America's First Daughter: A Novel(129)

My breath caught at his dark hair, touched only slightly by silver. His tall distinguished form, trim in a suit of fawn trousers and a black tailcoat with gold piping. My knees went a little weak at the familiar slope of his shoulders and the dark flashing eyes that I knew so well.

By God, Congressman Thomas Mann Randolph was a sight.

He was my husband of more than a decade, but I hadn’t seen him like this since before his father died. Winning the election had changed something in him. Gave him a renewed sense of confidence, a straighter posture, clearer eyes. Watching people flock around my husband made me wonder what kind of man Tom might have become ten years sooner if his father hadn’t discouraged his education. And I was ever so glad that I hadn’t discouraged him from running for Congress, even though I’d been sorely tempted.

Doubly glad when he saw me in my beautiful gown and his eyes smoldered with hunger. “I do declare, Mrs. Randolph, you’re going to make me the subject of envy tonight.”

I was the daughter of a public man; I hadn’t wanted to be the wife of one, too. But if politics was the arena in which my husband might finally come into his own, I was grateful for it.

For the first time in years, I harbored true hope for my husband’s future. It was a new year, a new chapter, a new era. And when Tom settled upon me that night with kisses that tasted of champagne, I found myself unexpectedly eager for him.





MY SISTER WAS PREGNANT AGAIN, AND SO WAS I.

“Patsy, I believe you could give birth accidentally if you sneezed,” my sister teased, but there was an edge to it, because she was afraid. And while our husbands were in Congress, I was determined not to let my sister out of my sight, which was why we’d left our menfolk in Washington City and come home to Virginia, to Edgehill, together to have our babes.

Before the weather turned too cold, we went together into Charlottesville to shop for tumblers, wineglasses, and some groceries. Normally, we’d have taken our maids, but given the size of my belly I wanted more room in the carriage.

On the road, my sister asked, “Are you hoping it’s a boy?”

“A son would be helpful to Tom, but I think in his secret heart, he prefers daughters.”

“I hope mine is a boy. Then Francis will have a brother and maybe Jack won’t feel as if he needs more children.”

My jaw tightened at that, trying to bite back harsh words for my sister’s husband. Why was it that women were expected to restrain our every passion for the sake of propriety, but men couldn’t do it even for the sake of the women they loved? I knew that in getting another child on my sister, Jack had done only what a husband has every right to do. But the last two had almost killed her, and she was terribly afraid. Polly would never blame Jack; no one would.

But I was her sister—and I blamed him.

“I think Betsy Hemings might have him,” my sister said.

I dragged my eyes from the chariot window to fix them on her. “Who?”

“Jack,” she said, as if I were quite a dullard. “I think my maid would welcome him into her bed, but I don’t think my husband would put a hand on her unless I was dead.”

I stared in numb shock at what she was implying—no, what she was saying outright.

“Jack is the best beloved of my soul,” she continued, furrowing her brow. “So it hurts to think of him with another woman. But if I should die in childbirth, Betsy might be a comfort to him. Better for my children, too.”

“Maria!” I cried so savagely that the baby inside me kicked.

I didn’t want my sister thinking this way. Not about dying and not about making another Hemings slave-mistress. But she was thinking of my mother’s example when she said, “If I die in childbirth, I don’t want a Gabriella Harvie over my children. Better that Jack should take a concubine. I’m not brave enough to broach it with him, but if I were a good mother, I’d at least plant the idea in Betsy’s head. Maybe I should mention it to her mother.”

Betsy’s mother was, of course, Mary Hemings Bell, the proprietress of the store we were to shop in.

“Have you lost your wits?” I asked, having half a mind to tell the driver to turn the carriage back around. Fortunately, my sister seemed to have abandoned the idea by the time we reached Main Street.

Polly and I, both round as eggs, waddled our way into Mary Bell’s store, just in time to hear a man at the counter say, “Chocolate drops.”

I confess, even if I hadn’t been flustered already, I was in no way prepared to see William. My hands went straightaway to my bonnet to make certain it wasn’t askew, but my sister let out a girlish squeal. “Mr. Short! Whatever are you doing back in Virginia? Why last we heard, you’d gone off to New York, and then Kentucky to see your brother.”

“Been there and back again,” he replied with a tight smile, holding up three fingers to the proprietress to indicate how many bags of chocolate drops she should make for him. “Now I’m on my way to Richmond.”

“Why didn’t you send word?” my sister asked. “We’re staying at Edgehill. You should winter with us there, like old times.”

I knew perfectly well why he didn’t send word. We’d said farewell at Monticello a year ago. He hadn’t intended to see me again, I thought. Certainly, not so soon. And as much as I might welcome William’s company, it’d be beyond inappropriate to have him stay with us while our menfolk were away.