America's First Daughter: A Novel(123)

A scandalized silence followed until Jack Eppes cried, “An outrageous accusation!”

My husband, thankfully, only set down his glass. “Why ever would you say such a thing, Mr. Short?”

Mr. Madison accused, “Because he’s thrown in with the stock jobbers and paper men.”

It was so chilly a remark, filled with such disdain, that it couldn’t be dispelled by the thin smile that followed. Good southern Republicans were planters. Northern Federalists were stock jobbers and paper men. Virginians were suffering financially, suffering badly, but William had profited. I understood the unspoken assessment of the secretary of state, my father’s closest political friend and ally. Madison was saying that William Short wasn’t one of us anymore.

Though William ignored the insult and quickly steered the conversation to more pleasant topics, I worried for his reputation, not to mention his future as a diplomat at Mr. Madison’s Department of State. And I worried for the disruption of our domestic tranquility when Tom was still brooding about the discussion that evening.

As we checked on the children in the nursery, he murmured, “This country is so divided.”

“Yes,” I said, though a part of me wondered if it was ever thus.

“Mr. Madison and Mr. Short . . . they’re accomplished men. Lawyers. Jack fits with them better than I do. I feel like the proverbially silly bird who can’t feel at ease amongst the swans.”

Had I somehow betrayed my feelings for William in a way that brought Tom’s insecurities about? Lacing my fingers with his, I said, “You really are a silly bird if you think Jack Eppes is better than you in any way at all. You’re more thoughtful than he is, and the country needs men like you, Congressman Randolph. My father needs you.”

I did mean that, even though the thought was eclipsed the next day when I came across the strangely nostalgic scene of William Short in the hallway, lurking near Papa’s door like he used to in my father’s times of trouble.

In his hand, he held folded pages, newsprint upon his fingers.

Another man—any other man—would’ve told me it wasn’t fit for ladies to read. But William merely reddened, saying, “You need to see this, Patsy. Though you won’t thank me for showing you.”





Chapter Twenty-seven




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THE RICHMOND RECORDER



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1 September 1802

It is well known that the man whom it delights the people to honor, keeps, and for many years past has kept, as his concubine, one of his own slaves. Her name is SALLY. The name of her eldest son is TOM. His features are said to bear a striking although sable resemblance to those of the president himself. The boy is ten or twelve years of age. His mother went to France in the same vessel with Mr. Jefferson and his two daughters. The delicacy of this arrangement must strike every person of common sensibility. What a sublime example for an American ambassador to place before the eyes of two young ladies!

PAPA KEPT THIS CLIPPING.

It’s here in his wooden filing presses amidst his belongings, as if it were no more than a passing memorandum, or a recipe, or a scrap of poem, and not a devastating exposure that set the political world aflame.

It was also a betrayal, written by James Callender, one of my father’s partisans turned odious blackmailer. So I burn this clipping, even knowing there are a thousand more like it in the world. And worse things were printed after it.

The newspapers brought me and my sister into the scandal directly, offering sympathies for the supposed humiliations my father had visited upon us by forcing us to see illegitimate mulatto sisters and brothers enjoying the same parental affection with ourselves. They asked why Papa hadn’t married a worthy woman of his own complexion. They lampooned him as a bad father, a bad owner, a bad president.

But this first article—the one that William Short showed me—somehow did the most damage. “I’m sorry, Patsy,” William had said. “This is going to be a very difficult time for all of you.”

My hand came to my mouth as my eyes traced over the words a second time. Anger curled inside my belly. Would the entirety of my father’s presidency find him under constant attack? “How could they print such a thing?”

He gave me a sad, sympathetic look. “Because partisanship has made anything fair, which honor and propriety might once have kept quiet.”

Shaking my head, I stared at him. “I don’t . . . how will we . . .”

William looked down for a moment, his brow furrowing as he gathered his thoughts, and then his eyes returned to mine. “Well, do you think it’s possible that your father has been given a rare opportunity? He could simply acknowledge Sally. Bring her out from the shadows—”

“You’ve no idea what you’re saying,” I hissed. Did I not hold in my hands the evidence of exactly why he could never do such a thing? “It would bring down his presidency.”

William lowered his voice, conciliatory. “Even in the short time I’ve been back in this country, I’ve heard about a certain Mr. Bell who recently died and left everything to his wife. Everyone in Charlottesville seems happy to treat Mary Hemings Bell as his widow, and a free white woman.”

Did he think my father could take Sally as his wife? It was the kind of madness only William would advocate, and I tried to fan away my anger with the paper in my hands. “Mr. Bell was a store owner.”