Sally Heming (23 page)

Martha paused. She had been choosing her words carefully.
What did he want to hear? she wondered. Conscious of the silence in the room
and the impervious expression on her father's face, she continued:

"You must admit, Papa, that the Frenchwomen are more
accomplished and understand the intercourse of society better than in any other
country. Their education is of a higher caliber. True, the women of France
interfere with the politics of the country and often give a decided turn to the
fate of the empires.... They have obtained that rank and consideration in
society which our sex is entitled to and to which they in vain contend for in
other countries ... including our own! Perhaps," Martha said timidly,
"I went too far."

At this, her father burst into laughter. "My dear,
I've never heard a better speech in defense of the rights of womanhood. Bravo!
Mrs. Bingham couldn't have put it better!"

Thomas Jefferson almost involuntarily glanced to where
Sally Hemings stood. Although there was no visible agitation on his master's
face, his natural high color, now ruddy in the glow of the candles, James
Hemings knew his master well enough to know that he was not at all pleased with
his daughter's outburst. She, on the other hand, was visibly frightened.

Martha Jefferson sighed. She was relieved that her father
had taken her inexplicable outburst as he had, but she knew he didn't agree
with her. His displeasure was concealed as usual behind that benign expression
she knew so well. Why had she let herself be carried away like that? Had it
been because of the strange urgency in her father's voice? He was hiding
something from her, and even the thought of his secret gave her a pang of
jealousy. If only he would treat her as a woman instead of a child ... at least
as he treated those frivolous Frenchwomen he was so busy condemning. She would
ask for nothing more. She no longer wished to be shielded, shut out of his
private thoughts.

The handsome trio rose and moved into the small salon. All
were in motion, except for Sally Hemings. She felt at that moment great
admiration for Martha. James pulled out Martha's chair and as she turned, her
bewildered eyes met those of her maid. The two young girls held each other's
eyes until the benevolent glance of Thomas Jefferson flicked between them.

It was a week later that Martha found herself standing in
her maid's room in the attic of the Hotel de Langeac. Not being able to find
Sally Hemings, she had climbed the steep back stairs to the servants' quarters
with the dozen chemises and bloomers that needed mending. Now she stood in the
center of the small cramped room transfixed, her elaborate coiffure almost
touching the low ceiling and making her stoop unconsciously. The room was
crammed with silk and muslin dresses and petticoats. There were delicate
chiffon shawls and laces piled in one corner on a chair. The moment before, she
had opened a large green morocco leather trunk at the foot of the narrow bed.
In it she had found dozens of pairs of silk stockings, kid gloves, ribbons,
plumes, delicately embroidered cambric underclothes and petticoats, and pairs
upon pairs of silk and leather shoes.

She turned and fingered the dress nearest her. It was of
fine yellow silk with delicate white stripes and embroidered white roses. She
was so transfixed that she had not noticed her maid's presence behind her as
she stood rooted there, silent in utter consternation. Martha turned, brushing
the skirt of one of the dresses out of the way, and stared at her maid. She
took in the coiffured hair, and the pale-blue silk dress over green petticoats.
This dress too was new. She had never seen it before.

"Where did you get all this?" she asked in
something like awe.

Sally Hemings paled but did not answer immediately. Anger
had overwhelmed her at seeing her friend in her room without permission and
without an invitation. Then she realized that Martha was not her friend, but
her mistress and that she had every right to enter at will the room of her
slave—to finger and touch those precious possessions she found there because by
all rights they did belong to her.

"I said, where did you get all this?"

"It...it's mine. It belongs to me, Mistress. It
doesn't concern you."

"Doesn't concern me! Doesn't concern me! Since when
does the fact that my
maid
has the wardrobe of a lady not concern me? I asked you where you got
all these things. Did you
steal
them?"

"No."

"No, who?"

"No, Mistress."

"Then someone
gave
you all this?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Who?"

"I cannot say, Mistress, please ... don't ask me....
Some I bought with my wages...."

"Wages?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Since when have you been receiving wages?"

"Since last year.... Twenty-four francs a month."

"Even a hundred years' salary would not buy these ...
these exquisite things. Tell me"—Martha's mouth set itself in a hard line;
the ways of French society were no mystery to her—"it is a lover, is it
not?"

"I don't know what you mean, Mistress."

"You know perfectly well what I mean! I mean you have
a man as a lover.
You have attracted the eye of a
gentleman and you have ... become his mistress!"

"You think I don't know of such things! After four
years at Panthemont. Tell me or I'll beat it out of you!"

"Yes." Sally Hemings' eyes glowed fierce and dry.
Her fear had been replaced with outrage. If Martha struck her, she was ready to
strike back and her small hands curled into fists of revolt.

"I demand to know who it is."

Martha Jefferson had suddenly taken on all the airs and
long-forgotten drawl of a Virginia-plantation mistress. She took her servant's
chin and lifted her face so that she could look into her eyes. "I demand
to know who the gentleman ... or rather rascal... is!"

"I cannot tell you." She turned her head away
from the revolting female hand that touched her.

"Then I will tell Papa."

At this the maid turned her head back toward her mistress
and for the last time looked directly into her eyes. "I wouldn't do that
if I were you."

Something in the tone of the young girl's voice stopped
Martha Jefferson; she stared at her for a long time.

"Mon Dieu!
What would your
mother say, Sally Hemings!"

"It is not what my mother would say, Mistress, but
what yours would say."

Sally Hemings waited for the storm to break over her head.
Martha Jefferson was strong. She towered over her slave, and Sally Hemings
almost threw up her arms to protect herself. Only pride made her stand and
stare up at her owner. Only pride made her still the trembling of her body and
cool it with an icy indifference that bordered on hatred. Why, she thought,
should I bother to lie to this white woman? Simply because I am expected to
calm and soothe her fears? Look how she flounders at the least resistance.

Martha Jefferson waited for the name of her maid's lover, but
her maid remained silent.

Once, just this once, let her lie to herself. With this,
Sally Hemings turned her back on the intruder who had violated her sanctuary,
her only place of privacy. Even this room was not her own. Let her lie to
herself, she thought. And she left Martha standing in the midst of her
treasures, a pair of white satin slippers clutched in her hand.

April 18, 1789, The Abbqye Rqyale of Panthemont

My dearest and most adored Papa,

I respectfully and formally request your permission to enter
into the Holy Orders of the Abbaye Panthemont as a suppliant and a novice in
preparation eventually to take vows as a nun in the Roman Catholic Church and
the convent of Panthemont.

I realize this may be a shock to you, but I assure you,
dearest Papa, that I have not taken this decision lightly and have been in
daily correspondence with the Papal Nuncio, Comte Duganani, and in daily
prayers and consultation with the Abbess Madame Mezieres as regards this
matter. I cannot and will not reconcile what I have learned of the world and
its frivolous and disreverent and unchristian attitudes with what I
know
to be the precepts and the Holy
Commandments of God and Righteousness. I would rather not
live
in a world where I must be witness
to and condone by compliance such transgressions, or
know
and not prevent the punishments for
such cruel disregard for His teachings.

I embrace you with an Exultant and Joyful heart and Fervent
prayers for your accord in this matter and for the Happiness of my Cherished
Papa....

Your loving Daughter

James Hemings knew what had been in the note he had
delivered to the mansion on the Champs-Elysees several weeks after Martha's
last visit. He had not read the letter, so he could not know if his sister was
mentioned by name or by function. He only knew that Martha Jefferson had
decided and had told him with passionate tears of joy in her eyes that she
wanted to become a nun and enter the convent of the Abbaye de Panthemont. He
had listened to her speechlessly as she had told him of her decision.

When James Hemings had entered his master's cabinet he
watched Thomas Jefferson casually read the note from his daughter. James waited
in silence. But Thomas Jefferson did not betray any emotion; he sat down at his
writing table and wrote quickly, and then rang for Petit. The carriage was
ordered to be hitched and brought to the front courtyard. He beckoned James to
come with him. They rode into Paris together until they reached the rue Royale.
They went from shop to shop buying linen for Martha Jefferson. At the end of
the morning, James, walking behind his master, was carrying armloads of fine
silks, laces, and chiffons. In anticipation of Martha's birthday, he had even
bought a sapphire ring. He had also bought a silver locket for Sally Hemings.
They had spent two hundred and seventy-four francs that morning.

Two days later, James accompanied his master to the
Panthemont Convent, the back of the carriage filled with the purchases. James
followed as Jefferson moved quickly into the inner courts of the convent, where
he was met by a pale and trembling Martha. James tried to signal some comfort,
but she had eyes only for her father. Never had his master's smile been so
benevolent, never his manner so tender and charming, never had he shown in public
such a fatherly attitude toward his eldest daughter, thought James. Thomas
Jefferson kissed her hand and then her cheek, and then turning to the abbess
who had entered the somber courts, he disappeared with her into her apartments.
Martha and James waited outside the closed oak doors of the abbess's office.

When Jefferson emerged, he was smiling. He told Martha that
he had come for her.

Martha Jefferson looked up at the handsome, smiling man who
was her father. His auburn hair was flecked with white, giving it a sandy color
when it was not powdered, and it was not this day. It was tied in a queue at
his neck with a blue ribbon and hung down his back over the Prussian blue of
his frock coat fitted perfectly over his broad shoulders. The long powerful legs
were encased in pale ivory chamois and he too had on the red-heeled patent
leather pumps of the aristocracy. His long chin was set, his eyes clear and
guileless as a summer day. His attitude was one of a determined, but attentive
suitor. He smiled, showing small white even teeth and without a word, Martha
Jefferson took the proffered arm of her father and mounted the double steps
into his carriage, the door of which was held open for her by James.

James Hemings closed the door and mounted beside the coachman.
The elegant English carriage of lilac and yellow trimmed in dark gray turned
and rattled out of the lonely cobbled courtyard onto the rue de Grenelle.
Martha settled back behind the white lace curtains into the brimstone-colored
silk upholstery. She looked with wonder at the piles of presents and packages
on the seat beside her. Never, as long as she lived, would she mention this
incident again. She pulled back the silk tassels and took a last look at the
white stone facade of the Abbaye de Panthemont drenched in the rosy spring
sunlight.

The education of Martha Jefferson was ended.