America's First Daughter: A Novel(158)

Jeff lowered his eyes. “I feel so useless, Mother.”

I rubbed at his sore shoulder. “You can’t afford to be useless. Too much relies on you. Don’t you know how important you are? There’s a reason you’re named Jefferson, you know. Your grandfather hurt his wrist twice. It was never the same after, but he never let it leave him maimed. Use your arm until it heals, every day, even if you feel weak as a newborn pup.”

Jeff’s head jerked up. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“The blame is on Charles,” I insisted.

“I’m talking about Jane. I brought her into this family, and now, because of it, I’ve led us all to disaster.”

Had the laudanum dulled his wits? “Your wife is lovely!”

Jeff seemed unable to swallow over the emotion. “Grandfather keeps these things from you, but—”

My hands stilled on his shoulder. “You’re scaring me, Jeff.”

“You know about the panic in the banks. Well, Jane’s father has become indebted.”

“What’s that to do with us?”

“Grandfather signed as a guarantor on one of his loans.”

Virginia gentlemen did this sort of courtesy for one another—especially when there were family ties between them. It didn’t surprise me that the former governor would take a loan or that my father would help him do it. Only that a man of his means would need my father’s surety. “Are you saying Mr. Nicholas can’t make the payments?”

Jeff nodded. “Because of the panic, they’re calling in the loan in total. Hamilton is dead, but his banking system is still ruining the country.”

My stomach twisted. “Jane’s father has property . . . surely he can pay his own debt.”

Jeff actually trembled. “I fear the burden is going to fall entirely upon my grandfather. It could be a crippling blow to his finances.”

It seemed impossible that Papa would suffer for another man’s debt. “How much?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

I nearly swooned away again. Twenty thousand dollars was so much money, I couldn’t fathom what might be done to raise it.





Chapter Thirty-six


Monticello, 22 April 1820

From Thomas Jefferson to John Holmes

There’s not a man on earth who’d sacrifice more than I would, to relieve us from slavery, in any practicable way. But, as it is, we have the wolf by the ear, and we can neither hold him, nor safely let him go. Justice is in one scale, and self-preservation in the other.

EVERYONE’S SO SAD,” Ginny cried, swishing into my sitting room. “We’re estranged from Ann. Jeff’s afraid to look Grandpapa in the eye. And Ellen’s so dispirited she’s thinking of teaching school.”

Ann, Jeff, and Ellen. My oldest three understood harsh life. While Papa put stock in the assurances that Mr. Nicholas wouldn’t leave us on the hook for even a dollar, Ellen and Jeff refused to pretend that all was well. If Ann was with us she’d have done the same.

But the rest of the children—their memories were here at Monticello where they’d always lived in luxurious comfort and their grandfather’s cheer. “All this sadness and strife can’t be borne,” Ginny chirped. “For Grandpapa’s sake, we should be happy and gay! So I’m inviting you to a dance.”

I allowed frustration into my tone. “A dance?”

“Yes, a dance,” she replied. “On Saturday next, the youngsters of Monticello will adjourn to the south pavilion and dance to Beverly’s music. I’d like to invite Jeff’s wife, who must be mortified that her relations put ours in jeopardy. After the stabbing and now this, we’re in need of cheer. And so is Grandfather. All this gloom can’t be good for his health.”

That I couldn’t argue. I wondered if Papa could weather such distress at his age. “Well, if your grandfather has no objection—”

“He doesn’t!” Ginny clapped her hands. “He’s going to invite scholars from the university to form up like soldiers and have Ellen make a speech for him. Perhaps in Greek. But he said if you object, we must give up the idea.”

I’d never deny my father anything that would add to his happiness. If he wanted a dance, he’d have a dance. So we gathered on the terrace with a mountaintop view of the countryside below so clear that it was as if we could see the whole nation my father helped build. A nation as beautiful, imperfect, and unfinished as every other project my father ever undertook.

And it was there we gathered to listen to Beverly Hemings play his violin. While Beverly worked his bow and filled the air with music, from the corner of my eye, I caught Papa staring at Beverly with fatherly pride. Sally watched with pride, too—and it broke my heart, because the servants didn’t know what was coming.

If Papa was forced to pay even half of the twenty-thousand-dollar debt, slaves would have to be sold. Jeff would have to undertake it on Papa’s behalf; he’d start with the field hands, but what about the families on Mulberry Row? Not the Hemingses, of course. Papa would never agree to sell them if it weren’t by their own choice. But what of those who worked in the textile mills or Papa’s nailery? Those slaves we knew, we saw their faces every day. The idea of selling them was barbarous.