America's First Daughter: A Novel(108)
“Your father likes Jack,” Tom said, an edge in his voice.
Frustrated, I said, “Everybody likes Jack. And Jack likes everybody.”
“No, he doesn’t. He’s all pretense,” Tom said, finishing his drink in one gulp. “He proposed to your sister because his parents wanted him to.”
Which—even if true—was no bad reason for marriage.
“Don’t spoil things, Tom.”
Setting his glass down, he lowered his eyes. “Say what you will, Martha, but I wanted you . . . and I still do.”
It softened me to hear it, and I smoothed my hands over the bodice of my gown, knowing that the striped silk taffeta in shades of gold brought out the fiery hues in my curled hair. “Then why don’t you come downstairs and dance with me.” Taking his hand, I drew it to my hip. “Look at our guests flapping about without any grace. They need our example.”
“Patsy,” Tom said, his fist balling within my grasp. “I’m trying to tell you something.” His throat bobbed, as if he was mustering courage. “It pains me to be an embarrassment to you, but I don’t know how to remedy my flaws. All I know is that whenever I feel strongly compelled to any act, a doubt always arises. And whereas the voice of reason is low and persuasive, passion is loud and imperious.”
It was a kind of apology. And I was reminded again that there was no guile in my husband. What he thought, what he felt, was always there on his skin. He wasn’t a diplomat; he wrestled every day with the necessary fictions of gentility that came so easily to me and my father, born politicians that we were. Sometimes Tom’s directness was refreshing, intoxicating, even.
Tom finished by saying, “I wish I knew what part of my nature prevents me from being happy.”
I knew exactly what part of his nature was to blame. It was the Randolph in him. And when I considered his miserable father, his shameless sisters, and all his selfish, hotheaded kin, I counted it a miracle that Tom was, at heart, a good man. That he wasn’t a happy man couldn’t be counted much against him.
So I pushed onto my toes and kissed him, very softly, at the corner of his mouth. “Ask me to dance, Mr. Randolph.” And when he finally swept me onto the dance floor, I whispered, “I’ll tell you a secret about being happy, Tom. Sometimes you just have to pretend at it until it becomes real.”
Monticello, 11 October 1798
From Thomas Jefferson to Stevens Thomson Mason
These Alien & Sedition laws are merely an experiment on the American mind to see how far it will bear a violation of the constitution. If this goes down, we shall see another act of Congress declaring a hereditary President for life or the restoration of his most gracious majesty George the third. That these things are in contemplation I have no doubt after the dupery of which our countrymen have shown themselves susceptible.
My husband snapped open his paper at the breakfast table. “This damnable Jay Treaty is going to be our undoing.”
I wish he hadn’t said it, only because I didn’t want Papa agitated about politics during his visit. It some ways, we all lived in a state of suspended animation until my father came home each autumn, and I didn’t want to spoil our time together.
Unfortunately, Tom’s words worked Papa into a rare state of heat. “For President Adams to side with Britain against France.” Papa fumed, glancing at Tom’s paper and adjusting the spectacles he’d purchased for his sore eyes. “Against our sister Republic, our lone ally in a world of monarchies!”
The treaty had gone down badly. Violence between political factions broke out in Philadelphia and had to be dispersed by light cavalry—much as in Paris on the eve of revolution. What’s more, President Adams had authorized the prosecution of critics of the president’s administration, which now included my father, his vice president.
Federalists claimed these measures were necessary to keep anarchy—and the guillotine—from American shores. But we saw in this the possibility for the very end of the American experiment with liberty. We were afraid to write political letters of any kind for fear of being jailed—especially since Papa was certain his were being intercepted and read.
He removed his spectacles and rested them upon the ledge of the small mahogany lap desk he once used to draft the Declaration of Independence itself, then gave a mournful sigh. “I know not which mortifies me most—that I should fear to write what I think or that my country bears such a state of things.”
“Papa,” I said, trying to soothe him. “Perhaps you should resign the vice presidency in protest. Retire early, because in a very short time, there will be another election and it shall all be someone else’s worry.”
Papa should’ve agreed with me. He might at least have pretended to think about it, especially considering the weight it would take off Tom. Instead, Papa snapped, “This reign of witches must end!”
That was the moment I realized my father was going to run for the presidency. Not be reluctantly volunteered. But actively campaign for the office.
He was ready for rebellion. Papa’s powerful, implacable, political outrage reminded me that underneath his gentility, he would always be a revolutionary. He wouldn’t retire. He’d run for the presidency of the United States, and this time, he wanted to win.
Like a soldier readying for battle, he’d returned to Monticello only to regroup in the bosom of his family. A thing made even plainer to me when he groused, “Where the devil is Maria? I gave Jack my chariot to make it easier to come, and assured them both the house and servants would be ready to receive them.”