America's First Daughter: A Novel(104)

My father had his own solution for the problem. “There’s an opening for justice of the peace; Tom should run. It’ll be an honor and a distraction. He’ll have more time for studying the law if he puts off leaving. Besides, it’s been a great comfort having you both here to look after my farm, and now that I’m in a position to enjoy Monticello, who else can I share it with?”

My father had no sons to give it to, that’s what he meant. Not by blood. Not even Sally’s dead boy. And I was reminded again of just how much my father’s promise never to remarry had cost him. My mother had extracted that from him to fend off women like Gabriella Harvie. And my father had given his word without hesitation, even though it now left him without an heir, and fearful of his legacy.

But I had given him a grandson. A namesake. Jeff. My thriving baby boy. And I hoped I was about to give him another. Touching the small swell of my belly, I said, “Perhaps my husband will be persuaded to stay when he learns that I may be in a delicate condition.”

Papa’s face lit up. “Why, that’s wonderful, Patsy. A baby is just the thing to give a man a renewed sense of purpose.” Then I watched the direction of Papa’s eyes as they settled on Sally in the far room, where she was making noise by scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees like my mother used to do. He watched her with longing, his throat bobbing with every bounce of her earrings as she worked. “Do the floors really need scrubbing?”

“Sally must think so.” When it came to the servants, I never had to ask Sally or Mammy Ursula to do anything. But whereas Mammy ruled over the other slaves like a queen who must be obeyed, Sally just quietly claimed dominion over whatever she felt needed to be done.

And in her unhappiness, I suppose she’d decided the floor needed scrubbing.

Papa murmured, “When we left Paris, I promised never to work her hard. That’s why I don’t ask her to tend me.” It was, I thought, a startling dishonesty, for tending to him was the easiest work on the plantation. Then he added, “Your sister’s right about women. Even while employed in drudgery, some bit of ribbon, ear bob, or necklace, or something of the kind will show that the desire of pleasing is never suspended in them . . . they’re formed by nature for attentions, not for hard labor.”

It was none of my affair. Truly, it wasn’t. But at a loss as to how to fix everything else that had gone so wrong for the people I loved, I wanted to fix just this one thing. There was no undoing what had passed between my father and Sally, but I was convinced that no good could come of their continued estrangement.

“Why, Papa—you’ve just reminded me that I meant to buy some ribbon from Mr. Bell’s store. He’s been a good friend while you’ve been away. He treats Sally’s sister kindly.”

“Pleased to hear it,” my father said, eyes still far away.

“People talk, of course, about how he can possibly keep a former slave as his lady, but since he holds no public office, society seems content to let him live as he pleases.”

My father, who no longer held public office, slowly lifted his eyes to mine, seeking something in my gaze. Redemption, forgiveness, or permission. I wasn’t sure which. But whatever he wanted, I was happy to give. I ought to have made my peace with his relationship with Sally long ago. Perhaps the moment Sally had chosen to return with him to Virginia. “Would you like me to bring back some papers?”

“What?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

“From Mr. Bell’s store,” I replied. “I’m sure there’s news from the capital . . . then again, you’re free from public business now, aren’t you?”

“Indeed.” A dim light grew behind his eyes. “I believe I’ll stop taking newspapers altogether.”

From that day forward, things changed at Monticello.

Instead of writing ten or twelve letters a day, as was Papa’s habit for as long as I could remember, he now put his correspondence aside and replied only on rainy days. He told us—and anyone who would listen—that he was happy to have left the service of his country into abler hands. He styled himself a simple farmer, the master of his plantation and everyone on it.

Now, it’s true that I never saw Papa and Sally strolling in the fields, hand in hand. Never saw them share a kiss. He certainly didn’t squire her around town to shop for dresses, and if he gave her jewelry, she never flaunted it. But after that day, no one but Sally was ever allowed to tend his chambers. She had dominion over his most private places and possessions. And I was grateful my father found solace, comfort, and companionship in a woman so much better than Gabriella Harvie.

Sally would never steal my father’s name, love, or fortune. I believed that she would never, and could never, be the cause of harm to my family. And so I raised no objection to the fact he left her spending money in a drawer, to do with as she liked. Nor did I mind that she was left to her own authority about the plantation. Within a year, she was again with child. A fact that seemed to satisfy—and even embolden—the brothers Hemings.

James still earned a wage as he’d become accustomed but considered himself free as soon as he trained up his replacement in our kitchens. And Bob Hemings pressed for his freedom, too. Like almost all the Hemingses, Bob was a bright mulatto who sometimes passed as white, making it easier for him to travel freely when he had the yen. For years now, Papa had let him come and go as he pleased, and maybe that’s why Papa reacted to Bob’s request for emancipation as a personal rebuke.