America's First Daughter: A Novel(115)
Cradling her delicate new baby boy, she smiled softly. “Mr. Eppes is so happy to have a son that he says I’ve never looked prettier. Besides, we can’t all breed so easily and often as you do, Patsy. Why look at you, set to give birth yourself any day now and you’re trying to haul my baggage into your house!”
“I’ll carry it,” my son Jeff said, always a little helper even then. Though I couldn’t get him to crack open a book without bribery or threat, he was a sweet boy. And I was grateful that he dragged my sister’s trunk into the house so I could get her inside.
“I’m fine, Patsy,” Polly insisted as my daughters crowded around. But she wasn’t fine. She was so weak she needed to be helped up the stairs. At which point I realized how much nursing she required. And given how ill I had been during the election, and how ailing I still felt now, I determined that I’d have to have my baby at Monticello, where at least I could count on Sally’s help.
Truly, I longed for my father’s house, the attentions of his servants, windows that didn’t leak, and a bed to birth my baby that was comfortable and clean. After all the terrors of the election, I wanted nothing more than sweet seclusion with my family now.
But in that simple desire, I was to be utterly thwarted. For when Papa came riding up his mountain that summer to fetch us home, he was accompanied by a multitude. Neighbors, relatives, well-wishers, sycophants, and every manner of hanger-on all ascended with him, calling, “President Jefferson! President Jefferson!” He rejected all trappings of monarchy, but our guests fluttered about him like courtiers attending a king.
Except royal courtiers—as I recalled from France—had duties and obligations to their sovereign. Royal courtiers were bound by strict rules of etiquette and social niceties. Royal courtiers didn’t demand berths without invitation. Royal courtiers didn’t lounge about in various states of dress, insolently ordering servants who were not theirs to command.
There was very little I could do about it, however, because my father insisted that as a man of the people, there must be no formality in our entertaining.
During the mornings, I planned the menu then waddled up and down the narrow staircase with my big pregnant belly to unlock the storerooms and cabinets so the servants could keep our guests fed. After meals, I played music to entertain or chased after the children, though my ankles had swollen up so much that my shoes were painful. And by evening, I tended to my sister, who was still too weak to leave her bed.
Perhaps realizing how weary I was, Papa promised, “Next time I visit, I’m resolved to do a flying visit by stealth, telling no one but you that I’m coming.”
On the night my labor pains started, I surprised myself with the thought that I was happy for the pain, because it’d confine me to childbed, where I could rest. After a hard night of panting and pushing, I gave birth to a little girl. And Sally swaddled my baby with crisp efficiency. Later, she and Polly sat with me while I nursed my newborn child, the three of us reminiscing about Paris, a time when all options were open before us. Those memories were preserved forever in our minds like bubbles suspended eternally in glittering glass.
Sally liked to speak of them, though whenever she spoke in French, it annoyed the other slaves. It set her apart. Served as a reminder that she was my father’s pretty, genteel, sophisticated mistress. Sometimes I worried about those resentments and jealousies . . . but on this night, I only enjoyed our reunion, all three of us with babies at the breast.
Sally was nursing little Harriet, named after her poor daughter who died. But this Harriet, who was as pale and rosy as any little white child, also had my father’s piercing blue eyes. I think Sally loved her best, and how couldn’t she? After all, Harriet, like my Ellen, must be treasured enough for two daughters.
But, of course, daughters were of little help to a planter. Sons were prized—even ones who foamed at the mouth in fits like my sister’s baby, Francis. “Poor little thing,” Sally said to me when my sister drifted to sleep. I thought she meant Francis, but her amber eyes settled on Polly with as much worry as I felt in my own heart. “Miss Polly won’t survive another. She gave Mr. Eppes a son now. That ought to be enough for him.”
No other slave would ever dare say such a thing, but I wouldn’t scold Sally for it. She was only confiding in me what no one else had the courage to say.
“It ought to be enough,” I said.
But I feared it wouldn’t.
“WE’LL CALL THE NEW BABY VIRGINIA—Ginny for short,” Tom said, and I didn’t gainsay him, because I felt his disappointment. A son could help in the fields, but a daughter was another mouth to feed and another bride to dower. He had four daughters, a plantation deeply in debt, and failed crops. And so, at a time when I ought to have been filled with joy for the beautiful new daughter in my arms, I was still sick with worry.
That is, until the day came that I realized I couldn’t afford to be sick with worry.
It started with a cough. First Sally’s children, then my sister’s child, then mine. The illness spread so quickly that our flight from Monticello in the autumn came too late. “It’s the whooping cough,” Polly insisted, wringing her tiny hands. “I’d know that sound anywhere!” She’d been young when she’d taken the cough at Eppington, but she hadn’t forgotten. She’d survived the illness, but our little sister Lucy hadn’t. And at the memory, Polly’s eyes filled with tears.