America's First Daughter: A Novel(122)
It was a very large sum. So large, in fact, that I went numb from the tip of my nose down to my tongue, and sat there stunned, like a felled ox.
At my silence, he continued, “It’s ill-mannered to speak of money in the presence of ladies, but I bring it up to set your mind at ease about the loan I’ve made to your father. I don’t want him to feel honor-bound to repay it when I can see plainly that his fortunes have fallen here.”
I took instant umbrage, and would have objected that of course the state of reconstruction only made it look as if my father’s fortunes had fallen, but I was too stunned by something else he’d said. “You made a loan to my father?” How had it come to pass that the man my father had once lectured about gold not falling from the sky had come to be our creditor?
In soft tones that somehow still assaulted my disbelieving ears, he explained, “I—I’m so sorry. I was sure you knew. Yes, I made a loan for his nail factory here at Monticello and a flour mill. But personal exigencies have prevented him from repaying the loan with what profits he has taken from those enterprises.”
I could guess at the personal exigencies that occasioned my father’s inability to pay. Papa had advanced money to my husband to pay the mortgage on Varina. Had divided up his properties to make another gift to keep us with a roof over our heads. All along I’d been so very grateful to my father for saving us from ruin, never suspecting Mr. Short was our savior. William Short, who had somehow accumulated a fortune without putting his shovel in the dirt.
Though it was unladylike for me to ask, improper in every way, William had been the only person to whom I’d ever spoken in frankness. And thirteen years of separation didn’t change this. “How—how much does he owe you?”
Though I’d wager he knew the exact sum down to the cent, he said, “Somewhere in the order of fifteen thousand dollars. I’ve offered to forgive the debt entirely, but your father won’t hear of it. So I must rely upon you to persuade him not to let pride be the cause of his impoverishment.”
“I’ve no knowledge or involvement in my father’s finances,” I said, which was only the proper way of it, but somehow, in light of this man’s expectations of me, felt like a shameful confession. “He never speaks of them to me.”
William nodded. “Nevertheless, I have no other avenue of appeal because no one has more power or influence over the president than you do.”
I wondered if I ought to feel flattered or terrified to believe it. It was a fact that my bond with my father was strong enough that even sometimes Polly complained of it, gently accusing Papa of loving me better. And though only Sally Hemings was allowed to freely roam his private chambers, whenever he returned from the capital, he didn’t race back to Sally, he came straightaway to Edgehill to get me.
“You’re too kind, William. Both to my father and to me.”
“I would be kinder, if I could,” was his reply. Then, after a few moments of silence, he added, “Your children are wonderful.” William breathed in sharply, then snapped off his succinct evaluation. “Jeff seems a very robust little fellow. Ann and baby Ginny are sweet enough to rot teeth. Your Ellen is very clever. But I see the essence of you in Cornelia’s eyes. That little girl isn’t all she seems to be.”
I smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve become exactly what I seem to be.”
He gave a dubious laugh. “And I’m afraid that I have become an old bachelor, with nothing to show for my efforts but the adoration of other men’s children. I suppose I’ll have to take more of an interest in my nephews.” With a comedic sigh that in no way disguised the seriousness, he added, “In the meantime, I suppose I must now leave you to your gardening and sow seeds of my own. We dine with Mr. Madison tonight, and, as your father has made plain to me, I must reacquaint myself with our countrymen.”
I must reacquaint myself with our countrymen. . . .
William had said this lightly, but at supper that night, it became manifestly evident that my father wasn’t wrong to have insisted upon it. The unique situation of my father’s house being unfinished—the expense of the redesign project Papa had conceived upon our return from Paris combined with his frequent absences to make the rebuilding of a large portion of Monticello an unending affair—led to an informality that permitted women to remain in the dining room after the men began to drink, and I was present to witness an argument.
It began amiably enough, with the Virginia gentlemen all sipping wine and peppering William with questions about Europe. They wanted to know especially of Napoleon Bonaparte, the new First Consul of France, which now modeled itself even more closely after ancient Rome. William harbored some admiration for the sense of order restored by Bonaparte, but warned against embracing the brilliant revolutionary general, given his hunger for power.
This quickly turned into a disagreement about the nature of French diplomacy, pitting Mr. Short’s cynicism about French revolutionaries against Mr. Madison’s faith in their good intentions, leaving Madison to simmer like a teapot, growing more florid by the moment. The conversation went from bad to worse when the subject turned to finances. My father and Mr. Short agreed that the James River Canal Company was an opportunity for profitable investment. I confess I was distracted in that moment, scolding Jeff for running past the tables, so all I caught was Mr. Short making the wry remark, “No doubt the Virginia legislature will attack the canal company as soon as the dividends begin to excite envy.”