for Rosalie. But at this news, I was surprised to feel more sadness than jealousy. More pity than bitterness. I felt sorrow that William Short had twice tried to marry a woman, and twice been refused.

The conversation turned to the latest conflict between Papa and his nemesis, Mr. Hamilton, but my thoughts stayed with poor William. He’d wanted nothing more than a wife and children and to follow in my father’s footsteps. He’d wanted it desperately. And yet, nearly four years had passed since I left him in Paris, and he still had no wife, no family, nor even my father’s post in France, where he’d made his career.

But he
had
been made the minister to the Netherlands. That had to have pleased him. He’d wanted to be of both service and consequence to his country, and he was. I was glad for him, and I pushed down the treacherous, unworthy part of me that imagined myself the wife of an ambassador, strolling with my parasol through the streets of The Hague, wearing fine gowns, having my hair done at my toilette before going down to entertain at a dinner table set with the finest silver. . . .

That evening I strolled with Papa at Monticello. My arm looped through his, we made our way down the pebbled walkway along the vegetable garden as the sun went down. The vibrant hues of autumn stretched out for many miles in every direction, Papa’s mountain providing an unmatched vista of the new country unfolding below. We walked for many long minutes in silence.

“How are you, dear Patsy?” he finally asked, peering down at me.

Because I worried he’d see in my expression my troubles—the scandals, the rift with Tom’s family, Tom’s long illness, our debts—I plastered on a smile. “I’m well, Papa. Even better now that you’re home.”

He leaned into me and winked. “Always my brave girl, aren’t you?”

“I try.” In truth, I felt ridiculously close to tears in that moment and had to look away. Perhaps it was how small I felt beside him, or the knowing look in his eyes, or the relief that we were all together again. “It will be nice when you can stay for good.”

“I desire very much to exchange the labor, envy, and malice of public life for ease, domestic occupation, love, and society. Here, where I may once more be happy with you.”

The words lifted an unseen burden from my shoulders. “Soon, Papa?”

“Soon,” he said.

The conversation marked the beginning of a period of happiness at Monticello. We celebrated my twenty-second birthday in grand style, with a fine dinner, and a chorus sung round my harpsichord while I played. Papa lavished love on his little grandchildren; it wasn’t unusual to find him on the floor of the parlor, telling stories and playing at games with Ann and cooing over Jeff. All of us reveled in the bounty of the season, everyone healthy and happy, until the cold of November struck with bad tidings.

Holding a letter, my husband said, “My father is dying.”

He gave immediate orders to fetch his horse, then took my hand. “I must ride to Tuckahoe without delay. Follow as soon as you can with the children.”

“Of course. As quickly as I can.” Not knowing if I should feel grief or relief at the news that the main source of my husband’s longtime suffering might soon leave us forevermore, I threw my arms around Tom’s neck. “Ride safely.”

He grasped my face, kissed me, and departed.

Tom wanted us to hurry, but my maid was so slow and sullen that I nearly shouted at her. Thankfully, Sally took the baby, shooing my maid away before I lost my temper. “Hush now,” Sally said to my baby son. Then to me, she said, “If you like, I’ll go on with you to Tuckahoe, Miss Patsy. Lay some flowers on my baby’s grave before the snows come.”

It would only be right,
I thought, so I nodded. Besides, she’d keep out of the way at Tuckahoe, where the Randolphs were surely set to feud again. Oh, I never
really
worried that the old man was truly dying. I was sure he was entirely too mean to die. This latest crisis was almost assuredly another bit of Randolph theatrics.

So I was stunned when, after more than a day’s travel, we rolled up the long tree-lined drive to Tuckahoe and my husband met us at the gate, overwrought. “He’s dead, Patsy. He’s dead!”

“Oh, Tom,” I said, clutching his hand.

He lowered his head, tears welling in his eyes. “I was too late. Rode as hard as I could, but when I got here John Harvie was in the door, telling me I didn’t get here in time.”

Seeing my husband in such a state, Sally disappeared somewhere with my children, for which I was enormously grateful. I went into the house with Tom, into the very room where the Randolph book of ancestry resided, with its drawings and coats of arms. And the moment we were alone behind closed doors, Tom went to his knees, burying his face in my belly, letting me stroke his hair while he sobbed.

My heart broke for Tom, who had now lost both a mother and a father in only a handful of years. We’d known, of course, that one day it’d come to pass that we’d be master and mistress of Tuckahoe. But neither of us had desired it, nor expected it, so soon. Even as much as I loathed that old man, I hadn’t wished death on him.

At only twenty-five years old, my husband had already taken on the role of patriarch—that’s why he’d been so upset about his sister’s scandal. As the eldest son, his younger siblings already looked to him for guidance, but now they’d look to Tom for everything. And I couldn’t begrudge him his torrent of grief in light of the burdens that were now his to bear.

Once spent of his tears, Tom asked if I’d take on the education of the children. “My sisters look up to you, Patsy. Your learning in France will stand them in good stead. Maybe Nancy will come back to help so she can have a life with her family even if no decent man will have her now.”

My throat swelled with emotion. “Of course I will, Tom. I’ll do whatever you need me to. And with utter devotion.” I meant it with all my heart, because I understood that with Colonel Randolph’s death, our lives would never be the same. We’d have to move to Tuckahoe, lock, stock, and barrel. We’d have to make this bleak plantation, and all its slaves, support the whole family—all Colonel Randolph’s children, and his widow, too. We’d have to mend the quarrels with Gabriella and reconcile Tom’s unmarried sisters to living under one roof again, as family ought to.

I’d have to help him do that. I’d have to be more loving to my husband and his family than ever before. Which was why when I went down the next morning and discovered the widow presiding over the sitting room in fine black silks, I resolved to be kind to her. She’d driven my husband’s sisters away—even the littlest ones, who had lived with us at Monticello ever since. But I was determined to forget that now.

Bleary-eyed after a night of troubled sleep, I sat beside Gabriella and said, “You have my sympathies in your loss, and—”

“Colonel Randolph is with God now,” she interrupted, standing up and walking to the window.

I rose to follow her, imagining she must be frightened, widowed and with two babes, now at the mercy of my husband for her upkeep. “You mustn’t worry about anything. Now is a time for family to come together. Please let me know what I can do to ease your time of mourning.”

Very calmly, Gabriella traced a finger over the windowpane where Nancy had carved the date of her mother’s death. “You think of me as family?”

I hadn’t. Not truly. But I was resolved, henceforth, to do so. “From this day forward—”

She spun to face me. “Don’t bother. It won’t be long before I remarry. I have my looks, two babies to prove I’m fertile, a respected family name, and a fortune to bestow.”

I supposed there were advantages to being the daughter of John Harvie, but to say such things while her husband was only a few hours dead . . . well, I excused it as the shock of her loss. “Just know that you’ll always be welcome here at Tuckahoe. It’s your home.”

She gave an amused snort. “
I
will be welcome here, of course.”

It was a strange remark, but I dismissed it. And I thought it was merely her father’s natural aristocratic sense of command that made him strut about the place, giving commands to the slaves at Tuckahoe as if it were his own plantation. None of this went down easy with Tom or his brothers.

And, adding to the tension, the Randolphs of Bizarre arrived for the burial the next day. Judith, Nancy, and Richard all arrived in one carriage. For his safety, I suppose Richard counted upon the solemnity of the occasion, and the protection of his womenfolk, as always. Having escaped justice—though not the censure of all right-thinking Virginians—he obviously felt free to go in public with his lover on one arm and his wife on the other.

But whereas Nancy and Richard were unrepentant, the scandal had obviously taken its toll on poor Judy and her baby son, who had been afflicted with deafness. Some said it was God’s punishment for Richard’s crimes. I myself sometimes worried about God’s vengeance, having broken my promise to enter his nunnery and having sworn falsely upon a Bible at court. But would God really visit the crimes of the father onto his child? Judy must’ve thought so, because she wore her mourning clothes as if she might never wear any others, clinging to her Bible, praying more devoutly than a nun.

Draped in expensive black lace that made her an even prettier widow than she’d been a bride, Gabriella leaned in at the grave site and whispered to me, “He’s thinking of divorcing her, you know.”

“What?” I asked, sure that I’d misheard.

“Richard,” Gabriella replied, impatiently. “He’s been consulting a lawyer in Richmond about the possibility of divorce and showering his whore with little gifts. I suppose he means to switch sisters.”

I’d never known anyone who’d been divorced. Not even at the convent in Paris, where I’d met women who had run away from their husband and wanted annulments, but never divorce. I didn’t even think it was possible in Virginia. Especially not to divorce one sister and take the other as a wife! “Poor Judith,” I breathed.

No wonder she was clinging to her Bible, thumbing the pages, murmuring a prayer by her father’s grave site that seemed more desperate than devotional. And while we waited on the officiant, my husband stooped beside his mother’s unkempt grave site and began to clear the weeds with his bare hands. “Couldn’t someone be bothered to tend her grave?” he muttered, and I had to put a hand to his shoulder to silence him. But his sisters overheard and cast looks of blame at Gabriella.

I kept my silence because, even as I tried to remember this was my family now, I didn’t understand the Randolphs. A short time later, listening to the officiant praise a man I’d never thought of as any sort of father, my eyes drifted to the edge of the woods where I saw Sally Hemings standing by a field of wildflowers, mourning for her dead son—a little boy who, like her, was my family in truth.

I was still thinking about her—worrying for her—after we’d returned to the house for tea while the men closeted themselves together to go over Colonel Randolph’s will in the great hall.

All at once Tom burst out of the arched double-doors, looking as if he’d been struck with a hammer like a hog at the slaughter. Without a word, he walked right out of the back door of the house, staggering toward the river, like a man come unmoored from his senses.

“Tom!” I cried, hurrying after him. I had no idea where he was going as he then changed his path and circled the house. He never turned when I called his name. Holding my skirts in both hands, tromping through autumn leaves, I chased after him, realizing that we’d come again to the little white schoolhouse my grandfather built when he’d presided here at Tuckahoe.

All at once, Tom whirled and pulled me up the stairs and inside. “It’s my fault. My fault for not staying at Varina.”