America's First Daughter: A Novel(141)
Jeff was my father’s namesake—the first of his grandsons to reach majority. It wouldn’t reflect well on Thomas Jefferson, or his legacy, to have a blockhead for a grandson. So we couldn’t refuse, even when we knew better.
In the carriage, I warned Jeff, “Philadelphia is a bustling place.”
“I’ve seen cities before,” my son protested, bristling with manly pride.
But, of course, he hadn’t seen cities. Paris was a city. Philadelphia was . . . less so. And I realized with a bittersweet pang that at Jeff’s age, I’d seen more of the world than my children were likely to. “Philadelphia will be busier than Charlottesville or Washington City. It won’t be anything you’re used to. Perhaps we can ask Mr. Short to look after you in Philadelphia,” I suggested, reassured to know William would be nearby. Turning to Papa, I said, “I’m sure he’ll take Jeff under his guidance.”
That’s when Papa surprised me by saying, “That won’t be possible. I’m sending Short to Europe on a diplomatic mission.”
I didn’t know if I should be delighted for William or unsettled at the thought of him leaving the country again—perhaps this time for good. We hadn’t seen one another in years, but there was some comfort in knowing he wasn’t an ocean away. “Where will you send Mr. Short?”
“First to France. Then to Russia,” Papa said. “Short will treat with the tsar on behalf of America.”
First to France, where William would, no doubt, be reunited with his duchess. He’d like that. This appointment would be the capstone on his career. And though it pained me to think I might never see him again, I smiled to imagine him charming the ladies of St. Petersburg.
It was, after all, a time for letting go. Letting go of Mr. Short, of my son Jeff, and of my daughter Ann, too, who had accepted a proposal of marriage from Charles Bankhead.
Papa insisted that the wedding be held at Monticello, where the airy design and eighteen-and-a-half-foot ceilings were sure to impress the guests. And on her wedding day, all dewy-eyed in anticipation, Ann asked, “Grandpapa’s house is so beautiful now, isn’t it?”
She was beautiful. Of all my daughters, Ann was the most delicately rendered, with soft doe eyes and an adorable nose. Ellen’s face was sharper, but then everything about my nearly twelve-year-old second daughter was sharper.
Excited to serve as her sister’s attendant, Ellen declared, “Monticello’s new hall is the most beautiful room I was ever in, even including the drawing rooms in Washington City!”
Monticello had, indeed, come along grandly. The renovation had taken fourteen years; Papa would never be truly finished with it, for he was never finished improving anything. But there was now an excellent road up the mountain right to the house; the dining room grandly boasted Wedgwood ornamentation and dumbwaiters on either side of the fireplace; and while the landscaping was still dismal due to the mean little sheep who ate our orange trees, Monticello was otherwise quite a handsome place.
Before Ann’s wedding, Sally and I both gave birth to boys. Her new son was named after my father’s acquaintance Thomas Eston. Mine more grandly after Benjamin Franklin, my father’s old admired friend.
Dolley visited shortly after the birth. Cooing jealously over my infant as she scooped him from my arms, she said, “Aren’t we a pair? I can’t have children, and you can’t stop having them!”
“Are you saying the ambassador’s cape wasn’t really magical?” I teased.
Her eyes twinkled. “Apparently not, but I was quite taken with his turban. I’ve made it my trademark fashion.”
Quite exhausted, I flopped back upon my pillow, morning sunshine spilling across the floor beneath my childbed. “I pray this babe is my last. I keep my babies at the breast as long as I can to fend off conception, but . . .”
With no apparent shame for the delicacy of the matter, Dolley frankly advised, “If you want no more children, you must discourage Mr. Randolph. Take a separate bed with the children if you must. Say you don’t want to wake him, feeding the new baby. Say whatever you must.”
“I—I don’t see how I have the right.” Besides, I couldn’t fathom how to rebuff my husband’s amorous advances without angering him. If there was anything Tom had a true talent for, it was making babies—and in his arms I felt womanly, desirable, and desired. But what came of that desire had worn me down to the nub. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Very quietly, Dolley said, “Some women, in your position, put in the path of their husbands an agreeable Negress.”
Dear God. That she could make such a suggestion. But hadn’t the same thought occurred to my sister? I was certain Jack Eppes had taken up with Betsy Hemings, just as my father had done with Sally. Just as my grandfather Wayles had done with Sally’s mother. It was the way things were done, and if I hoped to secure my children’s future, it’d be an advantageous arrangement. But even if I could reconcile myself to the heartbreaking thought of my husband’s hands on another woman, I recoiled to imagine my daughters struggling with the emotional turmoil I’d struggled with.
The thought of their confusion over sisters and brothers that were also their slaves was enough to decide me. And even if it hadn’t been, the thought of choosing a girl . . .
My eyes drifted to my window, which overlooked Mulberry Row. Some of the Hemings girls would soon be of age, but the wickedness of the thought was so horrifying to me I immediately thrust it away with a violent shudder. “I couldn’t encourage such a thing. I suppose I was just wishing for some secret way. . . .”